Dear Syria

 Dear Syria,

I can’t believe your streets are hollow while people hide in basements and attics or flee across borders… I miss you, as I am sure thousands of your other children do.

I remember my dad taking me to Bab Touma and Kassah, where he grew up, and taking us through the streets and shops, retracing the footsteps he used to take to school and my mom showing us her university campus in Aleppo where she would spend hours finishing up her architecture projects and where she used to buy a sandwich from every time she was hungry…  I remember eating “sabbarah” after a tis’eeyeh dinner at Tric Trac café at Le Meridian hotel, then having provenceal style frog legs for lunch at the Shallal. I even remember that odd restaurant called “the Station” the best escalope of my life. I wonder what happened to that one waiter that served at the restaurant for the eight or so years we used frequent in our visits. Is he still alive?  I remember going to the monastery where my uncle lives nestled in the heart of Tellal, one of the popular market streets, attending mass with the Armenian Syrians gathered up in Sunday mass in the church just beside the monastery… I couldn’t then believe why my uncle would come back to Syria when he had the option to stay in Italy. I couldn’t believe it because I was too young to understand what it means to love your country with all its cracks and holes.

I remember standing from my grandparents’ balcony, on Baghdad street, overlooking the park  and my grandpa would just stare out into the hot summer day, polluted with diesel fuel and car horns. I miss those yellow decorated cabs with the sarcastic cab drivers and hearing some old guy in a tattered beanie yelling “JABBBASS” (watermelon in Allepo dialect) as he pulled the half broken carriage from a donkey. I miss the sound of the church bells and the call to prayer from the mosque that stood in their magnificent pride side by side. I don’t know when I will stand on that balcony again…

I am sorry for all the times I thought you did not live up to “western” standards, for making fun of you for having “Cheer up” instead of “7Up”. Forgive me for calling you backward in the face of modern society. Being unique and different was a flaw to me, now I see it as beautiful. Forgive me Syria, I was only a kid. Forgive your children who abandoned you many years ago, those who couldn’t live out their dream under a single “house” had no choice but to make a home on foreign soil…

Come back to us stronger and more beautiful. Keep your solidarity and pride. I know my parents and grandparents’ heart aches to watch you suffer as you bury your children in the land they call home. I am sorry you had to watch history take its toll on your soil once more… but I hope this is the last time. I hope the future brings you peace and serenity. I hope it restores the comradeship that Syrians once had for each other. I hope you blossom once more, Damascus you beautiful rose.

Love always,

Celine

The Start of my Day

9:23am Snooze alarm again. It always seems like a battle even with the hour grace period for Ramadan. Flip over to switch on the light. Crap my body is soar, my hamstrings especially. I flip back over slamming my head back onto the pillow that has taken the form of the side of my head. 2 more minutes. 9:28 damn iPhone alarm ringing again as I was about to continue my interrupted dream. My eyes yank open to a lit room. I tear myself away from under the sheets and put my hand on my lip. My scar is still there… aghh bikini waxing was never as painful as this upper lip tear. I remind myself to never go back to her. I slip on my ballerina slippers and check my blackberry and iPhone for any messages or emails. Nothing, except for junk mail. There are a few status updates on my blackberry friends list. Why do I have a need to do that, it’s almost become automatic. I drag myself to my beauty cabinet, and take out my hydra-moisturizer. Damn scar still hurts every time I move my lips. I continue on as usual, Vaseline Rose lip balm from London, concealer, light pink blush, mascara. Now my hair, an untamed mess of brown locks. God bless the clip, I just grab my hair into a semi bun and clip it altogether. There this ought to do it. I swing open my closet door and stare blankly at the pile of clothes. I reach for the tanned jumpsuit that my mom bought me from her trip to from Greece, Corfu to be more exact. More importantly it is comfortable under my abaya. I open my door to my maltese acting like a circus monkey jumping and turning and dancing on his hind feet. How can anyone be that jolly in the morning? I pat him on his head before I go in to the bathroom to brush my teeth.


