Who was teta Em Noubar

With people, it's never about what social role they play in my life, but rather who they are at a soul level, and whether or not our hearts speak the same language. In my family, I did not have a very strong connection with my siblings and relatives. I wasn't even close in this way to my own mother. I didn't experience real friendships in this sense either until I was an adult in my early thirties. I had so much love for them though, I would invest a lot of time and energy trying to learn about them, understanding their very move, seeing behind their spoken words and their actions. While I got to the know and and touch the core of some of these people, the same was hardly ever reciprocated to me. I loved them, I had compassion towards them, and I tried to fit into my own role towards them as much as I could; a sister, a cousin, a daughter, a niece, a nephew, a neighbour, a friend. 

One person did stand out from the crowd for me growing up. How can I write about the one person that had the most effect on me and my life. That one person who spoke the very language of my own heart, who was both the strongest and the most delicate human being. He was generous in all aspects and taught me abundance in the very way he existed. How can few little humble, simple words, and basic English, catch that which was majesty in human form that my father was. It's not an easy task, but I'll keep trying, because if I write, it is to capture the essence of this magical existence, and he was the essence of that essence. So many lessons he taught me while he was alive, and so many lessons he keeps on teaching me after he passed. 

I like the word passed, it comes from passage, that is how I see him, passing through worlds and realms. Existing and shining his bright light, unstoppable like he always was, with his most graceful, genuine smile. A soul that resembles nothing I've ever encountered outside of myself. When he died, I wanted the whole world to stand still, but it didn't. Life kept going, and I was left to deal with the agony of losing him alone. Nobody understood the depth of our bond, and so nobody stepped in to help with the processing of the pain. It was my most valuable lesson learned just as I turned officially into an adult at 18 years old. 

Being a pastry chef, a pastry shop owner, and a family man, meant that he was almost always busy, and I loved hanging out with him every single chance I got. I used to be his little companion, sometimes for wholesale stores runs, other times just around him as he worked. At the workshop, he worked his hands and body with so much grace, perfect precision and total calm, hardly uttering any words. I would watch silently sitting on a high stool with my small body, bending over to be tabletop to see closely the details of what and how he was preparing the delicacies that was to be displayed and sold in our shopfront later on. He was extremely disciplined and worked his days and routines on time any day of the year, no matter what. Inside the shop, and on quiet moments when the shop wasn't so busy, I would sit in front of him on a small chair while he talks away. He loved teaching me about the world, but his favorite topics used to be business oriented, and had to do with food and ingredients, his passion and vocation.  

When I used to hear the name Mahmoud as a child, it would instantly give away a feeling of peace, safety, harmony, comfort, love, belonging, and containment. Mahmoud wasn't just my own favorite person growing up, he was loved by so many. The neighbours respected him, his friends were crazy about him, his family loved him dearly, his customers were fond of him. He was honorable, sincere, fair, giving, attentive, caring, and humorous. He loved people and people felt it. It isn't often that you encounter a genuinely selfless loving man. Mahmoud was the embodiment of love itself. 

Our car rides towards different places for different purposes are special in my mind and heart. There is however this one specific destination that stands out very strongly in my memory. It shines the brightest in my being, I was positively surprised when this day happened, it was very different than our usual trips. 

It happened on a Sunday, and the streets were much quieter than usual. We made this journey towards a somewhat high in the mountain area. We reached an open parking lot that wasn't exactly well maintained, just an open space between different buildings, with an uneven dusty ground facing a building that didn't look anything special on the outside. We got off and he carried a box of pastries that he himself prepared and packed, bringing it with us as a gift. We got inside and I was immediately astonished by this apartment. A woman received us at the door, she was our host and the person we were here to visit. She was probably in her late 50's or early 60's, beautiful face, white or blond hair, average body, very gracious and welcoming. I don't sit with them in the living room long enough to learn about this woman, I felt strangely very eager to explore the apartment. I used to be very polite and timid around strangers as a child, but somehow I ended up roaming that place freely. Did they encourage me to do so, or did I ask for permission? I can't remember exactly, but I do remember finding myself pulled like magic to see it and explore it. The main attraction at first was the walls and the hallways, they were extremely white and very tall and long. After exploring them for a good while, I find myself at one of the apartment's balcony. There was lush greenery all around and in front of it, I was shocked and amazed that such nature could be very close and readily available from one's own apartment. My relation with nature used to be during our trips to far away places only. Homes meant cities and buildings and a lot of concrete views. 

This woman was a special person, because up until that moment in my life, as a child, I never felt as safe and as excited being in somebody else's space. I remember roaming the hallways repeatedly, coming and going between the living room, checking on my father and his friend, and the balcony. I remember feeling as though the apartment was floating in mid air, and we were floating with it. After getting more comfortable in my new surrounding, I wanted to venture even more. I checked the rooms, but there were closed doors. I remember the kitchen being so very beautiful, but I have no recalling of its details. I do remember very clearly, landing in this one specific room with the open door, and the light filling it through a large window. It had beautiful vintage style armchairs and small side tables. Cute decorative pieces and figurines filled the room, and the shades of pink, hot pink and green dominated everything. I couldn't tell whether or not it was a library, or if it was just another living room with bookshelves. There was one specific wall filled to the brim with books, from the ground to the ceiling. 

