abufares said...the world according to a tartoussi

Mid Summer Blues

noreply@blogger.com (abufares) — Sun, 20 Jul 2008 15:36:00 +0000

I'm not in the mood to think let alone write about a serious topic. I've been uninspired for a fortnight which is only normal for this time of the year. I suppose that the heat influences me in a similar way menstruation affects women. Sluggish, exasperated, blotchy and cranky I feel. You might wonder why in the hell I'm blotchy. Well, it's the closest phonetically similar adjective I could conjure to bitchy without threatening my masculinity. Accordingly, I've been feeling very blotchy lately.

With that in mind, it's next to impossible to see or conjure beautiful images. Even while lying down at a perfectly appropriate low vantage point on a sandy beach, watching a heavenly flock of bikinied chicks passing by, my sight is inevitably raped by the swarms of balding, pot-bellied, ugly and hairy men roaming the seaside. I’m doomed.

Less than a year ago the entire Arab World was experiencing a phenomenon called Bab Al-Hara. The 30-episode Ramadani Syrian TV drama won every conceivable critical acclaim and popular accolade. It tells a story of a Damascene neighborhood under the French occupation between the two world wars. Even our bitter neighbors, the Israelis initiated an unprecedented research on the possible causes and plausible effects of this series runaway and huge success. They arguably were worried about the well-liked demeanors of Abu Issam and Abu Shehab and the underlying message of the show. The remote chance that their worst fears could come true loomed ominously in their dark horizon. Could the Arabs, God Forbids (not our Allah but their real Lord), ever unite and rally together behind a potential Abu Shehab one day. That will be either the beginning of the end or the end of the beginning of Western civilization, they fathomed. And, they were worried. Little did they know that come summer their worst fears would prove nothing but grossly exaggerated and unfounded presumptions.

Arabs, all of them, are experiencing a new and even more admirable sensation, the 150-episode Turkish TV series Gumus, a soap opera about the daily lives and affairs of a wealthy family in modern secular Istanbul. The name has been changed to Nour in the mega hit Arabicized version. It has been dubbed in Shami Arabic (Damascene accent) and the net effect is stupendous. Never in the history of drama, never under the influence of any culture or civilization or of their total absence, never had a work of genius or of idiocy (including but not limited to all established religions) affected millions in such a short span like Nour did. Men, balding, pot-bellied, ugly and hairy are falling in love with Mohanad the leading male character, played by Kivanç Tatlitug. Rebellious wives are shedding years of submissiveness and demanding divorce at gunpoint. Cocksure yet sedate husbands are turning into raving maniacs by slashing their whorish wives with knives. Women are turning into multi-orgasmic beasts while Viagra has all but disappeared off the shelves due to the gigantic demand of impotently small men. Everybody wants to rip Mohanad’s clothes apart with a very small minority lusting after the other characters including Safiya and Fikri. What did those Turks do to our unsuspecting people? If we'd ever thought that the Ottoman days were over we’d better think again. They have just returned triumphantly. When Nour finally killed Abdine (the bad ass character) all hell broke loose in the island of Arwad. People came out the alleys and offered sweets and Baklavas. They hugged and kissed and congratulated each other. In one of the more fashionable neighborhoods of Tartous, where the nouveau rich are as rampant as shit is in underground sewage, drum beaters were brought from the Gipsy camp on the outskirts of town, fireworks brightened the sky while a convoy of Mercedeses, Beemers and Hummers slached the dark of night with screeching wheels and loud music. Jubilation at last!

I wonder what those Israeli researchers and journalists are thinking about now. Are they lamenting the wasted time they had spent on Bab Al Hara or are they worried anew that a tsunami of oversexed and under-satisfied Arab women and men might attack their promised land and fuck themselves to death on crowded busses and busy malls.

Didn't I start off by clearly stating that I'm not in the mood to write. I also told you that the heat makes me blotchy.

Melancholy Man

noreply@blogger.com (abufares) — Wed, 09 Jul 2008 09:50:00 +0000

And the laughter of little children on the other side of the street above wafted through the small window, faded then died. Silence, nothing but silence.

At one time or another, we all suffer from Earworms. The term was invented by Professor James J. Kellaris, PhD, of the University of Cincinnati. It refers to songs, jingles and tunes which somehow assault the unsuspecting mind and get stuck there. A mild attack might last for an hour or two, a whole day perhaps. When a certain song becomes a hit and is incessantly being played on different media its metamorphosis into an earworm is often a collective yet short-lived experience. We are constantly coerced to sing it along. However, as soon as the hit is replaced by another ephemeral piece of senseless art we just forget all about it.
A more subtle and personal form of infliction is set off by association. Any sensory stimulus, such as a sight, a sound or a smell might trigger a dormant memory and by doing so instigates a complicated chain reaction. All of a sudden, an earworm with hazy lyrics takes over the brain entirely. If the worm survives overnight it often implies that someway, somehow, a Pandora's Box has been inadvertently opened.
I've been a keen fan of the Moody Blues since the early 80's. Back then, I bought all of their released LP's and ritually engrossed myself in their inimitable music. For the unfortunate kids who read me and are unlettered about the Moody Blues, I can reverently introduce them as an English Rock band from Birmingham founded by Michael Pinder and Ray Thomas in 1964. They were later joined by Graeme Edge, John Lodge and Justin Hayward and together were credited with the early development of Progressive Rock (a fusion of Rock and more Classical forms of music). They are still active as of the writing of this post. Less than two years ago I discovered LimeWire a free source of music download on the Internet and compiled my own collection. I've burned an MP3 CD of my favorites for the car and downloaded them to my phone's memory card. My album contains three or four Moody Blues' hits but somehow Melancholy Man had evaded my flimsy memory.
I was sitting alone in my little private space underground, staring at the washed-out and discolored instants of frozen time captured in some old photos and hung on the wall. I stared at the faces of friends and loved ones I've lost along the way. Then my gaze was fixed at a print of my friend Nabil and me, standing side by side, laughing so confidently as if we were forever young, beyond reach and out of harm's way. My vision blurred and the words assaulted me breaking the silence after the dying laughter from far away. I've been churning them in my head, words, intoxicating words...

I'm a melancholy man, that's what I am,
All the world surrounds me, and my feet are on the ground.
I'm a very lonely man, doing what I can,
All the world astounds me and I think I understand
That we're going to keep growing, wait and see.

