Damascus

I remember the way the dry desert air felt against my face, how everything smelled slightly different due to the lack of humidity. As I got off the plane I noticed the distinct absence of color, there were shades of beige and white everywhere, as if the landscape wanted nothing else, content in the simplicity of the pale beauty that the sun and the sand provided.

It was the summer and I’d just graduated from college. I was taking some time off before graduate school and it was the first summer where I didn’t have to work shifts to help my brother at the restaurant. When my father casually asked me what I wanted to do for the summer, my first response was, “I wouldn’t mind going to Syria with you for a bit.” I never thought he’d take that comment so seriously. My father had been spending a lot of time there the last few years and I was always curious about where he came from.

I was born in New York, spent some time in Spain as a child, but I had never been to Middle East before. But I always felt very Arabic, probably because I was raised by a very stern Arab father in a somewhat Arab neighborhood in New York City. All my mannerisms up to that time, my values, my expressions, they all came from Arab culture. This was something I hated as a child but grew to appreciate as an adult. I also despised the fact that I was always stuck between two cultures, never knowing how to reconcile them into something that would be fully accepted by both.

So there I was, this cultural half-breed amidst my father’s people. If I had any roots at all anywhere, this would surely be the place to find them. As I stepped through the arid landscape and into the airport, the first thing I encountered was a very confusing group of individuals: men and women I’d never seen before but, for some reason, were extremely excited to see me. The crowd was nothing but strange faces, smiling and speaking incoherently while I tried to make sense of what to with myself in response.

Out of this welcome committee came my father, who grabbed my bag from my hand, handed it to one of his many companions, and then cupped his hand on the back of my neck to draw me closer in a tight embrace. The crowd surrounded us and as their words flew past me at an incomprehensible speed, I found myself smiling, offering cryptic Arabic responses to the few questions I could understand and listening to the crowd as they laughed at my attempts to speak the native language.

The next day I spent the afternoon in old Damascus visiting my father’s neighborhood. I met up with him and his friend, Abu-Akram: a very tall mountain of a man, thick with broad shoulders that carried a frame that was somewhere between 250 and 275 pounds. He had dark skin, a receding hairline, and a neatly kempt beard. He was the stereotypical gentle-giant, wearing his sensitive nature on his sleeve as a sharp contrast to his overwhelming stature. He always had a smile on his face and I don’t think I ever saw the man upset the entire time I was there.

We walked down the old city streets, wandering around the maze-like structure bustling with people scurrying about trying to make a living. The market areas were crowded, with each merchant shouting for the attention of any passerby in the hopes of making a sale. It seemed chaotic at first, but after a few moments I realized that there was an unspoken order to the whole thing. People seemed to flow freely from place to place regardless of how many of them were crowded into a particular area. They were mindful of their surroundings, and each other, at all times. The ones that stopped to browse would do so carefully, making sure never to be in the way of the moving pedestrian traffic behind them. The place was also swarming with children, both playful and serious, who went about their daily work routine: hustling as street vendors or helping out in the shops and stands undoubtedly owned by a relative. There was an element of responsibility ingrained in their childishness. For better or worse, they served as another helping hand in a family that probably had too many mouths to feed.

We made our way through the streets paved with sand and dirt and enclosed by concrete houses on both sides. Some of the passageways were so narrow I could touch both sides with my arms outstretched. Every few minutes I would stretch my hand out to touch one of the ancient structures, trying to connect with my surroundings as much as possible.

“He wants to know why you keep touching the walls?” My father asked. He had been speaking with Abu-Akram, who was curious about my strange behavior.

“Tell him I just want to connect with the people who walked these same streets so many thousands of year ago. To touch what they touched.”

My father turned to his companion and translated. They exchanged some more words in Arabic and then turned to me, “he says you must either be a poet or you’re in love.”

“What did you tell him?” I asked.

“I said that if my son is either he hasn’t shared it with me yet. But I told him you’re always reading books.” My father said.

Abu-Akram smiled and said, “Abu-Kitaab.” My father repeated it back to him, “Abu-Kitaab — father of the book.”

In Arabic culture, the men often take on their oldest son’s name with the word Abu placed in front of it. My father’s name in Syria is Abu-Nedal, which translates to father of Nedal, my older brother. They also often use the title to represent a characteristic in an individual. Sometimes, it could also be made in jest. When my cousin was in Syria he was obsessed with staying hydrated so he always carried a large plastic water bottle. They anointed him “Abu-anineh” which means father of the bottle. As for my title, I still don’t know whether it was a joke at my expense or a proper nickname, but regardless, I wore that title like a badge of honor throughout my stay.

We finally reached a small opening at the end of the walkway where the street opened up into a small square; small worn down structures with tin roofs and peeling concrete made up the periphery. There was a narrow street off to the side that looked like a dead end. My father led me through it to the second doorway on the left. He stopped.

“This is where your father came from.” He said.

It was a door leading to a very small house, crammed between two other small houses. The entire structure could not have been more than a thousand square feet. My father’s family totaled eight — four boys, two girls, and his parents.

“This is where all of you lived?”

My father’s posture straightened, his shoulder’s square now and his head held high, “Yes.”

He had a bright smile on his face and I don’t think I’d ever seen so much pride bursting out of him.

My eyes welled up and I turned away for a brief moment to gain my composure, pretending to look at something else. When I turned back around he was still standing at the foot of the door, same posture, same smile.

“Can you believe that I made it out of this place? All the way to New York, by myself, without anyone’s help?”

“No.” It was the only word I could say; my mind racing with thoughts of what it must have been like to grow up in such poverty.

We remained for several minutes and we spoke about his childhood, all of his struggles growing up, and how difficult everything was for him. As he explained how little they all had to live on I realized, for the first time, why money was so important to my father. It was security, the only security he had ever known. Living hand to mouth every day while he was a child meant that he didn’t take anything for granted as an adult. Every opportunity earned was maximized for fear of never having another one like it again.

It was the first time in my life that I saw my father as a man. This may seem very strange to some, but to me, the way I was raised, I never thought of him as anything other than a patriarch. He bore the weight of my family on his shoulders, never once complaining, and always doing what was necessary to ensure that we never lacked anything.

All those times as a child that I wished my father was more like other dads, playful and fun, as opposed to serious and stern, all those moments vanished forever, replaced by an immense amount of pride and admiration for the man that I had just met for the very first time, that afternoon, some six thousand miles away from where we lived.