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

Imagine Tartous

I woke up very early as is my habit and enjoyed my solitary morning hour. The onslaught of last night's storm rebounded in my mind and trudged along the bloated streets and through the flailing branches. As the winds howled and the rain pounded against the windows the frowning sky inflicted her wrath down upon the coast. Outside the breakwater, the sailors of a moored ship toiled feverishly in the blinding gale to let her loose and untie her ropes from the constricting buoys . When they finally set her free her master put her on a defiant course in the face of waves and fed her all the power the monstrous engines could muster. She rode the six-meter high swells leaving the treachery of solid land behind and headed deep into the sea where it is safest for her and her men.

I sipped my espresso and listened to stubborn gusts inviting me for a ride along the seashore. They had something to show me, they promised.

Five minutes around Tartous to the sound of 3 random songs and that of the sea. Just come ride with me.

Adha Moubarak

Dreams do come true...Happy Eid

Perched On My Rock

My mother told me that on the night I was born a storm of freakish magnitude hit Tartous putting the fear of god in the hearts of her people. The little town was ravaged by torrential rains and strong gales. The power went down and all hell broke loose. Psychotic lightening raped the sky with lunatic vehemence, quavered then climaxed in deafening rolls of thunder. Tormented shutters flapped on hinges in agony and moaned. The wind howled in between the alleys chasing genies deep into their holes. Rain drummed on tin roofs in a sadistic crescendo. Thunder bellowed threatening to disgorge the earth beneath. The sea pounded the beach a hundred meters from the room with a view to the sea, spitting its froth on the window. It roared above them all with deafening anger: “Be quiet!”, then I cried.

As a toddler I sat all day in my playpen on the balcony facing the sea. That was the only way to keep me content, my mother's bedtime story went on. Browsing old black and white photographs, I see myself swimming by the age of four. I have no recollection of my first steps nor of my earliest plunge. I do know, however, that the passage of years did not change me in the least. I still run away from it all and stare at the sea with an insatiable hunger and a profound thirst. Even in the dead of winter, when only a fool with a lantern roams the beach, I am there perched on my rock.

One thing about Tartous which made it different from all the landlocked cities I lived in is the expanse of her horizon. I remember an early trip to Damascus when my mother and father were traveling abroad and had to leave me at my grandparents'. I searched for the horizon but could not find it and I was afraid. How did they live within walls of mortar and shadows and not suffocate? Where did they escape to when their world closed in? There was no salt in the air to breathe. They did not sweat nor feel the caressing fingers of a westerly breeze cooling their bereaved souls. No sail carried their cravings to foreign lands. No ship horn wailed in the dark of night filling their minds with vocal scenes. Did they ever dream while they slept or did they barely live, fearless of getting lost at sea?

I have counted my days and ways by the ensuing tides, my spirit rising and falling with the imminent swell. I spread my wings and soared with the seagulls above. I let go, drifting, till I turned into a far-flung spec then disappeared. Time, being left without me, panicked. It gathered its hours and minutes and scurried beyond the mountains to the east, waiting for me to reappear.

I fell in a waterspout, morphing with the distant ripples. By dawn, they made it as breakers to shore. I climbed on my rock, naked and strong. I filled my lungs with mist and walked the desolation. The cowardly time, finding courage in my return and eager to please, asked me when I wanted to go.

I slumped in my bed, where I was born in my home by the sea. My nightly voyage left me invigorated and alive. I shut my eyes not to sleep but to see you closer. And I did.

Suffonsified

My mobile's alarm blasted at two o'clock piercing the still of night and robbing precious sleep from my weary eyes. Bewildered, I slowly lifted my upper body on an elbow. I had gone to bed well past midnight but suddenly I remembered that I had a car to ride, two airplanes to board and a taxi to drop me at a hotel in Martigues. Eighteen hours later, I leaned on the reception counter of a small hotel in the south of France.
Oui demoiselle, je veux rester pour quatre nuits chez vous.

The summer sun lingers in the sky of France well past its usual day-shift of lower latitudes. My biological clock completely out of sync, my laptop rendered useless after a fatal system crash on the flight from Damascus to Paris and loneliness creeping up on me I descended the hill on foot and headed toward the docks of the small town by the sea.



I scrounged frantically for a discarded cigarette butt on the pavement and sidewalks. No city could be so clean, no place more serene. Seagulls flew overhead sending shrieks echoing against the brilliantly colored walls of quaint houses. A loose sail fluttered in the wind while a couple of hands worked feverishly to quite it down. I could taste the salt on my lips, I could taste hers in my reverie. Moored boats wobbled on the troubled surface of the canal, straining against the ropes. The creaking of wood longing to sail was too painful to hear, too realistically disturbing.
-Where would you go old sport, I asked the heaving and battered launch, if you had the choice?
-Anywhere, it pleaded silently in my head, just set me free and let me drift.




Restless, sleepless and mindless I brought back Prufrock, my PC and travel companion to life. The night died in my arms. Its last memory was of my ecstatic eyes beaming out of my tired face. Connected at last, I was craving to read.

Fares, my pride and joy, the reason I am called Abufares after all had started posting in Arabic on his blog “Superkid Chronicles”. How can I ever convey my feeling of elation about the fact that he's writing. My nine years old son, Abumaher, is perhaps the youngest on the Syrian Blogsphere today. He had only posted twice so far and I've already commented with words that betrayed my fatherly bias. Still, I needed to take a look at his virtual space again and feast my mind on adulation and hope. I am in love with people who write. I always was. And Fares, my flesh and blood, is writing.

The neat office where I was to work for the next three days was thrown on the shoulder of a mountain. It stood sentry to the estuary which led to a lake somewhere further east. I met people who became my friends, for life. We shared bread, butter and plenty of wine. The sound of our laughter drifted in the breeze toward the piers. We exchanged toasts and stories of our cities by the sea, always by the sea. For it had brought us together, seamen who would rot and die in the dry blandness of the inland. What is a woman if her hair is not weaved with seaweed, if her armpits do not taste of the salt that keeps us old mariners afloat? What of her thighs if they don't froth with zest to the tiding of my call? Her piquant breasts a safe harbor for my head where I close my eyes and still can see.



Mariyah's 26-episode story of Ghassan & Alexandra burned my second night and handed me safely to the morning sun. I would really like to find a way to tell you and myself how much I like Mariyah. Since she dropped anchor on Syplanet she had become my fantasy ship. When I sit on the outstretched rocky wharf of the corniche in Tartous her writing washes over my head and shoulders, cleansing my heart and soul. I gaze at the curved horizon and wonder about the straights she's crossing. Be tender on her Oh Goddess of the Sea and bring her smooth passage until she takes shelter while the storm withers away. Dawn crawled from beyond the hills, invading the dim corners of my room. Finally, I dosed for minutes dreaming of the intoxicating scent of Mariyah's prose.



On a concealed terrace not far from the marina half a dozen tables were laid in the shade of a giant Eucalyptus tree. I had my lunch there day after day. My hosts, perfect gentlemen, treated me like the indubitable ambassador I was to their tranquil shores. I never sampled a more toothsome cuts of entrecôte or a more divine côtelettes d'agneau in my whole life. Ah, les Français, I forgive their snobbish repute though I have only basked in their unrivaled hospitality and generosity. The twin bottles of Rosé kept us company and lulled our senses, reinforcing the simple verity that we were one family across the Mediterranean. The clinking of flushed goblets reverberated among the patrons. Salut mes amis, à votre santé.

Gabriela writes from Lima, 8000 miles away. Ever since she graced my blog with her first comment I took an immediate liking to her. I know that I will meet this intelligent, spirited and beautiful lady one day. I have no doubt. She will either come to see me in Tartous and I will walk with her through the narrow alleys of the old city or she will guide me in the Barranco district of her enchanting city. Gabriela writes inimitably in Spanish, a language I have always loved and vaguely understood. I translate her post on Google first and swallow the shabby English just for the sake of getting the general meaning behind her words. Then, I slowly sip her Latin spirit and get dizzy on her dainty melody and rhythm. Seis de enero is the blog of my lovely Peruvian Lawyer. I can't wait to be in Lima, to get in trouble then have Gabriela bail me out. She stayed with me on my third night and didn't leave until she got her message across. You can't spend your whole life traveling without going where you always wanted to. South America is a dream on hold, Gabriela reminded me.

Whenever I walked the streets of Beirut a personal unsolved mystery followed in my footsteps. Who was she and where did she come from? Evidence of her oriental paternal pedigree was abundant as traces of Islamic arcs, Arabian nights and Byzantine bells could be discerned on her slender body. Yet her mother remained behind a veil until I landed in Marseille. Ahhh, the full realization, the overwhelming sense of Déjà Vu . No wonder so many Lebanese call France their mom. Just take my word for it dear neighbors, it was never France, it was Marseille only and all along. We sat in that most famous of restaurants on the beach of the city. We were late for the topless volleyball chicks, my hosts apologized. This is where the fabled bouillabaisse de Marseille is prepared. My friends and I surrendered to the maitre who promised to take good care of us. He brought forward a glass of Pastis for me when he learned about my fondness of Arak. Then in the spirit of White we drank some of the best wine the south of France had to offer. Growing up by the sea and being raised on its scrumptious fruits all of my life I finally had to take my hat off, Chapeau bas a Marseille. A fish, if given the choice, will ask to be eaten in a bouillabaisse in Marseille after it dies and goes to heaven.



I gingerly climbed the stairs to my room on my last night in Martigues, satisfied beyond explanation, absolutely, perfectly, completely suffonsified. Only Isobel can do justice to the fleeting hours of bliss before I pack again and move. Suffonsifism has been my best kept little secret for quite some time. The apparent simplicity and effortlessness this gorgeous woman puts into her writing is mind boggling. Her posts are often short and to the point. How can she, I wonder, say it the way she does. How can she be so suffonsified and make me, a man behind a small screen halfway across the world, come to grasp the full meaning of her blog's name? I have never read anyone like Isobel. I very much doubt that I will ever read anything remotely parallel. I tiptoed through her lines, paused at her comas and came to full stop at her periods. Her divine music rushed through my mind, her priceless humanity escorted me through the blind twists and turns of a long tunnel where there was light at the end. I stood there in awe, not daring to blink for fear of missing a minute detail of her beauty within me, not believing that I went on for four nights sleepless in Martigues, forever suffonsified, and ever!

Kamikaze

It was the end of June, a hot and humid morning on the southern Dream Beach¹ of Tartous. I slept alone and rather erratically, having watched Argentina beat West Germany 3-2 in the FIFA World Cup Final the night before. A bunch of friends and I had consumed plenty of beer and whatever leftover bottles we could find in the secluded chalet. I had a terrific hangover and couldn't tolerate even the smell of coffee. Instead, I gazed at the endless expanse of blue from the western terrace then walked lazily on the warming sand. Only if someone could stop the goddamn spinning, I wished. I threw myself in the tantalizingly refreshing water and surrendered to the sensual fingers of the undulating waves. The salty breeze and the engulfing wetness brought me back slowly and without coercion to awareness. My muscles relaxed. The pounding in my temple eased off. What a glorious day ahead, I mused.

I had nothing to do or worry about. My immediate concern was to secure some basic form of breakfast. There were eggs in the fridge, Labneh, olives, tomatoes and cucumbers. After filling my stomach with solid food I could return with a book, a beach umbrella and a towel to my favorite spot where the soft breakers came to rest at my feet. I needed a pair of slippers, I thought, for the round trip to the chalet. The sand would be getting hotter and hotter by the minute as the sun rose unblinkingly higher and higher. I would read for an hour or two then go back to the chalet. In some kitchen cabinet there were at least a dozen cans of various types of junk food and olive oil. I saw a knot of bread² and potatoes over the counter. I will throw in something with the potatoes and have lunch straight from the skillet. The plates were piled high in the sink, unwashed. Sure, the place was an absolute mess and in dire need of cleaning but it wasn't something I was willing to lose my precious time over. I would clean a knife and fork, yeah, that I would need. The telephone line was out, oh thank goodness for that. There will be no interruptions. No calls from anyone to join me or for me to join them. For the afternoon, I schemed, suspended on my back like a dead porpoise heaving up and down on the surface of the sea, I could fill the icebox with cold beer and fasten it to the inflated inner tube of a car tire. I would then tie the tube to the folding chair placed knee-deep in the water. I would aptly sit and the chair would sink down evenly until it settles firmly so that the water is at the perfect nipple level. Ahhh, I'm so smart, so efficient at minimal work, I'm a damn genius, I beamed with pride and delight. Two, three beers down my belly, I would contemplate the meaning of life and probably nap. I would need a baseball cap and my sunglasses to minimize the glare. Ooooh, what a glorious day indeed.