When all the stars are falling down
Into the sea and on the ground,
And angry voices carry on the wind,
A beam of light will fill your head
And you'll remember what's been said
By all the good men this world's ever known.
Another man is what you'll see,
Who looks like you and looks like me,
And yet somehow he will not feel the same,
His life caught up in misery,
he doesn't think like you and me,
cause he can't see what you and I can see.

powered by ODEO

The Barber of Tartous

noreply@blogger.com (abufares) — Mon, 07 Jul 2008 12:05:00 +0000

The first impression I leave on people is that I 'm a tiny bit more interesting and different from the hordes. I really am not. Like most men, I am a creature of habit. I'm as boring as the guy next door, probably more if you ask my kids. Even my seemingly interesting volatility is, in due course, banal and predictable. What sets me apart, or so I'd like to believe and transmit, is my obdurate loyalty.
I've been cutting my hair for the last 22 years on the hands and with the scissors of the same barber, Abu Ali. This is not so unique in the world of men, especially those who require low or no maintenance like me. I still remember my first haircut. The moment was immortalized by my mother, rest her soul. I was about four perhaps with long and curly hair colored like fields of wheat in early summer. Mom thought that I was the handsomest kid in the world and she probably was right (I don't know what happened as the years went by though). She called our family photographer and asked him to document the occasion. Abdul Karim, the assistant pharmacist took me on his black Chinese Phoenix bicycle to Mahmoud the barber. It was customary to carry a passenger on a bicycle by seating him sideways on the crossbar. From that position and right at the apex of the only steep climb on the way (between Cinema Al-Nejmeh and Cinema Al-Amir, both distant memories from the past) I stuck my foot in between the spokes of the front wheel. I wailed like an owl being harassed by a penguin of the same gender while Abdul Karim laid spread on the sidewalk with blood running from his nose and lip. He didn't pause with me later for the black and white photograph but he continued to take me places until I was old enough to prowl Tartous on my own bike.
Years flew past in the blink of an eye, over forty of them. I crossed the Atlantic to America and drove and flew all over the place but only managed to frequent one barbershop or perhaps two. Like clockwork, and except for a period of time when I let go of everything including my hair (a beta version of Yazan), I went to the barbershop once a month. I never requested any particular style for my haircut. I would just sit on the barber's chair and passively accept whatever creativity or inanity the trainee's dexterity or clumsiness produced. Occasionally God would put in a nice word on my behalf with the angels and I would end up in the hands of a buxom apprentice. But in real life you can't win them all unless you cheat. Eventually my scalp would get caressed by a gay trainee. I think the bald spot in the back of my head is the result of such moments of torment.
In 1986 I came back to Tartous. My first impulse was of course to continue with Mahmoud as my barber. I was surprised when I saw that the building where his shop was located had been replaced by a big hole in the ground. A modern 6-story office building was to be erected on site and Mahmoud was taking a break. I had to make a quick moral decision, one that will affect me for the rest of my life. I would either have to wait until the construction of the new building reaches the ground level and the barbershop reopened, a 4 to 5 months period at least. Or, I had to find me a new barber. Decency and shyness prevented me from choosing one of the nearby alternatives. The well-established barbers knew my father and me and the fact that we were Mahmoud's clients. "So now that Mahmoud doesn't have his shop you came to us", they would think if I approached them. The newcomers were too trendy for my taste with the word Salon instead of Barber on the neon-lighted sign and posters of fashionable male faggots all over the damn place (I don't give a shit if this is politically incorrect, male models are faggots as far as I'm concerned).
Like an outcast I rode my bike to the furthest southern edge of town. I lived on Al-Mina St. back then, very near to the port which defined Tartous northern border. Near the Ghamka River, I found Abu Ali's barbershop which was, and still is, the furthest shop from my neighborhood. The man never saw my face before and assumed that I must've been one of those dumb tourists who cut their hair anywhere on a whim. He should've known better back then as he's been cutting my hair since. I have visited Abu Ali exactly (22 x12 = 264 times). Fares has been escorting me reluctantly for the last 6 years, much to his chagrin. I promised him that when he's old enough to go about the city alone he can choose his own barber. For the time being, however, he has to succumb to the quirks of his old man. Of course Mahmoud reopened his shop a few months later back in 1986 but I was already committed to Abu Ali. He's been my primary source of news, local and international, for the last 2 decades. He specializes in Lebanese politics, a subject which had always put me to sleep instantaneously. I have made my own vows very early in our association that I will never disagree with him. I really don't give a horse's ass about local, Middle Eastern and international affairs so I see no point in disagreeing on a subject which after all, he is a glib expert on. We always talk about the weather, the high cost of living, Al 3arsat Al Arab and the prices of real estate in Tartous. I never told Abu Ali how I like my haircut but I reckon that as my hair had thinned over the years he's been cropping it shorter and shorter. My haircut takes 10 to 15 minutes maximum with all the talking and gesturing. With Fares, Abu Ali needs twice as long as he's bombarded by special requests for modifications and adjustments. Damn, he's barely eight years old and already way more sophisticated than me.
The other day Abu Ali confessed something which really made me very happy. Before opening shop in Tartous he had worked for years in Tripoli, Lebanon. When I first visited him in the early spring of 1986 he had just moved in. I am his oldest client, he told me. "I still remember when you walked in for the very first time", he said. "I thought you were a tourist." "When you came in one month later, I inquired whether you had moved into our neighborhood." "Less than a year later, I knew that we are friends for life." "What do you think about this Akhou'l Sharmouta Junblatt?", he angrily asked switching gears. "kiss Immo", I blissfully replied as I faded into a deliciously hedonistic short nap.

The Businessmen Bullman

noreply@blogger.com (abufares) — Fri, 27 Jun 2008 11:44:00 +0000

As my weary face stared back at me through the bathroom mirror I vowed not to make the strenuous round trip from Tartous to Damascus on a single day again. "I'm too old for this shit", I confided to my reflection a few years back.

The 250 km distance is divided in two major components and contains what is probably the most boring stretch of asphalt in the world. I have rarely in my travels encountered anything as depressing as the 150 km long reel of stark landscape between Homs and Damascus. It's of course in sharp contrast with the green heaving and cinematically picturesque Tartous–Homs segment. Once I cross Homs on my way back, my breathing returns to normal and my grip on the steering wheel relaxes by its own volition. I am closer to home.

A couple of times per year I break my own rule and I often end up regretting my sedition. As the pain shoots out omni-directionally from my stiff lower back I console myself that being stupid is part of the learning process. Be that as it may, I had to be in Damascus from 10:00AM to 5:00PM on a Wednesday. I also had to be in Tartous early the next morning. I had no choice but to exempt myself yet again. On top, I felt adventurous enough to perhaps commit another mistake. “Why not take the bus”, I thought, “Everybody does it, so why not me”.

It’s been a long time since I traveled in a Bullman in Syria. For those unaware, a bullman refers to a Pullman or a large bus. Arabs in general, including the majority of Syrians insist that there is no distinction between the letters B & P. They always substitute them with each other although they put a lot of effort into finally releasing the wrong P. As thus, a beautiful girl with a perfect body wearing a bikini ends up as a peautiful girl with a berfect pody wearing a Pikini instead. “Excuse me sir, can I bark near the bolice station”, asked the suave Damascene student to the American cop. “This is a free country”, Officer Jim answered, “you can bark anywhere you want.”

