abufares said...the world according to a tartoussi

Surfing

abufares@abufares.net (abufares) — Sat, 31 Jul 2010 11:55:00 +0000

I've been out of it... Blogging that is, among other things.

Work surrounded me, trapped me in and overwhelmed me by its utter persistence and futility. I was fed up with the whole work ethic crap. We were naturally built to have fun, you know, like eat, sleep, make love then eat and sleep some more. Some bastards came along the way, maniacally obsessed with control and psychotically enticed by the prospect of turning everybody's life around them into a miserable and grim existence and... and they managed to fuck it up for the rest of us. Feasting till we drop on our backs was deemed inappropriate behavior. Climbing trees to find a solid branch for an early afternoon nap became a waste of time. Spotting a sonsie female while drinking from a spring and jumping her turned into "a thou-shalt-not". Chains were conceived and forged, taboo, religion, labor, military, slavery and ultimately capitalism took over, brutalized our ingrained indulgence and sodomized our innate wantonness. With the rise of civilization came the demise of man. And woman of course.

So I decided to take a vacation.

Media

abufares@abufares.net (abufares) — Fri, 16 Jul 2010 07:31:00 +0000

My exposure to Print Journalism has been confined to my private bathroom. In the 1970's and 1980's the market was evenly split between Lebanese and Egyptian (Arabic) magazines. Whether the subject matter was political, social or celebrity gossip no one did it better than the venerated publishing houses of Beirut. Until one day, petro-money was channeled into something else besides soliciting the coveted services of prostitutes. The Lebanese print media degenerated into sectarian partiality, lost their credibility and died of absurdity while the Egyptians continue to publish verbose magazines that look and feel as if they've been printed on toilet paper.Khaliji tycoons dumped their cash in Dubai and flooded the Arabic speaking world with glossy, colorful and extremely well produced gibberish and, along with the onslaught of hundreds of television satellite channels, became the trend setters of the Middle East, North Africa and, alas, the Levant.

Like their audiovisual counterparts, Khaliji magazines walk a tight rope. The vast majority of them, on the surface, targets women. However, they are also "watched" by men. They seek to convey an image of self-righteousness and abashed modernity to their female readership while simultaneously providing mild masturbatory material for the libidinous males. It's in Al-Sada magazine that my bodily constipation was cured with a dose of a diarrheal critique of a TV show called "Hadith Al-Balad" hosted by Mona Abu Hamze. First I need to point out an obvious fact of life. Mona is one of the most gorgeous creatures to ever walk the face of the earth. I've only seen glimpses of her show while jumping sports channels. The woman is arrestingly beautiful. My finger stops clicking the remote control button when I see her. I have no idea what her entertainment program is about as I'm really not into talk shows. It takes will and determination to escape her spell and return to the saga of the 22 men fighting over a ball.

The critic wrote and I quote: "Mona's latest blunder toward her "Arab" audience, she who is being watched in every single home of our "Arab" society including the conservative ones, was a public invitation to her Italian guest Savina to drink Arak in some Lebanese town. The worst is yet to come. Her invitation was echoed by the Lebanese Minister of Culture who was her other guest. Within seconds the conversation turned from art to wine making, which the minister confirmed that he is very good at."

How hard is it to understand that Arak, among other wonderful delights of life is part of our cultural heritage in the Levant. Lebanon, in its splendor and glory cannot be better appreciated than with a dainty table of Mezza and a dewy Kass of Arak. So it is in our dazzling Syrian coast, where a mouthful of Baladi Burghul topped with a piece of country chicken melts in the mouth and mingles with the homemade moonshine made of golden grapes and aniseed. Once they leave their scorched desert, the bastards drink Scotch from the red pumps of whores yet they deem it inappropriate for Mona's sweet lips to sip the lucky Arak and to make it more divine for the rest of us.

From the thirsty sands of the Persian Gulf to a conference hall in CNN headquarters in Atlanta where the decision to fire Octavia Nasr, Senior Editor of Middle East Affairs, was reached. Octavia tweeted: "Sad to hear of the passing of Sayyed Mohammad Hussein Fadlallah.. One of Hezbollah's giants I respect a lot.." CNN, being a mere toy in the hands of AIPAC, American Israel Public Affairs Committee, succumbed to a phone call. In the USA one can get away with almost anything politically as long as he doesn't piss off the pro-Israeli lobby. But who is this Sayyed Mohammad Hussein Fadlallah and why has the British Ambassador to Lebanon, Frances Guy's blog posting about his death been deleted by the British Foreign Service? I'll answer the easy second part first, Israel was angered and when Israel is angry, as it often is, the UK government wets its pants. Ms. Guy wrote: “The world needs more men like him willing to reach out across faiths, acknowledging the reality of the modern world and daring to confront old constraints. May he rest in peace.”

Two prominent Western women, a world-renowned journalist lost her job and a diplomat in the service of her Majesty the Queen was shut up because they wrote the truth about one of the most tolerant, open-minded and intellectual clerics in the world. Claiming that the Sayyed was not a most admirable human being because he considered Israel as his mortal enemy is as bigoted as insisting that Einstein could not be a genius because he was a Jew. In a time when most religious figures are ignorant idiots, child molesters and hate mongrels, Sayyed Mohammad Hussein Fadlallah was an enlightening man, a champion of women's rights and a fierce defender of his country against Israeli aggression and occupation. I wonder what scares the "free" democratic western governments more, a tolerant and moderate Islam that appeals to the mind and conscience or hordes of shapeless women in Burkas? Sayyed Mohammad Hussein Fadlallah was the better face of Islam and this is exactly what Israel cannot allow the rest of the world to see.

I read with fascination and disgust the Western hate literature against Islam. I'm also puzzled and offended by the Islamists' literal interpretation of the Quran and the way they've degraded it by insisting that it is a rigid book, immune to discussion and human questioning. I live in an age where true temperance is not tolerated because the pervasiveness of moderation could shake the foundations of the remaining apartheid countries in the world after the demise of racist South Africa. The Saudis pump oil and money to remain while the Israelis threaten to sneak in a Monica Lewinski anywhere, anytime and bring anyone down to their knees.

Welcome 3

beeseh16@gmail.com (Mariyah) — Fri, 02 Jul 2010 02:41:00 +0000

I'd only known this beautiful woman a short time, but the pain I'd seen in her eyes affected me so strongly. She had tried to conceal it from me, but it was impossible for her to hide any of her feelings. She wore happiness as perfectly, as regally, as a queen wore her crown and when that happiness disappeared, if only for a moment, it was plainly visible. The melancholy that replaced it was so out of place in her. Luckily it seemed that my appearance dissolved some of the sadness and my only desire now was to keep it that way.

"I've been waiting too." I smiled, "I thought my work day would never end."

"There are times, aren't there, when one needs time to stand still and yet other times when we wish it would rush on? Today I have been torn between the two." When she looked at me, her dark eyes reflected the complexity of the emotions she was experiencing when I had entered the store."But come, let me make some coffee and we'll sit and talk in comfort."

I had a sudden urge to take her into my arms as if that would protect her from whatever she feared."Fatina," I nearly pleaded, "Don't go to any trouble. Sit with me now and talk."

"Bassem, trouble is paying the taxes or scrubbing the kitchen floor. Making coffee for a nice gentleman is no trouble at all." This time her luminous smile returned and all at once I felt my entire body relax again. "Please, as you had wished to earlier, have a look around the store. Once the coffee is ready, we'll talk."

I looked at her, feeling uncertain about leaving her but she nodded encouragingly. A great desire to please her, mixed with my curiosity about the place, brought me to the bookshelves in the back.The entire back wall of the store, from floor to ceiling, was filled with books. I squinted to see what sort of subject matter the books at the top held but the small print of the titles eluded me. I passed my fingers along the spines of those at my height. Some of the books were very, very old. Many were leather-bound. I took one from the shelf and handled it carefully. The leather was embossed with gold script and inside the delicate and time-worn pages made a delightful, crisp sound as I turned them. The scent of ink and old paper filled my airways leaving me with a giddy feeling. It was a collection of ancient poetry, and was, by far, the most beautiful copy of the Mu'allaqat I had ever seen. The words were written in superb calligraphy and nearly leaped off of the page. It was a true work of art in many forms of the word.

Fascinated, I sat down in one of the chairs and began reading with a certain crazed lust for such rare beauty. I hadn't read the poems since highschool and back then they held little interest for me. But in this format where such attention to detail had been applied page after page, I couldn't help but be drawn into them.

"Ah, the Mu'allaqat." Fatina's smooth voice startled me. "That is one of several prized possessions of my father's collection. This particular copy is nearly 500 years old."

I gasped and suddenly felt sheepish. "Oh! I shouldn't have my fingers all over the pages then!"

"Bassem." She handed me my coffee and sat in the chair next to me. "If the book were always on the shelf, deemed too delicate to read, what would be the purpose of having it? I was thrilled to see you enjoying what I have also found immeasurably beautiful. Your appreciation of the collection is rare among those who have seen it."

"Oh. Well, I really haven't any knowledge about rare books or great works of literature."

"But you appreciate it and that is the first step to true knowledge. Now you will read the poems again, which I'll bet you haven't since highschool. With some age and wisdom under your belt, you'll have a better understanding of them. This will lead to deeper appreciation and knowledge."

I leaned toward her, captivated by her sincerity. Her eyes danced with conviction and excitement. "Do you really think I'm that wise?" I smiled mischievously.

"Well, you're here aren't you?" She smiled back with equal playfulness.

"Indeed I am. Pure brilliance on my part." I was suddenly lost in her eyes and unable to look away. Everything else around us seemed very remote. I reached my hand to her face and held it, stroking her cheek with my thumb. Her skin was so soft I could have lingered there forever. My thumb moved slowly across her lips. They were fleshy and velvet - so inviting.

"Bassem..." She started.

I pulled my hand away suddenly afraid that my actions were inappropriate. "I'm sorry..."

"Bassem..." She took my hand in hers.

I was flustered now. "It was wrong of me..."

"Bassem, just kiss me." She blurted, immediately putting a stop to my babbling.

I moved in so close, I could feel her breath on my skin. "Yes?"

"Yes." She breathed.

When our lips met, time was finally on our side.

