karimisms

My life defining moment as the father of a teenage boy finally came last week as Zade, a freshman at Homewood High School, played his trumpet for the first time with the marching band. The band will be featured in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade in New York this year.

As the Homewood Patriots football team prepared to take on Tallassee, a school located near Montgomery, I arrived at the stadium Friday night with the glee of a new papa. I immediately looked for Zade among the sea of 300 Patriots in the stands to no avail. There are so many of them, if we were in a war with England, we would have won. So I waited until the halftime show hoping to spot Zade on the field. How hard could it be to find a fourteen-year-old boy who plays one of thirty trumpets?

That morning Zade called me just to make sure I was going to be there. I assured him that I would be. Then he proceeded for the next ten minutes to tell me his position on the field during every song. They were going to play “stars fell on Alabama”, “Old Man River”, “Boogy Woogy Bugil Boy“, and “On Broadway”. He was going to be on the 40th yard line during this song, then move to the 30, but quickly run to the 50 facing this way here, and that way there… I tried to pay attention at first, thinking I could remember this. My attempts were futile as the details became so difficult, I actually said to him: “And you do all this while you are playing the trumpet?”

When the band marched on the field that night, I remembered my days at the University of Tennessee. The Homewood band looked as massive and as impressive. They started playing, and I realized that spotting Zade was going to be more difficult than I had imagined. Finally after straining my 41-year-old eyes and following a line of trumpeters, I saw him. I wanted to point to him and scream: “This is my boy!” Then they ran to start a new song, and I lost him again. As they played “Old Man River”, one of my favorite tunes, I was stunned at how Mr. Pince, Mr. Holbrooks, and Mr. Cooper, the music teachers at the high school; had gotten 300 high school students to perform so well in less than a month,

After the show, I wanted Zade to see me, so I asked his cousin Jordy if she knew where he was in the stands. She nodded, and dragged me by the hand to the walkway facing the band. I was standing next to the drum major facing three hundred patriots holding their musical instruments like they were weapons. I felt all of them looking at me as if I were a guest conductor about to take them into Beethoven’s Fifth. Jordy pointed to Zade who was seated three fourth of the way up to the right. I saw him, my face lit up, and I forgot that I was extremely obvious. I waved a shy wave. He had warned me in the past about my wave. He said:” Dad, you don’t wave like THAT. You don’t raise your hand and wiggle your fingers…just raise the hand and put it down quickly.” So I did just that. I raised my hand, did NOT wiggle my fingers, and put it down quickly.

Zade looked at me with a blank stare, then he mouthed two words deliberately and precisely with his lips while his face was turned away at an angle. I had no idea what he had said, so I mouthed the word: “What?” back to him. He looked at me intently, and mouthed the words again. This time I had a pretty descent idea of what the two words were. I looked at Jordy who said: “I think he said: GO AWAY”. I nodded in agreement, smiled, and quietly walked off the stage.

That was my induction into parenthood. The moment when I had to let go of my boy and watch him become a man who did not need his father. The dichotomy of the moment is astounding. At first, sadness ensues because my boy was growing up too fast. But then, Joy takes over because he loves me so much he has no problem letting me know how he feels. I am told this moment will last a few years, and then he will realize how much he still needs me.

I will cherish this time of Zade finding himself, and when he does, I will be there to lend a hand…if he needs it off course.

And I will always be ready and eager to: GO AWAY!

I believe one day, my three children will be able to peacefully visit my homeland Damascus – Syria, and play marbles in the sandlot behind the apartment building where I grew up.

As a child growing up in the Middle East, I always wondered why Arabs and Israelis never got along. I would read all that I could. I would ask my father, who was a poet and a writer, all the questions I could. I was never satisfied with the complicated answers I received. I would say to my dad: “But the land is plenty big for all, isn’t it?” My dad would just nod with sad eyes. It seemed to make more sense that Muslims and Jews would coexist peacefully. After all, both people came from the same place. They had the same traditions, values, even looks.

Now as an Arab-American living in this democratic country and enjoying the freedom abundantly laid in front off me, I try to come to terms with my new identity. My compassion for my homegrown Arabic tendencies is oftentimes in conflict with the American-born privileges I adore. Back home I am a stranger in my own land. I am an Arab-American in America, and an American-Arab in Syria.

Recent events in Lebanon tell me the conflict may be more innately inscribed into our being than I had ever thought. The more heated the debate, more intense the bombing gets; and the later I delay my children’s visit to my troubled country. The latest killing of 56 civilians in the village of Qana just adds to the complexity and the gravity of the situation. World public opinion is leaning in favor of the Lebanese government and Hezbollah, at the same time, Hezbollah continues to launch missiles into Israel killing more civilians.

