This one's for Mahmoud

An illeterate boy from the town of Saida in the south of Lebanon, breastfed until the age of 3, goes out into the world and start working full time at the tender 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 having pursuited their education overseas and earned doctorate degrees. He meets a woman he admires whose family is related to his, and gets lucky for her ending of 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 out of their hometown and their people, all the way to the capital city 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 in. 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, extremely wise, and truly 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 perspectives on life, events, places, and people change 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 entire 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 used to love journeying through his mighty and large figure, reaching a most gentle face and soft features, with vibrant red cheeks, 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 shop and workshop 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. He spoke very slowly and calmly, everywhere and with everyone. When he worked with his own hands, it used to be a pleasure of a different sort. I would observe everything about him acutely, it used to be an ultimate 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 took place. 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, and the steady placing of the almonds on top. 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 metal 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 it 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. He wasn't just a business savvy, he knew taste and flavor and the art of creating food like nobody I've ever encountered. These moments with him were dearly cherished and I grew so fond of them. Soon enough it was time for me to learn more, I learned everything about the business and its details by observing and being very 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 a piece of art 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 the Eid prayers used to be broadcasted very only n the TV. I remember getting quite the shock when I saw him cry the very first time, 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 and appreciate him and his gentle soul even more. 

I have beautiful memories of our Sundays out. Spring and autumn 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 broad shoulders as he walked slowly on the sand and got us slowpy into the water ~ 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 during 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 remember feeling so very proud, excited, and happy that I was then an active part of his passion with a role that I could actually fill. 

During the war, when the country and business closed down for months on end and food became ultimately scarce, he used to make risky and very brave trips with my older brother under the bombings to the workshop to bring in huge bags of flours. He would sit in the lobby of the building, miraculously creating ways of making and baking breads, feeding not just the residents of our building and neighbours 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, exactly as used to be our routine at home after work, as though we were indeed home, for in these brief moments, he filled my world, and everything and everyone around us, including the bombings, and the ugly war, and the scraciry and the worry and stress and sadness, ceased to exist. 

At one point eventually things got so bad during the war and we had to leave our area altogether. We moved to his and mother's hometown in Saida. We lived there for the very first time ever, that period lasted less than a year, thankfully. During that time, my father kept working. He started at the little space outside the entrance to my grandma's place in the old town. Then gradually moved it to a newly built workshop in no time. He borrowed money, bought a new shop, and got back to action as though he had planned this for years! I hardly saw him during that period, it felt as though no war was happening, no chaos, no worries. He was extremely focused and utterly determined to keep away all notions of insecurity and create and build success, hope, and abundance, and to keep engaging his sons who were part of this legacy, and to keep on providing for his family. There was simply no stopping him!

After the war ended we returned home, and he had to refurbish the whole shop as it was damaged. I saw in real time how much passion he put into his business and how he builds everything anew, with presence and perseverance. Sadly however, a little after then, his health started to deteriorate. He was medicated for a while. After every operation, every setback, every problem, he would come back with his usual fierce ambition, undefeated. Although after his brain operation he lost big percentage of his eyesight, physical mobility, and mental capacity, he still kept all his daily routines and disciplines. Not just that, but he also expanded creatively and innovated even new ways, products, and applied new approaches in the business. I was yet to learn so much about his grit, resilience, and patience during these most critical times. I couldn't have loved him more, if for this alone!

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.