A beautiful flower. almeen bano

camp for free. Depending on their family size or caravan, which is like a mobile home, they get a certain number of loaves each day.”

      I seized the opportunity to engage her in conversation.

      “I can see that. Can we visit? I’d like to see.”

      “Yes, you will have the opportunity to meet Salah and Ishmael.”

      “Wow, bread for everyone. That must be some task.”

      “Yes, it is. They make thousands of loaves a day. My brother works there. Salah is the boss of the bread factory. He has experienced great tragedy in Syria, as his whole family was killed. Yet, he always thinks optimistically. He has looked out for Ishmael and me since we arrived here and treats us like his children.”

      As we approached the bread factory, a cheerful old man called, “Welcome, Elaina!” He rushed over and gave her a big, warm hug. His thick grey mustache, bald head, and aura of genuine warmth welcomed me. He pointed to me. “Who dis young man?”

      “Salah, I want you to meet Joe Gold. He’s doing an internship with us for one year.”

      I reached out my right hand to shake his firmly.

      “Joe, this is Uncle Salah.”

      “Please excuse English. It so good to meet you,” Salah said, greeting me with a warm smile. “Anyone a friend of Elaina, a friend of mine, too.”

      “It’s good to meet you, too,” I replied. “Elaina told me a lot about you.”

      “Joe, you can talk to Salah. Give me ten minutes, and I will get my brother. Uncle, please keep him company. I’ll be right back.”

      I nodded as Elaina excused herself.

      Salah turned to me. “She love her brother, do not like separate much. I tell her he’s old enough now to take care of himself. But she doesn’t listen.” He shrugged. “She is her brother’s voice. She speaks and listens for him.”

      “Yes, I see. She must love her brother a great deal. Out of curiosity, how many loaves of bread do you make daily?” I asked as I glanced at all the piles of bread being made.

      “I never count. Many, thousands, who knows. We deliver bread to hospitals, camps, houses, all over.”

      “Wow, that’s a lot of work,” I said in amazement. “How long have you been working here?”

      “I came here when I fifty-five. Now I’m old, I’m seventy, so fifteen years.” His face and hair looked its age, but he seemed in good shape and had a lot of energy. However, his expression darkened. “It feels like it’s been forty years already. My family all killed by government murderers.”

      “I’m sorry you lost your family. That must be very tough. Yet you treat Elaina as your daughter or niece. That is special.”

      “Thank you, Joe Gold. Yes, Elaina very special. Wonderful woman.”

      Our conversation was interrupted by Elaina, who returned with a young man by her side. “This is Ishmael, my younger brother.” Ishmael was slightly shorter than Elaina. He had the beginning of a beard, short curly hair, and a face that exuded innocence. I reached out my hand, and he politely shook it. While holding it, I said, “Hello, Ishmael. How are you doing? I’ve heard a lot about you from your sister.”

      Ishmael responded with a big question mark on his face. Then he looked at Elaina and moved his head sideways towards me as if to say, Who is this man, and what is he doing here?

      Elaina said, “It’s nice you talk to him, but he is deaf, so he cannot hear you, and he knows almost no English.”

      My embarrassment was palpable as I realized I had forgotten this crucial detail she had shared. “Oh, I’m sorry. I just—” I started to apologize but stumbled over my words.

      Elaina reassured me kindly, “It’s all right. You’ll get used to it.”

      She then turned to her brother and began communicating with him through gestures. She wrote my name on the palm of her hand, and Ishmael, attentively watching her, turned to me and offered a warm smile. Feeling embarrassed about my earlier mistake, I signed “I’m sorry” by pointing to my heart and expressing sorrowfully to convey my apology.

      Ishmael’s eyes widened in understanding, and he shook his head. “It’s OK,” he said with a forgiving smile.

      Salah said, “Joe, would you like to taste bread? Very good. You enjoy.”

      “Sure.”

      We followed Salah into the building, where they baked the bread. Stepping inside the shop, I was struck by the unexpected grandeur. The factory appeared a bit congested, but as I ventured deeper into the shop, I discovered a labyrinth of interconnected compartments that extended the space even further.

      The shop nestled in the heart of the Za’atari camp was like no other I had ever seen. Men and women of all ages, adorned in an array of traditional Middle Eastern clothing, were engaged in breadmaking. Some were kneading dough, while others showcased their skills in rolling out paper-thin rounds with practiced precision. A woman wearing a colorful hijab formed the dough into circles, her nimble fingers flipping them onto a large, concave griddle known as a ‘saj.’ Nearby, a baker with a weathered face tended to a roaring tandoor oven, using long wooden paddles to place dough onto the inner walls. The bread bubbled and blistered under the heat, creating an enticing charred aroma. Meanwhile, a young girl with curious eyes sprinkled sesame seeds onto dough brushed with olive oil, enhancing each round of bread with a burst of flavor.

      There must have been fifty people, all hard at work. Many of them glanced at Elaina and me and smiled. Since I knew no Arabic, I could only wave and smile back.

      Salah approached me, cradling a freshly baked round of bread. The bread had been baked to perfection, with a tantalizing aroma that made my mouth water. Salah extended the bread to me with a warm smile.

      “Try this,” Salah said, his eyes twinkling with pride.

      “Thank you, Salah. I can’t wait to taste it. Shall I do so now?”

      “Sure, go ahead. Try.” He looked at my face anxiously to see if I enjoyed the bread.

      As I chewed, I closed my eyes, savoring the moment. It was as if the bread held the essence of the people’s warmth, and their culture’s richness rolled into a single, humble round. I felt a deep connection to this place, its people, and their traditions, as if I had stumbled upon a hidden treasure. I had eaten plenty of pita bread with hummus and other foods at home, but this was so homemade.

      Salah, observing my reaction, smiled even more expansive. “Good, yes?”

      I nodded vigorously, my mouth too full to speak, but my expression conveyed my delight. Salah clapped, and Ishmael followed his lead. “You come again anytime for more bread.”

      “I will certainly do so. This is delicious.” I looked at Elaina, who informed me it was time to go, so we said our goodbyes.

      Before leaving, Salah packed me a loaf of bread for breakfast. I expressed my gratitude to both and bid them farewell with a sense of warmth in my heart.

      Just as we were leaving the shop, Salah called out to Elaina and said something in Arabic to her, to which she nodded in acknowledgment. With that, we continued our journey, my heart and stomach full of the memories and flavors of the morning,

      After getting into the golf cart, Elaina said, “We need to stop at one more place, a teahouse. If you want to learn more about our culture, tea is our most important drink. Many Syrians like to drink yerba mate, which is a herbal tea. Please don’t say no. We consider tea to be not just a drink but a symbol of hospitality and generosity, so do you fancy a cuppa, as they say in England? They also have water pipes that people use to smoke.”

      Her offer took me aback. She was so sweet. We had barely met, and she was opening her whole world to me. Besides, learning more about Syrian culture was a good idea if I wanted to work here. “Sure, lead the way. I’ll drink tea, but no way will I smoke the water pipe.”

      Five minutes