2014.02.09 铭记大马士革的味道

shiyi18

Remembering the Taste of Damascus
The painful, perhaps impossible, task of sustaining the memory of a lost home

By Tamara Alrifai

A man browses through a shop selling candies and spices at al-Bzoria market in Damascus February 9, 2014. (REUTERS/Khaled al-Hariri)
MARCH 25, 2018
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After my parents fled the war in Syria for Egypt in 2013, they did their best to recreate their old life. My mother, a stellar cook and hostess, arranged the living room in their new home in Cairo to resemble the one they’d left in Damascus, filling an elegant bowl on the coffee table with little chocolates wrapped in colorful paper, and throwing her decorative cushions from Syria across the sofas. My father replicated his favorite corner from our old house, lining up his knick-knacks on the small table next to his favorite chair. The kitchen always smelled of spices, olive oil, and garlic when my mother cooked, just as it had back home. Yet these efforts to bring the past into the present were always somehow incomplete. Something remained transient, temporary, and not quite set.


For over 20 years, my parents had lived in the same single-story Damascus apartment surrounded by a garden, where we could smell lemon blossom and gardenia on hot summer nights. Summer was also when our friends who owned groves around the capital would send us crates of apricots and peaches, all ripe and juicy. This meant it was time to make jam—for Syrians, a precious summer ritual. Neighbors would exchange seasonal jars, and plunge into debates over whether jams made entirely on the stove were as tasty as those made the traditional way, with just a few minutes on the stove before being left to crystalize in the sun for several days. For my mother, the process began with simmering the apricots in a large pot, just long enough for their juices to start bubbling. After that, she would place the fruits on trays, lay a thin white mesh across the top of the trays, and set them outside beneath the sun. She would check on the apricots every few hours, churning them lightly with a wooden spoon before rearranging the mesh to keep the flies away from the sugary mix.

It has been said that the senses can restore memories, emotions, and even physical sensations thought to be lost. Marcel Proust wrote about how some cues, even the taste of a pastry he once ate as a child, could provoke a reconnection with his past. This experience rings painfully true for me. When I take a bite of eggplant puree infused with pomegranate sauce, I see my deceased grandmother standing before her cooking pots in the old house she lived in until the day she died. Every whiff of orange blossom reminds me of biting into a pistachio-filled Syrian pastry, dripping with blossom-flavored syrup. And last summer, on the day my mother made apricot jam for the first time since moving to Cairo, something clicked, restoring a crucial link to our life in Damascus—a life that now seems an impossibility.


When those of us who left Syria come together, we move from heated political conversations to sentimental remembrances. Then we hear the beats of the dabkeh, a traditional celebratory group dance. We stop talking, jump out of our seats, hold hands, and dance, yearning, angry, happy, mourning, hopeful, and, sometimes, tearful, all at once. Once, talking about old bazaars and the smell of jasmine would have bored us. But now, with Syria on fire and its future so bleak, we seek refuge in clichés, stereotypes, and a nostalgia that may have once seemed silly to us.

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These days, I find myself moved to tears when I read Facebook posts by Syrian friends that recall jasmine bushes and picnics in Ghouta, the countryside near Damascus where people have been starving under siege. Other friends will write about quotidian experiences that few of my generation can recall. I myself have never picked walnuts in Idlib or pistachios off the trees in Aleppo. But I have heard so much about them from my father and his generation that I can imagine picking them, as if their memories are my own. I try to replace images of destruction with ones of picnics under walnut and pistachios trees. I become the protagonist of somebody else’s stories.

Infusing my present with flavors from my past has become a daily act of resistance for me—of survival. In the last seven years, I’ve been unable to cook anything but Syrian or Levantine cuisine. I have stopped using any tablecloth but the delicately embroidered Aghabani, which most of my friends around the world call “Syrian tablecloth.” I have sprinkled orange blossom water or maazahr (“water of flowers”) over fruit salads and poured it into cake batter. I have added pomegranate molasses or debs rumman to all the tomato-based sauces I have cooked in the last few years. I have taught myself how to make kibbeh (cracked wheat meatballs), and how to roll the perfect vine leaves. I have learned to patiently stir goat yogurt for hours to make the perfect base for shishbarak, a succulent little dumpling cooked in yogurt soup.

