For the past few years, I have been looking at how Islam as a civilisation has impacted the world we live in. The debates surrounding Gaza made me realise how this subject is still just as important today as it was a century ago, in the sense that Islam as a civilisation was either presented as a threat or not a civilisation at all. Further to that, when I lived in Japan, I found that a reading of Islam as a civilisation would have been far more helpful for Japanese people than their imaginations that Islam was this alien religion that is taking over. Today’s Inner Thoughts Out Loud was an exploration of these thoughts, as I open a new course on whether Islam can be seen as a civilisation on alqasas.org.

Once again, thank you all for following and listening.

Yakoob

So the next day I wake up early, excited for what I will be doing. It’s quite hot; I can see the heat when I open my blinds, yes I said see, as I can tell by the absence of any clouds and the nature of the shadows that it was very hot outside. Fortunately for me, I have air con and Internet in my room. I leave the hotel to try to make sense of what to do on the second day. There’s so much I want to do, so much I want to see. There are so many people I’d like to meet, but I no longer know who is left here. I try to be optimistic. I say I’ll decide once I am out and about. For now I just want to get out and not miss a thing. FOMO (The Fear of Missing Out) hits me for the first time. I guess it isn’t quite FOMO but more feeling overwhelmed that I don’t want to feel like I have wasted my time here. I leave the hotel, and yes, I was right: it was hot, and the first thing I can’t help but notice, as I’m walking past the cash machines, is the large lines of people waiting there in the morning. I wouldn’t say they were lines; I don’t even know how it worked, but let’s just say that there was a crowd of people. I noticed this every morning. It’s like there is a rush in the morning to get money out of the machines before midday. People were helping each other out in terms of how to use the cash machines. There was an elderly lady who was totally confused, and the people behind her were telling her what to press and whatnot. I realised that that type of crime perhaps is not as common amongst the regular folk in this country. One would assume that after war, this would be a lawless society. It wasn’t. And not once did I feel unsafe during my time here.

As I mentioned in my previous post, when I went to the exchange office at the airport, I was given a large wad of money. The money was pretty strange because I was given what they called new Syrian money and old Syrian money. It was quite bizarre that the new Syrian money, for example, had a 500 Syrian pound note that was greater in value than the old Syrian money, where I had a 5,000 Syrian pound note. I couldn’t figure out often what to do here. I was often left to just absolutely trust the Syrian people when I was engaging with them, and not once did I feel like I was being scammed or cheated in any shape or form, and not once was I scammed, or at least not that I was aware of. Using one’s card was virtually impossible; there were very few places that took bank cards. We were back to using cash. However, society was quite flexible; you could use old Syrian money, new Syrian money, dollars, Turkish Lira, and any other currency that people could make sense of. It was like trading with Pokémon cards.

Today I was going to meet my friend Huda again; she wanted to show me the old city. For all the years that I have known her, we had never really spent time in the city. She had never shown me the city, and I, as a historian, have never done the same either. We take for granted things in life, and only appreciate them once they are gone. We both wanted to show each other the city of Damascus, as for too long we had not been able to do so. We then got into a taxi as we were trying to figure out where to go and what to do, and I then suddenly decided that I wanted to see the Ottoman mosque, Al-Takiya as-Sulaymaniya. As the driver was driving past Umayyad Square, I noticed the library, and then, just past the library, Huda pointed out the building that had been destroyed by the Israelis. You are reminded not simply of the fact that this country has gone through a long war, but also that the region is still in a precarious state.

As we stepped out, I once again underestimated the heat. The heat was intense, and to be honest, I totally miscalculated how hot it could be. I lived in Syria before. I understand the heat of the region, but you still take it for granted. Memory is a strange thing in that sense. I remember when I was a young kid, and I had done the London to Brighton cycle race, and at the end, when the cycle race finished, I said to myself, “Never again. I’m never doing this.” It was such a painful experience in terms of physically pushing my body to the edge at that time when I was young. And then a year later, we were discussing amongst ourselves doing it again. It’s the same thing with the heat. I had known of the heat, and so forth; people had warned me about going in the summer, but I was telling them I was sure I would be okay, but I totally forgot how harsh it could be at times. Although I must admit, upon returning to London, it feels like the heat has followed me here! There was no real space for shade in the city, unfortunately. So walking around at that time was hard on me, but it was clearly hard on Huda as well, and I really appreciate her taking the time for me.

We went to the masjid by Mimar Sinan and to the graveyard of the Ottoman Sultan Vahdettin (Mehmed IV). Unfortunately, it was under restoration, and they told me that it was going to be finished a week later, but I wouldn’t have been able to see it on the day that it would have been completed. I asked if I could take a picture; they refused. But to be fair to the security staff they were still kind enough to let me see some of the inside, as that was clearly not allowed.

Entrance to the Al-Takiya as-Sulaymaniya

Our next stop was to visit another tomb that used to be closed and now, for the first time, people were permitted to visit. It was on the high street known as Freedom Bridge. The bridge used to be called the President’s Bridge, but since liberation, names of certain places have changed, and people do get upset when one uses the older names of places. It is interesting to me how places change, evolve, and get named and renamed, and how memory once again has to make adjustments. So we walked past the masjid that was now behind us and towards one of the campuses of Damascus University off Baaramke. Baaramke was a famous street that I will never forget. I used to go there quite often for my residency to the immigration office, which was just a nightmare. It was full of soldiers who didn’t want to be there, multiple foreigners who clearly didn’t want to be there, and it was just chaos. The number of stories I could tell about my time in what they would call the immigration office, trying to get three-month extensions, six-month extensions to stay in the country. I could make a whole book out of that. But on this occasion, that’s not where I was going.

