Useless

You Wake up to horrible news. Your home area is blown to pieces.

You run to the phone, call every number you have for family members, aunts, uncles, cousins. No one answers. You start calling neighbors, friends, friends of friends, friends of neighbors. Nothing.

You run back to the TV, see the news coverage, then the Internet, more detailed coverage. Pictures of charred bodies in the streets.

You close your eyes.

You pick up the phone again, dial and count the endless beeps. No one answers. You go into the bathroom. Throw up your panic. Come out and watch more footage. Black smoke covers the screen. And then, a glimpse in the corner: part of a dwelling, a hole where your bedroom used to be.

You close your eyes again.

Stones, nothing more, you tell yourself. Not important. You run to the phone again, call friends who might know more, or have other sources of information.

The phone is useless.

You, standing in your living room thousands of miles away, are useless. You drop to the ground, double over and scream, then curse, then screams some more.

And finally, you break down and cry.

If you are lucky, the phone rings, or your computer beeps the arrival of a message from someone who made it and thought to let you know who’s injured, who’s not, and who won’t be coming home.

If you’re lucky.

Practice

It takes practice to protect the ones you love.

You have to work hard

Give warm hugs

Wipe flowing tears

Grant shoulder rides

Tell half-truths

Invent pure lies

Use simple words to explain complicated matters.

You may need to cull certain people out of your life

Keep a watchful eye

Monitor small changes

Look for clues to determine possible heartache.

You can pray to a higher power when your hands are tied
Depend on lessons taught
Wait for a miracle

Swallow your fears
Hold your breath for sudden enlightenment to strike.

At times, you watch in silence.

Others, you scream away.

Use your fists on someone else’s face, blocking danger.

And some times, there’s nothing left to do but point a gun.

It takes practice to protect the ones you love.

Lilas Taha is a novelist, winner of the 2017 International Book Awards  and is the author of Shadows of Damascus and Bitter Almonds.

It's Time

I had to call on M’sieur BuĆhar again. For those of you who don’t know my friend, you can check out my post on October 19, 2012.

Two people were arguing, a difference of opinion between colleagues that should have passed amicably. I arrived late for the meeting, and had to filter through some comments to figure out what the main topic was all about. Once the heated discussion took full hold, one of the men involved started shifting in his seat, turning his body sideways away from the one opposing his view. That was a clear indication that he was not willing to consider the other man’s idea. Faces turned red, arms crossed in defiance, voices elevated considerably.

I looked around the room, people had their heads down, some fiddling with papers and folders, most likely pretending to read. I did the same and waited for the tantrum wave to pass, hoping we could get back to the main topic before the end of the meeting. But the two men kept at it, back and forth exchanging insults. Shouldn’t someone say something to end this childish behavior? Maybe if I stood up, quietly withdrew from the room, it would send a clear message to the quarrelling couple that they’ve stretched it far enough. Better than saying anything that might be taken for one side against the other.

I closed my folder, tucked my pen in my purse, put my hands on the table intending to push my seat back to get to my feet.

One of the arguing men called my name.

I looked up.

“What do you think?” he asked, his yes focused on me.

I was cornered. Any comment I thought of might have caused damage to either party.

You’ve probably watched a scene like this in many movies. The actor in place would have stumbled, stuttered, made some general comment that could be understood in many positive ways, or made a silly joke and the tension would break.

Well, this was not a movie. I was not an actress, though I wished I were. Why didn’t the phone ring at that moment? Why didn’t the secretary come into the room with an important message to relay to one of the guys causing this mayhem? Why didn’t the fire alarm suddenly go off? And why, in God’s name, did he choose me, of all the attendees to ask for my opinion?

It was time for M’sieur BuĆhar.

I closed my eyes and summoned M’sieur BuĆhar into the room. By now, I’ve become addicted to this solution. He was my savior. And true to his mission, he stormed into the room. He would know what to do. He would pull me out of this hole.

M’sieur BuĆhar put a hand on my shoulder, gently pushing my back to have me sit straighter in my chair, leaned his head closer to my face and placed his lips on mine.

