The children were playing in the fields next to their grandparent's house and thoroughly enjoying themselves when I spotted a Bedouin tending to his flock of brown faced, fat tailed Awasi sheep. He looked so regal dressed in his silk embroidered black linen galapea, blue jacket and shemagh (traditional Arabic headgear). Azzam ran towards the sheep and like a bull at a gate he found himself in the middle of the flock and nudging them along a narrow pathway towards his play area. The shepherd was most amused at his antics and I tried to intervene and grab Azzam but he managed to wiggle his way out of my arms and run for shelter behind the sheep. Fortunately, Bahija arrived and managed to coax Azzam out of the flock and gain his trust by talking to the man about allowing Azzam to sit on the back of one of his sheep. He politely obliged and Azzam sat proud on the animals back although betwixt as to what he had got himself into. He was then content to bid farewell to his new friend and we made our way home with a promise to visit Azzam's animal friends and their keeper the following day.

The children's uncle Suhbarn was an artist and a sculpture. He worked in Lebanon and made sculptures of eagles, lions, mother Mary and other religious deities. He lived the life of a tortured artist and poet who spent his idle days in cafes, chain smoking and drinking Arabic coffee with friends whilst discussing the whys and wherefores of life's peculiarities. He was fascinated by my outlook on life and the enjoyment I took from the simple pleasures that most people he knew took for granted. He accompanied the children and myself on many of our excursions to the fields and even taught me how to shoot a gun and rifle. When he had a bit too much to drink he was banished from the house and he slept in his tent that he erected in the meadow adjacent to Fawaz's family home. He was such a character and known as one of the strongest men in the town and nobody picked a fight with him unless they had a death wish. He would click his fingers and his sisters would come running and answer to his every whim. I was so annoyed with him not long after I had arrived in Syria when I caught him fighting with Hozarm his younger sister, who was about seventeen at the time. He was yelling at her in the kitchen and trying to hit her and she was cowering in a corner, so I stood in-between them and chided him for his cowardice whilst holding him back from his sister. He had no idea of what I was saying but he got the gist and never displayed such rude behaviour in front of my presence again. I disliked the way the girls were at the beck and call of their brothers to make them coffee or tea or iron their clothes or dry their hair. I knew that Yasmin would not be following in her auntie's footsteps.

I only saw one woman drive a car in Skelbieh as it was not common for them to ride a motorcycle or drive. The women were in charge of the home and housework and men would often purchase the food. The baker opened at four in the morning and most families sent someone out to buy bread each morning at about five o'clock.

Bahija could not read or write in Arabic. When she was younger she would help around the home and was married at sixteen years of age. She gave birth to sixteen children but only twelve survived. Both of her younger daughters completed year twelve at high school and she was very proud of their achievements. Fawaz, her eldest child left Skelbieh when he was nineteen to work overseas in Greece. Her next son Mann worked between Lebanon and Syria and Manhal moved to work and live in Russia. Mohunned, Dored and Harris all worked in Lebanon at one time or another and Dored also worked in Saudi Arabia. Hazim moved to Baalbek in Lebanon to work as a welder and married one of their local girls.

Bahija would worry about all her children, especially if they were away from their home. I remember one morning she was distraught because of a dream that she had the previous evening. She dreamt that something untoward had happened to her youngest son Harris. At that time he was working in Beirut and she sent two of her sons to Lebanon to find Harris and check that he was ok. There was no other way to contact him except by sending someone over there.

Of course he was perfectly healthy and enjoying his stay and she was content to know that her dream was not a premonition of an ill fated adventure.

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TelsikeenTelsikeen which translates to hill(tel) and sikeen(knife) was a small village in the Gharb. Fawaz had quite a few relatives living there and they belonged to Bahija's clan. We were invited to Telsikeen to attend a wake after one of Fawaz's uncles had died. On our arrival we were greeted by the children of the household and led across a freshly hosed, uneven, cemented courtyard. We placed our shoes in a neat row and were directed into one of their two rooms and joined the men and women who were sitting Arabic style(on the floor with legs crossed). I was given a shawl to cover my legs and feet as it was apparently easier for me to relax with modesty. The atmosphere was sombre and hardly a word was spoken. Guests had brought goats and sheep as an offering to help the family of the deceased to feed their constant visitors, many of whom had travelled long distances to pay their respects.I sat next to Fawaz and amongst an older generation of men dressed in their traditional Arabic attire which included their galapea, leather belt and shemly(headscarf).The women served the food on huge round trays which were full of rice or bourgul (cooked cracked wheat) or freekee(wheat husks thrown into fire and burning charcoal for a small period of time and then de-husked). Bowls of salad and yoghurt and hummus(chickpeas) were placed in the middle of the room on table cloths. Lamb, chicken and goat were the main meats on the menu. A huge tray of rice was placed in front of me and sitting on the top was the skull of a goat that had been cooked with its tongue hanging out. I was offered the dish first as a sign of respect. Everyone was looking at me with eagerness whilst waiting for me to fill my plate with what was regarded as the most delicious part of the goat. I couldn't even look at the goats head let alone eat it and I felt myself slowly fading away but was suddenly jolted back to reality by the sound of laughter coming from the other guests. They were so amused by my reaction that even on such a sad occasion they could not help themselves but laugh at the over sensitive westerner that couldn't look at their cooked goat in the eye(I hope there wasn't one).That laughter broke the ice and after their bellies were full everyone was more relaxed and were interested in talking to me about my opinion of their country and how I met Fawaz and how long I was going to stay in Syria.A few years earlier one of the residents in Telsikeen was digging a well in his backyard and to his amazement discovered what was said to be ancient ruins under the village. The government erected signs prohibiting anybody from digging without permission. There were major repercussions if anyone was caught trying to unearth anything that belonged to the ruins that had lay hidden beneath the small farming community for many centuries.Telsikeen was typical of the many villages that I had visited. The roads were often unpaved, thus were dusty in summer and muddy in winter and the villagers seemed to live outdoors most of the day, unlike Australians who tended to spend a large proportion of their day indoors. The men would sometimes be sitting with friends on the side of the road drinking coffee and sharing an argile(Arabic smoking pipe) or tinkering with their motorbikes.At the top of an argile a bowl would be filled with tobacco then covered with perforated aluminium foil above which lit coals were placed. The jar or vase at the bottom of the argile was filled with water and the stem sat on top and the down stem below the level of the water. Smoke passed through that section of the body and out the bottom of the stem where it bubbled through the water. That cooled and humidified the smoke. It was then inhaled through the hose which allowed the smoke to be drawn for a distance thus cooling it down. Women and men both smoked from argiles and various flavours of tobacco were used including a home made molasses soaked tobacco.I wasn't relaxed to be in Bahija's family room when Fawaz's brothers would smoke their cigarettes as both old and young shared the room that was also their bedroom at night. Fawaz asked our visitors not to smoke in our home because he was aware of the effects of passive smoking.Aziz and Bahija's house was situated at the bottom of a hill and the roads that led to their home were not tarred. In the wet winter months, one would slip and slide their way down the tel and if for any reason one's momentum sped up, caused by the steepness of the hill, or the sludge beneath them gave way, then the unlucky person would end up face down and covered in mud.page 37

Telsikeen

Telsikeen which translates to hill(tel) and sikeen(knife) was a small village in the Gharb. Fawaz had quite a few relatives living there and they belonged to Bahija's clan. We were invited to Telsikeen to attend a wake after one of Fawaz's uncles had died. On our arrival we were greeted by the children of the household and led across a freshly hosed, uneven, cemented courtyard. We placed our shoes in a neat row and were directed into one of their two rooms and joined the men and women who were sitting Arabic style(on the floor with legs crossed). I was given a shawl to cover my legs and feet as it was apparently easier for me to relax with modesty. The atmosphere was sombre and hardly a word was spoken. Guests had brought goats and sheep as an offering to help the family of the deceased to feed their constant visitors, many of whom had travelled long distances to pay their respects.

I sat next to Fawaz and amongst an older generation of men dressed in their traditional Arabic attire which included their galapea, leather belt and shemly(headscarf).

