abufares said...the world according to a tartoussi

Return

noreply@blogger.com (abufares) — Tue, 24 Jan 2012 09:59:00 +0000

It hurts not to write, to wean my imagination by damming the river within or to trickle updates and comments on a bedlamite Facebook. With premeditated arrogance I pronounce that I’m too good for politics, but even a lofty leopard is distracted by buzzing flies. I should be writing about the beauty in and around me. Whether they are about the woman perched on a throne of clouds or the city I see in my childish eyes, I miss the echo of my own words. The music they make when they meander around in my head then dance to the drumming of my racing heartbeats. Leave the grease and the exposed hairy cracks to the mechanics, I tell myself then zoom past the desperate crowds in a dream powered Ferrari. I have the heart of Gawain and the ardor of Adonis, the Syrian God not the grovelling poet. I am the Tartoussi, Ibn al-Balad, who’s known the before and after, standing by and waiting for the end of this long day and a new beginning.
I'm coming back.

2011

noreply@blogger.com (abufares) — Wed, 28 Dec 2011 11:06:00 +0000

I don't have mixed feelings toward 2011. It was by all means the year, one which we can look at from the shortsighted vantage point of the here and now or from afar to perceive its magnitude from the acquired insight of a future in the making.

No, I have no doubts. I know exactly how I feel about it as it has been the epochal year of my life although certainly the most agonizing for all of us. I wouldn't be claiming prescience if I had previously predicted its inevitability. Although it took me, like it did everybody else, by surprise I have been waiting for it to happen for as long as I can remember.

The inflicted pain of 2011 will linger on for a few more years, of that I'm certain. Yet I'm optimistic that out of calamity my and other children will lead more dignified lives. They will dig within their own bags of memories to compare the before and after. They will bask in precious liberty earned with the limb and blood of their brethren who made, and still are making, the ultimate sacrifice.

Many compatriots are against subversive change. They chose to bury their heads in the sand or worse to vehemently oppose the natural human aspiration for freedom for several reasons, not the least of which is the preservation of their privileged economic position and/or chaperoned social status. They were of the opinion that if it ain't broke don't fix it and thus embarked on a blind mission of psychotic denial and base justification for atrocities and crimes perpetrated and committed. Needless to say that their defeatist outlook is only helping in delaying the fateful outcome but it won't put a dent on its certainty. Over decades of subservience they've learned to tip the scale in their favor exactly like all parasites in the animal and plant kingdoms. They were able to make a good living within a corrupt socioeconomic system, where they evaded fair competition and hard work. They'd rather live in advantaged voluntary servitude instead of being free among equals.

In the spirit of the season, however, let me wrap up my last post of the year by being as good-hearted as I have it in me and by offering my best wishes for 2012. May peace fill the lives of every human, animal and plant. May the new year bring honor to those who earned it. As for freedom, I'll simply quote Abraham Lincoln to express my sincere sentiments: "Those who deny freedom to others deserve it not for themselves". Happy 2012 everyone :-)

The Aftermath

noreply@blogger.com (abufares) — Wed, 07 Dec 2011 10:31:00 +0000

What shall I write about when everyone I know has turned into either a desultory opponent or a gullible supporter while those who are neither are the worst of all? I am a conspirator to the supporters and they are cowards to me. Highbrow hypocrites, camouflaged in diarrheal moderation, evade the deluge by hiding in the unreachable branches of tall trees, unprincipled, unashamed. They, along with the merchants of the two cities will surely recover and end up high and dry no matter how long the flooding remains.

courtesy thedailygreen

The cowards shall never win for their freedom will be handed to them as alms. The conspirators, and despite their fateful victory, have already lost their true identities. Eventually when the water recedes, the bemused survivors, cowards and conspirators, will pick up the pieces of their broken lives. The merchants will sell them their lives back, with interest and at a profit no doubt. And the hypocrite rascals will get down from their trees and fill the world with trash while, most certainly, making a damn good living out of cleaning the aftermath.

The Storm

noreply@blogger.com (abufares) — Tue, 15 Nov 2011 11:02:00 +0000

Another dry gust blew with profane anger. From behind the windowpane I saw plastic bags and scraps flailing the streets. The godless oppressive wind, flapping from the southeast then from the northeast, and infused with the sickly breaths of teetotaler pawnbroker merchants, and skunky with the sweat of racketeering hajjes, harassed the green trees in the coulee. They writhed, close to despair, then bent down only to protect their naked saplings.

The cold lashed and puffed with arid impotence. The chair upon which I sat, the bookcase and the nightstand by my side moaned with pain, their old walnut bodies crying for moisture. The shutters outside shivered in the grip of the grim reaper, almost giving up their hinges, when the inevitable sea-wind of fall came at last. It started to rain, slowly at first then with an orgasmic rhythm.

A big storm is on its way. I'm longing to walk in the rain, to wash away the grime that soiled the mind and the smut that tainted the soul. I don't wanna cover my head anymore nor pull up my collar around the neck. I just wanna walk and get wet. I wanna come clean.

Photo above courtesy of http://rapid-downloadss.blogspot.com

Sile - The Face Lift

noreply@blogger.com (abufares) — Tue, 01 Nov 2011 11:53:00 +0000

It all started when the television set exploded into a thousand pieces. I was tired after a day of give and take and was looking forward to having a beer in the comfort of my private hole in the ground. I took the elevator down to the basement where what I call my small barroom is located. I went around the bar to open the fridge and get a cold one when, splattered all over the floor, I saw the carcass of the TV set. After 6 years of hanging on a metal bracket, gravity got the upper hand and ripped the screws and bolt off the wall.

I had my beer anyway but was disgusted with myself. No, it wasn't because I had to buy a new piece of electronics at all. As a matter of fact I was looking forward to hanging a flat screen instead of the bulky box. It was just this feeling that my favorite room, the only one that I can claim as truly mine, because none of the others in the household like it, was in dire need of a face-lift. You see when I bought the flat (apartment) on the bones, as we say in Syria, I spent every penny I had saved on making it a cozy family home for 3 kids to grow up comfortably in. At long last when I wanted to dress up and furnish my 5X3 meter room I was virtually broke. So I made do on as limited a budget as possible and despite its spartan appearance Sile was by far my favorite place and sanctuary. Sile is a river in northern Italy and because of my affection for the city of Treviso where Sile flows I bestowed its name on the one piece of real estate that is truly mine and mine alone.

Over the years I wrongfully allowed Sile to become a dump for discarded pieces of equipment like a treadmill, or tidbits of furniture like a desk the kids no longer wanted. Even the Foosball table I was so excited to have at first became a burden and a piece of junk. I hardly played Foosball, exercised on the treadmill or used the stupid desk that nobody wanted. I only sat on my favorite stool and had my most creative moments in the bliss of my solitude and a drink.