In fact, where I was going was to the tomb of Ibn Taymiyyah and Ibn Athir, whom we were never allowed to see, under the previous regime, let alone visit. There are multiple theories about why that is the case, from some saying famous fatwas from Ibn Taymiyyah critiquing the Alawis, to others saying that the government never wanted to inspire Salafis in the country, and allow the tomb of Ibn Taymiyyah to become a sort of rallying place. Even though I would walk past that entrance all the time, it was cordoned off inside the university, so we could never see it. But on this occasion, we went with Huda, and Huda went to speak to the security guard, and she says to him, “We’ve come to see...” And before she can even finish, he goes, “Oh, the tomb of Ibn Taymiyyah? Yeah, just enter and first right.” Even the guard knew why people were coming. We entered, I took the right, and we were there, and I did my Fatiha for the scholars that were buried there in the middle of a university. It seems like the tombs had been restored. Then a couple of people who looked Malaysian had come over, and I asked them, “Are you Malaysian?” And they said yes. They had also come to pay their respects to the great scholar of Islam.

I make it a point to visit tombs in the Muslim world, firstly to pay my respects to the people who have died, but also to appreciate the legacy of the Islamic civilisation. That is something missing in the West, and I really believe Muslims living in the West miss this in regards to building a collective imagination. One may argue that people in Syria don’t even pay attention to these places. I disagree; they have an awareness; they don’t simply make it a place of worship. It is a living tradition for them, not just something to be imagined. When I was last in the US, I also went to the grave of Malcolm X, and my heart felt sad that the cemetery is located in a place where one really has to go out of their way to pray for the person.

Tomb of Ibn al-Taymiya

As we were leaving, we then decided to walk towards the Hejaz railway station. I once again remembered the great railway station. I used to go there, and obviously the train tracks are no longer there. It’s just an empty sort of ditch. Unfortunately, the main front end of the station was turned into a shisha coffee shop in the old days. So much of the beauty of the station was often lost. I was wondering what the station would be like now. There has been much talk of reviving the project of the Hejaz Railway, which would go from Istanbul, Syria, Jordan and Saudi Arabia.

Outside the station, just like in Istanbul, there is still a small train outside. When I entered the station, I was just fascinated by the art and the decor, and how it clearly mentioned in the train station that this was for the Hujjaj. There was an old-school telegram machine and an old-school printing ticket machine. It was beautiful to see it, and I really hope that they can restore it into something that can be celebrated. I just looked around, and it took me back to my time, not only when I was in Syria, but actually to Istanbul, and the Haydarpaşa and Sirkeci train stations that existed in Istanbul regarding the Hejaz Railway. One can only just imagine. People forget that the Hejaz Railway or the Hejaz Railway Project was truly the first, what you can say, all-encompassing Ummah-oriented project. It was a project that Muslims around the world invested in. I admit, primarily funded by the Muslims of the Ottoman Empire, the sultan, and the elites of the Ottoman Empire, but nonetheless, Muslims around the world did contribute towards it. No aid was taken, or money was taken from any foreign powers or people who were not Muslim. Even the railways were built by Muslims. It truly is unique. It was because it was done for religious purposes. We don’t have anything like that: the idea of building a railway that links the religious cities together: Istanbul, Aleppo, Damascus, Jerusalem, Mecca, Medina. People talk about the creation of a new Hejaz Railway. It’ll be interesting to see.

The Hejaz Railway station

Another interesting point was near the Hejaz Railway. So if the railway station’s on your right and you’re looking straight ahead to the old city walls, on the left-hand side, there is a mosque/tekke, which is called the Mawlawi (Mevlevi) masjid, or in Turkish it would be the Mevlevi Cami. Huda had mentioned to me that her grandparents were members who were linked to Mevlevis, that her great-grandmother or grandfather, I can’t remember right now, was one of the people who was part of the tarikat that was there. What was unique, and she pointed this out to me because I never had noticed, was that the dome and minaret don’t have a crescent moon. The dome and minaret have a hat of the Mevlevis, a tall hat, like a long fez. For anyone who knows, the Mevlevis wear that long hat when they’re doing the Sama, when they’re whirling. When you enter, there is a tomb of a famous Mevlevi saint. While I was in there, I asked the imam if I could take pictures and so forth, and he was more than happy for me to do so. When I exited, Huda, who was asking a few questions for me, got into a conversation with one person to find out that he was her distant relative, whom she’d never met before. I remember saying to her that history is indeed a fascinating thing. Again, it’s not just about history in the books but having these real life expereinces that make you wonder and grow.

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The Mawlawi (Mevlevi) Masjid

Then Huda took me to a famous shawarma place in the old city, which I’d never been to, and they only have one menu: shawarma. It’s on a little spit, and it’s really fascinating to see that they had been making the same thing since the turn of the twentieth century, and all the produce and the food was fresh. I couldn’t finish it, so I packed it and took it home. Then went back to my hotel room to sort of take a breather and went to sleep. After a few hours, I woke up, and there is a beauty to the breeze that appears after Salat al-Maghrib. There’s a wonderful breeze in the city, and more and more people come out. One of the things that I started to realise and appreciate is how the city is very different in the day than it is in the afternoon.

I remember when I was in the Architecture Museum in Denmark, in Copenhagen, I was watching a video where the architect was explaining how cities are designed and spoke about how previous architects took into consideration people’s engagement with the city, both in the day and in the afternoon and in the night. There are different ways that people engage with the city at different times of the day, and buildings are not just randomly built. In fact, he mentioned that historically, and he was talking about the city of Florence, which I had also happened to visit a few months ago, Michelangelo had created spaces where people could sit and rest and look at the beauty of the artwork that had been created into the architecture of the city.

I felt like there are pockets like that in the old city in Damascus, pockets that take into consideration a slower pace of life, and pockets that create architectural spaces where you stop to rest and appreciate what’s been built in front of you. I wanted to take a break and just take it all in. But I decided that I would make my way to the Umayyad Mosque. I was going to go the next day, but I don’t know why; what compelled me to go at that time. I guess my heart was simply yearning to see it. I used to go to the Umayyad Mosque once a week in Syria when I lived there. Every Jum’ah, I used to go there. Even during Ramadan, I’ve broken my fast in that mosque on many occasions. So, on this occasion, I think I couldn’t hold myself from going. I couldn’t be patient.

So off I went, and I made my way to the city, and while I was there, I noticed soldiers with guns, and it felt very strange to see soldiers with guns in the middle of a city. I don’t know if it makes some people feel safe. It makes me feel very uncomfortable. But anyway, I made my way to Souq Al-Hamidiyah, which is the name of the market; it’s the main entrance that you enter to make your way to the Umayyad Mosque. You enter the shade with the tin roof above you with holes in it, with shops on your left and shops on your right, and people selling sweets and clothes and all sorts of souvenirs and so on. I continued to make my way to the masjid, and I made it to the masjid for Salat al-Isha. I entered the masjid with such excitement, and I was so overwhelmed. I couldn’t believe it. I was back. I think even though on day one upon landing and so forth, I’d realised I was in Syria. This felt very different. It finally felt like I’d made it. I was in Damascus. I was getting so many memories coming back. The minute I got to Masjid al-Ummawi, things changed. I think it really started to sink in that I was here.

I went into the mosque, and I prayed, and I didn’t take any pictures. I took one or two in the courtyard later, but not in the mosque itself. I just stood there looking at things, looking at the walls, looking at the architecture, looking at the mosaics, looking at the calligraphy, looking at the people. They were happy. There were kids running around. There was a calm. Then suddenly the lights went off. We were being encouraged that it was late and it was time to leave, and I didn’t want to; I had just got here, but I did, as I knew I would have many moments to return here, and I’ll do it properly the next day. This day was simply to give this yearning heart of mine some ease, and I got that. I then went home, smiling and content, with both my heart and mind in a state of tranquillity.

Masjid al-Ummawi (The Umayyad Mosque)

I then walked home slowly in the night breeze of Damascus City. As I exited the Hamidian Market and onto the main street, the horns and the noise of the cars continued. One of the things that I really found different on this occasion was the sirens. I never ever heard sirens the last time I lived in Syria. But on this occasion, I did. The sirens kept going off all night. I think people who are working for the various institutions that use sirens have found a way of skipping traffic perhaps. But I was on my own little mental journey. I gradually made it back to my hotel room, where I sat there and soaked it all in and said to myself, “Today it feels like I’m finally back in Damascus.”

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As I left the immigration section, I looked around me thinking, what can I take a picture of? It’s quite interesting how we want to document our lives by taking photographs of it. And yet I chose not to. I’d already taken a picture of me standing in the line at the immigration section. That was enough. To be honest, I didn’t want to take pictures of every experience; I wanted to soak it all in, actually experience it all, and see how much I could remember. Although at the end of each night I did journal my day so that I can put it down in this blog.

As I walked out, I got to the baggage hall. The baggage hall was a very unique sight. There’s only one plane that’s landed. It’s our plane. There aren’t these multiple conveyor belts, like in the case I mentioned in the previous journal about Istanbul Airport. The belt is moving, and there’s a creaking sound. I’m just observing everyone, and everyone’s observing each other, waiting for these bags to arrive.

It was quite funny. There was a Syrian family that had come from the West, probably North America, who were speaking to an older Syrian lady, and she was asking them, “How do I say such and such in English, and how do I say that in English?” Then she was saying, “Is my English good?” To that, another younger lady replied, “Bravo.” I found it funny that she wanted to speak in English to them; perhaps the kids from the family didn’t speak Arabic well enough, but I’m just speculating, to be honest. Bravo is an interesting word I used to hear quite a lot in Syria. It’s strange how a foreign word is adopted into the local vernacular. Even hearing that made me smile. The memories started to come back. I was actually in Damascus!

All of a sudden, the bags started coming through the conveyor belt as everyone got ready to get their suitcases, jostling in front of each other. The sort of organised manner in which people in other parts of the world are ready kind of went out the window. One of the workers asked me, “How many bags do you have?” I said, “One.” He showed no interest in me after that.

But the unique thing was we started to hear a dog barking, and it caught everyone off guard. That family that had come from the West, it was their dog. It came through the conveyor belt itself. I’ve never seen that before. I had cats that I took from Türkiye to London, and I remember the procedure. They had to go in a special cage, go into a special part of the aeroplane, including the baggage. But then they are separated from the baggage and put in a particular area at the airport, and then you’re supposed to go and collect them. But here, this huge dog basket came through the conveyor belt. It was a large dog. Everyone was just looking in surprise as the woman yelled out, “Milo!” And the dog responded. The dog was not barking but yelping and screaming as they kept saying, “Milo, Milo!” and then speaking to it in Arabic. They lifted the case off the conveyor belt with this giant dog as everyone got caught up in the commotion of it all. Surprisingly, everyone was happy. Everyone was happy that Milo got to be reunited with his parents, I guess.

I picked up my bag as it arrived after Milo, and the excitement sort of died down, and I came out of the airport. It was once again unique to see scores of people waiting for their loved ones with flowers and gifts. Families had turned up, waiting for the arrival of people that they had known. Unfortunately, I didn’t have that. I don’t have that anymore. As a solo nomad and traveller, there’s never anyone waiting for me at an airport. I sort of just keep my head down in the embarrassment of all these glaring eyes that are looking at me, knowing disappointedly that I’m not their loved one. I’m not a member of the family. I’m just this random guy.

I took my bag, and I went out, and the first thing I did was go to the bureau de change place, which also had the word, if I remember correctly, Dovis, in front, on top of it, like the Turkish word. I was changing my money, and a guy came and went, “Taxi.” Now, usually, I would’ve ignored a sort of engagement such as that. I would’ve just gone outside and caught a regular taxi and told him to put on the meter. But I was kind of tired, kind of flustered a little bit maybe, and I looked at him and said, “Okay, how much are you charging?” He told me a number, but in all honesty, it meant nothing because I didn’t know how the value of the money worked. I just looked at him and eyeballed him. I don’t know why, but I decided to trust him.

We then came out, together, as I was pulling my suitcase behind me, while I had changed the money that Ömar Faruk had given to me to Syrian pounds and stuffed them in my pocket that simply became a bulge, and that was it. That was my lump sum. That large wad of money went into my pocket. There was nothing strange about having a large wad of money, to be honest. I think everyone was carrying large wads of money in Syria, such was the situation.

We started walking to the car. The driver was called Mohammed. Of course, his name was Mohammed. He smiled at me and said, “Look, my son will carry your suitcase.” I was like, “No, no, it’s fine.” He insisted, and I gave my suitcase to his son, and his son pulled the suitcase up into the car, put it into the trunk, and then obviously there was an expectation that I needed to give him some small tip, which I did. Initially, Mohammed looked at me kind of like, “Is that it?” I was like, “Okay, there’s more to give here.” Gave him a little bit more, and then we got in the taxi. There was a part of me that thought, really, I’m doing this right now, but to be honest, trying to be a hero on my first day would be kind of silly. Sometimes you just have to swallow your pride and accept that you are going to get scammed, and it wasn’t flagrant, and so I just moved along with it.

Mohammed said, “Do you have internet on your phone?” I said, “No.” He goes, “Okay, you can hotspot off my phone.” So he was kind enough to hotspot off his phone. I know the way the Syrians work. Even the scams in Syria, they’re done politely. There is an exchange, there is a negotiation that takes place. You have to know how to get by here. He smiled, I smiled, and then he asked me if he could smoke in the car, and I said, “It’s your car. You can do whatever makes you happy.” He goes, “Would you like to smoke?” I said, “No, I don’t smoke.” He goes, “Okay, is there a problem if I smoke?” I said, “No.” And there he was smoking in the car. His car was an old Datsun; I didn’t even know those cars existed. My mum used to have a Datsun Sunny, and my first car was a Nissan Micra. I thought those cars were extinct, and here I was sitting in something from the 1990s. I asked him, “Shall I put on my belt?”, and Mohammed replied, this is Syria; you can do as you please.

He then went onto his phone, talking to his family, and then said to me, “Would you be interested in having breakfast?” I said, “No, not really.” I was reluctant. I had just arrived. I chose a taxi driver who was speaking to me. You can’t win every time in life. I said, “Look, I’d eaten something on the plane.” He goes, “Oh, no, I know a great breakfast spot in the old city, in Bab Touma.” So then I said to him, “Okay, fine. Why not? Let’s go have breakfast.” It was interesting because we got to this spot, Bab Touma, we got out of the car, and it was those small little Syrian pizzas, fatayer. We bought some for me, and I bought some for him, but I really couldn’t eat them. It was hot. He took them all for his family, and I realised then that the situation was not perfect. Who knows how much Mohammed was earning.

We then drove towards where my hotel was, and it was on the back end of the street where the Four Seasons was, where we heard a bang. I didn’t make much of it, to be honest with you. Nor did Mohammed, surprisingly. We sort of assumed this is Syria; there’s some sort of car engine that’s gone off or something. He carried on driving, and there wasn’t a sudden rush of traffic or people. Then we made it to my street. My street was situated very close to where I heard the bang. It was at that time that my friend Tariq sent me a message asking if I was okay, and I said to him, “Yeah, I’m fine. Why, what’s happened?” I assumed he was just concerned if I had made it to Syria safely. Then he sent me a video that there’d been a minor bomb explosion at the Four Seasons where Macron had been staying, and I was staying around the corner from there. I told him that I heard the bang but didn’t make much of it. My first day back and already things felt rough. It was later claimed by ISIS, signalling to Macron and the new Syrian government. It wasn’t designed to create maximum damage; they probably no longer have the resources to do that. But what it can do is make people believe that Syria is not a safe place to travel to. It was quite intriguing that I was indeed welcomed in a strange way, along with Macron, with this explosion. There would’ve been some form of concern in me in the past. Yet on this occasion, speaking to people and so forth, life just went on. It was quite unique and bizarre at the same time.

As for Mohammed, he had no worry in the world. We carried on driving and finally arrived at our destination. He dropped me off at the opposite side of the road, saying there would be much traffic if he took me to the hotel and asking if it was okay if I just got off. I just smiled and said sure. It was funny to see that when I arrived at the hotel, there was no, “Are you okay? How things are...” Even at the hotel, it was like nothing had happened. I went to the hotel, and I spoke to a person at reception and asked, “Is my room ready?” They said, “Yes, it is.” I had initially been told that my room wouldn’t be ready this early; I had arrived by 12 midday.

My friend Tariq had made the reservation for me, as I didn’t really know what to do, as making reservations on the Internet is kind of still not the done thing. When I arrived, I realised something very unique. I was staying on 29 May Street. I had to really take a double-take. I couldn’t believe it. I was staying at the place where I’d first come to Syria. When I first came to Syria, I was staying on that street! I can’t remember exactly what hotel. I think it was called Hotel Al Majed. I was a couple of roads away, but it’s just bizarre that I’d entered this sort of full circle moment.

When I got to my room, I put my bag down, and I took a few seconds to try to make sense of my surroundings. I then contacted my friend Huda to let her know I was here, as she had just popped in, fortunately for me, from Jordan. Huda and I had known each other since my time living in Syria. She used to work at the American Language school where I was a teacher, and she was great to me. She had taken care of me like I was her younger brother and made sure that everything was okay during my time in Syria. Her kids were young when I met her, and now they are all grown up. There were a lot of ins and outs of teachers in Syria, and I was very fortunate that she had made sure I was okay during my time there. We have met since I left Syria; we met in the UK, France and Istanbul, but I had kind of given up on the idea that we would ever cross paths again in Damascus. But there we were, talking to each other on the phone, like it was 15 years ago. We agreed to meet after I freshen up. I was kind of tired and really wanted to sleep, but how could I lose a day when I had just got there?