I ran back invigorated. It was time to execute this perfect plan of mine. My eyes caught the reflection of the sun in the mirror of the parked Yamaha. My brand new cherry colored 135RX beckoned at me: Come ride me you hunk of a male, she whispered. With less than a 100Km on the odometer, I couldn't resist the seduction. Should I have breakfast first, I wondered. I didn't think so. I couldn't keep her waiting much longer and I was getting very excited myself. Ok baby, your man is coming, I smiled at her like Clark Gable. I was wearing only my wet shorts, absolutely nothing else. They weren't even swimming trunks, just plain blue, cotton, sexy and very short shorts.

She purred at my first kick-start. She was too hot and bothered to be warmed. Take me for a spin darling, she begged, give it all to me. I smiled again, more idiotically this time, a little like Tom Cruise perhaps. The road down the Dream Beach strand of chalets was as close to a ¼ mile drag race stretch as we could ever have in Tartous. It was much longer and narrower though and offered plenty of opportunity to go wild on two wheels. There were only me, a horny motorcycle and hot asphalt as far as the eye could see.

I fore-played the petite Yamaha and watched her RPMs going up and down the green range of the dial. Her purring changed into whining then screeching moans of ecstasy. Oh damn you take me hard, take me all the way, red-line me now, now, now....... she screamed. I gave it all to her and her needles rose into an insane frenzy of speed, 120, 140, 156, 57, 58, 59, aaaaaaahhhh 160 km/hr, OMG, yeS, yES, YESSSSS. My tears flowed, hair pulled back, lips twitching, my nipples tormented with the rushing onslaught of pinpricks... and, and... up ahead in the distance, 50 meters or so, straight forward, a tiny dot was approaching from the opposite direction at an unbelievable pace. I could see it getting bigger and bigger while at the same time I was realizing fully that I could never take any evasive maneuver anymore. I remember that split of a second as if it was shot with an extremely slow motion camera. How could I forget.

I mentally surrendered to the fateful impact. A nanosecond before we collided, the maniacal Kamikaze took a vicious dive to maximize the damage. My recognition of the identity of my assailant and his death happened at the exact same instance. He was hideous, evil and yellow, an Asian giant hornet who flew all the way from Japan to avenge his honor. Evidently it was too much for him to digest the sight of a Japanese bike and a Tartoussi guy going wild with each other on a beach road. Goggled, bandana-ed and scarfed, he flew his last mission for the glory of Japan. He extended his 6 mm stinger, released his lethal cytolytic peptide venom as he was squashed into oblivion against the soft tissue of my balls.

The blow was so powerful I felt as if I were kicked in the crotch by a heavyset and ugly Russian soldier from one of the Bond's movies. I released the throttle instantaneously. I had to crawl on all four, take the fetal position and die somewhere on the shoulder of the road. The Yamaha finally came to a complete stop. I laid her on her side and AAAAAAAAAAAAAAYYYYYYYYYYYYYY I screamed, a demented soul rolling and turning in the dirt like a butchered animal. My first thought was how far the chalet was. A couple of hundred meters, I guessed, in heart wrenching agony. After what seemed to be an eternity, probably five minutes in real time, I summed what was left of my strength and limped back in the saddle of my bike to my hole in the ground. I stepped in the chalet, closed the door behind me, pulled down the shutters and shades, collapsed on the floor and lost consciousness in the darkened room.

The poison flowed in my bloodstream and my temperature rose dangerously high. I swam in a pool of sweat as my whole body was taken by a fit of shivering. Paralysis spread from my loins down through my legs and up toward my chest. I dosed on and off and suspected seeing the grim reaper at the edge of my vision. A long spell of hallucination followed leaving me clueless as to the passage of time. It was pitch black outside when I leaned on my elbow, crawled to the sofa and managed to switch the light on. I was swollen, all of me. An allergic reaction to a massive dose of venom left me like a useless lump. I could hardly breathe as I looked in dismay at my swollen shorts. The lump was the size of a softball and if you're not familiar with softball, suffice it to say that it's at least twice as large as a baseball and not by any means softer. My legs buckled underneath my weight and I lost my mind completely. Nightmares and delusions shone, flickered then dimmed like ignes fatui as the night and half of the following day consumed themselves. A little before sunset on the next day I was still in the exact same spot on the floor but my eyes regained focus and the fog in my mind began to dissipate. I removed the remnants of the martyr and his stinger off my left ball. He had a wicked grin on his face the sonofabitch. I was still pretty swollen and multicolored like an old Bollywood movie when I took off my shorts but I knew that the worst had come to pass.

A little before midnight, after a cold shower and a gallon of water to drink I sat quietly in the night enjoying the quivering image of the moon on the gentle surface of the sea. The air was moist and pregnant with untold secrets and I could hear the echoes of laughter in the distance. My temperature and heartbeats were gyrating closer and closer to normalcy. I was still weak and shaky but feeling much better. Will I ever be the same, I wondered. Twenty three years later and I still don't have an answer.

Dream Beach = Shate'e Al Ahlam
Knot of bread = Rabtet Khebez

After the Storm

We walked hand in hand on the desolate beach. The wind bluffed with erratic flurries and toyed with our unbuttoned blazers. The dying waves, frowzy with the aftermath of earlier rage, collapsed at our feet. The hoary sky shepherded dark hollow clouds in intimidation. The veteran eyes of this seafarer knew only too well that the storm had come to pass.

My son's little hand stirred in mine as he looked up at me. "It's not gonna rain tonight", he ventured with newly acquired confidence. "It's not", I echoed his words and ruffled his shortly trimmed hair with gentle fingers.




It had rained incessantly for days and nights. In our little town that is no longer little there is very little to do when it rains even a little. We wait behind window panes, flinching with the ensuing violent wallops of lightening, captivated by the brutal slamming of open shutters and the drumming of destined thunder. When the autumn uproar is over at last we file along the shore to appraise the aftermath. Crumbled timber litters the sand, lost cargo thrown overboard from hapless ships bearing the wrath of demented swells, dead cattle, relics from the past; acceptable losses no more.

