The Ghosts of Anatolia

by Steven E. Wilson

  Michael glanced questioningly at his father. Keri nodded.

  “Papa Sirak,” Michael began, “I’ve been thinking about everything you told us about Anatolia and Syria. I can’t get it out of my mind. I have lots of questions. Do you feel like talking?”

  Sirak smiled at his grandson. “I think I can manage. What do you want to know?”

  “Why did you leave Syria?”

  Sirak folded his hands on the table and let out a long sigh. “I fell in love.”

  Michael glanced at his father. “You fell in love? You told us that you’d betrayed Ammar’s trust.”

  “Yes, I did. You see, I fell in love with a Druze girl. It was forbidden.”

  Michael frowned. “Did you get her pregnant?”

  “Michael!” his father scolded.

  Sirak patted Keri’s hand. “It’s okay; it’s a valid question, but no, that is not what happened. I noticed her for the first time at a community gathering when she was fourteen years old. I was sixteen and couldn’t stop looking at her. We exchanged glances for months after that before I finally got up enough nerve to speak. Even then, all we managed was a self-conscious hello.” Sirak smiled. “She had eyes that sparkled with joy and the sweetest temperament. My Druze sisters thought she was rather plain, but, to me, she was a vision of loveliness.

  “As the years passed, pining glances and brief conversations budded into forbidden romance. We shared our first kiss when she was seventeen, and when she was eighteen—aided by her favorite brother, Umar—we began to meet every few weeks at a secluded oasis in the desert. We held hands and exchanged a kiss or two, nothing more than that. After a while, we fell helplessly in love and began making foolish plans to elope to Damascus.”

  “How old were you when you made those plans?” Keri asked.

  Sirak’s smile faded into sadness. “I was twenty. But then, in the summer of 1928, when I turned twenty-one and she was eighteen, my life shattered to pieces…”

  CHAPTER 44

  September 3, 1928

  Just outside of Rashayya, Syria

  Sirak’s muscles bulged under the weight of an oversized bundle of wheat. He leaned over the tailgate of the wagon, tossed the bundle atop a stack, and brushed the chaff from his cloak. Looking up, his eyes scanned the hillside to the grassy plain of Rashayya Al Wadi and followed the meandering river to the south toward far-off Mount Hermon.

  Standing erect and wiry, with broad shoulders that tapered to a narrow waist, Sirak’s sun-bronzed face was framed with a neatly-trimmed mustache and beard. His head was covered with a white turban and the ends wrapped loosely around his neck. His face wasn’t particularly handsome, at least by Muwahhidun standards, but he’d nonetheless grown into a vigorous and self-confident young man. His maturity was attributable in large measure to the nurturing and love he received from the man and woman he’d affectionately called Abee and Ummee for over fourteen years.

  Ammar walked from the house wearing a baggy white shirwal pants that were tight at the ankles above his sandals. He wore a traditional red and white-checkered kufiya on his head. “Are you ready, Sirak?”

  “Yes, Abee.”

  “You can drive.”

  Sirak untied the horse and scampered up the side of the wagon. Sitting atop a stack of wheat, he turned the wagon in a tight circle and pulled to a stop beside Ammar.

  The front door of the house burst open and Azusa rushed outside wearing a traditional dark blue dress with a white headscarf and shawl. “Where are you going? The wedding starts in less than two hours.”

  “We’ll be home in plenty of time,” Ammar called back to her. “I promised Mohamed a wagonload of wheat by Saturday, and I can’t do it tomorrow.”

  “Be back in an hour,” she huffed. “Sirak must change his clothes, even if you don’t.”

  Ammar laughed and waved his arm. “Don’t worry. If we’re late, I’ll ask Ali and his wife to pick you up.”

  “Don’t be late!” she barked.

  Sirak drove the wagon down a steep switchbacked grade and skirted a beautifully terraced hillside olive grove. Comfortable in their silence, neither man spoke over the clatter of the wheels until they reached the dry riverbed that formed the southern boundary of Ammar’s farm. Sirak, his eyes squeezed to slits, reveled in the warmth of the noonday sun.

