The Pianist from Syria

by Aeham Ahmad

  A boy with a tray came through the room, offering glasses of orange juice to the guests. Tahani’s grandfather, the man with one eye, missed his glass and knocked everything off the tray. The glasses shattered on the marble floor, and as people began gathering the shards, I slipped next door into the dining room. This was another tradition.

  The women were expecting me. They wore their headscarves loosely. I saw Tahani in a dark blue short-sleeved dress. She was wearing makeup and had no headscarf on. It was the first time I saw her beautiful hair. I sat down beside her and barely dared to look at her. She must have felt the same. Every once in a while, we would both look up and smile shyly at each other.

  A woman came and gave me a darbuka, a clay drum.

  “Aeham, you’re a musician,” she said, “sing for us!” I took the drum and without thinking about it much, started singing a song. “You were fine alone, my heart, what was it that made you blind? I thought I was happy, but then I reached inside and realized how shallow you are. Your way of being is disgusting to me, you are so mediocre, I would be fine without you,” I sang with a carefree voice.

  Tahani looked at me with big eyes. Only then did I realize how inappropriate my choice of song was. Oh dear! I hastily gave back the drum. My mother didn’t seem to have noticed. She was too busy asking all her aunts and cousins how they were doing, how their families were doing. Soon, one of the women began playing the drum. Some of the women began to dance; others stayed seated and ate ice cream. Tahani and I sat there and smiled. Neither of us spoke.

  After half an hour, the women were getting ready to leave and I was left behind, allowed to stay with Tahani for a little while. We went over to the empty living room and sat down on the couch.

  What do you say in a moment like that? We were unbelievably nervous. For a while, neither of us spoke. And then I asked her about the things I already knew: What did she do for a living, where did she work, why was she interested in art? After fifteen minutes, her father came in. We said good-bye and I went home, confused, curious, happy. I was engaged now.

  A few days later, I visited Tahani at her apartment for the first time. Her aunt served us orange juice. Her father sat down in an armchair, opened up the newspaper, and pretended to read it. Tahani and I tried to talk. Again, it was awkward. We had so much to say to each other. But not with her father listening!

  No, it wouldn’t work like this. The next time I came over, I slipped her my phone number. The next day she sent me a text message and we agreed to meet after school. We did this often in the coming weeks. She asked a colleague to take over her last few classes for the day, then we took the minibus to the old town and went for a walk.

  I told her of my crazy friend Vladimir Tsaritzky, about the toolbox that I accidentally stole as a little boy, about Feisal Jamal and the peculiar women at my university, about Sarah, my young piano student, and about my brother’s escapades. We talked about everything. I told her that I would never boss her around. It was up to her to decide how many children we should have. And whether she would continue working. She said she was looking forward to staying at home with the kids. Her work was poorly paid—she wouldn’t miss it.

  Every night before we went to sleep, we furtively talked to each other on the phone, sharing secrets and stories. My mother had been right: Tahani was a perfect match for me.

  Soon, the wedding preparations began. Together with my father, I went to a print shop to order two hundred invitations. The man who did the typesetting showed me the design. The calligraphy was beautiful. But the invitation mentioned only my name. Tahani was only referred to as the “precious daughter of the Mnawwar family.”

  “Why isn’t her name on the invitation?” I asked.

  “Well, that’s how we always do it,” the man said.

  “I don’t like it. If my name is on the card, hers should be, too.”

  “But then every guy in the neighborhood would know she’s about to get married.”

  “So?”

  “That’s just not done.”

  “But I’d like to do it that way.”

  He looked at my father. “Would you consent to put her name on the invitation?”

  “I don’t see why not,” my father said.

  The man asked for the phone number of Tahani’s father and called him. Would it be all right if we printed the bride’s name on the invitation?

  “No,” Tahani’s father said.

  And that was that. His word was final, and there was nothing more we could do.

  At the bottom of the invitation, the typesetter added the phrase “The children’s paradise is at home.” In other words: Please leave your kids at home. People always did this, to avoid having dozens of excited kids running through the banquet hall.

