Between the Two Mountains

a shovel strikes the soil
in the ancient city
bayn-al-jabalayn

between the two mountains
the red soil turns
strike after strike

a golden axe glimmersrendering the ancient city
its new name:
الفأس

Fes

there between the two mountains
lies the ancient city:

a winding maze of cobbled streets
only accessed on foot

a capsule in time

hundreds of minarets, madrasas, masajid,
homes, shops
alleyways so thin–
you can touch both walls

a reminder of home,
of old Damascus streets
where my heart yearns
to go back once more

up
and
down
the streets
of Fes

follow the tour guide
or you’ll end up lost

balak balak!
move out the way!

the hustle and bustle
of this ancient city
of craftsmanship

ceramics: each tile
carefully chosen with precision
each color representing
a symbolic meaning—
green for Islam
blue for the cobalt of Fes
white for Casablanca
red for the soil of Morocco
yellow for the sand dunes
and black for the blessed black seed, habbat al-barakah

all interlaced into intricate patterns
on every wall, on tables, fountains
wherever your eye falls

and the weaving: hand stitched
embroidered from agave silk
the ancient city
bursting at the seams

the smell of tanneries so pungent
as you pass by leather shops
wood workshops, butchers
sweet shops with fresh desserts
dripping with syrup

sounds, colors, smells, flavors
so much to take in, so much to see

kids playing on street corners
and kids trained to beg, chasing you—

please madam, please
so I ask them questions,
see the curiosity spark in their eyes
what’s your name?
and
guess where I’m from

Yasin the seven year old
with his little smile and inquisitive eyes
plays along
and then the kids gathered round
in chorus, rehearsed

Yasin switches back too
please madam, please

so I gave them all a warm smile,
and a dirham each
on my way out

of that ancient city
between the two mountains

From the mountaintops

you can see the ancient city in its entirety

the red homes,
an homage to the soil
they’re built upon

hundreds of minarets,
madrasas established
to teach Islam

all that heart,
in such a small space

Olive trees

growing on the mountains above the ancient city
are the olive trees
the wind sways the leaves
as I look out over the medina

olive trees grow here
another reminder of home
of Syria

this place calls to me
something in my heart stirs:
a longing to be one with my heritage

different shades of olives grow here
green, black
low hanging fruits on the branches

I’ve never picked olives before
yet they’re such a staple in my life
thousands of miles away
from my homeland

labneh and zaytoun for breakfast
with a side of pita bread and zaatar,
a drizzle of olive oil and a cup of sweet tea

I watch the branches swaying over this ancient city
that reminds me of home, wondering
if I could reach out and pick some

my thoughts turn to Palestine
the blessed people, on a blessed land
attacked for simply harvesting their olives
from the ancient, blessed trees
tortured, burned, for claiming
what’s rightfully theirs

but just like the olive tree,
the Palestinians are resilient,
full of Iman, they rise
again and again, despite the harsh conditions

and so I stare at the ancient trees
swaying in the wind
on mountains
over the ancient city

and I reach out for the first time
in my thirty years of living
to pluck some olives

an homage to my homeland
my roots, my Syrian heritage

an homage to Palestine, the blessed land
and the Palestinian resilience

and an homage to Fes, this ancient city
that lies bayn-al-jabalayn
between the two Atlas Mountains