The Other Half of My Soul

Grateful Steps, Inc.
1091 Hendersonville Road
Asheville, North Carolina
www.gratefulsteps.com

Copyright © 2007 by Bahia Abrams

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author.

ISBN 978-0-9789548-4-0 Paperback

The Other Half of My Soul is a work of fiction. Any references to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales are intended only to give the fiction a sense of reality and authenticity. Other names, characters, places and incidents portrayed herein are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally.

First eBook Edition 2010
Cover design © 2007 by: Kirsten Quatela
www.theotherhalfofmysoul.com

Bahia Abrams
was born in Brooklyn, New York, to parents of Syrian Jewish heritage. She received her degree in journalism from the University of Maryland, and for many years worked in Washington, D.C. She lives with her husband in the mountains of western North Carolina. This is her first novel.

To Sarah and Bill.

Good friends are priceless.

I could not have done this without you.

Acknowledgments

I am grateful to the author Marshall Frank, who had once been my teacher. If it were not for his encouragement, I would never have begun this book.

When ideas for a plot began tumbling in my head, I looked for someone, anyone, who would listen. How fortunate for me to find genuine love and interest from my dear friends, Sarah and Bill Seepe. Out of default, they became my first editors. From the initial chapter that I e-mailed to them, all the way through to the final page, their commitment was steadfast and their guidance invaluable.

Dee Weiner-Corets advised me early on in defining the two main characters, and as I got closer to the end, her comments and edits were significant. I treasure her friendship.

From the beginning, my publisher, Micki Cabaniss Eutsler, believed in me and my story. Her patience, support, and counseling went beyond what I could have hoped for in a publisher.

I was privileged to have Dan Cabaniss edit the final manuscript. He provided insight that I could not have found anywhere else.

Moreover, I want to thank my husband for his guidance, and Joan Copperthwaite and Karon Korp for their input. To my close friends Judy Cordover and Rhonda Sachais, and to my children, all of whom I cherish, thank you for providing me with love and moral support while I was writing this book.

Author’s Note

I knew that if I were to write a first novel, it had to be in a style different from what I had been taught in my journalism classes. I approached this narrative by lowering my defenses, exposing my vulnerabilities, and deeply connecting to the thoughts swirling in my brain. Sitting at the computer, I wanted to know the formula for committed love, and to learn of the seeds that fuel hatred. Through tears and smiles, anger and joy, I weaved together a work of fiction, drawing not only from my own life experiences but also from historical events, current happenings, actual places, and life’s truths—revealing, all along, the darkness and the light of humanity.

From my son, who worked on the upper floors in the World Trade Center Towers and survived the attacks of 1993 and 2001, I learned so much. I am grateful he is alive. My friend Diana, a native of Bogotá, taught me about the jungles of southern Colombia and the trading of weapons for cocaine. My husband, an avid reader, brought to my attention not only the massacre at Hamah, Syria, but also the lawless region of South America known as the Triple Frontier. Spain, Morocco, New York, New Jersey, Maryland, and Washington, D.C. are places I have lived or visited. My descriptions of Syria and Lebanon were gathered from acquaintances who are native to those countries and who still return for visits. Syrian culture, language, food, and music are what I grew up with. Orthodox Judaism is the source of my beginnings. Additionally, I spent months on research in order to substantiate places and historical and current events, which I have intertwined throughout this story.

As vividly as my imagination could travel, there is no journey to equal the prescripts for the human race. Reflecting on reality, I created fictional characters and settings depicting absolute love and loyalty, hatred and intolerance, evil without conscience, and unconditional acceptance. May this story be for you, the reader, a catalyst that permeates the realm of your own visceral world and elevates you to a higher level of inner wisdom.

—Bahia Abrams

The Other Half
of My Soul

one

The life of this world is only idle sport and play, and if you believe and guard against evil He will give you your rewards, and will not ask of you your possessions.