By Mariyah

Creme Al-Tayeh

abufares@abufares.net (abufares) — Sat, 26 Jun 2010 11:03:00 +0000

I delve in a well of memories, back to a time when a die-hard and venerable gentleman never stepped outside his home without a tarboosh on his head. The clear image of one distinguished octogenarian coalesces in my mind. He originally came from Lattakia and settled in El-Khrab, beyond the southern "Bab-el-Hara" of old Tartous. I've never seen him except in a three-piece suit (mostly white) and a polished smile on his face. He opened shop in the 1940's in the narrow Souk and became a fixed feature among the array of butcher shops, Msabbha and Fool joints, rope sellers, tailors, vegetable merchants, pickle peddlers, hardware stores and blacksmiths. His shop was unique though, a refined bookstore in an agrestic neighborhood. His name was Mustafa Al-Tayeh (1897-1984) مصطفى الطايع and he didn't only sell books but was also an Attar, the only perfume maker in Tartous.

Mr. Al-Tayeh was fascinated with roses and dedicated his life to extracting their essence and capturing their fragrance. In 1950 he created what eventually immortalized him, a certain balm made from garnered rose butter and aptly called it Creme Al-Tayeh كريم الطايع. Within a few years, it became a genuine Tartoussi household name. Its inventor held that his secret formula possessed extraordinary medicinal properties and that it was a cure for virtually any dermatological ailment. Sixty years later, we still don't dispute his claim in Tartous, Creme Al-Tayeh is a magical balm and anyone lucky enough to have tried it would attest to that.

As a teenager, my first line of defense against pimples was a dab of the buttery balm. That's all it took, a dab or two, once or twice and my skin was clear again. From lip sores to hemorrhoids, burns, bruises, lacerations, eczema, black spots, hair loss, hair growth, bumps, ulcers, irritation and skin rash, Creme Al-Tayeh cured them all. It came in two forms, pink and white, prepared from either red or white rose petals. It was only a matter of preference to choose one color or another but most often everyone ended up buying both. Now as far as I'm concerned the most bewildering quality of the small jar was that it never seemed to run out of balm. During the extensive research in preparing this post (you can tell, can't you?) I asked a random sample of family and friends if they ever bought a jar and used it completely. They all confirmed my initial doubt, it's more likely to have it misplaced, to move out of the house and lose it during the packing and unpacking or to immigrate to another country than to actually consume it all.

Heyam Younis

Then as luck would have it I ran into a retired ambulance driver who transported patients to larger hospitals in Damascus. I remembered a previous conversation we've had in which he told me that he always ferried cartons full of Creme Al-Tayeh to one store in the Kassaa area of Damascus in his ambulance. There was a huge demand on the Creme and he ran a lucrative business on the side. Then he conspiratorially confided that among the Kassaa store very special clients and regular users of Creme Al-Tayeh were the Lebanese Younis Sisters, Heyam and Nezha. Now I really wonder how many readers actually know who Heyam and Nezha Younis are. Is there a statistically significant correlation between those readers who've heard of both Creme Al-Tayeh and of the Younis Sisters? I suppose this fascinating possibility deserves further investigation. Yet I can't let you (Ignorant Readers) get away with your callowness. To recognize Haifa Wehbe as a Lebanese superstar and not embrace Heyam's beautiful voice (and eyes) is sacrilegious. And what about you, Arabic movies' buffs who've never heard, or daydreamed of Nezha Younis? You should all be ashamed of yourselves.

Nezha Younis

The eldest of Mustafa Al-Tayeh's four daughters inherited the formula and continued in the footsteps of her father. She too had passed away but was able to transfer the secret to her sisters. They still prepare the balm, fill the jars and sell them at home in Tartous. Creme Al-Tayeh is also available in a few selected stores in the city and outside. I have 2 jars in my bathroom and I use them mostly for shaving cuts since, alas, I'm way past getting pimples on my face. If you tried it all but still can't get that perfect Tartoussi skin now you know our little secret. Nature and savvy conspired into making us the beautiful people we really are. Well these and a kindly gentleman from Lattakia...
who once upon a time made the clever choice and moved to the right place.

Trash

abufares@abufares.net (abufares) — Fri, 11 Jun 2010 10:32:00 +0000

To profess to be doing God's will is a form of megalomania. -Joseph Prescott, aphorist (1913-2001)

A dear friend of mine, an artist, a humanist and a self-professed atheist with an absolute and egalitarian renunciation of all religions wrote me a letter. She received information by email, too bad to be true, she thought, about Islam. "I cannot believe that all of what is written here is true, so I'm asking you to write something about this in your blog. I want you to respond to this trash."

Now considering that I've been recently called "Evil" for my secular views by one of the more assiduous Islamist bloggers, personally slandered by an obnoxious and vindictive shaver for my pro-Western disposition and an anti-Semitic conspiracy theorist by a Zionist/Crusader mummy I don't find myself well-suited for the task of defending Islam or any other religion for that matter. I am a secular humanist and I have taken a clear position on the matter. I value human thought above all and am ready to challenge any notion claiming to be of divine origin.

But I stop abruptly before I differentiate between the merits and the fallacies of each monotheist religion against the other(s) for the simple and only reason that they are basically similar. They share the same strengths and weaknesses. Where they vary is with their interpretation of divinity and their degree of obsession with rituals. To reply to the venomous anti-Islamic propaganda of Nonie Darwish, founder of Arabs for Israel, is self-defeating. To bring myself to her level of ignorance and idiocy is not an option. She seems to be focused on discrediting Islam, Arabism and Palestine in one sweeping attack. She irrevocably mixes fabrications from the worst nightmarish interpretations of the Koran, archaic pre-Islamic tribal traditions of the desert and the outright lies of Zionist evangelism into an in-cohesive body of thought. And, she fails terribly in convincing anyone who is not already more imbecilic than her.

Every human being reacts to the idea/truth of God within the wide spectrum of one of four different ways. The first is for a person to be a believer of one religion only. The second is to be an atheist. The third is to believe in "God(s)" outside the bounds of religion. The fourth and rarest of all is to ascertain that all religions hold some element of truth in them and could not be mutually exclusive. Unfortunately, the mass majority of men and women falls in the first group and it is from this immense array of humanity that extremists and bigots in all of their known forms, including Taliban, Crusaders and Zionists arise. This is the cradle of Islamist terrorism against the West, Christian genocide against Jews and Muslims and the Israeli holocaust against the Palestinians and humanity.

When a Christian converts to Islam and elaborates on her new-found bliss (according to her) without denigrating her old faith she is adhering to what is basically "good" and benevolent in both Christianity and Islam. However, when Nonie Darwish ascertains that she abandoned Islam because it is a terrible religion and deserted Egypt because it is a disgusting country; that she became a Christian and later founded Arabs for Israel she is only being herself, a fake humanitarian usurper and hate mongrel. A Christian, one who comprehends the message of Jesus, is incapable of writing something so despicably vile about another faith. An Arab for Israel, however, is the perfect hayena to do just that.

Nonie, I'm not calling you infidel. You're nothing more than a hate perpetuating bitch.

Welcome 2

abufares@abufares.net (abufares) — Fri, 04 Jun 2010 12:08:00 +0000

Bassem left me gasping for a word to say as the soft petals quivered in my hands. I didn't know of a single young man or woman in town who lived alone. Yet I couldn't imagine him staying with his parents. He simply looked out of place and perhaps a little out of time. I haven't seen him before and judging by the way he looked at me he didn't know me at all. As friendly and cordial as I am I don't normally greet total strangers on the sidewalk and chat with them. It was the twinkle in his eyes, however, his spiffy and detached smile that made me notice him as he walked by. He was late for work, he said. I instinctively glanced at my wristwatch. Nine o'clock! His office must be very close indeed.

I have dodged all attempts to pin me to a prearranged marriage. My father left me alone and gave me the breathing space I needed. My mother and two aunts didn't hold their fire back for a single day though. I was thirty and unmarried and they have vowed to put an end to my solitary existence. I loved mother dearly but she suffocated me as much as she neglected my father. It hurt her how close we were, he and I. She couldn't understand that by letting me fly on my own, by setting me free, by watching from a distance daddy was in fact with me every single moment. As hard as I tried to understand her motives behind her insistence on getting me married I couldn't. It was as if my life and hers depended on it.

"But mom I don't love him. I don't care that he's a doctor or about his family. I don't wanna get married now, and certainly not to him."

Their professions varied but they were all the same. Big boys who plunged head on into marrying a girl they didn't even know because she was pretty, came from a good family and passed their mothers discerning taste in women. This place suffocated me and if it were not for dad I would've not returned from abroad. I knew he was ill and I knew how my mother felt about him, or perhaps did not. As I grew up and witnessed their parallel lives I thought that her desultory journey would prevent her from committing her parents' mistake with me. I was wrong. Father was twenty years her senior and a century or two ahead of her and the town's folks' arrested development. He was undemanding and unobtrusive but when it became increasingly more difficult for him to be in his beloved bookstore, as he did everyday since as far back as I can remember, he called me and conveyed his message shyly. He wanted me near him but more importantly he wanted the bookstore to remain open.

I sold seven books to four other customers by 1:30. One of them, an elderly lady bought two dozens of red and white carnations too. I called dad over the phone and excitedly informed him about my first day's bounty. Delight tiptoed in between the chords of his frail voice. He asked about the seven books as if they were his flesh and blood. It was never about the money for him since he inherited plenty to make him and his family live comfortably. It was only about the books, my little brothers and sisters as he used to tell me when I was in first grade. I hesitated then...

"Dad, I met someone this morning."

"Where?"

"Here in the bookstore."

"What did he buy?"

"A bouquet of beautiful flowers."

"uh huh."

"Then he gave them to me dad."

He swallowed his thoughts, rolled them around in his head. "You sound happy habibti."

"I am!"

"Don't let anyone take that away from you. Follow your heart my Fatina."

He hung up, tired but not weighed down. I could see him lying content in bed with an open book over his chest. Oh how I love him. Tears swelled in my eyes when I remembered how ill he was, how lonely his life had been and how I'm going to lose him soon. The chimes over the door trilled with a distant song. I rubbed my eyes quickly with the back of my hand, straightened my dress and looked up. Bassem stood there with his enchanting smile.

"Hello."

"Hi Bassem."

"How are you?" He eyed me with tender concern. "Is everything alright?"

"Yes it is. " His worry dispelled the tears and spilled a gentle wave of quiet in my heart. He saw that.

"Listen. I was wondering if..?"

