The
night had fallen; dark clouds engulfed the plane as the stewardess
announced our arrival. Looking out of my circular window I watched as
the rain came down, streaming off of the wings that had now opened its
landing gear. I had arrived; I was here, in Syria. Outside of the airport, my family gathered hugging
and kissing me, anxiously waiting to see what I had brought for them
from America.
We boarded the small and crowded Hyundai that was decorated with
pictures of the president. The windows were covered with black velvet
curtains with red flashing lights in the back window. This van belonged
to my cousin; he would take us to the village located three hours outside of
Damascus.
The highway had been completed since my last visit; lights now lined the
streets. Trash cans could be seen on corners, perhaps a subtle suggestion
that trash no longer needed to be thrown on the ground. Posted signs
told you where you were; this was especially good if you were not
familiar with the city.
Syria
was progressing; it was waking up from the old
traditional ways and embracing the new wave of technology and change.
Yet my international mobile phone could not get a signal. Looking
out over the desert that was barren and dry, save the rainstorm that was
upon us, I could see beautiful homes sprinkled across the desert, and
sheep grazing on the little patches of grass here and there.
We arrived at my village, the place where my grandparents and their
parents had grown up. The tall, brick wall that years ago had protected
people from raveling thieves and wondering Bedouins surrounded the old
part of the village. From the center of the old city I could see a cross
that was lit up in the night. It was a sign to all those who passed or
entered that this was a Christian village.
We turned off the only paved road and onto one of the many dirt roads
that was now muddy. A young boy bundled up to ward off the cold rode his
horse through the village pulling a cart and ringing a bell, shouting in
Arabic "Petrol, Petrol
for sale." Standing on her porch an older lady waited for the young
man to fill up her barrels with petrol so she would have heat in her
home. Patting the boy on the head, she paid him and he went off to the
next home. As we passed all of the new homes and business buildings
being constructed, my brother or cousin would say, "They live in America" or "They are not in Faruzie anymore."
At
the far end of town, I could see a small concrete building, the paint was
old, yet you could still see the aqua colour in places. The roof had
been covered with tin and the window at the front of the store was
cracked, held together now by gray masking tape. This was our store;
this was where we started. Directly behind the store was home. Grape
vines covered the entrance, the steps leading up to the front door were
cracked and worn with age. The door resisted as I tried to open it,
pushing hard against it with my shoulder the door grudgingly gave in and
allowed me entrance.
The
salon inside the house had been remodeled so the dilapitated state in
which it looked to be on the outside was somewhat deceiving. The petrol-heating stove sat in the middle of the room, warming us all from
the cold air outside. Sitting mats with green covers welcomed us to
relax, as plates of fruits and nuts were set before us.
Walking into the other room, the cold concrete chilled my feet,
reminding me of the way things had been before. Passing the unlit room
and walking into the kitchen I bumped my head. I had forgotten that the
ceiling was lower than in any other part of the house. Turning on the light,
I could see nothing had changed. The sink was old, the pipe below was
exposed and open at the end so that the water could pass freely into the
drain. The stove's original colour of white was gone in places and now
was black. We had never had an oven here. The "cupboards" in
our case were still the wire racks that held dishes in place on the
wall.
Moving on, but not too far, perhaps a foot or two, I was in front of the
sink with the little mirror that served as part of the washroom. The
toilet was the hole in the floor just as it had always been, with a
green hose to give the "flushing" effect. The door to its
entrance was still the aluminum door, now it was rusted. Looking to my
left, I saw the "shower.” This was made up of a pipe that allowed
water to come out, a plastic bowel that you put water in to throw on
yourself and the little tub that you could use to combine the soap and
water.
Thoughts of my home in Malibu
came to my mind. Running water, real bathrooms and
heating throughout the house--I missed it! In America, I would have never ventured into a home like this,
but at the end of the day, this was where I began my existence. I had
not been home for eight years and during that time I had forgotten a lot of
what I was seeing here, but now I was home, and it was Christmas.
The rain began to show signs of restraint as the sun began to rise over
the mountains painting the sky masterfully with splashes of orange, red
and yellow. Dark clouds were still in the sky, yet scattered among them
white clouds could be seen. Roosters began to crow, disrupting the sheep
and goats causing the dogs to howl in objection to all of the noise.
Children were beginning to get out of bed and from the village next to
ours the early morning prayers of "Allah
Akubar" could be heard. In our village the church bells began to
ring out--this was something I could not remember. Motorcycles passed
honking while the young men shouted out to each other, old men on
bicycles rode pass waving, some stopped to welcome me home.
Guests began to arrive at our home offering well wishes and gifts. It
seemed that, since I had arrived, I had not been given a moment's peace,
no privacy and no space. Nieces and nephews that I had never met tugged
at me, holding my hands, playing with my hair or just staring at me
smiling. Others who were just babies when I had left now sat by me
reading books in English to show what they had learned in school.
People that I knew and some that I did not questioned me on America. They told me of their children that lived in America. They shared their dreams to visit, work and perhaps
someday live in
America. For a moment all of the noise and the attention
seemed overwhelming, perhaps even annoying. I belonged here, yet I felt
as if I did not. To an outsider perhaps my village would seem poor and
uncultured or even labeled "unsanitary," yet everything about it
comforted me.
Looking at where I grew up I never remembered thinking that I was
disadvantaged or poor. I had everything that I desired as a child. I had
vineyards to play under in the summer, acres and acres of open land to
play soccer in. We had fields where I had dug up old coins that dated to
Marcus Aurelius and earlier times. I never went hungry; we had a farm
that produced eggplant, tomatoes, green beans, potatoes and so much
more. Life here had been good to me, I'd had no complaints. Yet now I
stood apart from my family. This whole trip felt like I had slipped into
a time portal and traveled back in time.
Today
it was Christmas, and I was with my family in
Syria.
Yes, I live in
America
where the streets are paved and there are all the
amenities that make life more comfortable. I live in America,
where at Christmas time the lines at malls become
longer, and the patience of the buyers are greater. On the corner you
can hear people singing songs, Santa posing for pictures with children
and lights shining bright into the night. Oh, how lovely it all is, but
today I've come to realize that in order to appreciate what you have you
must accept where it is you come from. In order to go further you must
remember where you have been.
No
gift could ever compare to this realization that I have come to accept
today.
