THE GROCERY LIST

Skidmore College

Tahini, chickpeas, fresh mint, rose water, yogurt and pistachios. I run the list in my mind one more time before I escape my small house. It rolls easily off my tongue like a pupil with his scripture, and I have memorized it with similar diligence. By the time I leave my dingy and dark building, I hear noise and I am unsure whether it is bombshells from the far distance or some loud accident that happened again at the market. I cannot tell anymore, as the bustling, yet peaceful city sounds are now replaced with gunfire. But we all pretend like it’s just another normal day. And it is, because I am getting my groceries from Abu Ammar’s bazaar, as I have done for the past ten years. “With the pistachios comes to 2000 lira,” Abu Ammar says. “No discount for a faithful customer today?” “I have already added it. If I add more, I will be bankrupt.” He pauses briefly. “Alhamdulillah for everything, of course.” “How is your son doing?” I ask. “He is just fine,” he replies back. “He is happy in Jordan.” I can see hesitation in his green eyes, and for the first time, I notice the lines on his forehead. He is debating whether to ask me the same question back, or just give me my groceries now and be done with it. “Here you go, Umm Khalil. May God make it up to you with more money for the next shopping trip.”

Labneh, olive oil, spinach, beetroot that is a crimson red color to boil for salad. I head to Abu Ammar’s bazaar with a determination to talk to absolutely no one. Just as I head downstairs, I hear my neighbor, Jumana, reminding her son to pick up his brother from school at exactly two. “Not a minute earlier or later,” she threatens him. But her voice remains low, almost still. “Neighbor! Salam, it’s so good to see you,” she says. “It’s been too long, come in, I will make you a cup of coffee right now.” “Actually, I am just heading to the store,” I reply, while pretending to sound rushed, as if I have many things on my to-do list. But Jumana knows that I am in no rush to go anywhere. It is the kind of assumption that she, my other neighbors, and maybe the entirety of the city make about women of a certain age. A haja, or khalto is the dreadful nickname that is bestowed on you after you’ve reached all the milestones of your life; you’ve gotten married, had kids, they moved out to start their own families, and your husband is currently very much dead. I cannot even

blame her for this intrusion. She is kind, unlike my upstairs neighbors who keep making rumors about my solitary life now that Anas has moved out. Nonetheless, I have to get to Abu Ammar’s before all the good produce is snatched away. “Have you heard about Nabil?” she says just as I intend to walk past her

door.

“Lama’s son?” I reply, knowing that this turn of conversation will be much less cheery. With a ting of emotion, her husky voice barely above a whisper, she informs me: “He passed away yesterday. He went to his work in the suburbs, like he does every day—his mom told me—but he never came back.” Before I can ask her how he died, she immediately continues, now whispering so that I can barely hear: “They thought he was someone else, the soldiers at the checkpoint.” That’s all it takes nowadays: being in the wrong place, or having a last name that can easily get you mistaken for someone else. Lives in this city have become volatile waves in and of themselves, and everyone always on the brink of drowning to death. “They went to hospital, to identify him, but his mother could barely recognize his body because of what that they did to it, they—” I finally leave the building and head outside. It’s spring time in Damascus, and the jasmine flowers have engulfed the city in a beautiful white embrace. I take a few off of a nearby tree, and they smell like heaven. I have known Nabil since he was five years old. I attended his overly extravagant wedding only a couple of years ago, and loved the buffet. Loosening the scarf that is firmly around my head, I cannot help but whisper, “May God help his family; may God help us all.” Abu Ammar, I am sure, will appreciate some of the jasmine, as he works long hours on Tuesdays. Labneh, olive oil, spinach, beetroot: that is all I need. I cannot believe what happened to Nabil. He had the most charming face. He was only 30, and had just recently started a family. But the list of deaths does not end, it only grows faster and more violent. Abu Ahmad last week, or Rama, my cleaner’s daughter, the week before. I remember Rama’s mother’s scream, sharp as a knife. I think about Nabil’s mother as I enter the shop to buy my groceries. I think about Nabil.

