Hama

  I have read on the BBC website today that tanks are reportedly heading towards Hama. Hama is a lovely, old town in Syria on the banks of the Orontes River which was all but destroyed back in the 1980s. All that remains of its ancient quarter now is a couple of beautiful streets with narrow lanes, a few little mosques and a wonderful artists enclave where I once bought the painting I now have hanging on my wall (see below.)         

my picture made from coffee

                                               

Sameer -the artist

Hama is famous for its wooden water wheels (known as norias) which once formed  part of an ancient irrigation system. Today in the summer when the air is hot and steeped in jasmin you can watch the water wheels slowly turning and listen to their songful groans - like dinosaurs chatting by a waterhole. In the summer young boys climb high up on the wheels and splash down to the water below. Families spend the evenings drinking tea, smoking nargileh and eating corncobs along the river bank.

Hama is a town I hold close to my heart. It is here I first found my Syrian feet and it is somewhere I like to think about when my heart hurts too much in the present. I remember how every morning I used to get a drink down at the corner juice bar. I would sit on one of the few stools with a huge glass of mixed fruit, listening to Arabic pop while the fruit man (whose name I have now sadly forgotten) used to smile at me and fan his arms, saying " choob chooc kteer " It's hot, very hot!

Hama is also the home of Abdullah ( after whom I named my elevator.) A was the most wonderful hotel host who slept on the couch in the living room and waited every night to see that  I ( and every other guest) came safely home. Once I was late home (I was out inncocently drinking mint lemonade with a waiter from a restaurant talking about Majnun, about Syria, about everything in the world) and he rang the restaurant to find out where I was. He called me the troublemaker from then on and whenever he had special Syrian delicacies in the living room he would shout' hey troublemaker come try my food!'.  I believe that A has only ever loved one woman and he left her in the end because he could not bear the pain that comes with feeling so much love.
    
Hama is also a place where I enjoyed beautiful desserts and sat at tables with families of women out for  ladies'nights. It is also the place where I accidentally  hosed myself down in the ladies toilet with the water pipe you use when using a squat toilet. Somehow I had nudged this pipe with my hip and a jet stream of water drenched me completely and the whole bathroom too. I ended up wearing a waiter's uniform for the rest of the night because all my clothes had been saturated and clung to my body rather too alluringly for a foreign lady in the Middle East.

Hama is also the place where I took my first public bath and all the women welcomed me in  as one of their own. They scrubbed me and my hair, kissed my forehead, held my hands. Then when they had finished they turned their buckets into drums and sang and danced to rhythmic songs all around the bathing room.  After, they shared their mujadara (a lentil stew) with me, and as the day closed into night I carried their cooking pot with them through the town.  
Hama is a place I go when I am feeling hurt. Now it is very likely that Hama is hurting too - and this makes me very sad.