KHALDOON OF JORDAN

KHALDOON OF JORDAN

 

Part 1- The meeting

 I met him for the first time in a sculpture atelier in an old street in Vienna. He provoked and annoyed  me from the first seconds. However, I felt that beyond my irritation, something connected us. At first glance I saw him as arrogant, sophisticated and very unusual. I wanted to leave but something stopped me, a curiosity...an intuition... urging me to give him a chance. Somehow I knew him...we recognized each other on the soul level. My soul knew him... Somehow I understood him, although he spoke differently. The look was stern, authoritative with a playful twinkle hard to detect. I was very cautious ... He asked me to meet him later. I accepted. He wanted us to work together on a project.

Later that afternoon he was waiting for me with a platter of cheese, bread and wine. He told me about a dream of his... a book about bread!

He showed me some paintings and photos of and about bread, told me some stories about the meaning and symbolism of breaking and sharing  bread in different cultures of the world. I have never heard anyone speak with such passion and reverence about bread. If at the beginning of the discussion I found it interesting, now I was absolutely fascinated.

He asked me if I do have any story connected to bread.  I remembered Lelly, my beautiful late sister... and the bread I shared with her on the last day of her life... I was telling him the story and my voice had a strange echo. I was living the pain and the love and the longing for her as I was telling him...I watched him! He was crying! My story was also his. He also had a sister with whom he shared a piece of bread once... a long time ago. A sister that he still carries in his heart with a pain that overwhelms him every time. I did not know! But he knew... much more than he was saying.

He asked me to write down what I told him, telling me that he would use my story in his book... I hoped that I would be able to put my experience into words... but I didn't believe him. Probably because I didn't believe in myself.

In an awe I was thinking of a man who restored dozens of hundreds of years old buildings in the beautiful city of Al Fuheis, who preserved the spiritual heritage of  worship places in  his birth town , a visionary, a painter who painted for the sake of painting and love for colors, who orchestrated workshops with people who got healed through painting and art... he... was interested in my story.

I  wrote... thinking that bread has no enemies... and it is a symbol of life.

Later that night I met his sister who became my sister too...

Part 2 –  The revelation journey

The days passed... we talked in passing, life, work, the tumult of responsibilities kept me away, but I reflected... somehow I saw myself in him, a braver, more mature, more confident me, freed from my own my limitations ...and fears.

I was constantly pissed ... but a curiosity that I could hardly hide urged me to observe him, to understand him... to be patient. I became a hunter...Or so I thought.

Sometimes when I met him he was like different person. I thought I know him, yet didn't know him at all. This Khaldoon was a stranger, yet in his stern and dreamy gaze I saw a child, a child I knew. He was a man who kept his heart  and the inner child alive. He let the child to grow, to rebeliously create...fearless . I was in awe.

A man of extraordinary modesty, simplicity , complexity , a dreamer ... and yet a man of action. A Man whose gaze hid universes, mysteries... and so much light.

I was trying to understand why it's hard for me to believe what he says... why people find it hard to understand him... Everything seemed too simple, too achievable, too out of the ordinary. It scared me... and I liked it.

Sometimes what he said seemed  just a simple story, as if it was a phantasmagoric world that he was describing, yet always turned out to be true .

A businessman and a child with fingers full of paints and colors, a father, husband, grandfather... but a child... So complex!

Through this observation  the Artist was revealed to me , a Khaldoon who roamed with his mind unusual  paths, unwalked places, lives and spaces hard to reach for the common man. A MAN free from fears, customs and rules. A MAN who lives by a code of honor,  hard to find  these days.

Today's people  run after the wind, reap the storm, forget  to live, to love, to reflect, to admire the beautiful... Today's man finds guilty, punishes, judges, looks for the ugly and the bad, hides full of fear in the superficial and appearances , to have a justification for his own actions or for not acting . But not Khaldoon. Nooo. Not him.

With diligence , Khaldoon followed  behaviors and emotions.... From what seemed flawed... he extracted uniqueness... through painting, photography and word. Where it looked ugly... like a magicians, with a touch of his mind and fingers he hastily scribbled an idea, an emotion, a look... he highlighted the ugly turning it into beautiful... paradoxically .. who can define what beautiful is?

The world will be saved only through love, art and beauty!