I have resorted to smells and flavors as a way of sustaining some semblance of home. Feeling lonely? Sprinkle some cardamom into your coffee, and a sunny morning with your mother will appear before your eyes. Homesick? Add a dash of cinnamon to your broth, and you’ll be transported to the spice bazaar in Damascus. Missing your grandmother? Prepare your chicken with Laura leaves and a generous handful of cloves, like all Syrian grandmothers do.


I pour rice into a serving dish and cover it with a mix of yogurt and tahineh (sesame paste), then sprinkle chopped parsley and pomegranate grains over the snowy surface. My late maternal grandmother suddenly whispers in my ear: Remember that we eat with our eyes too. Everything must look pretty and dainty. We must have a variation of colors in every dish. I look at the fatteh I made, and know that my grandmother would be proud. I made it exactly as she once did, layering the crispy pita bread, then the rice with pulled chicken, then the yogurt and, finally, chopped parsley and fresh pomegranate seeds to add color. I serve it to my guests and wait for their reactions. The one that sticks with me comes from a friend who visited me often in Syria, uttered after she closed her eyes and allowed all the flavors to invade her mouth: “It tastes like Damascus.”

Tamara Alrifai is a columnist and communications expert from Damascus




铭记大马士革的味道
维持对失去的家园的记忆是一项痛苦的、也许是不可能的任务

塔玛拉-阿里法伊报道

2014年2月9日，一名男子在大马士革的al-Bzoria市场上浏览一家出售糖果和香料的商店。(REUTERS/Khaled al-Hariri)
2018年3月25日



2013年，我的父母从叙利亚的战争中逃到埃及后，他们竭尽全力重塑他们的旧生活。我的母亲是一位出色的厨师和女主人，她把他们在开罗的新家的客厅布置得和他们在大马士革留下的一样，在茶几上的一个优雅的碗里装满了用彩色纸包裹的小巧克力，并把她从叙利亚带来的装饰性坐垫扔在沙发上。我父亲复制了我们老房子里他最喜欢的角落，在他最喜欢的椅子旁边的小桌子上排列着他的小玩意。当我母亲做饭时，厨房总是散发着香料、橄榄油和大蒜的味道，就像在家乡一样。然而，这些将过去带入现在的努力在某种程度上总是不完整的。有些东西仍然是短暂的、暂时的，而且还没有完全确定。


20多年来，我的父母一直住在同一个单层的大马士革公寓里，周围有一个花园，在炎热的夏夜，我们可以闻到柠檬花和栀子花的味道。夏天也是我们在首都周围拥有果园的朋友给我们送来成箱的杏子和桃子的时候，都是成熟多汁的。这意味着是制作果酱的时候了，对于叙利亚人来说，这是一个珍贵的夏季仪式。邻居们会交换季节性的罐子，并陷入辩论，讨论完全用炉子做的果酱是否和传统方法做的一样好吃，只需在炉子上放几分钟，然后在太阳下晒几天就可以了。对我母亲来说，这个过程首先是将杏子放在一个大锅里煮，时间足够让它们的汁液开始冒泡。之后，她会把水果放在盘子里，在盘子的顶部铺上一层薄薄的白网，然后把它们放在外面的阳光下。她每隔几个小时就会检查一下杏子，用木勺轻轻搅动它们，然后重新安排网子，让苍蝇远离含糖混合物。

