Media

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Al-Mina Street

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Echos from Ugarit

"This song is for you"

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

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

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

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

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

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




Download Echoes From Ugarit

References:

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

Atargatis

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

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

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

Phoenician sailors brought her to Sicily. From there her  followers spread northward reaching Rome, where she was known as Dea Syria, the Syrian Goddess. She was admitted into the Roman pantheon side by side with Jupiter (Syrian Haddad :-) and worshiped as reverently. Her faith continued to grow and spread throughout the Roman Empire and the Gaul (Western Europe) and toward the end of this era she reached the status of the Great Mother Goddess of the Empire.
 
Atargatis is a Semitic word. She was called Athtart by the Phoenicians and perhaps that explains why she is often confused with Astarte. Strong evidence suggests that they were two different deities as their cults were very distinct from one another initially. Several other goddesses, Syrian, Greek and Roman were later identified with Atargatis, perhaps all better known than her: Ishtar, Venus Urania, Hera, Rhea, Cybele, Aphrodite and Artemis Azzanathcona. Even most Syrians today are more familiar with Atargatis' daughter Semiramis, the famous Assyrian queen who built the hanging gardens.

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

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

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

On Minarets and Spires

That I agree or disagree with the Swiss' vote to stop the building of minarets in their country is beyond the point of this article. My opinion, pure and simple, is that it is their business and their business alone. Had I been living in a democratic country where referenda of such nature are held I would probably vote against the construction of many architecturally and functionally out of place structures, including but not limited to bars and brothels near houses of worship, for instance, and vice versa. I see no point in crying foul play when the logic behind the reasoning of those who disagree relies on another form of intolerance. When a fellow Muslim openly condemns Saudi Arabia for banning the construction of churches on her scourged piece of desert he or she might possess the minimum legitimacy to discuss and criticize the Swiss vote. Until then, however, they should keep looking the other way as they have been doing all along.

It is indeed ironic that an increasing number of Syrians consider the emergence of the new religious and conservative propensity in our society as a resurrection of old and cherished values while we deny the Swiss their right to be xenophobic. Monotheist religions in Syria are certainly part of her recent history but do not constitute founding elements of her ancient civilizations or her varied cultures. How can we, Syrians, trace our heritage, values and history to 1,400 years past and arbitrarily stop. Archeological evidence suggests that Damascus, the oldest continuously inhabited city in the world, predates Judaism by some 7,000 years, Christianity by 9,000 years and Islam by roughly 9,600 years. How can we selectively choose to obliterate 87% of our known past and reduce our identity to one usurping trend within a singular faith? The first fermented beverages were discovered in this land, the earliest beer and the primeval wines. We hatched passionate gods, literary epics and love stories while most of humanity was barely afloat in a sea of ignorance. We invented the Alphabet. The 4,250 years old literature of Ebla predates Genesis and subsequent accounts of creation by long centuries. Unlike early claims by “Christian” scientists that the cuneiform tablets found there uphold the authenticity of biblical history, the people of Ebla “authored” almost all of the stories thought to be of divine origin. In one of the rarest occasions of modern times the authorities of Judaism, Christianity and Islam agreed on one common goal, that of stifling the findings of Ebla. They collectively marginalized the significance then obstructed making it common knowledge that the Story of Adam and Eve as it exactly reappeared more than 1,500 years later, was written by an Eblaite playwright, no more no less.

That the Swiss singled out minarets and did not include church spires in their ban is an indication of their deep rooted  intolerance perhaps. That some oppose secularism in Syria, earthly cradle of civilizations, is a manifestation of their shallow bigotry.

The Cave

Toward the end of October 1096, the Count of Toulouse, Raymond de Saint Gilles (1041– 1105) left his native land never to return. Driven by religious zealotry and material aspirations, Saint Gilles, by far the oldest and richest Crusader, dreamed of dying in the Holy Land. On his way to fulfilling his failed destiny in 1101, he took control of Tortosa, a little burg by the sea. Known today as Tartous, Tortosa offered safe harbor as an entrepôt for military provisions and was ideally close to Cyprus and Antioch. Before the old Count died he managed to transform it into a magnificent military bastion which eventually became one of the most interesting old Mediterranean cities for researchers and historians.



Nine hundred years later, the remains of the Crusader era still form the core of the historic center of Tartous. They have survived centuries of earthquakes, hostilities, neglect and negligence. The splendid cathedral of Our Lady of Tortosa (1123) endured the ravages and the elements of time almost intact. A banqueting hall, originally known as La Salle Des Chevaliers, has lost most of its arched ceiling and houses within its walls scrounging and contiguous abodes. A nearly roofless chapel with a stone lock carrying the sign of the Rose, a testimony to the Knights Templar who dwelled and worshiped within the high walls of Tortosa, has all but succumbed to vandalism and defacement. And to the West, facing and defying the incalculable number of waves thumping incessantly against their sloped outer walls, lay the dungeons, where offending natives were imprisoned, tortured and eventually executed.