The women served the food on huge round trays which were full of rice or bourgul (cooked cracked wheat) or freekee(wheat husks thrown into fire and burning charcoal for a small period of time and then de-husked). Bowls of salad and yoghurt and hummus(chickpeas) were placed in the middle of the room on table cloths. Lamb, chicken and goat were the main meats on the menu. A huge tray of rice was placed in front of me and sitting on the top was the skull of a goat that had been cooked with its tongue hanging out. I was offered the dish first as a sign of respect. Everyone was looking at me with eagerness whilst waiting for me to fill my plate with what was regarded as the most delicious part of the goat. I couldn't even look at the goats head let alone eat it and I felt myself slowly fading away but was suddenly jolted back to reality by the sound of laughter coming from the other guests. They were so amused by my reaction that even on such a sad occasion they could not help themselves but laugh at the over sensitive westerner that couldn't look at their cooked goat in the eye(I hope there wasn't one).

That laughter broke the ice and after their bellies were full everyone was more relaxed and were interested in talking to me about my opinion of their country and how I met Fawaz and how long I was going to stay in Syria.

A few years earlier one of the residents in Telsikeen was digging a well in his backyard and to his amazement discovered what was said to be ancient ruins under the village. The government erected signs prohibiting anybody from digging without permission. There were major repercussions if anyone was caught trying to unearth anything that belonged to the ruins that had lay hidden beneath the small farming community for many centuries.

Telsikeen was typical of the many villages that I had visited. The roads were often unpaved, thus were dusty in summer and muddy in winter and the villagers seemed to live outdoors most of the day, unlike Australians who tended to spend a large proportion of their day indoors. The men would sometimes be sitting with friends on the side of the road drinking coffee and sharing an argile(Arabic smoking pipe) or tinkering with their motorbikes.

At the top of an argile a bowl would be filled with tobacco then covered with perforated aluminium foil above which lit coals were placed. The jar or vase at the bottom of the argile was filled with water and the stem sat on top and the down stem below the level of the water. Smoke passed through that section of the body and out the bottom of the stem where it bubbled through the water. That cooled and humidified the smoke. It was then inhaled through the hose which allowed the smoke to be drawn for a distance thus cooling it down. Women and men both smoked from argiles and various flavours of tobacco were used including a home made molasses soaked tobacco.

I wasn't relaxed to be in Bahija's family room when Fawaz's brothers would smoke their cigarettes as both old and young shared the room that was also their bedroom at night. Fawaz asked our visitors not to smoke in our home because he was aware of the effects of passive smoking.

Aziz and Bahija's house was situated at the bottom of a hill and the roads that led to their home were not tarred. In the wet winter months, one would slip and slide their way down the tel and if for any reason one's momentum sped up, caused by the steepness of the hill, or the sludge beneath them gave way, then the unlucky person would end up face down and covered in mud.

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Hama

Hama

The town of Skelbieh was part of the governorate of Hama. It was a thirty minute drive south west of its mother city. Whenever a baby was born in Skelbieh the parents had to register their baby in Hama at the office of Births, Deaths and Marriages. In the past, it was difficult to make the fifty or so kilometre trip to the city, so children from the same family were sometimes registered in bulk lots, on the day of their brother or sister's birth day.That was also the case in Fawaz's family. Aziz used to say that Fawaz was born on the twenty third of November and Bahija would argue that he was born on the thirteenth but I leant on the side of Aziz, because his second eldest son Manhal, also had the thirteenth of November as his birth date. At least his year of birth was correct.

Hama is Syrias fourth largest city on the banks of the Orontes river and its citadel and its ancient waterwheels(norias) are its two most famous features. It has 17 norias dating back to the Byzantine times. They can go up to 20 metres in diameter. Hama has long been a crossroads between the Mediterranean and the East and has a history that dates back to 2,000 BC.

In the north, near the centre of the city of Hama you can find Citadel Hill. A park is situated at the summit and it is a popular area for locals and tourists alike, especially on warm summer evenings. Citadel Hill dates back to the11th century BC, when Hama was the centre of the Aramean kingdom of Hamath and evidence unearthed dates back to the Neolithic period. Whenever we visited Hama the children loved to play on the slides, swings and monkey bars and picnic on the summit. It was a steep and winding path to traverse before we reached the top, where the view of Hama was magnificent, as it was a most stunning city with great beauty.

