Nostalgia

It was the summer of 2002 and I was in Latakia and I kept hearing this song everywhere I went. I hated Arab songs, with a passion. But this one was stuck in my head. I remember I put on the TV one time I was in the hotel, for something to play in the background whilst I was getting ready. And the song came on. I remember watching the music video. I always felt that Arab singers were incredibly cheesy (with this singer being no exception). But nonetheless I liked the the melody. I'm not sure what it was but it always put me in a good mood.

Now when I hear it, I'm always transported back to the sandy beaches and salty waters of Latakia, with clear blue skies and a temperature in excess of 40oC. And then there was the hustle and bustle of the outdoor market areas not far out from where we were staying. I remember the first time I bargained with someone on one of the stalls and I was so chuffed with myself as I had brought a purple inflatable teletubby for my younger sister for less than half its price. Then there was the other time we went to the outdoor food market, which wasn't incredibly busy but the stall owners were nonetheless shouting away, calling out the prices and offers of their produce. I was just watching them thinking how different life is here to what I'm accustomed. Time always stood still as if it had no meaning. Nothing happened. A time when all the young people seemed to be flirting with each other but still appearing innocent in front of the elders. And this song, in my mind, was Latakia. And I miss those moments of calm, serenity and innocence. For me, Syria wasn't just about the people. It was the ancient history so embedded in the fabric of the country. The cobbled streets. The markets. The beaches. The food. The cars honking away. And people just getting on with their lives in a timeless era.

I often wonder now, the fate of those I met and knew. Do they still wander the sandy shores of Latakia? And the stall owners, are they still there, shouting away the price and offers of their produce? And the young lady in the grocery store who turned 30 on that summer of 2002 and didn't want to marry but wanted to make her own living and depend on herself (whom I admired immensely), is she still there? Maybe, ignorance is bliss so that memories can live on without being tainted. Of a time that stood still.