  “How does the Rashayya School suit you?” Ammar hollered above the clatter of the wagon.

  “Just fine. Why do you ask?”

  “No reason in particular; but I heard talk from the men in the village that Abdullah Mousa’s son and some of his friends had harsh words for you. What’s the boy’s name?”

  “Barek, the green-eyed fool. That idiot’s jealousy knows no bounds.”

  “Have you given him a reason for jealousy?”

  Sirak glanced at Ammar. “Of course not. I’ve known his betrothed for many years, but I haven’t spoken to her since their engagement was announced four months ago.”

  “What’s the girl’s name?”

  “Yasmin; she’s Ezekiel Jumblatt’s daughter.”

  “Oh, Umar’s sister. Do you gaze at her?”

  “No, not at her in particular. I might look at a group she happens to be standing with, but when did that become a sin?”

  Ammar stared amusedly at Sirak for several moments.

  Sirak held the reins tightly through a sharp turn and then glanced at Ammar. “What?”

  “What does this Yasmin look like?”

  “Like a girl,” Sirak replied curtly. He turned his eyes to the trail and ignored Ammar’s persistent stare.

  “Is she pretty?”

  “I guess some might think so, but Nazira says there are many prettier girls in the village.”

  “I’m sure I’ve seen her. Describe her to me.”

  “I can’t describe her. She just looks like a girl.”

  “Is her skin light or dark?”

  “Light.”

  “And her eyes?”

  Sirak sighed exasperatedly. “They’re green.”

  “How about her hair?”

  “Brown.”

  “Light or dark, short or long?”

  “She has long, light-brown hair, but she usually wears it tied up.”

  “Is she fat?”

  “No, if anything, she’s on the thin side.”

  “Let me ask you this. If you haven’t looked at her in particular, how is it you can describe her so thoroughly?”

  “Whoa!” Sirak barked. He reined the horses to a stop in the middle of the trail and turned to face Ammar. “Yasmin is friendly with Layla and Izabella, and when they were younger, they played together after the meetings on Thursday nights. So, naturally, I know the color of her hair and eyes, but that doesn’t mean I gave Barek any cause for jealousy. Everyone in the village knows her father forced the engagement with Barek, and initially she wasn’t happy with the choice, but so far as I know, it had nothing to do with me. Layla can give you more details, if you’re truly interested. Any more questions?”

  “No,” Ammar replied with a grin. He patted Sirak on the knee. “Let’s go. We mustn’t be late.”

  Sirak spurred the horses and the two men rode in silence until the wagon bumped over a bridge past two Druze riding in the opposite direction. Recognizing them, Ammar waved affably and both men waved back.

  Ammar wrapped his arm around Sirak’s shoulders. “Sirak, I know we’ve spoken of it before, but it’s been a long time. The ways of the Muwahhidun are very strict, and we must all abide by the tenets of the Tawhid faith.”

  “I know, Abee. I’ve understood since I was ten that Izabella and I can never be part of the Muwahhidun community. There’s no need to repeat it.”

  “You’re like a son to me—my only son—and nothing pains me more than the fact that I cannot fully share my life with you—most of all, my faith in God. Countless times I’ve lain awake at night agonizing about this unbendable truth. I even petitioned the Uqql and asked if there couldn’t be some exception laid out in the hikm
ah, especially considering your service during the revolution against the French oppressors, but they were unbending. No special considerations are possible.”

  Staring up the road, Sirak nodded in comprehension.

  “You’ve come of age, and it’s to be expected that your thoughts would turn to marriage and family. I have cordial relations with Stephen, the Christian baker in Rashayya. Would you like me to make inquiries regarding available Christian girls?”

  “No, Abee,” Sirak whispered sadly, “perhaps one day, but not right now.”

  “As you wish, Son, but at least you might consider a switch to the Christian school.”

  Sirak peered solemnly at Ammar. “Okay, I’ll consider it.”

  Riding on in silence, the frustration of both men was palpable. One yearned desperately to lend assistance; the other felt trapped by an unbreakable web of tradition; while both were unwilling prisoners to the past.

  Sirak climbed down from the wagon and tied the horse to a rail. He helped Azusa, Layla and Izabella out of the bed. All the women wore customary dark-blue dresses and white head coverings.