Then my muse, oh I have a muse too, ran her slender hand on my cheek. You deserve better, she said.
Oh, I know, I told her, but what should I do? Where should I start?
What do you like best?
You, when you talk in my head, I replied.
Beside me silly old fool. Beside drinking. Think about it!
Uhhh, I like to read, I guess. With the country being in the palm of an Afreet as it is now and with very limited outdoor activities, I'm left with my reading.
And where do you read habibi? Yup after a couple of drinks she starts calling me habibi.
In bed, where else can I read? You know how it is upstairs.
Then bring your books and come read down here.
But... look at this place... it needs... it's awful and...
Shhhhh, leave that to me, she whispered, get a piece of paper and a pencil and let me show you what to do.

That was last month. Now Sile is done. I'm so happy with it. I mean h.a.p.p.y. as in really happy I want the whole world, well not all of it just those who read this blog and actually reach this point without hurting themselves, to see what a great place Sile turned out to be. This is a private club and only accessible through a personal invitation. Oh well, you are all invited.

PS Tequila Talking by Lonestar is a song that I've been stuck with during most of the remodeling process. So it's only appropriate to use it as background music for the attached video.

Cheers

noreply@blogger.com (abufares) — Thu, 06 Oct 2011 18:40:00 +0000

I've written under the influence before. Here I am though, in this moment in time and in this particular place, waiting for the inevitable. Throughout my life, the journey itself meant more to me than the final destination. On the many twisting roads I followed, the curves, the climbs and the unforeseen stops had marked my passage rather than a Welcome to Utopia sign posted at the entrance of a dead-end street. Sure I remember the cocktail parties and the insidious talks and the obligatory dance every now and then and the banter and laughter and unfinished drinks. The lonely drive back, however, somehow proved more real, more existential, after all these years.

One night when I was young and green, loaded with blood in my alcohol stream someone popped a question. We were playing Truth or Dare and I chose the Truth. There wasn’t a thing in the world I would’ve not done if they dared me so I figured what’s the point! Let them ask, perhaps I can learn a thing or two about myself. “What is your dream?” This is a moment any 22 year old fool would treasure. It was my free ticket to get laid that evening. All I needed was to draw from a vast repertoire of bullshit a young self-proclaimed intellectual possessed and I would end up in the sack with somebody.

“I want to fuck the universe.” I downed the shot of whatever I was drinking and envisioned myself almost 30 years later, now, at this moment, sitting with my friend Johnny, just the two of us, having one hell of a time. His name is Walker, Johnny Walker by the way, and he’s Black my friend.

Well the universe proved to be too lousy a lover and too formidable an adversary. Neither of us remember much of our flirting affair. One thing, however, just one thing, brought me and continues to bring me unbound satisfaction. I never gave up, I never changed. I have less hair on my head to be certain but she too, the universe that is, has grown older with a fat ass. I found myself a small moon and she's much prettier. Screw you Universe, you lost.

I fancy the inevitable, the moment of ultimate truth, and I snicker. I’m past the halfway mark and I don’t give a fuck. After all I’ve seen and learned it could only get better. Cheers!

Flying - Comfortable in the Air

noreply@blogger.com (abufares) — Wed, 28 Sep 2011 09:15:00 +0000

My first flight instructor was Ulf, a soft-spoken Swedish guy almost exactly my age. He was a quite young man with a perpetual Scandinavian smile on his face. I never saw him wearing anything but a clean well-pressed white shirt and navy-blue dress pants. The last I heard about him was that he'd been a captain on Scandinavian Air Service SAS for many years. My first solo flight came after 10 hours of dual instruction. Why don't you pull off the runway, Ulf yelped over the engine noise, I need to take a piss. I brought the plane to a complete stop on the taxiway and shut the engine off.

Opelousas, Louisiana had an uncontrolled airport. It had no control tower and accordingly arriving and departing traffic (aircraft) had to communicate by radio and declare their intentions to each other. The system worked pretty well and still does for the vast majority of American airports. Take-offs and landings are on first-come first-serve basis. Airplanes line up in an imaginary predetermined traffic pattern then proceed to land or to take off safely and efficiently. It was late afternoon, however, and on that particular hot summer day the sky was empty and almost as blue as Ulf's eyes. He jumped out of the two-seater Piper Tomahawk, turned his back to me and did actually take a leak in the middle of the airfield. After a manly shake, he obviously zipped up his pants and came to the left side of the plane, my side that is, and spoke in his characteristically diminutive voice. Say Abufares (that was not my name then but I'm using it to keep my identity secret), what do you say if I ask you to fly around the pattern alone, land, taxi back here and shut the engine off. Then you can do it a couple more times if you feel up to it? I couldn't believe my ears. This was not supposed to happen today. The instruction manual recommended the first solo flight after 12 hours of dual training. I knew that if I didn't answer in 10 seconds or less Ulf would climb back in his seat and call it a day. Yes! That was all I said. I shut both doors closed then switched on the ignition. I saw Ulf smiling and waving his hand as I taxied back in position for take-off on the runway. It was sweltering hot and my heart pumping blood and adrenalin at 200 beats a minute didn't make it any cooler.

It's been 30 years since that Saturday on July 11th, 1981 and I still remember it as if it happened 30 minutes ago. I pushed the throttle all the way up like I did many times with my instructor by my side. The plane twitched then accelerated nervously down the runway veering to the left with the torque of the single engine. I compensated with right rudder and at 55 knots an hour broke ground. The tiny cockpit seemed incredibly large and empty without Ulf. The Tomahawk, amazingly light without his weight, climbed steeply, much more steeply than I ever remembered and I subconsciously adjusted the trim wheel to keep her nose down. I raised the flaps and commenced my left turn to join the traffic pattern on the downwind leg. It all went silent as a surge of freedom flooded through my body and mind. I AM FLYING! I AM FLYING ALONE AT LAST!!!

I made a robust first landing, safe and efficient. Although I didn't grease my plane onto the runway I would never forget that moment in time. It was my greatest personal triumph, and save for a thing or two, still is. After I received my Private Pilot License, Ulf left and joined a regional American airline. Krisan arrived on the scene and instructed me almost completely through my Commercial and Instrument training. She was a fine young lady, petite, smart, and very pretty in her leather jacket and tight pants. She too became an airline captain for one of the majors. Before she quit flight instruction, however, she handed me to Rick.

Now if you were God and wanted to create the antithesis of Ulf and Krisan you could only end up with Rick. The man was loud. He came to work on a Harley with a cigarette between his lips. Somehow it stayed lit till the end of the day. And, and... pretending he was grabbing another cup of coffee, he would chase the secretaries from upstairs and the receptionists downstairs with his lewd remarks and stale pickup lines from the 60's. After Ulf and Krisan, I was in for a cultural shock. My best defense against the inevitable I thought was to talk as little as possible. To this day Rick thinks that I didn't speak English then and is still surprised how quickly I picked up the language afterward. I would use lines I memorized from sitcoms on TV for my routine conversation with him. The guy, and I have no doubt about it, must've thought that I was an absolute idiot. Truth of the matter though, I was a graduate teaching assistant in college at the time. But, he didn't need to know that.