I remember then leaving and choosing to go for a walk, and then walking down the streets and remembering where everything was. The old cinema was still there with the same posters from 15 years ago. The barber shop I used to go to, where I never knew what time it opened, was still there. There were some new additions of some new cafes and coffee shops, but by and large, everything looked the same, just older. The city had, in a strange way, aged. It really had aged.

Then I went to the local juice place that I used to go to, Abu Shaker. Abu Shaker was a very famous juicer, where I had moz-bil haleeb (banana with milk). It’s the first time I ever had banana with milk. I remember I used to love that banana with milk drink. There’s a freshness regarding the fruit in Syria, and obviously there’s a lot of sugar they were probably putting into the drink. I remember having that drink nearly every day. I was addicted, and then when I left Syria, every Arab restaurant I went to, since, I would ask for banana with milk. Every time I would drink it, I would be hoping that it would be the same as what I had at Abu Shaker during my days in Syria, and it never was. It was never the same.

So I went to Abu Shaker, and the owner who used to be there 15 years ago was still there. There is another juicer called Abu Abdo, which is a lot larger. It became a lot more famous, especially over the last decade or so. I think the owner of Abu Abdo even became a politician. His store had a giant screen on it, which they were showing World Cup football matches. It was quite bizarre. But Abu Shaker, I was kind of dedicated to Abu Shaker. It was the first place where I went to where I had this banana with milk.

I looked at the guy, and he goes, “How can I help?” I said in Arabic, “I would like a banana with milk, please.” He goes, “Okay.” He gives it to me, and I take a look at it. I still remember it was the same glass with the same straw, and it looked the same. Like everything felt the same. I sat down in a corner, and I put my drink onto the table, and I stared at it for a few minutes, and then I took a slow and protracted sip, and then I just sat there. It tasted exactly the same! It tasted the same from 15 years ago. I could not believe it! It wasn’t a figment of my imagination. It wasn’t that whenever I was tasting this banana with milk everywhere else, my brain was playing games with me. But rather every banana with milk was not the same as the one I used to have at Abu Shaker. It’s really strange how powerful taste as a memory is. It takes you to places that visual memory just really doesn’t.

As I was sitting there having this moz bil haleeb, I started to notice that Fairuz was playing in the background; of course, Fairuz was playing in the background. She was and still is a staple on the airwaves along with the Quran in Syria. And while I was having my moment, the owner came to me and asked, “Are you okay?” I said to him, “Yeah, this tastes the same.” He, oblivious to what I was saying, goes, “Of course it tastes the same. We haven’t changed in years. Our flavours are always the same.” I said, “No, it tastes the same.” He looked at me, and I said, “It tastes the same from 15 years ago.” Then he smiled and said, “Yes, it tastes the same from 15 years ago.” I think he might have understood that I used to come here. When I used to go there, he used to be so cool. He used to know my name in those days. He used to say, “Ahlan wa sahlan ya Ya’qub.” I used to really appreciate the fact that he knew my name. He didn’t remember me anymore, of course. Fifteen years is a long time, and I’m not that special, but there was a part of me that was sad that he had forgotten.

I then got up and walked to go see my friend Huda. The destination was not close, but rather than take the taxi, I decided to walk and just get a feel of the city I once called home. I got close to where we were supposed to meet, but I couldn’t find the exact location, and Google Maps doesn’t quite work well in Syria. I walked into a shop where there was a young girl with a headscarf, and I said to her in Arabic, “I hope you don’t mind, I’m a foreigner. And I have a friend who I haven’t seen in a very long time, and this is her number, and she told me to come around here. I just can’t find the address.” She looked at me, and responded in English. “Yeah, I can call her.” She dials the number, and she says, “My name is such...” I think she said her name was Rana, and then she says, “And there’s a gentleman here. He says he knows you.” Then Huda goes, “Oh, yeah, yes. What’s his name?” She asked me what my name is. I said, “Ya’qub.” She goes, “His name is Ya’qub.” I can hear Huda on the end of the phone say, “Oh, yeah. Can you give him the phone?” So I take the phone, and I say to Huda, “Look, I’m around your neighbourhood. I just don’t know where you’re situated.” She goes, “Why don’t you wait for me at the roundabout in Maliki?” Which is the place that I always used to have the recurring dream about. Huda then said, “I’ll come and get you.” I said, “Okay.”

I walked up the hill, and I said thank you to Rana for using her phone, and she said, “No problem.” I walked up the hill in the heat, and I was waiting for Huda, and she came down, and she was so excited. As I had said, we’d met each other before. I met her with her kids in London, I’d met her with her kids in Paris, I’d met her with her kids in Istanbul, but it’d been 15 years since we’d met in Syria. This time there were no kids. They were now in different parts of the world. She told me that her brother’s apartment was under refurbishment, so she was working on that, and she wanted me to meet someone. So off I went.

The person she wanted me to meet was a man called Ahmed. Ahmed was the handyman at the American Language Centre that I used to work at. He was a wonderful human being, a wonderful man. I couldn’t believe it when I saw him, I kind of didn’t know how to greet him: should I shake hands? Would he even remember me, instead I hugged him. Ahmed goes to me, “You look exactly the same. It’s just your beard.” I said, “You look exactly the same.” I was trying to process these sudden emotions that were coming in. I needed to hold it together. I don’t know who for, to be honest. I was trying to make sense of everything. I was back in Syria. There was Huda, who I worked with, and then there was Ahmed, who was the handyman that not in a million years did I think I would ever see again. I was standing there in front of him. How do you make sense of that?