  Fatima and Nazira rushed across the lot to greet them. “Wasn’t it the loveliest wedding you’ve ever seen?” Fatima asked excitedly. “Nadia was so beautiful.”

  Azusa kissed them both. “It was a stunning ceremony.”

  Fatima and Nazira kissed Sirak on the cheek. “How’s school?” Fatima asked.

  “It’s great. I’m studying with Qaseem Jumblatt this month.”

  Nazira gave Izabella a hug. “I missed you.”

  “Then why don’t you come visit me anymore?” Izabella replied timidly.

  Nazira took Izabella’s hands. “I’m sorry, but I’ve been so busy helping Umar’s parents with their new house. Sit with me at the reception and I’ll tell you all about it.”

  “You women will have plenty of time to gossip later,” Ammar said. “Let’s go join the others.”

  The family walked across a grassy plaza and past a gathering of Uqql leaders sitting in a large circle. Several hundred Druze villagers from throughout the Rashayya area had already gathered for the reception. The men crowded around tables piled extravagantly high with food and drink, while the women congregated in a nearby courtyard. Many adults, both male and female, had outlined their eyes with dark kohl.

  Sirak stuck close to Ammar. They served themselves and sat on the ground beside a roaring fire pit where several men engaged in a spirited conversation about ongoing French intrusions into Druze affairs.

  Sirak listened for the better part of an hour before wandering off to the yard outside the khalwa building. He loathed weddings and funerals, for it was these events, so steeped in Druze tradition, when he was most painfully aware of being an outcast from both his adopted family and the community.

  Ammar took a sip of wine. “It’s excellent, Kamil. I haven’t had wine since my daughter’s wedding last summer. If you don’t mind, I’ll take Sirak a glass.”

  The portly farmer nodded. “Of course, what’s a wedding without wine?”

  Ammar spotted Sirak sitting by himself in a grassy yard next to the Khalwa temple. He was gazing up at the nearly full moon.

  Ammar wove his way through the throng of men and cheerfully greeted everyone he passed. When he broke clear of the crowd, he looked up and stopped dead in his tracks.

  A slender young woman, who was standing apart from others beneath a tree, peered out toward the temple. Sirak looked up and they locked eyes for a long moment. Finally, Sirak looked down and the young woman turned back to her friends.

  Ammar retreated to the gathering of men. He sat alone beside the fire pit, and looking up, caught sight of Abdullah Mousa headed his way. Abdullah was rather tall for a Druze and his long beard was generously sprinkled with gray.

  “Greetings, Ammar. God has blessed us with a glorious evening.”

  “Yes, He has, Abdullah. It’s been a wonderful day for a wedding.”

  “Truly. How’s your family?”

  “Growing,” Ammar replied with a chuckle. “Fatima is expecting another child.”

  “Congratulations to you all! And how was your harvest?”

  “We’ve never harvested more apples and olives, and the wheat crop was exceptional, too.”

  “I’m happy to hear it. I want to talk with you about Sirak.”

  “What about him?”

  “How old is the boy now?”

  “He’ll be twenty-one in February.”

  “Twenty-one already. Where does the time go? The mischievous boy has become a strapping young man.”

  “Yes, he has, with a loyal heart of gold.”

  “I’d expect nothing less since you and Azusa raised him. There’s something difficult I must ask you, my friend. Does Sirak know of the Tawhid doctrines concerning outsiders?”

  Ammar’s smile faded to a frown. “What do you mean?”

  “He knows he can never be counted among the Muwahhidun?”

  “Yes, he’s painfully aware of his circumstance. In fact, we spoke about it just today.”

  “Having three sons myself, I can’t begin to imagine how painful this must be for both of you,” Abdullah said ruefully. “Has he made a decision about his future?”

  “He’s preoccupied with school. He wants to be a doctor.”

  “A doctor,” Abdullah exclaimed. “That’s certainly a lofty ambition. Have you encouraged this choice?”

  “I’ve had nothing to do with it. When Sirak was a young boy, there was an American missionary doctor in Anatolia who cared for him after a viper bite. He encouraged Sirak to pursue medical training, and the boy’s never forgotten.”