The Old City is located at the very beginning of the Corniche, a 2.5 km wide boulevard by the sea ending at the Ghamka River to the south. Most of Tartous’ restaurants and cafes are sprawled along the way and they vary from the mediocre to the admissible. Yet there is one so unique that it transcends all other restaurants in Syria and is possibly among the most distinctive anywhere in the world. It’s called The Cave and it occupies the northernmost dungeon.



The Cave is an unobtrusively restored 900 year old dungeon turned restaurant by none other than my best friend. He did not start the business. In fact, The Cave is one of the oldest restaurants/bars in town but last year he took over and embarked on his ambitious restoration dream. No expenses were spared and the painstaking work was brought down to a halt time and again by City officials and the pen pushers of the Antiquity Department. The Antiquity Law in Syria is even more archaic than the ruins it protects. In the wrong hands of bureaucrats any legislation can bring an entire country to a standstill. My friend persisted stubbornly and was finally awarded with the realization of his vision: a high-end joint in Tartous serving the best sea food and a la carte entrées this side of the Mediterranean. The ambiance is inimitable, the attention to details impeccable, the food delectable, the drinks ambrosial.



Next time in town and looking for a delightful gastronomical experience give The Cave a try. You can of course tell them Abufares sent you. Knowing my friend, don’t expect any discount but you will sure be treated like a Count.

un-Enchanted

She untucked the tail of my shirt, sneaked two delicate fingers down the small of my back, rubbed circuitously then whispered gently: ”Is that where it hurts?”
“I’m aching here and all over”, I winced, the sharp pain stabbing down my leg.
She wrapped her arm around me. I leaned on her and we resumed our unhurried amble on the waterfront.
Chasing her silhouette in my eyes, she despairingly called me “un-Enchanted” then held her breath and plunged deep within. We kissed till eternity, or so it seemed.

I’ve been lifeless since Israel had commenced its savage and indiscriminate decimation of Palestinians in Gaza, Palestine. How careless we are with words. It’s as if this furious warfare against humanity had been between a lawful state and a renegade “strip”. It’s not! It never was anything but a war for survival between an illegal entity and the native inhabitants of a country that is Palestine. In the short run Israel might have massacred a thousand or more Palestinians and physically and emotionally maimed an untold number of others. But even the most optimist of Israelis should be rational enough to consider that there will be consequences. Nothing goes unpaid or unaccounted for in the long run or larger scheme of events. Tears will be further shed, blood spilled, lives lost. Should I be offended and appalled when the next bomb explodes in a busy restaurant or on a crowded bus in downtown Tel Aviv killing half a dozen “innocent” Israelis? Should I join the chorus of distressed western politicians around the planet or bond with the representatives in the United Nations Security Council in condemning this barbaric act of terrorism? Don’t I have the option of counting the dead and wounded on the Israeli side and keep my peace till the balance of terror and bedlam evens out? Counting Palestinian casualities is what the rest of the “official” world did, including all of the Arab governments. Don’t expect me to be more civil and humane than them. Don’t you dare expect the Palestinians to turn the other cheek.
Un-enchanted I am.

On their way to Jerusalem in 1098 the Crusaders attacked Maa’ret Al-No’man* (معرة النعمان ) in Syria and wreaked havoc for three consecutive days and nights. When the carnage was over the few thousands dwellers were all killed. The Crusaders, blond, strong, pious, devout and secure in the knowledge that they are acting in the name of God “boiled the adult dead Muslim inhabitants in pairs in large pots and ran wooden spits through the bodies of dead children to roast them then devoured them.” In the name of Jesus they reverted to cannibalism since it was the holy thing to kill a Muslim then to eat him afterward. More munificent Western historians had another explanation, hunger. “Members of our group did not hesitate to eat the dead Turks and Arabs, they even ate the dogs.” How romantic the Crusaders were and still are in the minds of the masses of Europe and America. Shall I tell you about the reaction of the rulers of the neighboring cities? Don’t you want to learn about the ancestors of our present day Arab leaders? They sent their ambassadors laden with gifts to greet the Crusaders. The forebears of our monarchs and heads of state offered these European savages gold and silver, Arabian horses and beautiful maidens. Not only did they act so graciously with those cannibals but they betrayed each other and sacrificed their subjects to appease the beasts. How can Palestinians, descendants of sacrificed subjects, expect them, descendants of cannibals and traitors to come up to their rescue?
Un-enchanted I am.

