بقعة

الطريق إلى دمشق يمرّ عبر مطار الشعيرات. و لكن شاول اليوم لا يشبه بولس الأمس.. شتان بين من نشر سلاماً، و بين من جاء على الصواريخ محملاً كرهاً و خراباً

في زمنٍ مضى أضاء نورٌ طريق ضال.. في زمننا أعطى ضوء النار ذريعةً لأرعن

أسئلة للتاريخ… من أشعل نار اليوم، لعن الله من فعل؟؟
لماذا التوقيت، فالموت صار له في بلادي زمن؟
هل هو غباءٌ أم فخٌ أم تخطيطٌ أم انتقام؟

الأسئلة في رأيي أكاديمية فقط، و الإجابة عنها لا تُسمن ولا تُغني من جوع. فالحقيقة أنّ الخاسر الوحيد في كل ما يحدث هو شعب سوريا

فسلاماً يا شعب كان له وطن، و أصبح يحلم ببقعة

أم سوريّة

اليوم الصبح رنّيت لأمي أعايدها. في الحقيقة كنت مزعوج لأسباب كثيرة منها الوضع في دمشق و منها البعد و منها و منها…. المهم رد الوالد (أبو أحمد) عالتلفون الساعة ٨ الصبح، و خبّرني عن القصف و الضرب يللي ملعلعين جنب البيت. خبّرني أنّهم بلّشوا من قبل طلوع الضو، و أنّهم أسوأ من قبل. المهم وصلت أمي للتلفون و صوتها قوي و مرتاح و قالتلي: كل عام و انا بخير يا ابني و مرتك و أخواتك و الله يخليكم لبعض و لأولادكم

سألتها ليش مستعجلة؟ قالتلي لازم روح الشغل!!! قلتلها معقول يا ماما و الوضع يللي برا!! قالت: ماما حبيبي كل المدرسات في المركز أمهات، و الأطفال يللي منرعاهم يتامى، فلازم روح أحتفل بالمعلمات و الطلاب

المركز بعيد عن البيت شي ساعة بالسيارة و مو فارق معها، و الضرب و القتل شغّال جنب البيت و مو مهتمة. مسؤوليتها تجاه العمل أكبر من أي خوف. هذا شي طبيعي بالنسبة لأمي. لو كانت مقررة تقعد بالبيت كنت اصلاً استغربت. بالعكس استحيت على حالي متل العادة، و حلقت ذقني، و طلعت من البيت

يا جماعة، أنا ربيت بسوريا و ما شفت أم سوريّة إلا مثل أمي. سواءً كانت بتشتغل بالبيت او برا. بيعطوا دائماً أكثر من طاقتهم، و عندهم إحساس وطني عالي، و إحساس بالمسؤولية رهيب. و هالأحاسيس ورثوها لاخواتي و لأخواتكم، و منهم رح ينتقلوا لأولادنا

و الله بوجود هيك أمهات، و مهما حاولت أمم الأرض تذل السوريين، و مهما حاول العالم كله يلغي الفكرة السورية، لا حدا بيقدر يذلنا و لا بتلتغى الفكرة. و مهما تقاتلنا رح تضل الام السوريّة تجمعنا

الله يحميكي يا أمي، و كل عام و انتِ و كل أم سوريّة بألف خير، و الله يرحم الحي و الميت منكن

سوريا

بين عبث البعض و تبعثر الآخر، يضيع لحنٌ و ينقطع وتر

و المكان يضيق، و العدو يصبح صديق، و الويل يُزاحم البشر

و نهيقٌ يعلو، و تناغمٌ و تناسقٌ يخبو، و أحياناً ينطق حجر

………………….

بين عبث البعض و تبعثر الآخر، يذوي الحلم و ينقضي العمر

و لكنّ الحياة تمضي، و الزمن مسرعاً يمشي، و تدور حلقات الدهر

و تصمد فكرةٌ أكبر من كلّ قافيةٍ و نغم، فسوريا هي التاريخ كلّه و هي القدر

The second letter

My son

Syria is your ancestors’ country but not necessarily yours. I say that because I am convinced that you are free to choose who you become, and where you belong to irrespective of my influence and heritage.  Still, if you ever elect to present yourself as Syrian please don’t hesitate to do so, and never be distracted by the currently rampant civil war.

In fact, you should feel immensely proud because Syria has existed since the earliest stages of civilisation, and has always continued to flourish irrespective of the madness of men. Syria is an idea that is much larger than the country marked by the fake borders. This idea is one of the reasons the war is raging over there.

On the other hand, Syria for me is the centre of the universe. It is the place that I spent the first thirty years of my life in. It is where I had many firsts; the first walk in the rain, the first buzzer beater in a basketball game, the first religious discussion, the first kiss, the first breakup, the first drink, and many others.  Syria is where my parents, relatives and my childhood but lifelong friends lived. It is where many of these loved ones continue to live. Syria is where I spent many days in the nourishing company of all these people, and grew up safely and slowly to become a man.