After meeting them and saying hello and having a long conversation, I headed back to my hotel, and I knew where to go. The roads felt familiar very quickly. I had a sort of understanding of Damascus. On that night, Egypt were playing Argentina. I walked up to the cafe and sat down as everybody was watching the game. Everybody wanted Egypt to win. Egypt were winning. Then Argentina made their comeback, and you can see the disappointment on the faces of everyone else. It’s almost like the region needs something to celebrate, and is looking for it. Egypt had lost, but I felt very victorious in the sense that I was sitting at a coffee shop in Syria, watching people, watching a football match, and there was a feeling that things felt normal. Well, kind of.

It’d been a long day. I’d left Istanbul early in the morning. I’d gone through a host of experiences and emotions. I’d spent my whole day, my first day, in Damascus. Day one in Damascus. I made it. Alhamdulillah.

Buy Me a Coffee

I tried to go back to Syria on two separate occasions. On both occasions, my plans had to be cancelled due to the events in the region. The Israelis were bombing one nation or another. The first time it was Lebanon, the second time it was Iran, and as a result, on both occasions my flights were cancelled, and money was lost. I kept telling myself, perhaps it wasn’t meant to be. However, I was insisting on trying to go to Syria. There was something in my heart that was forcing me to go back since liberation. Even though I was unable to make it due to the wars in the region, I kept thinking I couldn’t go because of something I might have done. There was a self-centred part of me that thought, have I done something to displease Allah? Is that the reason why I’m unable to go? It’s rather strange that I linked myself to the events and wars happening in the region and somehow tried to insert myself or connect what was happening, or perhaps not happening, in my life as being just as significant as what was happening in the region around me. I was trying to find a reason for why I was unable to go on this occasion, or the two occasions that I had tried to enter Syria. We humans are indeed strange.

So I tried again a third time. One of the reasons I was thinking this way is that the first two times it was very difficult to get plane tickets.I had booked tickets, they got cancelled. I booked tickets again; the website was not working. There was always something happening. And as I mentioned, deep down I started to think, is this because of me? Have I done something? But now that I zoom out and look at the grand scheme of things, maybe I needed to see that differently. I kind of conceded that maybe I am just not supposed to go to Syria. I sort of figured maybe Allah doesn’t want me to go. And I guess when I started to feel that way, I started to think maybe I have done something wrong, that I have displeased Allah. Why is it that others are going? And I saw people making it and I couldn’t. When one is emotional, they experience all sorts of feelings and thoughts. I now know all I needed to do was slow down.

Dreams Can Come True?

During the war, I would have this recurring dream. I haven’t mentioned this to many people, but I write about it today. I would be in the middle of Damascus and then chaos would break out, and everybody would be scattering as gunfire was being sprayed around the city. I was asked by a group of soldiers, or men, or armed men at least, to come and hide behind them so that they could protect us or protect me. And so I did. We got behind the wall, and the soldier was standing behind me to protect me, and then he shot me in the head. That dream didn’t happen once; it recurred. It was a recurring dream. The strange part of that dream was, firstly, I would wake up in shock as my eyes would open the moment the bullet was shot into my head. But the second thing was I would hear a ringing sound in my ears whenever I woke up.

I couldn’t quite figure out where the dream was coming from. Was this dream coming from my own mind, or was there something in my subconscious which was submerged regarding seeing Syria descend into chaos and me being unable to do anything about it? I was so emotionally attached to Syria, so to see that, to feel that, to not be able to do much. Maybe that’s what was happening; I don’t know. There was a part of me that was asking, is this from Shaytan himself? Is Shaytan trying to dissuade me from going to Syria? And am I getting these recurring dreams because maybe I should go? Or was this a warning from Allah? The reason I felt this way is because it’s not often one gets recurring dreams. I kept asking myself if this feeling is even real?

Over the years, I did also get a different type of dream. I remember when the war had first begun in Syria that I had this dream where I was in Al-Maliki. It’s an area. I went to see a friend of mine, Huda. I was walking down the hill from her house. As I was walking down the hill, I was stopped by some soldiers, and they wouldn’t let me leave. Over the years, I had that dream again. But this time, the second time in the dream, I was walking down the hill. But this time, Huda hadn’t been left at her home. She was with me. She would speak to the soldiers and the guards, and they would ask for my passport and my ID. We would have a conversation with regime soldiers, and they would still not let me go home, and I’d be arrested. But near the end, I had a third dream, this was long before liberation, in which Huda and I and her kids would go towards the checkpoints, and I would be nervous regarding these soldiers standing there with their guns. I would show them my ID, and they would let me go. I’ve had a lot of dreams about Syria, and these dreams were probably an indication of my mental state. But they also, in some ways, gave me moments of introspection. I would think about whether I would be able to return or not. I often reflect upon my dreams and don’t simply ignore them as a figment of my imagination.

Now, some may say regarding some of these dreams that these indeed were just parts of my imagination and how I felt, and especially a dream about the fact that a bullet would be put into my head, and I’d wake up with this ringing sound in my ear, that perhaps that was just part of some type of sleep paralysis. Experts on sleep paralysis talk about clapping noises and ringing in the ears as examples of such. I’m not sure, to be honest. But as a result, there was, on the one hand, an innate desire to return to Syria because of these recurring dreams. The land that was so instrumental in shaping me during a formative period in my life, it kept appearing in my imagination over and over. But on the other hand, there was this apprehension; there is no doubt about it. There was this fear, partially projected, perhaps by the naysayers who were continuously telling me, what was the point of going back? What are you trying to do? What are you going to do going there?

I remember the naysayers, even when I went the first time all those years ago. They had mentioned and said so many things about me to my parents, making them feel nervous. And now that the nation got its liberation, there was that same impression. Syria is, in the minds of some people, including Muslims, a place that we shouldn’t go to. And all of this became enveloped in perhaps my own concerns of wandering into the unknown. It’d been 15 years. I didn’t know what to expect.

