Khaled Alesmael خالد الإسماعيل

 

 

I was still awake trying to write this article about love, excited and afraid at the same time. Excited, because LOVE is always my hot topic as I believe that all that human beings need is love, but it seems that we need more than this.

At midnight, in my bed and my mobile phone in my hand, checking up my social media. I was about to grab the glass of water on the bedside table a WhatsApp message popped on my mobile phone.

 

09 May 2016, 3 minutes after midnight:

x: I miss you. 

If you knew how much I loved you, you would never think of leaving me.

This message shocked me and took sleep away. I did not know how to reply, but after 40 minutes I did.

 

Me: I didn’t leave you; I left my home.

x: I was your home.

 

 

 sorry no it was a joke 😀

 

(silence)

x: you know? Let’s play a game. Let’s talk like I am Syria, your home.

&  I will ask you a few questions, and you have to answer.

Me: I like the idea, but I have one condition.

x: Tell me.

Me: I ask you questions too, and you need to answer as Syria, my home.

You are still in Syria, Damascus, and I guess that you know the answers to the following questions.

x: Deal.

x: Why did you leave me?

Me: A big question, but I will answer.

I was not born to be a soldier 

x: Why not, you had to defend me.

Me: They did not want me to defend you; they wanted me to kill your sons and daughters, your children.

 

x: But they’re already dying every day. 

Me: But I am not the killer, or at least I don’t witness? the scenes of death.

x: You are so hard.

Me: I am afraid.

x: Do you miss me?

Me: So much.

x: What do you miss?

Me: I miss your mornings, the sun on my face when I am still in bed, the smell of Syrian coffee coming from all windows, balconies, and my mother’s kitchen of course.

x: What else?

Me: When I throw the basket down from the window to the vegetable seller, I  used to put a paper inside the basket, written on the paper was all that I needed for the day.

 

Tomatoes from Daraa, 

Melon from Reef Dimashq, 

Okra from Deer Ezzor 

and grapes from Sowaydaa.

x: You sound hungry, all you are talking about is coffee and food.

Me: No, I am not hungry, but I don’t feel satisfied.

x: Good to hear that you are not hungry, because my sons here are hungry, especially those who are under siege.

(Silence)

I miss you too.

Me: What do you miss about me?

x: The mornings, when you wake up and turn on the radio when Fairouz sings. and you go to work, and you start your morning show on the radio and say GOOD MORNING SYRIA.

Do you know? I stopped listening to the radio after you left.

 

(Silence)

 

It is not about you; the radio stopped being for music; it became a device to mourn people.

Only sad and bad news, the radio became a platform for politicians to lie.

Me: stop, stop, don’t tell me this, I know that.

x: I know, but I wanted you to read it.

Me: I don’t believe that you love me.

x: If I don’t, why am I texting you?

Me: because you are feeling alone?

x: And what about you?

(Silence)

 

Me: I am still in love with you.

x: I know.

Me: You look confident.

x: I am. I was your partner, and I know how you think.

Me: Sorry, you are breaking the rules of the game, the idea is that you are writing as my home, not as my ex.

x: I don’t break the rules. I am your ex-home; you are starting a new relationship with a different country, isn’t that the truth?

(silence)

 

x: What are you telling your new partner about me?

Me: about your love. I know that nobody loved me like you.

x: Sorry, you are breaking the rules now.

Me: no.

x: excuse me, homelands cannot talk, how did you know how much I loved you? As a country 😉

Me: since I left you and I lack love.

x: 😦

me: Goodnight.

(last seen of my ex 09 May 02:45 am)

On the 14 May 19:17 pm.

me: Hey my homeland, could I publish our conversation?

x: You’ll never change, Journalist effffff

me: hahhahaha

x: An Article or programme?

Me: Article.

x: What will you name the article? I am curious to know.

Me: IT WAS FROM SYRIA, MY EX

 

Khaled Alesmael

 

Published in Artikel14 magazine in Spring 2016.

By: Khaled Alesmael
Nice to meet you Kalles!