I have heard stories about the Businessmen Bus (باص رجال الأعمال), “It’s so comfortable you don’t feel it’s moving at all,” so I’ve been told. Instead of the usual 45 passenger arrangement, the businessmen bus of Kadmous Tours is equipped with 32 wide leather seats. It leaves Tartous at 6:30 in the morning and takes a little bit over 3 hours to reach Damascus. Along the way, it makes a stupid stop in what is called an Istiraha, a café/restaurant/rest area combination. These istirahas are almost always obscenely decorated and excessively grimy. The only advantage of stopping is probably the chance to take a bee, meaning a pee of course. A nasty ammonia smell permeates the dank air surrounding the restrooms corner and convinces me to hold it till I reach my destination. It would make for a very good impression to rush into the bathroom before I even exchange the necessary niceties with my hosts. With all these details vying for my attention I climbed the few steps into the coach and headed hesitantly toward my assigned seat.

In all honesty the bus was posh and clean from the inside. The leather seat was very comfortable and accommodating. I sat by the aisle and hoped that the next seat remains unoccupied. I had my laptop, I had an unread book, I had earphones to connect to my mobile phone and listen to my favorite music just as precautionary measures against a worst case scenario. The seats were quickly being taken and with each approaching unwashed mustached face I crossed my fingers and controlled my breathing so as to avoid an imminent anxiety attack.

-“I should’ve reserved both seats for crying out loud. There’s still time to change my mind and go home and take my car instead. I must …”

-“Excuse me, can you let me in please”.

I looked up and my glance turned into a long stare at the most beautiful green eyes I have ever seen in my life. Green and shimmering like the leaves of an olive tree after the passage of a rainstorm. Tranquil, translucent and peppered by minute hints of hazel, her eyes meant to dint forever the inner walls of the most private chambers of the mind and soul. Hypnotized, I gave her way and was immediately awarded with an olfactory attack of a rainbow of sweet and exotic fragrances. She had just stepped out of a scented bath and her, still damp, curly hair brushed against my left ear as she eased her way into the seat.

“Good morning”, she smiled.

“Ye2berni your morning”, I silently replied.

As soon as the driver took the final exit out of Tartous and released the reins of his machine I turned and said, loud enough for her to hear this time, “ I have a laptop, a novel and enough music to occupy me for the next 3 hours if you so choose. But I rather spend it talking with you and enjoying your company. It’s your call.”

- “My name is Lama and there’s nothing I'd like more than a nice and entertaining conversation judging from the way you introduced yourself,” she quickly replied with a gorgeous smile on her face.

Her pearly smile and jade eyes won me over in a minute. There’s no point in hiding anything. “I’m abufares. I’m married. I have 3 kids although I don’t wear a ring,” I blurted out as I beamed at my own reflection swimming effortlessly in the calm pools of her eyes.

We talked for the next 4 hours, mostly about her. She is a civil engineer in a public sector company on her way to the ministry in Damascus. My quick calculations betrayed her age at around 28. I learned about her childhood, her college years, her work and her ambitions. I became aware of her tastes in reading and music, her personal assessment and outlook on life. We talked economy, politics, sociology and religion. She let me through a small window into her life and asked for my advice. We had coffee together in the Istiraha and neither of us showed any inclination to use the bathroom. I told her stories from here and there and opened up honestly to her gentle probing inquiries. When we ultimately reached Damascus she was already aware of my aversion to busses and my angst toward taxis. A car from the ministry was sent to pick her up and she would take me wherever I need to go. But eventually, and like all the good things in life, our journey through time and space was coming to an end.

-“You too have beautiful green eyes”, she said, “I’ve never enjoyed a bus ride as much as I’ve enjoyed this one.”

-“Are you by any chance returning to Tartous on the 18:30 bus later on today?”, I pleaded.

No, she was staying overnight at her aunt’s house. But we will see each other again, someday soon, she hoped.

I prayed!

Around 5:30 PM, I was walking the streets near the Omaya Hotel. I had a brief lunch earlier during the meeting and was looking forward a chocolate ice-cream at Apollo. I had a little time on my hand to kill before the dreadful ride in a taxi to Harasta then the return to Tartous on a regular (not businessmen) bullman.

As I glanced sideways before crossing the street I heard my name being called from a car right in front of me. A friend of mine, a sea master of a large tanker had just returned by plane from Amsterdam. His wife had waited for him at the airport earlier and they were leaving to Tartous now. I tried to convince them that I do not mind the bus ride but they would not hear of it. As the car sped up leaving the city behind, my friend really wanted to know how my bus trip to Damascus was.

-“It was a trip I’ll never forget”, I mused loudly with a big smile on my face.

-“I bet it was,” the captain said, “I bet it was.”

Burghul b Hummus

noreply@blogger.com (abufares) — Sun, 15 Jun 2008 14:49:00 +0000

My accolade of the coastal Syrian cuisine is coming brazenly to a riotous gastronomical climax. Some of the provincial dishes I have already described and certainly the topic of today have been underrated for generations in Syria despite being the most ubiquitous. The truth of the matter is that the Damascene are the loudest when it comes to promoting themselves, followed closely by the Aleppine, then the Homsis and Hamwis as distant thirds and fourths. I have already unfeathered (natafet reech) the Damascene as being on par with the Lebanese when it comes to their notorious egotism. If left to their own devices, they might go as far as alleging that God Almighty comes from the Midan area. The Aleppine, whimsically gifted with robust yet supple vocal cords, had put their Tarab to self-serving use and advanced their city to the entire Arab world as not only the Mecca of authentic Mousika Sharkieh (Oriental Music) but of delicious food as well. The Homsis and Hamwis stubbornly pushed forward in their relentless quest to perfect their bombastic sweets until they succeeded in raising diabetes levels in the whole country. Have you ever wondered what sort of gargoyle conjured the Sha'aybiyat (شعيبيات)? Notice that the damn word doesn’t even have a singular form. They are always Sha'aybiyat in plural, never one Sha'aybieh. Legend has it that a Rastan native with a Homsi for a father and a Hamwieh for a mother created the first monstrosity.

Only the modest, hardworking and nonsensical coastal Tartoussis (and to a lesser extent their bitter neighbors the Lattakians) silently endowed the Syrian cuisine with the bare essentials conceived by their good nature and fertile earth. In a moment of pure ecstasy, a carnivore fisherman and a beautiful vegetarian maiden from the mountains consummated their love and introduced flesh (meat or poultry) to Burghul . While the landlocked Syrians were still trying to come to grip with our earlier invention, the Mjadra, we were making headways in our hedonistic pursuit of the ultimate Syrian dish: Burghul b Hummus with either Lahme (meat) or Farrouj (chicken).

Forget about silverware, china and hors d'oeuvre. Get yourself a Kas'aa (قصعة) and a Khashouka (خاشوقة) (in coastal mountains dialect = Metal bowl and a spoon), and let’s party.

Ingredients: 1 whole chicken, 1 large onion, 1 large cut onion, water to completely cover the chicken, salt, pepper, 1 carrot, 5 to 6 cinnamon sticks, 1 teaspoon cardamom, 2 cups coarse Burghul, 1 cup boiled chickpeas (Hummus) and olive oil

How to Prepare:

-Bring to boil a whole clean chicken, a carrot, the uncut onion, salt and pepper, a few sticks of cinnamon and a little cardamom. Reduce heat to medium, cover and let cook for 90 minutes (or until done). The carrot and onion are thrown away and used only to absorb any undesired taste or smell.