Despite his eccentricities, or perhaps because of them, Rick was a top rated instructor and a very proficient pilot. I completed the remaining of my training with him in no time and within a month or so received my commercial certificate and my instrument and multi-engine ratings. Soon thereafter, I was offered my first job as a pilot in the very same General Aviation and Flight School were I earned my wings. Gene, rest his soul, was a boss, a friend and an older brother, who believed in Rick and me. He helped me get my Flight Instructor and Advanced Ground Instructor licenses and I embarked on a trip of adventure and discovery that had changed my life forever.

I had used the I need to take a piss phrase with all of my students when it was time for them to solo. Perhaps the only greater satisfaction than my own first solo flight was when I gazed at the sky and followed with my eyes and heart a student of mine flying on his own while I stood on the side of the runway. I know some of them have joined the airlines, one or two became air force pilots and several are flying doctors and professionals.

The world has changed for me and for everybody else over the years. I have taken on more jobs than I can remember in different fields, places and industries, from construction to industrial installations to shipping. My hands stayed soft despite the wear and tear of time, or so she tells me. I didn't have a chance to fly for 11 years during which not a single day, not one, had gone by without me remembering that first solo flight when I became a pilot. To be with Rick in the cockpit again, on top of the world and above the clouds, is something I fail to describe by miles and knots. He sure talks a lot but he was, still and always will be my best friend.

To anyone with the slightest inkling to get in the air and fly I dedicate this post. Go for it!

To my friend Rick, happy retirement and until next time.

Living the Dream

noreply@blogger.com (abufares) — Thu, 22 Sep 2011 10:02:00 +0000

I admired the beautiful handwriting by tracing my fingers over the elegant curves. The calligraphy scrolled like the sway of a perfectly shaped feminine butt in tight jeans. I could see her walking on a metal bridge as I trailed a step behind, too entranced to even breathe. I sighed, hoarding the air into my lungs, before I went breathless again. I ran my hand over my face, entirely covering my nose and mouth then mapping the outline of my stubbled chin. I gasped, a faint scent of Lavender and Jasmine lingered on my fingers. My heart pounded with a thousand delights. Sunshine lighted the world around me and a breeze stirred the surface of a lake, goading the water into dancing with the wind like the bangs of a mischievous boy riding his bicycle on the open road.

Climbing an immaculately manicured hill, you reached a railing where you stopped and looked at the river below. A couple of kids, more beautiful than a mecsek flower and a red rose played together. They laughed and raced and rolled on the grass. Their eyes, tranquil with content saw through you as if you weren't there. “Am I in the way?”, you asked the gorgeous little girl. She willed you to move without even nodding and followed a path laden with gold and jewels only she could see.

Rain threatened but waited. A solitary man stood by a window chasing a woman with a painfully long gaze before she disappeared behind the curb. His eyes held on precariously to the forming tears. I tossed and turned and woke up. The leather-bound notebook lay on the night table. I reached for it and peeled it open where the bookmark cleaved its pages down the middle. I read the Douglas H. Everett quote. There are some people who live in a dream world, and there are those who face reality, and then there are those who turn one into the other. Sweating but not ill at ease, I wiped my wet cheeks and smiled. Another dream, another day.

Born to Ride

noreply@blogger.com (abufares) — Thu, 15 Sep 2011 15:42:00 +0000

To my friend Rick

The horses were standing still and probably asleep when he started brewing the coffee. As he approached the stable, bringing them feed, his cigar smoke brought them back to the here and now. They snorted before one of them, Ibanez most likely, neighed and kicked the door expectantly. It was almost 3:00AM.

I do flock with strange company but such are my friends. Admittedly, I only have a handful of them but Rick and I go back a long way. He is after all my best friend. In all the years we've known each other our bond has been mainly one of sharing the hard and the easy times. We went on without setting eye on each other for 11 years but when we met at last it seemed as if our farewell had been only yesterday.

We left Ward, Arkansas with the break of dawn and rode over the next 36 hours through the hot and muggy American South for 700 miles (+1200 km). Riding nonstop for 6 hours a stretch, save for fuel and piss stops, the beasts beneath us writhed in the scorching heat then waded in the pouring rain. We only have coffee for food when we ride and won't touch a bite till we break the day. We stopped at Sarah's and Ron's for the night and Ron fixed us the best damn steaks I've ever had this side of the Mississippi, or on the other. When we left the next morning, the Jack Daniel's bottles were sitting empty on the kitchen table. I look forward seeing you again dear friends. Thank you both for the good times.

The black and silver Dyna SuperGlide took the road with an easy stride. She roared with delight and defiance with every spin of the wheels. She's Betty's mare, you know, the Harley I ride in America, and I have to tell her how honored I am that she entrusts me with her pride and joy. Thank you Betty, we have to find a way to ride together one day.

The fog hovered then reluctantly lifted off the fields and rolling hills. A deer stood motionless in the middle of the road. The rushing Harleys braked then banked and darted on the very edge. The startled animal wondered if it died and went to heaven. It was its lucky day, I guess, and ours. Images from the past flared with the dashing stripes of yellow paint on the two-way highway. Chimeras from the future giggled in my head as I droned on and on and on not too far behind my riding buddy. He slowed down and I caught up with him. “Is everything alright?”, he asked. Exhausted, consumed and worn-out, I nodded, “It couldn't get any better than this."

Dancing on 9/11

noreply@blogger.com (abufares) — Sun, 11 Sep 2011 11:28:00 +0000

I was on a job site in Lattakia when the shit hit the fan on September 11th, 2001. Since my work was almost done for the day I immediately jumped in the car and drove back (100 km) to my summer home in Bmalke. I flipped from one radio channel to the next in search of live news but still couldn't get a clear picture of what was going on amid the ensuing confusion. Once I made it home I ran straight to the TV and expectantly tuned in to CNN. The very first thing I heard was Deborah Feyerick reporting live from New York about the NYPD arresting 2 or 3 men in a white van full of explosives. Later in the day, anchorman Dan Rather mentioned it again on the 5 o'clock CBS News . The video clip below contains both instances plus footage of an Israeli talk show with these same men who were arrested then later released!!!

On September 12th, 2011 Paulo Lima, Staff Writer in The Record, a local New Jersey newspaper wrote an article "Five men detained as suspected conspirators were driving similar van as 3 seen celebrating after attack". This article was subsequently removed (i.e. erased, deleted) from www.northjersey.com (The Record's official website). Fortunately, a jpg image of the printed paper is available along with hundreds of links containing the original text. Here's the full article.

