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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