-Remove chicken and drain. Keep the broth on the side.

-Rinse 2 cups of coarse Burghul then place into a strainer.

-In the pot to be used to cook the Burghul, braise the cut onion in 3 to 4 tablespoons of olive oil until tender. Add the Burghul, mix well, top with 2 ½ cups of the chicken broth, cover and heat over medium for 10 minutes. Add the pre-boiled or separately boiled tender chickpeas (Hummus). Mix again, cover for 5 minutes then remove from heat.

-Present in any type of ware or in the cooking pot and spread the de-boned chicken in pieces and chunks on top. Pour a generous amount of virgin olive oil (4 to 6 tablespoons as per preference) and serve along with raw onions, yogurt, pickles and Arak if you want to go all the way.

-Unbuckle your belt, kick off your shoes, take a nap, wake up, wash your mouth with a cold slice of watermelon then you’re free to be whatever you were before you had Burghul b Hummus. You've just earned your right of passage to being accepted as a real Ibn Balad. Welcome to Tartous!

abufares' net

noreply@blogger.com (abufares) — Tue, 10 Jun 2008 18:21:00 +0000

This last year has been a test in resilience for the dozens of bloggers who write out of Syria. A decision to completely block BLOGSPOT was taken at a certain echelon of the Syrian government. Whether masterminded by some praetorian bigwig or by a quisquilian security clerk the wall was ultimately built. Many bloggers gave up eventually. It became a pain in the ass to post or comment on Blogspot. More pliant individuals made the switch to other platforms and continued unheeded by the unwarranted complicity of an archaic bureaucracy.

One day in 2006 I started blogging. It never occurred to me that I will eventually soil my hands with politics. I am of the seemingly insouciant apolitical type. Surely I have my opinions but I normally keep them to myself. Through their attempt to alienate me further the idiots could only achieve the exact opposite result.

So I got myself a net. www.abufares.net is the new domain of my blog. No longer do I have to sneak behind proxies to reply to comments. But more significantly, readers in Syria who wish to honor me by visiting my blog do not need to go out of their way to do so anymore.

Although having my own unique URL is more prestigious I can’t promise any improvement in quality. I will continue to write about Tartous and beautiful women. Every once in a while I will post a recipe that is arguably threatening to national security. I will elaborate in tedious details about the bounties of Syria and praise Arak and our delight of being alive, despite all.

I will fiercely defend my homeland against domestic and foreign foes while insisting that our public toilets stink and are a shame to modern and ancient civilizations. I will lament the fallen trees, the lost traditions and our battered personal liberties. I will continue my private vendetta against social and theological tyranny and hearten the younger generation not to succumb to fear or guilt.

I am neither an intellectual emissary nor a street visionary. I am a common man from Tartous who found a way to break his silence.

Thank You Yaman

noreply@blogger.com (abufares) — Sat, 07 Jun 2008 07:25:00 +0000

I have read your excellent blog occasionally but never left a comment. My mistake of course. I have to thank you for saving our planet. It sounds like something Lois Lane would tell Superman after he drops her on a roof of a skyscraper.
I'm sure every single Syrian blogger and all readers of Syrian blogs have the same exact words to you:

Thank You Yaman!

Sin City

noreply@blogger.com (abufares) — Sat, 31 May 2008 05:12:00 +0000

from Al-Arabia

Apparently, Al-Arabiya chose to ignore what is happening in Iraq and the hundreds of thousands of Iraqis massacred so far by the American & British invasion. In fact, Al-Arabiya is equally bored of reporting every single day that the Israeli occupation is killing scores of Palestinian men, women and children, bla bla bla. All hell’s breaking loose in Sudan, big deal? Hunger in Somalia, who gives a shit! Instead, Al-Arabiya’s noxious brand of journalism zoomed closer and closer then targeted Tartous, a sinful city where boys and girls are kissing and fondling each other on the corniche by the sea.

First, let me assert that the entire story is a lie. I drive, walk or ride my bike on the corniche of Tartous almost everyday and I have never seen a couple kissing. I have seen young lovers sitting side by side. I have seen them huddling close against the wind. I have seen them smiling and whispering, sharing a bag of peanuts or a Nescafe, watching the sunset but not kissing. They might be waiting for me to disappear before they embark on a frenzy of tongue sucking, but I haven’t been fortunate enough to witness that first hand.

Al-Arabiya’s reporter saw more, much more. The son of a bitch wrote (and I translate here for the benefit of those who can’t read Arabic):

“After the refurbishing project of the corniche of Tartous, the inauguration of several colleges and the influx of students from different governorates (regions), the rocky piers extending into the sea have been transformed into dating hubs for young men and women. They will disperse in pairs and practice the rituals of love in front of passersby without shame or remorse… In the middle of the scene, a young man hugging his girl who is apparently underage, judging from her school uniform… Nearby another couple is exchanging kisses. But what stands out about them is the fact that the girl is wearing a Hijab. And, at a corner, by the end of the quay, another pair has reached the point of no return…”

The most interesting aspect of the article lies in the huge response it triggered among readers. At my last counting the 254 comments were split in 3 broad categories:

1- This is good to hear. I approve of what is going on in Tartous or I wish I was there to be a part of this cheerful trend.

2- La 7awla wa la Kuwatta Illa Billah. This is a clear sign that the Day of Judgment is near. Repent oh filthy Tartoussi sinners for thou shall burn in hell forever.

3- Fuck you Al-Arabiya. It’s not your goddamn business.

Al-Arabiya’s main intent was to demonstrate that Syria is sliding into a spiral of wickedness and sin. The report affirms that this immoral drift is sweeping all of Syria’s major cities. Yet transgression culminates in Tartous, where as per the solemn words of a religious preacher it had reached the lowest grade of adultery.

Just to prove how objective and unbiased they were, Al-Arabiya gave way to Mr. Bassam Al-Kadi, director of the Syrian Women Observatory to refute the accusation. Instead, he rightly reiterated that he believes that Tartous is ground-breaking a healthy movement. He further explained that there is at least one street in every major Syrian city where innocent lovers meet in the open. Al-Arabiya had enough of this wise guy who seemed to know what the hell he’s talking about. They cut him short.

But again what intrigued me more than the low-class editorial are the comments left by pleased or livid readers. Al-Arabiya is financed and managed mainly by Royal Saudi tartuffes and "moderate" Arab imbeciles and this fact alone renders its journalism irrelevant. In addition, it should be kept in mind that Al-Arabiya is a member of the MBC Group. While the news channel Al-Arabiya and MBC hoist the banner of authentic Islam and contemporary Arabism, MBC2, MBC4 and Action mainly run American programming. They aim at bastardizing the Middle Eastern family by Americanizing its sense of decency. Toward this end, they chose the likes of Oprah, Dr. Phil and an assortment of American sitcoms and movies. Their carefully selected bouquet of seemingly innocuous indoctrination of last week included a Dr. Phil rescuing an American teenager from the claws of a 19 year old Palestinian boyfriend who committed the unforgivable mistake of being a Muslim in love with an American girl (did I mention that she was blonde). Over the course of 3 consecutive episodes entitled Katherine Returns, Dr. Phil and the bereaved family explained to America that the brainwashed girl was in grave danger in Palestine. Phil did not mention Israel at all, not a single time. Even when she flew out of Tel Aviv airport he and her family were so relieved that she was able to get out of that country: Palestine. And the whole show was appropriately subtitled for the benefit of the Arab audience. We should all sympathize with and applaud the bald superhero for being the first American to give the Palestinians a country of their own. Fuck you Dr. Phil for being a hypocrite liar, for being a parrot and a minion in the service of the most powerful lobby in the US, for taking the opportunity to portray the Palestinians as a threat to the integrity, innocence and beauty of the American lifestyle.

Meanwhile, MBC4 showed a plethora of good Muslim family oriented movies, all subtitled in Arabic and void of kissing (a kissing scene is always removed by the censors). However, a blow job was adequately translated into Arabic and as a result I was taken a little off guard when my eight year old son wanted to know what does: جنس فموي mean.

So here you have it! The moderate Arabs are once again pissed at us. Tartous is a looming danger for their deranged and perverted brand of Islam. Our boys and girls should not fall in love and walk, hand in hand, on the corniche. They should not run their fingers in each other’s hair, share their dreams and make promises by the sea. Instead, they should wear white galabias and black abayas and hide like criminals in heavily curtained apartments, learn from their American masters how to give a blow job then stroll in air conditioned and segregated malls away from the heat of the desert only to be herded like sheep to prayer by the Moutawe’en. Al-Arabiya, Kiss Immek for ever setting eyes on Tartous, for the whiff of genital stink emanating from unwashed beards of the eunuchs of Arabia.

My last words are squarely directed at the several Syrians who commented apologetically to Al-Arabiya. "These Tartoussi sinners are not real Syrians", they wrote, "we are very much like you, God fearing Muslims who fiercely defend our honor and chastity".

If that’s the best you could muster, if you truly believe that your honor is unassailable as long as you keep your daughters and sisters under your fanatical male chauvinistic control, I suggest you go there, to the middle of the fucking desert, and stay. I further recommend that you leave your sisters and daughters behind. It’s much more honorable for them to bask in the sun of Tartous and bathe in the sea froth cleansing their souls and spirits from centuries of accumulated dirt and rot. More than Al-Arabiya, you are the threat, you are the real sinners.

To Do List

noreply@blogger.com (abufares) — Wed, 21 May 2008 08:01:00 +0000

Apparently and for no reason at all my sense of mortality reasserted itself the other day. Instead of feeling down or in any way depressed I summoned a few loose ideas lounging and skulking around the neglected corners of my mind. I wanted to put a plan of action together and accordingly I ended up with an outline of what I have to do as soon as I own more of myself and before I indubitably bite the dust. I have my doubts that I'll be able to achieve them all. I'll be very happy if I can ultimately look behind knowing that I've accomplished four out of these seven goals.

1- See all the wonderful places I haven't had the chance to travel to yet, in particular to the Far East, South Africa and Brazil/Argentina. I don't remember a destination I haven't enjoyed. Perhaps there are a couple of places I wouldn't wish to go back to but I don't ever regret a first time visit. Of course I have only been to less than 1/4^th of the roughly 195 countries in the world and I would love to have the chance to go to each and every single one remaining. Yet the continents of Asia, Africa and South America are my primary targets.

2- TIBET. I can't group it along in a wish list of travel destinations. I have to go on a pilgrimage to Tibet and embark on a trekking expedition through this mysterious land. I need to see the Himalayas. I'm certain I don't have it in me to climb Mount Everest, but I have to see it, even if from afar. As for hiking uphill for a couple of weeks, I'm still a good bet for your money. I can hang in there with kids half my age. I want to rest and sleep in a secluded monastery. There are a few things I need to talk with God about and I want to perform my own prayer from the roof of the world.

3- I should get me a bike, powerful/comfortable/capable enough to haul my ass from Tartous to Gibraltar across Europe then back home by way of Morocco through North Africa. This is, relatively speaking, the easy part. First, I must push hard on my public relations skills to convince my wife and kids that I'm neither crazy nor selfish. I'd like them to understand that this is as imperative to me as visiting Paris in the comfort of an airliner is to them. Besides, failing to fulfill a logistically difficult yet plausible desire for the wrong reasons will make me feel that I didn't quite do it my way in life.

4- Enough roving like a wild beast! I plan to retire from quotidian work by the age of 55. I don't intend on sitting on my ass and do nothing, not yet that is. But I don't want to wake up every morning and perform robotic motions then head to an office (or two as is my present case). I'd rather work when I feel up to it. When I direly miss executing the specialized chores I'm proficient at and when I approve of the client then I wouldn't mind putting in some hours. How I am going to spend my time then, you might wonder. Let's go further down the list.

5- I'm determined that my reading must take precedence over every other single activity, mental or physical. If I accumulate all the hours I could've used to read but chose to waste on other menial and passive activities I would end up with a good number of years. I want to have a maximum break of 2 days in between books.

6- I'd like to open a small restaurant in Tartous. Six, may be seven tables that's all. This little place should be a statement on my behalf: a subtle, quiet, cozy, private, inspiring and liberal haven. I want to spend my evenings there in a corner with friends or chatting with regular clients. The menu would be straightforward, exotic yet authentically local. I don't fancy serving what is certainly better prepared in Italy or elsewhere. There will be a plat du jour and a limited number of house specialties. No way to get lost anymore, you know where to find me.

7- With all the free time on my hand I should be able to seriously start writing. There is a novel, perhaps two, in me that I would like to unload on an unsuspecting world. I feel guilty for postponing this personal objective for so long. However, it really is difficult to break the chain and take the courageous decision to stop it all, at least for the time being. I need to start doing this, the sooner the better.

Come to think of it, this post is more befitting of a tag. I'd like to tag every reader/blogger to:

Write down your own TO DO LIST before you ultimately ... bite the dust.

