Old Photos

IMG_1426

Up late alone, I find myself looking through old photos on Facebook, the mouse unwinding the years as I scroll down the page.

How young I looked at 21! All eyeliner and plaited pigtails and cheap plastic earrings; baggy dungarees and a glass of wine, that ridiculous floor-length floral dress and the children’s guitar I bought in Souq Hamadiyeh. How deliciously naive I was, throwing myself into this new life, asking so many questions and not asking questions at all.

Syria was an adventure for us study year abroad students, shining with an excitement so bright that it blanked out other things: the lack of choices our new friends had, the steel fist of dictatorship under the kitch ‘I heart Bashar’ mugs and presidential bumper stickers that we stuck ironically onto our laptops. The torture chambers that never crossed our paths or minds.

I plunged head first into new friendships, a new language, and eventually marriage, for a visa and out of love, unwittingly forging the shape of the rest of my life. Nothing was determined and no door would close behind us; we could always go back, back, back…

And I remember the drive to the airport, when you finally got your UK visa,  watching school children out of the car window as you prepared to take a plane for the first time. You would later say you had a feeling that you would never see those streets again, that the familiar shops and signs and faces were rolling past for the last time. But who can say what we really felt that day, before you were an immigrant, before Syria became a byword for war.

If I could go back I would ask everyone everything, and cling like a child to their every word. I would look so carefully, listen so hard.

But if that’s how I feel, looking at these old photos at 1am, then that’s what I should do now, here, in this life. Because these days are precious too, and every moment that passes is one we can’t return to.

 

London Bridge Attacks: Solidarity from Syria

MAIN-London-Bridge

(c) The Mirror

It was Nimr’s sister, who escaped Syria a year and a half ago, that told us about the London Bridge attack. She had just read about it on BBC Arabic and called us in the middle of the night from her new home in Sweden, to check we were OK.

Reading us the facts down the phone – a white van driving onto the pavement, mowing down passers by – Alaa cursed the attackers, her voice darkening with rage as Nimr told her he’d been with friends near the area an hour or so before it had happened.

“We’re used to calling friends in the area when we hear news like this,” she said, remembering the years in Syria when word of another bomb falling would have them reaching for their mobile phones.

“And now we’re scattered across the world, we read the news and call London!”

Out of everyone I know, it is friends from Syria who know how those shattered by what happened on London Bridge last night must be feeling right now.

Praying that refugees like them don’t become further victims of this madness.

Adam

prod-syria-gas-attack-victim

Photo: Getty

What do you want?

“The antidote, and for this to stop” says the man on the radio.

“If we had enough antidote we wouldn’t have to send patients to Turkey for treatment.

“It is a long way and they might die before they get there,” says the doctor, who probably imagined setting bones and a stable paycheck when he did his medical training, not telling gasping victims of Sarin they’d run out of medicine, and worrying that his family might be next.

My baby girl flicks her tongue in and out of her mouth and laughs in her high chair, milk dribbling down her chin. She opens her mouth like a starling for each spoonful; chomps messily and vigorously with the joyful unselfconscious-ness of being one.

Yesterday another mother made breakfast for another child, a beautiful boy with coral cheeks and thick black hair. She urged him to finish his plate, then go and wash his hands and play with his brother, and now he is gulping for air and my little girl is dancing to the sound of the sirens that are coming for him.

On my iPad on the kitchen worktop, men desperately hosing down stiffening bodies, people trying to rip off infected clothes but it’s too late, limbs have stopped responding to brain. Seventy two dead so far, twenty children, Assad says they bombed an opposition chemical weapons depot, everyone else say it’s the regime’s Sarin, deliberately applied.

I nearly cried when Mariam had her vaccinations yesterday. Clamping down her limbs as metal sliced into soft legs, I watched her scream in pain and disbelief, tears pooling beneath her grey-brown eyes. Then the calm as her sobs subsided in my arms, the rush of relief as she started singing again on our sunlit way home. Who would have known every inch of her would be so precious? Every second, every sound, every wisp of hair. Every child to every mother.

I wonder what the boy did yesterday, the one who is dying on my iPad and doesn’t have a name?

Cinnamon

In the old world, new babies were followed by the smell of cinnamon, brewed with rice and caraway in big vats by grandmothers who served it topped with crushed nuts and coconut to everyone who came to visit the newborn. The smell of the sweet, spicy steam was, it was said, a way to let the neighbours know a new child had arrived.

In the old world, Grandma’s hands moved swiftly from chopping almonds to adding lemon and parsley to rice soup, which she dished up for her daughter in the weeks after the birth, to help her recover. The new mother was to rest for 40 days, while her mother, mother in law and other female relatives cooked and took care of the house, and a steady stream of visitors sang to the baby, passing it from arm to big arm, inhaling the warm scent of its downy hair.