I met Kalles inside the supermarket for the first time. It was, precisely, on the day before I applied for asylum at the migration office – June 2014 in Malmö.
Let me briefly tell you what happened on that day; “I am looking for cheese to buy for Sweden is well known for cheese. Kalles is a blue-eyed blond boy dressed in white. It starts with eye contact followed by a smile that shows his healthy white teeth. I greet him as it is cheese! But I am not sure!”.
A voice comes from behind: “It is not cheese!” points out Kalles: “This is typical Swedish food. You will never find it except on the food tables at the Swedes’”. That man can read my mind! He is a man in his thirties. He still looks like Kalles after twenty years from now. He grabs Kalles from the shelf and tosses it in his shopping basket. I feel sorry for Kalles; he still looks at me from the top of the basket and smile until the man goes behind the shelves. Kalles has just disappeared.
Poor Kalles! He wanted to talk to me and integrate, but the man took him away in no time. Anyways “Nice to meet you Kalles” I said to myself.
Kalles is everywhere!

During my first nine months in Småland; I met Kalles very often in the supermarkets, on the bus between Åseda and vaxjo, at the migration office and everywhere. He had never been on my food table or even talked though.

After I got my residence permit, I moved to Gothenburg in April 2015. As a journalist, I was looking for a bigger city to work and integrate. My first contact was with the freelance journalist’s office. I dropped my telephone in my coffee after he called me. What a coincidence?! his name was Kalle!! “Finally, I would get the opportunity to talk to Kalle and learn about him.”

The journalist Kalle was a kind and welcoming person, and he looked like Kalles in the forties. He invited me to have a fika with his colleagues at his office.
Eventually, we met. I introduced myself by my Arabic name Khaled. Immediately, we were engaged in a discussion about the pronunciation of the initial letters (K &H) and how it should sound.

In the end, they all thought that my name could be Kalle too. I smiled and turned sarcastic: “Oh! With my dark and thick beard?! How it could be?!”. Before I left the free-lance journalist’s office, Kalle invited me to give a lecture about The Syrian Journalism at the folkhuset in September 2015. By then, I had only three Swedish friends, and they liked to call me Kalle, and I enjoyed it.
Is My Name Kalles?!
In September 2015, I started working for SVT as a journalist. I was sure that I would start working in the most prestigious investigative programs in Sweden and the Nordic countries ” Am I lucky?!”.

On my first working day, I wear my favorite blue shirt and grey vest. I was excited to go to my first meeting. At the conference room, I closed my eyes and remembered the blue tube of Kalles to get inspired by him, then with my little Swedish I introduced myself: “Jag heter Kalled.” I wanted my name to sound very familiar. No more K+H crisis!

I was not sure whether I succeeded or anyone cared. Guess what happened?! The name Kalle was mentioned over and over and over during the meeting. Each time I heard the name Kalle I thought that they were calling me or talking to me. As my new job was a great incident for Uppdrag Granskning!!! Until I knew that they were talking about another Kalle. He was working for UG years ago, even before the war started in Syria.
Very Close to Kalles!
In March 2016, I did it. I was the cover boy of the well-known Swedish magazine JOURNALISTEN as a newcomer got a job for Uppdrag Granskning. During that month, I was in the main cultural news in Göteborg Posten with two big posters. I became famous.
All my friends felt proud of me. My success story went viral.
One March evening, I was sitting on my sofa. My mobile phone was on the table between chips bag and beer, and suddenly, a message lighted its screen. I grabbed it and opened the message. A photo of the blue tube Kalles popped up in my face. He was smiling at me showing his white teeth. I felt shocked! I have almost forgotten about Kalles. The photo took me back to my first day in Sweden.

The caption of the photo said: “One day you will be famous in Sweden like Kalles and they may write your name Kalled instead.”
Good to Eat You Kalles!

Kalles is something special in my life. It is the first face I saw in Sweden. So far, it has been three years for me in Sweden, but I have never had the chance to taste it. Such a shame!
Do you remember that man I met at the supermarket-who kidnapped Kalles- in Malmö? Was he right when he said to me that Kalles is only for Swedes?
I rushed into the supermarket, excited like an adventurer. I grabbed the red shopping basket and walked towards Kalles’ shelves. I smiled at it like how it always did, and carefully carried the blue tube and gently put it in the basket. Kalles is at my house, in my fridge, on my food table, in my mouth, in my stomach and finally in my blood. Have I become Swedes?

