The Story of Abeer

The following is a letter I received from a girl I named Abeer. She wrote to me in Arabic and asked for my help. After her permission, we agreed that I should translate her words into English and post her letter on my blog for every single reader to have an open discussion. Whatever you might think, please feel free to join in through your comments. I might at any point butt in but I'd rather keep my peace for as long as I can.
Abeer, thank you for trusting me with your story. I wish you the best.


Dear Abufares

I hesitated before I chose how to address you “Azizi: Dear” or “Ammo: Uncle” but then decided that you are so young at heart, I'd better drop the “Ammo” least I make you upset.

You see you are about my father's age and I'm young enough to be your daughter. I'm a 21 years old girl from Damascus. I can write in English but prefer to express myself in Arabic, especially now. I have been reading your blog for almost a year. My boyfriend, and let's call him Jad, introduced me to your writing. I think I have read everything you wrote but I particularly like your posts about love, women and life in general.

The reason I'm writing this private email to you is because I'm seeking your advice. You might find it ridiculous that a total stranger asks for your help. But you wrote that you are a fool with a lantern and I so hope that the light you are shedding can show me the way.

I come from a good family. I am a very pretty girl and I'm not saying that out of vanity. My beauty, however, doesn't bear directly on my “tragedy”. I grew up with Jad, our neighbors' son. We played and studied together. There was no beginning to our love story. We were in love ever since I can remember. We kissed on the stairs and the balcony. We made promises to each other and kept them. Our lives evolved around each other. He never made me sad. He never said a harsh word to me. In turn, I never gave another boy a second look.

My father is a very wealthy man. He is highly educated and had lived a good part of his life abroad. My mother too (was) a very open minded woman and studied at the university of Damascus. We moved to the suburbs a few years ago and live in a very nice villa. Through the years my parents always knew about Jad and me. They never openly talked about him but his father was a good friend of mine. That is until my father became too important (in his own opinion) and too busy with making more money and their friendship withered with time. My mother was a normal intelligent, attractive, educated and entertaining Damascene woman until she turned into a self-righteous one who attends religious lessons and hosts them in the villa once a week. Her “friends”, I think, brainwashed her and made her such a boring and meaningless woman. Suddenly, the most important part of her life became her Hijab. Shopping and acquiring weird “Islamic” fashion became her obsession. The whole universe, suddenly, became centered around her hair. She has regular hair like everybody else but it has become such a precious asset it needed to be hidden from everyone because that is what Allah wants.

She removed her wedding pictures from the salon and living room. Her photo holding me and my brother on the beach in Lattakia was the centerpiece of the entire wall. It disappeared. Beautiful memories wiped out because her hair showed. My brother, one year younger than me also became what I like to describe as a Muslim Crusader. Life is defined around his going back and forth to the mosque for prayers. My father apparently didn't change that much, or so I thought at first.

Slowly, I became the focal point of my mother's and brother's attention. Who am I talking to over the phone? Where was I? No, I can't spend time with my friends in Damascus. Yes, I should wear the Hijab. Certainly I must pray five times a day. How did my mother change from being a compassionate woman to a ruthless robotic idiot is something I will never understand. I succumbed to their whims for about one year and wore the Hijab. I just kept thinking how stupid I was. How stupid my mom is. Didn't she grow up in a regular family? How I dress, whether I have nail polish, the perfume I wear became the nightly dinner conversation. My father was updated on my situation and he constantly frowned and expressed his disbelief at my unacceptable behavior.

Only Jad kept me sane with these crazy people. He told me to take it easy and that my parents only want the best for me. But deep inside, I knew him better than that. He is a very smart and sensitive guy. He has crossed the line of being a puppet to the ingrained traditional and religious mores of our society. His father is a wonderful man, intelligent and well read. I remember when I was a little girl how much both my parents enjoyed his enlightening company.

I am in my third year in the university (Economics) and 2 months ago over lunch, very casually my mother announced with pride and satisfaction that a certain young man, the son of a certain old man has asked for my hand in marriage. His mother, a friend of one my mother's inner circle of religious women was the matchmaker. I couldn't believe the ensuing discussion between my father, my mother and my brother about me, about my future, about the need to wear the Hijab again because it is not open to discussion with the suitor's family. My father. My own father, the one who taught me how to ride a bicycle and how to swim on his back, the one who bought me all these little dainty miniskirts from his travels, the intellectual who sat by my bed and explained the importance of education and work when I get older and the same man who held my hand and looked straight in my eyes one day and said that I should not live to need to be married has been transformed into a mere shadow. A hypocrite parrot bargaining and debating my future with my mindless mother and my fanatic brother.

I told them that when I decide to get married I will never consider anyone but Jad. Since then, my life has turned into a living hell. I'm no longer allowed out of the house. My family has taken away my liberties and my humanity and turned me into a 21 years old slave. They are going ahead with their planning and scheming and the engagement/Kitab/marriage ceremony is looming inevitably closer. Did I mention that the idiot who wants to marry me already made several remarks about what he likes and doesn't like about me, what I should keep and change in my character and personality. He came over for several visits with his family. Although I would probably spit in his face if he asks to be alone with me he has shown no interest at all in talking to me in private so far.

It's becoming harder and harder to sneak a talk with Jad who would be leaving to Canada by the end of the summer. He has asked me to go with him and there is more than one way I can do that. I already have an open visa and he is a Canadian citizen. I'm certain that I don't want to waste my life with someone I cannot even look at. I'm also convinced that I will never love anyone but Jad. At 21, I'm forced to make the decision of leaving Syria never to return.

What do you think Abufares?