I walk that stretch of beach again well into the winter until no longer I can. I lean on him and put my calloused hand in his as he shows me the way. "It's over, the rainstorm isn't it?" I ask. "Sure thing, it's over", my son's words reassure me to keep plodding along. "You know what, when I was a kid" I start, pointing my finger eastward and to the south, "it was all orange groves here, here and there". He faces me with a smile then pulls my collar higher around my neck, "yeah baba, you told me so". He sees the worried look in my tired eyes and caresses my shoulder. He pulls me closer and shuttles me home before the dark of night falls. The calls of enchanting sirens tempt us to wade into the sea. Their silhouettes well defined in the rays of the drowning sun, their breasts wobble on the troubled surface. The salty breeze fills our heads with memories, real and imagined. Slowly, we march back in lonely silence.

Images from Tartous

My dear Canadian friend Isobel, a "very married" beautiful woman of Godly Greek ancestry requested that I post some photos from my daily walk on the Corniche of Tartous. I have already expressed my affinity to the sea on several occasions and I have undoubtedly stirred her memory and curiosity. Being Greek (and a Pisces like me for those who believe in astrology) makes her a natural aquatic creature. Like a fish out of water stranded in the tundra of North America she gasped for a splash of salt water and found a probable refuge in my blog.

Mainly to her, Om Anastasio, to the Tartoussis across the four corners of the planet and to the others who only know about my beloved home by word of mouth or from what they've read on this blog I present these unassuming moments of time captured by an amateur photographer with his puny Canon PowerShot SD450.

Looking north from the highest building in town (the Shahine Tower Hotel): the Tartous I grew up in and call home.

Walking west on one of several rocky piers of the Tartous Corniche extending like probing fingers into the eternal Mediterranean.

Moments before the sun sets, Tartous is transformed into a magical place of shades and hues. The brief chimera that time had forgotten us is so tempting.

Leaving the mainland to Arwad, the only inhabited island in Syria and Tartous' soul mate.

A coffee shop on wheels. Just ask for two cups and he'll bring them to you to land's end.

It's been a long day and he'll throw it yet one more time in search for one more catch to take home.

Bite, come on bite!

The distant silhouette of Hbas, a small island southwest of Tartous.

Shipping was one of the primary victims of the global economic collpase. This ship could be in for a long wait on the shore before she could secure cargo and sail anew.

Sunset over the island of Arwad, forever magnificent.

And sunset over two lovers. Only if life could stay so simply beautiful.

beautiful

“La bellezza è la somma delle parti per cui niente necessita di essere modificato,aggiunto o rimosso."

"Beauty is a summation of the parts working together in such a way that nothing is needed to be added, taken away or altered." Italian Impressionist Painter, Elio Carletti (1925-1980)

I first heard this phrase spoken in English by the character Cris Johnson in the American movie Next (played and produced by Nicholas Cage).

For years I struggled to beckon my thoughts to define beauty in such a perfectly exact, easily poised and brilliantly minimal sequence of words. I always fell long. Simplicity has proven a most formidable mountain to conquer and this is precisely why we can rant forever over the triviality of life and time but yield in saintly silence to the innocent laugh of a child or the mystifying summons in the eyes of a strange woman.

I sit on a solitary rock by my sea and gaze at the setting sun dissolving in the quenching quiver of the horizon. I comb my hair back with the tips of my fingers and roll my head toward the sky where flocks of hovering kites flutter their rainbow tails in the unseen salty draughts. Tethered to the hands of playful boys and girls, the kites sway enticingly with the wind. With their free hands the kids hold ice-cream cones and popcorn bags. Their blue jeans and colorful t-shirts soiled with dirt and chocolate, they laugh out loud in stubborn defiance to worried mothers, in blissful ignorance of things to come.


I am in love with beauty and I feel embittered that I can depict my feelings toward the generality or peculiarity of being with ease yet remain eluded by the most splendid manifestation of the universe. I flatter myself when I write about women as I definitely am not divine enough to add, take away or alter what they are. Women are such a perfect expression of substance, form and incongruity whether through creation or evolution. They are fragile, ferocious, intelligent, gorgeous, wicked, quixotic, sensible, giving and sparing at the same time. A man like that, even in the eye of a woman, is a deranged psychopath. I love that women surprise me with their predictability and hold me at bay while obliging my vanity.

I follow a creek upstream. The chirps of a lonely chukar partridge summoning his harem echo against the sides of the gorge. I step on a broken twig; the bird clears its throat and quiets down. Two surprised figures emerge from the thickets by the spring. The two young lovers might have been taking their eternal and private vows when I intruded. They shyly cross my path and I barely have time to detect the glistening reflection of the dusky sky running down their guiltless eyes. They hug again at a distance then fade in the dark and rife foliage.

The longer I write the more likely I am going to add to, take away from or alter what is simply beautiful. Hush!

Home by the Sea

I wanted to show you how beautiful my sea is. That's all I had in mind. I skimmed through the countless photos I took over the last week during my jaunts offshore. I reckoned that I'd add a few lines depicting how relaxed my afternoons had been in the company of my son. The days of Ramadan spilling like the cascading coral beads of a rosary in the hand of a waiting old man.

Then as I chatted my morning away with a young friend of mine I remembered my Home by the Sea, both the song by Genesis and the place where I was born. Whether the song goes well with the selected photos or not I'm not sure. But it goes well with me, as this is how I often feel…

Creeping up the blind side, shinning up the wall
Stealing through the dark of night
Climbing through a window, stepping to the floor
Checking to the left and the right
Picking up the pieces, putting them away
Something doesn't feel quite right

Help me someone, let me out of here
Then out of the dark was suddenly heard
Welcome to the home by the sea

Coming out the woodwork, through the open door
Pushing from above and below
Shadows but no substance, in the shape of men
Round and down and sideways they go
Adrift without direction, eyes that hold despair
Then as one they sign and they moan

Help us someone, let us out of here
Living here so long undisturbed
Dreaming of the time we were free
So many years ago
Before the time when we first heard
Welcome to the home by the sea

Sit down sit down
Sit down sit down sit down
As we relive our lives in what we tell you

Images of sorrow, pictures of delight
Things that go to make up a life
Endless days of summer longer nights of gloom
Waiting for the morning light
Scenes of unimportance, photos in a frame
Things that go to make up a life

Help us someone, let us out of here
Cos living here so long undisturbed
Dreaming of the time we were free
So many years ago
Before the time when we first heard
Welcome to the home by the sea

Sit down sit down sit down sit down
As we relive out lives in what we tell you
Let us relive out lives in what we tell you

Sit down sit down sit down
Cos you wont get away
No with us you will stay
For the rest of your days - sit down
As we relive our lives in what we tell you
Let us relive our lives in what we tell you

Lost At Sea

With the advent of the gray months, when the fury of the sea begins to simmer then bursts into a boil, Tartous braces itself for expected yet never acceptable losses.