  When the two hundred cards were printed, Uncle Mohammed went out and distributed them in the neighborhood. My mother and I bought a black suit and a white shirt. Then my brother, my cousins, and I furnished our future apartment. We carried a double bed upstairs, a sofa, a flat-screen TV, a stereo, a gas stove, and a gigantic fridge. My brother did all the woodwork in the kitchen. A few days before the wedding, Tahani’s aunt came by with several suitcases, to check if everything was ready. Then she put Tahani’s dresses in the closet.

  The wedding took place on September 7, 2011, when life in Yarmouk was still normal. The event was basically a huge concert. I was sitting in a giant armchair on a stage, looking down into the semi-dark banquet hall, which was lit up with disco balls and colorful spotlights. Waiters were serving orange juice, tea, and Arabic ice cream, with a topping made of pistachio sprinkles and honey. Various musicians performed throughout the evening. The band Flowers played kitschy Arabic pop songs, and the band Hope performed revolutionary Palestinian anthems. Mohammed Munaf played the oud, my father played violin, and I played keyboard and sang.

  The men were dancing the entire evening, holding each other by the hand as they made their way in an undulating line back and forth through the banquet hall, singing and waving as they snaked along.

  The emcee was a relative of Uncle Mohammed. He had done such events often, and talked like a waterfall. Whenever somebody walked up to the stage to present a gift, he zealously praised that person. “God bless you, Abu Ibrahim, you’re supporting the young couple with one thousand pounds, praised be the Prophet!”

  The larger the sum, the more elaborate the praise: “Three thousand pounds, Abu Said! May God protect you and your family for all eternity! May He hold his loving hand over you and your business! May you and your loved ones live in wealth and peace forever! Praise Allah!”

  Another man would discreetly write down the donor’s sum, so that I would know how much I’d have to give at this person’s wedding one day. My father still has that list to this day.

  Around midnight—my head was already buzzing—my father, my father-in-law, my two uncles, and I climbed into a Kia decked out with flowers and we drove over to the women’s wedding hall, honking loudly. The city lights passed us by; pedestrians cheered us on. When we entered the hall, it looked like a disco, with dry ice and colorful lights. On a stage, in one of those throne-like armchairs, sat Tahani in her wedding dress.

  When we came in, the women leapt to their feet and rushed to greet us. They wore their headscarves loosely, barely covering their hair. They had on makeup and elegant evening clothes. I had never seen my aunts like this before. It was a shock.

  I went to Tahani. We shook hands, and I sat down in the large armchair next to her, whispering that she looked lovely. Soon, we were dancing the wedding dance, while everyone formed a large circle around us, clapping.

  “I’m proud of you,” my mother whispered in my ear. “You will have a beautiful life together.” Then she embraced Tahani and said, “From now on, you are my daughter.”

  Later, we drove through the streets in a five-car convoy, decorated with flowers, honking loudly. Tahani and I were in the first car. “This is wonderful,” I whispered to her. “I’m so happy.”
She smiled. When we arrived at our apartment, we were met—as tradition would have it—by a noisy percussion band, signaling to all the neighbors that a young couple was moving in. Together, we went upstairs, I carrying Tahani’s veil, and my mother and Tahani’s aunt prepared some food for us: bread, hummus, and grilled meats. Then everybody said good-bye and left.

  Me? I was exhausted. Utterly, completely exhausted. I had shaken so many hands, smiled at so many people, received so many gifts and well-wishes. Now that all the strain had evaporated, my eyelids became heavy.

  “I’m going to lie down for a minute,” I said to Tahani. She looked at me, puzzled.

  “Just for a moment. I need a break. I’m totally exhausted.”

  I lay down on the floor, in front of the television, and propped my feet on an armchair to reinvigorate my metabolism. Taking the remote control, I turned on the TV and saw that Tom and Jerry was on. How nice. I’d always liked that cartoon.

