karimisms

My brother, Maher, has resided in Baghdad for the past six years. He designed and sold women’s clothing,, and no I am not talking about the black cover-ups you see on television. Baghdad has a layer of society that wears Pierre Cardin and Christian Dior on casual days. He was a genius in coming up with gorgeous designs that affluent Iraqi women loved. His business was successful up to the war, when he lost everything. His plant was destroyed, and what was left of it was stolen. His house was damaged, causing him to move and start fresh in a whole new area of the city.

My parents in Damascus tried talking him into coming back to Syria, but he insisted on staying. “You don’t leave a place if you love the people and believe in it.” He used to say. What I did not know at the time was that the “people” he loved was his partner’s daughter, Solima, an Arabic name which means “Little Peace”.

Solima, according to my brother, is a beautiful woman with deep black eyes that are so big you feel yourself diving in when you look at her. She was a couple of years younger than he, and well educated. He had known her for over five years, but never got the courage to ask her out, even though his partner, Hisham, tried to push the two together. Solima was his only girl, and he loved my brother. And as he was approaching retirement, he wanted to see her with someone he trusted.

Love stories in the Middle East never make television. The media is too busy showing us the destruction and horror of the war. As necessary as it is for us to see those stories, I believe it is also important to read about the positive aspects of life even during war. Several million love stories take place in America every day; I wonder how many take place in Iraq.

As I was talking to my brother on the phone the other day about his love story, I remembered being a teenager in Damascus and having a crush on my neighbor that depleted all my energy for over a year. I was unable to be the social butterfly that I am because of Sahar, a name meaning magical beauty. And magical beauty she had. Long brown hair draped over her tiny shoulders and neck. She had Angelina Jolie’s lips , made for kissing, I used to think. And when she walked, I used to think the world had stopped to watch with me. She would sit on her balcony, conveniently located across from our balcony. She would either pretend to study, or sometimes actually study,–what I was unable to do that year. My grades were great in the ninth, eleventh, and twelfth years of high school. The tenth year was dedicated to Sahar.

Sahar and I never talked during the school year. We would just spend hours every night, her studying, and me pretending to study. Then summer came and the heat, which makes some people miserable, drove Sahar and me to the ice cream shop one afternoon. We gazed into each other’s eyes, and as my knees buckled and my face turned redder than the pimples all over it; she said hello.

I wonder how my brother met Solima. We talk every couple of weeks, mainly to make sure he is still alive. I cannot delve into the love story, despite the fact that I would rather talk about nothing else. All I know is that he just married Solima a month ago. They had a small wedding, since the big ones attract too much attention, and they are extremely happy. I talked to Solima on the phone for the first time a couple of weeks ago. It was like talking to my neighbor in Homewood. She had studied English all her life, in addition to french and some German. We spoke in English since I have lived here for the past twenty years.

Maher’s love for Solima only got stronger as the war got worse. He would not notice the bombings and shooting all around him, he just wanted to be with her. She spent a few hours a day helping her dad and my brother with their business adventures. Maher has always been an entrepreneur. Now he is starting a fish farming business in Baghdad. It is has never been done in Iraq before, and he is hopeful that the little bit of freedom he is enjoying will lead to more business opportunities. He did tell me quickly this one story when they kissed for the first time. They were in a shelter, which was a daily affair during the initial stages of the war when the bombing was intense. The heat in the shelter did not help with the heat they were producing as they sat next to each other talking in the dark for hours. Then it came, he just leaned over and planted a gentle kiss on her cheek, she responded with a small peck on his lips. And as his knees buckled, they were engulfed in a long passionate kiss as the bombs and anti-aircraft fire lit the skies outside.

A love story in a war-torn city seems unimaginable. But this one is real, and as the days pass and the situation in Iraq is still a mystery, one thing is for sure: My brother and his bride love each other, and they wish for the whole world to experience the love and peace they feel.