9/11 will go down as one of the most tragic events in human history. What makes it more tragically profound is that the government of the United States of America withheld and is still withholding information about what really happened. Cynics might argue that the fact that Israeli Mossad agents were on location filming live the catastrophe as it happened and that they were later seen by several eyewitnesses dancing jubilantly may not prove that the state of Israel was behind 9/11. Logically and with total judiciary detachment I can accept this cynicism, regardless of how foul it smells and tastes. However, there is conclusive evidence that Benjamin Netanyahu, the Mossad and the government of Israel had had prior knowledge of when (exactly down to the minute) and where (the specific buildings) the attack(s) were to take place. This is not an exoneration of the Bush Administration nor the government of the United States, as strong evidence also suggests that they were both either involved or had, at least, prior knowledge.

A must-read chronology of behind the scenes accounts and public records, some of them later erased, is to be found here.

To the families and friends of the victims of this tragedy, may your loved ones rest in peace. To the rest of the world, may the truth be known to all, one day.

In Search of the Lost Pueblo

noreply@blogger.com (abufares) — Wed, 07 Sep 2011 10:45:00 +0000

On a hot August morning in New Mexico, my GPSless friend and I embarked on a journey of geographical discovery in search of one of the illusive 19 Indian Pueblos. We were lost most of the time until eventually a couple of lumberjacks gave us the necessary instructions to get through the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. As we crossed the 12,000 ft path we descended on Taos and lived to tell about it.
Route: Albuquerque, Santa Fe, Sangre de Cristo Mountains, Taos then back along the Rio Grande River.

This video is the first in a series of posts called " Homage to America". Hope you enjoy it!

Istanbul... Istanbul

noreply@blogger.com (abufares) — Wed, 27 Jul 2011 11:48:00 +0000

At 7:00AM, 12 hours after leaving Tartous, I made it to a modern looking hotel on top of a hill. Blurry eyed, I stood on a terrace and took a long look at the panoramic view of the Golden Horn laid down for my eyes only. Istanbul was yawning but already awake drinking a cup of Turkish coffee. The smell of spices and cardamon filled my airways with euphoric anesthesia. The enchanting minarets, stilettos piercing the heavens, awakened a docile spirituality I had previously tamed. My mind cried for sleep. My heart begged for a walk. But for a man like me, who doesn't give much thought to thinking, the heart always wins.

Over the years, I have followed with fascination travelers’ accounts of distant cities and faraway places. Istanbul remained uncharted territory although Ataturk airport has served as a transit point for my out of range expeditions on many occasions. A seafarer who has sailed the seven seas and beyond often talked about this magical city as if he were describing a woman he’s utterly in love with. I can easily understand him, for favorite cities are like beautiful women for me too and a return after a long absence feels like being in the arms of one of them. Yet Istanbul is different. Untamed and fierce, dazzling and spoiled, she’s more like an intimidating beauty we often lust for but are too hesitant to loose ourselves to.

The melange of East and West is certainly Istanbul’s most unique feature. Sailing through the Bosphorus, with Europe to my left and Asia to my right, both within swimming distance of each other and connected by two high suspension bridges catalyzed the most magical moment of my seven day visit. This is a city with a dark and bright history of domination. The Byzantines, the Greeks, the Romans, the Arabs and the Ottomans, among more obscure others, have taken turn in invading and controlling Istanbul for its local riches and strategic location. Sure, we often hear and read of claims by other cities and countries of being strategically situated but none come close to be a gate between continents and seas like Istanbul. The Bosphorus provides the only outlet for the landlocked Eastern European countries and those lying on the Black Sea to the rest of the world.

For the empires that ruled the Middle Ages, relinquishing control over the 31 km Bosphorus strait was like strangling themselves to death. More significantly, I believe, it was then that the fire of Western Christian Islamophobia was re-kindled for a second and more everlasting time after the Crusaders forced exodus from Jerusalem earlier. Yet the original fear of Turks and their brutal savagery and the acquired hate toward Islam and its draconian teachings fade in comparison to this second wave of European atrocities committed against Muslims starting from the 15th century onward. Although historically debatable, the invention of the Croissant in France in the 17th century was a gift to Hungarians in celebration of their victory over the Turks. It served as a gruesome symbol, it is argued, of cannibalism practiced against Muslims from as far back as the 11th century, when the first Crusaders invaded the Levant. Count Dracula might be a fictitious character to most but he is based on a real one, Vlad the III of Wallachia (1431–1476), also known as Vlad the Impaler. Vlad’s victims, numbering in the tens of thousands, were mostly the “infidel” Muslim Turks. His favorite execution method was to drive a wooden stake up the rectum of the prisoner. Bram Stoker's 1897 novel “Dracula” about vampires, wooden sticks and fictional blood sucking was acceptable, even entertaining, euphemism of European boorish history to the civilized 19th century West.

I am a wandering writer, my ideas come in bursts in what I believe are moments of truth. In Istanbul, I was assaulted by such revelations. It’s hard to describe the Turks, those I met at least, as either very nice or extremely hardy. They are actually both. Their Ottoman Empire was one of the greatest to rule the world, and like all the other empires before and after, Turkey’s history is plagued by cruelty and blessed by the splendor of the arts and sciences. But Istanbul and Turkey mean more to me, much more.

During my stay my mind clipped, edited and played one scenario only: What If? What if we had democracy in Syria and in the rest of the Arab countries? Turkey is a vision of the future, a country with a troubled history, turning into a military dictatorship then self-transforming itself into a modern, yet very unique democracy. While the entire world is suffering the aftermath of an economic crisis and while Europe has succumbed entirely to its role as second fiddle to the United States, Turkey stands tall and leads its own blazing trail. Its economy is going strong as it has become one of the top global tourist destinations, along with an advancing industry and very efficient agriculture. Sooner or later Turkey will emerge as a superpower. It’s halfway there already. Will the West, the United States and Europe, if they had their say, ever let the Turkish example spread further south? This is the question I wondered about and credited myself with knowing its answer as I was wandering through the streets of Istanbul.

As If This Is Enough

noreply@blogger.com (abufares) — Sat, 16 Jul 2011 10:20:00 +0000

Under normal circumstances I am immune to the cruelty of my environment. I have retreated to a cave in space and time where I found a jot of privacy and a pinch of independence. I defied oppression by evading confrontation and scouted a solitary rock in this damned place where I was certain I’ll get enough fish for dinner tonight. The shimmering lights of thousands of dying suns held me captive. I eavesdropped on the murmurs of crashing waves, hesitating then returning to my hole in the ground dreaming of taking a plunge one of these days.

Just as long as no one fucked with my fragile bubble I managed to be almost pleasant. If attacked, however, I lashed back with hardy ridicule and gallant courage. I am a believer in not believing and I will defend my thought with claw and tooth after pen and argot, regardless of what had come to pass or of what is yet to be. As if this is enough!
I could go on living for myself till a day comes when I look into the mirror and spit at my reflection if I still have a remnant of human decency left. Or it could be worse. I might smile feebly at the ghastly figure before lowering my head in shame to stare at my own feet. Images of men getting kicked in the face then trying to stand up again only to be brought down and beaten by a mob of ghosts haunt me forever.
I fumble in the pockets of my honor for a forgotten handkerchief to wipe the tears of my conscience. I should blow the nose of my anger instead.
Not too far ahead, there’s a fork down the road with an arrow pointing one way. I squint my eyes to read. The Point of No Return.

Blogging for Syria

noreply@blogger.com (abufares) — Thu, 23 Jun 2011 10:14:00 +0000

In March of 2009 I wrote on this blog: Live and Let Live in response to what I considered to be the latest bigoted outcry on the Syrian blogosphere against homosexuality. I was convinced that whoever was attacking homosexuals and their basic human rights would not simply stop at that but might eventually assault my own rights as a liberal and a secular humanist to freely express myself. It was the first time I enter into a direct confrontation online with some of those who were on the other side of what I always believed to exist in Syria, a social and intellectual chasm of religiosity. I claimed then, and I still do, that Syrian individuals, families and communities are divided along lines defined by their degree of adherence to religious practices and traditional mores. Later I was candid enough to confess that my champion defense of secularism was possible only because I lived in a country where my liberal stand was tolerated as long as I didn’t dig deep into politics or point my finger in the wrong direction. I never played hero and I admitted that had I been living in Saudi Arabia or Iran I would’ve not dared being so outspoken against institutionalized and organized religion.
We are, however, at a critical point in history. Those whom ideologies and theocratic beliefs I oppose were not and will never be my personal enemies. I say that despite the fact that when they disagreed with me they attacked below the belt. That never stopped me from reading the more adept ones continuously. Although I don’t comment on their blogs I cannot but admit my deep admiration to their insight, foresight and courage during this time of strife.
To them, to all readers of this blog and to every person with the love of Syria running through their arteries and veins I hope for better days ahead when freedom doesn’t mean treason anymore and when the right to dissent is embraced in the same manner the obligation to conform is applauded today. I will continue to blog for the love of Syria. May she rise stronger with our differences. May these differences unite us in a way our similarities were unable to. Souriah w Bass!

Total Eclipse of the Heart

noreply@blogger.com (abufares) — Thu, 16 Jun 2011 15:55:00 +0000

My plan for the evening was simple enough. Spray some mosquito repellent all over myself, climb to the rooftop with an icebox full of beer then chill out and witness the longest total lunar eclipse in eleven years. Earlier I’ve read somewhere that the astronomical specter would start at 17:24GMT, that’s 8:24PM local (June 15th, 2011). I invited my son Fares to join me but he declined saying that’s he’d rather “watch” it with his friends. Truth of the matter was that he wanted to ride his bike in the neighborhood and the hell with the moon playing magic tricks and his grumpy old man reminiscing over the good old days. In the meantime, it had completely slipped my mind that I was already booked for the evening. I was going out for dinner with a bunch of guys in celebration of a birthday.

I’m not a fan of maudlin songs, well most of them anyway, but a little after midday Bonnie Tyler knocked on my ear. Bewildered by her sudden appearance I let her in. She grabbed a microphone and started singing Total Eclipse of the Heart inside my head. "Please Bonnie", I begged after the twelfth encore, "enough is enough", but she wouldn’t listen and I had to resign myself to a romantic mood.
Turnaround...
Every now and then I get a little bit lonely,
and you're never coming round...

The company of ten “male” friends didn't do much in terms of lessening the effect and absorbing the impact of Bonnie’s tears. Not even the steady stream of Arak, the succulent cutlets of Shish Kabab or the raucous partying could snap me out of my bathetic mood or from Bonnie’s arms.
Turnaround...
Every now and then I get a little bit nervous,
that the best of all the years have gone by...
"You’re too tall for me", I mumbled politely but she kept dancing with me anyway, leading every step of course. And then, in a moment of utter loneliness in the midst of a crowd I looked over my shoulder toward the eastern horizon and saw the moon rising over the hills of Bmalke. Ah, the moon, my Amar... Oh, the eclipse... damn! It’s way past 8:24 but... relax, the show had merely begun. I was glad to have brought my camera along.
And I need you now tonight,
And I need you more than ever,
And if you only hold me tight
We'll be holding on forever,
And we'll only be making it right...

"Stop it Bonnie, I’m already taken, please I’m..." but it was too late. She carried me up two flights of stairs and kicked the rooftop door open. She Turnedaround, dropped me on the floor, ready to jump me when I feebly cried, "look... there behind you, look at the total eclipse of the moon".
I managed to take a few pictures. The passage of earth in between the sun’s rays and the moon lasted over two hours. Eventually the moon vanished completely from the night sky but not before going through an amazing color shift. The heart-shaped moon could’ve been a visual aberration caused by a minute jitter when my finger touched the shutter button but the photo was just perfect for the night. I only brought along a pocket sized tripod which forced me to shoot from less than ideal positions and angles but it was still a very unique experience. Happy Total Eclipse to all of you people out there, may you never have to watch it alone.
Once upon a time I was falling in love
But now I'm only falling apart
There's nothing I can do
A total eclipse of the heart

I Want to Break Free

noreply@blogger.com (abufares) — Tue, 14 Jun 2011 09:34:00 +0000

Is this the real life
Is this just fantasy
Caught in a landslide
No escape from reality
Freddie Mercury (1946 -1991)

Born Farrokh Bulsara on the island of Zanzibar (off the coast of Tanzania) to Persian parents, Freddie Mercury is probably the most eccentric oddball musician I truly admire. This particular song is a test to anyone who thinks that he or she believes in freedom. If this clip draw the words RIP Freddie involuntarily out of your throat then make you smile from the heart and if you accept Freddie’s quirks as being on equal par with his musical genius then you’re not lying to yourself, you do want to break free. It goes without saying, of course, that if you don’t appreciate this song as one of the greatest ever, to simply embrace the shackles around your wrists since you are already a prisoner of your own mind.

Spring

noreply@blogger.com (abufares) — Tue, 31 May 2011 10:11:00 +0000

To Gabriela

[In Peru] in the worst times of terrorism (1980-1992), there was a journalist who had a weekly column where he wrote about flowers, bees, sunshines and smiles. One day, a reader sent him a very long letter asking him if it was worth it to write about flowers, bees, sunshines and smiles when our “brothers” were killing each other on a daily basis. The answer was very simple and short: Yes.

