Fawaz's family were very proud of him living in Australia and married to an Australian. They imagined the land of koalas and kangaroos to be populated with wealthy people and that their son was one of them. Little did they know that we were just average wage earners with a mortgage and children to care for. We took out a second mortgage on our mountain brick veneer home to finance our trip and rented both upstairs and downstairs. The money left over after our mortgage was paid each month was more than enough to live comfortably and help the family build onto their two roomed home.
Fawaz's father Aziz was an honest, kind man and very learned. When he was in his teens the local Greek Orthodox priest had taught him to read and write in Arabic. He was always reading and had many stories from the past to tell his children. His wise advice was welcomed by the townsfolk. They used to go to him to mediate between family disputes or to help with their many and varied problems. It wasn't unusual to see him sitting outside his home in winter with a blanket over his legs and wearing his favouite galabeya covered with his black sheepskin bedouin cape.
His friends would come and join him and arabic coffee was in endless supply.
There was an understanding between Aziz and Fawaz that whenever Fawaz returned to settle in Syria, then the house that he had built and paid for would be signed over to him. Aziz agreed to do that so Fawaz started building a further four rooms downstairs for his family and a second storey which was to be our part of the house.
The steel columns and cement brick walls had started to take shape and everyone was excited to see the gradual emergence of a new family home.
Unbenownst to Fawaz, his father was taking advise from family members and friends urging him to keep the house in his name. When the documents were ready and waiting to be signed by Aziz, he broke the news to Fawaz that he wasn't going to sign them. Fawaz was devastated, he felt betrayed and used and a huge argument ensured and we moved out of the unfinished building which we no longer called home.
The huge yellow 1960's taxi arrived at ten o'clock that night and we piled into it with our only worldly possessions and then it dawned on me that the life I had envisioned for my family in this once hospitable house was gone and our future uncertain. It brought back memories from the past and my stomach ached as I clung to my two sleepy children. We drove easterly into the pitch black of the mountain range and towards the Meditteranean seaside city of Lattakia.

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