Shortly after leaving port in the Black Sea and loaded with 10,000 tons of steel, "Haj Ismail", the ship, came face to face with a ferocious storm not far from the Ukrainian-Russian shoreline. The Georgian flagged vessel is truly Syrian at heart. Manned by 17 seamen of our own, she was sailing home to Tartous. The deranged sea toyed with her making her pitch high and low against the onslaught of gigantic waves and strong winds, then on an impluse split her in two. Within moments, she vanished in the abyss with all souls onboard except for two. Bassel Aga of Lattakia and Khodr Yahia of Tartous, were the only two survivors who made it to shore in the freezing water and the giant swells. They stayed afloat by sheer strong will and an extraordinary twist of fate as they were on deck the moment tragedy struck. Semi-conscious, they lied exhausted on the beach until they were later rescued and transported to hospital.

This is a repeat and devastating blow we suffer year after year before Tartous goes into a stupefied rendition of mourning. There are no faces to take a last look at, no bodies to burry, no tombstones to sit by and cry. Mothers would go on eternally in a state of animated suspension, staring out of windows, waiting for a phone call or a courier bringing a message of a miracle. Pregnant wives would deliver their babies and raise them alone, never telling their children that their fathers had died.

"He might return one day, your daddy, but I can't tell you when", the lonely woman whispers to her little boy behind invisible tears. "Mommy, when I grow up I want to travel the sea like him" her only child with resilient eyes says. "No my son, never, please promise me, never" she pleads. Stubbornly the boy answers with the only reply he hears from all the young men in the family, "I can't mom, I'm a Tartoussi and I would drown if I step out of the sea".

"Haj Ismail" sunk with 9 other vessels of various flags in the exact same area around the Straight of Kerch on Sunday the 11^th of November, 2007. All her seamen were less than 33 years old with a couple of them in their teens still. Some were only sons, others expecting fathers and many not even married yet. A few of her young boys were neighbors I always see when they are onshore.

How can I find it in me to pray for their souls to rest when their families aspire for their return? Is there any solace that they died doing what they loved best? Are they swimming with the mermaids in an emerald sea or looking from the blue of the sky above?

Tartous continues to wait.

Lost at Sea, November 11, 2007 (Walid Mohamad Sabra, Fawaz Mohamad Khaled, Abdul Kader Mustafa Hindi, Ahmad Mustafa Latesh, Ahmad Khaled Monem, Abdallah Asaad Tohme, Mohamad Asaad Ayash, Mohamad Adnan Sayed, Nasser Mahmoud Tohme, Diaa Subhi Abdul Halim Mohamad, Abdul Aziz Jbaret Allah Hasan, Faysal Ahmad Rajab, Housam Haytham Khalil, Hassan Mustafa Zein and Mounir Aziz Abbas)

The Man Who Fell On Mersin

I’ve been away. I haven’t deserted my blog for such length ever since its conception. As a matter of fact I haven’t been away from a PC for over a week since 1993. I have a good alibi though, I was on vacation.

For the first time in over three years, Om Fares, the kids and I all went on vacation together. We left Tartous on the morning of Thursday the 2nd and headed to the port of Lattakia. There, we boarded a ferry boat and sailed away to Mersin, Turkey. It took the 270-passenger catamaran a little bit under four hours to cross the 95 nautical miles. Come early evening, we were riding in Ugur’s taxi to the Hilton in the quiet Mediterranean city (Ugur is the Cabby’s name, and since I like to put a name on a face, "what is your name?" was my first question on my first time visit to Turkey).


While waiting in the modest passenger terminal at the port of Lattakia I was taking in phone calls from the office. There was one more important email I needed to reply to. Much to the chagrin of Om Fares and the kids, I took my laptop out and started typing away. Like all addicts of modern technology, I derive so much satisfaction from the fact that my ultraportable Vaio has a built in GSM receiver, WILAN, WWAN and the bullshit list goes on and on… However, when I saw the look on their faces and guessed at their whispers, I pushed the Send button and uttered my promise. As long as we are on vacation I would not touch the damn thing, read my email or even post on my blog. “Promise?”, Fares asked. “Promise”, I replied.


Mersin proved to be a perfect choice. Temperatures were soaring all over. The family mutually agreed on not wanting to go around places but to rather stay in one city. As far as I was concerned, all I dreamed of was to sit in the shade by a body of water (a stunning swimming pool), read a good book (The Man Who Fell to Earth) and sip my misty drink (Vodka with anything). The little ones were just ecstatic to spend so much time in my company and to swim all day. Om Fares and Diana couldn’t ask for more than to be able to get away from the three of us and maraud the shops and markets of Mersin. An excellent status quo was reached during the daylight hours and later on in the evening when we would all regroup, we would experience the little joys of a family vacation.


That’s my first visit to Turkey and I need to give credit where it’s due. Mersin is such a nice place and only a stone throw away from Tartous. Knowing this city intimately, as I’ve done over the last few days, is akin to having an affair with your beautiful neighbor. The city is extremely clean and peaceful for its size. People are very polite and courteous although a very few speak Arabic. To my surprise, almost no one outside the bounds of the hotel speak any English. This might sound strange until you realize that Mersin is not a tourist destination in the first place. Many excursions out of Syria in particular pass through Mersin for an overnight stay at the most. This simply means that Mersin is so unique because it has not been exploited yet.

On the other hand, Turkey is not the cheap country we all thought it was. Prices are much steeper than in Syria. They are very similar to those of Lebanon, if not a little more. The only reasonable thing we happily paid for was the great rate we secured at the Hilton before leaving. The hotel is simply fantastic and first class. At US$80.00 a night, per double room, breakfast included, this price is less than half of what you’d pay at the Sheraton in Damascus. And, I need to add that the standard of service is much higher as well.