Abeer

The Fellowship of the Scotch

We met in a bar in old Damascus. He introduced himself as Nabil, an expat visiting home for the first time in five years. “Would you like a cigarette with that Scotch”, he asked, sitting on the next stool. We were almost touching shoulders in the noisy and crowded joint. “Well I’ve quit, but thank you anyway. Actually, I never smoked more than one or two cigs a day and only when I drank” I replied. “My name is Abufares”, I extended my hand. He had a strong and confident grip. A very handsome sexagenarian with wavy hair brushed back like the mane of a white stallion. He had deep blue eyes, beaming with intelligence and vitality. A man equally at ease in a board meeting in a western capital or in an undersized jam-packed bar in the oldest city in the world. “Have we met before? You’re not a Shami (a Damascene), where are you from?” he stared intensely at my face. “I would’ve remembered you if we had. I’m a Tartoussi”, I said. He smiled big time: “Then let me buy you a drink and let’s meet now.” I accepted but insisted that we alternately buy rounds. He graciously agreed and… and there was something in his demeanor that told me that we’re in for a long and out of the ordinary evening.

He drank straight Chivas 18 while I stuck to my Black Label on the Rocks. Despite the loud music, the hot chicks wedging their bodies in between us to order their drinks and even an unusual grab of my butt by a nymphomaniac Métis with exotically scented firm breasts shoved up my face, we talked and maintained our compelling dialogue for hours. “Are you sure you want to listen to my blabbering instead of getting laid with that woman there?” he bemusedly asked. I raised my glass to his, “I’ve given up on that as well”, I laughed as he roared in a fit of hilarity. Then he cleared his throat, looked solemn for an instant and said: “I am here for a woman Abufares.” He seemed to be probing the depth of my eyes for an internal reaction. “Ah, cherchez la femme”, I exclaimed.

Nabil’s plane landed in Damascus airport at 7:00PM. He has reserved a room in one of the finest restored hotels in the old city which he had discovered through the Internet. He owns a large apartment at Al-Malki but didn’t want to stay there. He checked in, showered, got dressed (rather elegantly yet very casually) then walked the alleyways in search of a drinking hole. “Aren’t you tired?” I asked. He disregarded my question and brushed it aside. “I’ve slept well from Toronto to Paris. And I miss Damascus so much. And I need to drink. And I was lucky to run into you. You seem like a good listener. Do you want to hear my story Abufares?” I grinned: “You’re here for a woman Nabil. There’s nothing I’d like to hear more.”

I’ve been living in Toronto for the last twenty three years. I left Damascus in 1986 when everybody was immigrating to Canada. I had a very small shop in Salhieh selling men’s clothes with a partner. I sold my share, packed and left in a fortnight when my petition was accepted. My pregnant wife wasn’t thrilled but she and my baby girl came along anyway. I have two daughters now; Nagham is twenty five and Sahar twenty two. We didn’t own a house back then. We were renting in Barzeh. I left Damascus for a woman I lost and I return now to try to win her back.

Oh, I love Canada. It’s my home now. It’s a beautiful country, amazing scenery, wide expanses, plenty of opportunities if you know where to look. Nice people from all over the world, hardworking, fair, nonviolent in general, merging up agreeably and forming a colorful society. Nagham got married last month to a Palestinian doctor. He’s a good guy. Sahar is engaded to a young man from Damascus. I knew his father back when we were still here. I knew of him that is, a jerk from one of the fine old Damascene families. I was a nobody here you understand. May be that’s why I left. I mean my father was a high school teacher, very respectable, very honest, but you know how it was in Damascus. Well from what you’ve been telling me it’s even worse now. People tend to value your money more than your integrity.

I lived with my wife and daughters in a beautiful home in one of Toronto’s finest suburbs until we divorced three years ago. My wife and I had our separate worlds. We shared the same large space of course but we had nothing in common. She changed over there. She became more independent, which is good for her, and lost all interest in us. Well, I did too and had more affairs than I care to remember. We never really loved each other but cared and were respectful of our relationship in the beginning. She is twelve years younger than me and she eventually continued her college education. Then with all the money I (We)’ve had she was most comfortable when I was not around. She got half of everything I owned. That made her happy. It made me happier. In the beginning we were wary of what other Syrians thought of us over there. But once we’ve become rich enough we didn’t give a shit about them anymore. We moved to a different level. My wife, she has her own circle of affluent women. My younger daughter too, she’s so much like her mom. Nagham, no, she’s something else, so independent yet humble. Believe it or not, I’m like that. I’m a very simple man who happened to have worked his ass off and became very rich.

On a hot summer day in 1980 a young regular customer entered my small boutique in Salhieh with his even younger sister. Hala was twenty two. I was thirty one. She was wearing a light summer dress with short sleeves and a floral pattern with purple shades. Her brown soft hair was gathered into a bun. She was so white, almost pale. She had wide brown eyes. Eeehhh (sigh) after all these years I can still picture her as if she’s walking in right this minute. She was the most beautiful girl I've ever seen and the summer heat made her cheeks blush and her arms glisten with a thin film of perspiration. I showed her brother what he had asked for but I was absolutely mesmerized. I kept stealing glances at her and she finally caught me. Let me tell you this, I was a very handsome young man and I could sense that her blushing had nothing to do with the heat anymore. The shop was cool with the air conditioning running full blast. My store was so small it didn’t have a fitting room and her brother was in between us as I was thinking of a way to reach her. I took one of the plastic bags with the printed name of the store and with a pen drew a circle around my phone number for her eyes only. I wasn’t sure whether she saw me do that or not. She didn’t show any reaction and minutes later walked out the door with her brother. Then she glanced over her shoulder and ever so slightly I saw her smile. She didn’t call until the next evening and when she did it took us five minutes to fall in love.

For the next two years we stole our precious moments alone. We loved each other with total abandon away from her parents’ watching eyes. We knew that I didn’t have a chance being accepted by her father if I asked for her hand. She came from a very wealthy family and as far as her father was concerned the highest I could aspire for was to be a driver for them. Despite our extremely slim chances, I went to him and after waiting for over an hour was admitted to his office room. It took me less than ten minutes to get kicked out. I was humiliated and threatened. I was told that if I ever contemplated, if I ever dreamed of approaching Hala again I would simply disappear.

