Lila Rouk

It was during the prime of my life that I had decided to revisit memories long forgotten,

forcibly tucked away in a box that I did not care to unlock. It was during the peak of my youth

that I ran across the Syrian-Lebanese border to escape the monotony of a life currently lived, in

favor of a city laying in ruins. It was the strong desire to remember who I was and why I choose

to live that led me to this place, as war torn and destroyed on the outside as I was on the inside.

Although I expected everything to be different, nothing could have prepared me for the sensory

overload that came with standing in death. I had taken the thought that everything could

simultaneously be the same and different for granted. The only sense of familiarity is in the

deafening silence. The silence, which is so glaringly the same but so piercingly different. I had

taken the concept of stagnation for granted, not realizing that this was a privilege only afforded

to a select number of nations, and Damascus was one of them. The result of this oversight saw

me standing on the crushed glass and plaster, blanching at the broken, unstable metal frame that

once supported the weight of Harran’s local corner store. Suddenly, I was twelve again.

I never want to leave. The locals treat me like a celebrity because I was born and raised in

America. They ask me how school is, and if fast food is really as good as they say it is. The city

is electric, and I can feel the curiosity weighing heavily on me like a thick blanket suspended in

mid-air. The peculiarities never end, and it feels as though I jumped feet first into a time stuck

halfway between tradition and modernization, unsure of its direction. My first encounter with

traditional life is introduced by the Syrian automobile industry upon leaving the airport. So far, I

have spent the summer commuting in a motorcycle attached to a three-sided miniature freight

that allows for spatial freedom, meaning that a large population of my cousins are always packed
Lila Rouk

aboard during any given journey. The irony of traveling in a vehicle that is half motorcycle and

half truck is not lost on me, as I marvel at the possibilities that come with living a culturally

medial lifestyle. I am ensconced by the feel of the open road and the heavy scent of gasoline, and

it is this smell that catapults my exploration of the town, and my eventual discovery of the corner

store. The shop is baby blue and rectangular shaped, and feels more like home than home does.

The door is always held ajar by an older hijabi woman, who I surmise is the wife of the store

owner. Upon entering, I am overcome by the strong aroma of gasoline and locally sourced

orange soda. Short in height and long in width, the shelves are overflowing with candy and gum

that tattoos your mouth, as dark blue freezers filled with every flavor of ice cream leave no wall

unlined. It is only later, when I must fold my payment into the extended palm of the store

owner’s wife, that I realize this country has no concept of technology. I have not yet realized that

this woman, the true embodiment of generosity, will become an honorary member of my family

when she allows my six-year-old brother to spend the entire summer boundlessly taking what

goods he pleases without ever paying for them.

The streets don’t smell like gasoline anymore. They smell like rubble, brick, and

chemical warfare. Once a storefront display, the glass I stand on is now a shattered canvas of

peeling blue paint, riddled with bullet holes that violently obstruct the invitation of candy and ice

cream. Many years prior to arriving, my family was informed that the store owner’s wife is no

longer with us, that she died of her grief after learning that all three of her sons failed to survive

the war. Now, it is her I think of as I move numbly through the debris, wondering how the

motherland unwittingly turned into a piece of archaeology that has yet to be dug up. The sound

of her silence is a revelation that I uneasily follow to the doorstep of my maternal grandfather.
Lila Rouk

The cramped alleyway and the small front door leading into the vineyard are only an illusion. At

first glance, it appears to me that I am going to walk into a house that could only be afforded by

the town’s poorest resident. I learn the hard way that I cannot judge a book by its cover when the

door opens to reveal a rectangular Mediterranean style foyer the size of a hotel lobby. The floors

are made out of tan marble, and shrouded by long, green grape vines entangled in a rectangular

metal grid spanning the length of two separate ceilings on either side of the vineyard, and

balanced on the plaster that forms those ceilings. Sometimes, my sister and I wake up early

enough to be able to stack chairs and pick the grapes off of the vines. The house itself consists of

two parts that sit parallel to each other on both sides of the vineyard. On the far left is a four-foot

wall with steps leading up to a platform much higher than ground level. The platform houses

three bedrooms that are equidistant from each other. On the right side is a square shaped house

made entirely of plaster, where I found out that walls don’t have to measure at exactly ninety

degrees. This was a tiny abode for the living room and the kitchen.

This is my vineyard. My favorite, ghetto little vineyard. I only like coming here when the mood

is right, when the neighbors are visiting and the tea is boiling. When people come to visit, the

vineyard is lit up from room to room. I always know when things are going to be quiet and

uneasy when mother makes us walk the backroads to get here. The walk always feels longer than

it is because there are no flowers, and absolutely no streetlights.

*Unfinished draft because unsure about direction