(Novel excerpt)<\/p>\n
Wadi Abu Jamil. The Jewish quarter. I had heard that name before and all the tales over coffee in the village were indeed true. Here I was standing in this very place. I remembered seeing Jewish men with fiddler\u2019s caps on Hamra Street when I used to visit Beirut with my parents, but I didn\u2019t actually think there was a place where they lived here in the city. I thought they were perhaps living in the mountains or something. Remembering why I had wandered to this area, I glanced around and hoped to spot the bookstore but I only saw a piazza filled with food stalls, a grocery store and bakery, the smell of oven-baked bread seeping out of the open door.<\/p>\n
Some people passed me. \u201cDo you know how I get back to Beirut?\u201d I na\u00efvely asked the older woman and young man walking side-by-side. The man had high-cheekbones and a slender but somewhat muscular build and if I hadn\u2019t been looking closely, I would have mistaken him for a girl because he wore a flower-printed shirt and pants that ballooned out, making it appear like a dress. He seemed to be in his late twenties. The way he stood with his posture straight conveyed an air of confidence, a quiet, gentle confidence. His wavy, light brown hair was past his chin. He seemed unaware of how handsome he was with his large hazel eyes that met mine in a quick glance before he looked away. But then he took me in again, first looking at my baggy trousers then staring at my wild curly hair that had become tangled and wet in the rain. I could see the stubble on his chin and the masculine features of his Adam\u2019s apple and chapped lips which opened wide \u2013 a startlingly deep and strong voice came out.<\/p>\n
\u201cWe are in Beirut,\u201d he answered.<\/p>\n
Flustered, I said quietly, \u201cOh, I know, I\u2019m sorry. I meant to say\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWadi Abu Jamil is a part of Beirut.\u201d His eyes looked accusingly at me.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m sorry,\u201d I repeated.<\/p>\n
But then his facial expression softened and he said gently, \u201cDon\u2019t worry about it.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cDo you know how I can get back to the beach? I\u2019m trying to find the Corniche again.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhich Corniche? There are many boardwalks and beaches around here.\u201d<\/p>\n
I stopped and rubbed my forehead. \u201cI don\u2019t know. I\u2019m not originally from Beirut.\u201d<\/p>\n
Instructing the older woman to go ahead of him, the young man now said kindly, \u201cCome with me.\u201d I was hesitant at first but then he said, \u201cDon\u2019t worry. I won\u2019t bite you.\u201d<\/p>\n
We walked past backgammon players, who nodded at him. He gave them a friendly nod too, even though his serious eyes looked angry.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou don\u2019t have to walk me there. Just point me in the right direction,\u201d I mumbled when we walked further away from his neighbourhood.<\/p>\n
We past two food vendors. \u201cHello, Raz,\u201d said the old man to my companion. \u201cWhen are you going to cut your hair? You\u2019re looking more like a girl every day. You even have pretty legs like a woman,\u201d he said, winking.<\/p>\n
His wife slapped his arm and said, \u201cStop it, you old fool! What are you? Strange?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cOf course, I shouldn\u2019t be on the lookout for pretty legs when I have your old ones to touch and gaze at!\u201d he laughed and his wife slapped him again. The young man laughed too, a rich sound floating out of his full lips.<\/p>\n
We kept walking and when I insisted again that he should just point me in the right direction and I\u2019d be all right, he said in an annoyed voice, the tenderness he had shown seconds ago completely gone, \u201cYou\u2019re lost. You\u2019ll just lose your way even more. I can\u2019t have that. If I were in your situation, wouldn\u2019t you help me?\u201d<\/p>\n
I wasn\u2019t so sure if I would. I would probably just give directions and when Raz saw a puzzled look on my face, he smiled to himself and shook his head a little. Once we reached the beach, I thought he\u2019d leave but he didn\u2019t. On the sand, still wet from the rain, we stood there in silence. I glanced down when Raz stared intently at me.<\/p>\n
\u201cIf you\u2019re not from Beirut, then where are you from?\u201d<\/p>\n
Clearing my throat and finally looking into his hazel eyes again, I said, \u201cI\u2019m from a village in the mountains.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhich one?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cAnzjabal.\u201d<\/p>\n
Raz shook his head. \u201cNever heard of it.\u201d<\/p>\n
