March 24th
2016
Senses of Syria
There
are many people who have seen photos or read stories of Syria and have only
dreamed of setting foot on this enchanted soil. I cannot relate and it is
because of this that I want to share some of the amazing senses from this
cradle of civilization.
My
brother and I have one childhood memory we looked forward to every summer—Syria’s
signature fragrance. That first whiff of gray fog that literally hits you in the face: cigarettes, smog and gasoline
enveloping us as we walk down the white stairs of the plane. Indeed unhealthy,
but oh so warm of a welcome.
The
next tradition we never failed to uphold was swinging by the shawarma sandwich
shop on the way home to finally taste the most authentic flavors of chicken,
pickles and garlic we waited almost 365 days to eat. This is the only place in
the world with the most legitimate shawarma and no one can argue with me. Even
the one place in Lebanon we recently discovered is owned and operated by a
Syrian.
Our
drive home is spent soaking up the diverse colors of misspelled and
mistranslated signs from the window, eating that shawarma and sipping Ugarit
brand soda—the Syria equivalent of RC Cola, which is hands down, even better
than Coke or Pepsi.
Smells
Whenever
the strong scent of Mediterranean coffee fills the air, I am immediately reminded
of aging and death. Maybe it is because the bittersweet smell of that rich
drink is present at every old woman’s gathering and every mourning service.
Always served in small gold plated glass cups that clank when stacked.
Nothing
can compare with the amazing smell of fried eggplants from my grandmother’s
kitchen, as we walk up the apartment building stairs. Or the smell of stuffed grape
leaves. Or the smell of grilled kibbeh. Nothing beats inhaling the blessed food
we are about to eat at lunch, the lunch my grandfather begins with prayer.
The
greatest part of jetlag is awakening early and exploring the world outside,
including being the first few to pass by the bakeries that are hard at work
kneading dough for the second batch of sweet bread whose aroma is unbelievably
blissful. Bread with black seeds, sesame seeds, chocolate, fruits, thyme,
cheese and so much more.
My
favorite is walking into artisanal shops and inhaling the fragrance of
surprisingly sweet paint infused with recently and intricately carved
hundred-year-old wood. What’s even sweeter is seeing them working and knowing
that someone found this art worthy of purchasing. It’s like the past is defying
the odds of the present by being etched so elegantly for the future.
Sounds
The
sound of laughing children is a rarity today, but that makes it even more
beautiful. Sometimes I can hear it even through their smiles as they skip past
me on the streets. However, Syrian streets would not be Syrian without the
sounds of loudly honking cars 24 freaking 7. It’s as if they believe their road
rage, manifested in pounding that horn, will actually make traffic flow?
Sometimes
mornings consist of many sirens, following house shaking booms. Sometimes
mornings are full of cars driving around with speakerphones announcing deaths
or vaccination services being offered for children ages five and under. More
often however, morning alarms are the squeaking breaks of every single car that
picks up its speed on the modernized street outside the building.
The
most beautiful sounds are the mosques that call for prayer within seconds of
one another, the men speaking Arabic loudly with one another beneath my window,
and the salesmen yelling out the availability of gum, tissues or socks for
sale.
Tastes
I
have to say, neither Robeks nor Jamba Juice can compare with the delicious
perfection of Ya Hala’s authenticity. Fresh fruit is blended right before your
eyes with milk and offered in three sizes—regular, large or to go. It is the
tiniest kiosk but the grandest of flavors.
The
biggest piece of inspiration to my renowned cake truffle pops has got to be the
chocolate of Syria and its extremely eclectic array of flavors. The richness of
their chocolates, especially dark, is an indescribable creamy perfection that
meshes oh so well with crispy Aleppo pistachio, crunchy brittle and tangy
bitter orange.
In
the ancient alleyways of Syria, you’ll find stands and stands of candy being
sold that is identical to what my mother used to purchase during her elementary
school days. My favorite has to be the sugary-coated stretchy colorful candy
that is chewy and sticky.
After
all this, what one needs the most is a hot gorgeous cup of loose leaf brewed
red tea that has an immensely deep flavor and is only enhanced when you sink a
bright green mint leaf, cut right from the ground.
Sights
When
I was younger, people would ask me what physical characteristics I found
attractive. Without thought I would reply, “Green eyes and black hair.” Women
would throw their heads back and cackle. “You’ll never find an Arab guy like
that. Plus, you don’t want a man better looking than you. He’ll attract too
much attention.” Aside from the lunacy, I must burst everyone’s bubble, but
whoa does Syria have green-eyed black haired beauties. And I’m not just talking
about men. I’m talking about our Syrian youth in the activities I have been a
part of recently and the children at the shelters I have visited. There are so
many beautiful people, inside and out.
There
is a heavy weight of Greco-Roman and Ugaritic history to witness: slabs,
stones, walls, portraits, mosaics and more. They once decorated the country,
making a mark on what once stood, now falling apart and crumbling in a
heartbreaking sight.
The
bright contrast of the vivid blue sky and swiftly passing white clouds is
gorgeous and it stands opposite of crowded streets, filled with dirty yellow
taxis driving by, and I’m not sure if I really would want to have it any other
way.
True,
there are only four out of the five senses described here, but the reality is
each one of these can be felt as deeply as a touch. Every taste, every sight,
every sound and every smell is like a fingerprint, leaving its trace upon one’s
soul. I only pray that Syrians themselves recognize the value of their roots.