However, anyone who knows me knows that I am indeed a stubborn soul. Not because I need to prove something to other people, I really couldn’t care, but because there is something about me that I know about myself, where I have to absolutely fail at something in order to stop. I have to lose, be knocked out, totally fail in order for me to say, you know what? It wasn’t meant to be. So while there was a part of me that thought that maybe Allah did not want me to go to Syria when I was trying, or maybe that was me just rationalizing my own fears, or my own ideas from a religious perspective, there was also a part of me that says, I need to keep trying until Allah says no definitively. And that means I need to fail. Not being able to go on two occasions because of what was happening in the region wasn’t enough. And what if that no was a bullet in the back of my head? I kept asking. What if that dream was real?

There were some friends of mine who were Syrian. I mentioned this dream to them, and we would laugh. I would say, wouldn’t it be kind of crazy if that came true? Astagfullah, they would say, and ask why I would even think that. I don’t know, to be honest; maybe this was simply a coping mechanism. There was only one way to find out, I guess. I needed to go. Not to take a bullet in my head, of course, but I needed to see Syria one last time, at least. Because I didn’t believe deep down that all would be hell. I believed that this was a moment of joy, perhaps. So once again, third time lucky, I booked my ticket, told very few people, as is the Sunnah. And finally, the day arrived.

Istanbul the Platform to Damascus

My journey to Damascus started from Istanbul. As the days kept getting closer and closer to my flight to Syria, the emotions kept fluctuating. I was staying at my friend Ömar Faruk’s house, and I was quite fortunate to be able to stay there before I’d gone to Syria. Ömar Faruk had already visited. Speaking to somebody who had already been gave me a sense of solace, and he was very encouraging. But there’s something else that’s special about staying at Ömar Faruk’s house. I could say it’s because he lives within the confines of the historic Topkapı walls, that there is something unique about his apartment itself. He calls it a fakirhane, an abode for those who are wanderers and travelers and dervishes, and so forth. But there is something unique about not just what he’s curated in the building of his home, but the vicinity. And that vicinity of being within the Topkapı walls, being within this historic neighborhood, it reminded me in many ways of the old city in Damascus.

Most people simply walk past or drive past the walls as if the walls are just not there. They’re just an ornament. They just sit there. That’s what they do. For me, I continuously look at ruins and try to exercise my imagination. I look at the walls, the Topkapı walls in particular, and I kind of imagine them as a portal, perhaps at times. There are those within the walls and then those outside of the walls. There are those within the walls who physically live inside of the confines of the walls, and the walls were designed to separate, to segregate between those who are inside and those who are outside. And even today, when you look through the holes in the walls or the small gates and doors, you kind of feel of being on the inside and seeing people on the outside. But it was also a portal, as I said, because it almost feels like you’re on one side of history, and there was another side of history once on these walls, which people don’t realise. It’s a strange feeling how walls create distinction.

Psychologists have said this before: it’s far better for one’s psychological state to be able to go from one room to another; walls and doors shape us in some shape or form. I sometimes show my friends the Topkapı walls. There’s an entrance with symbols from the Byzantine period, but people are often not that interested. But it’s interesting for me because it’s a moment of history. I wonder about all the people that were in the city behind these walls, but I also wonder about the number of people that have attempted to scale it, to enter, the number of men who would have died trying, the men who succeeded. I wondered about how the walls were designed to separate those within it and those outside. I was now living inside the walls, yet walking outside of it with most people I know who are oblivious to this anomaly.

Ömar Faruk’s house inside the walls is right next to Mihrimah Sultan Camii. There are two Mihrimah Sultan Camiis in Istanbul, one in Üsküdar and one in Edirnekapı, inside the walls. I think Mehmet Sokollu Paşa is the only other person who has two mosques named after him as well. When you ask people, taxi drivers more specifically, about Mihrimah Sultan Camii in Edirnekapı, very few of them know it. They know it as the Masjid within the walls. In many ways, it’s a wonderful enclave. And Ömar Faruk’s house is right next to the masjid. It’s so surreal in many ways, when the muezzin makes the call and pierces the airwaves with the help of modern technology via speakers, you don’t feel like you're in the house but rather in the masjid when the muezzin is blasting out the azan right into your ears. One really doesn’t need an alarm clock for Salat al-Fajr.

So being there in that house, in those walls prior to going to Syria, was an emotional moment. I was going from one historical city to another, and I felt connected. But this is not the only reason why I think Ömar Faruk’s house is special. I call Ömar Faruk Ilhami Ömar Faruk. That’s how I’ve stored him in my phone. Whenever I meet him or stay with him, something good always happens. It’s hard to explain, but there is something unique about good souls, a specific, unique energy. And to be with him at that time, sitting there, speaking to the one person who may understand my emotional state or what I was going through, was important.

Ömar Faruk asked me how I felt, and I sat there for a few seconds and then replied, I don’t know. I think he was the only one who could have appreciated that type of honesty, to be fair. Most people would have replied, what do you mean? I’ve mentioned to him that I was giving a talk in Canada, and this was in November prior to liberation. Somebody in the audience in the masjid had asked me in the Q&A if I could see myself going back to Syria. And it was at that time, after more than a decade or so, at that very moment, I made a very strange comment. I said, “No, I can’t see myself ever going back to Syria. I have today, right now, at this moment, accepted that I probably won’t go to Syria again in my lifetime. But then Allah knows best”. And then one month later, everything changed, and people started sending me messages with euphoria that you’re able to go back to a place you once called home.

I think indeed Allah knows best, for He is the best of all planners, and there’s so much that I didn’t know. And now, here I was trying to make sense of all my emotions, all my fears, my dreams (literally), my attempts to travel and fail, my giving up hope only to get it back again, only to fail to make it. And yet I was only a few hours away now, getting ready to go to the airport, and I really didn’t know how I felt, or how to feel. Was that normal? Was this even real? I then replied, with all honesty, “I feel many things, Ömar Faruk. Excitement, fear, sadness, nervousness. I have so many feelings at the same time. My heart is pumping inside, and I don’t know if it’s the restlessness of my soul or something else”. We would call it adrenaline in the scientific community, but it felt like more than that, and I kept telling myself that it would be okay. I then told myself and vocalised it to Ömar Faruk that I am happy and I’m looking forward to it.