The Christian population had their own quarters in the city which was close to Citadel Hill. The children and I would enjoy eating the delicious sweets that the smaller cake shops offered. Yasmin's favourite was halawat al-jibne which was a sweet cheese pastry and a speciality of the city. We used to visit Hama on special occassions such as Easter to buy chocolate Easter eggs, which were extremely difficult to find even in Hama but I made sure the children never missed out on any of the special treats and celebrations that I grew up with. I used to make their party hats by drawing characters from their golden books and colouring them in.

There was only one occasion that I felt prejudice against me in Syria and that was at a market in Hama when an old lady dressed in black was shouting at me because my long blonde hair was not hidden with a scarf. She was absolutely crazy with anger and Fawaz was nowhere to be seen as he was ahead of me at the souk. Eventually he heard the raucous she was causing and came to my aid. I couldn't understand what she was saying but I know he told her off and she carried on muttering to herself until she was out of view. Fawaz explained to me that she wasn't normal and not to take offence.

I used to dabble in numerology and had brought books from Australia on the subject to study. Sometimes when I would ask an older member of the community his or her birth date they were not one hundred percent sure of the exact day but could remember which season of the year they were born. For example, one man told me he was born just after the summer wheat harvest and another just before the winter rains. I enjoyed practising from David Phillip's book with Fawaz as my interpreter.

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Aziz

Aziz

The children and I spent six weeks in Australia and during that time I caught up with my family.

We stayed with my mother in her home and I enrolled Yasmin in kindergarten at the local infants school. There were times when I didn't want to return to Syria and I was torn between my love for Australia and the life I once knew and the commitment I had made to my husband and Syria, where the children were surrounded by cousins, aunties, uncles, grandparents and the memories of ancestors that dated back many hundreds of years.

Fawaz had reconciled with his father not long after he had bought our property. He was unhappy to be estranged from him for so long, as his father was unwell and dependent on his wife for his every need. Fawaz decided to purchase a wheelchair for his father Aziz, whose only means of mobility between his room and the footpath where he loved to spend his days socialising, was an armchair that one of his eight sons had managed to attach wheels to.

He made an eight hour return trip to Damascus and bought a reasonably priced modern wheelchair for his father but after all the effort he had put into pleasing him with his bright and shiny purchase, Aziz still preferred his well worn, home made, four wheeled, trusty old armchair.

Bahija was devoted to Aziz and she tended to his every need. It was so sweet to see her when she would cook a chicken for the family and save its livers for Aziz. I would watch her lovingly feed him as he consumed with delight one of his favourite foods. Even though his fingers were atrophied he could still manage to hold a spoon and shakily feed himself.

I loved Aziz and he was fond of me. He would be upset if he knew I was ill or sad. Aziz adored his children and grandchildren and I was so proud to be included in his family. Bahija was a tough woman, she had to be, as she had lived a difficult life and struggled for most of it, working hard to feed her children. Aziz rented a shop in the market and stocked it with second hand clothes and shoes. When we first arrived in Syria he would be transported by motorbike or tartoorah (a three wheeled vehicle) to his shop where he would sit and sell his wares. However, his kind and caring nature would see him giving away more clothes then he could sell and he'd return home each afternoon with barely any money in his pocket. On many occasions Bahija would ask him to stop giving away the merchandise, as his own family was in need of money to live on.

He loved honey and in winter time it was very difficult to find someone who sold it. Honey was only available from street vendors or farms. Once, Fawaz bought him eight kilos of honey and it was the first time in four years that my children had tasted it.

I took so much for granted in Australia. Foods were readily available in supermarkets, but not so in Skelbieh. I craved for a slice of toast with butter and vegemite. That was my favourite breakfast. Sometimes we could buy fresh bread rolls from a hawker but I remember only once buying a loaf of unsliced bread and a knob of cheddar cheese in Alleppo. Our Mediterranean diet was healthy and I looked forward to the occasional parcel from Australia containing peanut butter and vegemite.

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