(Take me back to innocence oohh Master ... Teach me how to see... Somewhere along the way, I lost myself. Help me find myself...Hmm...)

Khaldoon observed with the skill of an Apache every trace, moods, state of mind, ... he hunted for emotions and feelings, which he collected on his fingertips which he dipped in paint and moved on the canvas in an explosion of color, an explosion that aroused a storm of senses and feelings for every viewer capable of deep contemplation.

Sometimes instead of a painting I heard a song..., instead of an image, I saw a movie... and instead of Man, I saw a raging god in the pain of delivery... somewhere at the beginning of creation. I noticed how he carried on the arpeggios of his own melody a simple moment that became art! As if from his own Olympus dripped into our rusty and worn cups, a drop of the divine... That's how I discovered the MASTER.

I became  a hunter... walking silently behind him to understand what he sees, what he feels, what worlds he roams through... what is real... what will be.

After a while I saw... he was a man of faith in action! Or of action by faith... What the great motivational masters wrote in thousands of books, what they said in hundreds of seminars, this MAN instinctively transpose it to reality. What the Holy Book says so simply "talk about things that are not, as if they are". That's what he was doing. He had discovered a great secret of the Universe. The common people, the people used to see in order to believe and because they didn't see yet... they thought he was only a sweet tongue or dream. And he dreamed... but not at night dream  in his slumber like most of us do, but with his eyes wide open... meticulously arranging  a new story...

He left Vienna, I stayed in the same work-struggle- dream rhythm, somehow hoping that something will change, something is about to happen. I didn't know what... but in the fearful depths of  darkness I was hoping for a ray of light...

Months passed by and  I didn't hear anything from him... I met his children, his family, sometimes I talked to them, but I didn't ask anything about him. I was thinking that he forgot everything we talked about, everything he promised. Doubts...maybe my story in the Book of Bread won't ever  be published either...Ehhh...at least I tried….

Part 3 - Evry

It was late.. cold autumn evening...the only time I forgot to turn off my phone. Suddenly I am woken up from my slumber by the sound of my phone ring ... "life is life... la la la lala"... it was a number from France... I picked: Khaldoon... Come to Paris. Tomorrow...whaaat? I had tried to blurt out a couple of pathetic excuses such as work and responsibilities... but I already knew that I was going. Something urged me to discover the soul secrets of this man... to see who he really is... what he is after... Somehow I sensed that the Master was putting me to work... Next day I took a flight to Paris. He left me an sms.. "when you get to Paris take the train to Evry... you'll find me at the hotel on the corner opposite the post office" . That’s it. I try to call... the phone is closed...I felt lost. I rushed to Gare de Lyon... took the train to Evry. Little did I know that there are three places with the same name. I arrive in Evry val de Seine, a small, charming village on the waterside of Seine River ... but... no hotel, nor post office. I was looking for someone to help me, no one spoke English .The little French a I knew was from the movies with Luis de Funes. I had never spoken this language to anyone before. With a wiggling walk , two black women appear on the street. I ask them in English for direction, but they only spoke French. I fumbled in my unpracticed French and they kindly directed me to the city, to Evry Courcouronnes... where I could get more information. Here I am with my backpack walking for a few kilometers along watersides of Seine to the bus station. On heels.. imagine... Struggling in French I asked the bus driver for directions to the city, he understood me and was ready to help. After a while we arrived. I was thanking him for kindness ... and as I get off the bus, I saw the hotel. Disappointed, I saw that no one was waiting for me, and at the reception they didn't know where he was. I went out in the street, a man ran after me, asked my name is...and handed me an envelope and left. I open the envelope. A note: "Your room is 233, I'll call you later to have lunch together" . In a short while, the phone rang. It was KhaldoonI … as was very pissed I wanted to make drama but... I couldn’t. It was like he would be immune to any bad energy. His mind was always somewhere else... My pride was dented. We decided to have lunch on a sunny terrace from where I lost myself in contemplating the stunning, unique cathedral that stood in front of us. His voice suddenly woke me from contemplation "let’s go meet a friend of mine... great, great artist. I finished my lunch in a hurry and left the place. We stopped for a few minutes at the cathedral, we went down to the basement just as the Holy communion was taking place. It was as if he was disconnected from reality. An act of holiness. It didn't even occur to us to refuse the bread when the priest came to us. In the silent chords of "Adoremus Dominus " we left in silence... with a state of piety and reverence in soul.