"Yes!" I answered. "I've been waiting all along."

by Abufares

Welcome

beeseh16@gmail.com (Mariyah) — Fri, 28 May 2010 12:16:00 +0000

“Sabah el kheir.” Her voice startled me. The shop had been here for centuries, or so it seemed. How it stayed in business no one ever really knew. We gossiped that the family was secretly wealthy, perhaps descendants of some powerful magistrate or rich merchant, or maybe they had some less than legitimate business on the side that allowed them to live comfortably while the store made no money for them at all. Until recently it had been an antiquated book store. Although I had never gone in, I'd heard rumours that it was dim and dusty and a generally unpleasant place to be. The old book dealer was rarely ever seen around town. No one really knew who he was. If it weren't for the sign over the store, Nader's Bookstore, no one would even have known his name.

“Sabah el nour.” The words barely escaped my lips. She was stunningly beautiful, bright...like a polished gemstone. Her smile radiated a love of life and of people. She could endear anyone within mere moments of meeting her...at least, she had me. She was placing baskets of cut flowers just outside the shop doors as I was passing by. At first, I was oblivious to the anomaly, but when she spoke to me, I suddenly became extremely conscious of the fact that everything had changed at this little corner of town.

“Would you like a flower for your wife? Or a girlfriend perhaps?” She handed me the most brilliant pink rose and nodded encouragingly for me to take it.

“Oh, I...uh...”

“Please. It's on the house.” She winked playfully.

Oh what a goddess! I needed to recover and quickly. “I've never seen this place looking so...attractive.”

“Thank you.” Her smile became even more luminous and I felt my knees weaken. “I've taken over the shop from my father - tried to give it a bit of a face lift, you know.” She glanced at the shop behind her. I, too, gave it a closer look. The windows were gleaming, not dingy as they had been previously. A bright new sign hung over the freshly painted door, “Nader's Flowers and Books”, accompanied by a warm “Welcome” placard just below.

“Indeed. You have succeeded quite nicely.” I found myself smiling back at her with an enthusiasm I hadn't felt in a long time. “So you are still selling the old books?”

“Well, Father's collection is exceptionally rare. I didn't have the heart to disperse them in an auction or something. I spent a lot of time categorizing them and reorganizing the store to display them nicely. I also wanted to make room for my flowers - have the books and flowers compliment one another or at least co-exist pleasantly.”

Now my curiosity was piqued. “Would you mind giving me a tour? I've never been in the shop.”

“Certainly. Come in!” She opened the door for me which I quickly took from her and insisted that she enter first. As she turned, her long hair swung with the movement of her body and threw a glorious scent in my direction. Her body was plump in the most exquisite way. Every curve was accentuated deliciously in her floral dress. I feasted on her with my eyes until she turned to speak to me again. “Well, what do you think?” She thrust her arm toward the new displays but I was unable to look at anything else but her with any attention.

“It is exquisite.”

She giggled at my response knowing full well that I wasn't talking about her shop. “Well, Mr...”

“Bassem.”

“Mr. Bassem,” she continued.

“No. Bassem, please, not mister.”

“Bassem.” She looked at me with direct delight, not bashfully as many women might. “Thank you. Perhaps you would like a coffee while you look around?”

“That's a nice touch.”

“I thought so.” She smiled again and then busied herself behind the counter with my coffee. I tore my attention away from her in order to look around with earnest. After all, if she had created the displays with her own hand, it would certainly reflect her mind. The books had mostly been moved to the back of the shop and surrounded a cozy reading nook. A comfortable set of chairs sat facing one another with a small table in between. On the table was a bowl with several vibrant, fuchsia flowers floating in water. It was a perfect centerpiece to unify the shop's merchandise - the flowers with the books. The front of the shop was dedicated to all kinds of cut flowers and an unusual assortment of handmade pottery vases and hand-blown glass ones. The walls and display furniture was very simple, but the way she had coordinated colour and texture brought an ethereal quality to her shop - a quality completely befitting of her.

I had a keen interest in the titles that might be on the book shelves but as I wandered toward them, I suddenly looked at my watch and discovered that I was already late for work. I quickly returned to the front and to her.

“Miss...”, I started.

“Fatina.” The sound of her name played like a song in my heart.

“Fatina.” I repeated softly. “I'm afraid I must be getting to work. Could I stop by again when time is more leisurely, maybe after lunch, for that coffee?”

“Oh certainly, Bassem. Of course.” She laughed happily. “I should have realized.”

“No, I am the one who lost track. Your...hospitality was very...distracting.” Now I smiled mischievously.

“Well, you're my very first visitor...”

“Customer.” I quickly corrected her and released a glorious bouquet of mixed flowers from their container. “Have you got a vase?”

She looked at me curiously. “Yes.” She took one that would be exactly the right size from underneath her counter and placed it on top.

“How much – including the vase?”

“Twenty dollars, please.” She smiled bashfully now. “Someone is a lucky woman.”

I paid her and placed the flowers in the vase. “You may need some water.” I smiled and exited the shop before she could respond. Out in the street my smile spread across my face from ear to ear. It would be a long day at work, but the reward at the end of it would make the waiting all worthwhile.

In my office the single pink rose adorned my desk and enchanted my soul.

By Mariyah

Humanoid Hemorrhoids

abufares@abufares.net (abufares) — Mon, 24 May 2010 17:30:00 +0000

If you wanna soar with the eagles don't fuck with the chicken (a Wise Dude)

I had a week to forget and I will. Over its course I had suffered from mild and acute pains in the butt. I had to talk to, and even smile at, some people whom, under normal circumstances, I would totally ignore. I have also turned a blind eye toward lost souls hiding behind bitter words, too Gallus gallus domesticus to be fucked by me.

My perception of freedom, my own, has changed drastically the day I became a father. I constantly remind myself that I have to accommodate, accept and tolerate donkeys with suits and ties for instance. Yet, I will never cross the line to hypocrisy and my patience has been tested to the limit.

Only yesterday a dear friend wrote to me: "This is a dirty, dirty business..." In real life and online it's becoming increasingly true. However, we have to accept that evolution is far from perfect and that imbeciles are an unavoidable but necessary fact of life. We have to thank them for if it were not for them we could've never shined in the first place.

I want my kids to grow up and spread their wings on their own even if it means that I'll lose some precious time. It's like being young again in that stage in life, without all the sex. I can practically do whatever I want to if I remember what it was. Most importantly there will be no stopping grumpy old me when I run into a humanoid hemorrhoid, again: "Rub some Preparation H on your ugly face and get out of here you chicken shit." Then to Mildred*, as tender and soft as my wrinkled skin looks and feels: "Bring me my goddamn dentures and the prunes... Then sit in my lap you sexy old hag!"

*Who's Mildred?

Al-Mina Street

abufares@abufares.net (abufares) — Sun, 16 May 2010 10:06:00 +0000

I often write about a Tartous that is no more, about a time that treads on the fringe of anamnesis. I might be a nostalgic old dude but I am neither bitter nor grumpy. I simply miss a past that is far too beautiful to be laid to rest then forgotten.

Until the 1980's Al-Mina street was the crown jewel of my city. I was born right there, where I planted the red arrow on this photo dating back to the early 1960's. It was taken from the roof of the Awkaf building looking north. I remember every single building in that photo, a few of which still stand after almost five decades.

The Roman port, which was later obliterated, is visible right across the street from my home by the sea. So is the open field we called Al-Bayader with a tin roof cafe that was the compelling gathering place for all the Tartoussi men in the evening. During the day it served as playground for us kids. We played ball, rode our bicycles and made up games of unimaginable simplicity. Women with their children strolled down the long street as ice cream vendors carried their big thermoses on their backs and roasted corncob outcriers pushed their colorful carts with blazing fires.

There was a short-haired pointer dog in almost every house down the street. Men and boys hunted year round. Game birds were abundant and lunch invariably included quails, thrush, shukkar partridges or doves. Anyone who did not own a felucca had a fishing rod. A small piece of dough was all the bait needed to catch the most magnificent specimens of Buri fish. Sure they sold lamb at the butcher shop but red meat was something reserved for special occasions and shunned at in our everyday Mediterranean diet.

Less than a handful of cars cruised the sleepy town. The mayor had an automobile of course and so did the doctor. There were three or four taxis people shared to go to Tripoli on a jaunt or to travel to Damascus for an overwhelming need. However, the streets of Tartous were teaming with Vespas, Lambrettas and bicycles. Oh, and we had quite a few tumbors (wooden carts pulled by donkeys or mules) which adequately fulfilled the roles of delivery trucks and utility vehicles. As a kid I never found a compelling reason to venture beyond Al-Mina. Inland Tartoussis, those who did not live on the front row facing the sea, came to us instead. Everybody knew everybody else. Everyone had a nickname and it was used to call him by. The houses of the rich had more rooms than those of the less fortunate but there were no significant visual clues setting people apart. A wealthy person who took himself seriously stood to lose most. Nobody liked him and all the money in the world could not buy him an ounce of respect.

During summer break and unless a kid was sick he rarely stayed at home. Our parents had no reason to worry about us. We were always to be found somewhere by the sea. Most of us learned how to swim before we could take our first steps. We were obviously as safe outdoors as we were inside our own homes but it was much more fun. The visible thin line in the background of the picture is the foundation for the northern breakwater of what later became the Port of Tartous. We went there, searched for and found Batlouness (mussels) on the submerged rocks. We would spread them on a piece of discarded tin, collect splinters of wood from ill-fated boats and cook them on the spot. They provided more lunch than any raucous kid needed to keep him going for the rest of the long day and they were tastier than the fanciest restaurant in the world could ever dream of presenting.

I grew up there, on that stretch of road. I wore high rubber boots in the winter and an orange parka over my uniform. A ten-minute walk due east put me in school but I never followed a straight course. From a distance, I shadowed the girl next door to her school, just in case some backland lad was fool enough to cross her path. I also gazed at her cute little butt in the tight Foutouweh Khaki pants every single step along the way. I had my first kiss on the roof of one of these buildings. Her cheeks turned red when we kissed and her lips tasted of strawberries. We both trembled as I gathered my courage and cupped her breast. It was smaller and firmer than a crunchy apple and infinitely more scrumptious.

In a trance, I stare at the frozen moment captured in this old photograph. Phantasms from my past flicker on a screen in my mind. The laughter of the dead echos against the walls, memories of those who sailed West shimmer on the facades and the twinkle in the eyes of my remaining companions reassures me that it was all real, that I am neither bitter nor grumpy. We had all known better times... on Al-Mina Street.

Quadrennial Anniversary - a disgruntled tartoussi

abufares@abufares.net (abufares) — Wed, 05 May 2010 09:26:00 +0000

A few readers have expressed their discontent over my predisposed beautification of Syria and the untainted image I strive to paint in my writing. On the occasion of this blog's fourth anniversary I admit that they are partially right. Although I am not in a perpetual state of bliss and satisfaction I tend to not elaborate on my dislikes. I am simply stingy when it comes to the expenditure of mental energy on my aversions. I would rather talk, write and cerebrate about life's pleasures rather than its unavoidable maladies.

That we cannot freely and entirely express ourselves here is a well-known fact of life. However, when mushrooming zealots seek to stifle freedom of expression and rowdily promote a fake carbon copy of a traditional and devoutly pious Syria, one which had never existed, it is high time I lash back. On the popular level, their extraneous brand of petro-Islam was sanctioned by an innate feeling of resentment and bitterness toward the dark years of the Bush administration and the whorish demeanor of Israel. Our religiously driven addicts took advantage of the prevailing frustration and sense of helplessness and earnestly pursued their social and political assumptions and ambitions, which incidentally nestle perfectly within the neo-cons' and the Zionist overall master plan for this region and the rest of the world. The writings were all over the wall and if left unchecked they would stop at nothing short of transforming Syria into a mutated Saudi mongrel.

There are over twenty-two millions of us Syrians as per latest available statistics, thanks to a government that continuously looks the other way, if not encourages us to breed like rabbits, and to an ecclesiastical gang-raping of native Levantine culture. In 1977, when I took my Bakaloria exam, the population of Syria was around eight millions. We have increased by a whopping 275% in 32 years, we have reduced green and forested areas to a third and we have decimated the chances of younger generations to find and pursue a better future. Being alienated from a West that treats them with suspicion and lured by a well-funded canonical machine our youth have but a limited number of options to choose from. Slowly but surely a bony temperament, buried in an alien and dusty past, beckons as a viable lifestyle.

My daughter is in 9th grade. This is a very significant point in the lives of fifteen-year-old Syrian students as they have to take a national exam (Brevet) which affects their academic fate. Excellence is measured by how much they remember word by word of the archaic curriculum. They are discouraged from making decisions or voicing opinions. Our educational system emphasizes total subservience and uniformity and represses creativity and divergence. Among the various subjects they have to memorize by rote, two in particular stand out for not only negating one another thus making them a total waste of time, but for being absolutely absurd as instruments to measure scholastic attainment. Teenagers, the age of budding roses, carry the dual burden of "learning" National Socialist Education and Religious Education (Muslim or Christian). "Scientific thought defeats ignorance and outdated traditions, frees us from all forms of awkwardness: Economic, social and cultural and rids us of illogical and indisputable bigotry.” Quite a brilliant quote from the National Socialist Education book, isn't it? Then how about these gems taken from the introduction of the Islamic Education textbook about the purpose of the course: “The presentation of scientific material in a simple manner and detailed explanation in order for students to memorize it... Relying on scientific sources in order to prove the selected scientific material.” Our children are being taught the value of the scientific method by failed national socialists and science by a moronic clergy.

Nonsense and idiocy are riddling our daily existence and I have never been blind to them. Every once in a while when I feel overwhelmed by the obnoxiousness of the emerging literate crowd I strike back. This is the voice of a secular humanist from Tartous, a simple man walking the once enlightened and bustling street, turned silent and bereft in these times of parasitic noise and groveling babble. This blog is about my Syria, the way it was and the way I want it to be. I will continue to write about the good life and the delicious food of the Levant, the rich history and the swaying butts of our gorgeous women, the music, the mountains and the sea of a Syria that is far too modest to flaunt her beauty for the rest of the world to see. A princess once told me (Yes, there is a princess among my readers) that if it were not for me she would have never heard of Tartous. If that is all I have done in four years, I am satisfied that I have done enough. There still is plenty to come from this old tartoussi troubadour in the times ahead. Just stay tuned, Your Highness... and the rest of you.

Sabbar

beeseh16@gmail.com (Mariyah) — Wed, 28 Apr 2010 14:55:00 +0000

I stood watching intently, and amused, as she attempted to peel the ripe Sabbar. The juices ran down her fingers to her delicate wrists and bits of the peel covered the place at the table where she stood. She was determined to do it herself. That was part of what I loved about her, her determination, which, at times, bordered on a hard-headed stubbornness. Although she had seen it in the streets of Damascus, she had never eaten the sweet fruit in her life. Here, it was everywhere, a delicacy we took for granted. However, as soon as her lovely hands held one for the first time, I saw the pear in an entirely new light.

We had been out walking. I was showing her the area around where I grew up. She marveled at the number of cacti, Sabbara trees, as she called them, that were along the road. They were handsomely laden with their brilliant red or yellow pears. When I told her they were edible, the Saber, as we call them here, she insisted that we pick some and I, enthusiastic to share everything with her, carefully pulled them from their prickly nests. I took off my shirt and created a sac of sorts in which to carry them home. She giggled nervously after I cursed several times from receiving a poke or two, but she continued to cheer me on as if I were navigating an obstacle course. My pride would never allow me to pick less than ten and, after I caught her admiring my bare torso with a mischievous little grin, I continued on as long as I could.

I rolled the fruits from my shirt onto the kitchen table. There were at least twenty. I stood for a moment and admired my harvest until I caught sight of her hand moving in to fetch one. "No, habibti!" She pulled her hand back in alarm. I immediately put my arm around her slender shoulders and warned her about the nasty thorns. They were small but insidious, and caused great discomfort if they got under the skin. Naturally I knew this from years of experience, from having them embedded in my hands and arms. But I couldn't knowingly expose her to anything unpleasant. The only thing I wanted her to remember about Sabbar was the luscious taste...and me picking them without my shirt. So I washed each of them and removed as many of the thorns as I could without actually peeling them.

She insisted on using a potato peeler and somehow I couldn't bring myself to stop her. "I don't want to cut out too much of the good fruit. I tend to gouge things with knives." She told me confidently and with a look in her eyes that suggested I'd better not try to stop her. She tentatively peeled away the outer skin and then used a knife to chop off each end of the fruit. It took everything in me not to chuckle or to move in to show her the proper way. She was adorable in her awkwardness, so I bit my tongue.

When she cut off the ends she discovered the spines. At first she wasn't sure what to make of them. She muttered to herself as she inspected it by removing one of them. As she did, the rest of the outer skin pulled away revealing the edible fruit. I saw the light go on; her beautiful eyes sparkled with delight. "Ah ha!" Then the scolding. "Why didn't you tell me?!" Instead of answering I gently removed the well peeled pear from her hand and took a bite. Her eyes turned stormy as she watched my mouth envelop almost half of it but before she could reprimand me I put the rest of it to her lips. She took a small bite and let the juices and pulp roll around in her mouth. Her eyes immediately quieted as the pleasure of the taste registered on her tongue. "Sahha."

I sat down and quickly peeled more of them. I selfishly needed her to eat at least one more. I cut the fruit into small pieces and asked her to sit by me. With my fingers I placed each piece on her tongue after she had chewed and swallowed the one before. I watched her enjoying the sweetness, her lips moving sensually as she chewed. I gazed longingly as she swallowed, following each lump as it moved through her throat and down her long, graceful neck. After she finished the last bite, I kissed her and savoured the sweetness of her mixed with the nectar of the Sabbar. It was the most heavenly combination. Suddenly I had the urge to harvest every tree in existence just so I could feed her one every day for the rest of our lives. But we had enough to last us a few days, and other, more burning, urges overtook us anyway...

I had wanted to show her everything about my life here. However, I quickly discovered that, in fact, through her, my life was reflected back to me in a refreshing new way. Just by being here, by being curious, by being her, she transformed the simple Sabbar into a delicious memory of that day, of her. I would never ever look at it or taste it in the same way again.

by Mariyah

The Zeitouns: From Jableh to Post-deluvian New Orleans

abufares@abufares.net (abufares) — Wed, 21 Apr 2010 10:58:00 +0000

(This article is co-written by Abu Kareem of Levantine Dreamhouse and Abufares and posted simultaneously on both blogs)

By Abufares

There's a tomb at the far end of the Corniche in Jableh, Syria. It is the resting place of 23 year old Mohamad Zeitoun (1941-1964), by far the most accomplished Syrian athlete of all times. Mohamad died in a car accident while on his way to the Suez Canal in Egypt to participate in the International Canal Swimming Race.

The Zeitoun family came from Arwad, a small island off the coast of Tartous and the only inhabited one in Syria. The father, Haj Ahmad, was a master sailboat builder. He had witnessed family and friends perish in the treacherous waves of the unforgiving sea and wanted to offer his offspring an alternative life. Accordingly he moved to Jableh where he worked hard as a mason and brought up his sons into the business. The main concern of this simple man was to keep his family safe and away from the sea but fate, as it is often inclined to, had other ideas up its sleeve.

Mohamad Zeitoun, Syrian long distance swimmer, went on to become an international legend as 3 times World Champion (1960, 1961 and 1964). In 1959 his winning of the 40 km Nile Race in Egypt was nothing short of historic as he completed the final 10 km using one arm only due to injury. His 1961 world record in the Capri-Napoli International Swimming Marathon remained unbroken for many years as he swam the 38 km in 8 hours and 45 minutes, one full hour ahead of his nearest competitor. He crossed the 50 km Suez Canal Race in 12 hours and 3 minutes in 1963. Mohamad, who never had a coach, went on to win every single international event he participated in during his short-lived career. His brother Abdulwahab, a retired general, recalls how his father sent Mohamad to work as an apprentice blacksmith at 16. His boss had to make a custom 15 kg sledgehammer for him with a steel handle because he invariably kept breaking those made of wood. He was a powerful man who ultimately defied his father's will and couldn't keep away from the water. All of Jableh, including the father, gathered around the radio when Mohamad was racing and waited for the good news. A huge celebration would erupt upon the announcement of the expected result and the proud father would delightfully cry: Abaday, Allah Ywaf'o in his provincial Arwadi accent.

In 2005, 41 years later and halfway across the world, Hurricane Katrina hits New Orleans, Louisiana. Another son of Haj Ahmad Zeitoun makes the headlines and becomes an American Legend. Heroism runs in the family evidently but why not continue reading about this fascinating story through the words of my friend Abu Kareem of Levantine Dreamhouse.