10:05am Glasses still on, I climb up one flight on stairs. My hamstrings are still tight, I need to tell Pat. I walk into the foyer and through the glass doors into my office floor. Another week, but I can’t eat or drink in the office. It’s a good thing I remembered to put yoghurt in my purse in case I got hungry later. I knock onto the door of the kitchenette and Jalal opens the door babbling in Urdu on the phone. I give him the yoghurt and packed spoon and give him one of those “I am sorry but can you please but this in the fridge” smiles. I quickly grab a bottle of Nestle water and place it in the women’s bathroom. I am ready to start my day. I love Saturday’s for one reason only, most markets are closed which means I can catch up on my reading. I sit on my black swivel chair and place my purse and laptop bag on the mahogany desk. I look at my calendar and realize that I have four days before I know my CFA fate. My heart is suddenly in my throat and I felt queasy. I really don’t want to fail.

Cross Roads

When you are too consumed in the dailies, and the “looking forward to” moments are reduced to weekend plans, that end up being pretty much the same every week, it is easy to lose track of time, and more importantly of yourself.
Taking a step back to capture a panoramic view of your life is always a good reflection, or at least a confessional. Being objective about YOU is tough, but acknowledging your life in its entirety is a good start. You can see where you are at the cross roads, and decide “where do I go next?” I often find myself at that cross road situation, but it’s too short lived to take root and evolve into anything substantial because I resume into “life as usual”.

Perhaps this cross raods is different....

"A face to call home"- that's what real love is all about.

Making Sense of the Not so Sensical

Sometimes life throws curveballs your way and you are expected to deal with that situation on the spot… or more like try to wrap your head around the situation. As dark, cringing and deeply twisted as this situation may be the best you can do is make light of it. You can try to label it, decompose it, reverse engineer it, flip it inside out and upside down, but it’s like one of those abstract avant guarde paintings that just don’t make sense no matter which way you turn it. Whatever happened to classical paintings? So best tip is laugh about it, because laughter can turn into hysteria, and that’s always better than crying hysteria

The Break Up Chronicles

These are snippets of break up stories that I have seen, heard or lived through. I decided to keep the guy perspectives and stories out because who am I really to understand men in a break up? It's fascinating how much more emotion goes into a break up sometimes then there ever was  in the actual relationship.


…There he was. Her elegance gave way to a quivered hand shake and quick gasp of breath before she leaned in for a kiss on the cheek and the saving face smile, “how have you been?” She really didn’t want to know if he was doing well or terribly, she wanted an exit and she wanted it quick. She swiftly maneuvered herself away trying to brush off the tears that hung close to the fake lashes and the black eyeliner. “Don’t make a mess of things”, she told herself, “carry your pride higher than your hurt and you will be able to move on”.



…He never got back to her… She waited in a frantic state of existence, pacing around, holding the cell phone, throwing it on her bed, biting at the ends of her fingers, then picking it back up again and this time throwing her listless body on the bed with the phone tightly clasped between her hands. Nothing for months happened. The sobering thought of his disappearance from her life just made her want to drunkenly forget. There was sadness in every gulp of vodka. At this point she didn’t know if she was punishing herself or crying out for his attention.


…From summer fling to a new thing, she tried everything in her power to get over him. But as weeks grew to months his thought never escaped her mind. Did she just leave behind the best love? She spoke of him to others like he was still hers, often using the present tense rather that the past to describe what he does, what he likes and what his quirky habits are. When you speak in the present of a past is that the heart saying you still want him, or is that the mind playing tricks on you?


…Those hands that she once held, lips she once kissed and eyes she once gazed into are no longer hers. Why did she allow herself to imagine him with another woman, making her laugh, smile, and feel the way she once did around him? “He belongs to me” she repeated to herself over and over as tears trickled down her skin and onto the pillow. The dark room didn’t help, the music didn’t help, and the emptiness in her heart didn’t help. Only time would.


What happened to the man she used to look up to? He dissolved with a glass of Grey Goose and every drag of the cigarette. She thought it was a temporary escape away from the wraps of the real world he is still adjusting to. Of course everything was a lot easier when all you had to do in college is just pass the class and the night was your mistress. She stood by him then, and she stood by him now. But she cannot stand by him any more.