And as the years and generations passed, 40 days may have shrunk to ten, and news of a baby’s arrival may have reached neighbours by phone before the smell crept beneath their front doors. But the visitors still came, the mother still rested, and cinnamon and caraway still bubbled on the stove.

In the new world, a phone buzzes on a coffee table in South London, where a couple are watching a bad detective series on Netflix.

“Maybe my sister’s had her baby”, says the man, and the woman presses pause.

There on the screen of his Samsung is a face they’ve never seen before, puffy-eyed and dazed as a mole suddenly above ground, its tiny hand grasping the edge of the blanket that envelops its tired, smiling mother.

Beneath the photos is a flurry of congratulatory messages from the man’s sisters in other parts of Sweden, to which the man and woman add theirs (“Me too,” says the woman, “Say I said congratulations too”).

In the new world, the man calls his mother and father in Syria, the baby’s grandparents, who have been poring over the same three photos in their empty flat in North Damascus.

There is not much to say, but it is good to talk. She looks like your sister… she’ll call us once she’s rested for a bit longer… see how quickly the family is growing?!

The phone is handed to the man’s father, and in the background the couple can hear his mother on the phone to relatives who have just seen the news on WhatsApp, and are calling to congratulate her on the fourth grandchild she has never held.

Jacket Potatoes

d8b5d8add986_d981d988d984We had jacket potatoes for dinner tonight, and I was reminded of a French restaurant in Damascus where I had savoured the only fluffy, crispy-skinned spud of my year in Syria.

I had been invited by Jamal, my only openly pro-Assad friend (this was 2009, when praising the well-spoken dictator was less shocking than it would be today, at least to my naive British ears).

I was about to wonder out loud what had happened to Jamal and whether the past six years of brutality had made him rethink his political allegiances, but I stopped myself. Nimr was tired after work and I didn’t want to put him in a bad mood by turning his attention to the dark place in his mind.

I remembered Paris three years ago, where we had been reunited with our best friends from Syria for the first time. Unimaginable horrors lay between then and the last time we had all been together, the most searing leaving an empty chair where one of our gang should have been.

Pouring olive oil onto a bowl of garlicky foul one lunchtime, Abu Ali remembered an uncle who had lashings of it with everything he ate, and then remembered that he had died under torture in prison, “Allah yarhamo” (God have mercy on him). Abed had an uncle whose name he was never sure whether to follow with “Allah yarhamo” or not, because he was missing but not yet confirmed dead.

We drank and smoked and danced outside metro stations and sang our hearts out in the streets, and a black sea yawned beneath the surface of everything. A misremembered Milan Kundera quote came to me: “Happiness was the form and sadness was the content”.

So I didn’t ask Nimr whether he thought Jamal still supported Assad, and we talked about Rihanna over our cheese and beans.

Refusal Letter

Four weeks ago, a civil servant at the Swedish Embassy in Jordan came back from their lunch break and wrote ‘refused’ onto the visa application of a middle aged Palestinian couple in Damascus.

A chain that had started on the sofa of their apprehensive son and daughter-in-law in London concluded with a letter through the door of one of their daughters in Sweden, emails and Swedish postmen belonging to the class of things that can move quickly in this world; my in-laws remaining firmly in the category that can barely move at all.

Nappy Time

Mariam has a new game that she plays during nappy changes. Lying on her padded circus-themed mat, she lifts a leg across her body as if she’s about to flip over and escape, eyeing me expectantly all the while and waiting for me to say “EEEEEEEEERM!” in a pretend stern voice, like my dad used to do when our playfighting threatened to get out of hand. Then she swivels back to nappy-changing position and waits for me to cry “BRAVOOOOO!” (the Arabic ‘bravo’ with a rolled ‘r’). It’s quite amusing until I actually need to put her nappy on, at which point all the twisting back and forwards becomes a bit of an issue.

Tonight, after the hilarity was over and we’d moved on to battling with the approximately 176 poppers of Mariam’s babygrow, Nimr came into the bathroom, holding his phone.

“Speak to taita (granny),” he said to Mariam.

All of Nimr’s siblings are now in Europe, most of them having escaped Syria by boat, and Mariam is one of three grandchildren his parents have never met. Riding out the power cuts and loneliness in Damascus, their relationship with her is without flesh; no skin touching the warm skin of family, no cuddles to granny’s bosom, jiggles on grandad’s knee.

Instead, there is a song Fatima sings whenever Mariam’s face appears on her phone screen, and ever since she was a few months old Mariam has responded by rocking back and forth in a happy dance.

She perches upright now amongst the monkeys and pelicans, forgetting whatever it was she had been whining about a few moments before.

“Mariam oh Mariam, pretty Mariam, clever Mariam” sings a grandmother 2,687 miles away.

Her voice is frozen into data that breaks into pieces and shoots along cables under the ocean before being reunited nanoseconds later in a bathroom in South London… where a baby starts to dance.