  Tahani was moving back and forth behind me, rattling dishes. Then she started rattling them a little louder. I could feel her disappointment growing. She was probably wondering what kind of guy she had gotten stuck with. Lying in front of the TV, watching Tom and Jerry on our wedding night!

  And I wasn’t exactly proud of the way I had let myself collapse. But I felt completely wiped out. My mother had explained to me what to do: Light some candles, put on some beautiful music, look deeply into each other’s eyes. . . . But I could barely keep my own eyes open, lying semiconscious on the floor, grinning at the exploits of the silly cat and the clever mouse. The minutes ticked away. Tahani was clattering the dishes even louder as I smiled at the TV, almost falling asleep. . . .

  But then, I don’t know how, my body received a last tiny jolt of energy. I leapt to my feet, went into the kitchen, splashed water onto my face, chugged a glass of cola, and went back into the living room. I smiled at Tahani. . . .

  The next morning, my parents and Tahani’s aunt came over for breakfast. A few days later, I started going back to work each morning. I would come home at noon to have lunch with Tahani, who was still on school vacation. Sometimes she visited me in the store to make sure that I wasn’t flirting with pretty piano students, not realizing that something like that would never have occurred to me.

  * * *

  Our business was still thriving. Many people from other neighborhoods had fled to Yarmouk. The first checkpoints had been set up on some of the access roads, so refugees could no longer get out quite so easily. Which meant they became bored. And I had even more students.

  Among them were three female college students. I liked them a lot. They supported the revolution with heart and soul. Two of them were Christians; the third girl was an Ismaelite, a member of a small Muslim faith community. I have no idea how I know this, but it must have come up in the course of our conversations. I certainly didn’t ask them, for in Syria it’s taboo to ask someone about their religious affiliation.

  The three of them continued taking piano lessons with me, even though the journey to Yarmouk became increasingly dangerous. The first girl was from Bab Sharqi, the heart of the old town, and the second girl was from neighboring Zahira, which remains untouched by the war to this day. The third girl was from Taqaddom, south of Yarmouk, where fighting would soon break out. Of course, none of them wore headscarves: they all wore jeans and tight tops. The boys in the neighborhood couldn’t stop staring at them. And Tahani was jealous.

  I never spoke with my students about politics. It was too dangerous. You never knew which side the other person was on, so I didn’t dare reveal my views. In a dictatorship like Syria’s, it could cost you your life. We had a saying that summed it up: “Between you and I, there’s always a spy.”

  “Why do you keep coming here?” I once asked the young woman from the old town. “Isn’t it dangerous?” Let’s say her name was Rania. “I’m sure you could take classes in your neighborhood.”

  “You’re just a good teacher,” Rania answered, “and inexpensive, too.”

  Well, an honest response! I took heart and asked her, “What do you think of the protest movement in Damascus?”

  Rania’s eyes lit up, and she gave me an earful. “We urgently need change!” she said. “If not now, when? Things can’t go on like this!”

  It felt good to hear her talk like that. Everyone else was always yelling and cursing, and I could never make sense of it. The two other students chimed in, telling me about their hope for change. Democracy! An end to fear and spying and the corruption that was eating away at our society! Freedom!

  Whenever I think back at those first hopeful months of the Syrian Revolution, I think of these three girls. To me, they embody the path we should have taken, away from dictatorship and fundamentalism.

  But that’s not how things turned out.

  * * *

  A few months after our marriage, Tahani became pregnant. I was burning up with love, thinking about all kinds of things rather than politics. We were about to start a family, and I wanted my children to have a better life than me. At Tahani’s sonogram appointment, as the gynecologist ran the transducer over Tahani’s belly, we looked at the monitor and for the first time saw the outline of our baby. We beamed at each other, filled with joy. And in that moment, love hit me like a thunderbolt.

  From then on, I completely doted on Tahani. We spent every free minute together. “Did you take your vitamins?” I asked her. “Did you drink your ayran today?” For a long time, I had dreamed of a family. Now my dream was about to come true.