Khaled Alesmael

It’s translated and published in Swedish in Artikel 14 Sept 2017

I don’t miss my family as much as I do in Ramadan, I feel so close to them and attached despite the distance. The only way to close to them and share the feeling that I try to fast as I can. This Ramadan, I have done a strange thing, Inspiring by a poem written by an African refugee in the UK, I dialed the number of the house of my family in Deir Ezzor although I know that it is rubble, for a reason, I have had a hope that someone will answer or someone to listen to me, it has been a long time and many things happened since I was a child in that house until today Ramadan 2019.
Ramadan in Deir Ezzor
As Ramadan moves according to the Lunar year, it comes in a different time every year. Once it came after Easter immediately, I was a child in the school. My best friend was the son of my mum’s best friend and neighbor. He was Christian, and his name was Jack. His family wanted him to fast the seven weeks prior to Easter, wherein the faithful abstain from eating eggs, meat, and any dairy or animal products. So, Jack and I made a secret deal in the school: He was eating my cheese sandwiches and cakes, and I was eating his Zaatar sandwiches and the cucumber. For that, he had to bring an extra sandwich, an apple or cake for me in Ramadan as I had to pretend that I was fasting to feel proud in front of my mum and siblings.
Ramadan in Damascus
I was fasting; I loved the idea of being an adult and made it by my decision. It was hard but possible when there were fresh food, water and a half cake in my fridge but I decided to feel the deprivation. In 2011, Jack visited me in Damascus; he was shocked that I was fasting, but respected and showed solidarity. He did not eat or drink water until Iftar., but he smoked in my yard as I was not a smoker. The purpose of his visit to Damascus was to join the daily demonstrations against Al-Assad as after Taraweeh prayers in the evenings. Jack posted on his facebook: “It is the first time I long for Ramadan more than Muslims as we will demonstrate every day not only on Fridays.” He referred to the demonstration that came out of the mosques after the Friday prayers.
Ramadan in Cairo
I used to share an apartment with a belly dancer. She used to work at nights and sleep the whole day. That is why we could not socialize or meet each other in the apartment. But every time we got the chance to meet, she was saying: “We will have plenty of time in Ramadan.” I did not understand what she meant until Ramadan came. Night clubs close their doors in Ramadan in Cairo. Belly dancers and their bands take a vacation. It makes sense; people get stuck in front of the TVs in Ramadan watching Drama and quiz programs. It is also time to tolerance, socializes, and reconnects with your relatives, and this is part of the worships in this month. I was enjoying the fasting with my roommate, cooking together and invite her friends to Iftar, they were belly dancers too. After the sunset, we used to go and sit in a coffee shop at the Nile river and enjoying watching the drama on a big screen with tons of people. Egyptians in Ramadan are watching drama and interact just like football matches.

 

Ramadan in Istanbul
It was easier for my dear Jack to escape to Lebanon instead of Turkey. I missed him in Istanbul. I made Turkish friends, and Ramadan was a serious thing for them. They loved to volunteer to pack the meals in boxes for who needs it. I was helping them on the weekends. A funny thing happened to me once; I am smiling when I write it right now. One day I worked extra hours in Ramadan, and left my office on the Asian side just before a few minutes to the sunset, I had to take the ferry to the European side of the city. For the first time, the queue of people was so long at Karaköy ferry station, I had waited more than 10 minutes, and when I got closer to the station, I found out that it was the queue of students to get Iftar for free. Someone handed me a warm box with a smile. I laughed because the ferry was almost empty when I jumped on it and enjoyed eating my meal inside it, looking at the sunset at the Bosphore.

 

 

Ramadan in Asylum House
Sometimes we end up in surreal places. Places don’t look or feel like anywhere else, and the asylboense is a good example. The asylum seekers celebrated Ramadan with emotions and tears, as we all were remoted and war-torn families. We became closer to each other. I respected the holy atmosphere in the place, and I was taking my coffee and have it somewhere in the forest with a few mates. The kitchen became more organized and cleaner as we all ate at the same time, and the forest looked empty at Iftar time. We were staying all night up, socializing, gathering, singing, we learned more about each other. Our Christian Eritrean mates initiated and invited us to Iftar once; it was the beginning of a new friendship. I got a text message from Jack: “Happy Ramadan, I am thinking to cross the mediterranean sea with my wife.”
Ramadan in Gothenburg
Fasting is fun in Gothenburg; I do feel spoiled, many invitations from friends to Iftar, tables full of the tastiest Syrian dishes, apricot juice, tamarind juice and qatayef filled with pecan or sweet cheese, following by very cozy and intimate talks and playing backgammon in a wooden box paved with shells. All that I mentioned, I used to do it with my family, but in exile, there is always an alternative. I still try to fast but sometimes I cannot, the day is too long for me in Sweden. Like a child, I pretend that I am fasting when one of my sisters calls me. Once she called me, and I told her that I was fasting, but as the Syrian proverb says (Lying rope is short). I accidentally let slip to her and said that I am going to have fika with my friend Jack she interrupted me and ironically said: It’s ok Fika does not spoil the fasting, and my face became red.
This year, my sister texted me: Happy Ramadan Enjoy the fika, my dear brother, I miss you.