“Je pense que vous êtes tous deux comporter comme des enfants. Je ne vais pas être partie à la folie.”

The words flew out of my mouth. M’sieur BuĆhar mouth, I should say. Everyone stared at me with quizzical eyes, confusion clear on their faces.

“Could you repeat that in English, please. We don’t speak French.” Someone said.

I pushed M’sieur BuĆhar head out of the way. He glued his lips to my ear and said in broken English, ”It is time to speak your mind.”

I knew it. I knew if I opened my mouth again, his words would fly out, no matter how hard I tried not to. He was my champion, after all. I took a deep breath and did just that. I spoke my mind. I told the two men they behaved like children and that I would not be part of their foolishness.

You want to know what happened next?

What can I say? M’sieur BuĆhar never failed me.

Lilas Taha is a novelist, winner of the 2017 International Book Awards  and is the author of Shadows of Damascus and Bitter Almonds.

Too Late

At first I didn't understand why I felt uneasy around this lady. She was articulate, accomplished and reflected the image of a confident woman. I spent a couple of afternoons in her company on one of my trips out of town. We talked about world politics, books we've recently read and loved, family matters, different diets, dreams to be chased and hopefully realized. Through it all, a thread dangled in front of me, beckoning me to tug at it and see what secret weave it might unravel. A look in her eyes when she talked about her teenage son confused me. Not the twinkle of pride and love that I see in every woman's eyes I knew. But a sudden dimming of the soul, as if a switch turned off the lights inside her when she mentioned her son's name. A shadow passed quickly over her gaze, and then disappeared again.

I've met women who lost sons in wars, illnesses or car accidents. Some lost their sons to mean wives that kept them away for years. No matter what the reasons were, none of them had that strange hiccup of a look, an oddity so unique, I can't find the right word to describe it.

From then on, I paid more attention to the words she used, her body language, the nervous laugh she uttered when I asked specific questions. I repeatedly reached out to pull the end of that dangling thread, but held back. Every family has secrets. There was no need to chase hers, I convinced myself. The nagging feeling to find out why I felt uncomfortable with my new friend when she mentioned her son mushroomed inside me.  I kept it in check, hoping it was caused by my over active imagination.

On my last afternoon visit with her, she invited me over for coffee at her house. Though cautious, my curiosity triumphed and I eagerly obliged. With the aroma of rich coffee, and a wonderful slice of apple pie, I lounged lazily in her living room, chastising myself for my suspicions. This was a cozy house, a family home. Her other children roamed around with innocent vitality. Nothing seemed out of place. My friend joined me on the couch, relaxed and joyful.

I heard a rough voice behind me, a man clearing his throat.

My friend's face froze, that weird look returned to her eyes. The coffee cup in her hand shook.

Must be her husband, I reasoned, making an unexpected stop at the house in the middle of the day.

She jumped to her feet, coffee spilled on the cushions.

I turned my head and saw a young man towering over me behind the couch. His eyes fixed on his mother, ignoring me. She launched into a series of apologies. I couldn't understand why she was so flustered. My friend rushed to the kitchen, pulled out a plate from the fridge and put it in the microwave. So she apologized because she was late preparing his meal?

He didn't utter a word.

I rose to my feet to face him. And there it was, slapping me hard, gluing me to the floor. A look in this young man's eyes so severe, so strange. The only way I could describe it is to say his eyes were empty. As if looking into a doll's glass beady eyes. Lifeless. No emotion, threatening or otherwise.

I introduced myself, explained that I was the reason for his mother's tardiness, feeling silly for playing into this abnormal charade. I wanted to get out of there as soon as I could. No, I needed to get out there before I witnessed something more awful. I saw it coming when he went to his mother's side, moving like a lion stalking his pray. He shoved her aside with his fist, took his plate and left. She kept her back to me, head bowed, hands rubbing her upper arm.