  — CHAPTER THIRTEEN —

  Ahmad was born on June 27, 2012—but he entered a world of cruelty. The Syrian Civil War was escalating. Soon after his birth, soldiers would barricade the streets and seal off our neighborhood. Before long, hunger and death would reign in Yarmouk. I begged Tahani to leave, to get to safety, for her and our baby’s sake. In those days, women were still allowed to go through the checkpoints. It would take her only a few hours to reach a safe neighborhood. A lot of women did this, escaping to a normal life and leaving their husbands behind in Yarmouk.

  Tahani would have none of it. “I was with you when we were doing well,” she said. “Now I will stay with you when we are doing poorly. We will live together and we will die together.”

  * * *

  Soon, a neighborhood called Tadamon, to the east of Yarmouk, was bombed. Most of the rockets were fired from Mount Qasioun, but some of them came from Damascus Airport or Mezzeh Military Airport. There was a popping sound as they fell onto the buildings, and then we could see a column of black smoke drifting into the sky.

  From the very beginning, the uprising in Tadamon had been violent. Probably because a lot of soldiers lived there—and when they deserted, they took their weapons with them. And when the security forces shot at protesters, the former soldiers fought back. That’s how the FSA was created, the Free Syrian Army. Wealthy people in Damascus bought large numbers of weapons from the regime and donated them to the FSA.

  Tadamon was a newly developed area, full of Sunnis, Alawites, Christians, Shiites, Murshidis, Orthodox, and Ismaelites. In 2012, when the unrest reached that neighborhood, the various faith communities stood together, for in the beginning, the Syrian Revolution wasn’t a religious war. That came much later.

  The General Command set up checkpoints at the entry points to Yarmouk, assisting the Assad regime. But the FSA kept advancing. Increasingly, firefights between the two militias broke out. Ahmed Jibril was a friend of Assad’s, and he soon committed an unpardonable sin: he called the Syrian Army for help.

  On July 15, 2012, eighteen days after Ahmad was born, the first tank rolled through Yarmouk. I can still see it: it came from the “Watermelon.” That’s what we called the large, round fountain at the traffic circle leading to Damascus. The tank turned into the main shopping street and moved toward Palestine Hospital, rattling loudly. Then it turned back. That was its route. Whenever I biked along the main street, my bike tires wobbled over the tank tracks
in the asphalt.

  At the same time, I was the happiest father in all the world. Ahmad, our son, was now three weeks old. He was born in the al-Bassel Birth Clinic, via C-section. We spent a lot of money so that Tahani received the best medical care possible. One morning, we got into a taxi to drive to the clinic, and the next morning we drove back home, with Tahani holding the baby in her arms.

  Now began the wonderful time of young parenthood. I spent as little time in the shop as possible, so that I could be at home. Just so the three of us could lie in bed. My parents were so happy! Their first grandchild! Soon, my father reached for his violin and began playing songs for little Ahmad. He was probably hoping my son would become a musician like me.

  Until early August, everything was peaceful. We were able to put our son in a stroller and go out with him. I was still able to ride my bike to Yarmouk. But then everything changed.

  Suddenly, soldiers turned up on our street. During the day, they drove around in their cars, with squealing tires and howling engines, just to show everyone who was boss. They began searching houses, looking for militia members, weapons, or sometimes simply people who had been caught on video at rallies. One evening, they searched the apartment below ours. I wasn’t home, and Tahani lay trembling in bed, clutching our son. A nightmare! The next day, we heard of mass executions. More and more people packed their things and left Yalda in a hurry.

  We needed a plan B. I asked my music students for help, and one afternoon, we carried hundreds of instruments from our store over to the oud workshop. It was only a few minutes’ walk, but we had to keep going back and forth. We had intended to turn the oud workshop into our main showroom, since the space was significantly larger. Now, if worse came to worst, we could even live there.

  At the same time, we put all the heavy equipment, all the saws and grinding machines, on a trailer and stored it in our old music shop. My brother was going to use the space as his carpentry workshop, to make windows and doors. The oud business was defunct. What good was an instrument in times like these?