I’m not basking in detached silence. I have stopped blogging only because I can’t add or detract any value in terms of commentary on the recent turmoil in my homeland. In the meantime I've been reading vigorously what my younger fellow countrymen and countrywomen are writing. I have to acknowledge my admiration to their relentless spirit and their unbending belief in a better tomorrow. I have to also thank some of them for piloting me back to reading in Arabic, something, in my opinion, I neglected far too long for lack of quality. But quality and class they have, and brains and the tenacity to forge their way forward and not float in stagnant water with a false sense of security and perpetual bovine bliss. Politics is not my field. As a matter of fact, and after raising my hat to the new breed of gutsy Syrian bloggers, I should also bring to the attention of the venerable armchair political writers and totalitarian apologists that their silence at this moment in time would be their greatest gift to humanity.

On a distant February day this year I bought a DSLR camera, envisioning all the wonderful places I’m going to visit once I’m back in Syria. I rightly thought that with spring at the door I'll have a chance to learn and hone my photographic skills. I imagined the infusion of pictures and words on my blog and contemplated on how, since I’ve resigned from my job earlier, time would be my own again. I'd dedicate more of myself to this blog, I reckoned, and I'd start my endeavor by documenting how inspiring spring in Syria is. Alas, taking my camera on a Friday and driving a car through towns and villages or riding a motorcycle across the countryside in search of that magical shot couldn't be described as the safest hobby at the moment. I regret the missed personal opportunities but I don’t feel any remorse in the grand scheme of things. If it were not for the waves of the sea and for the flow of the river, water would become brackish. The Syrian Spring has turned out unimaginably more exalting than I could've dreamed.

There’s always a calm before the storm. What we tend to overlook is that there’s always a calm after the storm too. When the winds are howling and in the immediate aftermath of a tornado we might despair from the horrid devastation around us. Yet we have seen humanity triumph over and over again and we shall too. “All changes, even the most longed for, have their melancholy; for what we leave behind us is a part of ourselves; we must die to one life before we can enter another”*.

*Anatole France

The Sound of Silence

noreply@blogger.com (abufares) — Mon, 18 Apr 2011 09:45:00 +0000

Losing my anonymity on this blog was similar to losing my virginity earlier on in life. It brought me pleasure but it couldn’t be undone. I’ve been blogging for 5 years. Under different circumstances I would’ve been writing a celebratory post, one that explores my impressions and experiences. I would’ve attempted, as I often do, to infuse it with my “questionable” sense of humor and anecdotal trivia while I would’ve sought to portray my self-celebrated joie de vivre to put a smile on the pretty faces of some of my readers. My jubilant mood would’ve been further enhanced by the occasion of the 65th Anniversary of Syria’s Independence from foreign occupiers, yesterday April 17th, but this is neither the place nor the time for a celebration. Not that I’ve given up on better days ahead and on fresh breezes to blow over the entire region but in acceding my anonymity I have in essence relinquished my present right to free speech.

This blog has touched on social and political issues before and on some serious matters for the solemn type of reader. However, my take on politics in particular was more like soft porn, an allusive phrase here, a slightly explicit sentence there but it always lacked penetration. I carefully picked my words, avoiding confrontation and possible retaliation. In real life I’m mostly like that to tell you the truth. When I don’t enjoy my surroundings I leave. If a conversation upsets me I stop listening. I’m too Syrian to engage in a gentlemanly debate with an adversary. We would both lose our temper and a true dialogue becomes impossible. On a few occasions I butted heads with fellow bloggers because of our divergent opinions on religion, social mores and traditions and their proper roles in our lives, if any. Had I been living in Iran or Saudi Arabia I would’ve probably not dared made my voice heard so loud and clear on those subjects. I was safe in the knowledge that I didn’t cross any red lines as far as my habitat is concerned.

Perhaps it’s worth noting that I hadn't put an effort into hiding my true identity in the same way that I didn’t work hard to become as “known” as I am. Writing is a pleasurable pursuit and I didn’t want to have to look back over my shoulder to keep enjoying it. Besides there’s an upside to revealing my identity to many of my readers. I’ve become best of friends with some of them and this friendship I cherish more than most things in life. I don’t feel like posting recipes for now so you would all excuse me for remaining silent. After all this is my only way, for the time being, to express myself. Fortunately, nothing lasts forever. I have no idea how long it will take but I can only hope that we can get out of this dark tunnel with minimum pain and loss for everyone.

May the voices of wisdom, of mercy, compassion, kinship, unity, accord and ultimately freedom prevail and guide us all to the future we aspire for.

Hello darkness, my old friend
I've come to talk with you again
Because a vision softly creeping
Left its seeds while I was sleeping
And the vision that was planted in my brain
Still remains
Within the sound of silence

In restless dreams I walked alone
Narrow streets of cobblestone
'Neath the halo of a street lamp
I turned my collar to the cold and damp
When my eyes were stabbed by the flash of a neon light
That split the night
And touched the sound of silence

And in the naked light I saw
Ten thousand people, maybe more
People talking without speaking
People hearing without listening
People writing songs that voices never share
And no one dared
Disturb the sound of silence

"Fools", said I, "You do not know
Silence like a cancer grows
Hear my words that I might teach you
Take my arms that I might reach you"
But my words, like silent raindrops fell
And echoed
In the wells of silence

And the people bowed and prayed
To the neon god they made
And the sign flashed out its warning
In the words that it was forming
And the sign said, "The words of the prophets are written on the subway walls
And tenement halls"
And whispered in the sounds of silence*

* The Sound of Silence (Simon and Garfunkle), written by Paul Simon 1964.

Dawn

noreply@blogger.com (abufares) — Tue, 29 Mar 2011 09:49:00 +0000

The smell of fresh coffee wafted to the balcony where I stood mesmerized by the dancing shadows. Budding roses in a pot trembled to the caress of a breeze. A bank of fog lightly veiled the silent sky above but I could feel it, rain was coming our way. I gulped my coffee, put on cotton pants, a t-shirt and a pair of old trainers and descended the stairs two steps at a time. Glancing at my watch I walked briskly toward the park. It was dawn.

The city woke up yawning. As a wet cold fell over my shoulders I hastened my pace and winced in the drizzle. A mourning dove, then a few, hence a dozen followed by a covey from here and another from there cooed and took to the air. The fluttering of wings awakened my dream of a peaceful existence, of hope, and of freedom. Birds were meant to fly not to shed feathers in a cage, no matter how big the cage is and irrelevant of the goodness of the keeper. I stood still and stared at the soaring flock, drops of rain blinding me with ecstasy. I longed to take wing, to see and hear the countryside from above in a kaleidoscope of colors and a concert of kindred.

It’s neither about the birds nor about the bees that I’m writing. It’s about us Syrians. I have never loved a land like I love mine and I’m aware that my feeling is shared by almost all of us here and abroad. She’s our home from high above and from the top of trees as she is from ground level.

