Syria, March, 2005
We passed through Homs, then headed west into the hills toward Draykeesh. I’d been in the country for three months, and it was nearly spring, but hard to believe after seeing snow in the mountains near An Nabk. But there was only rain now, and olive trees surrounded us with their lasting green leaves, along with some light-colored trees with white flower buds interspersed between branches.
“Almond trees,” Safeer said. “They’re the first to flower here.”
“My grandfather had some in Bethlehem,” I said.
“You remember that still?”
“Yes, I was sad when he said it was early for the fruit.”
Safeer snickered. “Well, you won’t miss it here.”
We arrived in Draykeesh and walked toward a signless corner café. The rain was letting up, and a group of elderly men were huddled in front under an umbrella playing backgammon.
“We’re heading for the back,” Safeer said. “They have an outdoor grill and serve the best lamb ever.”
No one else was there, probably because of the weather. We got a quiet table on the covered terrace overlooking the hills. It was windy, but a gas heat lamp and freshly brewed tea helped keep us warm.
“I’m glad it’s clearing up,” said Safeer. “We wouldn’t want you getting sick again.”
All the relaxation I’d accrued since leaving Damascus suddenly reemerged. He was obsessed. That had happened weeks ago. And I was bundled in my down jacket now, even if I did kind of get a chill standing in the snow earlier.
But I didn’t want to confront him on vacation. “I’ll be fine. I’m done with all that.”
The waiter dropped off a bowl of salad, a dish of fresh olive oil with crushed garlic in it, and a basket of warm pita bread wrapped in cloth. Safeer arranged the dishes, moving the olive oil away from the edge of the table.
“I shouldn’t have said anything. In fact, I’m sorry I was so impatient with you when you weren’t well. I should’ve been gentler.”
I looked into the distance through a clearing behind Safeer and saw the valley we’d driven up from. His remorse reassured me. “Thanks for saying so. It was weird how you blamed me. Why did you?”
“I wanted to see you doing well here, Hala. Fitting in and feeling strong. But I realise now I can’t stop you from going through adjustments.”
My tea had gone cold, but I finished it anyway, then placed my hands atop the bread cloth for warmth. “I see what you mean, but you have to be patient and trust me. Besides, it’s better to be up front than thoughtlessly react.”
“You’re right, habibti. I’ll try to be better.”
The waiter came by again, this time with a platter full of grilled lamb. The savoury smell rose from the table, making my mouth water. I requested more tea from the waiter.
“Your dialect is getting better.” Safeer rubbed his palms together. “Let’s dig in. You should try dipping the meat in the olive oil.”
The combination of soft bread, tender grilled lamb, and garlic-infused olive oil was unbelievably satisfying. We ate the entire platter in minutes, then finished it off with salad. When the waiter brought more tea, Safeer asked to settle the bill.
“There’s another reason I want to see you doing well.” He sat back in his chair. “I’ve been feeling more like I want to stay here long term. Maybe for good.”
My stomach tightened. I knew our plans weren’t certain, but I never thought we’d stay longer than his two-year contract. I thought we’d leave earlier for his PhD. I wanted to. We’d been better versions of ourselves in America.
“But you’ve been unhappy at work,” I said.
He slowly leaned forward again, reaching across the table for my hand. “I’ve been thinking about that. But I owe my bosses this time. And if they decide to promote me after, maybe I’ll want to stay. Let’s leave the possibility open.”
I looked back through the clearing. I just couldn’t accept staying permanently. I wanted a bit more time—to prove I could fit in. But not too much time. Safeer was distracted here. “I guess I’m just surprised. You don’t seem happy.”
“I’m good, actually. When you were still back in Arizona, I was frustrated with the job and missing you. It made the idea of returning to America more appealing. But now that you’re here and feeling better, I’m fine.” He shrugged. “I don’t know, maybe I’ll feel different if I actually get into one of the programmes, but maybe not.”
He just couldn’t see how different things were here. “Let’s feel it out. Having the khutbah ceremony will be good. It’ll make me feel I have a more clearly defined role.”
“You’re right. You’ll be seen as my wife and not a guest. We shouldn’t delay. And about staying, we’ll take our time deciding. I just wanted you to know there’s a possibility.”
I clenched my jaw. “Let’s see how it goes.”
His impatience about the engagement didn’t help with my anxiety. I took a deep breath and considered the positives. Regardless of whether we stayed or returned, I knew I’d feel more grounded once we sealed the deal the Syrian way. And it seemed clear his family would be more accepting after, too.
*****
We spent longer than expected in Draykeesh, and it was raining hard when we came down from the mountain. Opting out of visiting Krak des Chevaliers as promised, we tentatively planned to stop on the way home.
When we arrived at his parents’, it was still pouring. They showed me around the apartment, which was almost three times the size of the house in Damascus. “Real estate is cheaper here,” Adar said.
Layla led me to the massive dining room where they wanted to hold the engagement. “It’s big enough to host plenty of guests.” She smiled. “Our gift to you both.”
I embraced her, but tensed up, recalling the last hug with my mom before leaving, still abhorring her for nearly stopping me, but wishing simultaneously she were included in the planning.
*****
The weather the next morning was clearer. While we sipped tea and ate eggs and olives at the kitchen table, Adar kept watching me and saying “Sahtayn.” He was convinced his olives had properties that would boost my immune system.
At the end of the meal, he grabbed an oil jug from the shelf beside him and tapped it on the table. “Min al’lazim an nazour ardna al’youm,” he said, speaking Fusha for no apparent reason. He was urging us to take a ride together to the family farm, while Layla assured me we’d take it easy.
Sun poured in through the windows of the Škoda. Adar was driving and he and Safeer spoke nonstop up front. Thanks to my college textbook devoted mainly to teaching Arabic to CIA hopefuls, I picked up that the Syrian military might be finally returning from Lebanon. Layla was knitting, but occasionally looked up from it to point out sites.
We turned down a dirt road to buy brown bread baked in a tanoor oven. It looked just like the kind we’d had at the barbecue restaurant in Draykeesh. “Khubz baladi,” Adar said, pointing to the remainder of the piece he’d pulled apart. He asked Layla if she wanted to visit the maqam. She nodded. I couldn’t figure out what they were referring to.
“There’s an Alawi site nearby,” Safeer explained. “My mom likes to pray there.”
We continued down the same road beside a heavily forested area until we came to a well-worn path between two massive Aleppo pines. Layla pointed to the opening, signalling the entry point of the trail.
I looked back to see if Adar and Safeer were catching up, but they were dragging behind, so Adar could finish his cigarette. Layla placed her arm on the small of my back and told me to go on ahead of her.
A stone structure perched atop the hill we were climbing came into view. I continued toward it, a bit winded, but refreshed by the country air. Then, some cramps hit me, so I stopped to lean against a tree.
“Are you alright?” Layla asked.
“No, it’s just cramps.”
“Your period?”
“Yes.”
She raised her eyebrows.
“I’ll be fine,” I reassured her.
“I know, but you shouldn’t come in and pray.”
I was confused at first, then remembered the restrictions related to menstruation. Vexed at my ovaries, I sighed. I was hoping that praying together would be a way of bonding with her, and I wanted to see the inside of the shrine.
“So I can’t go in?”
“Not this time, habibti. Just rest here if you’re comfortable.”
Layla headed up the incline, and when Safeer and Adar caught up, Safeer shook his head, asking what was wrong. I waited for Adar to move on, then explained.
“Ah,” he said. “Old traditions. You didn’t have to tell her.”
“I forgot it would even be an issue when I mentioned it.”
“Next time. Just relax here for now.”
I sat on a fallen tree trunk, defeated. Breathing in the subtle bouquet of floral scents I was beginning to associate with Syria in early spring, I once again tried to quell my anxiety. Above me, thin rays of sunlight streaked through the treetops, warming and calming me.
I closed my eyes and prayed under the natural sanctuary the sheltering of trees offered, and more thoughts of my mom rushed in. “I’ll say lots of rosaries for you,” she’d said before I left, as if I needed saving, as if she were more devout. She held fast to her Catholicism in some ways, but had never liked going to mass when I was growing up. I wondered now if at some point she’d questioned her beliefs, but if so, the doubt had subsided by the time my father passed away, when she’d insisted he’d be “embraced by all the saints.”
Sometimes I’d gone to mass alone with my dad, insisting I needed it for moral reasons I discarded after and seldom missed. When I’d kneel beside him to pray, he’d close his eyes and rest his forehead on interlocked fingers, whispering the words to himself in Arabic. He never taught me those prayers—or any Arabic at all—but I often asked him to and now desperately wished he had.
When we got back on the road, I brought up the khutbah.
“Maybe we can do it in April,” Layla suggested, pointing up at the hills we were passing. “The nature is getting greener every day. By next month, it’ll be warmer, and everything will be in bloom. Safeer, what do you think?”
“Yes, we’ll have another break from work, then. Inshallah Hala will be feeling well.”
“She’ll be fine,” said Adar. “Choose a date, and I’ll organise it. We can drive to the farm for photos and pick flowers.”
Despite his parents’ enthusiasm, I was beyond agitated that Safeer brought up my health again after our heart-to-heart in Draykeesh. But at least we had a plan for the ceremony now.
Silence filled the van as we wound up the mountain toward the farm. At the end of the main road, we turned down an unpaved path lined with olive trees as the van’s tires crackled against the pebbles beneath us. We parked in front of a stone embankment connecting to a steep staircase. It had grapevines growing alongside it, with a few of them showing signs of budding leaves.
We got out and Safeer pulled some empty plastic bottles from the back of the van. “What are those for?” I asked.
“Spring water. The best kind.”
“There’s a spring on the farm?”
“The best,” he said.
Adar led the way as we ascended the stone steps. He pointed at the vines. “We pick the leaves in summer, but the grapes are no good.” He turned to me, held one finger up, and said, “muhim innu mufid.”
I looked at Safeer. “It’s beneficial to grow them next to olive trees,” he explained. They looked similar to the vines outside my house growing up in New York, with its leaves too tough to cook and grapes too bitter to eat. It was different in Palestine, though. When I was five, I picked green bunches with my Grandpa Saleem on his land outside Bethlehem, so close to here yet so far away. And when I bit into those grapes, they were juicy, sweet, and still hot from the sun.
At the top of the stairs, I stayed with Layla while Adar and Safeer turned toward the spring. We walked to a field and observed evenly ploughed rows of soil encased in another stone embankment. “The farmer grows vegetables here,” she explained. “He keeps them for his family. They also get some of our olives and oil.”
We continued along the path, which curved to the left. Walking through a grove of almond trees, I noticed some white petals starting to burst. Others had been carried below by the rain. I stopped to take photos while Layla moved in the opposite direction.
The area where I stood was near an overlook with a clear view of the surrounding land. I walked closer to the edge and could see kilometres of terraced farming on the smaller mountains nearby. I looked southwest and pretended to see my grandfather’s farm from there. I felt comforted by it even though it was only visible in my imagination.
Although I’d been hesitant when Safeer brought up staying in Syria for good, standing there, sensing the proximity of my ancestral home and anticipating my union with him, I reconsidered.