By Abu Kareem

Few books published in the United States since 9/11 have sought to understand those on the receiving end of the war on terror. Always on prominent display at bookstores are books with sensational titles written by self appointed Middle East "experts" with ulterior motives or an axe to grind. Such books fed the national paranoia and along with the popular media provided cover for the Bush-Cheney years.

Zeitoun by Dave Eggers shatters that mold. The book is a biography of a Syrian immigrant, Abdulrahman Zeitoun, living in New Orleans when hurricane Katrina devastated the city. Abdulrahman, a native of Arwad and Jableh, steps onto dry land in Houston after a ten-year wanderlust sailing the seven seas on commercial ships. He makes his way to New Orleans where he settles down, marries an American woman and establishes a thriving business as a painting contractor. A couple of days before Katrina strikes New Orleans, Abdulrahman sends his family away to safety and stays behind to look after his properties and his business. After Katrina's passage over New Orleans, the levies break and Abdulrahman's neighborhood is flooded. He retreats to the second floor of his house and retrieves an old canoe from the garage. Setting out by canoe intending to check on his business and properties, he instead finds himself rescuing elderly people trapped in their houses and feeding dogs abandoned by their owners. His wife's pleas to leave the city go unheeded as he feels duty bound to stay behind to help out. As Abdulrahman's American story unfolds, Eggers weaves in anecdotes from his past in Arwad and Jableh. We learn much about his family of seafarers, his childhood in Arwad, the moonless nights he spent sardine fishing off the coast of Jableh and his attachment to his older, now deceased, brother, a world champion swimmer. These anecdotes help the reader understand Abdulrahman's character, his inner strength and resolve bordering on stubbornness, his gentle piety, his devotion to his family, his dreams and ambitions and his deep sense of fairness. One cannot help but like this man.

The first half of the book recounting Abdulrahman's history is hopeful and heartwarming: an honest and hardworking immigrant thriving in his adoptive land. Even in the midst of New Orleans' apocalyptic floods, our spirits are lifted by Abdulrahman's good deeds. Soon, however, this American dream turns into a nightmare.

Instead of mounting a campaign to rescue the stranded citizens of New Orleans, the Bush administration, in true war-on-terror style, sets up a military siege of the city. Thousands of heavily armed soldiers and private security guards -mercenaries in effect- are sent in. As hundreds of citizens perish, the soldiers' first priority was to build a makeshift prison at the city's train station. Abdulrahman and three companions, two Americans and a Syrian, all of whom stayed behind hoping to ride out the storm, are arrested on suspicion of looting by overzealous soldiers armed to the teeth. The Syrians are singled out as possible terrorists and all are detained in conditions that are a cross between Guantanamo and Abu Ghraib. Claustrophobic and nightmarish, the second half of the book is a powerful indictment of the Bush administration and the militaristic attitude that permeated everything it did and where national security paranoia trumped even the most basic civil rights of its own citizens. Perhaps what is most shocking about Zeitoun is how the horrific treatment of detainees in post-Katrina New Orleans went completely unreported by the national media at the time.

Eggers is a compelling storyteller and a careful journalist. He researched and cross checked all the facts of the events described in the book. He even traveled to Syria several times to meet the Zeitoun clan and learn about the coastal towns of Syria. As a good journalist should, he avoids sentimentality, though his admiration for Abdulrahman, his wife Kathy and the whole Zeitoun clan is hard to hide. Abdulrahman comes across as an admirable human being, fair and idealistic, almost to a fault. Even after his arrest and mistreatment, he stubbornly refuses to think ill of his fellow human beings, assuming that it is all a misunderstanding that will soon be resolved. It is perhaps this quality that also made him so liked among his neighbors and why so many New Orleanians were ready to come to his defense.

Even after Bush's departure, the perception of a "clash of civilizations" lingers and ignorance and suspicion of Arabs and Muslims remains an issue in the United States. I therefore take it as a hopeful sign that Zeitoun, a book with a fairly narrow focus, made it to the New York Times best seller list last year.

References:

Zeitoun by Dave Eggers (English)
Lecture Abdulwahab Zeitoun 2008 (Arabic)
The Guardian: The Amazing True Story of Zeitoun 2010 (English)
Nass MBC Net 2010 (Arabic)

Sea Side - A First Novel

abufares@abufares.net (abufares) — Wed, 14 Apr 2010 07:16:00 +0000

Artwork by Joseph Matta

I've been on a journey of self discovery for the last nine months. It all started in July 2009 when one of my favorite bloggers and my dearest friend Mariyah posted a simple and beautiful entry. For those of you who are not familiar with Mariyah, she is an exceptionally gifted writer from Damascus, who over the course of twenty six episodes told the story of her parents in the form of an inspiring and heart warming fairy tale. I asked her then if this “Sea Side”, as she called it, was going to be another Ghassan & Alexandra. Instead of giving a straight answer she invited me to join her in co-writing a story with the backdrop of the Syrian Coast. How could I ever say no to a beautiful lady like Mariayh?

Privately, however, I felt a little awkward. I've never written anything longer than a few pages. I've never written fiction. I've never written with another person. Yet my deepest desire had always been to write a novel someday. My problem was not one of lack of self-confidence but rather of lack of time. It's not an unfounded excuse on my part. Some people may indeed function better under pressure but I was not wired like that. I write when I'm happy, or at least unconcerned about the outside world and the mundane necessities of every-day's life. Had I been self-sufficient enough not to work yet to bring up three children in the best possible circumstances I would've not minded an early retirement from “employment” to devote my time to reading and writing. Mariyah's invitation was in no way a challenge but the motivation I lacked to give it a shot and thus our journey began.

We alternated in writing subsequent chapters while we maintained a disciplined routine. We published a new episode every Friday and we did not consult directly or agree in advance on a plot. Our story weaved its own way through our words and the four main characters were developed in almost real time. The fact that neither one of us had control over the flow of events meant that a high degree of unconscious mental coordination and an unspoken synergy have to come into play. We continued to surprise each other while enjoying ourselves to the fullest. I had never partnered with anyone before on a creative process and now that it's finally over I want Mariyah to know what a joy, what an honor and a complete emotional and intellectual alleviation she had brought me.

Sea Side takes place in and around Tartous. It's a romantic love story at best, something I never expected or anticipated that I might write someday. But to say anything less than that I'm very proud of it would be an understatement. This is the ever elusive first step and I took it after Mariyah extended her hand and led the way. Now I know for sure how much I want to write and I will unearth every bit of time to do just that.

I have to thank you Mariyah for being my companion by the Sea Side. I already miss Yazan, Yasmina and Youssef but I'm going to miss Amar most. Your words made her unimaginably beautiful while mine only mirrored your charming writing and elegant style. If I ever publish one day the writing of Sea Side will remain my most cherished memory of all. It is after all my first novel.

If I may Mariyah, I am going to ask you to do me a little favor. I want you to write, at your own time, a short story and grace my blog with it. This is of course an open invitation, with the key for you to keep. Come by any time and write here without even letting me know beforehand. Not only once but a hundred thousands times and more. My blog is your blog now and always.

Mariyah and I have set out to have fun but we ended up with much more than we bargained for. Accordingly I have to also thank our friends who commented there on Sea Side and kept us company for 38 consecutive weeks. No matter what our humble effort into writing our first novel turned out to be we have both gained your friendship. How in the world can I be happier?

Links:
Sea Side Story
Ghassan & Alexandra
Mariyah's Blog
Mariyah's Invitation

Quattro Stagioni

abufares@abufares.net (abufares) — Sun, 04 Apr 2010 11:17:00 +0000

Staying at the right hotel is the dividing line between a successful business trip and a memorable experience. When traveling in Europe my temporary residence is often a four-star or, occasionally, a five-star business hotel as close as possible to the venue where my meetings are to take place. I usually follow the advice of my hosts and when they offer to handle the reservation themselves I normally agree. These hotels are quite comfortable and provide efficient around the clock services. They and most of their clientele are sadly soulless though. I'm not always fortunate to run into a Fenella after all. Sigh!!!

On my third trip to the Netherlands over the last year I have learned my lesson well enough not to put my fate in the hands of efficient secretaries. Despite the inconvenience of changing accommodations for one night only I find myself opting for this choice more and more. The hell with the business suit and tie, the hygienic room in the middle of nowhere and the bar full of boring stiffs who talk only about work even when drunk. On my last night in a new city I'm moving my ass out of there in search of a cozy little place either in the heart of things or away from the screeching silence of the business environment.

March has been one of those months for me where I lived off my suitcase. Well, it's no longer a suitcase in the real sense of the word as I have become very apt at traveling light. I can handle any four or five-day trip now with a single carry-on and instead of waiting for my luggage to arrive on a maddeningly slow carousel I can have a head start on my first beer.

I spent a wonderful evening in the buzz of Amsterdam and a relaxing walk through her back alleys followed by a good night's sleep and a hearty breakfast at the Avenue Hotel on the Nieuwezijds Voorburgwal Straat in the center of the city. After a brief interim in Tartous I found myself in Venice with one last free afternoon and a rainy sky. I had worked out of the port of Venice for two days and I really looked forward my alone time in a small suburb of Mestre called Zelarino. This is not the first time I stay at the Antico Moro, a three-star hotel built on the original structure of an 18th century palace owned by the Foscari Family and it hopefully won't be the last. I really relish the privacy and the placidity it offers after a couple of days of hard work. I waited the rain out in my pleasant room and listened to it tap-dancing on the shingles of the vaulted ceiling. Then I went out into the night and walked along the deserted main street to the sounds of bells from the chiesa di Santa Maria Immacolata. An hour of brisk walking changed my mind about not having dinner but all I could find were small ice cream parlors and the ubiquitous Italian cafes. I sought advice from the night clerk and he was rather surprised that I was asking for a good place to eat.

“This way prego.” I followed him to the back of the small lobby where he opened a door and I found myself stepping into the fantastic Sotto il Sogno, Pizzeria e Ristorante. The waitress asked: “Would you like meateh, fisheh or Pizza?” Since I was only familiar with the last one that's what I chose. Now don't get me wrong, I like a good pizza. I always thought that I offended my Italian colleagues and friends when I told them that the best pizza I've had was in Chicago. Accordingly I stopped saying that completely. They are sensitive those Italians you know and they take everything personally. I also never gave justice to Italian beer simply because, apparently, I was always taken to the wrong places.

I sat alone at my table facing the wood fired oven and watched the tall and skinny chef handling the dough. I always assumed a good cook must be fat, or has a full waste line at least. Very wrong assumption, I'm glad to admit. And, not only did this place look terrific but lo and behold they had a beer menu. I ordered an amber Rurale Birra. The waitress warned me: “But it is biggeh!”. I simply smiled at her and said: “Certo ... So” (Sure... I know).

It didn't turn out to be that big after all, a mere 750 cc any healthy boy like me should easily gulp down with a pizza. And, Ahhh, that brings us to the real stuff. I ate the best Quattro Stagioni, well really the best pizza ever, anywhere, anytime.

As I went outside for one last walk late at night, the buzz of Zelarino was no less magnificent than that of Amsterdam, a fitting end to a long stretch away from home. Did I mention that the beer was goooooood? Well it was and I can't wait for my next visit. When the petite waitress tells me that “it is biggeh the beer” I will answer, again with a grin on my face: “quindi si prega di fare loro due ” (Then please make them two).

Random Play

abufares@abufares.net (abufares) — Sun, 28 Mar 2010 11:41:00 +0000

My dearest friend Isobel tagged me in a most attractive way. Her blog sits on the very top of my favorites list. Problem is, she doesn't write often enough, kind of like me. Children have their own ways of distracting their parents and I guess this is the major reason why she's sparse with her posts. Recently though, she's been on a roll. Ever since she discovered that she is the direct descendant of a beautiful Sioux Princess she has become a rather prolific blogger producing one great post after another on an almost daily basis. Among the thousands of her adoring fans I doubt that there is anyone more loyal than me. To read Isobel's Suffonsifisms every day is a perennial dream of mine. I only hope she continues with this pace least I and her groupies suffer from the consequences of a severe withdrawal syndrome.

Her tag could not have come at a more opportune time for another reason. Lately, I've been uninspired, plain and simple. I have returned home early Friday morning after four days of work in Rotterdam and one of play in Amsterdam yet couldn't sum up my thoughts to put together a coherent post on my blog. Thing is, I'm moving again in a couple of days, on another business trip. However, unlike what many creative people advocate (I'm not implying that I'm creative) that they perform best under pressure I'm not like that. Work is unavoidable labor rather than an enjoyable vocation as far as I'm concerned. I'd rather be doing any of a hundred things instead of toiling my ass off, including crochet and knitting. Oh that reminds me of this miniature crocheted coat I saw in a storefront in Amsterdam. You know, it's a woolen cloak to keep the little one (Willy) warm on cold Dutch nights. "Little" being a figure of speech and totally relative to a coat worn by the human owner of the penis. Since it's on display it could only mean that there are buyers for this stuff. Now, and just for the sake of argument, if a girlfriend or a kinky wife buys a crocheted coat for one of her man's most important attachments I can see the humor in it, weird but haha funny in a way. But what if some jerk actually buys himself or more precisely his little one a crocheted coat? I see him in my mind standing naked in front of a mirror, shivering in the cold while his member is warm and happy. I should've got it in beige might be running through his mind, hands on hips, swinging his torso left then right. Next time I'm in a meeting with a bunch of boring stiffs I will try to guess who among them might be wearing a crocheted coat underneath his suit. It will certainly make my time flies much faster. They will wonder about that smirk on my face and it'll only prove enigmatic to them. He must know something about the stock market that we're not aware of, they might reckon, or he's on good terms with the CEO. Oh how unsettling a smile could be if timed correctly!

You guessed right, Amsterdam was loads of fun. I spent my last two hours in the hotel lobby engaged in an absorbing conversation with a charmingly classy woman. Unreachably gorgeous, she was. Her words very much like her looks were simply beautiful.

That brings us back to Isobel and her tag. What are the first 16 songs you get when you hit the shuffle button on your MP3 player? And here's my answer, this is what I listened to this morning on my iPhone, while I was working :-)

1.    Bridge Over Troubled Waters – Simon & Garfunkel
2.    Subhan Allah - Fanaa Chand Sifarish
3.    She – Charles Aznavour
4.    Awakher el Shita' – Elissa
5.    L'eté Indien – Joe Dassin
6.    Tell Your Mama – Norah Jones
7.    Open Arms – Journey
8.    With or Without You – U2
9.    Something in the Way She Moves – James Taylor
10.    Betiggy Sirtak – Nancy Ajram
11.    Avant De Nous Dire Adieu – Jeane Manson
12.    Suleima – Malek Jandali
13.    Runnin' with the Devil – Van Helen
14.    Fallin' – Alicia Keys
15.    Jai Ho! (You're My Destiny) – A. R. Rahman & The Pussycat Dolls
16.    Biestehi Habibi – Elissa

Thank you Isobel for thinking of me and for the beautiful inspiration behind this mediocre post of mine. Thank you dear readers for reading so far and, if you have the time, tell the rest of us about your random list of songs. You can of course write about it on your blog or in the comment section of mine.

Keddabat

abufares@abufares.net (abufares) — Wed, 17 Mar 2010 17:55:00 +0000

Tartoussi cuisine is inconspicuous, even in Syria that is. Anyone who's been here will tell you that we make out of this world fish but I think seafood is great in all coastal cities around the world. Ignorance about our local entrées though does not necessarily mean that we don't have some of the yummiest dishes in Syria. It's more a testimony of our quiet nature, the writer of this blog not included. We're not loud like the Damascene. We're not vocal like the Aleppine. We are neither funny nor too self-conscious like the Homsis or the Hamwis respectively. We're simple folks who love Mezza, barbequed chicken and Arak. And when we want to be gluttonous we feast on Burghul.

Well just to be sure no reader takes this post as an indication of false modesty, no one in Syria, and I repeat no one, even comes close to our Wara Enab (Stuffed Grape Leaves) but that is another story which had already been proven and laid to rest.

Today's dish is called Keddabat and unless some of you prove me wrong it is a very local Tartoussi/Arwadi recipe unknown beyond Al-Thawra Street in Tartous.

Ingredients:

Fine Burghul 2 cups (Cracked Wheat): sold in most Middle Eastern food stores

All purpose flour 2 cups

Olive oil ½ cup + 2 tablespoons to saute the onion

Debes Remman ½ cup (Pomegranate Molasses): sold in most Middle Eastern food stores

Swiss Chard a few chopped leaves (for stuffing the larger Keddabat)

Onion 1 diced

Garlic 4 cloves

Parsley 2 tablespoons finely chopped after thorough washing

Salt and black pepper to taste

Preparation:

Wash the burghul under running water then keep in strainer for 15 minutes.

In a blender crush the burghul until it becomes powdery.

Mix the burghul and the flour and roll in semi-wet hands into small balls (see picture).

For the larger Keddabat: Saute the diced onion in 2 tablespoons of olive oil until tender (don't let them turn golden in color). Chop the Swiss Chard after washing it thoroughly with water and add a dash of salt. Mix onions and Swiss Chard together and use it as stuffing for the larger Keddabat. It's not as difficult as it looks to make them and to stuff them. Just keep your hands a little wet and practice, practice, practice.

In a bowl bring 6 cups of water to boil. Add the Keddabat (small and large: on the average for every 10 small unstuffed ones you should have one large stuffed one). Keep over medium high heat for 10 minutes then remove Keddabat and drain and put aside.

Keep 4 cups of the boiled water (throw away the rest). Add ½ cup Debes Remman (Pomegranate Molasses), ½ cup olive oil, crushed garlic and some finely chopped parsley and stir well.

Return the Keddabat to the sauce.

Serve hot or cold. I eat it with a spoon like soup. Uuuummmm if you do it right you'll know what's the big deal about being a tartoussi :-)

And, ehem... the red sauce you see on top is Tabasco.

Echos from Ugarit

abufares@abufares.net (abufares) — Wed, 03 Mar 2010 17:07:00 +0000

"This song is for you"

In 1929 a peasant plowing his field 10 km north of Lattakia (Syria) unearthed a strange looking stone in an area called Ras Shamra. He immediately informed the authorities but little did he or the rest of the world know then about the magnitude of his discovery. French archeologist Claude Frédéric-Armand Schaeffer(1898–1982) spent the rest of his life excavating the site. Ugarit was found.

Ugarit was an independent Canaanite kingdom that reigned over the eastern Mediterranean in the 18th century BC (3800 years ago). The Phoenicians, descendants of the Canaanites, built great palaces, temples and shrines in Ugarit between 1450 – 1200 BC. But most importantly they built libraries. They ruled the sea with their strong ships made from the cedars of Lebanon and became the greatest naval power in the Mediterranean and Aegean seas. They traded silver, gold, textiles and ivory with coastal cities, Egypt and Mesopotamia. Ugarit had a population of 10,000 before she was destroyed and burnt down in 1200 BC by the Sea Peoples whose origins remain a mystery for today's scholars.

It is in Ugarit, among the thousands of tablets found within the walls of her great palaces and libraries that the first Alphabet in history was discovered by Schaeffer. Evidently the Canaanites and their descendants the Phoenicians realized that human speech consists of a finite number of sounds. They simply enough created a symbol for each of these sounds. Well not really that simple as it took civilization 2000 years to achieve this feat. All subsequent phonetic languages (i.e. Hebrew, Latin, Sanskrit, Aramaic, Arabic, Greek, etc.) utilized most of the original 30 symbols or letters. I find it interesting that the root of the word phonetic as per modern English dictionaries is considered Greek (from phōnētikós from phōneîn to speak). Is it really? Why stop there? Where did phōneîn come from? What was the name of those people living on the Eastern Mediterranean (in today's Syria and Lebanon)? Phoenicians :-) How convenient?

There was one more discovery of unimaginable consequence found in Ugarit. An unearthed clay tablet, one among the multitude, took a while to decipher. Not because it did not stare at archeologists straight in the face but because of inherent biases even in scientific pursuit. Finally in 1974, Anne D. Kilmer, professor of Assyriology at the University of California at Berkeley and after five years of hard work was able to interpret the cuneiform script as the lyrics and musical symbols of an Ugaritan song dating back to 3400 BC. The discovery revolutionized music history completely for it moved backward in time the first notated piece of music by 3,000 years. The origin of Western music is not the 400 BC papyrus which contained the Greek Euripides' play Orestes but a much older religious hymn from Ugarit.

Malek Jandali is a Syrian pianist who lives in the United States. He was born in 1972 in Germany and was raised in Homs, Syria after his parents returned to their hometown. He received his early schooling there and graduated from the Arab Conservatory of music in Damascus. Mr. Jandali is an accomplished and daring musician who has won several international awards. His greatest achievement, however, is the release of his 2008 album, Echos from Ugarit in which he rendered the first notated song in history with his eloquent piano. It took such an exceptionally inspired Syrian to remind the world of a simple fact of life: It all started in our backyard, a mere one-hour drive from where I am sitting right now listening to the oldest song in the world being played by a Homsi with an unlimited talent.

Below are Youtube, and download links to Malek Jandali's Echos from Ugarit.

Download Echoes From Ugarit

References:

http://www.time.com/time/magazine/article/0,9171,911121,00.html
http://www.arabamericannews.com/news/index.php?mod=article&cat=Artamp;Culture&article=1025
http://www.highbeam.com/doc/1P2-3857985.html
http://www.syriagate.com/Syria/about/cities/Latakia/ugarithistory.htm
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Malek_Jandali
http://www.malekjandali.com/

Five O

abufares@abufares.net (abufares) — Wed, 24 Feb 2010 16:55:00 +0000

1960's
The Scar

In the aftermath of the six-day-war a long trench was dug in the middle of an open field near my home by the sea. More like a scar, it measured a hundred meters long by two meters wide. We kids went there and played War in the afternoon.
"Tatatatatata," we roared back and forth, reproducing the cracking reports of machine guns. When we all died, I climbed out with muddied pants and sand in my hair and rode my bicycle frantically across the gritty breadth of the field. I sped over the pebbles raising a storm of dust in my wake all the while keeping a watchful eye on the gaping wound in the ground. I pulled to the edge of the asphalt and braked hard in a sweeping arc. I stood up, removed the sticky underwear wedged up my ass and gathered my courage to jump to sea side. I pedaled as furiously as I could. The wheels spun in the air over the ditch then made contact, an inch or two short. I plunged forward hitting a sharp protruding stone chin first. The gush of warm blood sprinkled the earth through my fingers. I staggered then fell. Human voices faded in the background; the light of day dimmed then was swallowed by darkness. Minutes later I regained consciousness and winced in pain.
“How is he doctor? Please tell me how he is?”
“Don't worry Abu Tarek¹. He's a tough kid.” My father reassured the man who carried my limp body to him and continued stitching my chin.
I still have the scar.

1970's
New World
I stared at the masts of ships disappearing below the horizon. Seagulls shrieked above, soared with invisible drafts then vanished. A crowd of ancestral spirits prattled in my head, nudging me and pulling at my sleeve. You should leave, they called, it's time. Streaks of lightening cast short-lived shadows on the high walls of dead-end alleys. I bid farewell to the life I knew, hunched over against the cold drizzle and walked away.
It was raining in Louisiana too on my 18th birthday but this time I took my clothes off and let the deluge wash my dehydrated skin. Nobody is right, I found out, but we might be all wrong. I absorbed this realization like a Porifera² left to die in the sun. I pitied the wasted youth of my generation and those yet to come for not facing their days and nights with decisions and indecisions.
We spun the bottle: Truth or Dare?
"Truth!"
"What do you want to do with your life?"
"I want to fuck the universe till it screams." I was drunk, when I said that, or stoned. I think I was both.

I never got around actually doing that but I did kiss it... and it moaned.

1980's
Daughter of Astarte³
She was having a hard time breathing as I held her tiny body in my arms. There she was a part of me outside of me for the first time. I stayed all night by the NICU.

"Get some sleep." The doctor who stitched my chin twenty years earlier said and patted my shoulder.

He reassured me that she'll be alright in the morning, not because he was certain but because he wanted to as much as I did.

"Her name is Ebla" I said, "after the great Syrian city that proved that the whole world is living a big lie."
"Give me the pleasure of naming her myself." My father said. "She's Diana, goddess of the hunt and of the moon, daughter of our own Astarte."
I sat for hours on end near Diana's cot waiting for her to wake up. Then one day she rode my motorcycle on the winding mountain roads and on my back in the same house where I was born. She changed me forever. She made me a father.

1990's
Losing
"How long?"
"A month. Two at most." Dad replied.
I spent the next four weeks with her. She told me a story everyday, except that they kept getting shorter. So did her days as she slept more and more until she never woke up.
I missed my mother, my storyteller, my friend, my fan and idol. She was my rock in times of need, my lighthouse in the storm, my laughter and tears. I lost her.

2000's
Falling in Love

I was a late bloomer. I had lived my entire life in the shadow of a paradox, etherized with the void of being and the timidity of acceptance. I fell in love… with life, with the morning sun and the silent passage of the moon across the sky. I embraced time and distance at last. I fathomed the “seemingly” predetermined motion of the heavenly bodies in the sky, the toil of ants underground and our human voyage. As I passively rode the rapids down the river I had a change of heart. I found a low hanging branch and held on to it. There is a beautiful ait upstream, a little further back. I do not want to be anywhere else.
That eventually the torrent would sweep us all became irrelevant. I swam against the current to reach my island or die trying.

Five moments in time, mind-picked from the fleeting decades of my life. I am 50*

¹ Abu Tarek, my neighbor, made the best Knafeh in the world. He passed away ten years ago.
² Porifera: an animal phylum comprising the sponges.
³ Astarte: Syrian Goddess, grandmother of all the subsequent Greek and Roman Goddesses of fertility, sexuality and war

* 50: Coming up this week.

Atargatis

abufares@abufares.net (abufares) — Fri, 12 Feb 2010 17:56:00 +0000

Perhaps I should start this article by explaining the term Levant(1) since it might not be familiar to all the readers of this blog. The word comes from Middle French and means the Orient. From a geographical perspective, the Levant is that region of West Asia comprising the eastern shores of the Mediterranean. It is bordered to the north by the Taurus mountains of Turkey. It reaches the Zagros mountain range which forms the border between Iraq and Iran to the east and extends southward to the Arabian desert. The Island of Cyprus was historically, and until very recent times culturally, a part of Greater Syria, as the Levant is known to the more fervent Syrian Social Nationalists in Lebanon and Syria. Additionally, Jordan, Palestine, the Sinai Desert and parts of Iraq belong to this region as well. If you are wondering whether I accidentally omitted Israel or not, wonder no more. A sixty-two year old “country” with an acute identity crisis as to claim that it invented Hummus and Falafel, both documented to have been served in popular eating houses in Tartous in the latter part of the 19th century, does not belong here. The apartheid walls they built will mostly keep them, the Israelis, prisoners of their own guilt, further isolating them from a magical place of immense ethnic diversity.

Well now that I have passed my political message across I can focus on the more meaningful aspects of life. Among my most persistent interests in the field of Levantine history is the pursuit of Syrian deities. I find it myopic that the West traces its roots to Greek culture and mythology then stops. The Greeks were outstanding in their own right and they indeed were the catalyst behind the rise of Western civilization. But history predated them and started a little further east, not too far from where I am sitting right now behind my American branded laptop. German Archeologist, Markus Gschwind remarked that “beneath every footstep in Syria is an ancient civilization(2).” Rightly so, as merely a stone throw away from my window Phoenician ships once sailed across the Mediterranean carrying dyes and silk in their holds and the Alphabet and Gods in the language of their sailors. My story today is about one Syrian Goddess by the name of Atargatis(3).

Today Atargatis might not be a household Syrian name as other “local” deities but that does not make her any less significant. In fact, she is perhaps the most important pre-monotheist divinity of the Levant. Early evidence of her cult dates back to 1,000 BC but what fascinates me most about her is that she was in fact the first mermaid(4). Atargatis, whose followers eventually spread to Greece and Rome was the half-human / half-fish Goddess of Earth, Fertility and Water. Early on both the dove and the fish were used as symbols of her. The dove as an emblem of love and the fish representing bounty and fertility. She was also, to the faithful, responsible for motivation and inventiveness and her reign extended beyond the realm of land and sea to encompass the heavens. Zeus (The Greeks called Her Derketo, Goddess of Syria) splashed an image of a fish in the sky for her sake by creating the Pisces constellation.

Phoenician sailors brought her to Sicily. From there her followers spread northward reaching Rome, where she was known as Dea Syria, the Syrian Goddess. She was admitted into the Roman pantheon side by side with Jupiter (Syrian Haddad :-) and worshiped as reverently. Her faith continued to grow and spread throughout the Roman Empire and the Gaul (Western Europe) and toward the end of this era she reached the status of the Great Mother Goddess of the Empire.

Atargatis is a Semitic word. She was called Athtart by the Phoenicians and perhaps that explains why she is often confused with Astarte. Strong evidence suggests that they were two different deities as their cults were very distinct from one another initially. Several other goddesses, Syrian, Greek and Roman were later identified with Atargatis, perhaps all better known than her: Ishtar, Venus Urania, Hera, Rhea, Cybele, Aphrodite and Artemis Azzanathcona. Even most Syrians today are more familiar with Atargatis' daughter Semiramis, the famous Assyrian queen who built the hanging gardens.

Early Syrian religions did not provide impetus for the rise of monotheist Judaism, Christianity and Islam only but formed the mythological bedrock of paganism in Europe. The statue of the Little Mermaid in Copenhagen(5) sculpted by Edvard Erichsen in 1913 is said to symbolize a fairy tale. Danish author and poet Hans Christian Andersen wrote about a mermaid who fell in love with a prince living on land and who came to shore everyday to see him. Is it a Viking figment of imagination or simply a Syrian story of old neglected by the sons and daughters of Atargatis?

(1)Levant: also known as Al-Mashriq and Bilad Al-Sham

(2)Thaindian News
(3)The Obscure Goddess Online Dictionary
(4)Wikepedia
(5)The Little Mermaid

Let it Snow

abufares@abufares.net (abufares) — Fri, 05 Feb 2010 12:48:00 +0000

I stood behind the kitchen window on this Friday morning. It was 7:00AM when the cloud above broke her water. Flurries of snow started falling and drifting in the light wind, very unusual for seaside Mediterranean Tartous. I went outside to the balcony to drink my espresso and enjoyed five magical minutes. The thermometer showed 8ºC. What a glorious day!

I woke Fares up, “Come on! There must be plenty of snow for us in Kadmous.”

“Oh, Baba! Are you sure?” Fares had only been in the snow once a few years ago in Farayyah, Lebanon. He was about five and he had a blast so his excitement was only natural.