I was devastated. I couldn’t see or talk to her again until I learned, a couple of months later, that she had been sent to France or Switzerland. In less than a year she got married to someone worthy of her damn father. Her wedding was a legendary show of extravagance and wealth, so I’ve been told. The son of a bitch who married her was even richer than her old man. Kess Ekht Hal Balad! Can you believe that? We were ripped apart because I was not worthy.

I lived my remaining few years in Damascus and eventually got married too to someone from my class and mediocrity. I’m the youngest in the family and the only one who did not go to college. We never had anything in common, my wife and I, except class and mediocrity. Well she did go to Damascus University for a couple of years before quitting and that made her more educated than I am. Something she kept reminding me of for years, especially after she received her degree in Canada.

I followed Hala’s news from afar. After I became rich, and believe me I’m so goddamn rich now that half of the filthy moneyed in Syria would love to work for me, it became much easier to gather all the information I needed on her. She too has two daughters and lives in Al-Malki. Her husband, although very wealthy to start with had been working as a pimp for some Saudi Sheikh and became even wealthier. That should tell you something about the good old families in this time and age. Some of them don’t mind carrying the towel if you know what I mean.

I was here exactly five years ago when I ran into Hala at the Sheraton. She was attending some social affair with a bunch of siliconed and botoxed women trying to appear half their real age. She stood out like a princess among the bitchy hags. When she finally got on her way out to leave, I followed her to her car. As she was getting in behind the wheel she saw me standing there. She hasn’t seen me in over twenty five years. I have seen a few of her photos during that time. She stepped out, almost hypnotized without ever blinking. Her eyes were still wide and enchanting, her face the most beautiful in the entire world, her body compact and perfectly proportioned. She placed her hand on the top of the open door and I covered her fingers with mine. She hesitated as if she wanted to withdraw her hand but did not. We just stood there looking at each other then I told her that I still loved her the same way I loved her when she walked in my Salhieh store. I could feel her emotions rushing to the surface while she struggled with the lid. “I’ve never loved anyone but you Nabil but I can’t…” She withdrew her hand to get back in the car again but I grabbed it this time and brought it to my lips. “I’ll be back Hala, even if I had one day left in my life. I’ll be back for you.” Tears swelling in her brown eyes were the last I saw of her.

Well Abufares, Kasak, the son of a bitch, her husband died four months ago. I knew about it since and I have been patiently waiting. Tomorrow morning I will go to her and ask her to marry me. Do you understand now why I miss Damascus so much? Why I need to drink? Why I was lucky to run into you? I have never told this story to anyone until now, now that I finally hope to be with Hala again. Twenty five years of our lives were robbed from us, just like that, because a selfish man thought that I was not good enough for his daughter, because our entire culture permits such inhuman atrocity. I’ve been waiting for tomorrow for twenty five years Abufares. I will give it all up for her. I will live in this hypocrite shithole if she wants me to. We will go together to Canada if she accepts. I will move to Afghanistan just to be with her. Tell me Abufares, how do I look? I know she still love me. I’m sure that she must be thinking about me right this moment, but how do I look?

“She will find you irresistible Nabil, I know she will”, I convincingly said. He beamed at me with that overwhelming smile of his. “Bartender, get us another round”, he called. We were virtually alone with the man behind the bar. Almost everybody else had left. There was a couple making up in a corner. Our fresh drinks were brought and placed in front of us unobtrusively and in a fraction of an instant so that our drinking wasn’t interrupted at all. He seemed to be assessing me before he asked: “Tell me about you my friend. What’s your story?” “Ahhh, mine is too complicated to tell”, I managed to say before we burst out laughing like a pair of youngsters with their life, full of promise, ahead of them.

Pillow Talk

A few years back an Italian colleague was visiting Syria and we traveled together on business to Aleppo, Homs, Lattakia then eventually Damascus. We had nothing to do on our last day before he was to fly back to Venice and I offered to take him around and show him the ageless beauty of the oldest capital in the world. Francesco asked me if we could go shopping and although it was, and still is, one of my least favorite activities I was delighted to help. He was a great travel companion and I pleasantly inquired about what he had in mind. “An oriental dancer (belly dancing) costume,” he told me, his eyes steady and unblinking. I swallowed hard yet kept smiling reassuringly. How in the hell was I going to overcome my acquired modesty and actually ask someone where to buy one of the most sensual pieces of feminine attire, I pondered covertly. I called a friend of mine, a very pretty Damascene girl I once knew and posed the question. “Now that you’re in your 40’s you’re getting kinky aren’t you Abufares?” she laughed teasingly. Despite my long-time familiarity with her I still felt awfully embarrassed. “It’s not for me. I mean I’m not buying it. It’s for my friend Francesco. I mean he must be buying it for someone…”. “Relax, my old friend. You probably don’t know that it’s customary for young Damascene brides to have at least one oriental dancer outfit among the most intimate apparel of their dowry? And, Abufares… I have several myself”, she divulged in the daintiest of tones before we finally hung up.

We walked along the long covered Souk of Hamidieh, Francesco and I. My friend had assured me that they were sold everywhere. All I had to do was ask. I finally summed up the courage and entered a small boutique where nightgowns and other womanish stuff were on display. The store was attended by a twenty-something year old guy. I whispered my request self-consciously. I needed to repeat my question three times before the asshole yelled at the top of his voice in the general direction of a narrow staircase that led somewhere up: “Majed, please show this gentleman our fine collection of dancing outfits.” “It’s not for me…”, I started… but he was already busy serving two veiled clients. Francesco and I climbed upstairs. My face was red with the blood of shame; I could almost feel the tips of my ears burning. I was so desperately embarrassed. “Ahlen wa Sahlen Eyouni (welcome)”, Majed beamed at us. “What do you have in mind? Classy or trashy? A high quality masterpiece or a cheap costume? We have everything from SYP500 to 100,000 a piece ($10 to $2,000)”. “It’s not for me…”, he wouldn’t even let me continue. “So what if it is for yours, man? Alhamdu Lillah (Thank God) we’re not doing anything wrong”. Francesco ended up buying a sexy purple translucent outfit. Majed had to get him from a high shelf behind a smaller size bra since apparently Graziella’s boobs were a little on the diminutive side.