And the 1960’s came then passed away. I have lived in the land of plenty. I have played by the sea not far from a house with blue shutters and expansive verandas overlooking an endless horizon. I have run wild with the wind and danced in the rain in rubber boots and a yellow parka. There were no poor amongst us and no rich. I had shot marbles large and small until my knuckles chipped and cracked. My knees muddied, my fingernails soiled and my heart bursting with joy I would come home with the setting sun behind a black veil of raining clouds. While the lightening ripped the chest of the sky apart and the thunder shook the earth beneath my feet my mother would hold me tight to her bosom then usher me to bathe. Oblivious to what was going on all around me, I would sit on a stubby wooden stool, the steaming hot water resting in a large tin pot eager to cascade over my dirty little body. With loofa in hand I would scrub and scrub what I can reach of my back and the whole of my chest. From an engraved copper-coated tin tassa I would pour the water over my soaped shoulders and watch it run down my genitals to the marble floor. I had no poor friends. I had no rich friends. I had friends and they are all gone. Their shoulders hunched from years of despair. Their hair thinned by the calamities of an unforgiving world. Of waves of marauders who took the smiles away. Of a compulsory equality that made us all unequal at home. Of Gaza in Palestine. Of Jerusalem, of Haifa, of Yafa and Akka.
Un-enchanted I am.

A whole generation grew up in the 70’s and 80’s in my land of plenty without bananas. The yellow fruit became a status symbol in the time of the colonels and generals who ruled the motherland. We would smuggle shortening and white bread, toilet paper and toothpaste. Everything was considered a superfluous luxury for the repressed masses. We could not breathe, we could not eat, we could not laugh or let go of our inner souls. We were in a state of war with an unpitying enemy who took our land and pride. We had to sacrifice and keep our mouths shut. We surrendered our dignity, our past, present and future to the officers who would fight for us. They possessed an insatiable appetite to rise above their humble beginnings by tramping the middle classes with army boots then to drown in self indulgence. They wore suits whose designers’ names they can’t even pronounce. They puffed at cigars which they would never learn how to smoke. They rampaged the cities and the countryside and built villas and palaces to fend the enemy away. We grew older while they ruled and we waited exasperatingly till they pass away. And they did.
Un-enchanted I am.

A decade followed and time stood still for us. No one talked, no one cared to talk. We drank tea and Matteh and watched the world go by. We said NO to everything and everyone, including those who said NO. Breadwinners chiseled their day to day existence with resilience and ingenuity. Fax machines were forbidden, cordless phones were suspect of being used for grand treason, TV remote controls, FM radios, pocket calculators. We had to think collectively and praise our failings. We were asked to sacrifice more, and yet some more. We could never liberate Palestine if we didn’t put our petty personal needs and ambitions aside. We had to eat shit and appreciate its bouquet and flavor. We had to sit down and watch while the Bedouins of the desert came to term with concrete and glass. They took flight and soared beyond the sands and touched the heavens with satellite TV. We, the sons and daughters of Hannibal, of Dagon, Ishtar and Zanoubia had to sit back while their petro-money dictated our mornings, our evenings and our afternoons. Men with brains in their testicles spoke on our behalf. Women, with eyes barely visible from behind thick veils of ignorance and oppression, elucidated on the egalitarianism of Islam in our stead. They left it to us, the fight against the Israeli oppressors while their white-robed men bedded Slavic prostitutes and their women in black screwed Pakistani and Indian chauffeurs. The dream of Palestine was laid as a burden on the shoulders of those countries on the forefront. We held it with a steady hand, folded it neatly then wiped our filthy ass with it.
Un-enchanted I am.

The Junta became a thing of the past. Just at the turn of the century, a starred officer was worth a mobile handset, no more. The businessmen arrived. A new ruthless, vampiric, parasitic and bloodsucking breed of men with no past took over. The enslaved millions were let loose or so they were told. It’s an economically free land where people can pursue happiness and riches. The intellectual elite which stood the abuse of ideology and time was sidelined. A nobody was all of a sudden somebody. Doctors, engineers, scientists, men and women of the pen packed their suitcases and flocked east and west. Those who can read and write but chose to stay behind became strangers in their own land. They were silenced by virtue of the nonsensical noise all around them. Haifa started singing and swaying her ass. Young tattooed men with metal earrings attended the concerts. Women with full makeup and colored Hijab bent their voluptuous bodies with the senseless lyrics. They wanted their Wawa kissed without showing off their hair. A mélange of Levantine narcissistic vanity tinted with Khaliji adulterated religiosity and North African despicable promiscuousness took hold of an emerging generation. They were teetotalers who lustily sucked on their narghiles. They substituted their crave for sex, the urges of their over-testosteroned loins, the hunger of their progesterone-ridden vulvas with the sucking and blowing of smoke. At least 1,033 Palestinians were killed and 4,850 injured in the span of a month when George W Shoe was the lame duck he should’ve been all of his life and while Barack Obama was busy memorizing his inauguration speech. Then it stopped and the Arabs met. A son of a bitch donated a billion dollars. Another waved his hand and reminded the descendants of sacrificed subjects that the blood of their brothers and sisters shall not go in vain. A faggot nodded, a psycho agreed then they all kissed as if nothing had happened.
Un-enchanted I am.