At 10:00AM we left Tartous and headed north on the Lattakia Highway. 35 KM down the road we crossed Banias and made a right turn and quickly climbed our way up the mountains. I could tell that whatever snow we might find would be light at best. We crossed one enchanted village after the other, Bermaya, Faresh Ka'bieh, Isquableh as we steadily gained altitude. 57 KM from home we reached Kadmous at an elevation of 1000 m (0ºC). Fares could not believe his eyes, there was snow indeed and everywhere. We drove for five minutes due north and stopped by a snow covered hill and well... played in the snow.

I hope you enjoy this short video of the day.

Trapped in Hope

abufares@abufares.net (abufares) — Mon, 25 Jan 2010 17:03:00 +0000

"We all live in a house on fire, no fire department to call; no way out, just the upstairs window to look out of while the fire burns the house down with us trapped, locked in it”

Tennessee Williams

“There was a power outage at a department store yesterday. Twenty people were trapped on the escalators.”
Stephen Wright

“People are trapped in history and history is trapped in them.”
James Arthur Baldwin

“Here we are, trapped in the amber of the moment. There is no why.”
Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.

“No man knows when his hour will come; As fish are caught in a cruel net, or birds are taken in a snare, so men are trapped by evil times that fall unexpectedly upon them”
The Bible

“Worry compounds the futility of being trapped on a dead-end street. Thinking opens new avenues.”
Cullen Hightower

“Sometimes I feel that I'm a lesbian trapped in a man's body - which actually works out pretty well”
Author Unknown

“With relish and delight, you continually bite at the bait; you are trapped, you fool - how will you ever escape?”
Sri Guru Granth Sahib

“Love comes to those who still hope even though they've been disappointed, to those who still believe even though they've been betrayed, to those who still love even though they've been hurt before.”
Author Unknown

“Learn from yesterday, live for today, hope for tomorrow.”
Albert Einstein

“In all things it is better to hope than to despair”
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

“Hope is the dream of a soul awake.”
French Proverb

“Hope never abandons you; you abandon it”
George Weinberg

“Man can live about forty days without food, about three days without water, about eight minutes without air, but only for one second without hope”
Author Unknown

“Hope is not a dream but a way of making dreams become reality.”
Author Unknown

“Dum spiro, spero (Latin), "While I breathe, I hope"
Latin Proverb

P.S. You might of course deduct that presently I have nothing to say, that I am totally unispired. Well you are absolutely right

"I am trapped in hope."
abufares

Dutch Mills

abufares@abufares.net (abufares) — Fri, 15 Jan 2010 11:50:00 +0000

Was it meant to be that way, to invariably fall in the arms of a new city only deep in the night? In the small hours of Monday I stepped out of the train station in the center of Rotterdam. She shuddered at my sudden appearance and defensively grabbed my throat with a bitterly cold hand. I pulled my collar high around the neck, squinted into the wind then walked north in search of a taxi. She relaxed and apologetically let go. "You're late", she said under her breath, vapor rolling with her words and disappearing instantly. Remnants of Christmas ornaments and lights shined and blinked for no one but me as the snow covered sidewalks were left completely deserted. Whoever celebrated here were gone, hiding within the comfort of quaint small apartments. If they were sleepless tonight and looked from behind their wide un-curtained windows to the streets below, they would see the shivering shadows of naked trees and the hunched figure of a lonely traveler seeking a warm bed.

I stared at her as the cab gobbled the chilly asphalt. So young, she looked, racy, tempting and in vogue. Rotterdam was completely destroyed by the Luftwaffe on May 14th, 1940 and rebuilt from scratch thereafter. Her modern skyline caught my eye and tickled my fancy. I have never met any city so adolescent and tempting like her before.

The steamy jet of water washed the dust from the lengthy traverse off of my body but did not bring solace to my mind. I was weary and tired and only a telepathic whisper, a sigh of relief, emanating from within brought sleep to my eyes. I dreamed of nothing in the short time I rested before my day began, before the next seventy two hours heartlessly kept me awake and on the run.

I was able to take short walks in between meetings. After the mutant tepid winter of the Levant the subzero temperatures felt imperative to my biological calendar. Memories from the distant past danced in my head. It had been a long time since I lived in such a cold place, yet the images were hopeful and alive. I longed for a frost that turns warm in the holding of hands. I saw our footprints in the snow, large and small entwining, crisscrossing as we hugged and swayed in a slow amble along a white path.

When it was finally over, the work, we dined in a superb seafood restaurant on the River Ijssel. Vitor, an epicure with a kind heart and a priceless sense of humor from Galicia and I sat across the table. Amid laughter and good food he talked lovingly of his homeland. I have learned more about what Spain is and is not that evening than I had from reading the many history books once upon a time. We drank a silky Caiño Blanca harvested from near the Minho river in Galicia, he told me. We talked of fish and wine, of La Coruña and Rotterdam, of the folly of men and the eternal beauty of women. Well past midnight we rode through the countryside toward Schiphol airport near Amsterdam. As the sparse old Dutch mills stood silent in the dark modern ones turned incessantly in the wind. The forty five minute drive passed in the blink of an eye as the good times always do. We hugged for an everlasting minute in the lobby of yet another hotel. "Be safe my friend Vitor", I said. "See you in March, God only knows where, dear Abufares", he replied.

I did not have sufficient time to lose myself to slumber. Instead I tossed and turned waiting for icy take-offs and landings and a tiring drive home in the rain.

"Sleep well and hold me tight", I dreamed of the words kissing my forehead then capering down my face.

"Goodnight", I closed my eyes and floated in an azure womb of adoration unbeknown to the mass of desperate men. I did not stir a muscle for the next fourteen hours.

Good morning World, I am back in Tartous.

Packing

abufares@abufares.net (abufares) — Sat, 09 Jan 2010 15:41:00 +0000

I do not sleep well on the night before I travel and the last hours before an imminent departure are always restless. Packing for a midwinter trip is knotty as there are more things to take and to forget.
This time I'm leaving the warmth of an unusually mild winter with absurdly beautiful weather (today: clear skies and 24ºC) to higher latitudes and subzero temperatures.
Out of Tartous in the morning and two taxis, two planes and a train later, it'll be past midnight in some small room of a big hotel in a strange city.
I will be back at the end of the week, hopefully with a new story to tell.

2009 according to a tartoussi

abufares@abufares.net (abufares) — Tue, 29 Dec 2009 16:30:00 +0000

2009 is almost over. It started brutally enough with the massacre of 1,400 Palestinians by Israel and it is going to end with the decision makers of the free world still looking the other way. Not a single "democratic" country dares accuse Israel of being as atrocious as Nazi Germany. Statesmen and stateswomen disagree on everything: health care, welfare, the environment, military spending, prayer in school, immigration, same sex marriage, China and global warming but not about Israel. What a bunch of wussies! Ha! This is as far as I am willing to talk dirty politics in a bar or to write on my blog.

Personally, 2009 has been a great year as I have finally came out of my intellectual closet. I had my doubts about religion for as long as I can remember. I have chosen to keep my skepticism under the lid purposely so I do not upset others, many of whom I really care about. But then one day, I stopped being comfortable. I can accept being whatever to anyone but not a hypocrite to myself. To actually believe that we are lucky, chosen, blessed and special because we were born to a certain religion is the biggest lie we can teach our children. I put an end to that once and for all. Whatever I was by virtue of birth I am a secular humanist by virtue of choice.

I also took sides on several issues this year, at least on my blog. Syria, cradle of civilizations and birthplace of human folly and genius, is as colorful as a rainbow. It has always been a land of multiplicity where people of different faiths and cultures coexisted in peace and harmony. It is inimitable in its unique social fabric. The streets of Damascus and every other city contain a human assortment of opposites not to be found anywhere else. From the modestly clad to the sensually provoking, men and women of divergent cultural backgrounds walk side by side. Ours is a secular and pluralistic country where people have historically kept their religious beliefs to the confines of their homes. Generations taught subsequent ones to imitate them, to carry on their values and mores but to accept others for who they are. The new wave of religiosity is as alien to our Levant as the state of Israel is. Over the many centuries of conflict and struggle for political and social control no singular doctrine held power but ephemerally over this land and her people. Any attempt to restrict our diversity and garb us with desert gowns of ignorance, austerity and sameness will fail. I will side with anyone or any group, whether I agree with them or not, in their quest for freedom of choice and expression as long as they do not intend to curb mine. I am equally against men and women wearing burqas in airplanes as I am against them going inside houses of worship naked. The sexual preferences of others are their business and their business alone. Any self righteous hypocrite who denies them this basic right whether by terrorizing them with divine text or through imposing his or her twisted sense of morality cannot be trusted as a potential partner in the democratic process. They are the usurpers to watch. They are as bad, if not worse, than the prevailing variety of psychopaths ruling most totalitarian countries in the world.

I am comfortable with people and happy in my solitude. In 2009 I sought my lonely moments of privacy with unbound relish. Before being a hardworking man, a good neighbor and a law abiding citizen, even before being a husband and a father... I am me. “I came to this world alone and alone I shall leave.” If I do not enjoy the silent sounds of my thoughts or laugh at my own jokes, if I do not smile for her eyes only, if I cannot maintain that space that is utterly mine, how can I ever bring meaning to my life? What kind of person will I be to all the others if I am not myself to me? When I write “out loud” I do not intend to impress. I write mostly to a soul mate who is beyond the grasp of your imagination or my gift for words. For as long as I can remember I considered happiness as a vague and unreachable concept. Only idiots and non-sentient mammals could ever claim such state, I thought. This year has proved me wrong. The moment I realized that happiness is not an end by itself I became happy. No time is more important than today. Nostalgia adds a second dimension to the linear flow of time as memories bring solace and sweet compassion to our burdened minds. But only hope makes our lives worth living and dynamically happy. It is this third dimension that most people are missing and it is exactly what I have found in 2009.

I will continue to write out loud. I appreciate every single reader of this blog, whether she agrees with my choices or not. I am thankful for those who comment and criticize as long as they maintain common courtesy. I am honored by the many friends I have made over the last few years through blogging and who have been nothing less than inspirational. I still have no message to give. I do not blog to change others but to remain me, despite all.

Merry Christmas

abufares@abufares.net (abufares) — Wed, 23 Dec 2009 15:56:00 +0000

Merry Christmas
To all my friends
To my dear readers
To You!