The summer school break that followed that night on the rooftop when I had my very first cigarette, was full of smoking. Almost everyday I smoked a cigarette. Of course, none of us could afford to buy a whole pack for themselves. That’s why, we used to buy single cigarettes for ten Lebanese cents from Abu George the owner of the cafe where we used to hang out to play on the pinball machines (or flippers, pre-video games). Sometimes we shared the cigarettes we bought with each of us taking puffs in turns. I was getting addicted slowly. Believe me, cigarettes tasted so delicious in Lebanon, and I do not know why. In Canada, the brands I was familiar with, like Winstons, Marlboro and Kent did not taste the same, even though I still enjoyed them.
By then, I was an addict already. And nobody in my family knew. I have already told you how in my first summer in Toronto, I used to buy a pack, smoke a few and then throw it away so my parents would not find out about my smoking. I used to sometimes also smoke in the bathroom at home before taking a shower. I would turn on the hot shower, let it run making a lot of steam and I would smoke a cigarette before taking a shower. I was convinced the steam would neutralize the tobacco smell. One day I smoked so quickly, and the steam was so much that I almost fainted. My head was turning and I almost threw up. I quickly unlocked the door and threw myself out for fresh air. My brother Hratch was there, and he understood what I had been doing. He found out I smoked. Nothing happened of course because he was an easy-going man and he himself was a smoker too.
But Middle Eastern culture is such that smoking in front of parents or older siblings is seen as disrespect and I had to continue being a secret smoker. My brothers had no problem about my habit. It was easy. But I was afraid my parents would be very angry even though they had been liberal about many things that other typical Armenian parents had problems with. Eventually though, I found out the extent of their liberalism when they discovered my smoking habit. The story about my father’s discovery of my smoking is funny compared to the one with my mother.
At a wedding reception one day, I was standing with a group of men waiting for the wedding couple to arrive. I was maybe 18 or so. My father, some older family friends and my two brothers and I were all chatting in fun. Then my father took out his pack of cigarettes to smoke. He first offered a cigarette to each one in the group, but when he came to me, he skipped and offered it to the next person. I was in a good mood and suddenly I said in a teasing way, ‘You forgot me’! He turned around and laughing said, ‘Vay alçak vay’ (ah you rascal you). And there I was wondering why he keeps a box of matches in his jacket pocket?’ Hearing this, I answered. ‘And what were you looking for in my jacket pocket anyways?’ to which everybody blew up laughing. With that, he took out a cigarette out of his pack and offering it to me, he said, ‘Alright then! Let me even light it for you’. And he extended his lit lighter towards me. That broke the ice and from that day on, I felt comfortable to smoke in front of him.
The story about how my mother found out that I smoked had a different tone to it than the one with my father. The first year we had moved to Toronto, on coming home from school one day, I was introduced to a young man called Arsen. Apparently, he was the son of a distant relative of my mother. Some other relatives in Aleppo had given him our address and he had arrived without notice. He was to stay with us for a while. I liked him even though I had never met him before. After all, I was still fresh and unspoiled by North American culture and formalities…A relative was someone you naturally liked even if he had fallen from the sky suddenly. He was the silent kind and looked very sad. That night I was told by mother that Arsen had come to Toronto looking for his wife. Apparently, his wife had ran away with someone to North America. He did not know which city exactly, but he had decided to start with Toronto because he had us as relatives. For me, even at age 16, that was inconceivable…he did not even know which country she had gone to, the States or Canada, never mind which city. How could someone think of finding his wife who could be anywhere in North America. Nevertheless, I felt for his loss and in the week, he stayed with us, I spent every day with him taking him everywhere I went and making contacts for him with all our relatives in Toronto, Montreal and New York. We became friends and very attached. I did not see it as an obligation…he needed help and we were the only ones that could help.
To keep the story short, at the end of the week we had found that his wife was in Montreal and finally on a Saturday afternoon I took him to the bus terminal and he left to meet one of our cousins in Montreal who had found his wife’s whereabouts. That afternoon my mother and I were so sad after he left. At home we sat together and talked endlessly about Arsen and his sad destiny. We cried a bit and laughed a bit but overall, we had both gotten attached to him in that one week. At one point, I was so sad that I felt I needed a cigarette. My mother had been smoking nonstop. So, I said to her, ‘Mom, I think I need a cigarette too’ and grabbing her pack, I took a cigarette and lit it. She just said, ‘Smoke my son, smoke…maybe you will feel better’. That was it. She had no qualms about it.
Sometimes I miss my old self from my youth. I miss that instinctive and spontaneous compassion towards people that comes out without any reasoning or judgement...simply reaching out to people in need or in dire straits. Not because it is a duty but because without knowing, your heart aches for them. Years have passed since my youth, and my soul has changed slowly. Now evaluating and questioning a stranger’s situation comes to the front before that unconditional human compassion hidden inside us. Many of us, including myself, have become sadly enough, a bunch of cynics and skeptics.