  “It’s a worthy choice, indeed; but if Sirak’s to fulfill this dream, he must leave Rashayya to receive proper training. Either Damascus or Cairo would be a good choice.”

  “Someday, perhaps, unless he changes his mind. As you know, young men often dither about their chosen vocation.”

  “Yes, that’s certainly true. Ammar, let me be frank with you, we Ajaweed discussed Sirak’s situation last Thursday night. You and Azusa are to be commended for your noble efforts to rescue these orphans. You’ve raised them to be trustworthy and responsible citizens, but the Ajaweed have decided they’ll both be further harmed psychologically if they continue to reside among us. It’s time for him to return to his people. His sister must go with him.”

  “The Ajaweed decided this?” Ammar asked guardedly. “Would this decision have anything to do with Ezekiel Jumblatt’s daughter?”

  “Yasmin? No, not in the least. Why would it? The girl is betrothed.”

  “Yes, I know—the girl is engaged to your son. Perhaps someone is concerned about feelings lingering in the girl’s heart?”

  Abdullah’s black eyes revealed nothing of his thoughts. He peered at Ammar for a moment and took a deep breath. “I’ve come to you as a friend, Ammar, and I hope to leave as a friend. The girl is Muwahhidun, and she must marry Muwahhidun. Would you destroy her relationship with her family and her community? You know what her family’s response would be to infidelity, or even the hint of infidelity. You must consider the girl’s well-being, too.”

  Ammar glanced past Abdullah. Sirak was still sitting by himself next to the khalwa building. “You’re right,” he whispered despondently. “I’ll talk to Azusa and the children.”

  “It’s the right thing to do. You can rest assured the community will provide whatever financial assistance is needed to resettle them.”

  “Thank you for your candor. I’ll let you know what we decide.”

  “Good evening, my friend. May God grant you the wisdom of al-Hakim.” Abdullah turned and walked slowly back to the Uqql gathering.

  Ammar watched two of the Ajaweed get up from their seats to talk to him. He downed the rest of his wine, rose to his feet, and ducked beneath a low-hanging branch. Then he walked across the grassy clearing to the temple. “Sirak.”

  Sirak looked up dejectedly. “Yes, Abee?”

  “It
’s time to go home.”

  Sirak nodded. He stood up and walked with Ammar to fetch the women for the journey back to the farm.

  CHAPTER 45

  A week later

  Azusa rested her head on Ammar’s shoulder and wiped tears away with her fingertips. “Why do the Ajaweed have such callous hearts?” she asked dejectedly. “They know Izabella’s completely dependent on us for her physical and emotional support. Who’ll mind her while Sirak attends school?”

  “I don’t know. Perhaps the church in Jerusalem will help them or maybe Sirak will find a wife. As hard as this will be, we must consider his future, too. His prospects will be limited if he stays here. There’ll be a better chance for him to pursue his dreams in Jerusalem.”

  “Who’ll see that they get there safely?” Azusa asked fretfully. “The journey to Jerusalem is long and perilous.”

  “Mustafa, the basket-weaver, knows a merchant who travels here from Jerusalem to buy merchandise twice a year. He’s dealt with him for many years and he assures me the man is trustworthy. Mustafa expects him soon. I’ll ask him to take Sirak and Izabella to Saint James Cathedral when he arrives. We must trust that they’ll care for their own. Dry your tears now and I’ll go find Sirak.”

  Ammar got up from the bench and headed outside. After a few minutes, he stepped back inside with Sirak.

  “Please sit down,” Ammar said. “Azusa and I have something important to talk with you about.”

  Azusa grasped Sirak’s hand mournfully.

  Sirak glanced at Azusa and frowned worriedly. “What’s wrong, Abee?”

  Ammar stared at his hands. Looking up at Sirak, he opened his mouth to speak, but then turned away.

  “Abee, what’s wrong? Is it Izabella?”

  Ammar took a deep breath. “No, my son, Izabella’s fine, but I have something difficult to discuss with you. It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life.”

  Sirak’s shoulders drooped with apprehension.