l'Histoire des Croisades, Michou (1817-1822, pp. 357-7)
Les Croisades Vues Par Les Arabes, Amin Maalouf (1997, p. 63)

Of Guilty, Disenchanted and Dazzling Women and Cities

Some of us take pride in having photographic memory and never forgetting a face or a name. I’m not like that you know. Casual encounters do not deeply register or leave a trace on my psyche. It has been extremely embarrassing at times when someone would remind me that we’ve met some years ago and goes on describing the exact setting of the “alleged” meeting. Judging from my bewilderment or insouciance, as he might deem, he may reach the conclusion that I’m either a fool or a condescending bastard. Unfortunately, it’s getting worse with the passage of time, especially my short-term memory. I either remember a particular occurrence with vivid and colorful details or barely have any recollection that it ever took place in my life.

Women and cities are normally exempted from this involuntary eclipse of the mind. Nature has endowed me with extra-large brain cells to store the sight, the smell, the sound, the taste and the feel of women and cities. I am a very lucky man as I don’t really have bad memories of women. Perhaps a few things went wrong over the years, but nothing that might cause embarrassment or remorse on my side or theirs. I need to add that I haven’t truly been close to that many anyway so I’d better remember each and everyone fondly and with the utmost of affection. I have some ghastly experiences in a few cities but they were, in general, independent of the place. They could’ve happened anywhere and to anyone. So it goes again that I have no real regrets about the cities I’ve been to. Sure, there are some I didn’t like but it serves no particular purpose to reminisce about what we're not fond of. Until now that is, which brings us to the beginning of our story.

It has been a fascinating week. I was slowly getting myself in travel mode as I was scheduled to leave to Amsterdam for a two-day conference. But on one dark night, as I was having dinner with a bunch of friends up in the mountains near Tartous I received a call that not only I would have to go to Rome first but that I would have to fly out of Beirut. Not two days later as previously planned but on the next day!

I arrived in Beirut late in the evening after a 2-hour drive from Tartous. By most accounts, Beirut is a gem, a unique cosmopolitan city of unmatched beauty and inspiration. To tell you the truth though, I never thought so much of her. I can’t fit in in Beirut where I have the nagging feeling that I’m in a heartless place. She’s a city who pretends to tolerate me but doesn’t like who I truly am. Beirut is an unloving city with a perpetual identity crisis even to her own inhabitants who have different mental maps of her based on sectarian coordinates. At one time during its celebrated modern history it provided an intellectual and political haven to all but only because other Arab cities were run by obsessive-compulsive and tyrannical regimes. This early fling with a pseudo-democracy, at a time when all her sisters were unabashedly struggling under the heavy load of despotism, made her derisive and pompous. What a shame, had she only learned a lesson or two in humility, things would have been different. Beirut today is a narcissistic and neurotic city, shifting loyalties, fostering hate and suspicion among dwellers on opposite sides of the same street. Like a once beautiful woman marred by a long scar running down her face, Beirut needs to come to terms with her own reality. She has to learn how to forgive and forget before she finds herself again. She has to accept that a great part of past faults, mistakes and blunders were hers and hers alone, all along. I opened the door of the Captain’s Cabin, an old restaurant, turned pub, on a side street of Al-Hamra and walked in. Had I been blind-folded I would’ve had no idea of where I was. I ordered a cold Almaza beer and sat at a corner alone. The beer was refreshing and cold. The atmosphere was stale and heavy. There were two women sitting nearby who could not make up their minds on what language to stick to to carry out their loud conversation. English, French then English again. They would get out of synch and inadvertently slip into Arabic before they would catch themselves and amend. A tall westerner of undetermined origin and age was standing in the middle of the small room, laughing hoarsely and begging for more attention. He was surrounded by two or three doting local chicks of mediocre beauty. A graying man sat at the bar, sipping his whiskey in silent thoughts. A girl, raring to go, gave me a look from across the room. "Nah", she must’ve thought, too old for her or not particularly her type. She shifted focus in search of a more interesting companion amongst the faces in the crowd. A mix of rock music, good and bad, reverberated in the corners. Only the man with the white hair looked real. Because he was real he had to forget what was going on around him. He was a disenchanted Beirutian, so I liked to think, overwhelmed by the unmerciful abuse his city has suffered on the hand of time. At 4:20 in the morning I left Beirut with no regrets but with a bottle of Jack Daniel’s from the duty free at the airport, a solitary testament of my brief call. The Alitalia plane took off and headed west toward Rome, the center of the known universe for a significant part of our recorded human history. I was harsh on Beirut you would think and assume that I will flip completely once I start writing about Rome. Not so I am afraid. I am not done badmouthing cities of inveterate reputations yet. Let me go on.

