“Are you hungry, Father?”
“No, no! Have you brought me some batteries for the radio?”
“Baba, I replaced the batteries yesterday.”
“Oh, bring me the radio.”
“Sure, father.”
“And tea.”
“Give me few seconds.”
“Bring me the radio and then make the tea”
Sara rushed in to get him the radio. She noticed that the radio had been moved from where she had put it last. Her distracted state cut her short from giving it much thought. She took it out to him. “Here it is. The tea will be ready in no time.” He took the radio without a word. He brought it close to his right ear and started listening. In few minutes Sara brought him a large mug of hot tea.
“Not the mug!”
“Baba, once you finish it, I’ll get you another one. I just don’t want you to burn yourself again.”
“You’re disrespectful!”
Sara did not dignify his words with a reply. She just went inside. The downcast little thing literally went into a corner and began whimpering, mourning her pride. Without a doubt, she knew that by the dawn of the next day, her town would strip her of her honour. Keening over her lost reputation, she couldn’t hear her shouting father. To her surprise, one of the pedestrians had allowed himself into her house. That was when she started to hear her father’s poisonous words streaming forth. Distracted by the venomous premonition of the ordeal to come, she felt the blind man’s presence before seeing him. The excruciating pain of his heavy cane only amplified her sense of self-loathing, marking in her thoughts the end of her life, at least in this town. Sara managed to push her father away and run to his room. She grabbed her identity card and some cash she has stashed in there.
Bassel spotted her couple of days after she fled the country. In an attempt to end a quarrel between her and a guy from her hometown, Bassel stood between them, his hands stretched to their fullest, but without touching either of them. Trying to prevent any attempts of physical contact, he took the guy aside. “What is your problem? You are causing a scene”, Bassel spoke loudly. He kept looking at both of them.
“Tarek, what is it?”
“Take the whore outside.”
“Lower your voice.”
Tarek’s face and demeanour showed all signs of shame, failing to make any eye contact with Bassel. His shame was replaced by rage, every time he looked at Sara. Sensing Tarek’s heavy breath, Bassel whispered, “Calm down… calm down! Whatever your issue might be, this is no way to solve it. You are just causing a scene. Lady, what’s your name?”
“Sara,” she replied as she lowered her head.
“There is a shop over the corner. Can you wait for me over there? It won’t take long, I promise,” Bassel gently instructed.
She shook her head slowly, sighing with disappointment, her tears of sadness dripping faster and faster as she walked toward the thrift shop. As so often happens, her story had travelled faster than her. Tarek told Bassel the town’s exaggerated and dishonouring tale of Sara and the teacher. Without much thought she had come to Tarek seeking help. He finished her disowning with “Whoring is a better business for her!”
“Let me handle this”, Bassel said. Tarek gave him a sickening smile as Sara’s apparent defender rushed to meet her. Walking on the brown soil of Subra Street, he made his way, avoiding any eye contact with those he knew to be Palestinian street thugs.
“I heard you are trying to find a place to stay and a job. Let me make some calls, I know a few families and ladies staying at San Mishael. Are you hungry? Let’s get something to eat. Let’s get some thyme pies.” Sara followed him, keeping a snail’s pace. “Is it your first time here? I mean in Lebanon.”
“Oh, yes. How long have you been here?”
“Ha… ha, since I turned twelve.”
“So I guess, I could ask you about everything in the city.”
“I won’t say that I know everything. I know what I need to know. I am going to help you, don’t worry. We are here! In Lebanon they add onion to thyme pies, it sounds weird, but believe me it is really good. I’ll get you one.”
The pie shop was barely big enough for the two men already inside to move around. A long steel table was fixed on the shop door to prepare batches for baking.
“Can you get me two thyme pies,” Bassel said as he handed one of the bakers a thousand Lebanese Liras. Bassel's mouth was watering and he looked at Sara excitedly. Sara couldn’t help it but give him a gentle smile. The other baker placed the two pies on the table. “It is better hot,” Bassel said as he got two papers. With the tips of his fingers, he pulled each pie over the papers. Hypnotised by them, in a gentle tone, “Sara please take yours; it is better hot!”