The idea of checking the books was so enticing, but I didn't want that moment to end, I was savoring the details of this room with utmost attention and pleasure. I sat on one of the chairs and stared in the direction of the bookshelves and the open door, they were both on the same wall. Though I could hear the murmuring of my father and the host's chats and was assured that all was well outside of my own world, I was really hoping that their concersations would last much longer, so that I'm fully done with my exploration first. My sense of time was lost for a while, it was often the case in my childhood. When I had a sense of it again, I got up from my chair and got closer to investigate the book covers closely, really hoping that the end of the visitation wasn't near. The titles were in a language that I didn't recognize. I was a little disappointed at first, but then the disappointment turned into excitement. I pulled one of the books out and brought it with me back to my chair. I sat with the heavy book on my lap, and I started looking through it. I traced the pages with my small fingers, taking in the smell, the sensation of the papers, the strange fonts, and the novelty of the whole experience. I immediately lost sense of time again, so much so that the next thing I remember was my father and the host being in the same room with me. I can't remember who it was that explained to me that these were Armenian books, and that our host was Armenian, maybe it was my father, or the woman herself. There was a sense of authenticity and peace to this woman and that moment, because I was not on guard, I felt safe and very tender inside. 

I had a hundred different questions inside of me, but at the realization that this was our time to leave, I had to quiet my mind, and try and take in as much as I can of this experience with me back home, and to try and understand who was this teta Em Noubar, why were we visitng her, who is she to my father, and why haven't we been here before. 

Teta is grandma, was I told to call her that because she was a mother figure for my father? Was he homesick? Was it just out of respect? We always paid tribute to elders in the family, visiting distant family members, but this was different. Maybe she was just a friend. Maybe too he was drawn to that space, to that woman like I was drawn in the same way. Perhaps his soul called to him for exploring and expansion. Maybe she connected with my father on a soul level like I do, and maybe she spoke the same language as his heart's.

I used to almost never ask direct questions, my approach in learning about the world through adults was discovering by watching them. I remember very clearly how I looked forward to learning about this place, that woman, and the purpose of these trips, but I never got the chance to. I am also not able to recall if I've been there on other occasions, or if it was only just a one time off for me. I think these trips would have been disrupted during and after the war. A lot changed during and after the war. I hold on to this memory very dearly, because it made me see my father under yet another new light. 

Few months ago I was visiting my auntie, my mother's sister, at her place in Saida. My roots are from there, but I was born and raised in Beirut. Saida trips used to be very scarce and sporadic growing up, so much so that I know very little about that city and it never felt like home. I also find the people very different, and though all our family connections are there, I don't feel related. As an adult there has been several attempts and chances given to grow closer to them. I think after the passing of both my parents, and with the roads to the south becoming smoother, we started to make more frequents visits there, sister and myself. Sister felt like she could bond with the family to fill the void of missing our parents, and the void of not having the presence of our extended family growing up. I myself, couldn't. My visits were of explorative nature, I needed to understand them, but also was hoping to learn about my parents more through their siblings and relatives, and the stories they tell us. 

As she was smoking her shisha and sipping on her turkish coffee after our meal together, my auntie casually started talking about my mother's life in Beirut and how hard it was for her bearing the children, while supporting my father in the shop, without having family close by. I used the occasion to ask a direct question about my father, and whether she knew why he made that big decision of moving to Beirut right after the marriage, when both him and my mother were very connected to their roots, their surroundings, their people, and their culture at home in Saida. He saved and made a big investment there, with the same money, he could've made a much bigger business at home, why Beirut. I was hoping and somehow expecting a revealing and deep answer, but her quick reply came out as a surprise. As though a teenager, excited to gossip about the next trendy topic, with a high pitched voice, she briefly stated that my father was a womaniser, and that Beirut meant freedom, and access to partying and alcohol. I went silent, it was a very grounding moment, I deserved and earned it. 

I would never set myself to talk about the good man and husband my father was, and certainly not defending him with a family member who has witnessed it all firsthand. If the whole life he lead wasn't enough for these people to see who he was, then I was definitely in the wrong place. I didn't make it to my auntie's place since, not because I'm upset, I am not. I understand them fully, but these people and I, we just don't speak the same language... 

Did my father travel to Beirut to uproot and start his family and business with his wife to answer a calling of his soul? Did he part away from Saida and his people begrudgingly because he knew growth takes a leap of faith and plenty of courage and hard work? Did he persevere through all the hardships that came after, especially with the civil war and whatever it entailed on him being a Muslim man with his Muslim family in the Christian part of Beirut? Did he die too soon because by his mid 50's, having been through heartbreaks he could no longer push through with his usual grit? 

What I believe is, that as time passed, people who spoke the same language as my father's heart became more scarce. He could no longer drive by then, nor move around much freely. His heart was sore, and his soul called to him to be somewhere else, yet again, and he answered the call, like he usually does.