I smiled and said, \u201cNo one knows about it. It\u2019s very small and doesn\u2019t have much but goats, olive, and fig trees.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWell, that\u2019s something. It\u2019s probably more beautiful than Beirut.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cIt doesn\u2019t have the sea though.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThe sea! Everyone is always mesmerized by the sea! What about those mountains around your village or the goats. I\u2019ve always liked goats. They seem smarter than people half the time.\u201d<\/p>\n
I didn\u2019t know what to say. Suddenly here was this man, an interesting creature himself, I thought, proclaiming the astuteness of goats.<\/p>\n
Before I could answer him, he asked, \u201cAre you a goatherdess?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNo, no,\u201d I said. \u201cWell, sometimes I help out.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou do?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI sometimes sing to them but that\u2019s all.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cReally?\u201d he said, his dimples deepening as he grinned. \u201cWhat do you sing to them? Lullabies?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThey\u2019re not babies. I sing to them songs that I like, mostly songs by Sabah. Do you know Sabah?\u201d<\/p>\n
He laughed. \u201cAh yes. I believe I\u2019m familiar.\u201d<\/p>\n
We stood in silence again and I wasn\u2019t sure if I should thank him now and say farewell. But my feet seemed to be rooted on the sand and time seemed to have stopped while we talked. I didn\u2019t want to go and as if reading my thoughts, Raz said, \u201cDo you have somewhere you have to be? Would you like to get something to eat? There\u2019s a nice bakery up the street. They have all sorts of flatbread. Do you like flatbread?\u201d<\/p>\n
I nodded.<\/p>\n
Raz stretched his arm out and touched my shoulder, the sensation at first made me jump but Raz didn\u2019t pull away, only smiled and said, \u201cLet\u2019s go.\u201d We returned back to the cobblestone alley, leaving the soggy beach behind us.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
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\u2019s caps or yarmulkes. The place was half the size of my parents\u2019 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.<\/p>\n
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\u2019t 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. \u201cSome of the pastries here are made with kosher ingredients,\u201d Raz said. I nodded again, feeling suddenly na\u00efve once more. But when an older man, maybe in his early fifties, from the kitchen yelled, \u201cAhlan<\/em>\u201d, 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.<\/p>\n The bakery was crowded and we stood in line for a long time, but when we reached the counter, the man didn\u2019t 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.<\/p>\n \u201cAnything in my teeth?\u201d he said, smiling, with cumin seed in every tooth\u2019s crevice. \u201cMy mother always criticizes me for eating zaatar out in public because it leaves your teeth dirty but I say who cares? That\u2019s what the toothbrush was invented for.\u201d He took another bite. I slowly ate my cheese bread, the safe choice and listened to Raz tell me about his life.<\/p>\n \u201cI was born and raised here but everyone thinks I\u2019m 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\u2019s 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.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWas that your mother with you?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYes, she\u2019s a music teacher. My father owns this bakery. That\u2019s him.\u201d I turned and stared at the man who had just served us. I smiled, now understanding the reason behind the man\u2019s generosity. \u201cMy uncle is a baker too. He lives in Montreal though.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cCanada?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cMy former teacher lives in Ottawa. She sends me beautiful postcards of the Parliament Buildings and the Rideau Canal,\u201d I said, smiling.<\/p>\n Raz nodded. \u201cWill you visit her sometime?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cMaybe.\u201d Changing the topic, I said, \u201cYour father is a great baker. This is the best cheese bread I have tasted. Please don\u2019t tell my mother though,\u201d I added. \u201cShe\u2019d get very upset.\u201d<\/p>\n Thinking about Mama made my mouth tighten and when Raz noticed this, he asked softly, \u201cWhere are they now? In the village or here in Beirut?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThey\u2019re in the village. I\u2019m a student at the American University of Beirut.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI heard Lebanese families are strict. It\u2019s nice that your family has let you come to the big city alone.\u201d<\/p>\n Shaking my head, I explained that I lived with my sister and her family.<\/p>\n \u201cOh, yes, not all families are quite liberal yet.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI doubt my family will ever be liberal. My mother would have preferred that I came to Beirut for a husband rather than an education.