-.....

noreply@blogger.com (abufares) — Tue, 13 May 2008 14:49:00 +0000

-I can’t believe it… you’re the last person I’d expected to see here. How are you?
-…..
-Long time no see, where have you been, what have you been up to, how come no one gets to see you anymore?
-…..
-You’ve lost some weight, what else? Your hair is thinner. Still wearing jeans, ha. Are you still doing the same old thing out of your office?
-…..
Is it any good? Are you making any money in that line of work? You know what I think? It’s a total waste of time. If you’re not into business then you’re probably doing nothing at all.
-…..
Just the same, never change do you? A man of principle who looks down on money. Tell me, do you still believe that shit? That intellectual pursuits are more worthwhile than making money. Do you still think you’re better than the rest?
-…..
-Do you have any idea how much money I make? Do you truly and seriously still think that you’re smarter than me? Don’t you find it hard to believe that I change my brand-new car every year? How do you feel about that?
-…..
You know what’s your problem? I’ll tell you. You started with the assumption that since you read lots of books and know your way about the sciences and the arts you’re better than the rest of us.
-…..
-But you’re not better than me, not even close. I’m sure I make more money in a month than you make in a year, even two. You know why? Do you?
-…..
-Because I’m smarter than you that’s why. You're not flexible. I know more about real life. About people. I’m well connected. I have dinners with ministers. I sleep with the most beautiful women around. You might call them whores because you can’t afford offering them a drink, but you’ll lust after them all the same.
-…..
-You know what’s your problem? You probably don’t. You never dared take any risks. You had some money; you put it in a bank and felt good about collecting the lousy interest. You would not realize a good opportunity even if it hits you in the face. You don't take the initiative. You don't grab the occasion. Remember that time when I told you to buy a share in a cargo ship, remember? You told me that you don’t want to deal with this type of people. Well guess what, I have invested the money I made from that commission you acted so lofty about. The one you refused to even consider for providing a simple basic service for... Why bother! I’m not going to even talk about your shitty attitude back then. I invested that money and bought a 10% share in a ship. You’d die of a hard attack if you knew how much money I’m making.
-…..
-Life my friend is a long corridor with doors on both sides. You have to know how to open these doors. Which doors to close because they aren’t worth shit. Which doors to keep open because there’s good money behind. You have to learn which hand to kiss, which ass to lick. Yeah, you heard right. I don’t mind that I kissed many hands and licked a few asses. Look at me, I mean it, look at me. People are kissing my hand and licking my ass today. You feel betrayed? Fooled? Cheated? You have to live with it. I’m a more successful person than you'll ever be. By far more successful.
-…..
-I feel sorry for you. You are still the same man I knew twenty years ago when life was simple and boring. You probably still drink Arak and claim to enjoy it. I drink Green Label man. Do you know what Green Label is? It's more expensive than Black Label.
-…..
-I smoke Romeo & Juliette and Coheba. And you know what, I don’t buy them anymore. People buy them for me. I smoke 3 cigars a day, minimum. I drink 2 liters of Green Label a week, minimum. I have a Mercedes outside, what do you have?
-…..
-That’s sweet success my friend. Only if you listened to me. I’m a good man and I can help you even now. It’s easy for a person like me to take a person like you to the top. You just need to have the will to do it. Do you? Tell me, do you?
-…..
-I really feel sorry for you. A man of principle! Why don’t you call yourself a man in love with poverty? Why do you kid yourself? You’re not that smart after all. You’re not that gifted. God cheated you. You misled yourself with all that fucking reading. What was the name of that author you once told me so much about? The one, you said, knows so much about the true nature of being. What bullshit and crap. And, I used to envy you back then, thinking how smart you are. We’ve sure traded places. I bet that your heart is filled with jealousy even if you’re too proud to admit it.
-…..
-You’re not offended are you? We are friends after all. You can come by my office anytime. You know that I own the whole building. I’ll offer you Blue Label. That’s what I treat my visitors with, not coffee or tea but Whiskey. One moment let me answer this Khara (shithead) on the mobile.
-Ahla Habibi, Ahla M'almi. Of course! Anytime. I’m at your service. We can meet at the Four Seasons on Thursday. I’m staying there. We can have dinner together. Sure bring them along. 9 O’clock, at the Four Seasons bar. I will be honored.
-Do you know who this Akhou Sharmouta is? He’s one of the biggest traders of steel in the country. We’ve made a few millions together. Did you see my chalet? People are driving by just to take a look at it. I’ve brought this Lebanese architect guy, what’s his name, the one who appears in magazines. He designed it for me. Marble from the outside. What? Where are you going?
-…..
-You walked here all the way from your home? Come on sit down, it’s too early. Do you want my chauffeur to take you in my car?
-…..
-As you wish, call me will you?
-…..

(..... = Kiss Ikht Hal Zaman Yalli Khalla el-Manayek Terkab Flayek = The vagina of the sister of these times for letting the dickheads ride Felukas (wooden boats )

For a Drink of Water

noreply@blogger.com (abufares) — Thu, 01 May 2008 16:43:00 +0000

It was pretty much different in the 50’s and 60’s of the last century. Life was simpler although in no way less rewarding. We weren’t as removed from the earth we lived on as we are now. People were in touch with nature, in tune with the environment and in harmony with the planet. A plethora of dazzling creatures thrived, animals and plants, sustaining better balanced ecosystems and enriching the lives of more fortunate generations. Those of my age grew up in a Syria of exceptional natural beauty veiling the countryside and extending within the walls of charming cities and little towns. The emerald foliage permeated the narrow alleys and clambered high on the faces of stonewalls to lace the open verandas staring at the sea. A mélange of Jasmine and orange blossom impregnated the night of Tartous and her plain white abodes perpetually shawled by unassuming gardens were home for azaleas, day lilies, magnolias and Arabian Yasmin. There was a fountain in the backyard in the shade of the plum tree, which my father’s uncle would use for Woudou' (ablution) just before noon. He would roll his shirt sleeves and his pants up, place his Tarboosh (fez) on the wicker chair then wash his hands and arms, his face and scalp and his feet and toes. After prayer, he would fetch the two watermelons he had bought earlier from the souk and hurl them in the cold fresh water of the fountain to cool down for dessert after lunch.

I slowly opened my eyes and the sweet images faded away. Thus were the days of spring and summer as I remember them, long, so long ago. I was thirsty and I reached for the bottle I keep on the floor by my bed. As I straightened up, I brought it closer to my lips then I hesitated and stopped.

It was more serene still in the villages spread across the mountains and hills of the coast. The focal point of any rural community was the Ein (water spring). In the lazy afternoon when shadows get blunter and longer, the village girls would flock to the Ein in the valley, Jarra (pottery) on shoulder to fill with pure water gushing out in defiance of rock and time.

I steered the car East with Om Fares by my side. "How far?", she warily asked. "Not much honey, don’t you remember? We’ve been there before. Besides, once we get on the road you’d wish if it were a hundred miles away". In fact, it’s much less than that. We drove for 24km, passing the halfway point in Bmalke at 400m altitude then climbed a little further into the wooded hills before we dipped steeply to the left. We entered the magical realm of the Naher Al Ismaelieh (Ismaeli River also known As Naher Al Khawabi).

The Ismaelis, referred to in some history books as the Assassins are believed to be the followers of an old Islamic sect originating in Persia. They live and prosper in different parts of Syria. This, however, is their home and it certainly is one of the most beautiful valleys in the entire world. I know this country like the back of my hand. I have friends here and I have hunted and slept within the bounds of their great hospitality. The Ismaelieh River is my favorite destination when I’m on the saddle of my bike. I often go there when I have no place to go to.

We went past Khorbet Al Faras, the little village with the perpetual scent of olive oil lingering beyond the season. We dropped further down in the gorge. We rolled down our windows each in turn and reached together to mute the car stereo. Nothing could be let in to intrude on the senses as we were back in supreme accord with our surroundings. We followed the serpentine road with its undulating drops and rises. Up ahead in the distance a lonely grave, the tomb of a Sheikh by the name of Youssef Al Ajami, peered at us amongst a thicket of evergreen trees. I pulled up on the shoulder; we left the car and strolled silently in the woods.

"Aren’t you thirsty?", she kindly asked. "We’re almost there", I replied. Yet another descent before we finally reached Ein Al Delbeh (the Spring of the Oriental Plane Tree: Platanus orientalis).

There was an old man filling a few plastic containers. He offered us his turn, "I’m in no hurry", he said. I stubbornly declined as he certainly was an integral part of the beautiful picture. He slowly carried the water to his ancient car, waved us goodbye and climbed the hill till they disappeared beyond a curve.

"Now I can drink, I’m dying for it". I cupped my hand underneath the streaming flow and drank my fill. Then I stood up and dampened my face and hair while Om Fares enjoyed the most refreshing drink of her life. "Years ago", I said, "I used to come here and the water spilled uncontrolled from the rocks, right underneath the exposed roots of the Delbeh Tree". They closed it down now and tapped it with a pipe. It’s easier to fill the containers this way, certainly not as natural but more practical perhaps. "Where are the empty bottles you brought", she asked. "I didn’t bring any", I answered. I just needed a drink of water. Besides, we can always come back for more.

In days gone by, on the way to the Ein, boys met girls and fell in love. On the way from the Ein, we held hands and walked slowly to the car. Then we headed home on a journey back from somewhere in time.

Blogging Syria

noreply@blogger.com (abufares) — Wed, 23 Apr 2008 18:08:00 +0000

If you’ve been a reader of this blog for more than a year then you might remember that I wrote a lengthy essay on the occasion of its first anniversary. Two years have passed since I first started blogging but I promise not to make a big deal out of it this time. Instead I will share my thoughts about the phenomenon of blogging, for it still is an infant trend in this part of the world. I will focus on Syria yet it’s safe to assume that my thoughts, according to me, apply to our Arab brothers and neighbors (brotherhood might prove a nuisance and/or a burden to some of them).

Syrian bloggers have persisted because they are reading each other. I believe this is the only reason which has kept us going in addition to “enlightened and/or open-minded” international readers/bloggers. From my own observation during my tenure the number of non-Arabic Syrian blogs has increased moderately then eventually leveled off. The founders have been writing significantly less, if at all. The newcomers are naturally more enthusiastic and prolific, while those like me, who fall somewhere in the middle, are more parsimonious and frugal in the frequency of their postings. In my case, my career has taken a bend and has become more consuming of my energy and more demanding of my time. When I don’t make an entry for over a week guilt creeps up on me. Yet I never felt that blogging is a burden. On the contrary it’s indeed an exceptional delight. Despite very encouraging and sincere words of praise from fellow bloggers my writing is giving ME the greatest amount of joy.

There are many more Syrian blogs being written in Arabic today then say a year ago. They too failed to infiltrate the cultural scene in any significant way. I truly believe that some of the best contemporary writing in Syria is being published on the couple of hundreds blogs out there. When it comes to quality, autonomy, humor, insight and candor we do not have any real competition. Syria in print, be it through droning newspapers or incongruous magazines of various types, is nothing short of pathetic. Only in television drama are Syrian writers excelling and sweeping their traditional rivals into absurdity. Even if we glance at our more “liberated” neighbors’ contributions to the written word or chance to take a closer look at their audiovisual literary and artistic production we find very little to admire. I am not being arrogant but whether we know it or not, we the bloggers are the crème of the crème of the Syrian literary scene today. We still don’t possess a popular foundation, we still do not have a wide audience, we still are relatively unknown but we are IT and we’d better start appreciating our great potential.

Our work has not gone unnoticed as some of us might think. Blogspot was not blocked because two or three bloggers went too far. Blogging was and is regarded as a movement and we are all too aware of how movements are dealt with in the Arab world in general. Any progressive trend will be immediately met by two redoubtable adversaries, the political regime(s) and the religious institution(s). “Progressive” in my last sentence shouldn’t be considered as a mere adjective. It’s irreplaceable in the context of my argument. A spiritual yet humanly void trend is welcomed by the religious establishment and tolerated by the region’s governments. A politically nonsensical and obstinate position or a cowardly reptilian and compromising attitude are not only acceptable by the correlated regimes but are also praised during Friday Khoutbas and Sunday masses. A progressive trend is one which does not appeal to either of these two absolute obsoletes. Blogging as such, even in the presence of political conformists and religious subservients is a tidal wave of unpredictable behavior. Thus and despite various degrees of severity in dealing with bloggers, this emerging group of “intellectuals” constitute a clear and present danger to the torpid Arabic status quo.

In this respect, blogs written in Arabic could eventually instigate much needed social change before their counterparts written in foreign languages as long as they don't approach the reader from a patronizing vantage point. I for one write in English because I believe that my message (for lack of a more appropriate word) should be delivered to others. Even when I dive deep in the realm of the ridiculous or skim the essence of truth promoting Syria and its people, our heritage, our culture, our quintessence is my foremost objective. Syrian bloggers are writing about their personal experiences, their cities and villages, their likes and dislikes, music, love and sex. They are expressing their political opinions and religious inclinations, molding their dreams and ambitions in prose and poetry, voicing their disappointments and brandishing their hopes and aspirations. They are paving the road toward a new form of literary expression while writing about their Syria in a most formidable way. The absence of a large audience is not a true measure of impact and significance as I’m certain that Haifa Wehbeh has more fans and advocates than Marcel Khalifeh does. This, however, doesn’t change, add or detract from the fact that Haifa will eventually look like today’s Sabah while the perpetually limited audience of Marcel would continue to enjoy his unique brand of music.

We have a powerful medium in our hands. We are talented, full of potential and most notably we are not writing to make a living. Not that there is anything wrong with being a professional writer or author but what I meant was that we are writing for the right reason and that is because we love it. We have not made our presence felt yet but we ought to. We owe it to ourselves and to others to make a dent on more than one level. Basically, as I’ve indicated earlier, our complacency is a natural result to the fact that we have no competition in the form of the printed essay. Our government has taken every measure to marginalize us. The vast majority of people and most Syrian internet users are totally oblivious to blogging. This second group, for a starter, should be our immediate target audience. We should bridge the divide between Arabic and non-Arabic blogs and websites. There is a certain trace of suspicion, of aversion, if I may say so, between practitioners of Arabic and non-Arabic writing. Every single Syrian blog I’ve read and followed, with the exclusion of a very few, has something positive within its folds. But here we are, standing on either side of the river bank, too timid to take the first step, the all important initial plunge toward integration. I will be criticizing myself when I say that even the commentators are two distinct groups as I’ve rarely left a comment on a Syrian blog written in Arabic. It is understandable that some of us are masters of only a single language; however, this is not an absolute truth. Therefore, my resolution for this third year is to start getting more involved with blogs written in Arabic. It is not enough that I read them; I should start making a habit of commenting on them as well. I wouldn’t go as far as pledging to write in Arabic one day, although I see nothing wrong with that if a person has the knack, the time and the flair to pursue this ambitious double course.

I will put this matter to rest by appealing to all inactive or dormant bloggers to return. We are up to something and we should make every effort in continuing a very promising endeavor. We, at this juncture, might fall short of making an iconic impact on society but our inner circle is in dire need of both vertical and horizontal expansions. We should write more and to more people. The topics we choose to write about is not what really matters. As long as we don’t intentionally pursue silencing or patronizing those we disagree with we are on the right course. I’m a firm believer that not all words are created equal but in the end every single word counts. To create, to promote to build a body of literature we need plenty of spirit. I see a better future for all of us in blogging and I’m making an ultimate plea to all and especially to those with abundant talents and colorful stories to get into action again. I look forward writing for a third year in a row but more importantly I’m excited to keep reading your fabulous, enriching, inspiring and intellectually stimulating blogs.

Thank you all for being a part of “my” reading conscience.

Phoenician Gods & Meksayta

noreply@blogger.com (abufares) — Fri, 11 Apr 2008 13:20:00 +0000

I woke up with the morning birds on a gorgeous Friday. Starving for fresh air, hungry for good food, famished for the outdoors, I showered in a jiffy and told Om Fares that I'm all ready.

"Ready for what you crazy fool, it's not even six yet. Let the kids be. Don't you dare wake them up. It's their day of…..f."

Too late! Like a deranged prisoner behind bars, I just had to break free.

"Let's get Msabha and Fool. Let's go to the vegetable market to buy all the green stuff on sale. Let's hit the mountains for a good old-fashioned B-B-Q lunch."

They utterly refused to join me on my Msabha & Fool quest. Om Fares reluctantly escorted me to the open market and the kids grudgingly joined us for our lunch ride at noon.

After procuring the fresh provisions we headed back home (more on the veggies later). The day started rather nicely, a plate of Msabha followed by another of Fool with onions, pickles, bread and unlimited refills of hot tea. Dazed and burping, I sat on the balcony to wear off the bucketing (تسطيل) effect. It took me a luxurious while to get on my feet again.

To Om Fares: "Come on 3youni (my eyes)". To the kids: "Yalla Habibati (my darlings). I'm driving you to a magical place".

"Have you noticed how nice he talks when he wants us to do something for him which we do not want to do in the first place?" That was kid #2 to kid #3. Kid #1 would not budge. There was no way on earth to convince her to come along.

I should've made that short joy trip to the town of Kadmous earlier this passing winter when the roofs of her quaint houses and her proud pine and Quercus trees were veiled by a light Hijab of untainted snow. Kadmous is the main center for 67 small villages and farms (pop. 30,000) spread out at an elevation of between 1000 – 1500 m. It lies 56 km northeast of Tartous in one of the most beautiful regions in Syria. It was named after the Phoenician God/King Cadmus (κάδμος in Greek). "What? Phoenician in Syria?" the eight-year old Fares asked in amazement. "Too much Star Academy", I told the wife. Then to Fares I explained:

The Phoenicians inhabited the Syrio-Lebanese coast from Ugarit to Tyre. And, just so you expand your narrow-minded horizon, you little LBC/Future brain-washed kiddo, Ugarit (a few miles north of Latakia) was the most splendid of all since Cadmus took along its Alphabet (the first ever invented by the human race) and sailed in search of his sister Europa (oh, oh, another Syrian apparently whose name was given to a whole continent no less). Legend has it that Cadmus eventually made landfall in Greece, where Zeus was holding Europa hostage. He ultimately taught them (the Greeks) the vowels and the letters. Should I say more little one. It all started from here, from this very ground we’re standing on with our own feet. That’s what we’ve given the world and that’s what you should always remember when someone asks you where you’re from.

We reached Fawanees (Lanterns) the small restaurant in the center of town recommended by a local friend in forty five minutes. We walked in the modestly yet tastefully furnished room and immediately liked it. "I am Abufares", I told the owner/waiter. "I’m a friend of Abu Hasan". "A Hundred welcome Ya Estaz (Master), any friend of Abu Hasan owns this place". We had a simple Mezza, the most scrumptious B-B-Q’d chicken and soft drinks for Om Fares and the kids. I deservedly imbibed a Batha (1/4 l.) of pure homemade Arak. "Sahha Ya Ghali (Health ye precious one)", the owner/waiter wished me. "Ala Albak Ya Habib (to your heart ye dear one)" I gulped my glass.

Getty Images

Lulled by fully satisfied bellies we quietly rode westward in the afternoon. Another brief stop by an old stone shed where the mouthwatering smell of fresh bread on the Tannour (an oven made of baked mud with an open top and fueled by dry olive wood) permeated the air. "You would not leave until you taste this Khebez b Flayfleh" (bread with hot red pepper paste) swore the old Tannour lady. God Almighty this is so delicious…indescribable.

Lucky beyond dreams I jumped back in the car with 20 breads and 2 kilos of mature Shanklish. "How could you eat more", queried Om Fares, "after the huge lunch we just had". "Relax Baby, we still have dinner ahead and I can’t wait to eat the Meksayta ( مقصيته ) we bought this morning".

As I was contemplating this post I made brief online inquiries to find out the English names of some local herbs and vegetables. For multi-lingual translation I depend on what is certainly the best international source provided by the United Nations’ Food and Agriculture Organization. Meksayta, however, eluded me. I very much doubt that Syrians who are not from the coastal region and most homebred Tartoussis know what Meksayta is. It’s a short-lived wild seasonal herb (spring), when cooked the right yet very simple way, turns to be one of the most delicious vegetarian food to exist on our green planet. An herbal expert might recognize it from the (above) photo and provide us with its proper scientific and English names. However, for now, it is Meksayta and I wish there was a way to make a giant bowl so that I invite all of you to taste it.

In our cock-crow marauding of the vegetable market, Om Fares and I bought some Chicory ( هندباء), Watercress ( قرة ) and Meksyata. Om Fares then cleaned them thoroughly with running water and drained them completely. After cutting them up in small pieces she Separately fried two chopped onions in ½ cup of virgin olive oil in a large pot until they turned into a very light gold tint. She then added the (salted) chicory, watercress and meksayta on top, mixed them well with the olive oil and onions, turned the heat down to minimum and covered them for an 1 ½ hour. That’s all it takes to cook this feast. An occasional mixing of the ingredients is not a bad idea but the most important thing is not to add any water. They will exude their own juices and the feeble fire will turn them into an unimaginable delicacy. Meksayta and her friends are served cold and eaten with pita or better yet tannour bread. I usually shower my plate with some hot olive oil, a squeeze of lemon juice then mate each bite with a nibble of green onions. What more can I say; this is simply heaven on earth.

Just as it started with a bang the day ended in a grandiose fashion. The kids, having sacrificed (as they’d put it) their day off to indulge my sense of fun, demanded ice-cream. We rode together to Citysweet where we each chose our two balls of flavors. A couple of hours later I slowly drifted into sleep, happy with the choice(s) I made. You’re all eager to know, aren’t you?!

Blackberry and Galaxy Chocolate ice-cream.