Sunday afternoon, 4:30pm.
I am seated in my backyard on a green plastic chair
My arms rest on the white table in front of me
A light breeze taps my face as my eyes gaze at the sun
I hear birds singing
To my right, my sister sits, scrolling on her phone
Ahead of me, I see my mother walking towards the table, in her right hand she balances four miniature cups dressed in gold and blue patterns, in the other hand she carries a container of sugar.
To my left my dad stands at the charcoal BBQ he holds the rakwee by its handle. He watches as the foam rises, and steam comes out. The coffee sings.
‘This is the best way to drink it’, he says proudly to me in Arabic.
This I know.
Anticipating for the coffee to be ready, I look up at the sky and a plane goes passing by.
Then I am reminded of times when I
Packed my bags
And labelled my tags
Sydney to Beirut
I travel this trip.
When the world allows.
I enjoy this trip
And coffee is what I choose to sip.
At Sydney airport
I walk through customs
And since they are not accustomed to my name
I dance through customs
And then I board the journey to where my customs were born
Where people have eyes that resemble mine
And take their coffee just like me
On the departing I wave goodbye to the harbour bridge- it wishes me well as it hands me a cup of instant coffee.
Its bitter, I like it.
On the arriving, I wave hello to the raouche rock- it greets me with open arms and an ahwe.
Its sweet, I love it.
On the departing I admire the how the sun kisses the harbour water- the sun kisses me too, through the window.
I sip the instant coffee.
On the arriving, I admire how the moon shines on the city of strength – the moon asks me why has it been so long?
I sip the ahwe.
And even if my eyes had deceived me, the scent of oregano, olives and ahwe swimming through my nose would remind me that we have arrived
At Beirut.
Soldier stands tall with rifle placed in hands. Gestures his head to tell me to continue walking through the line.
And happily, I walk.
The cues are long
But my smile is longer
And this time I choose to dance through customs
And then I am greeted with open arms and poems which recite the story of my existence
Embraced by the warmth of family
We share a spread of food made by the hands of my tayta
And to wash it down, we drink
Ahwe.
Ahwe, made by the hands of my tayta.
I don’t take sugar in my ahwe, yet it’s the sweetest thing that has touched my tongue.
During my stay, I bathe in soap made from olives. Drink water from mountains and go to the local stores asking for a kilo of their coffee beans. Whilst they bag my beans for me. They also pour me a cup of ahwe.
Ahwe is served everywhere. It is apart of our customs.
I shop for gold, they offer me ahwe, I shop for cucumbers, they offer me ahwe, I shop for a carpet, they offer me ahwe.
We drive from village to village. Mountains to cities. Snow to ocean.
No seatbelts. No traffic lights guaranteed. But you will find little convenience stands set up. From the north to south of Lebanon. Each stand serving ahwe. Some bitter, some sweet some have herbs, depending on which side you are on.
When my stay is complete and is time to drive back to Beirut airport.
We stop at a convenience store on the road. We park in front. My father lights a cigarette.
A young boy exits the store.
He strides to the car and meets me at my window.
‘Ahwe’?, he says.
‘Ahwe’, I nod.
Minutes later he comes back holding a tray of ahwe. His hazel eyes smile at mine.
He doesn’t know this is the last ahwe I’ll be having in my motherland for a while now.
“Charnel, grab your cup”. I look back down as I am snapped out of my memory; my mother is handing me a cup.
My father pours the foaming coffee into my cup.
I sip.
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I wonder if they know.
I wonder if my family know.
When we sit under the sky.
Sharing this ahwe. On a Sunday afternoon. After working all week. Once the exhaustion finally leaves our body.
Do they know that
For me. Sharing an ahwe is an intimate act. It’s an act of love. It’s an act of respect.
Do they know I can feel their heartbeat? Do they know I feel my heart pound with love for them?
Something about silence and the taste of the bitter ahwe, sparks feelings of thanks within me. I want to tell them thank you, thank you, thank you.
I love you; I love you; I love you.
But instead. I sip.
Then I wonder, when I sit with my friends. On balconies in Fairfield. Skyline ahead of us. On winter nights.
When we code switch between our mother tongue and English.
When their thick Iraqi accent meets my broken Lebanese accent. When they correct the sounds, I cannot articulate.
When our hands move through containers of candy wrapped in Arabic writing. Some pink, some purple, some blue. When they half their favourite piece of candy with me. When I exchange the coffee flavoured candy for the raspberry one. When they show me pictures of Iraq and I show them pictures of Lebanon.
And when we flip our cups, awaiting for them to dry, to tell our future.
Do they know I hope only for good fortune for them?
And when the elderly lady reads their cup for them.
Do they know I secretly cross my fingers hoping they hear what they want to?
When we sip our ahwe. Sharing a rakwee together. Do they know they have hugged my inner child?
And though we sit as adults, drinking black, bitter coffee. Their presence creates nostalgia for me and for a moment I am child again, swinging, laughing, playing.
Then I wonder, when I sit with my aunties and mother, around tables in kitchen. Some sit on stools, some lean on table, some mend to the ahwe.
Sun shines through the window. Baby rocks in pram. Child bites on biscuit.
When my mother goes around pouring ahwe into our cups. When my aunty offers the sugar around, do they know I see myself in them? Do they know I like my ahwe just like theirs? Do they know my ahwe addiction probably stems from them? Do they know each day, I grow, I see myself in the way they sit, stand and talk?
Do they know I see that I am beginning to mirror their mannerisms? Do they know they taught me about womanhood?
When they sip and talk about their struggles with laughter in between. When they speak of men and relationships and the challenges that arise, do they know I am starting to understand. And since I am starting to understand, do they know I sip with empathy now.
But I also sip with admiration. Do they know I admire them?
Charnel Rizk