Apples, just apples, I sigh, craving the sourness and smooth texture. The streets are haunted by the noise of explosions coming from the suburbs. I wonder if it’s coming from Eastern Ghouta this time, maybe Zamalka, or worse: Darayya. It’s funny. Funny how most of the earth does not understand what an explosion sounds or feels like. Most would think about the sound of it and how it pierces your bones. But the sound is not even the worst part. In fact, it sounds like a thunderstorm as it vibrates across different Damascene neighborhoods. The worst part of an explosion is the smell. As the dust settles into your lungs, it burns deep within your body. As if it's slowly erasing your soul. Maybe that explains all the numbness I feel around me on yet another daily journey. I step into the street and take a detour from my usual route. There is barely anyone walking today, and the

few I see are all looking down, staring at their feet, praying to escape. I walk past the bridge and look down at the Barada river. When I was almost twenty, I used to come to the river every day with my torn-up copy of Jane Eyre. My innermost dream then was to leave this country for an exciting adventure and a diverse world, like Jane, looking for my purpose across different places. If only I knew that my city was going to transform into a new monstrous place, then I would have cherished every busy street and every sweet jasmine flower. Apples, Nabil, torture. Without even thinking, I step on the edge of the bridge, looking down at the nearly dried-up riverbed. There is a girl with a yellow blouse and dark brown curls, sitting down there peacefully with not a care in the world, eating an apple. She looks up, smiling in my direction, a devilish and clever smile. The girl is me, a younger and more hopeful former-self, one I have chosen to leave behind. I feel dizzy, as if I am tied to a ship anchor, and it is driving me down to the bottom of the ocean. Each second, I feel dizzier, closer to drowning and all I want is to float. But I wish I was drowning. Not at all, it is something that has followed me throughout my life and now I feel it slip away. It is time.

Olives, I think to myself as I open my fridge to see what is missing. Olives, butter, rice. I have not eaten much in the last couple of days, as if my stomach is anticipating something. I walk to the store thinking about olives, butter, and rice. Walking slowly across the alleyways, Abu Mohamad stops me in my tracks. “Umm Khalil, Marhaba, we have not seen your face in our store lately.” It is actually Maryam; does he not know that? “I cannot afford these inflated prices anymore,” I say with a smile. “You and half of the country, unfortunately for my business,” he replies back. “We need all the money we can get for my father, especially now that I am the only one providing for him.” He pauses, packing away the meat in the bag, and directly looks at my eyes as if he is about to lose speech. “Malik, my son, has given you his life two days ago in a car explosion south of Cha’ am. May God be merciful.” I want to ask how he did it, for whom, and who was it against? But it does not really matter; the victims and perpetrators are identical, regardless of which side they choose. “May God be merciful,” I repeat, barely, in an inaudible and insignificant voice. Mercy is pointless to a dead man. I pick up my walking pace, looking at the ground in an attempt to reach the grocery store unseen, and hopefully remaining ignorant to anyone else’s news. Malik, the butcher’s son, dead by explosion. Nabil, the neighbor’s son, dead on his way to work. Tortured. Olives, butter, and rice, I remind myself, but my head is spinning. Olives, butter, and rice. Olives, Malik, butter, rice, Nabil, torture.

Chickpeas, lemon juice, garlic, olive oil, cumin, parsley, bread, tahini, almonds, and Aleppo pepper. I immediately leave my bed and go to the kitchen in hopes that

something has changed. Last night, he was in my dream. As I look around my kitchen, I remember each detail. He is in the kitchen, sitting quietly. The room is filled with the morning light, warm and golden. He is wearing a cheap military uniform that is awfully dirty, and his shoes are muddy. I look at his face, dashing as always, but his black curly hair is in desperate need of a haircut. He has a couple of scars on his forehead, but other than that, he looks just fine. “Anas! Can you get up and take off your shoes please? You’re going to make the kitchen floor dirty.” I always have to remind him. “Tib, Mama. But can you do something for me first?” His voice is uncommonly shaky. “Can you make me your fatteh b’ hummus, I am starving.” “Of course, habibi.” I bring the chickpeas to a boil and cut the stale bread to small pieces. After, I stir together the tahini, lemon juice, garlic, and olive oil, smelling the sesame. I put some of the water over the bread to soak it in, and a layer of the boiled chickpeas with the tahini mixture. I top it off with parsley, cumin, Aleppo pepper, and roasted almonds. His favorite dish. I sit down with a full plate and watch him eat it like an excited child. “Table manners,” I say, and he gives me a sheepish smile. “Anas, habibi, where are you? They’re saying all of you are being transferred to Darayya.” He does not look up from his plate. I want to ask him about so much more, but instead, I look at him intently. Only the sound of the teapot boiling interrupts our peace. I reach across the table for his hand, but the teapot screeches loudly.