Ömar Faruk then gave me 200 euros, gave me a hug, and I got ready to go. Little did he know, and neither did I at the time, that those 200 euros became all the money I needed to provide my sustenance in Syria in terms of food and water and travelling. Apart from my accommodation costs, which I had money for, these 200 euros facilitated everything. There was a Baraka in it, an exchange between two brothers. Indeed, I have no doubt in my mind that Ömar Faruk is indeed Ilhami, not because of some mystical reason, but simply for the fact that whenever I meet him, I feel inspired.

I took the taxi after Salat al-Fajr, hearing it for the last time from Mihrimah Sultan. I guess this was a good omen. I left the apartment; I remember taking my suitcase and once again looking at the Topkapı walls, and then got into the taxi for the airport. The taxi driver asked me out of curiosity, where are you off to? And I hesitated in many ways. I hesitated to tell him whether I was actually going to Syria or not. So I said, I’m going to Sham, to Syria. And he looked at me and he goes, oh, are you Syrian? And I said, no. And then he goes, so why are you going to Syria? And I said, strangely enough to him, I don’t know.

The Journey had Finally Begun

I’m the type of guy who doesn’t usually like to talk to taxi drivers. I like to get in the car and just look out the window. I’m the type of guy who’s at the barbershop who just wants the barber to cut his hair. I’m the type of guy who sits on the plane and wants to be left alone. And it’s funny because when I got onto the plane, I noticed that I was probably one of the few foreigners there. I didn’t see anyone else. And while I was sitting down, I asked myself, is this really happening? At that moment, there was a guy sitting next to me who said in Urdu, why are you going to Syria? At first, I ignored him, not because I wanted to be rude, even though I like to be left alone, but simply for the fact that I didn’t anticipate the person sitting next to me, an Arab, would be speaking to me in Urdu. It took my brain a couple of seconds to process these words, which I wasn’t expecting. So I kind of looked at him, trying to puzzle together in my brain what he actually asked me. Then he said in his thick Arabic accent, in English, why are you going to Syria? I looked at him thinking, who’s asking me this question? Who is he? Then he said, are you going for work? Marriage? But I could see he was just being inquisitive. I smiled and said, no, I have unfinished business. He just sort of glazed over that comment.

He then told me his name was Mohammed. He was from Palestine. He got married to a Syrian. He has a child. He’s been going to Syria since liberation so that his children can be connected with their in-laws. He said to me that he lived in the UAE, where he worked with Pakistanis, and that’s where he learned Urdu, and that he now lives in Belgium and does some work in mechanical engineering. Throughout that time, Mohammed was talking to me, and I was just nodding and smiling. It’s strange; I didn’t tell him anything about myself. He was just excited, but not just for him, but for me too. It was a beautiful moment. Before we knew it, the plane had landed, and we arrived in Damascus. I don’t know how I would have felt during that plane journey, but Mohammed kept me busy; he kept me occupied. As a result, he probably helped me get through it. I probably would’ve been sitting there all charged with negative energy, maybe. But instead, within a second, we had arrived.

Mohammed pointed out to me to look out of the window; he goes, look, there’s a French plane there and a private jet. The runway was empty, apart from these two planes. He goes, Macron is in town. Then he joked, but you are more important than Macron. I just laughed and said, thank you.

When we got off the plane and arrived at the airport, I could remember looking at the blue skies, not a single cloud in sight. It reminded me of the Syria that I left behind. There was something unique about those blue skies with no clouds in the summer, living in Bilad al-Sham. I looked up again, and it felt the same. When the plane landed, it was really fascinating. People started clapping and cheering. Arabs do that, I know, but this was something. It felt different. There was an excitement in the air. I hadn’t felt that before. I guess Syrians do this each time they come home.

The contrast as I got to the airport for immigration between Istanbul and Damascus is huge. The airport in Istanbul is a monstrosity. It’s a humongous place where there are shops and malls and stores. A lot of it is just exceptionally overpriced, to be honest. I don’t understand why people even purchase electronic goods in the airport in Istanbul. I struggle to even buy water. It can take 15, 20 minutes from one end of Istanbul to another to get to your gate. In Damascus, the airport was no bigger than a small warehouse. I went up to immigration, and I looked around, and it was a strange feeling. It felt so familiar. I’d been at this airport on so many occasions 15 years ago, and parts of it were the same: the store, the restaurant, and so forth. Parts of it had been improved and painted with a new flag. But the uniqueness of the place was the fact that there was no longer a tension in the air

.

When we used to go to Syria before, and I used to go to that airport all the time, there was a tension. You would be interrogated by soldiers about why you were there. I remember I’d be asked, why are you here? As if you’d committed a crime. Airports are really interesting for telling you how a state is run. For example, in Syria, the immigration officers were military men. In Turkey and Istanbul, they’re the police. But now the immigration staff were civil servants. It was a young guy in a shirt and a tie and trousers. He looked at me, and he said, it says here that the last time you were here was 15 years ago. I looked at him, and I said, yes. He understood. We both understood. Then we filled out the paperwork. He stamped my passport and he said, welcome. Ahlan wa sahlan to the new Syria. He smiled and I smiled as I made my way to the baggage hall. My heart became content; it finally became relaxed. I was now looking forward to my time here to see what was going to happen.

Alhamdulillah, I’d finally arrived to Damascus after 15 years. I’d been given an opportunity to travel with others before, but I didn’t want to. I didn’t know how my heart, my emotions would deal with it. I didn’t want to go to Syria or talk about this even as a way or some sort of newsworthy promotion or content creation or any of that nature. I needed to go because there was a restlessness in my soul, and I needed to make sense of that. And here I was, day one, Damascus. Alhamdulillah.

Islamic Cultural Centre of Manhattan