For the last three years of my life I’ve been blogging and reading blogs. My browsing preferences have continuously shifted further and further from the mainstream of the Syrian Blogsphere. There are a dozen Syrian blogs out there which I will continue to read no matter what. Their authors have become enduring friends of mine. I’ve met a few of them and I would love to meet the others. I sporadically read additional blogs depending on the topic of their recent posts as they appear on Syplanet. But unfortunately, instead of finding more interesting reading material with the proliferation of Syrian bloggers the number of what I find captivating had remained constant. The most recent trend is annoying to say the least. People who are deeply committed to a cause, just or not, tend to be boring and really get on my nerves. In that light it’s understandable why I can’t get along with sternly religious folks. They are too serious to take seriously. Granted, they are free to express themselves as they please but they can eventually become a pain in the butt with their righteous persistence.

Not only was I seeking more intellectually stimulating content than the current vexatious craze of religiosity but I also am in dire need to be entertained in this day and age. Life is difficult enough as is. Many of us work and toil to make ends meet and at the end of the day are too exhausted to actually go anywhere. And, when you live, like me, in a small city where very little ever goes on, the internet is our widest window to the rest of the world. Naturally enough, I started my hunt on Syplanet. Are there any new and interesting blogs out there which I have somehow missed or not taken notice of? Don’t Syrian bloggers write anything interesting other than politics, religion or, like me, about nothing at all? I narrowed my search and concentrated on blogs written in English and started randomly clicking on the Syndicated Blogs list. Orchard Blossoms & Moonshine! What in the hell is that? I read the About Us section and became intrigued with the brief yet fascinating depiction the writers chose to present to the rest of the world. Upon further investigation I learned about the myth(s) of Nikkal and Yarikh, two Syrian gods of old. No sooner than I started reading through the blog than I realized that it had to be read from bottom to top. Nikkal and Yarikh are, according to the grapevine, two lovers who are writing to each other and do not mind if the rest of us read their story. I blame them for one thing though, they are not writing enough. I hope they are doing well together.

One thing naturally leads to another, which brings me back to the beginning of this post, not oriental dancing per say but the realm of the erotic. Why do we work so hard on hiding our emotions, feelings, yearnings and longings? These two lovebirds, Nikkal & Yarikh, have one link on their blog roll: Pillow Talk. I clicked expecting to find another romantic or poetry oriented blog but I was in for a huge surprise. Fantasia, as she chose to call herself, is without a doubt one of the most sensual women I have ever read (and seen judging from her personal photo). I have no idea where she’s from. She doesn’t write Erotica, she breathes it in and out and makes it morph into something so wholesomely decent while concurrently being so lewdly amatorial. Obviously she started this blog only recently but she intrigues and excites me beyond reason. She just feels everlasting. She is a woman, the real woman in every woman out there if given the chance. How much more pleasant this world of ours would be if everyone could innocently enough convey Fantasia’s message. No shame, no remorse, no regret, no guilt, no fucking nonsense. We are highly evolved beings that strive on love yet in the course of our infant civilization we have managed to muddy our purity with culpability. We invented religion initially to provide solace and comfort to our restless souls but soon enough our own creation spun out of control and took command of our consciousness. For no reason whatsoever, for no fault of our own we accepted that we are guilty until proven innocent. We had to work so damn hard all of our lives to appease the God who had created us without even giving us the option of not choosing to be born at all. We had an exam to take and that is the only course our lives were meant to follow. Love/Sex became the primary target and the absolute taboo of the religious institution.

Even for me, a man who has broken free out of this vicious guilt trip a long time ago, I was still somehow trapped within the layers upon layers of shame and ignominy. I couldn’t buy an oriental dancer outfit without being senselessly embarrassed. Blogging has helped me a great deal into coming to terms with myself. I now fully accept that I am what I am and it’s the most gratifying feeling any sentient being could ever achieve. It doesn’t matter how old you are, whether you are married, whether you have children, whether you are a professional, whether you are content, whether you are lonely or not. All that matters is to feel the freedom of being alive and conscious without preconditions or limitations.

Thank you Fantasia for showing me that Erotica could be more virtuous than hypocrisy and certainly much more fun. Keep on writing please and make this world a better place to live and love for all of us.

Link to Pillow Talk

From Santa Fe to Bloudan

We had our reasons to be excited at home. Spring’s in the air. Blue skies, a gentle breeze and a mellow weather connived in making the outdoors ever more appealing. Fares’ birthday coinciding with the prophet’s (Mawlid Nabawi), Mother’s Day, the weekend and Easter joined together in a fine 5-day holiday bouquet. Our new Hyundai Santa Fe had just received her maiden carwash. She looked and smelled fantastic, eager to take us all on a thrilling journey around the picturesque Tartous countryside.

Then I got a call. I had to attend a 3-day workshop from the 19^th till the 21^st. Working well through the last couple of nights, I completed the required set of drawings and plans (45 in total) and headed to Bloudan in a minibus with a whole bunch of young colleagues. Leaving behind my disappointed family, missing my boy’s birthday for the 2^nd year in a row and not getting a chance to enjoy the ride in my brand new SUV, I could only console myself in the prospect of visiting Bloudan after all these years.