 

This article is translated into Swedish and published in Göteborg Posten 

 

Khaled Alesmael

                    “It is not easy to write about integration in Sweden if you would not have the opportunity to integrate” This was what Mizo’s answer when I asked him to write his life and the integration in Sweden as a newcomer. Mizo is 21 years old, he was a student in law at Damascus University. He was sitting in front of me in my kitchen. I could figure that he was in a restless mood. Eventually, he asked my permission to go out to smoke in the yard.

“Mizo had told me how much he felt lonely since he came to Sweden as a gay asylum seeker. He could not integrate with his compatriots in the asylum seekers’ accommodation -The building was located in a small town in woods- Because was unsure if they were homophobic or not. But he was sure that it was better to hide his sexual identity. So, he preferred to be silent and live inside his shell”.

“He left the asylum seekers’ accommodation exactly on the day he was granted his residence permit. Mizo wanted to start a new life in a big city in Sweden -He is keen to integrate- but his first shock was in the Samhälle course at the integration center. The teacher clearly said that she herself does not support the gay people’s rights. Then he added: The teacher is extremely gay, and Mizo gets messages from him on Grinder very often”.

“Regarding the integration center and the job center plan, He tried to start his new life by his own away. He began to attend the city bars and restaurants and look for where the gays people usually meet. Disappointment! Mizo could not build any friendships or bridges with the Swedish gay guys. These types whom dressed fancy and eat in expensive restaurants were not interested in a gay refugee”.

“Another choice here is the apps, where the gay men could be meeting and dating. He was tearful when he said: Many were blocking him or just ignoring after his answer that he is a refugee”.

In ten minutes, Mizo came back after he smoked his cigarette in the yard. He decided not to write an article himself; then he asked me to write what he just told me before.

Khaled Alesmael

This Article published in Swedish in Artikel 14 magazine in Autumn 2016.

           

In our house, everything had a copybook. Beginning with the shopkeeper’s monthly economic book, the provisioning notebook, the family notebook, the salary notebook, the telephone directory and the dictation notebook in my school bag. All these notebooks have the same ending – the nearest falafel shop in the neighborhood. They will use the paper to wrap the roller sandwichs.  Therefore, I decided to throw my papers from my head onto this blog, thus avoiding a fate among frying oils.

The Zurian Mint (Mint from Deir ezzor City)

Time: Elementary school days
Place: Ayyash village

                I learned the real meaning of Zurian mint in the town of Ayyash in Deir ezzor at the banks of the Euphrates river. My family went on a springtime trip along with our neighbors. As soon as she got off the car, our neighbor Um-Samer screamed: “Zurian mint!” I had no idea what she meant or what she wanted. But the scent reminded me of the time I accompanied my mother to the Attarien Market (perfumers’ market).

Um-Samer ran towards the short green plants. She knelt on the ground and gently touched them by her fingers’ heads, then she raised her hand to my mother. My late mother closed her eyes and inhaled while Um-Samer did the same. I could see that it was a like meditation for both of them. Wow! I immediately felt inspired. I rubbed the top of the tiny and soft mint’s leaves with my small hands- and passed them to all my brothers and sisters’ noses. They inhaled the scent and closed their eyes, enjoying it like if it were their first time.  I was a 7 years old kid, exploring the landscape of his hometown.

The trip ended up with the fresh mint tea, it was the best tea I ever had.

The Zurian Cucumber!

Time: Secondary school days.
Place: Our garden.

               Faten…our neighbor’s name. She never felt bored or tired of preparing her dinner with the same daily rituals. As she was listening to the Deri folk music Al Moulaya by the local singer Abdulkader Hennawy. Faten tried to compete with him as she was singing louder than the sound of music. Sometimes her voice overcomes his. I’m sitting at my study table in our garden and secretly cursing Faten. Blocking my ears by my earphones and get back to my books. I had been a student of Bacaloria.

But Faten insists on interrupting me and blurring my thoughts. She is cutting the cucumbers. The smell of the sliced Zurian cucumbers descends from the first floor into our garden, sneaking into my stomach and tickling it. Oh…. The same evening scene is over again. I close my book and take my earphones off the table, and without a host, I head to the kitchen, I grab a cucumber, in the same size of my finger, from the fridge and bite it. As usual, the white goat cheese is a good company with the cucumber on a soft fresh piece “Ragheef” of bread.

Baby Aubergine!

Time: High school days
Place: Vegetable’s seller

All women gather at the vegetable’s shops in Deir ezzor, all are waiting for the mini trucks loaded with baby aubergine to come from the countryside.
It is makdous’ time and aubergine’s jam. That’s why women race to get this kind of aubergine – they can brag by stacking their transparent glass jars full of makdous and jam on their kitchen shelves.

My role in this competition is to carrying the big bags of the aubergine and walking behind my mother. And all that happens before seven o’clock in the morning.

Deir Ezzor Okra!

Time: University days.
Place: Damascus University.

The official identity of the Deir ezzor cuisine is okra. It differs to any other okra farms in Syria –in shape and taste- and people from other provinces crave for it. My friends’ mothers in Damascus always asked me to bring Okra for her when I travel to Deir ezzor.

A press conference about okra at the University:

Colleague 1: Why do you eat okra a lot?
Me: Because it’s tasty.
Colleague 2: I heard that you don’t fry the okra before cooking… is that right?
Me: Yes.
Wired Colleague: Do you eat okra by hand?
Me (confidently): Yes.
Colleague 4: will you initiate a festival for okra like the tomatoes’ festival in Spain?
Me: why not.

Then I walk to my flat in Damascus. Taking a frozen bag of okra out the freezer, my mother sent it to me from Deir Exxor. I cook it with fresh tomatoes, eat it all and having a short nap, exactly like the people in my hometown do.

Deir ezzor Okra makes me proud.

Deir Ezzor’ vegetables’ syndrome

Khaled Alesmael

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

http://www.leopardforlag.se/bok/selamlik/

”Det är inte lätt att skriva om integration i Sverige, om du inte har haft möjlighet att integreras.” Det är vad en ung syrisk kille svarade mig när jag bad honom att skriva ner sin berättelse om hur han integrerats i Sverige. Han är 22 år gammal, var juridikstudent vid Damaskus universitet och kom till Sverige för två år sedan. Han blev orolig och rastlös av min fråga och bad om tillåtelse att gå ut för att röka på gården.

Han hade redan berättat för mig hur ensam han kände sig sedan han kom till Sverige. Som homosexuell kunde han inte integreras med sina landsmän i asylboendet som låg i en liten skog. Inte för att de var homofober men han vågade inte lita på deras reaktioner. Så han föredrog att vara ensam.

När han beviljades sitt uppehållstillstånd var han upphetsad över att lämna asylboendet. Nu började hans nya liv i Göteborg. Han chockades när hans lärare på integrationscentrum, under avsnittet ”samhälle och HBTQ” berättade för gruppen att hon inte höll med den svenska lagstiftning som garanterar HBTQ-personers rättigheter. ”Men, det här är Sverige och det här är lagen”, sade hon.

Han försökte istället starta sitt nya liv på sitt eget sätt, bortom alla dessa integrationsprogram, som han beskrev dem. Han började gå till gaybarer och restauranger, men han byggde inte broar och fann inga vänner. De välklädda och välbeställda som gick till dessa tjusiga restauranger var inte intresserade av en homosexuell flykting som honom.

Han lärde sig om Grindr och andra appar. Appar där man som homosexuell kunde träffas och dejta, men hans ögon tårades när han berättade att de flesta män blockerade honom eller ignorerade hans meddelanden när de fick reda på att han kom från Syrien. Han träffade inga svenskar där, bara tillfälliga besökare eller andra invandrare.

Han kom tillbaka efter att ha avslutat sin cigarett. Sa till mig att han inte skulle kunna skriva om sina erfarenheter och att jag redan kände till hans berättelse. Så bad han mig istället berätta för er. Och i hans ögon läste jag: Frågetecken? Utropstecken!

Khaled Alesmael

published 30/09/2016