I just want my children to see the streets I wandered in my youth, and smell, taste, and touch my childhood memories. I want them to hear the music, feel the crowded city streets, and embrace the cool summer night breeze from the Mediterranean. I want them to play where I did, and wander the narrow alleyways of the oldest inhabited city on earth. I want them to taste the Syrian pastries I used to snitch before mom finished cooking, causing her to chase me down the hallway and into my father’s library where I would hide in his camel-hair robe (Abayae). Mom never suspected I was tucked in there and would look all around finally giving up. The dark and cozy cocoon of my father’s chest protected me when I was little. I want my kids to experience that…the same Abaya, the same smell, the same room. I want and I want and I want…

Hundreds of civilians are dying every day because of a meaningless power struggle. I cannot fathom what it will take for us to live in peace. What it will take for my children, Zade, Dury, and Demi to play marbles with the neighbor’s kids on that childhood sand lot in Damascus.

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.

I am an Arab-American…and I am a peace lover. That is how I announce my origin if I am asked. If I am not asked, it stays hidden, deep within my aching soul.

When I heard about the London bombings, I immediately fell in grief for all the people who lost their lives and their loved ones. Loss of life always makes me disregard my own feelings of shame. However, when I think of the millions of Arabs and Muslims who chose to live in countries offering freedom, a second wave of anguish and sorrow strikes. Sorrow because we have to wake up every day and try to prove to the world that we are not terrorists. That most of us have passions and desires not too different from anyone else’s. That most of us would not harm another human being even if our own life depended on it. That, despite the war in Iraq and the chaos that has ensued, most of us are still peaceful and discerning people. Even though some of us may feel conflicted about the war in Iraq, we condemn the London bombings along with 9/11, the insurgency attacks and any other terrorist act committed by an Arab, a Muslim, a McVeigh, or a Rudolph.

I have lived in the United States for half of my life, 20 years to be exact. I have completely embraced what this country has to offer from free elections to the fact that I can choose my own destiny. I am raising my three children and hoping they regard the freedom they have been born into, and that they would appreciate principles such as self-fulfillment, dreams, and making them come true. I tell all of my friends and acquaintances how appreciative I am of the freedom I have been given. I still have to work hard, but hard work coupled with honesty is justifiably rewarded.

As with most Arab-Americans, I am well aware of what life in America grants. But we live day in and day out trying to balance our own feelings of identity against the image that is perceived of us. After 9/11, I continued to let people know my origin, but my declaration was always combined with a justification or a joke.

I am having a serious identity crisis. I encounter prejidice as an Arab-American in the United Sates, but when I visit Syria, I struggle with repugnance as an American-Arab. Albeit, I have an ingrained pride in my roots. Arabs, like the Greeks and the Romans, were at one point in history the epicenter of civilization. At the same time, I try to understand where things went wrong. You could blame the Ottoman Empire, World Wars one and two, or the cacophony of events that followed. A plethora of reasons for the division of the Arab world in the middle of the 20th century come to mind. However, the fact we have to endure as Arabs willing to live peacefully and coexist is this: We can only blame ourselves.

Where is our Martin Luther King? Where is our Mahatma Gandhi? Or where is our Dalai Lama?

I pray for the people of London; I also pray for all of us. That one day we can look into each other’s faces and love instead of hate. That one day we can use non-violence to further peace instead of prevent war. That one day we can use inner peace to enhance our lives instead of save lives. And that one day we can focus on feeding the hungry instead of resolving the conflicts killing them..

I visited Damascus this past February. My father passed away after 88 years of living as large as any man I know. He was a prolific writer and poet writing more than 15 multi-volume books and encyclopedias about Arabic poetry and literature. He always spoke of peace and how it “can” be attainable. He said that people should focus on the beautiful things in life. Leave it to a poet to do just that. Being around Dad was like living in a fairy tale free of anything deceitful or ugly. Dad never had a problem with me adapting to this culture, although he did always say: “never forget your roots my son, it does not matter how tall and majestic a tree is, without roots; it will wither away and die.”

Dad: I will never forget my roots, and I will take it on as a mission in life to do my part in spreading peace on earth. Until all human beings respect and consider each other equal partners of this fragile planet, we will continue the suffering mostly inflicted upon innocent lives.

I will always be an Arab-American with a soul aching for peace.

