Sonia Saikaley

He led me to a bakery that was part of the piazza. I stood outside and from the window I could see more men wearing fiddler’s caps or yarmulkes. The place was half the size of my parents’ living room and I could not believe it could serve so many people. There were about six small round tables. Most of the customers were old men with a few couples who looked to be in their late twenties. Some stood up eating while the others had the comfort of a chair and table.

Before Raz opened the door, he touched a little rectangular case. When he saw me eyeing it, he explained it was a mezuzah and it had a Hebrew verse from the Torah inside of it. I nodded, pretending that I completely understood everything he was saying. I had never seen a mezuzah before and I didn’t know the significance of it or why this business had it on its doorpost. Raz held the door open for me and I walked inside with some hesitation. Inside, a wafting aroma of butter and bread set a warm ambiance and my tense shoulders lowered themselves. Freshly made varieties of bread and baklavas were behind a glass counter.  There were also displays of cookies filled with nuts and fruit. “Some of the pastries here are made with kosher ingredients,” Raz said. I nodded again, feeling suddenly naïve once more. But when an older man, maybe in his early fifties, from the kitchen yelled, “Ahlan”, I smiled and suddenly felt at ease. This man was clad with navy sweatpants and a grey T-shirt. His cheeks were plump. Standing in front of a round, stone oven, he pulled out a tray of Lebanese flatbread. The heat of the oven and the loud voices of the patrons rushed at me. People were again speaking a language unfamiliar to me, but peppered with a few Arabic words which I could understand.

The bakery was crowded and we stood in line for a long time, but when we reached the counter, the man didn’t charge us as he passed over our order. I smiled, happy with his generosity and thinking he felt bad that we had to wait for our food. Then he turned and his stooped back was towards us over a large metal tray, his arms moving quickly as he patted white dough. After, he used a long wooden paddle to thrust the tray of dough into the oven. I watched all this before Raz lightly touched my arm and lead me to a small table that suddenly became free. I had a cheese flatbread while Raz had a combination of zaatar and onions; his looked enticing and smelled just as good but I was afraid to eat something that would leave traces of black on my teeth. But Raz bit into it and spoke with his mouth full.

“Anything in my teeth?” he said, smiling, with cumin seed in every tooth’s crevice. “My mother always criticizes me for eating zaatar out in public because it leaves your teeth dirty but I say who cares? That’s what the toothbrush was invented for.” He took another bite. I slowly ate my cheese bread, the safe choice and listened to Raz tell me about his life.

“I was born and raised here but everyone thinks I’m from somewhere else. I am just as much Lebanese as the next guy or girl. My family has lived in Wadi Abu Jamil for years but it’s unfortunate that many have left to live abroad. Most of them have moved to New York City or Montreal. I still live here with my parents.”

“Was that your mother with you?”

“Yes, she’s a music teacher. My father owns this bakery. That’s him.” I turned and stared at the man who had just served us. I smiled, now understanding the reason behind the man’s generosity. “My uncle is a baker too. He lives in Montreal though.”

“Canada?”

“Yes.”

“My former teacher lives in Ottawa. She sends me beautiful postcards of the Parliament Buildings and the Rideau Canal,” I said, smiling.

Raz nodded. “Will you visit her sometime?”

“Maybe.” Changing the topic, I said, “Your father is a great baker. This is the best cheese bread I have tasted. Please don’t tell my mother though,” I added. “She’d get very upset.”

Thinking about Mama made my mouth tighten and when Raz noticed this, he asked softly, “Where are they now? In the village or here in Beirut?”

“They’re in the village. I’m a student at the American University of Beirut.”

“I heard Lebanese families are strict. It’s nice that your family has let you come to the big city alone.”

Shaking my head, I explained that I lived with my sister and her family.

“Oh, yes, not all families are quite liberal yet.”

“I doubt my family will ever be liberal. My mother would have preferred that I came to Beirut for a husband rather than an education.”

“Ah, a husband over education! That’s ridiculous. Has your mother heard about the feminist movement?”

I laughed suddenly, trying to imagine Mama protesting alongside women with signs and hippie-style haircuts.

“What’s so funny?” Raz asked now wiping his mouth with a napkin.

“I just had an image of my mother with a crowd of feminists. I’m sure she’d be wearing her apron and instead of protesting and holding a sign, she’d be arguing with and swatting at the feminists.”

Raz laughed, his eyes full of expression. “I take it your mother isn’t a feminist?”

I nodded and took another bite of my flatbread. After a few seconds, I said, “I don’t think my mother knows the word. Are you one? Isn’t it unusual for a man to be one?”

“I guess so, but my parents taught me that both sexes can be equal. Look at my father.”

I turned again and gazed at Raz’s father. He now wore an apron over his T-shirt and sweatpants and a small white cap which only revealed traces of his salt-and-pepper hair. He smiled jovially with the customers. “My father is a great baker and cook. He can cook better than my mother. Does that make him strange?”

I didn’t know how to reply, but Raz kept going. “What is woman’s work? Cooking, laundry, cleaning? I don’t know. Too many tasks for one person. They can be shared. Just my thoughts. Maybe I’m a feminist. Are you?”

This was the first time anyone had asked me this and I didn’t know how to reply so I answered, “Not really.”

“Why? Don’t you believe in equal rights for both men and women?”
“Well,” I said quietly. “Of course.” I wished I was as strong and vocal as Hala was at this moment. I briefly let my mind stray to her: had she calmed down yet, found it in her heart to forgive Jamil? But then Raz brought me back to our conversation.

“And?”

“Well, I…” my voice trailed off.

“I get it. You don’t like to stand up for your rights because you’re afraid. I guess I don’t really understand since I’m a man and I’ve always had my rights, well, sort of. In Lebanon, though, as a Lebanese-Jew I struggle for my rights too.”

“I’m not afraid,” I said, controlling the tremor in my voice.

“It’s okay…wait a second, we’ve been talking all this time and I don’t even know your name.” He extended out his hand and introduced himself. “I’m Raziel, but most people call me Raz.”

I wanted to tell him that I already knew his name because I had remembered the old man addressing him with it but I pretended like this was the first time I heard it.

“Amal.”

“Amal who is neither a feminist nor a Beiruti but a university student. Nice to meet you, Amal.” He said this with neither sarcasm nor meanness.

After finishing our food, Raz rose from his chair and said that we should meet again. He went to the counter and returned with a folded napkin where he had written his name and number. “Don’t throw that out or use it on your mouth.” He was smiling before he squeezed my arm and returned to the counter, where he wrapped a yellowed apron around his waist and began to serve some customers.

 

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