It’s been 30 years. It was my last week in Damascus before leaving to the US. On an early December morning I headed with three dear friends (2 girls and a boy) to Bloudan where we spent the whole day playing silly games on the snow covered fields. Earlier, as a little boy, I used to spend parts of my summer vacations at my granddad’s home in Madaya, at my aunt’s mansion in Zabadani and my other’s aunt beautiful home in Bloudan. I have an abundance of child memories in these magical places. I remember the ice cream van making the rounds to distant villas in the valley, the kids lining up in waiting and anticipation. In the lazy afternoons and early evenings and from a balcony perched high on main street, my young cousins and I would watch the older teenagers, boys and girls, walking to and fro, enjoying themselves and celebrating life in an amazingly multi-colored ambiance that just doesn’t exist anywhere anymore.

I was a little thwarted when I almost couldn’t find my grandpa’s. It took a huge amount of luck, calm moments of memory resurgence plus my normally acute navigational skills to finally stand in front of its main gate. What was a solitary house with a large manicured garden around it has become a prisoner among a row of faceless houses, too close for comfort and all vying for that panoramic view of the valley and the mountains beyond.

The valley was filled with trees, apple, cherry, prune, almond, apricot, peach, plum and pear.

I strolled up the winding road at 6 in the morning, looking for something familiar but not finding any. Then on the front terrace of the hotel, while everybody was still fast asleep I closed my eyes yet again to render the original image back to life. My chagrin over the heavy loss of the olive and orange trees of Tartous was mirrored in Bloudan. I imagined myself a native of this once splendid little town returning from a faraway place after a 30 year absence. How will he cope with the vanishing of thousands of rainbow trees and vibrant foliage, how will he survive the devastating cancerous spread and takeover of concrete? He will shed a tear in vain, pack again and leave like I did on my third and final day.

I climbed behind the wheel of the silver Santa Fe. Boy she smells good! This baby needs some breaking-in and taming. I’ll take her somewhere up the gentle slopes, beyond the reach of cement and steel. I’ll take Fares along. May be he too will look back in time someday and remember the bygone trees.

Sight of a Woman

The most precious of gifts bestowed on men by providence is the timeless beauty of women. We, as hapless men, can argue all we want on the virtues of inner magnificence or the splendor of the mind. We can write volumes on our esteem for the genius of women, about our respect for their intellect, about our humility in the face of their admirable spirit and more. Yet in an ultimate moment of lucidity and honesty and beyond all what has been said and written over the years, before political correctness and thereafter, I was, I still am, I will forever remain in love with beautiful looking women.

I will not attempt to muffle the voices in my head. I won’t turn my demons down. I’m talking about visual beauty, about the outer shell no matter how deceiving it might be, about the curves and contours of the female body regardless of how shallow I actually am.

For all of the above and for reasons beyond, I am enchanted, enthralled, rapt by the sight of a seductively animalistic, dazzlingly sensual, visually consuming oriental dancer. I need first to get the silly term “belly dancing” out of the way as there is no such thing. The term was invented by a French Orientalist toward the end of the 19^th century. Dance de ventre, the idiot called it and the term stuck in the West. In Arabic, and rest assured that there is no superior manifestation of Arabism than in Oriental Dancing, it is simply called Raqs Sharqi رقص شرقي . Our sweets are also called Oriental Sweets Halwiyat Sharqiaحلويات شرقية , and our manners and customs are known as Adatna Al Sharqiaعاداتنا الشرقية . The Orient in this context is us. It is who we are to ourselves without masks, veils or camouflage: Orientals نحن الشرقيون .

Despite the fact that the true origins of oriental dancing remain open to controversy and dispute, it was those Arabs flanked by the Nile and the Euphrates who perfected it in its three major components: rhythmic percussion produced by the tapping of expert fingers on the Tabla (Derbakeh) طبلة أو دربكة, undulating swaying and bending of the faultless female body هزي يا وزة and the enchanted gaze of a man worshipping the essence of divine beautyإن الله جميل يحب الجمال. The musicالموسيقى , the wine الخمرة , the company النديم and the ambiance الجو are indispensable props on the consecrated stage of oriental dance and indeed conspire to make the ritual more spectacular.

If we examine some of the engravings left behind 3000 years ago by the Pharos of the Nile on one side and the Assyrians and Sumerians of Mesopotamia on the other we can discern the similarities between these early forms of dancing and what had later evolved to become our present day oriental dancing. It is also argued that the birthing practices and rituals first performed in ancient temples fashioned the first steps and sways of the complex and coherent movements of today’s exotic dance.

In the last 10 years, oriental dancers have lost ground to a new wave of female singers, the Shlikatt شلكات of modern Arabic music. These so-called artists فنانات are basically performers who are unable to either sing or dance properly. Many are superficially beautiful as I claim to like them. However, they have crossed the thin line between enchantment and sexual arousal. A beautiful oriental dancer can hold a man hostage to the sight of her for an indefinite time, not even daring to blink. The performance is absorbing and fulfilling visually, on the mental level, like an exquisite painting of one of the great masters. It is a feast for the eyes only, created by the master craftsman of the universe and should never arouse a man sexually. It is perfectly admissible for a man, when the dance is over, to start having his erotic dreams and yearnings, but not a moment before. This line of thought is what makes a true oriental dancer an artist of the highest level while exposing many of today’s female singers as they realistically are, mediocre yet highly paid call girls.

During my unassuming research for this post, I came across a disturbing point in the effect that oriental dancing is performed by both men and women. I do not really know who is behind this stupid notion. If it’s a western conjecture then I graciously make the correction: NO. If on the other hand, it was some Oriental asshole, be it a man or a woman who pronounced that oriental dancing is unisex then we are, as a culture, in deep trouble. There is no sight on earth as repulsive, as grotesque, as ugly or as nauseating as a man or a lost soul dancing oriental. Being more intimate and feminine than shaving legs, only unbelievably stunning-looking women should be allowed to perform oriental dancing in public.