“And then what?” the dreaded three words her friend asked her. “…and then we lived happily ever after. And you got to be the maid of honor” she wanted to reply to her. But she couldn’t bring herself to say that, because what good are her dreams without a man willing to extend that kind of a promise to her? But the seed of doubt was planted, and she couldn’t help but wonder every night, “and then what?” She became neurotic and anxious around him, throwing out subtle insinuations here and there, beginning to doubt herself as being “not good enough” beginning to doubt if he ever truly loved her, “what if there is someone else?” Her neurosis drove him further away, he sensed something was amiss, but he never asked what it was, he knew exactly, and he didn’t have the answer to “and then what?”


…She sat in the widow seat, face pinned to the double glazed glass staring at the memories she was about to leave behind. This was it, the finale. She didn’t even notice the in-flight safety video playing in the background, all she could see were the tears cascading down her face and collecting onto her new scarf, all she could hear was his voice babying her. She picked up her phone, and dialed his number, she wanted him to hear her pain through the muted conversation of sobs and jet engine roars. The tears wouldn’t stop and nor would this feeling of helplessness.


…The moment she realized she was able to breathe without him, was the moment she realized she was over him. His cries for attention, his sweet words and sweeter actions were nothing but a passing fancy, nothing to ever satiate the once broken heart he left her with.

While the World Moves Forward, We Move in Circles.

We live in an age of dissonance. We live in a time where the search for oneself becomes an identity crisis. We live in a city where instead of finding ourselves we become the reaction of circumstances. We escape on small vacations hoping it would help rejuvenate us, but instead you come back realizing, “there has to be more to life than this”.


I have heard it too often in Jeddah amongst my friends, “What am I doing here”? You know what I realized; it has nothing to do with the city and everything to do with the birth of a new generation open to change in a place where knowledge is lopsided: “please don’t challenge or question” is the motto here. How can you carry the torch of change in a city that constrains you; your views, your opinions, and your actions are judged; if you are different you become the topic of conversation amongst shallow society. What we don’t realize is that while the rest of the world is moving forward, we spin round in circles. Expectations about our future are set by older generations, and because we have a sense of responsibility to carry forward family names we have a duty to recreate the past, rather than shape a better future.

In a social gathering not too long ago I heard someone talk about their ancestors; they came from the mountains of Yemen and are considered to be from the lineage of the “Ashraf” of Mecca. That’s wonderful history lesson but he just kept going on and on and on… with every word that came out he would inflate his chest like a proud peacock. That doesn’t make you a better man, doesn’t give you an air of superiority to bathe in, it doesn’t glorify you, it is just a nice story to hear. This is just one example of many.

We are a select and lucky few who were sent abroad and by “we” I mean those who follow my similar upbringing and path; we opened our minds, eyes and hearts to a world far more challenging than our own when we moved and studied abroad. I will be the first to admit how terrified I was, how lost I felt, I kept to myself, to my own comfort bubble. Only when I returned to the Middle East did I realize how sheltered we are, how narrow and impeding to our progression people around us are- because they don’t dare question they accept and move on. I was taught don’t be afraid to ask questions, don’t be afraid to challenge. That rarely happens here. We don’t move forward because we are locked two steps back and it’s partly because we don’t live with peace. Can you imagine Steve Jobs actually stayed in Syria rather than being adopted by American family? Let’s just say the only Apple we would know is the one we eat. We exist in a constant state of strife and war, with other countries, other political views, religions and with our selves… We don’t move forward, we spiral downwards.

Everything sacred about the human mind and heart becomes tainted here...It is human nature to question, to seek answers, to learn more to want our freedom. Jean-Jacque Rousseau once wrote "man is born free, but everywhere he is in chains" he also wrote "We are born, so to speak, twice over; born into existence, and born into life; born a human being, and born a man." The human being part, you can thank your parents for, the man part, that's the trickier one... do you want to be a man bound to chains or break the mold?