Vol.12,
No.65, 2009 Unexpected Joy by Phyllis Jardine (NS)
The year was
1970 and we
were living in
Damascus, Syria,
the oldest
continuously inhabited city in the
world.
My husband, a Canadian Naval
Officer, had been appointed to the
United Nations as an UNMO, a
United Nations Military Observer. His
job was to report and observe
violations of the cease-fire between
Israel and its Arab neighbours.
“Cooking and looking,” he called it.
Four days a week he and a UNMO of
another nationality travelled to one of
the observation posts where they
worked and lived in a trailer on the
Golan Heights - No Man’s Land.
When my husband returned from his
tour of duty, our family would be
together again for two or three days.
In the meantime, the children and I
lived comfortably in our apartment in
the city.
There were definitely dangerous times
during our stay in Syria: a military
coup, a cholera epidemic and the
uprising after Nassar’s death. But we
were well protected under the
umbrella of the United Nations and
encountered few serious problems.
After one plane hijacking we were
prepared to evacuate to Cyprus;
however, this was eventually
cancelled.
The sights and sounds of the ancient
city of Damascus were ours to
explore. The children and I shopped
the colourful Souq al Hamidiyeh,
mingling with families dressed in
delicate muslin veils, hijabs and
checked keffiyehs. One afternoon an
Arab friend took us to the Street
Called Straight, mentioned in the New
Testament in connection with St.
Paul’s conversion to Christianity and
believed to be the oldest street in the
world. While there we visited the
Omayed Mosque and the Chapel of St.
Paul nearby, said to be the spot where
St. Paul fled by being dropped in a
basket through a window.
Most days we stopped by a bakery
along Abou Roumaneh in the modern
section of Damascus, for a treat on our
way home. Finding our way around
the city proved exciting. We looked
forward to each new day. Especially
the December day we drove to Beirut,
Lebanon to pick up our new camper.
Mountains with snow-capped peaks
loomed before us as our family of five
packed into a UN Wagoneer and drove
the 127 kilometres through several
military checkpoints and along the
narrow roads of the Bakka Valley to
Beirut. Treasures from around the world were bartered, bought and sold
in the cosmopolitan Mediterranean
city of Beirut, often called the Paris of
the Middle East. We arrived at noon
on a Friday, dropped the UN vehicle
off at headquarters and took a taxi to
the dealership. But to our dismay, the
manager refused to accept our cheque.
“I gave you a cheque as a deposit
when you ordered the camper,” my
husband said. “You accepted it a few
weeks ago - with no problem.”
“Aha, but we didn’t have to give you
anything, did we?”
All the banks were closed because of
the holy day. We couldn’t believe
what was happening. We then visited
Ousteyan, the money-changer on the
street-corner who had been referred to
us by his cousin, Ousteyan, a
goldsmith friend of ours in Damascus.
“Why you worry?” he said. “I help
you.”
In his kiosk, about the size of a
telephone booth, Ousteyan passed out
treats to the children, cashed our
cheque and handed over 11000
Lebanese Pounds in a brown paper
bag.
“Shukran, thank you,” we chimed.
“Afwan, welcome,” smiled Ousteyan.
When my husband plunked the money
down on the dealer’s desk he must
have thought we’d robbed a bank. The
children laughed as we climbed into
our new camper with its pop up roof,
table, fridge and fold down bed. We
then headed home to Damascus.
Thirty-five kilometres outside Beirut,
the weather changed. Snow and high
winds blocked the roads and we were
forced to turn around. All the hotels
were filled. ‘No Vacancy’ signs
everywhere. We drove to The Charles
Hotel, where we’d stayed many times
previously and after a short time, the
owner provided us with a large suite.
We later learned his mother had
vacated her apartment to
accommodate us.
The next morning the weather cleared,
but the pass remained closed. The
police advised us to go south, down
and around the mountains. A bus and
two Syrian taxis were taking the same
route, so in our new camper we joined
their convoy. This journey took us on
a treacherous, winding road through
the village of Marj Uyan, deep into
Fedayeen territory.
As head-lights shone over the deep
ravines below, I feared for our lives
and prayed many prayers. And as I
watched our three little ones - so full
of softness and ease - sleeping in the
back seat, I thought of our families
back home in Canada and silently
asked for their guidance. “What
would you do under such
circumstances dear loved ones? Please
send us an army of angels to dispel
these terrible fears.”
“Mar haba, keef halek” suddenly
echoed the voices of three keffiyehclad
men who had plowed through the
snow - to say hello and to check on
our children. Framed by the camper’s
windows, their wrinkled faces looked
kind - and deeply familiar. They
appeared concerned, especially for the
safety of the children. And as my
husband chatted with them, I
remember relaxing and breathing
slower and easier.
At that moment I
think we both
experienced a sense
of peacefulness
within the shared
space of our
camper.
Exhausted, we
reached Damascus
in twelve hours, a
trip that normally
took two. After inhaling the city’s
sweetness, we whispered a thank you
to the band of angels who had
travelled with us, and then we carried
our three little ones up the 75 steps to
our apartment.
In our young lives, so many years ago,
my husband and I discovered a rare
truth, a sense of hope that continues to
nourish us to this day: Sweet joy
sometimes treads out of the darkest
night, bringing strength to the most
frightening part of our lives. All we
have to do is let it inside.
Our camper provided comfort,
security and shelter wherever we
ventured after that day. We left the
Middle East in 1972 and spent two
months travelling through Turkey,
Yugoslavia, Europe and England. The
camper’s closeness helped us grow
and learn from one another. Its
versatility gave us the gift of precious
moments to take home to Canada:
cooking octopus beside the Aegean
Sea, walking the cobblestone streets
of Dubrovnik, camping in the
mountains of Switzerland, climbing
towers in London and sailing home on
the SS France.
We all shed tears in 1980 when we
sold the camper. The hammock bed
over the front seats was a foot too
short for our eleven year old son. And
the double bed we had installed in
Germany to fit into the pop-up roof
was much too small for two teenage
girls. Our old faithful guardian angel
on wheels - had served us well.