March
16th 2016
Forced
Goodbyes
I
made a list and titled it Things I Miss
from California. The list turned out to be shorter than I expected but here
was all I could muster:
· Unlimited access to episodes
of MONK on DVR
· Clorox Wipes
· Disneyland
· Boba
· Freedom/Privacy
My
mom said all were moot except the last one, but I have to tell you, Clorox
Wipes are monumental necessities here. Actually, even the Swiffer family is
needed here. Anyway, I digress. The point is I surprised myself with how much
this amazing country, Syria, can give me. So much so that I can easily do
without the many things I consider necessities in my daily life halfway across
the world.
The
riches are immeasurable and I have begun contemplating the programs I could
develop and implement for the new generation of Syrians that I have met at the
shelters and the orphanages. If I even dared to dream of making a list of what
I would miss of Syria, I would publish series and series of never ending
novels.
I
would miss the birds that awaken me every morning with the sun, singing in a
carefreeness to be envied. I would miss the mosques that each call for the five
daily worships in a collage of sounds that are absolute music to my ears. I
would miss the taste of Dolly’s ketchup (way better than Heinz and the only
ketchup I actually eat) on fresh fries and pizza. I would miss my grandfather’s
study, my absolute favorite room on this entire planet, despite the itchy green
couch. I would miss the atmosphere of being around my culture. I would miss the
centuries and centuries of significant history that is etched on every wall,
every block, every cobblestone path leading to buildings that house our
greatest talents. The values are endless and I am so blessed to be able to
witness the continuation of these values despite the grave difficulty weighing
down upon every corner of this nation.
When
I was a child, I would have dreams that were agonizing to awaken from. I would
see myself back in Syria, in its scents and sounds, in the bed down the hall
from my grandparent’s room, next to my cousin, staying up all night laughing
till the tears streamed down our faces, and living in utter contentment. I’d
open my eyes to a California sun and cry daily until a month or two later I had
finally readjusted. Around my later adolescent years, my dad taught me to look
at it differently when he said, “Think of it like this. You’re blessed to have
two homes to go to.” I loved that notion and it became my sacred mantra—just like
André Parrot’s beautiful quote on Syria.
Somehow
though, I can already sense that phase returning, and when this forced goodbye
is ripped from me, it may take a very very long time before the wound closes. Every
exhibition we’ll host for A Country
Called Syria will become even more difficult to host but even more
necessary. It will be like rehashing an unwanted breakup with the most
important partner of my life.
I’m
going to miss daily lunch at 2:00 p.m. (sharp!) with my grandparents, who spend
a good majority of it concerned over my eating habits—supposedly I do not eat
enough because isn’t that what all grandparents believe? I love them! And I
love the afternoon chats with each of them over cups and cups of freshly brewed
assorted teas. Green, earl grey, herbal blends, cardamom, orange cinnamon,
chamomile and more—all sprinkled with honey or sugar.
My
grandmother left to get ready for a wake she had to attend. In the last three
weeks we’ve been informed of three deaths, all of whom were individuals from my
grandparents’ peers and I can sense it is taking the greatest toll on them. Witnessing
one after the other leave this earth. My grandfather, mother and I remained seated
around the dining table, sipping extremely hot teas.
“What
story shall I tell you today?” my grandfather asked, breaking the silence in
the air. I smiled and let him know that any story would be more than welcome.
So he began a tale that left both my mother and I with goose bumps.
On
a business trip in America in the 70s, my grandfather hopped into a cab and
encountered a very unique driver. He described him as a young man, in his 30s,
and I chuckled at the double standard of our culture. At 30 or so, a man is
young while a woman, at this age, is nowhere near young.
His
exotic look intrigued my grandfather enough to ask him of his origins. “Well, I
was born and raised here in America, but my grandfather is from Aleppo.” It was
music to my grandfather’s ears, having lived in Aleppo and married a woman from
there too.
This
opened the door for a gleeful exchange of information on history, backgrounds
and work. My grandfather learned that this young man was actually a small
business owner, trying to make ends meet. In order to better embellish his
income to help start a family, he took on a second job as a cab driver.
The
three of us felt the same admiration for this man. For a few minutes we fixated
on his work ethic and strength, a quality definitely worth esteeming. It reminded
me of the many displaced families and refugees that are beginning to take the
first steps necessary to rebuild their lives.
“When
we reached my stop, I offered him $500.”
“WHAT?!?!”
my mother and I both squealed at the same time. “$500?!?!” He nodded and
matter-of-factly said, “Well yes, this young hard working man was trying to
catch a break and I wanted to help him.” I couldn’t tell if my heart was
breaking out of love for my grandfather or love for the gesture of kindness
that my grandparents are both known for in this world. God bless them both.
My
mother and I looked at each other and mouthed the word “wow” before my
grandfather continued. “Well, he refused. He said he couldn’t accept such a
grand offer and would take nothing above the $50 taxi fare.”
It
was another long pause of awe. “That is an even greater personality trait than
his dedicated work ethic,” my mom said, cutting through our thoughts. This
young man, who we all prayed had found stability, success and happiness, left a
deep lasting (40 years) impression upon my grandfather in one simple 10-15
minute ride.
“He
was a genuine hard working man,” I said, as the conversation started to wind
down. My grandfather was finishing up his orange, the typical after lunch dessert, and I just stared at him, like he were a breathtaking piece on
display. I am related to two legends—my grandfather and grandmother—and I cannot
imagine the forced goodbyes I have to compel out of me.
As
he looked out our balcony and taking his last bite he said, “Tomorrow, I will
tell you another story. Every day after lunch, I can share story after story.”
So until the next one, I will savor every moment, every hug, every jaw-dropping
act of kindness they bestow upon us in this beautiful place.
