This one's for Mahmoud

An illeterate boy from the town of Saida in the south of Lebanon, whose mother breastfed him until the age of 3, goes out into the world and start working at the age of 8. He learns all about traditional pastries, working his way up in the field, becoming a master pastry chef at a very young age, gaining recognition and achieving fame in the industry, while helping his parents and looking after his 7 siblings in the process and supporting their education, two of them ended earning doctorate degrees. He meets a woman he admires whose family is related to his, and gets lucky for her ending up her engagement with someone else. She fell in love with him just as much as he went mad for her, and their marriage was soon arranged. His ambition brought him of their hometown and their people, all the way to Beirut in the 60's, where he buys a big shop and an apartment in a new building and new town, to start a legacy of his own, and grow a family. 

I currently sleep in the very spot this man used to sleep on. There are markings in the wall though it has been painted several times over, of a big hole, witnessing the story of the attempt to assaniate him during the civil war. He wasn't just a Muslim in a war torn Christian neighborhood, but a very successful one at that, highly respected, and dearly loved. Mahmoud was just not meant to leave Earth plane yet. This is the story of my father. Born today 20th March, in 1942, on the very last day of pisces season and the whole zodiac calender, and on the spring equinox. I like to think that these must have attributed somewhat to the aspects of him being very spiritual, wise, and balanced. He lived a full life, and passed away 25 years ago, only 5 days before turning 57. I wish to honor him with this post today, for everything I had ever done, be it at work, through art, or with people, stems from that connection I had with him. Thanks for being here, and sorry if this gets too personal but here we go, this one's for Mahmoud. 

Our perspective on life, events, places, and people changes as we grow. The makings of a child's world have less and less value as the child grows up. In my child's eyes, my father filled my whole world. As life went by, I understood that it wasn't merely my childhood perspective, but that he was indeed a larger than life kind of man, and I lost him just as I became an adult. 

As a toddler I would follow his every step inside our shop, from serving customers, to engaging in conversations with neighbours or passerby's. When he stood up, I used to wrap my arms around his leg, sensing in my body the vibration of his voice as he spoke. He had a very warm and deep voice, and spoke slowly and gently. When I would unclutch to look up at his face, I loved the journey through his mighty and large figure, reaching a most soft features, with vibrant red cheeks, and he was almost always smiling. I used to think of him as a giant, and he belonged to me, and I to him.

As I grew up a bit, he started taking me with him everywhere on his trips for the supplies shopping. As the years went by, I would constantly join him at the workshop, watching him give instructions, supervise the work, praising a good job, or giving remarks. When he worked with his own hands, it used to be a pleasure of a different kind. I would observe everything acutely, and it used to be a delight to all of my senses. 

There used to be a stool that I would sit on all the time when there, high enough to allow my tiny body to reach the counter top where all the fun and actions happened. My favorite used to be his making of Sanyoura cookies. The sight of the white soft dough was very satisfying, the smell very alluring, his soft and steady moves, and the repeating of the patterns used to give me tingles of a sort. The cutting of the identical diamond shapes, the sounds, the placing of the almonds on exactly the same spot on all pieces, and the last bit of the cutting from each row, which was never a perfect diamond shape, used to be for me to munch on. 

There used to be all sorts of beautiful and fancy pastries of all sorts being prepared simultaneously in huge batches, many involving dangerous steps for a child, so I would have to watch from afar. Boiling hot sugar syrups in huge containers, heavy duty electrical machines, huge towering molting hot ovens, massive heavy trays, plenty of filled shelves, greasy counter tops and slippery floors, and so the Sanyoura making was the baby project that he probably kept for when I was there only just for me to partake as safe measures - or so I liked to think. 

This man used to get me. He got my humor and wit very early on, he  understood my passions, he marveled at my play with words at a young age, he laughed at my jokes, he encouraged my art and creativity, he supported my shenanigans, he was present, giving, and very appreciative of my being.