The door is open, it’s high time we fly.

Land's End

noreply@blogger.com (abufares) — Sat, 05 Mar 2011 20:36:00 +0000

I’m perched at land’s end. The water is captivating, almost as beautiful as your eyes, almost as enticing as the sway of your hips. I’m as far removed from the world as the unfathomable depths of my soul.

The cradle of civilizations, desert, river and sea, the place I call home is awakening to the rumble of my identity. Whatever woes unfolded over the last few centuries are ripples on the surface of my perpetuity. The rise and fall of empires, the demise of the orient, the ascendancy of the northern tribes, the holocausts that laid the trail westward are only blemishes on my olive skin.

I’m not a king, nor was meant to be. I’m the humble, proud, complacent, fierce, forgiving, fanatic man who’s been through it before. I was there from the very beginning and will remain when all are gone.

The breeze fondles my short bang. I close my eyes and breathe your eternity, your absoluteness, your omneity. The air around gathers its strength. It turns into a wind without direction and ineffectually assails me. I stand still still and wait like I’ve always done. Someday, the Shmali* will carry you this way. I’ll wade into the water, lift you up from the beaten raft then bring you to my down to earth level and kiss the hunger off your lips. Let it blow, the wind. It’ll come to pass if you stand your ground long enough... at land’s end.

*Shmali: A northwesterly wind that blows over the Levantine coastline.

Sea Side Published!

noreply@blogger.com (abufares) — Wed, 23 Feb 2011 19:47:00 +0000

Dear Readers,

Mariyah and I are excited and very pleased to announce that our novel, Sea Side, is now available for purchase from Lulu.com. A paperback version can be ordered for delivery, or you can download an electronic version directly. Thank you to all of you for your support and encouragement while we wrote it. We'll remember you when we're famous! ;)

Another special thanks to Joseph for the beautiful cover that we were fortunate enough to be able to use for the published version.

Abufares and Mariyah

Long Live Egypt - تحيا مصر

noreply@blogger.com (abufares) — Sun, 30 Jan 2011 09:42:00 +0000

F....b you

noreply@blogger.com (abufares) — Tue, 11 Jan 2011 11:57:00 +0000

I quickly went over the numbers. I started this blog in April of 2006 and published 73 posts that same year. I wrote 64 in 2007, 42 in 2008, 53 in 2009 and 37 posts in 2010. Obviously it’s a declining trend but what disturbs me to a larger extent is that most of the blogs I followed regularly over these last few years have all but become inactive. Of course everybody is on Facebook now. In 2010 there was more facebooking than googling so it’s easy to imagine the huge impact it must’ve had on blogging.

Facebook is fulfilling a crucial role in our online lives or it would’ve flipped belly up like many other failed attempts at social networking. The fact that I don’t personally quite appreciate it doesn’t detract from my understanding of its popularity and appeal. I go there because that’s where many of my friends hang out and I’m always thrilled to “get together” with them for a quick, often, entertaining exchange. In that respect I see Facebook as a waterhole for buddies to chill out and catch up with the bits and pieces of what’s going on in their lives. Yet I’m really curious about another matter. Did my blogging chums stopped writing (or are writing much less) because they are spending most of their “free” online time on Facebook? Are avid readers, who happen to be Internet users, reading less in print and online? What about photographers, athletes, hobbyists, poets, lovers? Are they doing less of what they used to do in exchange for more time on Facebook?

In 1964 Marshall McLuhan published Understanding Media: The Extensions of Man. He coined what later became an iconic phrase: “The medium is the message.” This statement could be interpreted in several ways, varying in scope and significance from the absurd to the substantial, but let me get back to Facebook. If we were to consider our presence there to be more than a recreational break (an evening at the pub) what is it really we are attempting to achieve? Having fun, just chatting, hanging out, doing nothing, checking to see what my neighbor is cooking are all legitimate answers. Communicating! That’s what I do when I’m on Facebook myself, socialize with my friends and occasionally meet new ones. So yes I can see the appeal for lonely people to go there and possibly meet someone interesting. There’s also the chance of getting rejected, having a one-night stand or even starting a relationship and falling in love. This is exactly what one expects from frequenting singles bars and night clubs. But don’t you agree that we have a better chance of meeting someone more interesting at the Louvres for instance than at the Moulin Rouge? In this post I am targeting those who enjoy museums, or bookstores, or art galleries, or discovering cultures rather than hotels and malls and who, at the end of the day, are able to create an intellectually or sensory pleasurable product to share with the rest of us. Has Facebook consumed the time you previously spent on being... creative? I’m really curious to know.

The cultural effects of social networking sites such as Facebook are tremendous and will continue to grow exponentially. The purpose of this extremely simple article is not to criticise this sweeping cultural trend in a destructive manner but to wonder whether an activity such as Facebooking has negatively affected creative people to have less time to do what they used to do best. I am aware that we can relay information on Facebook by linking, copying and parroting but can we actually create anything new? I love what a few of my friends are doing there, advertising their craft, their talent, their own fruits. I also admire whoever promote a cause they strongly believe in. However, I feel somehow cheated by those who have put their fertile minds to rest and are facebooking their time away and depriving me of their originality. I would really love to hear your answers, if you are still reading my blog that is :-)

Year of the Cliff-Diving Bull

noreply@blogger.com (abufares) — Fri, 31 Dec 2010 16:00:00 +0000

In the final hours I lure my raw feelings and trap them in an amber bottle. I nurse them with tenderness, lull them with the etherizing smoke of a Cuban cigar then watch them bleed through the tip of a pen. I run my fingers through the wavy hair of a year gasping for one last breath. Naked, I stand in the cold on top of a steep rock. The view is awesome as I carry 2010 precariously close to the precipice. You've been my year, I softly whisper, staring at eternity whirling in her sleepy eyes. I kiss her softly and lay her to rest. Then I tiptoe forward to the very edge, raise my arms high above my head and, like a cocked bow releasing its feathered arrow, I jump off the cliff, soul first. I dive toward the blue sea. At long last I'm free.

The world around remains enslaved by the folly of mad men and women. The lust for power, greed and tyranny dictate the day to day existence, the very destiny of the exasperated masses. The oppressed were further tormented while those living under the illusion of freedom went on with their lives unperturbed. The hungry, the homeless and the poor were stripped naked of their dignity by the cheapness of the rich. Generations aspiring for human honor and personal liberty suffocated from the obnoxiousness of fetid traditions and the defunct morality of ideas long dead. Is it about the world I'm writing or is it about me?