“Yum, it is surprisingly good!”
“See, I told you.”
Sara did not like it, though she collected every ounce of self-control to suppress any hint of rudeness. She even complimented his choice.
I had known Bassel for a while then. He didn’t get sarcasm. He couldn’t read people. In fact, he never had a clue. You couldn’t be subtle around any issue, you had to be as blunt as possible. Since their meeting, Bassel had gone out of his way to help Sara. He made a point to dine with her every day. It was clear to me that he really liked her. I went out with them a number of times. He tried to hide his affection toward her. The funny thing was, his feelings were very obvious, even to strangers.
I recalled a day – by that marble seat, Bassel put his arm around my shoulder as he kept going on and on about Sara’s first day at work. I was telling myself, please not The Shopping Tale. The shopping tale was the most boring. I had heard that story more than five times. I never hid my lack of interest in that day when they went shopping together. He took her to two malls. They ate at a fast food restaurant. For Sara it was by far the fanciest restaurant she had ever been to. If memory serves it was KFC. Long story short, they ended up buying clothes from a thrift shop.
I was really tired that day. My train of thought was broken and I couldn’t help but look absent-minded. Tightening his arm around my shoulders, excitedly and with a hint of triumph, Bassel loudly and pleasantly enquired, “Adam, isn’t she beautiful?”
“Are you kidding me? Beautiful does not begin to do her justice!” Now Sara was pretty, but knowing his affections toward her, I had to exaggerate. My words were music to his ears. He smiled and started to tell me about her roommates, her cooking skills, the colour of her eyes, the way she ate thyme pie, all the little details, and of course the shopping tale.
“Bassel, I think you like her. You know she is innocent. She didn’t do what they think she did. Are you in love with her?”
“Love?! Are you fucking with me? I can only love the one I marry.”
I should have known better and pretended to accept that insolent mentality but instead I asked, “Why don’t you marry her?” He suddenly lifted his arm and glowered at me menacingly. I knew that look. I have angered many in my life before.
“Adam, I think of you as a brother. Why are you disrespecting me? They all lie! Do you think I believe her? Of course she’ll claim innocence. She is a whore and I thought you knew what I am after. How can you accept somebody’s leftovers for me? You told me that I am like a brother to you. How dare you? She is a leftover and I deserve an honourable woman. Not a whore!”
Thinking back, I have always questioned my friendships. I am certain if I was then the same person I am today, I would’ve done things differently. I might’ve made different choices or at least elicited some change in his mindset. Bassel would have been an easy case. I would’ve conditioned him in less than a month. I would’ve stripped him from all the idiotic impulses, making him willingly revolt on that fucked-up value system.
Turning from Bassel to the ocean, my mouth couldn’t help but spell it out, even then, “Leftover, my ass!”
Chapter 3
Barricading the Roads to Jesus
“Hey Sadiki Adam!”
>
“Hello Mr Smith. Your Arabic pronunciation is quite good, my friend! Hey Sami,” I tried not to show my irritation of meeting Sami, “you are out at this hour. It is early for you,” I noted as I looked at Mr Smith.
Mr Smith placed a hand on my right shoulder and grinned, “You are an easy man to find. I hope you’re not starving. I am sorry, I am not on time. I was in Butterworth; it took me almost an hour to cross the bridge. Where is Mustafa?”
Observing the downcast Sami, my mind lingered on keywords like starving, not on time, sorry, where is Mustafa. Thus, I deduced that it must be another one of Sami’s moments; eventually, I realised that Mustafa and I had been invited to lunch. Yet another time he intentionally didn’t pass on a message. Tactless, self-righteous, self-conscious, sectarian, racist, misogynistic,, judgemental, envious, shameless, ultra-materialist, bottom feeder, and backstabbing coward, to name a few, are the adjectives my subconscious mind transferred to my working memory upon encountering Sami. For in recent days, I had discovered that Sami was also a Shape Shifter. In other words, he could master the theft of your identity, character, personality, and individuality. I overheard him crediting himself for my opinions and telling past stories of mine as his.