One of the most un-Italian traits of the dolce vita, in addition to the obstinately obsolete style of football, is the Italian national airline. Alitalia is without the slightest shadow of a doubt one of the worst in the business. I flew on four miserable flights during this trip of mine and was served with the same horrendous cold turkey sandwich. The airplanes were noisy, the service inferior and the Fiumicino airport in Rome a nightmare. I am one who enjoys his idle layovers in airports but Rome’s international doesn’t give the traveler any chance or possibility of having a good time. I jumped in a waiting cab and gave my hotel address to the driver who sped up toward the ancient capital of the world. It was 7:30 in the morning. I had one affair to attend to in Rome and I was done by ten o’clock. The Grand Ritz Hotel was in the northern part of town, an old establishment catering to American senior citizens traveling to Italy in flocks. I put on my walking shoes and headed in the general direction of Piazza di Spagna. It was a fine Saturday morning with vigorously fresh air. When I reached the Piazza hundreds of sightseers and tourist were already there. Under normal circumstances I avoid crowded venues and feel itchy in the bestial rush of the hordes stampeding from one site to the next for the sole purpose of being there. Soon enough my annoyance started creeping up on me and I found myself snaking through side streets and narrow alleys for evasion.

I located a small restaurant and sat at a table in the confined yard. The place was lively with conversation and having decided that these were probably some of my finest moments in Rome so far I ordered lunch. Primo e secondo, vino e cappucino have finally caught up with me after all these years of traveling to Italy. I simply needed an unfussy bite to eat and a cold beer to drink. The waiter presented me with a plain cheese sandwich, a Peroni and a cynical look. I gathered my will again and wandered the vias and the piazzas for the rest of the day. I watched the swarms of enthusiastic tourists clicking their cameras and further immortalizing statues of naked muscular men with hanging testicles and small penises. An hour or so before sunset I stopped again for a bite and another beer, a Moretti this time then walked back unhurriedly to the hotel where I slept the evening and night away. I wasn’t really disappointed in Rome but rather unimpressed. She reminded me of Zsa Zsa Gabor (b. 1917), the Hungarian-born American actress who was stunningly beautiful at one time. But nine marriages and the attrition of over ninety years had left their conspicuous toll. I found Rome a disenchanted city living the glories of her past and void of novel originality. The Italians, more Mediterranean than continental Europeans, suffer from our same Levantine infliction. They seem to be stuck in time while the rest of the world has moved forward in strides.

I briskly stepped out of the train carrying me from Schiphol airport to Amsterdam Centraal in less than twenty minutes. As I emerged from the underground station and took in my first panoramic look of the cityscape I immediately fell in love. I spent three days in Amsterdam and like a man madly in love with a stunningly beautiful woman I remember every little thing about her. I had imagined Amsterdam as a woman of aloof disposition, a flaxen with exceptional beauty, large breasts and pinkish nipples. How she turned out, however, is a thousand folds more intriguing. Immigrants came from everywhere, from Suriname, Indonesia, the West Indies, Turkey, Morocco, Italy and Spain and settled down to become part of the city’s identity. Her nipples had turned darker over the past two hundred years but certainly not less striking and tantalizing. Her breasts were smaller and firmer, her legs skinnier and taller, her hair wilder, her spirit livelier, her love more copious. Amsterdam decided at one point in her colorful history to shun aside all pretensions of chastity and conceited morality. She opened up and exposed to the world what goes on in every city in the shadows of dark shame and guilt. Prostitution and soft drugs are in no way degrading to the magnificent Dutch mindset.

I strolled the narrow passageways of the Red Light District where prostitutes display their mouthwatering bodies to the thousands of hungry eyes. I exchanged a word or two with a few of them and had a laugh and many smiles. No remorse, no guilt, no disgrace but a better understanding of true human nature. The tangy smell of marijuana filled the night air in the crowded Dam Square and the amber sparkle of frosty glasses of beer glittered with promises and assumptions. I lunched and dined around the city and experimented with Indonesian, Argentinean, Dutch and some of the best Italian pasta I’ve ever eaten anywhere, Italy included. Amsterdam permeated my skin and I reveled in an ecstatic abandon of Pilsner and light lager. Each restaurant and café promoted and served its preferred beer and I took every chance to sample a wide variety of drafts such as but not limited to Palm, Amstel, Heineken and Grolsch.