It has been over 10 years since I had my last revelation of a beautiful oriental dancer. I have spent most of last week attending a conference in Damascus. I sat at long continuous meetings from 9:00 AM to 6:00PM everyday then enjoyed the best of the Damascene nightlife in the after-hours. On the final night I went to see Rachelle who inspired me to write this post. She danced for about an hour and her performance was nothing short of breathtaking. She was wholly gifted for oriental dancing. Long and soft dark hair moving in the exact direction she wanted it to. Gorgeous wide and daring green eyes exuding intelligence and glee. Full inviting lips and a stunningly translucent smile betraying a thousand untold stories. A supple and scrumptious neck leading the eyes on an endless journey into the unknown. A perfect pair of round and delicious breasts turning a man into an infant. A wonderful belly button and a faultless flat belly with the minutest of loose semi-fold over the hips to get a good grip if need be. A caramel skin glistening under the spotlights with cascading pearly beads of sweat giving the effect that every single pore of her body is part of the dance. An ideal bursting yet compact ass befitting a gorgeous oriental woman. Exquisite thighs, knees, calves, feet and toes that made her prance as if cavorting on a thin layer of clouds like a fairy beauty queen. Thank you Rachelle for flooding me with your grace and presence, for bringing the Orient back to life in me, for reminding me that there is no creature on earth as beautiful as a woman, for fulfilling my eyes and bringing joy to my heart, for proving that an unbelievably appealing, almost naked woman can still make a man think of art rather than sex and can still be more spiritually chaste than a priestess or a saint. You must’ve heard dozens of compliments that night, mine was the shortest I like to think. Damn, you’re gorgeous Rachelle يفدح حريشك ما أحلاك!!!

Syrian Road Warrior

The droning hum of the engine untied the knotted tension in my temple. The undulating sway put me at ease. The froth, combed back from the brow of the wooden boat, sprayed my face with vigor and delight. I was in my natural habitat making way to the island of Arwad. I rather work with them for the rest of my life, the fishermen who live for their day, basking in the mercy of God in the dead of night to put bread upon a table. Nothing makes me happier than closing a deal worth a few grains of sands in dollars and cents, worth priceless gems in personal gratification and human fulfillment.

I sped along the highway northbound to Lattakia. I was dealing again. A hundred minutes of driving back and forth for a five-minute meeting. I had to shake hands, twice. I counted my fingers each time afterward. As the sun dipped in the sea, I rolled the windows down and a westerly breeze condoled my senses. I headed home for an urgent shower.

I don't get on the road just for the sake of making a living. In fact I brushed work away, jumped in my car and headed to Kadmous (elev. 1000 m & 60 km to the northeast of Tartous). I had to drive a little fast to make it on time for the funeral. The cheerful vibrant girl everybody liked in the office lost her father. As the progression to the lonely graveyard slowly moved forward I felt overwhelmed by the beauty of the country and the people. Rest in peace old man, I hope heaven is as beautiful as the village where you lived and died.

I left my car in an underground garage as soon as I reached Damascus early in the morning. I hip hopped in small yellow cabs all over the city from one meeting to the other chomping through the day. I won some and lost a few but in the back of my mind I was anticipating the fall of night. I was to meet two young lovebirds and a fascinating woman. I checked in, crashed in bed with the setting sun, dozed for an hour, soaked in hot water, dressed up and stepped out in the tantalizingly warm evening.

A brief and exhilarating encounter in a quiet restaurant made me swell with delight of my Syria, crimson rose in a thicket of thorns, convivial lighthouse among minarets and spires, cradle of civilization. I became more aware of the smells of the good earth, of the sweat of the Fellaheen in far-away fields, of enchanting Zalghoutas from a village wedding, of fishing nets pregnant with fresh bounties from the emerald sea, of leaning back for support on centuries of glorious Damascene civility, of leaping forward and reaching for the distant stars and beyond, of my birthright to soar above it all with pride and dignity. No force, past, present or yet to be can take that away from me, nor can it keep me down in the nether land where lowly chameleons crawl.

I rest assured that I am here to stay long after I am gone. I once taught the whole world how to read and now I glibly write, using the same words I've invented millennia ago, how simple it is to love a mountain or a vineyard like a father or a child. I roam Syria for work and play. I sleep well as I am fully aware that neither magnificent foreign foe nor domestic scum of the earth can take anything away from me, from millions like me. With eloquent pens in hands and mighty swords in sheaths, we are the invincible warriors.

Doubles Lives - Work & Play in Damascus

It was a tiring day in Damascus. After attending eight consecutive meetings, my Italian associate and I were bushed. At 9:00 PM, our last client was still arguing over pennies and cents. It was hard enough to keep my eyes open let alone argue with him. I just wanted out of there, a hot shower, a light dinner, a nightcap perhaps before calling it a day. In addition to the poor Italian and me, several other smartly dressed people were sitting around the huge meeting table, all subordinates to the bossy client. He was lecturing now. Surely he enjoys an audience and he was running on full steam. He was bathing in the adoring looks of his fans. He had fat and short fingers. I couldn’t take my eyes off his ugly hairy hands. I felt sorry for the beads of the expensive rosary coming in direct contact with his huge nails. There were so many reasons why I should hate the man and I was reciting them in my head. I don’t normally hate the filthy rich for no reason. I just loathe them when they go cheap to stay rich.

The man was a big shot and the head of his own business empire. For some reason, he calls himself the chairman of the board. His older son (the idiotic looking one) was introduced to us, the innocent Italian and me, as the chief executive officer, while the second son (the disgusting one with the greased coal-black hair) the general manager in charge of foreign accounts. What kind of a stupid job description is that, I was rubbing my eyes now, why doesn’t he just say: “he is my fucking son and that’s why he’s sitting here with us.” The victimized Italian was desperate. I knew what was going on in his mind, no salary in the world would be enough of a compensation for spending 2 hours with this moron. He was probably dreaming of spaghetti and Bocelli, of the green Italian vineyards and the lithe girls coming to and fro in the streets of Padova at exactly this hour on a Saturday night. He’ll let us sleep it over, the exact amount of money he offered for our services and which he, in his infinite wisdom and business sense, deemed appropriate. Then he stood up and the meeting adjourned. Take them to dinner, he told his son, the one with the greased coal-black hair. I tried to extricate my miserable Italian companion and myself but to no avail. The chairman of the board had said: Let there be dinner, and there was no way around that. Has anyone ever said no to this asshole, I wondered.