My dearly beloved Hyphen
I hope this writing arrives
and you are doing well
Totally in charge of millions of people
Totally defining them
I did not have you for the first 18 years of my life
And while they were not empty years
They do not compare with the recent ones
When I did have you
You are actually what I am
I am you and you are mine
Even after my divorce five years ago
You chose to stick it out with me
I truly love you
You bring together two worlds
That are inherently opposed in so many ways
You are a bridge
You mold east and west
You theoretically analyze critical discourse with Diasporic proportions
You mend Olive trees with Azaleas
Hamburgers with shawerma
You connect the songs of Om-Kalthoom
With those of the Greatfull Dead
You make us a people who try to exist in peace
While watching the carnage mount
In our back yard
You allow us to vote
You let us have a voice
You grant us freedom
What is the cost to freedom anyway?
I wonder if I will have you for the rest of time
I wonder if you will be there for me
With your flat, always sleeping body,
When I fall in love again?
And will you let me use you
In my definition of myself?
Will you be there when my 15-year-old-son, Zade,
Accomplishes his dreams of becoming a lawyer,
A senator, and maybe one day the president?
Will you be there when my 11-year-old-son Dury,
Actually changes this world one day
Like I tell him he will do every day of his not-so-complicated life?
Will you be there?
When my seven-year-old angel Demi,
Otherwise known as Sunshine;
Grows up and finds the man of her dreams.
And when I give her away in her wedding
And when sadness and happiness merge together
As I have the first dance with her
And as her little feet rest on top of mine
And as we glide as one?
Will you hang with me as I grow older?
Trying to find peace
In an otherwise extremely fucked up world
Will you be there?
When I try to take my kids to see
The sand lot I grew up playing on in Damascus
With those colorful little marbles?
And as I look for beauty of souls
In otherwise ugly and chaotic surroundings
Will you still define me?
When I become a grandfather
A “Giddo” to seventeen little brats
Who love me more than they love their parents?
Because I will spoil them obsessively
And will you be with me
When I reach the end of the road
Will you go into the grave with me?
Will you be on my tombstone?
Or will you let me be something else
In my lifetime?
My dear little hyphen:
I bid you farewell for now
But just know
That I will always think of you
And if I don’t get to see it,
Please allow my children to revel in peace
Between the two worlds
You are letting them call their own.

The hallway to Dad’s library in our first-floor flat in Damascus seemed to go for miles as I dodged the furniture pieces dashing into the room lined with book shelves in every direction. Mother was chasing me as fast as her little feet could carry her screaming: “Come here you misbehaving little trouble maker”. Sitting in the corner of the room was a familiar sight, my dad in his “Abaya”, a camelhair house rob, reading. Never slowing down, I continued my run into him. He opens the Abaya smiling, and I jump in onto his chest, which seemed to my seven-year-old body the size of a small oasis. He closes the Abaya and returns to reading. I would lay there still as a rock listening to the rhythm of his heartbeat. From my dark and cozy cocoon, I would hear mother entering the room and asking dad about my ware bouts. He acts innocent of seeing me. Mother sounds doubtful as he assures her that I might be hiding in another room. I hear her moving a chair, then departing. As her footsteps fade, dad starts laughing. His chest starts vibrating in a deafening, welcome noise as he opens the Abaya and looks at me with his loving eyes. “We did it again,” he says as he kisses me and squeezes me so tight I could hardly breath.

This continued for over a year. I would misbehave, a daily occurrence in my youth, and he would hide me from mother; who was the desiplanariun in the family. As I grew in size, our cover was finally blown when mother noticed that dad looked rather large one day.

Kerridean Shamsi-Basha passed way on February 3rd last year after 88 years of protecting my siblings and I from all threats. He was a renowned Poet and a writer with over 15 several-volume books on Arabic literature and poetry under his belt. He spent fifteen years writing an encyclopedia on Arabic proverbs that is considered today the most comprehensive book on the subject. The year before his death, he was honored with the most prestigious literature award in Syria: The Outstanding Life-Time Achievement Award by the Ministry of Culture & Education for his efforts in preserving the Arabic language.

I left Syria twenty years ago to enjoy freedom in the United States. Now that dad is gone, my one regret is that I missed being with him every second that I could. We had a connection rare between father and son. We would talk for hours about matters that ranged from my school work to politics, religion, love, and my obsession in my teenage years: freedom. He told me that Syria offered limited freedom. And while most people could make-do with that concept, He longed for me to experience more. He managed to lean on his literary fame, but he aspired for me to go where I could literally fly. “You will actually fly with wings someday, and I will taste freedom through you” he would tell me during my senior year in high school when I was applying at the University of Tennessee. He wanted me to live life, and live it abundantly.

He suffered during the Palestinian – Israeli conflict from what I affectionately called in my teenage years: too much Arabism. I was out to change this world, and I wanted to believe the conflict had ensued from both sides. We fought over this one every day. He would always defend the Arabs, and I would be more neutral than he wanted me to be. Fathers in the Arab world do not usually have sons that disagree with them, especially about politics. I was “the last grape,”a term meaning the youngest son, and I got away with murder. Then I grew up and understood my father’s stance. I saw the conflict as one which evokes emotions of support and defiance in both sides. Arabs see it as an Israeli problem; Israelis see it as an Arab problem. As to who is right, I will never know. I just hope they start looking forward instead of back, in my lifetime,

He was also a master teacher in the department of “love.” Like many Mediterranean men, he was extremely passionate about showing his love for mother. He used to tell me: “Never forget to tell your future wife that she is the most beautiful creature on the planet…and do it every day” He was a believer in the man protecting his princess and making sure all of her wishes come true.

He taught me many more lessons, with one resonating the most: “Regardless of any circumstance, always do the right thing.” While not being the most profound statement, it has been the hardest one to adhere to. “If you keep only one virtue in life, make it integrity. You will never regret it,” he would always say.

Dad, you lived, and died, with integrity, and while knowing my own faults and limitations, I will always do my best to be as pure and virtuous as you wanted me to be.

I wear your Abaya now, and I shield my own children when they need a place to hide.

I love you.