 

I dined in a boat and sipped South African wine while gliding through the canals of this magical city. I rode her trains, busses and trams and was besotted with her bicycles and the crisp yet relaxed pace of her ephemeral visitors and lifelong dwellers.

I know I have to go back there one day, hopefully with my wife and kids. Amsterdam broke all the taboos of the past and present and became a guiltless city where anything and everything goes, very much like Paradise. She has gone beyond morality, ethics and religion and is thriving in a higher form of humane conscience. I want them to see her with their own eyes and leave it to them to reach their own conclusions.

A week went by in the intangible silence between two successive heartbeats. A Week to remember in the arms of three cities.

History of Beer

The discoveries of bread and beer, it’s been argued, were the prime catalysts in the rise of civilization. Since by bread alone man cannot live, beer was indeed the original nutrition for the spirit and mind. The initial outbursts of inventiveness and creativity which radiated from the land between the two rivers then swept the entire world only came about after our ancestors learned how to properly consume this natural form of alcohol. Too much was certainly as bad as not drinking at all, a formula which still holds absolutely true millennia later. This is, ladies and gentlemen, the beginning of our written legacy.
Beer traces back its origins to the 6th millennium BC to Mesopotamia and Ancient Egypt. The Sumerians made reference to beer in their very first writings (clever people the Sumerians). The Hymn to Ninkasi of 1800BC, found in its entirety at the end of this article, is the oldest recipe for making beer in recorded history. Ninkasi is the Sumerian goddess of beer and the brew mistress of the gods (I told you that the Sumerians were smart). Beer, being the final product of natural fermentation, was discovered rather than invented. The Sumerians baked the grain they harvested in order to make it last in storage. It was found that the sweetest variety of grains if left and forgotten then moistened and eaten uplifted the wits of our grandfathers and made them jolly. We were indeed the first people to get intoxicated and in due course the masterminds of wild and fun partying. At least 3600 years before the 16-day world renowned Oktoberfest festival of Munich and Bavaria was initiated (1818) we were already getting drunk year round. It goes beyond doubt that the earliest pickup lines such as:
-If I told you that you had a great body, would you hold it against me?
-So, do you like fat guys with no money?
-If I were to ask you for sex, would your answer be the same as the answer to this question?
and lamer ones still were invented between the Tigris and the Euphrates. When we, illustrious Levantines, remember our past and rightfully take pride in our colorful history, we should go all the way back without the slightest of hesitation. Drinking is a part of our true identity and as thus guilt and shame should not be allowed to obscure our vision even for those who chose to defy nature by becoming self-prescribed abstainers.
The Babylonians followed in the footstep of their forerunners and improved on the manmade processing while simultaneously the Fellaheen (peasants) along the River Nile of ancient Egypt added dates to the brew, just like they still do today, to improve on its taste. Hammurabi, the Babylonian king and the first lawmaker in history by all accounts decreed that the daily ration of beer per individual is to be based on his social standing. It varied from 2 liters for a manual laborer to 5 liters for a high priest. With the rise of the Roman Empire, beer continued to spread and infiltrated the outer reaches of the realm. The bigoted and narrow minded Romans considered beer to be the choice of Barbarians and stuck to their wine (no more their discovery than our Arak is). They called it Bacchus and claimed it to be the favorite drinks of the gods. Tacitus wrote of the Germans: "To drink, the Teutons have a horrible brew fermented from barley or wheat, a brew which has only a very far removed similarity to wine". Yeah right, the haughty Italians ended up making Fiats while the savage Germans contrived Beemers and Mercedes-Benzes.
By the Middle Ages beer developed radically in monastery breweries. Those wise olden priests didn’t engage in beer brewing for profit but rather to liven up their frugal diet. Since the consumption of fluids didn’t break their perpetual fast, a pious monk was allowed as much as 5 liters per day. Damn, who needs to eat anyway? That would’ve been just about the perfect time to join the church. I’ve kept a mental note about it, if I’m ever to travel back through time I’d choose the 1350’s and commit myself to becoming a monk for the rest of my short yet happy life. Brewing beer slowly yet surely progressed on the hands of these men of the cloth and eventually they started producing more beer than they could consume. The first pubs were established by the monasteries and soon enough shady men of politics, dukes and princes, saw the tremendous potential of money in the beer “business”. This hugely popular drink became taxable under Emperor Sigismund (1368-1437). Christian clerics of that era, bless their souls, greatly contributed to the fine art of brewing. Thanks to them, beer started to look and taste so much like the golden elixir of today. Hops were used for the first time to enhance the flavor in the Brabant monasteries somewhere in today’s Belgium. King Gambrinus, still revered today as the patron saint of beer, jubilantly bellowed on a happy night: "In life be I called Gambrinus, King of Flanders and Brabant. I have made malt from barley and first conceived of the brewing of beer. Hence, the brewers can say they have a king as master brewer."
In the 1500’s, Hamburg alone boasted 600 breweries and with the passage of time, Friedrich Wilhelm (1688-1740), King of Prussia, established his celebrated “Tobacco Council”, what in essence is an early format of a group of “drinking buddies”. Beer lovers gained an avid and influential supporter now that the church reversed its position on drinking. Rest in peace beloved king, my friends and I always remember you when we salute our Sumerian ancestors. "Kass Friedrich Ibn Wilhelm", we roar in euphoria after a few Bavarian cold ones.
In 1835, the first German railroad was inaugurated, connecting Nürnberg to Fürth. The first cargo transported on board was, well, two barrels of beer. With the invention of refrigeration by Carl von Linde (1842-1934), beer became seasonally independent. Should I go on… beer won the world over in a heartbeat and has successfully become the most globally consumed alcoholic beverage. There’s hardly a country where beer is not brewed. Even under the tyrannical, oppressive and cruel despotism of the House of Saud (who prefer to drink Scotch from the high-heeled shoes of blonde prostitutes over any other form of drink) ingenious beer lovers prepare their brew in their bathtubs at home. We in Syria have 2 local brands of beer. I would suggest that you give them a try, if you haven’t already done so, out of curiosity. From a scale of 0 to 10, I would give Al-Shark and Barada a grade of anywhere from 0 to 5. The strangest thing is that the taste is not consistent and varies from bottle to bottle, from the terrible to the mediocre. However, once you learn that these two brands of beer are produced by the public sector (meaning the government) you should wonder no more. An analphabet government official can barely tie his shoes let alone supervise and run a brewery. You would’ve thought that with the new opening up of the market, the erection of hundreds of factories and the introduction of dozens of new industries someone will have the balls to start a beer brewing plant. But my tobacco council and I know better. The new breed of Syrian investors (businessmen) and despite the fact that they might be heavy drinkers themselves, hide behind their middle finger (the same one they stick up the general public’s ass). They court the government and bed the religious establishment. These patrons of modernization are accumulating such horrendous profits, bribing their ardent bearded supporters and basking in their blessings. What the hell am I talking about? Screw them.
It’s time for a beer. Cheers.