We were driven by the two sons, the helpless Italian and me, in two separate cars along with a couple of the ass-kissers from the meeting to a fancy restaurant in uptown Damascus. Dinner was presided over by the older idiotic looking son. It was his turn to act like a peacock now. He ordered the food for everybody without even having the courtesy of asking us what we would like. Like father like son, he knows best. We were allowed to order our soft fucking drinks since HE doesn’t drink alcohol. The disheveled Italian and I have accepted what must’ve been fate. We have done something terribly wrong that day, last year, before we were even born or conceived, and we were paying for it. I left to the restroom to, well, take a leak really. The greased coal-black haired one followed me and stood against the wall. While relieving my bladder he popped up the question. Would you like some Vodka with your Cola? You know we can’t let the Haj know (the Haj being his brother, the chief executive officer). I smiled at him while zipping up. He looked so beautiful in that instant in time and I wasn’t hating him anymore. Not some Vodka please, a lot of Vodka, I pleaded. Relax, he said, let’s finish dinner with the Haj then I’ll take you around Damascus, just the three of us. The Italian, the beautiful man and I had 3 colas each. After the first sip, the Padovano glanced my way and wanted to say something. He stopped short as I harshly stepped on one of his expensive Italian shoes and benevolently smiled. It seems that the evening was turning our way after all. We might still end up winners.



An hour later we were descending some stairs in one of the better neighborhoods of Damascus. I had no idea what to expect but the beautiful man assured me that we’re going to like it. Now in all honesty, I can’t claim that I ever was a regular of nightclubs. I always preferred small bars where people go in to drink and talk. On the occasions I’ve been to places where there’s dancing, I was taken there by somebody. This was a huge surprise to me. I’ve heard that there’s nightlife in Damascus but I never knew to what extent. Let me say this, I never knew that there are such places in Syria. The atmosphere was fabulous. Crazy young men and women were dancing wild. They were kissing and touching in dark corners. Do they do that in Damascus? Alberto, or whatever his name, asked me. Sure, I said, boys and girls are like that everywhere. Shit, I couldn’t believe it myself. The beautiful man was in his early forties but that didn’t stop the half-dressed girls from dropping by our table to give him kisses and tell him how much they’ve missed him. The music was loud, the Scotch smooth and Alessandro, or whatever his name, euphoric. He was on the dance floor as his Italian pedigree proved irresistible to the women with too much blood in their alcohol, I mean, you know what I mean.

The beautiful man asked me if I was going to give in to his father’s demands and I told him that I didn’t think so. He told me that he didn’t think so either and that we should drink to that. We did and he taught me a few business lessons at three o’clock in the morning, the Damascene way.

Asking for a Hand

I returned late at night from Damascus after attending a Tleebeh, an “Asking for a Hand” ceremony. My father and I drove the tiring round trip in about five hours. The entire process of the intricate ceremony was over in sixty minutes, more or less. Does this ritual fulfill any necessary role or is it an outdated pretentious leftover of social behavior. I am going to elaborate on my opinion about this episode, marriage and so much more.

First, however, I have to admit that although my principles haven’t wavered over the years, my tolerance, my acceptance, my embracement, my perspective on certain moral codes have softened a bit. I might not agree with some people on many points. However, our difference of opinions is not a matter I take seriously. I am, generally speaking, a tolerant person. There are just two exceptions to the above “generalization”. I cannot stand a fellow countryman who disgraces himself by maliciously attempting to shame the people or ignominy the land that is our living conscience. No matter who he or she is, I wouldn’t hesitate to tell them to go screw themselves. I also avoid arguments with, not religious people, but rather with narrow-minded religious people, and, there’s a big difference. They unfortunately see the world in black and white. Not only do they miss all the beautiful natural colors, they even fail to notice the shades of gray. Therefore, I see no point in arguing with them at all. You might be wondering at this point why I’m quartering but not attacking my subject. I just needed to clarify where I stand. My sense of morality is the offspring of my conscience. If I agree with the established social mores and religion on some definite points it’s because they both make sense. Sometimes! Well, here we go.

“Tleebeh”, the traditional way for a suitor, along with a group of men from his extended family to visit the home of a girl and ask for her hand in marriage, is one of the most meaningful social forms of behavior we still have here in the Levant. I need to quickly add that this original tradition is devoid of religion, although it is culminated for Muslims in the reading of the “Fatha”. It is practiced in most traditional societies around the Mediterranean, Latin America, Africa and Asia by various faiths.

When two young people fall in love, cross the preliminaries and seriously consider marriage, it often is the time for the “Tleebeh” visit. In most cases, both immediate families are well aware of the relationship between their son and daughter and they have already met socially on several occasions. Now is the time to inform the rest of the clan.

My paternal uncle called me in midweek and told me that his son, my cousin, is getting engaged. We should meet at his house in Damascus at 7:00PM. We left Tartous and made it on time for a cup of coffee and a brief introduction on the “family” we are to visit. There we were, all 12 of us formally dressed men, knocking the door of the would-be bride. We were greeted by 10 of her men, including her grandfather, in the large and elegant salon. We briefly exchanged pleasantries then got to the serious matter at hand. The most important aspect of this entire procedure, and I strongly believe the most detrimental for a successful marriage, is the feeling of equality among this large group of men. This status of egalitarianism is a manifestation of compatibility in moral, social, cultural and familial backgrounds. The two proud fathers introduced the rest of the men meticulously and with a clever hint of reserved pride. There was no competition, just a simple assertion: “We are who we are in Tartous, you are who you are in Damascus” and the reverse of the equation. Those of us who were apprehensive became convinced now. The young couple had made the right choice. In their honor, let’s read the Fatha.
We went in total strangers; we came out godfathers of a new family.