—Surah 47:36

August 1996—Aleppo, Syria

Rami Mahmoud’s future was planned. He was being given the chance for a new life—an opportunity to raise his status in a country that regarded him as a second-class citizen. Packing his oversized black duffel bag for the trip to America, Rami could barely contain the conflicting feelings of elation and uneasiness. Having excelled in all four of his exams and having attained top honors from his higher secondary school, Rami had stood out impressively with a perfect grade-point average. The ruling Baath Party in Syria and the government-backed terrorist group
al-Shahid
had noted his marked intelligence. They had been observing him from afar for many years.

* * *

Shortly after entering the University of Aleppo, Rami was summoned out of class one afternoon. Inside a small office, two emissaries dressed in military uniform greeted him. One had thinning hair, deep-set eyes, and a noticeable gap between his two front teeth. He was called Muhammad. The other, the one clearly in charge, was a slender man with a Hitler-like moustache. His dark, icy eyes and a long jagged scar prominently etched into his left cheek hardened his appearance. He answered to the name of Yousef.

Commending Rami on his superiority in school, Yousef informed him that in two weeks he would leave for the United States to study Spanish and philosophy at the University of Maryland at its College Park campus located in the suburbs of Washington, D.C. “Arrangements have already been made,” Yousef said, stressing the importance of Rami accepting the offer placed before him. “Your tuition and expenses will be paid in full and you will be allowed two yearly trips home to see your family. In four years, you will be accorded the honor of going on
Hajj
, if you so choose.”

Rami remained still. Yousef continued, “Following graduation, you will owe us seven years, maybe longer. You will work for the organization that is so generously sponsoring your education abroad.”

Knowing better than to refuse his government or to question their motives, Rami silently speculated on the identity of his benevolent sponsor and questioned why Spanish and philosophy were to be the focus of his curriculum.
I am already fluent in Arabic, French, and English. What is the reason for another language? And why philosophy?
Rami had hoped to concentrate his studies on engineering and computers. His thoughts drifted to his best friend, Omar. It was just last winter that Omar had left to study in the United States at the University of Maryland. Politely, Rami smiled and accepted the offer.

“Over the next two weeks, Muhammad will instruct you on the rules and prepare you for your journey to America. Each day, at ten in the morning, he will pick you up by the moat at the Citadel. Muhammad will be driving a black car.”

Muhammad looked at Rami and nodded once. Rami waited. When the two men had left and were no longer in sight, he bolted out of the building and toward the souq to tell his parents of the news.

* * *

Ibrahim and Salha Mahmoud were hard-working Shi’ite Muslims eking out a living in Aleppo, a city of three million people. They were part of a repressed minority dwelling in a country ruled by the dictatorship of the Assad family—Alawaites of the Baath Party who held all of the seats in government as well as the top positions in the military.

Ibrahim and Salha resided in a small, archaic stone house within the narrow confines of the Babal-Qinnisrine Gate, a neighborhood that still looked much like what it had been when it was the ancient departure point on the old route to Damascus. Their eldest child and only son, Rami, was born August 10, 1978. The ensuing years had brought them four daughters. Struggling to provide for five children, the couple was grateful for their tiny stall in the Aleppo Souq—the largest covered marketplace in all of Syria.

Their large extended family consisted of grandparents, parents, aunts, uncles, sisters, brothers, nieces, nephews, and cousins. Together, they shared celebrations, burdens, laughter, and tears. Firmly interconnected, this religious Shi’ite clan followed the Islamic laws of
Sharia
, praised Allah three times a day, observed holidays, and sent their young to
madrasa
, an Islamic school. Enduring inferior Shi’ite status in Syria only intensified their strong bonds.

* * *

Anxious to tell his parents the news, Rami raced toward the souq. The streets of Aleppo were alive with noisy people, blasting car horns, and loud traffic police. Skirting around the congestion, his long legs carried him closer to the vast exterior of stone archways. Rami reached the marketplace and proceeded toward a familiar entrance. His lean, agile body zigzagged through the masses of shoppers and stalls. Arriving out of breath and eager to blurt out the changes about to happen in his life, he found his mother and father swamped with buyers who were haggling over prices for pistachios, dried apricots, candied dates, nut-filled pastries, and round loaves of Syrian bread.

Suppressing what he was bursting to say, Rami struggled with his patience. He hoped that the customers would soon make their purchases and go away. Motioning to his parents, he indicated a need to talk. They, in turn, gestured for his help. Their son’s good looks, charming ways, and adept negotiating skills never failed to bring in exceptional prices.

Almost two hours passed. A concentration of shoppers continued to gather around the tiny stall. Then, unexpectedly, Rami’s Aunt Zakieh and Uncle Abu appeared. “
Khaltee! Khallee!
We need a break. I need to talk with
Imee
and
Eby
. It is so important.” He turned to his parents, “Come, let us go.”

“Just a minute,” Salha interrupted, taking a moment to embrace her sister Zakieh. “We have been busy all day with no relief. Rami is bursting to tell us some news and we have not had a quiet moment to talk with him.”

“What is so important, Rami?” With a twinkle in her eyes, Zakieh clasped her hands in joy. “Is there going to be a wedding? Are you getting married?”

“No, no, I am not getting married, Khaltee. I am much too young for that.” Impatiently, Rami began walking, urging both his parents on. “Let us go for coffee.”

“Yes, all of you, go for coffee,” Abu grinned. “Your khaltee and I will take good care of the business. But you must promise that we will be the first to hear the news after your parents.”

* * *

Sipping Turkish coffee in a small, crowded café, Ibrahim asked, “Rami, what is so urgent that it cannot wait until tonight when we are home? And why are you
not
in school?”

Rami gestured for his parents to lean in closer. In a hushed voice so as not to draw attention, he told them about the encounter with the two men in military uniforms. “In two weeks, I will leave for America to attend school in the United States. I will go to the University of Maryland and live in an apartment with Omar.”

Salha grabbed hold of her son’s arm, “Whaaat?”

“Shhh, Imee, other people do not need to hear our conversation.”

“Two weeks? You are leaving in
two weeks
?” A sense of urgency seemed to drive Salha to the brink of imbalance. “I do not want you to go. You will not go!”

“Just a minute, Salha. It seems we do not have a choice.” Speaking quietly, Ibrahim tried reasoning with his wife. “Let us try to think clearly and not set ourselves up for big problems. A bad mark against us will make it more difficult to marry off our daughters. And our stall at the souq could be taken from us. We cannot oppose the government.” Ibrahim was determined to avoid blemishing his family’s reputation. “Remember Faisal? He went to the University of Maryland and is now a professor of civil engineering at Tishreen University. He is highly respected and consults on all kinds of construction projects. And what about Hossam? He also went to the University of Maryland and is now an executive at Syrianair. And Hoda? She studied in America and is now writing for
al-Baath
in Damascus. Maybe getting an education in America will not be so bad. Rami, I think you will do well in America.” Inwardly, Ibrahim hoped that Rami would be their ticket to a better life.

* * *

“But Ibrahim, we all know what a bad country America is. Everywhere there is corruption, greed, violence, sex, drugs, liquor, wild parties. We read about it. We see it on television. I know that Rami will not be safe there. I am afraid for him.” Salha believed that once Rami left, she would lose him to American influences. “My son, I beg of you not to go. We can hide you somewhere. My brother in Tarsus will welcome you. You will be safe in Turkey.”

“Imee, it will be okay. You and Eby have taught me well. And I will be with Omar. In his letters, he writes of a good life in America. Tomorrow, we will go and talk with Omar’s parents. I do not want you to worry. I will be fine, really. And I will write often.”

Ibrahim said nothing. Salha babbled senselessly, “Maybe I can talk with the two men. I will tell them we need you to help at the souq. That you are a good boy. A good student. Very smart. Never been in trouble. A good son. A good brother. Syria needs you here. It would be wrong to send you to America, to . . . to that horrible country that has so many Jews. Even more Jews than in Israel.” Turning her head, she spat twice on the ground to keep away the evil spirits.

Ibrahim reached under the table and touched his wife’s hand to quiet her. “Salha. Rami. Let us not continue speaking here. Wait until we are home.” He stood. “We must get back to the souq and not take advantage of Zakieh and Abu much longer.”

* * *

Festivities and dinners filled Rami’s last few days. Relatives and friends threw parties. Aunts, uncles, and grandparents overwhelmed him with gifts, good wishes, and the delicious Syrian food that he so much enjoyed.

Through all the merriment, Salha could not be consoled. She felt sure she would never see her only son again. “Why, Allah, why are you doing this to us?” she wailed over and over.

* * *

Early in the morning on the day Rami was scheduled to leave for America, the family was awakened by pounding on the front door. Salha quickly donned her long black dress and covered her hair with a black
hijab
. Ibrahim scrambled to pull on his trousers. Rami and his four sisters jumped out of their beds, slipped into some clothing, and scurried to the front door.

In the tiny vestibule, the family looked at each other, then at the door, all suspecting the worst. Ibrahim motioned for Rami to open the door.
Let them see my son first
, he reasoned. Cautiously, Rami lifted the heavy latch while everyone held their breaths. Slowly, he cracked the squeaky wooden door. His extended family greeted them with beaming faces and armloads of food. “Surprise!”

“
Yallah! Yallah!
Hurry! All of you go wash and dress,” Zakieh directed the family. “We have prepared a big breakfast. And do not worry, Salha, we will clean up everything. The only thing you have to do is get yourself ready and come eat breakfast. And we are all going with you to the airport to see Rami off.”

“What a nice surprise.” Ibrahim was relieved. He would not have to deal with his wife’s hysterics at the airport.

* * *

After breakfast, Rami carried his large duffel bag outside and set it into the trunk of their very old, gray Mercedes. Ibrahim followed his son. A gentle breeze cooled the summer air. “A beautiful day, Eby. I think it is a good omen.”

“
Insh’allah.
” Ibrahim embraced his son.

“Eby, from you I have learned so much . . . integrity and patience. I will always carry your guidance with me.”

“I thank Allah for giving me a son. Your arrival into our lives has been a blessing. I remember when I first saw you. You were crying and scared and . . .” Ibrahim caught himself. “Write often so we do not worry. Keep to Islam, our way. The Shi’ite way. Pray to Allah every day, attend
juma
, observe our holidays, and remain faithful to the month of Ramadan. And Rami . . . keep to our dietary laws. Only
halal
food.” With the back of his fingers, he smoothed over his son’s cheeks. “Do not get mixed up with American girls. And keep away from the Jews. Do you understand what I am trying to tell you?”

Perturbed that he had to listen to his father’s litany for the twenty-seventh time in two weeks, Rami kept his tongue and respectfully replied, “Yes, I do.”

“And always remember that you are Muslim. A Shi’ite.
Allah maak
.”

The exchange was interrupted by the noisy group coming out of the house. “Let’s go everybody,” yelled Abu, directing them all into six small Suzuki trucks parked just outside the courtyard.

“Am I the only one not driving a Suzuki?” Ibrahim laughed as he climbed into his old Mercedes. There had been times Ibrahim wished for a small Suzuki so he could more easily maneuver the narrow streets. But the old car did run well. He had bought it cheaply from a friend so that he could fit his family of seven inside.

* * *

Leading the caravan out of the Babal-Qinnisrine Gate, Ibrahim steered the old vehicle south onto Highway 5 toward Damascus. For more than two hours, the procession traveled the modern road until they arrived in the capital city. Turning east, they drove parallel to Ash Shabiba Park, passing crowds of people congregated around benches—many were smoking, some read the daily paper, and others engaged in animated conversation. The streets were heavy with honking motorists and noisy traffic police.
Just like Halab
, Rami mused.

The convoy shifted around al-Abbasiyeen Square on al-Hamadani Street, passing more clusters of people and many shops and cafes. When the group veered south onto An Nasra Street, they caught sight of the signs to International Airport Road. In unison, their horns blasted and they leaned out the open windows cheering vigorously.