The painting of a woman walking in the old part of Damascus was a gift from my former Syrian neighbour, and my good, good, good friend, who is as close to family as someone can be without sharing DNA. The painting rests on the corner of my desk so I could look at it and feel warm about all my wonderful memories of trips to that city.
Oh yes, the monuments, mosques, museums were wonderful reflecting the country's rich history.
There was nothing to develop a sense of continuity with the past, like standing in the seed shop, surrounded by bags and bags of different seeds/nuts and realizing I was on Straight Street, the same Straight Street written on the pages in the Bible.
But my best memories are of the welcome of my friend's family and friends: memories of sitting around drinking cardamon-flavoured matte through silver straws and nibbling seeds and sharing lives; memories making cookies in a courtyard as the family turtle crawled by; memories of seeing their children larger with each visit.
It is those people, I see in the painting when I glance up from my writing, but now I am swamped with helplessness and worry and a bit of guilt that I am not in an environment where tanks and shooting can be a part of daily life.
It is the price of caring about those in another culture brought home by the daily news. National events have personal consequences and currently the price is much too high for those that are living there, not in a painting, but in a country where the future is violent.
May they all be safe.
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment