-.....

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

(..... = Kiss Ikht Hal Zaman Yalli Khalla el-Manayek Terkab Fkayek = The vagina of these days and times' sister which had let the dickheads ride boats)

For a Drink of Water

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Blogging Syria

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Phoenician Gods & Meksayta

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.

Fool With a Lantern

Once more, Arima, a woman I’ve met only in dreams, touched me gently on the… shoulder. "Humor me again", she whispered. "Answer my tag".

"What is the purpose of your blog?"

I started blogging with no purpose at all. Hardly a few days had passed after I'd learned what a blog was when I decided to start my own. The title I chose: abufares said… the world according to a tartoussi was the first to come to mind. Since I wanted my blog to mirror my spontaneity I didn’t hesitate. There was a description to be filled on the automated Blogspot form. I remembered something I’d came across years before and which had stuck with me. I still am not sure who wrote it. It must've been Franz Kafka, I reckon. I stopped in my track and looked for a considerable time on Google and elsewhere. Without a trace. I couldn’t find any reference to a similar quotation. I scavenged the grooves of remembrance and articulated the words to the best of my recollection. In between quotation marks, I wrote: "A man walking alone on a deserted beach, brandishing a lantern in his outstretched hand might be a fool. But, for a ship that went astray on a stormy night, the same man is a savior."

Voila! My blog was born.

I had been writing technical and commercial communication as part of the different jobs I'd held over the years. My readers and recipients were aware that I’m good with words. Nevertheless it was a thankless chore. Blogging was different and when the initial comments appeared I was pleasantly surprised. Fulfillment was instantaneous and copious and a bona fide purpose was conceived in the course of a quick courting between heartening bloggers/readers and me. Within two years I became a member of an exquisite family. I was a little older than most, nevertheless I felt right at home and settled in rather nicely.

I blog to render images of my hometown. Tartous is my birthplace and is where I want to be laid to rest. There is no other place I’d rather be but home. I’m thrilled to take wing like a sparrow, to wander high and low then to return to my one and only nest where I close my eyes and still see in the pitch black of darkness.

I blog about my enduring journey in life. There might be a lesson to learn or I might be a fool to think as much. I’m made up of bittersweet memories, of lingering pain, of fleeting moments of happiness, of disappointments, of contentment, of fancy, of veracity, of an insatiable desire to walk the trail to its very end. I want to stand tall at the end of my voyage and mumble with Sinatra that I did it my way. I’d like a transient young reader in despair to finish a post with a smile on his face. Knowing that someone returns to my blog because she finds solace in my words makes me the happiest man alive, if I dare hope as much.

I blog about the pleasures, the gifts, the good times I’ve been blessed with. I love my family and I want them to know. I love my friends, I love women, I love a good bite, I love a luscious wine, I love an uplifting spirit, I love the old stones of my country, I love a faded coat, I love to be flooded by my senses, I love to ride my bike, I love to fly, I love my solitude, I love the sound of silence. I blog to expose my love for all to see.

Like beautiful Arima, I blog therefore I am.

*I'm tagging DJ, Lujayn & Shannon

From Santa Fe to Bloudan

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I had a dream