The Hymn to Ninkasi
Translated by Miguel Civil

Borne of the flowing water,
Tenderly cared for by the Ninhursag,
Borne of the flowing water,
Tenderly cared for by the Ninhursag,

Having founded your town by the sacred lake,
She finished its great walls for you,
Ninkasi, having founded your town by the sacred lake,
She finished it's walls for you,

Your father is Enki, Lord Nidimmud,
Your mother is Ninti, the queen of the sacred lake.
Ninkasi, your father is Enki, Lord Nidimmud,
Your mother is Ninti, the queen of the sacred lake.

You are the one who handles the dough [and] with a big shovel,
Mixing in a pit, the bappir with sweet aromatics,
Ninkasi, you are the one who handles the dough [and] with a big shovel,
Mixing in a pit, the bappir with [date] - honey,

You are the one who bakes the bappir in the big oven,
Puts in order the piles of hulled grains,
Ninkasi, you are the one who bakes the bappir in the big oven,
Puts in order the piles of hulled grains,

You are the one who waters the malt set on the ground,
The noble dogs keep away even the potentates,
Ninkasi, you are the one who waters the malt set on the ground,
The noble dogs keep away even the potentates,

You are the one who soaks the malt in a jar,
The waves rise, the waves fall.
Ninkasi, you are the one who soaks the malt in a jar,
The waves rise, the waves fall.

You are the one who spreads the cooked mash on large reed mats,
Coolness overcomes,
Ninkasi, you are the one who spreads the cooked mash on large reed mats,
Coolness overcomes,

You are the one who holds with both hands the great sweet wort,
Brewing [it] with honey [and] wine
(You the sweet wort to the vessel)
Ninkasi, (...)(You the sweet wort to the vessel)

The filtering vat, which makes a pleasant sound,
You place appropriately on a large collector vat.
Ninkasi, the filtering vat, which makes a pleasant sound,
You place appropriately on a large collector vat.