有人说，感官可以恢复记忆、情感，甚至是被认为已经失去的身体感觉。马塞尔-普鲁斯特（Marcel Proust）写道，一些线索，甚至是他小时候吃过的糕点的味道，都能激起他与过去的重新联系。这种经历对我来说是痛苦的真实。当我咬一口浸泡着石榴酱的茄子泥时，我看到我已故的祖母站在她的烹饪锅前，在她死前居住的老房子里。每一缕橙花的香味都会让我想起咬一口充满开心果的叙利亚糕点，上面滴着花香的糖浆。去年夏天，在我母亲搬到开罗后第一次做杏酱的那天，有些东西被点燃了，恢复了我们在大马士革生活的重要联系--现在看来是不可能的生活。


当我们这些离开叙利亚的人聚集在一起时，我们从激烈的政治对话转向感性的回忆。然后我们听到dabkeh的节拍，一种传统的庆祝性集体舞蹈。我们停止交谈，从座位上跳下来，手拉手，跳舞，渴望、愤怒、快乐、哀悼、希望，有时还流泪，同时进行。曾经，谈论古老的集市和茉莉花的香味会让我们感到无聊。但现在，叙利亚正处于火灾之中，其未来如此黯淡，我们在陈词滥调、陈规陋习以及对我们来说可能曾经很愚蠢的怀旧情绪中寻求庇护。

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这些天，当我读到叙利亚朋友在脸书上发的帖子，回忆起大马士革附近乡村古塔的茉莉花丛和野餐时，我发现自己被感动得泪流满面，那里的人们在围困下一直在挨饿。其他朋友会写一些我们这一代人很少能回忆起的琐碎经历。我自己从来没有在伊德利卜采摘过核桃，也没有在阿勒颇的树上摘过开心果。但是，我从我父亲和他那一代人那里听到了很多关于这些的事情，我可以想象出采摘它们的情景，仿佛他们的记忆就是我自己的。我试图用核桃树和开心果树下的野餐来取代破坏的画面。我成了别人的故事的主人公。

将我的过去的味道注入我的现在，对我来说已经成为一种日常的抵抗行为--生存。在过去的七年里，除了叙利亚或黎凡特的菜肴，我已经不能做任何东西了。除了精致刺绣的Aghabani桌布，我已经不再使用任何桌布，我在世界各地的大多数朋友都称它为 "叙利亚桌布"。我把橙花水或maazahr（"花水"）洒在水果沙拉上，并把它倒在蛋糕糊里。在过去几年里，我把石榴糖浆或Debs rumman添加到我所做的所有以番茄为基础的调味汁中。我自学了如何制作kibbeh（裂纹小麦肉丸），以及如何卷出完美的藤叶。我已经学会了耐心地搅拌山羊酸奶几个小时，为shishbarak（一种用酸奶汤煮的多汁小饺子）打下完美的基础。

我求助于气味和味道，以此来维持一些家的模样。感到孤独吗？在你的咖啡中撒上一些小豆蔻，一个和母亲一起的阳光明媚的早晨就会出现在你眼前。想家了？在肉汤中加入少许肉桂，你就会被带到大马士革的香料市场。想念你的祖母？用劳拉叶子和一大把丁香准备你的鸡肉，就像所有叙利亚祖母做的那样。


我把米饭倒进一个盘子里，用酸奶和tahineh（芝麻酱）的混合物覆盖它，然后在雪白的表面上撒上切碎的欧芹和石榴粒。我已故的外祖母突然在我耳边轻声说。记住，我们也是用眼睛吃饭。每样东西都必须看起来漂亮、精致。我们必须在每道菜里都有不同的颜色。我看着我做的Fatteh，知道我的祖母会很自豪。我完全按照她曾经做过的那样做，先是把酥脆的皮塔饼分层，然后把米饭和拉鸡肉分层，接着是酸奶，最后是切碎的欧芹和新鲜的石榴籽以增加色彩。我把它端给我的客人，等待他们的反应。让我记忆犹新的是一位经常在叙利亚访问我的朋友，在她闭上眼睛，让所有的味道都侵入她的嘴里之后说的。"它的味道像大马士革"。

塔玛拉-阿里法伊是来自大马士革的专栏作家和传播专家。