Our
12 Days of Christmas special event ends soon. Today Phyllis Jardine, who now lives in the Annapolis Valley, Nova Scotia, shares more memories from her military family's experience serving in the Middle East during the holiday season in the 1970s. You'll recall that we first heard from Phyllis on our 5th Day of Christmas when she wrote about Christmas in the Holy Land. Today's story was previously published in CARP in 1997 where it won a prize. Happy reading and don't forget that you can leave comments in the comment section!
Gift Wrapped in Dreams: Our VW VanBy Phyllis Jardine
Christmas gifts in our home usually meant the traditional toys, books, and games. Practical as we were there was always the element of surprise. But December's gift back in 1971 far surpassed any gift we'd ever given or received. It became our legacy of love—a gift of cherished memories.
We were living in Damascus, Syria, the oldest continuously inhabited city in the world. My husband, a Canadian Naval Officer, had been appointed to the United Nations as a United Nations Military Observer (UNMO).
Mountains with snow-capped peaks loomed before us as our family of five packed into a UN Wagoneer and drove the 127 kilometres through several military checkpoints along the narrow roads of the Bakka Valley, and over the mountains to Beirut.
Treasures from around the world were bartered, bought and sold in the cosmopolitan Mediterranean city of Beirut, often called the Paris of the Middle East. We arrived at noon on a Friday, dropped the UN vehicle off at headquarters, and took a taxi to the Volkswagen Dealership. To our dismay, the manager refused to accept our cheque.
"But I gave you a cheque as a deposit when you ordered the camper," my husband said. "You accepted it a few weeks ago, with no problem."
"Aha, but we didn't have to give you anything, did we?"
All the banks were closed because of the holy day. Disappointment prevailed. We couldn't believe what was happening. We then visited Ousteyan, the money-changer on the street corner who had been referred to us by his cousin, Gareth, a goldsmith friend of ours in Damascus.
"Why you worry?" he said. "I help."
In his kiosk, about the size of a telephone booth, Ousteyan passed out treats to the children, cashed our cheque, and handed over 11,000 Lebanese Pounds in a brown paper bag.
"Shukran, thank you," we chimed.
"Afwan, welcome," smiled Ousteyan
When my husband plunked the money down on the dealer's desk he must have thought we'd robbed a bank. The children laughed as we climbed into our new camper with its pop-up roof, table, fridge, and fold-down beds. We then headed home to Damascus.
Thirty-five kilometres outside Beirut, the weather changed. Snow and high winds blocked the roads and we were forced to turn around. All the hotels were filled. “No Vacancy” signs everywhere. But our spirits weren't dampened. The owner of the Charles Hotel, where we'd stayed many times previously, provided us with a large suite. We later learned his mother had vacated her apartment to accommodate us.
The next morning the weather cleared, but the pass remained closed. The police advised us to go south, down and around the mountains. A bus and two Syrian taxis were taking the same route, so we joined their convoy. This journey took us on a treacherous, winding road through the village of Marj Uyan, deep into Fedayeen territory.
As headlights shone over the steep cliffs and deep ravines below, I feared for our lives and prayed many prayers. And as I watched our three little ones—so full of softness and ease—sleeping in the backseat, I thought of our family back home in Canada and silently asked what they would do under such circumstances. “How would you dispel these terrible fears, dear loved ones?”
"Mar haba, keef halek," echoed the voices of three keffiyeh clad men who plowed through the snow to say hello to us and to check on our children. Framed by the camper's windows, their wrinkled faces looked kind, and deeply familiar. They appeared concerned, especially for the safety of our children. I found myself relaxing a bit, gradually breathing slower and easier. I looked over at my husband and at that moment I think we both experienced a sense of peacefulness within the shared space of our camper. In our young lives, so many years ago, my husband and I discovered a rare truth, a sense of hope that continues to nurture us to this day. Sweet joy sometimes treads out of the darkest night, bringing strength to the most frightening part of our lives. All we had to do was let it inside.
Exhausted, we reached Damascus in 12 hours, a trip that normally took two. With the simple joy of being safe, and alive, we inhaled the city's sweetness and carried our three little ones up the flight of 75 steps to our apartment.
Our camper provided comfort, security, and shelter wherever we ventured after that day. We left the Middle East in 1972 and spent two months travelling through Turkey, Yugoslavia, Europe, and England. The camper's closeness helped us grow and learn from one another. Its versatility gave us the gift of precious moments to take home to Canada: cooking octopus beside the Aegean Sea, walking the cobblestone streets of Dubrovnik, camping in the mountains of Switzerland, climbing towers in London, and sailing home on the SS France.
In 1980 we all shed tears when we sold the camper. The hammock bed over the front seats was a foot too short for our 11 year old son. And the double bed we had installed in Germany to fit into the pop-up roof was much too small for two teenage girls. Our old faithful guardian angel on wheels that came gift-wrapped in dreams so many Christmases ago had served us well.
Labels: 12DaysChristmas