I still remember the time Mustafa called me at around two in the morning. He woke me up and pressed me to check Sami’s post on Facebook. It was about a Syrian dessert for which I kept my recipe a secret. Through trial and error, I had managed to develop a technique to make it soft and moist. I even had a unique topping for it. My compatriots would gather at my house, waiting for the Harisa to cool down. Sami would take the most, yet he was its biggest critic. It wasn’t only me; nobody seemed to be good enough. He knew that I used Facebook merely to read the news. I told Mustafa, it is not the first time for Sami to credit himself for something he didn’t do. I laughed a bit. Then, Mustafa said he hadn’t just claimed that he made it, he had also shared some of it with his local friends. He continued, “There is a comment by one of his friends, telling him how much she liked it and wants a bigger portion next time.” I replied, “You know Sami, man.” Mustafa couldn’t forget that incident.
Sami also tended to forget his own opinions, arguments, thoughts, and probably what he claimed to be his past. He would use my position on a number of issues and, in contrary to actual events, would claim that it had been the same all along. I confronted him on multiple occasions and his only response was to diagnose me with dementia. With him, I had nothing to prove and thus I let it slide, mostly. Nonetheless, sometimes I get carried away and recount the course of previous events. For in some positions, one is distinguished by some pattern or footprint of some sort. He wouldn’t steal your ID card, but he’d be you in the superficial, intellectual sense. He’d copy classmates’ ideas and claim authorship. He’d use your pick up lines. He’d claim your achievements, even the deepest, most personal tragedies. His personal style was copied from a friend of his. From his choice of the colour to his accent, be it Arabic or English, all had been stolen. Foremost, his life before we met and his past had changed too many times; he would take over yours, in your absence, when it served. Like the one-celled amoebae’s ability to change its shape, the douche would change his past in heartbeat.
“Mustafa is busy,” Sami shamelessly replied. I had known Mustafa for ages; he wouldn’t miss such an event. A lunch on somebody else, he preyed on such ceremonies. I was not a big fan of Mustafa though. One time I told him that it was fortunate that he was good-looking. He didn’t get it! He even asked me to be direct with him; he couldn’t dissect any subtle messages. Even in the most direct and oversimplified manner, he almost always missed the point. He had certain expressions for his idiocy. He would stare down at you as if to emphasise some sort of intellectual supremacy. I have to say, it didn’t do him any favours. He was by far the most legible face of idiocy. Seeing that face, I’d shake in my seat, gripping the table edge in fabricated fear. “Fuck off, man! You are scaring nobody,” I’d say. I remember he was angered by a friend once and claimed that he would explain it to us but our lack of sophistication would make his efforts fruitless. To him, we were all very primitive.
Mr Smith led the way out of the café and made a few suggestions. He was a pacifist in all senses of the term. He had spent years in Oman. He seemed to be captivated by Arabian cultural norms. Mr Smith fascinated me; he was a very spiritual man. Hearing him talk, I imagined myself touching his face and going around him before asking, what are you? Growing to be a sceptic of human kindness, I couldn’t get him. I thought, nobody could be this caring and sympathetic. Besides his generosity, Mr Smith really listened, a quality for which I often yearned. I had made his acquaintance through Bob. Bob and Donald were old friends who shared two common denominators with Mr Smith, namely, Americans and Christians. I came to name Bob and Donald The Christian Battalion of Proselytisation. Mr Smith was a little different. A very proud Christian, but I hadn’t witnessed his preaching in the explicit sense. Thus, I could not associate him with that battalion. How dare I to make such claims, especially after I had developed a tactic to make those preachers stray from their inevitable Road to Jesus? After all, I could not accuse him of that without him explicitly preaching to me.
I was not an atheist chauvinist myself; opposed to theological supremacy and absolutism. Mr Smith and I had many philosophical discussions that always escalated to an intellectual argument. It was like we had an unspoken agreement to have our say and then clarify why we agreed or disagreed. He often ended up agreeing with me, leaving me in limbo, not sure whether he was convinced or just patronising me.
Being the shortest, I avoided walking in the middle. We strolled for a while before Sami shamelessly picked the most expensive restaurant. Again, it was free and for Sami the music was playing to his ears. The restaurant was too pricy, even for Mr Smith. Since the day I first met Sami, he had never invited a soul unless there was something in it for him. Mr Smith’s shyness prevented him from objecting. On Sami’s request, the hostess led us to the smoking area. We seated ourselves and scanned the menu, except for Sami of course. He studied every item and ordered the most expensive ones from the appetiser to the main course to the drinks. The wine was very expensive and I gave him a look before voicing my disapproval. He looked at Mr Smith but couldn’t decipher any encouragement. “Fine,” he said as he shrugged, displaying his irritation. I took a single espresso and Mr Smith picked the cheapest salad on the menu. He pressed me to order something but I claimed to have taken my lunch earlier.
As Sami greedily consumed from the surplus of dishes, I made a few inquiries in regards to Mr Smith’s father’s health. He had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. We drifted from one topic to another as Sami devoured Mr Smith’s salad. Staring at him I recalled one of my town’s old sayings that goes ‘nothing fills his eye but soil.’ It implies that nothing fills a greedy man’s void except for death. The restaurant was more of a dating place. For Mr Smith and I, it didn’t feel right. Sami wanted to order another drink but Mr Smith insisted on going elsewhere. For reasons beyond my comprehension, Sami was angered by my welcoming of Mr Smith’s suggestion. Actually, it was more of a decision. I was out of my natural habitat and the extravagance of the place had started to poison my mood. Besides, I couldn’t care less about Sami’s desires.
We seated ourselves in the café patio. For a while Mr Smith studied the array of superbikes that were parked on the sand by the ocean while the barista served us our coffee.
He drew us out, enquiring “Who are we? Really, who are we?” Sami was silent most of the time. How couldn’t he be?! He was smart enough not to wear my skin and tell its tales in front of me. When forced to get by on the bare minimum, from things of material value to emotional investments, one’s personality and individuality might endeavour to compensate for all their misfortunes and fill her or his void. But there is a fine line between being inspired by someone and copying that person’s past.
If it wasn’t for Mr Smith being here, I would
say “You’re full of shit,” I thought. Immediately, I realised if I kept quiet, Mr Smith would start to preach. I knew whatever road he was about to take, it would inevitably lead us to the Saviour, Almighty Jesus. I wanted to avoid my inevitable annoyance that would follow that trite cliché, that is, Jesus spoke to me. So I figured it was time for a grand diversion. Barricading the Road to Jesus was an awesome tactic. Being calculating and aware of subtle clues helped keep me vigilant; for in the position of a potential argument or a debate, my odds would improve. I knew that allowing him to elaborate his point would put me on the defensive. Defence was a losing position that inclined toward investing too many thoughts and being persuasive; the best odds were getting permission to be yourself. Barricading the road to Jesus would reverse that state of affairs.
Bearing in mind his most probable intention, I contended, “Firmly, I believe that one shouldn’t be reduced to gender and sexual orientation, ethnicity, nationality, clan. There is a lot to an individual. We might be to some level the products of our environments. Still, the sum of our experiences, in reconciliation with the context, shapes our perspectives. I am what I have control over and I am the choices I make. I am the sum of my tragedies and triumphs, achievements and shortcomings, wrongdoings, ideologies, flaws, conscience, ethical and unethical conduct, political correctness and incorrectness, allies and enemies, intellect and backwardness, open-mindedness and closed-mindedness, levels of empathy and psychopathy, and much more. Maybe what makes us alike can come in handy but what defines us is a tally of our differences; all of them, not reducing any of us to a uniform character.” I had lost Sami at “Firmly.” Mr Smith eventually agreed with me. After all, I had barricaded the road to Jesus and he couldn’t spot a single turn to his desired destination.
An Ishmael of Syria Page 3