I have learned that love alone is not enough for a successful marriage. Of course marriage without love is a lot in hell. I am talking about the whole package, the kids, the brothers and sisters, the grandparents, the cousins, the uncles and the aunts. Harmony is very essential if we were to take full advantage of what our culture has to offer. We might not see members of the family for years, and we might be lucky that we don't. In fact this is exactly the case as we tend to barely meet in weddings and funerals as a result of the changes that have swept our way of life. But when we finally meet the sense of belonging is overwhelming.

As I sat, quietly most of the time, in that salon, I couldn’t resist the flickering of a thought struggling for my attention. My children will grow up one day and the time shall come. A group of men will pay me a visit or I have to make that call myself. I would very much like to be in the company of my men. I would very much like my father to lead my pack.

On Faith & Religion - A Visit to Seidnaya

I’m a faithful Muslim but not a religious one. Spirituality is a very personal privilege under the premise of “take it or leave it”. I don’t judge those who take it or those who choose to refuse it. I only feel itchy and irritated with the extremes. I am awfully annoyed by those who are so pious that they believe that they alone have the keys to the gates of heaven while the rest of humanity will burn in hell. Their opponents who mock religion(s) are also, in my mind, dangerous anarchists. It’s simply my stand that if someone is deeply religious he or she should keep it to themselves and not nag about it. Nagging, in my book, include trying to enlighten, convert, fault, criticize, threaten and terrorize others. It’s also my view that those on the other seat of the seesaw should not spurn, ridicule, disdain, insult, patronize and demean the first crowd.
However, I am a strong believer that all religions, as organized institutions, should stay out of politics and public affairs, clear and simple.

That being said and over with, there have been moments in my life when I’ve felt overwhelmed and snuggled by faith. These moments are not frequent to say the least. I have to be alone or oblivious to those around me. Then, a certain word, uttered; a certain vision, seen; a smell, a tune, a breeze; a loyal dog eying me, a baby giggling, a child laughing, an old man crying, a young man dying; if the vibes are serene, I might find myself floating in a womb of faith.

I reached the Convent of Seidnaya after a climb on a magnificent desert road dotted with vineyards and guarded by imposing outcrops in the surrounding hills and mountains. The convent is perched high on a rock at an elevation of 1415 m above sea level. I was so lucky there were very few people about. When I parked my car at the foot of the stairs, it was the only one. When my pilgrimage ended there were two more. I had the marvelous chance of spending 45 minutes, almost alone, in the splendor and grace of Saint Mary. After entering through the humbling main entrance, I followed a series of mazes to reach the chapel. It was much smaller than I expected.

Inside, a solitary nun was attending the candles. I took to a corner in the small space and was overwhelmed by a feeling of security and peace. I lit up a candle and prayed in silence.The nun asked me where I am from and I told her that I came from Tartous. A woman and her child crawled in. She too lit a candle and sat facing the wall adorned by icons and pictures of the Virgin Mary. She started crying at first and then went into a sobbing fit. I was transfixed and paralyzed with the moment that stretched to the gates of eternity.I came out of my reverie and modestly walked the narrow passageways of the convent. I heard low voice and murmurs echoing on the blessed walls. I glimpsed shadows floating on the charming verandas overhead.
When I walked back to my car, I was still a faithful Muslim but not a religious one, honored to have been in the presence of the Virgin Mary, the mother of Christ.
Why do both adversaries I’ve mentioned in the beginning refuse to believe that it ought to be this simple? It’s a shame.

Fishing in Damascus

Sometimes, we, the sons of the provinces (Abna2 Al-Mouhafazat) as we are known in Damascus , have to go there on business or pleasure. Although I'm 1/2 Damascene (I don't advertise that in Tartous), I have to admit that I don't feel comfortable there. I can understand how the city can grow on you if you give it a chance, but it's a chance I'm unable to give to Damascus or to any other Syrian city for that matter. OK, I love Tartous because I was born there. It's where I have a childhood and a past full of sights, sounds and smells. I have some very fond memories of Damascus during a 4 month transitional period in my life before I moved abroad for many years. But the city never really accepted me, nor did I. The true reason might lie in the fact that I hate large cities in general. Even Tartous is getting too big for my taste.
The temperatures were soaring high, the air thirsty and the winds gusting with smells of dry mud and desert sands. I finished working too late to drive back to Tartous. I felt like a fish out of water, gasping to breathe.
I was "taken" to Gusto, a high end cafe where boys and girls half my age go to see and be seen (more emphasis on the second). It's the sort of place where, I'm sure the same people reserve tables night after night and watch themselves and each other. The girls are dressed or undressed very seductively. The boys are well groomed with gel on their thick black hair. The girls smell sweet and the boys work very hard to radiate that "fuck it" look. Don't think I'm coming down too hard on the youth of Damascus, we have the same sorts in Tartous with minor and subtle differences.
I have to give it to the Damascene girls though, they are beautiful. Those on display were a little bit on the "Haifa Wehbe" side for my taste, but beautiful nonetheless. Having fishermen DNA in my genes, I inevitably compare women to fish. If the gorgeous Tartoussi girl were a Sea Bass (Le2ouss Ramli), that is the most delicious fish on the planet, the Damascene is more like caviar. You can drink whatever with sea bass but are restricted to Scotch or Champaign with caviar. Both are great to have; one on a regular basis, the other on special occasions. Caviar like Cuban cigars and a red Ferrari need a "refined" taste and high maintenance.
Sorry, my intention is not chauvinist in the least, I really mean the above as a compliment to both, sea bass and caviar. As a matter of fact, I'm crazy for seafood.