Saturday, October 4, 2008

Sam's 1st Shishtawook

When we were young boys, my brothers and I were forced to go to the Lebanese-Syrian Club on Sunday afternoons. The "club" occupied a bunker-like building off of Forest Hill hidden by towering stands of Australian pines. Behind the building, lamb cooked on giant outdoor grills. There were cement picnic tables on a large concrete foundation, and we ate shish-kebob, kibbie pies and grape leaves off paper plates with plastic utensils. One young bearded man plucked a sitar while another beat on a pair of bongos as though he were attempting to resuscitate them as a circle of older men (some with scarves around their heads) chanted Arabic ululations into the air.

Sittie and Jidou were there, along with hundreds of Arabs we were probably related to. Auntie Rumsah would pinch our cheeks painfully hard and cackle "Dukalika! Dukalika! Dukalika!" into our ears. I have no idea what 'dukalika' means and I remember little else about Auntie Rumsah except this painful torture. We were made to play with distant, distant cousins we neither knew nor particularly cared for. The entire afternoon was miserable.

And yet, it is an intrinsic part of my heritage and a part of who I am, just as it is now an intrinsic part of Sam's heritage and part of who Sam is.

I dukalika his cheeks, though without the brutal force applied by my Auntie Rumsah. I don't know if there still is a Syrian-Lebanese Club. If there were, I would happily subject Sam to the same misery my brothers and I had to experience. Until I know for sure, Elise (who is also of Mediterranean decent) and I will take Sam to lunch at the new Pita Grille in Juno.

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