I bullied my way forward like a raging bull in an Andalusian plaza de toros. The smell of blood and urine and earth mixed together, filling my nostrils with the pungence of life and death. Torn between encouraging cheers and dispiriting shouts the arena turned red in my eyes. The matador was a small man like most. He would not stand a chance if it weren't for his picador on horseback and the gang of banderilleros stabbing my back with barbed sticks. Men who hide behind shiny pretense are bereft of courage while honor lies under the hoofs of the beast. Another swig followed by a long drag and the red lessened. I was walking upright again, crossing yet another bridge and burning it like others before. There was an open field ahead and way in the distance the silhouette of a forest emerged and drew my horizon. I walked on.

Happy New Year!

When the Sea Turned Blue

noreply@blogger.com (abufares) — Wed, 15 Dec 2010 17:00:00 +0000

A 2,700 years old legend

It was a breezeless autumn dawn. Old waves fondled the sand, frothed then withdrew silently offshore. The yawning sun haloed the hills and drew the silhouette of a single mast against the fading darkness. A ship with sagging ropes stood motionless in the bay. Not a bird flew nor a fish swam. Only a man wading ankle deep in the white sea(1) lent life to the desolation while his village lay sleeping behind. 'Adon, son of Hanno, grandson of Yutpan the fisherman, reached the edge of the outcrop, crouched then waited.

'Adon lived in an obscure crossroads on the eastern coast of the middle of the earth(2). His hut was one of twenty on the out-skirts of Amrit and less than a prsha(3) to the north. More villagers worked in this great city as servants for the Amorites(4) or as peasants in the fields than fishermen. Yet Amrit with all of its glory and splendor was overshadowed by the island kingdom of Arvad(5), home of shipwrights, seafarers and mariners whose indestructible ships plowed the waves and ruled the seas. From his perch 'Adon glanced toward the tiny island still shrouded in morning mist then focused on the water below. The spear rested lightly on his thighs while his eyes penetrated the depth in search of movement. He caught the silvery flicker at the corner of his field of vision and before the bass had a chance to see him ‘Adon’s spear pierced through its flesh. More light seeped from the east as he lowered his body to the water line and retrieved spear and fish.

The shrieks of seagulls bounced and echoed off the walls of the narrow alleys awakening Melita(6) from her sleep. A narrow door at the corner of her room led to an elevated garden. She walked out and climbed a few steps to the tower then emerged on a landing with a commanding view of the island. Arvad measured 800 by 500 paces in all. Yet on that balmy morning it was the throne of the most powerful maritime kingdom in the world. Melita shepherded the vagrant strands of her wavy hair and tied them back in a ponytail. She gazed at the mainland’s coastline stretching till eternity. Tears swelled in her blue eyes for she will soon see her land no more. Ashtar, one of her father’s most magnificent ships, was moored on the beach across. Anguish tore at Melita’s heart and she sobbed.

source: http://www.spike.com/video/eye-inthe-sea/2816941

The king’s envoys conscribed hundreds of men from the realm. From Ugarit to Tyre, they were brought to Arvad then shipped to Krit(7). King Danel Baal had forged a new alliance with the Kritians and was sending support troops to join in the war against the People from the North. In a gesture of good will, he gave his only daughter, Princess Melita, in marriage to the King of Krit. Seven of the strongest men were handpicked to escort the princess on her voyage and to man the ship. Ashtar laden with gifts of gold and dyes and glass and wine stayed on anchor not far from the sacred hill. King Danel Baal and Princess Melita landed ashore at noon coming from the island. The high priestess of the temple chanted invocations in a hymn to Hadad and Atargatis(8). Save Melita from the perils of land and sea, she prayed. Bless her and her husband-to-be with the offspring to fill the western islands and the Levant with the wise and the heroic. The throngs from mountain and plain converged near the bay to bid their princess farewell. The blood of a hundred sacrificial goats flowed into the sea as Melita kissed her father’s hand and walked ahead of her guard. ‘Adon sitting on his rock watched the proceedings with quiet resentment. While the masses shoved and pushed to get a glimpse of the royals he was annoyed that all the fish were scared off. The king and his daughter robbed him of his daily living. That was the extent of his true feelings. Her head held high, Melita walked steadily on the gangway. She turned one last time to impregnate her mind with an undying image of her Levant. Fighting the impulse to watch and losing, ‘Adon looked in Melita’s direction. His bitter expression morphed into a stupefied stare when he saw her beautiful eyes flooding then two teardrops running down her cheeks. She boarded the ship and disappeared. His heart broke in pieces leaving a void in his chest. The sail caught a warm easterly wind, the wood creaked, her bow heaved then Ashtar took to the sea.

Melita stayed in her cabin till night fell on the ship. The food and wine that were brought to her earlier remained untouched. From the small window on the port side she saw the moon dancing with the gentle swell. Then without warning, low almost imperceptible sounds brought her out of her reverie. A soft whoosh, a faint rustle, a muffled gasp, a dull thud stabbed the silence in succession before the door opened. A wet naked man, save for a puny piece of clothing, stood in a puddle of water in the middle of her tight quarters. He held a dagger which caught a ray of light from the lantern overhead. It gleamed savagely, dripping blood from the tip of its blade. Melita recognized the wild almost inhuman stare. This is the man who looked at me with loathing. His eyes were the last thing I saw of home. He had swam all afternoon and well into the night following the ship. He already killed some or all of my guards and now he wants to kill me. “What did I do to deserve such a fate?”, the princess asked, not a hint of fear in her voice. The man knelt on one knee looking straight in her eyes, then in a subdued voice he spoke: “You cried your Highness and no man alive, not your father the king nor a stranger from the other side of my sea makes my princess cry and gets away with it. I already killed the men and threw them to the dogs of the deep. I am here to bring you back.”

Melita and ‘Adon swam side by side. Tears flowed from the eyes of Melita dyeing the white sea blue. By morning they landed on a desolate rocky islet. In the distance, her beloved Arvad scratched the horizon. ‘Adon’s hut was not terribly far and lay hidden behind the skyline of Amrit to the north and east.

They were lost at sea in the legends of my land but Melita and ‘Adon never left the rock of Hbas(9) where they loved each other till the last day of their life. Their many children, handsome, strong and with eyes the color of olives and of the sea returned to the sacred hill and built Tartous. This is the story of my city told by a descendant of these two eternal lovers . Believe it... or not.

------

1 white sea: The Mediterranean is still called the White Middle Sea in Arabic (Al Bahr Al Abyad Al Moutwasset)
2 middle of the earth: Literally the Mediterranean
3 prsha: A Syriac word meaning a one hour ride on horseback
4 Amorites: One of many Semitic peoples who inhabited the Levant and established the city of Amrit, 7 km to the south of modern Tartous
5 Arvad: The island of Arwad, Arvad is its original Phoenician name
6 Melita: A Phoenician female name meaning safe harbor
7 Krit: Today, the island of Crete in Greece
8 Hadad and Atargatis: 2 ancient Syrian (Phoenician deities) read about them here and here
9 Hbas: A small uninhabited rocky islet off the coast of Tartous and at 8 km to the southwest