Crown of Ashes

By Vanessa

Married to a Syrian, Vanessa, an American, is caught in the middle of a different culture and lifestyle. Living with an abusive husband and raising her children in his shadow is a struggle for survival. Her determination to succeed and to adapt to the dysfunctional family that she married into is a story of sacrifice, integrity, and perseverance. Leaving the country with her children is an impossibility, and then the Civil War transforms her life into a nightmarea nightmare that might become the key to her escape.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: May 8, 2017
• ISBN: 9781543421439

Vanessa

Vanessa was born in the United States where she studied in the University and met her Syrian husband. A multilingual person, she owned a language institute. Her career spanned decades of teaching ESL to foreign students. She comes from a background of three cultures which has given her an insight of three different lifestyles and a profound understanding of people.

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Copyright © 2017 by Vanessa.

Library of Congress Control Number:       2017907192

ISBN:                   Hardcover                   9781543421415

                          Softcover                       9781543421422

                          eBook                           9781543421439

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

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Rev. date: 05/08/2017

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CONTENTS

Chapter 1 Home

Chapter 2 Culture Shock

Chapter 3 Changes

Chapter 4 Transitions

Chapter 5 The Return

Chapter 6 Deception

Chapter 7 Adapting

Chapter 8 1983

Chapter 9 1983 USA

Chapter 10 1983 Syria

Chapter 11 1983 Homs

Chapter 12 Realization

Chapter 13 The Horrific Years

Chapter 14 Terrible Times

Chapter 15 Visitors

Chapter 16 Surprising Developments

Chapter 17 Overdue Happiness

Chapter 18 Ben

Chapter 19 Worse Situations

Chapter 20 Boiling Point(s)

Chapter 21 Mazen … Mazen!

Chapter 22 New Beginnings

Chapter 23 In the End …

Chapter 24 2001, What a Year!

Chapter 25 Consequences

Chapter 26 The Roller Coaster

Chapter 27 The Roller Coaster Continues

Chapter 28 Displaced

Chapter 29 New Surroundings

Chapter 30 Driven Out

Chapter 31 Terios

Author’s Note

CHAPTER 1

Home

I t was Sunday, my favorite day of the week, and I could already smell the fresh coffee brewing in the kitchen. My father was playing his original compositions on the piano, small pieces of music for each of his five daughters, urging us to wake up and come down for breakfast. My four sisters and I resided on the second floor of our house and obediently one after the other got up and prepared herself to go down to the kitchen dining room.

The maids were still asleep in their quarters, and Dad had finished breakfast—orange juice, scrambled eggs with beans, and coffee.

After breakfast we wore our nicely pressed white dresses, socks, and shoes, ready to go to church. However, I was always impatient to come home, run up the stairs, and change into our jeans, cowboy shirts, and boots because Dad would drive us to the farm and we’d go horseback riding with him. After that it was back home for showers, makeup, hairstyles, and dresses and then transformed once again into ladies; we would usually agree on the restaurant of our choice, which was generally Mr. Wong’s Chinese food and all together with Mom enjoy Sunday lunch.

We grew up in this home of contrasts; Mom insisting that we behave and dress as ladies, Dad enjoying the pleasures of nature and sports with his daughters. All of us attended a private Catholic school, spoke languages, traveled extensively, became cultured in social etiquette, became independent, studied abroad, acquired self-confidence, enjoyed sports, participated in charity balls, achieved university degrees, and excelled in our careers, but we managed to disappoint Mom in our choice of marriage partners. I was the worst one because I fell in love with a Syrian Muslim man and in reality left everything to follow my heart and make my life on the other side of the world.

So in April of 1976, I heard the beep, followed by the captain’s voice instructing us to fasten our seat belts because we were beginning our descent into Damascus International Airport. Hesitatingly and excitedly I peeked out of the window, expecting to see the city’s or the tarmac’s lights, but to my surprise, it was pitch-dark outside. An ominous feeling invaded my heart.

What have I done? I questioned myself.

As the airplane descended, so did my excitement and adventuresome spirit. My heart contracted, and as I felt fear replace my anticipation of reuniting with my fiancé, Feiras, a feeling that if I had done anything wrong in my life, this was the place of retribution, overwhelmed my spirit.

CHAPTER 2

Culture Shock

D amascus International Airport was bustling, once we arrived.

Standing in line waiting to go through immigration, I wondered what in the world I would do if Feiras wasn’t waiting there. I knew one word in Arabic, "Ana Vanessa," which meant I am Vanessa. I hadn’t bothered to learn any Arabic during the three years that Feiras and I were dating at the university.

We had met in the Student Union Building’s cafeteria. He was sitting at the Arabs’ table, making a paper airplane, which he threw to our table with the word hi. He had caught our attention because he was the best dressed student at the table. He was dark, with an excellent build and large dark eyes that were covered by long curly black eyelashes. I had just gone through a breakup, left by someone who left me vulnerable and in pain, and I wasn’t planning to begin a new relationship. However, the fact that he was a foreigner and that I thought I just needed someone to befriend made me answer back with, What’s your name? I never imagined that this man would become my husband and change my life forever.

Finally, I was out of customs and following the crowd. I met Feiras and three members of his family: his father, who was a robust dark man with loving eyes; his mother, who was an elegant woman with a very strong character; and his younger brother, Thaim, who was a handsome dark young man with huge brownish-olive eyes. It was dark out and very cool when we started the trip back to Homs, where I would reside for the next thirty-six years of my life.

The house was huge: five bedrooms, three living rooms, one dining room, four bathrooms, a large kitchen, and a den. The sheik was waiting for us, and without further delay or pomp or ceremony, I got married religiously and was escorted to the bedroom, which had two double beds covered with white satin sheets, bedspreads, and pillowcases. Exhausted from the long trip and the stress, we retired. Feiras was loving and affectionate. Both of us had confronted our families because there were objections to our marriage from both sides. Neither of our families wanted a mixed marriage. We were completely different—nationality, religion, culture, and lifestyle.

We were young and very much in love, so we wanted to accept the challenge and demonstrate to our families that nothing and no one could shatter our dream of being together.

My first night in Homs was frightening. As I lay calmly asleep next to Feiras, I was suddenly awakened around three forty-five in the morning by the call to prayer from the nearby minaret, and I could hear the same call from different minarets around the city. In the silence of the night, it was as if the whole city was full of the calls coming from all directions. Not knowing what it was and what they were saying made the experience frightening, but the second night was better, and by the third night, I didn’t even wake up.

Breakfast was incredibly different. The table was full of small plates containing different food. One had honey, another jam, then there was white cheese, dry yogurt, green olives, black olives, oil and zatar (dry thyme with powdered nuts), scrambled eggs, halawi (a sweet mixture with pieces of pecan nuts), and a plate with makdus (eggplant stuffed with crushed red peppers and walnuts preserved in olive oil).

All this food was eaten with pieces of large pita-like bread.

Tea accompanied breakfast, and there was no fresh coffee or instant coffee. Turkish coffee was very strong, and I couldn’t drink it, and I wasn’t a fan of tea, so I had some water.

It wasn’t long before I developed a urine infection because of the change in diet and water, but I was determined to get accustomed to the food, the water, and my new lifestyle. So the days passed, and slowly but surely my stomach accepted the newness of the nourishment. Every day there were new dishes to taste: crushed wheat with tomatoes, stuffed squash with rice and ground meat, green beans with oil and garlic, kipi, tabuli (a delicious parsley salad), chicken feti (a combination of fried bread, with pieces of chicken, yogurt with crushed garlic and rice, all placed in layers like our lasagna), and many, many more.

However, the greatest change was the social etiquette.

I had to learn that not all men greeted women shaking hands.

I had to learn not to smile at a stranger who passed you in the street because that would encourage him to follow you. I learned that men greet each other with a kiss on each cheek and women with two or three kisses. At a gathering, as a new person comes in, you must stand to greet her and you must ask each person individually how she is, about her husband and children, and then continue this greeting with the others. Surprisingly the hostess offers cigarettes to her guests to smoke with the Turkish coffee. The perfect hostess then serves tabuli, cheese and meat pastries, and kipi, then Jell-O, cake, or Arabic sweets.

Finally the hostess offers candy and chocolates, which must be taken by the guests, although most of them place them in their handbags. During most gatherings the local gossip is discussed, fashion trends, the current soap operas, and the new songs and foreign singers. As the guests are preparing to leave, they must say, Daimi, which means something like, May you always be blessed with prosperity.

Arabic women dress fashionably. Some buy their clothes in Europe or in Lebanon. They have a great sense of style, with famous-brand shoes and matching handbags. They regularly go to the hairdresser and dye their hair and change their hairstyles. They never use accessories, and their gold necklaces, bracelets, and rings enhance their appearance.

Even the women who cover their hair and wear the long coat are extremely well-dressed. They take off their coats and scarves, and one is shocked at the fashionable clothes hidden underneath.

The men have their own cafeterias where they go to relax while their wives enjoy the evening gatherings. They drink tea, smoke hubble-bubble, play backgammon, or just sit and talk about their work, the economy, and their families.

Wives and husbands meet back home around ten and have dinner, followed by an evening of television programs or news.

Conservative families even have separate wedding ceremonies. The men gather in a different venue and attend the civil ceremony while the women enjoy dinner, Arabic dancing, and the arrival of the groom, who enters to take his bride. The modern families outdo themselves in the marriage ceremonies—dresses, open buffets, DJs, dancing until the early morning, tables with candle chandeliers, flowers and more flowers, and just the perfect wedding party. Both families outdo themselves with the gold and diamonds they present to the bride in the presence of the guests. These ceremonies are extraordinarily lavish.

So this was the new society, culture, and lifestyle that I was determined to accept and adopt as my own. I spoke English and Spanish perfectly and some French, but Arabic was nothing like these languages. There were no similar words, the spoken language was different from the written one, and the movies were mostly Egyptian with another completely different dialect. This was my starting point, learning the language. I couldn’t communicate with my in-laws, only with my sisters-in-law. I had met my eldest sister-in-law in the States. She had married Fawas, who was studying there, and had lived there for about three years, but she had her own house and her own life. My two younger sisters-in-law were barely able to speak English. Although I felt quite isolated and lonely at the beginning, nothing was going to prevent me from adapting to my new surroundings. However, I soon discovered that it wasn’t only me who had to accept all these changes. I had to be accepted by them, and not everyone was willing to give me a chance.

CHAPTER 3

Changes

T he first word I learned in Arabic was diuf, which means guests. They seemed to come every day—people from the village, who handled my long hair to make sure it was real, touched my skin, scrutinized my teeth, and kissed me approvingly; people from the city, who stared and approvingly or disapprovingly came and went; relatives, who were so curious to see the foreigner whom Feiras had brought from the States. That was my title, the foreigner whom Feiras married. Now I understand that it was a blessing that I didn’t speak Arabic because many unfriendly comments were lost to me. Little did I realize that some of these women actually disliked me even before they had met me, because Feiras was from a rich family, had an American degree in civil engineering, and was considered a catch who had been taken away from them by me.

Weeks passed, and one day I was told that two American ladies were coming to meet me. As I entered the living room and heard them saying hello, I understood the phrase music to my ears. I hadn’t heard the American accent in weeks, and I missed home, my family, my lifestyle, and my friends. They were great, wonderful, and mesmerizing. I was astonished at how they went from English into Arabic with fluency. They conversed with my mother-in-law in flawless Arabic, and they seemed to be so at ease and at home in this strange country. I wondered how long it would take me to become like them.

It wasn’t long before I belonged to a group of foreigners from the States, England, France, and Germany. They all spoke English, and we met once a week, imitating the Arab gatherings. My eldest sister-in-law, Issa, who had come back to Syria before me, introduced me to my first Arabic friend, Maha, who had lived in the States and spoke English. I felt that I had begun to fit in and that I was adapting and coping with my life.

I was even trying to speak and converse with the few words and phrases that my sister-in-law Faten had taught me. She was in the tenth grade, and she had become my closest friend.

Unfortunately, things at home weren’t going as smoothly.

I still wasn’t able to converse with my father-in-law and mother-in-law, and unknowingly I was committing mistakes, which Feiras was enjoying but didn’t tell me about. I actually told an Arab gathering that my mother-in-law fed me grass instead of vegetables. I addressed my father-in-law with a Hey you!

A new sister-in-law, Nur, had come back from Bulgaria, where her husband had been studying medicine, and Feiras had told me that she didn’t like me very much. Not being able to communicate with her, I kept my distance, and we didn’t get along. Feiras was also going through his own culture shock, because he perceived his friends differently, and he had lost many of them to the Gulf States because Syria was suffering from an economic slump. He was thinking of going back to the States, and my in-laws blamed me. They were very attached to their children, and Feiras was the firstborn, so they were expecting the heir who would continue the family name. To make matters worse, I couldn’t get pregnant.

My Jewish gynecologist had wanted to meet Feiras when I told him that I had decided to get married. He kindly informed Feiras that there was a possibility that I couldn’t get pregnant because I had an extremely irregular period that hadn’t been able to be treated. Feiras assured him that he was so much in love that it didn’t matter. The doctor insisted that Jews and Arabs were cousins and he knew and understood their culture. He asked Feiras to think about his parents and the consequences that not being able to produce a child would incur. Feiras assured him that nothing could separate us.

It was the economic situation, his joblessness, and his American memories that encouraged Feiras to consider going back to the States. To convince us to stay, my father-in-law began to build our house over theirs. He was building two apartments, one for us and another for Thaim. In the summer of 1977, I was exuberant at the news that my youngest sister, Penelope, was coming for a few weeks to visit me. Although she and I hadn’t had the best relationship as children, I adored her, and I was looking forward to her visit. Feiras and I were determined to make her stay a pleasant one, and Feiras had told Thaim that she was single, just graduated with a biology degree, and was very nice.

No one could have guessed that this trip was going to affect my life forever! By the end of the forty-day stay in Syria, Thaim and Penelope announced that they wanted to get married! The phone call to my parents must have been mind-boggling. They persuaded her to go back to the States, only to accept the fact that she was convinced and nothing would change her mind.

Thaim talked to her on the phone and reported the progress on our houses and that he was waiting for her. He really seemed in love with her. My mother-in-law was happy, but the arrival of Feiras’s grandfather from South America changed everything. Apparently, he and my mother-in-law didn’t get along very well, and the tension between them was evident. One day as he and I were conversing, he handed me a letter his son had written to him praising him for being a good father. He had married Feiras’s grandmother, and they had had my father-in-law. However when my father-in-law was only fifteen months old, he immigrated to South America. After making his fortune, he remarried there and had four sons. One of these sons had written that letter, giving him explicit instructions of what name to use on the property title of his building in Beirut.

It dawned on me that that building was supposedly my father-in-law’s. Now what should I tell Feiras? After pondering this question for a few hours, I decided that my loyalty was to my husband. It was a disaster. There was a huge family fight, which ended up with the grandfather going to sleep in a hotel, but after that my mother-in-law was much kinder to me. The next day there was a flurry of activity; my father-in-law was rushing, my mother-in-law was screaming, my brother-in-law was packing, and they rushed to Beirut, where they found that the building was gone. Feiras’s grandfather had signed it over to his sons in South America and had booked a flight and left Lebanon. My father-in-law was devastated; he had just lost millions of Syrian pounds. During the first fifteen years that he didn’t see his father, he had received money, and my father-in-law had bought property in Syria and that building in Beirut. This was a great economic blow to the family.

One evening in August, my mother-in-law asked me if I had faith. I responded that I did. She took my hand, and we went out to the balcony, where she told me that it was a holy night in the Muslim calendar and we were going to ask God for a child. This was the first and only time that I felt close to her as she held my hand and closed her eyes and prayed. There were tears in her eyes as she told me to ask in my own way. The truth was I wasn’t crazy about the idea of having a child yet, but I was very touched by my mother-in-law—her face, her tears, her kindness. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I hadn’t had a period for six months.

So I prayed to God that I would accept his will. By the middle of September, I began suffering from abdominal pains. We were moving up to our new house, so I thought that I was tired, but as the pains didn’t go away, I called my doctor. He asked me to do a pregnancy test and come to his office the next day. My father-in-law was downtown, so Feiras asked him to get my results on his way home. He was a very serious man but very kind. Nobody had ever seen him jump for joy like that afternoon. Their grandson was on the way.

In December 1977, my parents came to Syria to bring my sister and meet the family who had now taken two of their daughters. By that time, our two houses were constructed and furnished.

I was four months pregnant, and my in-laws were quite happy because they had fallen in love with Penelope. My parents didn’t disappoint them. My mother arrived, as usual, very elegant in a woolen suit with leather boots that had a fur trim. My father with Feiras as his translator impressed my in-laws with his knowledge and stories from the Arabian Nights. We had the religious and civil ceremony, and then we went to dinner in Fawas’s restaurant, which was the best restaurant in town. The table was full of appetizers—humus, tabuli, kippi, different varieties of salads, grape leaves, sheep brains, mushrooms with ground meat, French fries—and then the main dishes of kabab, barbecued chicken, ribs, and meat. That was a splendid meal.

It was an auspicious evening. My father danced with Penelope and impressed the congregation by dancing with a glass of whiskey on his head. It reminded me of the cartoon drawing that used to hang in his law firm. I had dreamed many times that I would dance once again with my father in Syria. Dreams come true.

My parents were experiencing mixed emotions. They had just lost another daughter to this family, yet the fact that we would be together gave them some sort of solace. They were enjoying the beauty of Syria, its ruins, history, people, and rich culture. They were surprised at the contrasts of the modern and the ancient. We traveled to the ancient ruins of Palmyra, where they admired the Roman columns, the temple of Bal, the underground tombs, and the crafts in the museum. We traveled to the touristic city of Hama and ate delicious food next to the famous waterwheels. We went to Damascus, where they visited the Omayyad mosque and the covered market and dined in a modern restaurant, where they enjoyed belly dancing and the music of the lute. Now they had completed their mission of raising their five daughters, and after leaving Syria, they traveled together to Europe.

Had they known the turn of events looming on the horizon, they might not have enjoyed their last holiday together.

CHAPTER 4

Transitions

P enelope’s transition into her life was easier than mine. I tried to help her avoid the mistakes that I had made, even though I couldn’t predict all of them. She had her ups and downs, especially because conversing with Thaim, who knew very little English, wasn’t easy. It was a difficult time because the government had taken over a huge building that had belonged to my father-in-law and had paid very little compensation. Losing the monthly rent of the stores and the hotel in that building made the family tight with money.

My in-laws rented their huge house to a French company and came up to live with us. Penelope and Thaim moved in with Feiras and me because the previous arrangement of my in-laws living with us had been disastrous. My mother-in-law and I just couldn’t get along under the same roof. She was in charge, she was cooking, she had the maids, so I felt that I couldn’t do much, while she felt that I should have done more. Having Penelope and Thaim was a relief, and I think we enjoyed each other’s company.

Penelope and I shared the cooking and housework while Thaim and Feiras talked, played backgammon and discussed their parents’ predicament and the economic slump. However, Feiras wasn’t happy; nothing had changed. He had no job, and we were sharing the income of a taxi that worked between Homs and Lebanon with Thaim. Only four months after Penelope got married, Feiras decided to send me to the States to deliver my first child, promising that he would follow as soon as he was able to come up with some money.

I have no idea until today how my parents reacted to the news. I’m coming home, and Penelope is staying in Syria. Poor them.

On the way to the airport, I asked Feiras what name we should call our child if it should be a girl. He answered that he was sure it was a boy, who would continue the family name. Therefore, he would be named Mazen after my father-in-law.

As the plane descended, I saw the mountain where I had memories, where I had driven my car on scenic drives when I was depressed.

It had always given me peace of mind. I felt every person should be as steadfast, self-consistent, and majestic as a mountain. It represented strength and integrity for me, and sighing deeply I felt that I was home.

My parents and my eldest sister, Veronica, were delighted to welcome me. On my way home, my father asked about the names that we had chosen for the baby. I explained that if it was a boy, by tradition he would be named Mazen. I also informed him that we hadn’t chosen a female name. Pensively he told me that the only name he knew in Arabic was Scheherazade from the Arabian Nights. For some reason I didn’t think that it was suitable because I hadn’t heard that name at all during my two years in Syria, and I knew it was very old. Thank God in May 1978 after an excruciating delivery, my first son, Mazen, was born. For a second it was touch and go for the baby, but he was strong. My gynecologist jumped for joy when the delivery was over.

It’s a boy, they have their heir. It’s a boy, now you’re safe. His parents won’t pressure him to remarry, he stated.

Three months later, Feiras arrived and met his firstborn.

My mother-in-law had sent me a gold bracelet with her heartfelt congratulations for our baby. We moved to an apartment far away from my parents, and Feiras reunited with his old Syrian friends who had studied with him at the same university. I thought life was good.

It wasn’t long before Feiras’s friends brainwashed him and began to convince him that he shouldn’t come home early to his wife and baby. After all, the responsibility of taking care of the child fell on the woman’s shoulders. He had bought the rights to a clothing store, and knowing nothing about the business, he wasn’t doing very well. We were barely making ends meet, and news from my in-laws reported that Syria was out of the economic slump and business was booming. He became confused and began to return later and later at night to our apartment. His best friend, Samer, was a horrible influence. He beat his wife, drank constantly, and womanized. The fact that he had money was probably the only reason why his wife tolerated him.

My parents often made the long trip to my house and quietly realized that I was home alone. Feiras wasn’t a good father, and he even called Mazen the boy. My parents would take Mazen for the weekends so that we could go out and enjoy ourselves with our friends. Nevertheless, Feiras would drop me off at home and continue the evening with his friends. One night I finally confided to my parents that I suspected Feiras was not only drinking but also womanizing. I mentioned that he was pondering the thought of returning to Syria, and I posed the idea that I could divorce him and keep Mazen since we were in the United States. I was stupefied when my father answered that if we went back, things would sort themselves out eventually. His culture frowned upon infidelity, and there were no bars or houses of ill repute. In addition he reminded me that marriage was not something that you could try and if you didn’t like it, just shrug it off and terminate it. This was serious, and now I had a child to raise and take care of.

We had a stormy year full of fights, problems, and trials.

Finally, Feiras decided to return because his father had had a heart attack, and he would be avoiding the draft if he didn’t go back. When I broke the news to my parents, my mother was devastated. My father was optimistic that our marriage would recover, and my sister Veronica, who had been my best friend all this time, was silently skeptical about the whole situation. One night my parents passed by and found me home alone as usual. They waited and waited until one in the morning; after that, my father left an envelope on the kitchen table. I opened it and found two tickets to Las Vegas as a going-away gift to help us lift our spirits. They encountered Feiras on the way out and only greeted him and left. When I showed Feiras the tickets, thinking that the gesture would please him as much as it had me, he had a terrible outburst. Why had I told them that we were having problems, what had I said, how much did they know, why would I want to ruin his reputation, how did I benefit from slandering him, etc. He became so violent that he kicked the dresser and made a hole on the wooden side. I knew it could have been my face, but I had learned to keep quiet when he was angry. He refused the gift and returned the tickets. I packed my bags, and we shipped Mazen’s crib, the car seat, the TV, the Atari, and the video player as well as my huge washing machine and dryer.

My only solace was that Penelope was pregnant and waiting for me in Homs. According to her letters, she was well and happy and her due date was in June. It was May 1979, and I was just going to make it for her delivery. My mother had taught me all I needed to know; she had taken care of Mazen since he was born. I knew only too well that Mazen was one of the main reasons why my parents would miss us so much.

CHAPTER 5

The Return

P enelope looked wonderful; no one could imagine that she was nine months pregnant. She would walk for an hour every day and was ready for her delivery. Thaim seemed content also, and my in-laws were back in their huge house. They were so happy to meet Mazen, who had begun speaking a few words in English and really felt confused at hearing this new language.

However, Feiras wasn’t content, satisfied, or happy. He had lost most of our money in the States, and shipping some of our things had cost quite a bit. Thaim and Penelope were economically comfortable, and even though the economic slump was much better, Feiras had no money to start a project or even bid for one from the government. Our house had no bedroom, and I never asked what had happened to it because it had been given to us by my in-laws, so I imagined they could take it away. We lost our refrigerator, and we hadn’t bought a dining room, so the house was empty and not livable. There was the den and a cooker in the kitchen, and that was it. We moved in with Thaim and Penelope.

Love is blind! I hadn’t noticed or didn’t want to notice that Feiras was difficult and sometimes violent. He had never hit me because I would keep silent when I saw him nervous or upset.

One day after lunch, Thaim and Feiras were conversing about marriage life, and Thaim asked Penelope if he needed to sell her gold because he needed the money, would she give it to him? Much in love and expecting his baby, she promptly replied that she would give it all to him. Feiras quickly posed the same question; very hurt and not so in love, I hesitated to reply, immediately incurring his anger. Feiras exploded in a fit of rage, cursing and screaming. He then took Mazen’s American passport and tore it to pieces! Thaim and Penelope were shocked, and I had an outburst of tears. That night we were forced to forget the whole incident because Penelope went into labor and had a beautiful baby boy, whom they called Somar.

She came back from the hospital with whooping cough. She was bedridden and nursed Somar with her mouth covered by a surgeon’s mask. Feiras bathed Somar, and I looked after my sister and both children, cooked, and cleaned. Months passed, Penelope recovered, Feiras bought a new bedroom, our things arrived at the port, and by October we moved back to our house.

Feiras decided to do his military service, my mother-in-law decided to travel to the States with us for a lens transplant that would restore her eyesight, and I found out that I was pregnant.

We traveled to the American embassy in Damascus to get Somar his American passport, and I showed them Mazen’s glued passport to get a new one. The embassy staff haughtily asked me questions about how this had happened, and I just answered that it occurred during a fight. They demonstrated their outrage but fortunately issued a new passport for Mazen. My mother-in-law had received her visa for medical purposes, so we were ready to go. Penelope was so happy, and I was too for Feiras had calmed down after taking the decision to go to the army.

Having us back with our children was a dream come true for my parents. I went with my mother-in-law for the first operation.

Not understanding a word of English and depending solely on me must have been very difficult for her. She was always in control, she was accustomed to making decisions, and she was very strong and was accustomed to depending on no one. Finally the day of her eye intervention arrived. I was four months pregnant, and as they ushered us into the preparation room right before the operating room, I was holding her hand. The doctors and nurses were all in green, and a medical assistant brought a huge syringe with a long needle in a tray. The doctor asked me if I was strong, to which I replied that I was. Then he asked me to tell my mother-in-law that this was the worst part, the anesthesia. A muscular male nurse held her head in his hands, and taking the enormous needle, the doctor inserted it between her temple and eye. Without taking it out, he pulled at it, twisted it, and inserted it under the middle of her eyebrow and then with another twist into the bottom middle of her eye socket. My mother-in-law was screaming with pain and fear, and I felt faint. It was over in seconds; when he removed the needle, the pain vanished immediately, and my mother-in-law calmed down. I said goodbye, and they pushed the gurney into the operating room. I was escorted to a room where I was able to lie down because my heart was racing. I remember thinking that I would never have any eye surgery in my life.

As luck would have it, the doctor reported that my mother-in-law had an eye infection behind her eyeball, which caused a hemorrhage. When I was allowed to see her, she was depressed and in a terrible state of mind. I tried to be understanding, but being pregnant didn’t help. We were forced to spend the night at the hospital, and we didn’t sleep. She kept complaining about the skill of the doctor, the nurses, the food and ended by saying that I had ruined her eyesight by bringing her to a mediocre hospital. At the time it was one of the best; unfortunately for me, it wasn’t in a metropolis, so my mother-in-law inferred that a small city hospital wasn’t a good hospital. We traveled back home, where she would recover, see another specialist that would follow up with her treatment, and wait until it was time for the next intervention for the other eye. She decided to stay with her niece, who had married and lived in the same city.

I knew she was frustrated and angry at me, but I would call her every day to see if she needed anything, or to take her to the specialist. On our first visit he assured her that her eyesight would be as good as new, once the bleeding stopped and the infection cured.

After only a few weeks, she regained her eyesight, and even though she never really admitted it, she was able to see well and