We ate a little bit of everything. The kids, as all aliens from outer space, preferred the fast food variety. I had spent so much time by the pool I really didn’t care much about what I would have for lunch or dinner. We had a couple of nice experiences with local food, once in the center at Sabah, a traditional Turkish joint, and then in a small wooden hut by the beach. Late at night we would go out for a walk on the pedestrian-only esplanade by the sea. I have no idea how long this seafront path stretches out. I had walked in either direction away from the hotel for over an hour but there seemed to be no end.

We came back yesterday (Thursday the 9th), in the same ferry boat. I’m so happy I’ve been able to take my mind and body away from work. I’m ever so grateful to have this wonderful opportunity to spend this quality time with my family as I haven’t had the chance to do so recently. I have been bitching about my need for a vacation and I finally was able to get it. I don’t think the therapeutic effects will last long after our return but let’s put it this way, if I hadn’t stopped and taken this time off right when I did the consequences would’ve been dire. I was on the verge of strangling a few people, or was it the other way around; a few people were on the verge of strangling me.


Next time around we visit Turkey it would be in the comfort and convenience of our own car. We intend to continue north in our pilgrimage to this beautiful and hospitable country. May be all the way to Istanbul! May be for a couple of weeks! It was good to be away. It’s good to be back.

Alto Mare

A job, any job, must have non-monetary perks on the side, some pleasant tasks or surprises. If not, we might all run the risk of going bored then insane. When we make our living out of the sea, even us, desk jockeys, get the opportunity to go out in the field every once in a while. Although I rarely make port visits, when I do, it just feels like homecoming. You see, earlier on in my career I worked on site rather than in an office. And, one of the most rewarding tasks I was engaged in for over two years was that of a supervisor in an underwater construction project in the port of Tartous.
The phone call came in sometime last week. A new Italian Riva powerboat had arrived in town earlier. It’s sitting high and dry waiting for its maiden sailing. There are forms to be filled, approvals to be sought and piles of paperwork before the boat can even wets its propeller.

- Don’t worry, I said, I’ll put two of the guys from the office to work on it right away.
-Well that of course, but we also want you to insure its seaworthiness, we want you to…
They wanted me to take it for a spin.

It’s been a while, but over the years I’ve piloted more motorboats, of all sizes and shapes, than I can remember. On Wednesday morning, all documents were in order and as soon as I read the name under “Name of Vessel” the boat seized to be an It and became a She. I needed to get out of the office right away, out of my clothes in no more than 10 minutes. I should be with Alto Mare when the shore crane hoists her down the water. She should not be alone at the moment she floats on the eastern coast of the Mediterranean, away from her Italian shore. I called a veteran captain of the sea; an active master of a 5,000 ton vessel on vacation in Tartous and told him what we have on hand. I’ll be there in 15 minutes, he answered. Before he hung up, I could hear his wife already complaining. Damn, how could women ever understand that men do not have to make sense all the time? That if a man receives a call from a friend while he’s having his “favorite” dish with his family and he replies that he’ll be there in 15 minutes it doesn’t mean that he’s having an affair with another woman. That a man could simply be in love with the sea.

I still have to go home and change, I still have to face my own Waterloo.
-@&% )^!** )#$$*# !@#%# )(^@! :-((( ……
I just know when not to reply.

On the way to the dock, in the back of a speeding car, I started flipping through her handbook (why don’t women come with a handbook). Impressive specs indeed! She’s a 28 footer, with a 240 hp Volvo Penta diesel engine, a top cruise speed of… wait, don’t get ahead of yourself, I thought, we’ll find out all that matters in a little while. Won’t we!
She looked nervous. Tethered and wobbling from side to side in the wake of a passing wooden boat, her slick white fiberglass body glistened in the sun. She seemed a little apprehensive, having all these people staring at her. There were at least a dozen onlookers eagerly waiting to hear her first roar. My friend, the professional sea captain, took her seriously and treated her with respect. We meticulously went over her start-up check list. While he fired her up I was looking in dismay at all the whistles and bells in front of me. A Global Positioning System came to life as soon as I touched a button and in a couple of minutes I’ve learned everything there is to learn about this fantastically designed electronic marvel. While an Arwadi apprentice (undoubtedly an old man of the sea one day) was untying her bow, I took a look at her cabin. A place for two to cuddle and sleep comfortably, a toilet for those long trips, a sound system, a folding table… but the smell of wood and leather was even more impressive. Those Italians know how to dress up a lady. I came up on deck. The captain had already put her in reverse while the hand went about tidying up the space around us and putting everything where it belongs. Leave the beer where it is, I told him, I’ll put it in the fridge myself.
Slowly at first, Alto Mare was put through her paces. Her inhibitions gave way to excitement and anticipation. Come on, she seemed to be yelling, let me show you what I’ve got. The sea was choppy and a steady wind was blowing from the southwest. Not the best of conditions but, a man got to do what a man got to do. As the skipper eased her throttle forward all the way he inevitably released the beast in her. She started picking up speed in the face of the onslaught of successive waves. We were as much flying as we were boating. Against the wind and handled by a master, Alto Mare reached 34 knots per hour (roughly 60 km). That’s not a speed to sneer at in the sea and after 3 hours of rough riding and a night of sleep there were more blue bruises all over my body to prove that a) I was not with another woman or b) I was beaten up by a jealous husband while I was with another woman.

We changed stations and I took her helm. Beyond words, that’s all. The exhilarating rush of speed, the refreshing spray of saltwater, the unforgiving sun, all the elements, together playing an impressive symphony. We circled the island of Arwad then headed toward the historical city of Amrit. From there we steered south then west to the small uninhabited island of Al Hbass. We dropped anchor, enjoyed a beer and a cigarette then took a dip in the crystal clear water. We moved again, toward the north, passing way behind Arwad, past the port of Tartous and onward to Bseereh, Rimal Zahabieh, Markieh, Al Khrab and making Banias visible we turned around and brought Alto Mare home to Tartous.

-She belongs here, I told her proud owner over the phone, and she’ll make you a very happy man.

-How long she needs to make it to Cyprus, he asked.

-Well, on a good morning with calm seas, four hours, give or take, I replied.

-Listen then, how about you come along sometime this summer, to Cyprus I mean.

-Why not, I said, all in the name of hard work.

I Need A Break

I am bored. I seldom reach this dreadful state and when I do eventually I wrestle with the notion like a drowning man fighting for his life. Contrary to popular belief, boredom holds me within its firm grip when I am very busy. Whilst my work consumes all but tidbits of my waking hours I am most susceptible. There is little time left to be entertained, whether by spending some luxurious moments alone or in the enjoyable company of others. My predicament is often the result of too many approaching deadlines or a consuming assignment with a rather short fuse. When my daily existence is rendered as a single mechanical part in a complex machine and I lose my personal bearings due to vocational pressures, I get bored.
Having gone through most of my career as a freelance soloist my duties occasionally dictate being a part of a team. I have no real problem operating with others but I do not truly enjoy the boss/employee relationship. I don’t like it either way to be absolutely clear and so far in my professional life I have managed to avoid this kind of association. It is a skill I have mastered by evasion so I’ve never worked under a real boss and I never was anybody’s superior. Once, so many years ago, while working for a big contractor, the nature of my job changed so that I had to report to him (in person) everyday. He wanted to be treated differentially, well like a boss. I quickly resigned and got it over with. What’s the point? Too much tension and pretense between ordinary people all working for a living in the end. I have later been involved with clients who imagine that since they are paying for a service they kind of own the service provider and that they can boss him around. I cut it off immediately, without remorse. That is why I have only a few clients in this day and age. I accept that they’ve hired my services but not me personally. And, that brings me back to my original topic, I have been writing in the hope that I might snap out of it, but I am still bored nevertheless.

This is not what I had in mind, but you get the idea, right?!

I need a break, a vacation in this untimely time. I should be in a hammock on a sunny beach with a couple of voluptuous maidens attending to my every whim. I mostly want them to refresh my drink(s) and giggle softly, yet with adoration. I fancy one of them reading to me from a book while her friend massages my forehead and knotted neck muscles. I want them to know when to stop, when to go on without uttering the slightest hint. I crave for a seafood platter of an exotic assortment and a basket of tropical fruits. The shorter brunette would feed me with her own hand while the busty blonde holds the cold misty glass close to my face. Then I should nap for an hour or two. When I wake up, I realize that it was a dream within a dream. The wife and kids would be laughing their hearts out at my robust snoring. They’d invite me to join them for a long and relaxing swim in the crystal clear water till dusk. There’s yet time to shower, shave and dress for an evening of wild partying (with them!)
We each have our own way of keeping our sanity. I should get back to the tedious task of closing loose ends, of getting the job done, despite all. The dream hovers at the edge of consciousness, suspended till another day.

rain rain rain ,,,

Tartous is as charming in the rain as when basking in the sun. It has been a long while in the waiting. Winter has fallen dry this year. The good earth is thirsty, the stone walls, the lonely trees, the narrow alleys, the souls of men. Then a flash of light pierced the sky and thunder shook the ground. Rain had come at last and as the downpour flooded the streets, ancient memories floated swiftly in the gullies of the mind.


I was a little kid again, unwillingly marching to school. I made it in a soaking parka and muddy rubber boots. In threesomes, we huddled close together sharing wet wooden desks. The cold classroom was meagerly illuminated by a couple of feeble light bulbs. The pompous teacher proudly walked in and ordered us boys to open our books to page seventy three. He was the master within the confines of a single book. He had been regurgitating its content ever since he was appointed for the thankless job. A bovine preaching a flock of parrots for twelve years in anticipation for one ultimate test that would either make or break their future. The bell rang and the herd released. The grubby streets became fields of dreams, the showers enhancing the joy of the experience. We played marbles in the mud while slowly eating soggy falafel sandwiches at a quarter of a Syrian pound each. The ten-minute walk home took at least an hour. We made a detour and headed to the corniche by the sea. Sneezing, coughing and wiping mucus with the back of our sleeves, we sat on the rocks and let the spray of the breaking waves cleanse our minds from the rubbish of brainwashing. The seagulls were sweeping the sky above searching for a bite to eat. The froth was murky and the surge carried logs and debris. It also brought discarded treasures from distant ships. The bigger-than-life Sea was our way out someday. Unlike our peers from the inland most of us broke free at eighteen. The implanted desire to travel, to reach the other invisible coast was overwhelming. Even among the best of parrots at school, those who scored high on the Bacalorea exam, the craving for the voyage was irresistible. We would rather cross the Atlantic then be left high and dry in Damascus or Aleppo.


As the years have gone, I remain an outsider in my own country once I cross the mountains shielding Tartous from the east. While the rain bathes my balding head, notions of a new journey seduce me, to board a ship and leave to a new shore where I am not a stranger among strangers. In the company of pipe-smoking fishermen and tattooed sailors of different tongues I can laze in a small café by a harbor in an unfamiliar city and feel right at home. I would be gazing at the chimneys of ships taking to the sea, dreaming of my Tartous and the day I shall return.

Swimming in October

Summer leaves me drained emotionally and physically. I loath the heat, the sweating and the hiding within the confines of an air conditioned room. I part company with both my motorcycle and bicycle during the dead of summer and instead move around in a four-wheeled cage. I suspend my nightly 30-minute walk around the park. My reading slows down, my intellect is put on hold. The only two viable options for me, when work permits, is to go either to the beach or up the mountains to cool down. In the summer, I am more of the mountain type. I’d rather spend the whole three hot months there. But family and job don’t share my disposition and a compromise is often negotiated on a day to day basis.

October is my favorite month. I’m most active in the fall. I also get in the mood for some serious thinking. Most importantly, this is the time I truly enjoy being all alone.
This year, with the concurrence of October and Ramadan, my regular flow of events has been diverted off its usual course. Normally, I would take every opportunity to jump on my bike during this period of perfect weather. Last year, I went on riding my motorcycle every Ramadan afternoon for a couple of hours. I chose a random destination everyday through the twisting mountain roads and tracks. On the hour mark, I’d head back in a general westerly direction to find myself near Tartous on either of its two sides, north or south. I used to make it home a few minutes before the cannon, although not always. When I joined the family at the Iftar table, I’d be met with the disapproving eyes of wife and children. “Allah Yehdih” = “May God guide him to what’s best” would be written all over their faces.

