arrested and imprisoned for more than a year as part of the notorious campaign against communist elements carried out by Saddam Hussein. During his time in detention, he’d been subjected to brutal torture. A short while after his release, he’d managed to escape with his family to Syria and from there to Warsaw.
Unable to find regular employment, he hadn’t stayed long in Poland. He’d also sensed that the socialist regime was on the verge of collapse, due to devastating inflation, massive unemploymentand defeatist attitudes. So in order to avoid sinking into the depths of despair like other immigrants, he’d decided to return to the Arab world. He’d soon settled in Beirut, where he’d worked first as a sales assistant in a small bookshop in Riad al-Sulh Square. Then he’d found a rather unusual job that had proved quite lucrative: he’d begun carving tombstones and other marble objects, such as memorials, that provided him with enough funds to emigrate to Brazil.
In Sao Paolo, the father had worked in trade and had been hugely successful, becoming one of the wealthiest Iraqis in the small Iraqi community that lived on the margins of the larger Lebanese and Syrian communities and mingled with them. It was in Sao Paolo that Asaad (whose real name was Emad Mahmoud Zaki) had studied journalism at Brazilian universities. He’d then worked for Brazilian television as a correspondent, moving between Beirut, Damascus, Amman and Casablanca.
So I found myself poised between two opposite personalities, one that I admired and the other that I loathed and couldn’t stand. This brought me back to the characters of
Tobacco Shop
.
The situation was not easy for me to accept. But Nancy exerted great pressure to bring another personality out of Faris, different from the one I knew. On that day, Nancy was like a dramaturge, trying to extract from this great actor his best ever performance. She quizzed him about himself. She asked him about things she might have heard from him dozens of times before and perhaps even knew by heart. But she was determined to gather up all his pearls and put them on display before me.
She asked him about his work as a war correspondent in Afghanistan, particularly at the end of the Taliban era. He described to us in detail his visits to Mazar-i-Sharif and Kandahar,and the detention centres where many Arab fighters were held. Although I’d also been in Kandahar at the same time, we’d never actually met there. So I frequently found myself finishing off his statements and he mine, to the point that we spoke with one voice.
Faris spoke of many things. But to be fair, although I’d also lived in Kandahar, Kabul and Mazar-i-Sharif, I didn’t know those places as well as he did. He had an extraordinary ability to remember the tiniest details, things that should be impossible to retain for long. He would talk about the drizzle on fighters’ helmets or his visits to some Tajik camp buried beneath layers of snow. He knew the name of every single hill and didn’t omit a description of the mules carrying jerry-cans of water up the mountain. Nor did he forget the camel caravans entering Kabul. When he talked about Mazar-i-Sharif, he gave a detailed description of the mausoleum where, according to the Afghans, Imam Ali is buried. He charmed us with his description of the white doves on the domes of the mausoleum and the sparkling letters carved on its walls and arches by the best masons of the region. He also spoke of the names of squares, the remains of statues, the traffic lights, the horse-drawn carriages and the types of camels and donkeys that were employed in transporting heavy loads. He told us how he’d ridden in a Jeep with armed Afghans and entered their camp.
He had access to many secrets there that were completely inaccessible to me. He had contacts with the prominent warlord General Majid Rozi as well as with General Atta Aswad. He was the man entrusted to carry a message from Atta Aswad
Unable to find regular employment, he hadn’t stayed long in Poland. He’d also sensed that the socialist regime was on the verge of collapse, due to devastating inflation, massive unemploymentand defeatist attitudes. So in order to avoid sinking into the depths of despair like other immigrants, he’d decided to return to the Arab world. He’d soon settled in Beirut, where he’d worked first as a sales assistant in a small bookshop in Riad al-Sulh Square. Then he’d found a rather unusual job that had proved quite lucrative: he’d begun carving tombstones and other marble objects, such as memorials, that provided him with enough funds to emigrate to Brazil.
In Sao Paolo, the father had worked in trade and had been hugely successful, becoming one of the wealthiest Iraqis in the small Iraqi community that lived on the margins of the larger Lebanese and Syrian communities and mingled with them. It was in Sao Paolo that Asaad (whose real name was Emad Mahmoud Zaki) had studied journalism at Brazilian universities. He’d then worked for Brazilian television as a correspondent, moving between Beirut, Damascus, Amman and Casablanca.
So I found myself poised between two opposite personalities, one that I admired and the other that I loathed and couldn’t stand. This brought me back to the characters of
Tobacco Shop
.
The situation was not easy for me to accept. But Nancy exerted great pressure to bring another personality out of Faris, different from the one I knew. On that day, Nancy was like a dramaturge, trying to extract from this great actor his best ever performance. She quizzed him about himself. She asked him about things she might have heard from him dozens of times before and perhaps even knew by heart. But she was determined to gather up all his pearls and put them on display before me.
She asked him about his work as a war correspondent in Afghanistan, particularly at the end of the Taliban era. He described to us in detail his visits to Mazar-i-Sharif and Kandahar,and the detention centres where many Arab fighters were held. Although I’d also been in Kandahar at the same time, we’d never actually met there. So I frequently found myself finishing off his statements and he mine, to the point that we spoke with one voice.
Faris spoke of many things. But to be fair, although I’d also lived in Kandahar, Kabul and Mazar-i-Sharif, I didn’t know those places as well as he did. He had an extraordinary ability to remember the tiniest details, things that should be impossible to retain for long. He would talk about the drizzle on fighters’ helmets or his visits to some Tajik camp buried beneath layers of snow. He knew the name of every single hill and didn’t omit a description of the mules carrying jerry-cans of water up the mountain. Nor did he forget the camel caravans entering Kabul. When he talked about Mazar-i-Sharif, he gave a detailed description of the mausoleum where, according to the Afghans, Imam Ali is buried. He charmed us with his description of the white doves on the domes of the mausoleum and the sparkling letters carved on its walls and arches by the best masons of the region. He also spoke of the names of squares, the remains of statues, the traffic lights, the horse-drawn carriages and the types of camels and donkeys that were employed in transporting heavy loads. He told us how he’d ridden in a Jeep with armed Afghans and entered their camp.
He had access to many secrets there that were completely inaccessible to me. He had contacts with the prominent warlord General Majid Rozi as well as with General Atta Aswad. He was the man entrusted to carry a message from Atta Aswad
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