Ironically, I wasted many days in Syria planning to leave it. I did so to follow my ambition, passion and dreams. Now, that I have been outside Syria for the last fifteen years, I am not able to stop missing every detail of my past life there; wishing I lived a fuller life, or stayed a bit longer, or visited more often.

Many Syrian will talk in a similar way about Syria, but regrettably all Syrians including me proved to have never been mature enough to appreciate our differences, or to understand that we fully complemented each other in that fantastic place.  A complicated formula of a dictatorship, radicalism, conflicting international interests, lack of influential ideologists, venomous neighbors, and many other factors has led to the eruption of a war that is yet to reach its full destructive potential.

I will write about this war and my memories in Syria in other letters, but for now I will leave you with one more contradiction to accept and learn to deal with. This is the observation that the awesome music of sweet memories, dreams, and life continues to play, even though the actors continue to kill each other, and continue to be engulfed in their wild hate. Could you accept that?

The first letter

My son

As you approach your teenage years, I am unable to stop thinking of the 6 o’clock hour in the morning of Saturday the 10th of April 2004. I remember it as clear as if it was yesterday. This was the time that the long labour of your mum ended. I was there for that moment. I recall that I had planned to cut the umbilical cord, but was never offered this privilege. The midwives unwrapped it from around your neck in a hurry as it was causing you some distress. Your grandmother was there too, but she couldn’t stay until the end of labour. I think she was bored, and not just worried as she said back then.
I remember clearly the junior midwife considering calling for help, as she was concerned about your breathing pattern. I think my presence as a physician in the labour room affected her judgment.   Anyhow, the more experienced midwife confirmed that your breathing was normal, brushed the idea of calling an on-call doctor aside, and reassured us all. Needless to say, you never had a breathing problem in the thirteen years that followed.

I also remember clearly standing in the car park moments after your birth, and talking over the phone to my parents in Syria. I was then proud as proud can be. I was oozing energy and joy. I had a great sense of achievement that was never repeated until your sister was born 6 years later.

I see you now approaching an age where you will not need my support, or you will not be asking for it. Still, you will be having many questions, as you grow older. You may not feel like asking me. Mind you, I never felt like asking my parents when I was your age. Also, I am not sure when the talking between us will stop, or if it is ever going to stop. Many of my friends keep repeating that talking, as a form of communication, will eventually stop between a dad and his son. I hope that never happens but if it does, I pray it will be temporary.

Anyway, I didn’t know what gift you would appreciate on your thirteenth birthday so I decided to write you few letters. Well, I know I don’t speak often. I have your mum to remind me of this fact every day. I might have missed many opportunities to discuss with you Syria, religion, love, friendship and many other things. I must have missed many opportunities to communicate with you, but I hope these letters will help to do just that. I believe they will help you to understand who I am, and will possibly shed light on the person you want to be. They may also give you some suggestions on how to face the life that is ahead of you.

To be honest, I am not certain if I am writing these letters only to you or also to myself. I truly think both. Maybe these letters will help you shape your personality, and will help me heal my soul. I don’t know but I will try regardless, because I believe I am going to enjoy this exercise.

These letters will be from a Syrian expat father that is going through a midlife crisis with all its contradictions, to a son that is starting to form his identity and personality. I am not sure how often I will be able to write, but I will try to find a rhythm. By the way, you may always choose the subject you want me to write about, and I sincerely hope that you too enjoy this project.

These letters will carry my established views on the subject that I am discussing at the moment of writing about it. Let me explain, and please consider my explanation as the first letter; I used to read to you ‘Little Red Riding Hood’ story on most nights as I was putting you to sleep. I was never good in recalling other stories, so I read you this single story as written in the book. However, I recently discovered that it would be very easy to change its end or to view it from a different point of view. I list for you the different endings that I came up with;

First version, the wolf and his gang enjoyed the delicious meal to the last bite. She and her grandmother shouted but nobody cared. The wolves grew happier with every scream.

Second version, she was smarter and quicker. She ran to her grandmother’s house. She anticipated the wolf and his gang. She killed them all and laughed loudly while doing so.

Third version. She saw the wolf. She was speechless. They must have met in a previous life. She forgot her grandmother altogether. She and the wolf lived happily ever after.

I chose this story as part of the introduction to set things correctly from the beginning. I hope thinking of the many possible versions of the same story, helps you to understand that there are many versions to every story in life. There is no such thing as the single or the correct view or opinion. Things depend on one’s accumulated views, principles and experiences. So if you were feeling optimistic you would possibly prefer the third version of the story. On the contrary, if you were angry or were feeling down you would probably prefer the first or the second version.

As you grow older, you need to develop your own opinions or views on matters in life, love them, stick to them and defend them. With time you may come to appreciate that no one can understand all aspects of a single incident at one time, and that your opinion and others on certain matters may evolve as you accumulate years and hopefully wisdom. So you first challenge is to appreciate that although my views in these letters have matured through many experiences, they are only valid at the moment of writing them, and possibly only through my eyes. Could you accept that?