As I grew from a child to an adolescent, I started to spend a lot more time with him in the shop, and when there would be no customers, he would sit me down, and share his most wise views on life in general, and work in particular. I cherished these moments a lot and grew so fond of them. Soon enough I learned everything about the business by observing and being attentive. I knew all about the different pastries we sold. I knew the protocols, the routines, the prices. I watched and learned how generous he was with customers, how welcoming, graceful, and humble he was. How he treated the elderly, the children, the beggers, and his own people. To me, he was an art piece alive, and I didn't just observe him, I absorbed him. 

Twice a year I would see my mighty giant cry, on the mornings of Eid, when we have the Eid prayers broadcasted on the TV. As a child I had a shock seeing him cry first time around, but then as the years went by I started to get the full picture of this most precious, most special, whole human being, and truly understand him. 

I have beautiful memories of our Sundays out. Spring and summer time used to be for nature: picnics and rivers and mountains, and it was never just us, but friends and neighbours too, and him always paying, sharing, giving. Summertime was for the beach, and I have the most beautiful memory of my tiny body in my tiny swimming suit being carried on his large shoulders as he walked slowly on the sand and got us into the sea ~ I had never felt so safe and special in my life. Winter time was for the far away restaurants and fun road trips, and there would be beautiful musicians, artists, guests, food, treats, generosity, music, and dancing. 

When I turned 13 and for several years after that, I was given the responsibility of being the boss for few hours every day in the summer, and on Saturdays in school days. I would be totally alone in the shop, and I maintained a steady job of running everything as though he was there. I was so very proud, excited, and happy that I was part of his world in this new special way.

During the war, he would make trips with my oldder brother under the bombing to the workshop to bring in huge bags of flours. He would sit in the lobby of the building, miraculously creating ways of making breads, though he had never done so before, and feeding not just the residents of our building who were all staying in the underground shelter of the building, but also the entire neighborhood. 

At the end of each day, coming back to the shelter, I would be eagerly waiting to see him and show him off to the neighbours, who he was, what he did, and what special bond him and I had. There would be times when one of our neighbours would be playing the drum to cheer people up, there would be music, singing and clapping, and I always danced, and he always watched, so very lovingly, as though we were home, for in these brief moments, he filled my world, and everything and everyone around us, including the bombings and the ugly war ceased to exist. 

There was one point where things got so bad during the war we had to move to Saida. We lived there for the very first time ever, it lasted less than a year. During that time, my father kept working. He started at the little space outside the entrance to my grandma's place in the old souk town. Then gradually moved it to a newly built workshop. He borrowed money, bought a new shop, and got back to action in no time. I hardly saw him, it felt as though no war was happening, chaos or worries. There was simply no stopping him. 

After the war, his health started to deteriorate fast. After every operation, every setback, every problem, he would come back with his usual fierce ambition, undefeated. The shop was damaged, we lost the worshop, life and the business weren't the same anymore, but he restarted everything again. Although after his brain operation he lost big percentage of his eyesight and physical mobility, he still kept all his daily routines and disciplines. Not just that, but he also expanded creatively and innovated new ways, products, approaches in the business. I was yet to learn so much about his grit, resilience, and patience during these most crucial times.

The only time I had ever seen my father fall was few seconds before his death, and I was there and caught him, and helped him land safely on the ground as he breathed his last breath between my arms, peacefully, wearing his pastry chef gown still. It was the end of a normal working day, and he had finished work, his dinner, the evening with us, and was just about to go to sleep. 

His sudden death after a long healthy steady period broke my heart, I was never the same person again. As the years went by, I learned to appreciate the memories, the moments, the lessons, all that was passed on to me through blood and genes, but also through our strong soul connection. There is so much he taught me when was alive, but a lot more through his departure. 

Mahmoud wasn't just my father, he was my buddy, he is my soulmate. 

Today as the world changes drastically and rapidly, and I lose my faith in humanity, and as my direction and focus in my work gets tested regularly, I have the memory of him to thank for keeping me afloat, sticking to my morals and values, and dancing to my own rythm, despite the lack of meaning of it all when put in context of the current times.