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cAh, a husband over education! That\u2019s ridiculous. Has your mother heard about the feminist movement?\u201d<\/p>\n I laughed suddenly, trying to imagine Mama protesting alongside women with signs and hippie-style haircuts.<\/p>\n \u201cWhat\u2019s so funny?\u201d Raz asked now wiping his mouth with a napkin.<\/p>\n \u201cI just had an image of my mother with a crowd of feminists. I\u2019m sure she\u2019d be wearing her apron and instead of protesting and holding a sign, she\u2019d be arguing with and swatting at the feminists.\u201d<\/p>\n Raz laughed, his eyes full of expression. \u201cI take it your mother isn\u2019t a feminist?\u201d<\/p>\n I nodded and took another bite of my flatbread. After a few seconds, I said, \u201cI don\u2019t think my mother knows the word. Are you one? Isn\u2019t it unusual for a man to be one?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI guess so, but my parents taught me that both sexes can be equal. Look at my father.\u201d<\/p>\n I turned again and gazed at Raz\u2019s 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. \u201cMy father is a great baker and cook. He can cook better than my mother. Does that make him strange?\u201d<\/p>\n I didn\u2019t know how to reply, but Raz kept going. \u201cWhat is woman\u2019s work? Cooking, laundry, cleaning? I don\u2019t know. Too many tasks for one person. They can be shared. Just my thoughts. Maybe I\u2019m a feminist. Are you?\u201d<\/p>\n This was the first time anyone had asked me this and I didn\u2019t know how to reply so I answered, \u201cNot really.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhy? Don\u2019t you believe in equal rights for both men and women?\u201d \u201cAnd?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWell, I\u2026\u201d my voice trailed off.<\/p>\n \u201cI get it. You don\u2019t like to stand up for your rights because you\u2019re afraid. I guess I don\u2019t really understand since I\u2019m a man and I\u2019ve always had my rights, well, sort of. In Lebanon, though, as a Lebanese-Jew I struggle for my rights too.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019m not afraid,\u201d I said, controlling the tremor in my voice.<\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019s okay\u2026wait a second, we\u2019ve been talking all this time and I don\u2019t even know your name.\u201d He extended out his hand and introduced himself. \u201cI\u2019m Raziel, but most people call me Raz.\u201d<\/p>\n 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.<\/p>\n \u201cAmal.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cAmal who is neither a feminist nor a Beiruti but a university student. Nice to meet you, Amal.\u201d He said this with neither sarcasm nor meanness.<\/p>\n 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. \u201cDon\u2019t throw that out or use it on your mouth.\u201d 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.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Jasmine Season on Hamra Street<\/b>
\n\u201cWell,\u201d I said quietly. \u201cOf course.\u201d 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.<\/p>\n
\n(Novel excerpt) Wadi Abu Jamil. The Jewish quarter. I had heard that name before and all the tales over coffee in the village were indeed true. Here I was standing in this very place. I remembered seeing Jewish men with fiddler\u2019s caps on Hamra Street when I used to visit Beirut with my parents, but\u2026<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":3,"featured_media":768,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"ngg_post_thumbnail":0,"footnotes":""},"categories":[13],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-87","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-fiction"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue20\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/87","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue20\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue20\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue20\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/3"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue20\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=87"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue20\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/87\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":860,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue20\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/87\/revisions\/860"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue20\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/768"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue20\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=87"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue20\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=87"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue20\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=87"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}