Photo by Emily O’Dell
When my friends and I need a midnight ice-cream cone, a post-party cigarette, or a candle when the lights go out, we know where to turn: to our neighborhood’s mom-and-pop Syrian shop, where everybody knows our name–and, day or night, they’re always glad we came…
“In case there’s war, you need to stock up on water too,” my Lebanese friend said yesterday, as we parked in front of the building above. She was speaking from experience. Staring at that scarred shell of the past–rendered in concrete pointillism–I wondered if I was staring into the future too.
To have water delivered to my house–I went where I always go–to our beloved Syrian shop, which never seems to close. Day or night–work day or week-end–you can find whatever you need–or have it delivered home in ten minutes or less. Last night, on the television opposite the check-out, news anchors were discussing (in Arabic) America’s upcoming intervention next door.
You would think it might be a little awkward, as an American in a Syrian-owned shop, to hear television commentators screaming–for all to hear–that America is just days away from bombing targets in Syria–especially since most Syrians in our neighborhood are sympathetic to the Syrian Socialist Nationalist Party–which supports President Assad. But in our mom-and-pop shop, where my American friends who smoke get scolded for buying too many cigarettes–and the owners always hold up the check-out line to admire my pet–we’re all just helping one another to survive.
My water stash…
“Take your time walking home, and then I’ll bring the water,” said the young Syrian man–who always drives the water to my gate. Since we can’t drink from the tap, mineral water isn’t necessary only for drinking–but for cooking too.
Last week when he brought me water–I asked him where he’s from.
“Aleppo,” he replied. Though he had fled to Beirut, his family was still back home in Syria, trying to survive.
So last night, when he brought the water to my gate, I asked him how his family is holding up.
“Alhamdulillah, they are good,” he said. Though he wasn’t happy about America getting involved–he wasn’t surprised.
“This is what America does–they are always interfering in the Middle East and ruining our lives–and for what?” he said. He was speaking so quickly in Arabic that I didn’t catch everything he said–which may have been a blessing, since I didn’t know how to respond.
After we dropped the jugs at my door, he told me to call him if I ever need anything–water, food, whatever.
“Thank you,” I said. Both of our hearts felt heavy, fearing for the worst. It was clear to him why I had bought so much water–without me having to explain.
About an hour later, while I was editing my work for an archaeology journal, my phone buzzed in my bag with a new message. I was surprised to find that the text–in English–was from the young man who moves water:
