Bride of the desert
the indomitable town
Solomon’s Kingdom

            
Lost in history, I wander through a city that was fortified by King Solomon, raided by Mark Antony and ruled by Queen Zenobia who made it the capital of an empire, only to be captured herself and paraded through Rome in gold chains.

Civilisation upon civilisation are entombed within Tadmur; in a huge plain of carved stone blocks, massive columns arched in rows or standing alone, a Romanesque theatre, senate and baths, dominated by a great temple whose origin dates back four thousand years.

Due to a clever mistranslation from Arabic by the euro-centric traveller who ‘discovered’ Palmyra, the city also has a modern name.

Here for millennia, a tribe of Bedu have camped within the folds of these desert steppes and blackened Tadmur’s ruins with their camp fires, to trade camels or herd goats and sheep. Walking the divide between city, desert and the more fertile steppes, I search for their surviving descendants and find a black woven goat’s hair tent with its edges raised to capture a cooling breeze.

Hamed and his sons, huge and wary of foreigners, welcome me to sit within on  carpets and then graciously serve dates with innumerable small glasses of tea. I indicate ‘enough’ in the traditional manner by rolling my right hand and the empty glass. Hamed continues to voice his concerns about the lack of feed for their sheep and the prices achieved at market. I readily succumb to several small cups of greenish Arabic coffee, before being allowed to take my leave.

For millennia the wealth of this city was based on tariffs levied on goods flowing out of the desert aboard swaying camel caravans. Today, these once proudly fierce tribal Bedu no longer breed, train or ride camels.

The Bedu greatly prize their reputation and the respect of their peers. Their traditions are the foundation of these small tribal communities and may predate Islam;  a life now undermined by borders, nationalism, government settlement plans, conscription, war, television and tourism.
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Black torn empty shells
swept by Mount Lebanon’s shade
Cannabis Valley

As I recall a haiku of ‘images’ of  my very first journey to Damascus, from war-torn Beirut through the lushness of the Bekaa;

in the here and now
a dark suit and Mercedes
cross the Euphrates

Defence Minister, Rifaat al-Assad is in town with his fifty thousand strong Defence Companies, complete with tanks, planes and helicopters.  A coup d’état is in progress to assure Rifaat’s succession to the Presidency of his older brother Hafiz al-Assad, now recovering from a heart attack.

Last year, Rifaat massacred some forty thousand Syrian citizens when he ordered the shelling of the city of Hama. Nobody in Damascus will be underestimating him.

All political and military power is in the hands of the al-Assads and key generals, who command the military and police. The majority of whom are of the Alawite minority Muslim faith from the rural districts near Latakia in the North. Before their revolution, governments came and went in weeks.

My friend Elias is allied to Rifaat’s cause, by simply doing business with the son. Now he and his family share the risks and dangers of this coup failing and stand to lose a fortune. Monies paid locally in Syrian pounds for goods delivered to government agencies.

Elias’s connection with Rifaat and Latakia, as well as his confident presence, humour and love of life, still allows us easy access to the Generals’ Club. Sadly, there is to be no table and floorshow, but a closed meeting with two senior Generals, where we learn that Hafiz has recovered enough to take charge and is now locked in discussions with his younger brother.

The decision is therefore made for us. We say our goodbyes and drive to Latakia.

On Sunday Elias meets his brothers, then with his family, we visit his parents small holding and enjoy a meal together. A wonderful fresh mezza that includes my favourite, courgettes stuffed with ground lamb and rice, in a yogurt sauce. Syrian food is amazingly healthy and my cuisine of choice.

It is a cloudless Monday morning, as I, Elias, his wife and children drive into the docks to board an old 46 foot motor cruiser. Huge cases are stowed as I make my inspection, then start the twin diesels and switch on the over-the-horizon radar. Our early departure is critical. We cast off and the Mate steers for the harbour entrance below the cliffs that guard it. As the Mediterranean lifts our bow in greeting, the disembodied voice of the Harbour Master tells us to return as we do not have permission to sail.

Ignoring the order, I increase our speed through the short choppy surf. We are sailing under the Greek Cypriot flag and in an hour I hope to be out of territorial waters.  At 14 knots we are a slow target.

Fifteen nautical miles from the coast of Syria, I leave the mate to follow a bearing for Larnaca. Elias has opened a bottle of Black Label. I quaff a glassful.

Later noticing a noisy vibration and diagnosing a bent prop shaft, I shut down the starboard engine. Our speed is now a steady 8 knots, so I decide on a new heading to discern more quickly the shadow of the Cypriot coastline on the radar screen.

Midway, the mate and Elias begin babbling about a small vessel ahead and four separate armoured boxes encircling it. Ugly Israeli high speed gun boats or worse, Lebanese pirates. Should they board us and find stowed riches, we will be killed.

Leaving the Mate to maintain our course, I go on deck to play the ‘European Owner’.  The vessel they have trapped is long and lean with three tall outboard motors but no crew are in sight.  Leaving them astern, our choice of vessel now fully exonerated, I and Elias throw another whisky ‘down the hatch’.

With us holding the correct bearing, I ask Elias to wake me as soon as we near Cyprus. Feeling utterly exhausted I collapse into a bunk.  

I wake unbidden, to find the Mate steering for the harbour entrance. Shouldering him aside, I spin the wheel to bring the vessel about. Shaking, I ask them why there are minarets on the ‘church’ and did they not notice our being observed from the top of the harbour's hillock, below which a fast patrol boat is anchored?  The Mate sprints to the Greek Cypriot flag and is hugging it to his chest; Elias wisely prays.

I command the wheel as we motor directly away from the port of Famagusta and Turkish held Northern Cyprus. We later change bearing and pass tourist beaches, it is night fall before we moor-up in Larnaca.
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Later that same year I am called to a last urgent meeting in Cyprus with Elias. He calmly tells me that he will be arrested when he rejoins his family, who have returned to Syria. Elias asks me to take full control of his Cypriot Businesses, then returns home and ‘disappears’ with his brothers.
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Since sacking the two Arab General Managers when they tried to get control of the bank accounts, it has taken more than six months to locate the prison holding all the brothers. We obtain the release of all except Elias, who has been tortured.  We then ‘purchase’ him the exclusive use of the Prison Governor's quarters and twenty four hour access for Elias’s family, nurses and doctors.
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Over the last two years, I have honoured my promises and expanded trade as far as Pakistan. Elias is still imprisoned.
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Yes Helen muses Id like to meet Benny by the Duke of Wellington but to ask Mum first and I dont think shell mind as its Benny as she likes Benny and his mum and mine know each other and talk to each other at the school gates and when they talk they talk and yes if I ask Mum nicely and when shes not busy shell let me go but I cant leave it too long or the time will go and he will have gone if Im not at the Duke of Wellington by ten past ten this morning has as he is going to the herbalist shop to buy liquorice sticks and sarsaparilla by the glassful and Benny says it makes blood so if I drink a pint I will make a pint of blood and hopefully I wont spillover with blood she waits a few minutes while her mother puts away the shopping Helen had bought home from Baldys and looking at her mother making sure her mothers features did not show too much stress and timing it right that was the key Benny told her once timing is the key he said her mother walks around the kitchen seemingly busy the baby crawling around her mothers feet and the smell of nappies boiling on the stove steam rising smell of it Mum she asks can I go out with Benny to the herbalist shop and buy some liquorice sticks and sarsaparilla? her mother picks up the baby she hugs him close smells his rear end pulls a face what did you say? her mother asks holding baby a little distance away from her arms out stretched walking to the put-down table over the bath and placing baby down can I go with Benny to the herbalist shop and get some sarsaparilla and liquorice sticks? Helen repeats standing with fingers crossed behind her back when are you wanting to go? her mother asks unpinning babys ***** and the smell erupting into the room and air as soon as I am allowed Helen says trying not to breath in hoping her mother will say yes but her mother hesitates her features ******* up her fingers pulling back the offending ***** and dropping it in a pail at her feet bring me a clean ***** from the other room Helen and some talcum power and some cream and best get some other safety pins as these are a bit well not fit to put on again until theyve been washed o keep still you little perisher dont move your legs so and no dont piddle on me go on then Helen dont dawdle so Helen walks into the other room and collects a ***** from the fireguard and talcum powder and cream and pins from the bag by the chair and takes them to her mother who is struggling to hold the baby in one place and clean up the smelling liquid and mess  and waving a hand in front of her face to give her fresher air give them here then girl I cant wait all day and here hold his legs the little figit so I can get him clean properly Helen pulls a face and carefully reaches over to try and hold her brothers legs still while her mother attempts to clean him up but her brothers legs move at a pace and hes quite strong for one so small she thinks hold him hold him her mother says Helen does her best for a little girl not yet in double figures there done it her mother says hes done now right take him and put him in the cot in the other room while I wash these nappies out can I? Helen asks can I go? go where? what do you want now? her mother says to go to the herbalist with Benny Helen asks he asked me this morning while I was getting the shopping at Baldys her mother put on the kettle and empties the nappies in the big sink when did you want to go? as soon as I am allowed Helen says gazing at her mother through her thin wired thick lens glasses hoping her mum will say yes off you go well you cant always rush off you know not when I may need you after all youre my big girl the oldest of the tribe but as youve been good this one time you can go but mind the roads and keep with Benny and if you need to go to loo make sure its a clean place and put some toilet paper on the seat you dont know who sits on them things ok I will Helen says trying to recall all her mothers instructions can I go now? she asks hoping her mother will not change her mind at the last minute best go now then her mother says its nine fifty nine fifty? Helen says what's that mean? ten minutes to ten her mother says o right Helen says and rushes into the passage way and put on your raincoat it looks like rain her mother calls out I got it Helens says and rushes out the door and down the stairs carefully not wanting fall down the steep steps she holds on to the stair rail and then out into the street and bright fresh air and dull clouds and she walks along Rockingham Street under the railway bridge and there he is Benny hands in his jeans pockets his hair and quiff creamed down and his hazel eyes gazing at her blimey he says youre earlier than I thought youd be he takes in her hair plaited into two and her thin wire framed glasses making her eyes larger than they are had to help Mum with my baby brother she says hed messed his ***** and Mum had to clean him up and needed me to help and gosh the smell Benny enough to make you feel sick and anyway Im here now o but I havent money I forgot to ask Mum for money she says biting a lip looking back towards where shed come I got money Benny says rattling coins in his jeans pocket she smiles and looks at him he gives her the kind of smile she likes the kind that makes her feel safe and wanted and she loves the coat he wears with the odd buttons and and his quiff of air and his warm what shall we do now stare.

After Amadioha went into sweet nightmares,
he made us to breath through the chest of the sea. from the celestial bodies of the shrine,
We shone our forefather's smile with a mirage,
a little littered mirage spelling words in ellipsis.
these were the rose crumbs tailored in the sand castle of our glassful laughter, we're the Palmful morning in the eyes of our home in the abyss.

when a child cries, he forgets that the route to
his home is written on his body as a tattoo.
when a girl thinks of gathering firewood in the heart of the forest, she thinks of her thigh &
the bushes surrounding it, nature made it so.
We do not think of our skin as a poetic of agony,
We do not think of our eyes as poetry letters
but we draw lines and currents of imaginations describing how rituals made men insane.

We carried out those prilgrim for the boys,
our forebearers made us cracked our head up,
they carved pumpkins traces for this generation; for this humble journey mixed with fire & water.
Our souls, our dreams were the Shakespearean places you never had the chance to see physical.
they are the rituals of nature, a side Sithoulte,
a wonder land created like a paradise you don't stay often but in your dreams & imageries.

We are birthed here as debris & plump scars,
a tortured lips holding the past & the present.
We are the foundation of everything evil spirits,
We were born in the ritual of a grievous war.
to say a human is a benchmark of his own,
to say a man is a mango dropping without a choice of where and how to touch the sand,
to say a man is everything fretwork of agony;
to say a men are slaughtered memories...
but to this edges of rites & repeated steps,
We'll remain the gospel from every mouth.

Our ancestral hands shall still set a table,
to tell the girlchild how to sit in a public hall
to hand over the shrine to the  boychild
to tell man that he owns a woman as head.
to keep birthing good and ugly children.
our hope will always depict heavens glory
and, our darkest fears as the skin of hell.
And it must be passed down to the next
genes to tell the next & sand keep multiplying.
This is the ritual of mankind to remain alive.


©John Chizoba Vincent
FromAPenRefusingFrustrations.

Check faucets and pipes for leaks
Don’t leave them leaking for weeks.

If you smoke to evade constipation-al day
Don’t flush cig-**** and use toilet as an ashtray.

Ditch the habit of taking long showers
To remain clean is not to bathe for hours.

Don’t let running water flow in gush
While you’re busy with the toothbrush.

Your mouth though you must cleanse
Keep a glassful of water for the rinse.

When you clean vegetable or dish
Don’t let the faucet run as you please.

Be not under the slightest doubt
If you waste water it will run out.

The way we waste water future isn’t bright
For supply of water is only too finite.

Conserving water it makes a prudent sense
For on it depend we our earthly existence.

Wrap this moment wider into time
Longer evenings would be sublime
To muse over all the fluff
These moments stretched long enough
To cherish and breath the cool night air
And believe I haven't got a care

Time is gone in the blink of an eye
No matter days be long, or days be short
Never enough time for you and I
Or for my mind to wander and transport

Air unempty
Life full
Another addition nearly in bay
Blessed aplenty
Glassful
The dance of Life, a riveting ballet

After asking a nurse
where he was
we find Ole at the end
of the ward
sitting on the side
of a bed
attempting to eat
a sandwich.

He is puffed up,
his hands swollen,
his arms too;
his face looks puffy.

I am shocked how much
he had altered overnight.

What's happened to you?
Has anyone seen you
like this?

He shrugs his shoulders,
looking at us.

I take his free hand
and feel it with mine.

It must be water retention;
when did you urinate last?

Early this morning, I think.

You ought to have
a catheter in
to get rid
of the excess *****.

Have they suggested that?

He has a job breathing;
his words are  soft
and yet strained.

No, but I did see
a doctor this afternoon.

What did he say?

They're investigating.

He labours for breath;
puts the sandwich down
on the small bed table;
sips the orange juice.

Stay here,
I say to his sister.

I go off down the ward
and find a nurse
in a dark uniform
who looks like
she may be in charge.

Yes? She says,
looking at me
as if I’d just walked
through dog's doings.

I'm not happy with the way
my son's being care for.

Who's your son?

I tell her.

What's the problem with him?

You should be telling me that;
he's all puffed up and swollen;
he can barely hold
a glass to drink;
his breathing is bad,
could be asthma-
he’s suffered that for years;
and why hasn't he got
a catheter in
to take away
the excess *****?
he had a job passing
***** yesterday;
I assume that's what
the letter said
we brought in
yesterday evening.

I can't put a catheter in
without a doctor's say so
and he is in A&E;
at the moment
they're having a rush.

But my son needs to see
someone soon;
he can’t go on like this.

I assure you he is
being cared for,
but as soon
as the doctor returns
from A&E;
I will ask him
to see your son.

It's upsetting
to see him like that;
he's not one to complain;
but that's no reason
to let him be as he is.

I will get a doctor to see him
as soon as he returns,
she reiterates.

I am fuming;
the whole ward
seems to have
a dark circle about  it.

I've just been to the nurse
to complain
about your treatment
or lack of,
I say.

His sister looks at me
then at Ole.

I'm going to sit
in the waiting area;
I can't stand seeing you
in this state,
she says.

She walks down
the ward upset
and then out of sight.

I look at him sitting there;
I sit beside him
on the side of the bed
and put my arm around
his broad shoulders.

The abandoned sandwich
he puts back in the packet.

Want some more orange juice?

He nods.

I pour him a glassful
of orange juice
which he drinks down
in silence.

I ask him various
mundane questions
about how he slept
and the hospital food
and did he eat any.

A little; it hurts my jaw
to move it too much.

I ask him if he wants anything
else to eat or drink,
he says no.

He tries to lay down
on the bed
so I help him
the best I can
to sit back
and arrange his pillows
so that they
are behind him comfortably.

He lays there;
his breathing heavy.

I ask a few more questions
which he answers slowly.

He closes his eyes, tired.

I best go;
leave you to rest.

He opens his eyes.

I'll be up tomorrow
and bring more clothes
and stuff.

Ok.

I kiss his forehead;
touch his arm
and go back
along the ward.

The last conversation
between father and son;
death hanging
by the door.

I can say no more.

Come pick thy left pieces
For my brain still counts memories
Go behind my eyes
For thy shadow shines like flash light
Fetch my hanging appetite
The ulcers are feeding on your aroma
A glassful of your lip twists
For my thirst dines on flu
Take the slopping path
My heart waited longer than patience
Can i envy your smile
Its seen by many not me alone
I wish to color your dreams
With a range of roasted apples
If you tasted like wine
You could be the chained bottle to my wrist

Come pick thy left pieces
For my brain still counts memories
Go behind my eyes
For thy shadow shines like flash light
Fetch my hanging appetite
The ulcers are feeding on your aroma
A glassful of your lip twists
For my thirst dines on flu
Take the slopping path
My heart waited longer than patience
Can i envy your smile
Its seen by many not me alone
I wish to color your dreams
With a range of roasted apples
If you tasted like wine
You could be the chained bottle to my wrist