“The scent of jasmine so it blossomed, roses and basil, musk and amber, together (Ra'iihat alyasmin wazhar juri warayhan, mask waeanbar)” comes the song from Abu Ammar’s old and dysfunctional radio. “Yallah, come on, why is your volume not working, why is nothing working?” He is trying to reason with his radio, once again. “I brought you jasmine from Jalal’s garden,” I say, finally interrupting Abu Ammar’s monologue with the radio. “Just give me one second,” he says, while finally managing to blast the song. His attempt is in vain, as the noise of bombs from the nearby suburbs continue to dominate and seep into his safe haven. “What can I get for today, Umm Khalil?”

“Onions, tomatoes, and parsley.” “I am out of fresh tomatoes. The produce is blocked, as you know.” Great. Well, of course it is. Looking outside, I notice kids are running, but their expressions are unusually puzzled. “Come here, kid, what is going on?” Abu Ammar shouts at a young boy who has stopped to catch his breath right outside the store. “I don’t know! But there’s some bad news at uncle Abu Khalid’s house. It’s about his son in Darayya.”

Abu Ammar and I share a brief glance, and the radio signal breaks up the silence. I leave the store, leaving my groceries behind. Following the chatter of the bustling neighborhood to a tiny alleyway, I arrive at Abu Khalid’s house. There is a crowd of people, whispering to each other in grim voices, but I block it all out. I should not even be here in the first place. Trying to rush past people, I hear screaming, and—even more frightening—a wailing coming from inside the house. I look around again, but I do not recognize many people. Then I see Jumana in the front. I try to get her attention, but she is talking to another woman. I attempt to make my way to her, following the sound of her unique husky voice. I am almost behind her when I hear her whispering, “They're saying most of them, the bodies of the soldiers, are being kept there. I wonder if that is how they found out. The morgue on Arnaous Street.” Another howl cuts through the crowd, and gradually everything becomes muffled, distant from me. I can only make out a couple of sentences: “Hundreds! Thousands! People waking up dead.” “The count keeps going up...” “Lucky that he is a solider or they would have never got the body.” “Darayya is a death trap.” Darayya, Darayya. The word keeps repeating itself, as if they are all chanting it in front of me. Khaled, dead in the army. His mother, Amira, and I went to the same school. The names, the words, are like shrapnel, each piercing through my body. Nabil, torture, Malik, explosion, Khaled, dead, Darayya.

Lama’s son. Nabil. Malik. Abu Mohamad’s son. Khaled. Amira’s son. Nabil, Lama, Malik, Abu Mohamad, Anas, Anas, Anas. Summer has come surprisingly soon this year, and all of a sudden, the sun is blazing in the afternoon. I regret my choice of clothing as soon as I leave my building, feeling the sweat drizzle on my forehead and underneath my arms. And yet, for the first time in years, the air does not smell of gunpowder as usual. How can that be? I can actually hear the birds chirping. Fairuz is playing on the city’s radio this morning, like always. Her voice, both tender and strong, reverberates through the city’s different shops and houses. The beautiful remains of this city are still there, and they surprise you when you stop looking. Like my neighborhood now, which is vibrating with an energy I thought extinct: A young man gives away free samples at Abu Awwad’s confectionery, and another slaves away at the shawarma meat stand. How strange. Around me, the jasmine has been replaced with green leaves everywhere. In the Al’ Muhajrin neighborhood, I see a beautiful old church building, which I remember was accidentally bombed years ago. Now it stands unchanged as if nothing has happened. But how is that even possible? As if it is the end of a nightmare that revelled in the darkness for too long. I stop for a moment and breathe the fresh air

deeply, as if it has become foreign to me, and it is very intoxicating. That is when I notice a young boy looking at me and laughing in a teasing manner from a distance. His black curls and green eyes are familiar. As I walk closer to him, he starts to run. “Anas,” I whisper to myself. I follow him across the busy cobbled streets, and he is much faster than me. I pass by the colorful juice stands opposite the Italian Hospital, and my legs ache. Every couple of minutes, he turns back and stands for a second, encouraging me to follow him. I reach Aranous Square, as busy as it can get in the afternoon. Between the masses of people buying ironic t-shirts from clothes racks outside and the hectic ice cream shop around the corner, I see him standing in front of a bleak, windowless building. As soon as I get there, he is gone, disappeared into the dry and thin air. It looks like it has not changed at all in the last fifty years or so. The morgue. Stuck in time, but in an ominous way. The mere sight of it and its haunted rooms brings me back to my new reality. A reminder that while we try to survive, our city and past lives are forever changed, ruptured. Like shattered glass, any attempt to piece the past back together will cut your flesh. I take a deep breath and cross the threshold.