This woman was afraid of her own child. What a twisted world she lived in. I spent the remainder of my visit discussing ways to help her. She listened, nodded her head and then offered to drive me to my hotel. Helpless, I left, knowing she would not follow any of the suggestions I presented. Not until something tragic happened, to her or to someone else. Too late. Way too late.


Lilas Taha is a novelist, winner of the 2017 International Book Awards  and is the author of Shadows of Damascus and Bitter Almonds.

Looking for Godot

What an arduous chore.

Sitting on a chair by the door, shoes on, jacket in hand, an old man waits for his ride. He stands up, checks his wallet, his keys, sits back down. Taking his glasses off, he wipes them with the special cloth from his pocket, looks at his watch.

An hour passes.

He sits in the waiting room. Freezing cold air hits his head. He looks up. An air duct right above him blows straight into his face. He moves to another chair, close to the glass door warmed by bright sun light. The flat screen TV mounted in a corner is running a cooking show. Grilled Salmon. He checks his watch, 8:30 a.m., too early for Salmon. His eyes roam over to the receptionist; lower half of her body hidden behind a desk.

She smiles.

He raises his eyebrows.

Soon, she mouths, points at the giant clock on the wall and lifts up her hand. She spreads manicured fingers apart. Five finger nails sparkle with stars and stripes. Really long nails.

He wonders how she can do anything with those nails, brush her teeth, hold a pen, eat a sandwich, go to the bathroom.

Tap, click. Tap, click. Tap, click. Her nails dance on the keyboard.

He scratches his head. At least she can do that.

Thirty-five minutes pass. The cooking show is followed by another cooking show, different host backing different pies.

On top of the examination table, his feet dangle. He pulls his dark socks as far up as they go. The flimsy gown barely covering his body scratches his back. The gown has been washed to death, original colors either blue or green. Are those flower prints? He takes off his glasses to have a better look. Hearts. Gray hearts. Do they think they're funny? He becomes angry. Why can't they have new gowns with red healthy hearts?

Forty minutes pass.

The doctor walks in. She briefly makes eye contact, flips open a folder and discusses her findings.

The old man listens patiently, tracing with one finger gray hearts, counting them. He imagines the one lazily beating in his chest as colorless as the ones under his finger. Warnings and instructions are repeated; prescriptions are handed over, more pills for his collection. No cure. The damage remains done.

He goes home, nothing new learned, nothing solved.  What a waste of time this waiting game he has to play. Will Godot ever come?


Lilas Taha is a novelist, winner of the 2017 International Book Awards  and is the author of Shadows of Damascus and Bitter Almonds.

A Memory

New year, new beginnings, more chances to make good memories. After the celebrations and the good wishes, I pen down my resolutions. The list is long and, of course, starts with the everlasting promise to get in shape. This year, I added another item close to the top: getting my book published. One more is to post my blog on time every Friday. Another is to honor those who did not make it to 2013.

Remembering my aunt . . .

When I think of my aunt, the aroma of extra virgin olive oil saturates my nose.

I absentmindedly lick my lips, the taste of fresh bread backed with thyme leaves causes my mouth to water.

I see in front of me a traditional dress embroidered with red flowers and a headscarf infused with the scent of rose water.

When I think of her, I instinctively look at my hands, examining my fingernails to make sure they are clean.

I check under the cushions of my living room couch for crumbs, dust between stacks of books in my study, run a rag above the fan blades in the ceiling, and scrub the tiled floor of my kitchen with disinfectant Friday mornings.

I spray my best perfume in the bathrooms, burn incense and walk around the house spreading special earthly scents.

I cook a feast for my family, remind my kids to wash their faces with cold water before going outside, ask about my neighbors and hug my friends' children.

When I hear my aunt's name, village women sing folkloric songs to announce a bride's wedding. Colloquial expressions in the Tul Karem dialect twist my tongue, my mind racing to translate and failing to catch the beauty of their collective words.

Her memory is a portal, calling me to step through, to be transported to my homeland, to connect with my roots, my heritage, my origin.


Lilas Taha is a novelist, winner of the 2017 International Book Awards  and is the author of Shadows of Damascus and Bitter Almonds.