Unfortunately this year, on doctor’s orders, I have to avoid the long bike rides. For the younger ones who are reading this, it would be a little difficult to explain, but the older we get the harder we are to maintain. A big pot hole in the middle of the road has more damaging effect on my back than on my twenty-year old Yamaha. So, also on doctor’s orders, I channeled my energy into swimming, everyday swimming that is. I’ll let you in on a little Tartoussi secret. October is the best month of the year to truly enjoy the beach and the sea. The crowds are gone, the winds calm down and the water is crystal clear. I normally swim year round, skipping only when it’s raining or windy. Nah, I am not a macho tough guy, I just wear a wetsuit when the cold starts biting.

So now you know that I love October. But I also happen to have a secret mistress. Her name is November and I can’t wait any longer for her arrival.

I have taken a few pictures of the beautiful deserted beach and posted them on My Flickr for you to enjoy.

Happy To Be On an Island in the Sun

Summer is in full swing. Family and friends are home on holidays. Sunshine prevails every single hour of the day. The few shy clouds are mere props in the theater of the sky. The sea beckons to us all to enjoy the amity of each other and escape the heat of the day. Children and adults play together, splashing in water, enjoying the undulation of the sea after the passage of a lazy wave, magical instants preserved in time, burned forever in memory.

I close the door of the air conditioned office behind me. It’s barely 2:00 PM and I’m the last to leave. I shed my shirt, throw it in the back, steer my car toward the highway leading to the beach. A primal instinct swells within, urging me to return to the sea, whence we came and forever long to return. I search for and find the old cassette tape I’ve played a hundred times. It’s the first song on Side B. I turn off the AC, roll down the windows and let the wind and the music unfetter my hair and spirit.

Sitting in the sun waiting for a seniorita to show
Guitars playing melodies from Spain and Mexico
Soft wind blowing the smell of sweet roses to each and every one
Happy to be on an island in the sun

Mothers with their children waiting in the cool of the shade
And thirsty people coming from the fields to drink tea and lemonade
An old man yawning, his day’s coming, his working day’s done
He’s happy to be on an island in the sun

All the stars come out and shine so bright
It’s so romantic to be in that moon lit paradise
Love is going to shine a welcoming light when I’m
Looking to the eyes of the seniorita tonight

Sitting in the sun waiting for a seniorita to show
Guitars playing melodies from Spain and Mexico
Soft wind blowing the smell of sweet roses to each and every one
Happy to be on an island in the sun…
Happy to be on an island in the sun…


Demis Roussos takes me away to an exotic island, hardly 10 minutes out of Tartous.

I drop my pants even before the engine is brought to a silence (you guessed it, I don’t play hard to get at all). I reach for my shorts and perform the 30 second transformation act (in a car not in a telephone booth though). It’s still almost as easy as last year, or the years before.

A mirage dances on the golden sands enticing me to absorb the beauty of female bodies laid out in the sun to tan, but not just yet. I’m not seeking creatures of the land. My heart is set only for my siren luring me to plunge into the endless blue in search of her. I offer myself and plead the sea to accept me, to take me as I am. I come up from my ritual first dive of the day to breathe. How I envy the wild beasts of the sea for staying longer, much longer, for diving deeper much deeper toward the endless abyss underneath. I float in the womb of all life, cherishing my simple moments of absolute loneliness.

Soon enough I join the pack. Amid laughter and jubilation, they all want to know where did I come from, when did I arrive.

I have always been here… by the sea. There had never been any other place for me.


Demis Roussos was born on June 15, 1946 in the city of Alexandria, Egypt of Greek extraction. I have uploaded this beautiful song “Happy to Be on an Island in the Sun” for you to download and enjoy. Please do!

Rimal Zahabieh (Golden Sands)

Not one of the most successful, but the most successful recreational project in Syria is al-Rimal al-Zahabieh (Golden Sands) of Tartous. This beachfront property has a shoreline of 2400 m and 1190 individual privately owned chalets. Opened in the early 1980’s as a tourist residential cooperative project, it has far exceeded the expectations of its founding fathers, the Syrian government and the thousands of visitors who enjoy its sands, sun and sea every year.

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It all started when a group of Homsis (from Homs, Syria) started this ambitious and pioneering project on a stretch of beautiful beach 15 km north of Tartous. It’s worthwhile mentioning that several other projects were started and completed at the same time, all located in the Tartous area. What makes the Tartous coastline unique, from Banias 30 km north to al-Arida (border with Lebanon) 30 km south is the fact that it’s almost entirely a sandy stretch. The other projects still have their fans, but objectively speaking they are nowhere, not even close to what the Rimal is. If we consider the market value of property (price/sq.m.) then the disparity is very much evident. Today, we are talking of some chalets having a real market value of over US$1million. Prices range from US$50,000 for small apartments in high rise buildings on the fringe of the compound to, as mentioned above, +1 mil for the nice unattached single story units in front of the large green lawn with an unobstructed view of the sea.

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Rimal is a self-sufficient, entirely independent little town. The summer population could well reach 20,000+ inhabitants. During the off season, it’s almost completely deserted except for the employees and caretakers. I am lucky to supervise the remodeling of chalets during the winter months there. That gives me the opportunity to enjoy a few moments of solitude by the sea almost everyday. Rimal is a closed city, meaning that you have to pass through a single main gate to get in. Although I am not one who favors elitist policy, I have to admit that this procedure has enhanced the compound’s all around comfort and value. Rimal has received several awards from different international tourist organizations for the quality of service and the recreational value it offers. There are a few restaurants and cafes inside, several shops, a medical facility and a bakery all very clean and well taken care of. A bid for a large hotel has been awarded this year and the construction at the south end should start soon.

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From a social and demographic point of view, the residents of Rimal are almost exclusively upper middle class or rich. The majority comes from Homs and there are a good number of Damascene, Aleppians and Tartoussis. In recent years, the trend is of younger and middle aged Tartoussis buying and the previous generation of “interior” Syrians selling. Still, the atmosphere is a wonderful mixture of young and old during the day, and mainly young boys and girls filling all the sidewalks, the roads and the chairs in the local cafes at night.

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Rimal Zahabieh is a must visit when you have a chance to be in Tartous during the summer. When you get in for the first time you are sure to be surprised very nicely indeed. It is also a clear indication of what private citizens could achieve without the intervention, interference or the “help” of the government in Syria and everywhere else.