When you pour out the filtered beer of the collector vat,
It is [like] the onrush of Tigris and Euphrates.
Ninkasi, you are the one who pours out the filtered beer of the collector vat,
It is [like] the onrush of Tigris and Euphrates.

Phoenician Gods & Meksayta

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.

Urban Nightmares

I think of Tartous in the past tense. On the surface, I might sound like a staid man who doesn’t appreciate modernization, or at a more basic level, the change of times.
Frankly, as I mentally cover the decades since I was a blithe boy growing up till the present, I fail to see any tangible upgrading to my hometown. We had electricity, water, telephone and excellent roads back then and I daresay that these utilities were more reliable than they are today. The population of Tartous was 10,000 inhabitants in the late 1960’s, give or take a few hundreds, and has skyrocketed to 100,000 presently, give or take a few thousands, mostly due to internal migration from the province and the rest of Syria rather than natural increase.

The extremely high fertility rate of the Syrian population worries me considerably but I’m distressed for completely different reasons. Syria ranks among the top countries in the world as far as its population growth rate is concerned. This certainly needs to be addressed seriously as the present trend is very taxing on any economy, society and culture. However, the absence of intelligent family planning should not necessarily mean a lack of reasonable city and regional planning. While the number of Syrians is increasing rapidly, the collective brain of decision makers and urban planners is shrinking at an even faster rate. The smartest plan they usually come up with is amazingly the most idiotic.

In addition to the established burden of appointing unqualified people for key positions in local governments, we have gone through a substantial period of time when a vast number of professionals, academicians and, we were even led to believe, intellectuals came from foreign academies and institutions of doubtful merit or from local corrupt universities . Many of our peripatetic scholars managed somehow to graduate with doctoral degrees and took over reason, common sense and the public sector. In medicine they’ve probably done more harm than good. At the academic level, they’ve become professors and incubated similar clones and replicas. In architecture and engineering, they plagued the country with a horrendous collection of horrific monuments and nightmarish monstrosities often to the nodding approval of their superiors. Most Syrian cities fell victim to their pale imagination and grotesque creativity. Nowhere is this more evident than in Tartous. The public structures they’ve designed and erected are probably among the ugliest in the world. The building codes they co-authored are moronic to say the least and they often fail to address any future need or trend. The regulations they drafted were advanced as excuses to cover past mistakes and legalize existing violations. It wouldn’t be fair to place all the blame on them, but along with the unapprised decision makers, they are greatly responsible for at least the urban mishaps that have plagued the Syrian city. It’s beyond belief that the present and the future of these cities is a result of narrow minded, yet misguided, social politics with a total absence of a visionary architectural landscape and an urban master plan.

The sense of helplessness and of a deep loss is most overpowering when I visit other Mediterranean cities. I often get the chance to see some old photos of these places and learn that they have indeed improved and have become more livable in every sense. Anyone with a sane mind knows that it’s almost futile to stop growth but it can be regulated in such a way that it becomes more economically feasible to start with a new urban development than to expand on an existing one. Syria is ideal for this type of urban enlargement. Most of the interior is an empty desert. We have already seen in the Arab Gulf countries that this type of environment doesn’t in any way hinder urbanization. The fragile Syrian coast should have been heavily regulated despite the short term nuisances manifested by the sociopolitical inconveniences. Each falling olive tree is endlessly more vital than a new dwelling. Each bygone orange grove is far more valuable than the concrete apartment towers that have replaced it. Polluting industry was brought to the most diverse and delicate ecosystem in the country in order to create new jobs. These factories would have been more productive and less obtrusive had they been constructed in the vast arid region of the interior, away from all existing urban centers. New industrial cities and regions would have emerged and the unemployed Syrian youth could have had the chance to start their professional careers there instead of leaving to the Gulf. Lattakia, Jableh, Banias and Tartous could have remained charming cities by the sea for all to enjoy. They could have managed and survived as traditional fishing towns and tourist attractions. A large commercial port could have been built outside both of Tartous and Lattakia and would have been adequate enough to handle Syria’s economic and commercial needs. Many past surveys have indicated that the ideal location is between Tartous and Arida on the northern border of Lebanon. Both Lattakia and Tartous should have been spared from these environmental atrocities and designated as attractive centers for recreational marinas, no more, no less.

These photos from the 1960’s were taken or preserved by the late Zanco, an Armenian photographer who lived most of his life in Tartous. They are testimony to the beauty and simplicity of bygone days, when all a Tartoussi had to do to enjoy his afternoon was to step out of his house and walk the few meters to the beach. Despite all, this is the only Tartous I have in my heart, that’s the one I miss and long to return to one day. Can it be done? Only in my dreams perhaps. But then again, who am I but an unrealistic dreamer.