She poured the coffee
into tiny ceramic cups from the cupboard of her hotel suite. I wondered why I
never drink this coffee when I’m in America, as my grandmother leveled off the
four cups. "Do you like cardamom?" she asked. "I do," I
replied, and she continued to let the little cream colored droplets of cardamom
fall in to my cup. The smell was intoxicatingly beautiful and I knew it had a
certain charm here in the Middle East than it did in California; and as I
sipped it slowly to the gorgeous view of the sea and listened to my father's
mother share stories, I held back more tears.
I had already cried on
the drive from the airport to the hotel, taking in the perfection that is home.
Sure, it's not Syria, but it's so close and resembles it somewhat, and
technically these countries were all one once, so we are one. At least, I wish
we could remember that more often because we Arabs seem to be better at
division than at rounding up together.
Nonetheless, I savored in
the messy traffic, reckless driving, honking, colorful lights and Arabic
billboards, and it was immense that it sent me to tears and yet again I
questioned my capability to leave at the end of this "three week"
trip. Last year it was supposed to be six weeks and it turned into three months.
This year I have school, work and applications but somehow, that all seems moot
in comparison to sharing coffee and laughter with family in the Arab world.
I hate distance, as much
as I hate war.
The news played in the
background, a common setting in every Arab household. A story about Trump
appeared and I remembered how a year ago, in Syria, I watched election drama
with utmost conviction that he'd never win. Syrians around me however, carried
opposing convictions and we Americans caught ourselves quite the curve ball
from left field.
"The state of
humanity," we all sighed as news story after news story left us shaking
our heads. My grandmother began telling us a story about a neighbor of hers in
Damascus, who was originally from a Bedouin village on the outskirts of Aleppo,
who hadn't been able to see or visit her hometown and family since the war.
Then, a couple of weeks ago, she decided to make the journey and take her
children to go see their mother's hometown and their grandparents.
On average, a trip from
Damascus to Aleppo is roughly four hours. Last year we learned that because of
closures and checkpoints, it has become an approximate 8-9 hours. But this
woman's journey differed. Her village was an hour outside of Aleppo but it took
her another ten hours via bus to arrive because the typical route was under
pressure from battles between three groups trying to gain control.
The poor woman and her
children traveled almost 20 hours on the road to see family in a rural village
for a couple of days, then traveled the same distance in return. She said it
took her three days of sleep to recover but the ache of realization lasted a
lot longer—grasping the damage this war has caused.
A sad silence filled the
room as we took in this story. "Did you enjoy your dinner last
night?" she asked, alluding to our midnight escapade for authentic
shawarma. America, I’m sorry, but you ain't doing it right because one bite
into that hot and juicy chicken shawarma from Abu Waseem's joint and I died and
came back reincarnated as the same woman, lavishing in the same sandwich. (And
I’ve been off meat for almost two year now yet I still make an exception for
this perfection—I paid the price later but it was worth it.)
Abu Waseem is a Syrian
man who owned a shawarma shop in Damascus, really close to my dad's family's
house. A few years ago he left and came to Lebanon and opened up shop in the
downtown area and O. M. G. We each inhaled a foot long piece of perfection with
freshly cut fries, legitimate hummus (something else I can't find in America)
and pickles. Oh the amount of pleasure it brought to our souls. It's tradition.
Upon landing in Syria (now Lebanon), the first thing we do is get shawarma,
with a can of Ugarit soda, and dive in to home. No one cares what time we land
or how tired we are from the 16+ hour journey, this tradition is never to be
broken.
Honking cars overpowered
the news as we finished up the coffee. I took in the cups and washed them, returning
to hear another story about the Arab nations.
"We fell apart when
we became more concerned with ourselves than with our neighbors. There's a
story about how outsiders knew we were now susceptible to becoming
overpowered." My grandmother continued, "The outsiders would send in
spies to scope out the environments, and their best means of assessment were
markets.” Whether this was a true story or a parable, I was hooked. “One time
they entered our Arab markets and began purchasing a variety of products and
then asked for a certain item. The salesman said he didn't have it in stock but
his neighbor did a few shops down. They told him they'd return when he
restocks, to which he said no. He expressed that he was grateful to have
received his fair share from them today and would be much obliged to see his
neighbor receive some business. The outsiders left and returned after some time
had passed and repeated the process in the market. This time however, when the
salesman said he was out of stock, he asked them to wait while we went to go
obtain the item and sell it to them. That's when they knew priorities of the
land had changed. The people were now divisible when they put themselves above
their community."
As she wrapped up the
story, I felt a shiver run up and down my spine. This story still gives me goose
bumps as I write it out now. It speaks volumes, even if only a metaphorical
figurative level. It had only been a few hours in the Arab world but I knew,
this trip was bound to bring about some very meaningful lessons—ones I was
ready to take and learn from after the whirlwind of a year I encountered.
Here’s to my Syrian
Summer!