 

Part 4 - Baghoury

We walked along some small streets... and ended up in front of a garage. The door opened... and we entered in a very nice and cozy place. The smell of paints … and hundreds of works hanging everywhere.. A friendly, cheerful and funny old man welcomes us with a big smile. With amazing energy he spins around, grabs a bottle of champagne, opens it with a festive mood... in honor of his friends. George Baghoury... Egyptian-French artist... now in his 90s... He asked my permission to make a sketch ... he wanted to paint me ... he wanted to give me the painting as a gift. I was honored. He asked us to let him work for a few hours and meet for dinner. I wandered through the rain to the hotel. I wanted to rest a little. I felt overwhelmed by this new world. I literally threw myself on the bed, and in the sweet sounds of church bells, with a feeling that something was about to happen...I fell asleep. I was woken up by the phone, it was Khaldoon at the reception, he was waiting for me to go to dinner with Baghoury. In a few minutes I was off to go. Here we are in a square with small bodegas, coquettes cafes overcrowded. We entered a Jordanian restaurant, where a real feast awaited us... delicacies artistically arranged on the tables gathered in the middle of the room. Although we were the first to arrive, the small room immediately filled up, and the cheerful Baghoury entered waving a painting. He kissed me loudly on the cheeks three times according to the French custom and gave me the painting with a joking air. I kept quiet...he had discovered another "me"! A me without worries, without fears, without pain... It was the first time that I missed me... me... my innocence, the times with no worries. With a joyful noise we all ate, people of all ages, colors, status, ,… children, elderly, poets, writers, artists and porters… all like a big family. Towards midnight, to the rhythms of some old Arabic songs, I retired, leaving the artists to speak... In the morning, the rising sun and the sound of the cathedral bells woke me up. It was early. I packed my bag and went down to reception ready to wait for Khaldoon. I was very surprised when I saw his luggage and then him walking outside. I thought I was the only morning person... He gave me a hug and asked me if I was ready to go.

Part 5- love story between two train station - Sarah

 He suggested to take a train from Paris to Vienna. I happily agreed... We were looking for Gare de Lyon, from where we should take the train to Vienna, a few hours later. We left our luggage at the station and wandered around a bit. We got a and a plate of tabouli and kebab from a Lebanese street food shop . As in Khaldoon's paintings full of explosions of color, I had an explosion of new tastes... absolutely delicious... divine and addictive. I enjoyed it in silence. Then, we took a walk on the Seine promenade and visited the Botanical Garden. Ohhh... what explosion of colors... what autumn! The leaves were dancing carried by gentle breeze. The smell of wet earth, grass, dry leaves and late autumn flowers filled my nostrils, taking me back to my childhood... when i wasn't afraid to walk barefoot or have tears of earth ... Khaldoon seemed always distracted, deepened in thoughts or visualizing new projects . At one point I even thought he didn't even notice how beautiful the garden was. But he saw it...And he didn't just see, he lived, breathed at unison with autumn. For me "Carpe Diem" was a slogan, a wishful thought , for him...a life style. It was time to go to the train station. Khaldoon took something out of the suitcase... there were some flat bread, that he painted.. Photograph them... Then got on the train... I expected it to be a comfortable train... but until Basel we ended up in a small, narrow and crowded carriage, full of all kinds of people: an Indian couple on their honeymoon trying to catch a conversation with whoever was there available to talk or at least listen; two old Italians talking loudly; a Chinese guy, a Turkish family with many children, an elderly lady with exuberant make-up and fake curls and... Sarah! Our seats were right at the entrance to the carriage, in a compartment with 6 seats, Khaldoon at the window... facing Sarah, me in the middle facing the old woman, and the Indians on the sides. The places were so uncomfortable, the people noisy, only Khaldoon was observing Sarah quietly through the window reflection. And I was watching them both. Sarah was a beautiful , sensual and attractive young woman. I thought of her as Samson's Delilah. She had a dark long hair, olive skin shade, big brown eyes with long eyelashes, covered by some glasses, a bit too big for her beautiful face... but in fashion.. She wore a blue flowered shirt, rolled up to her elbows , revealing her hands covered in a dark fine hair that Khaldoon noticed immediately. His gaze lingered on her hands for a long time. Her long fingers with long red polished nails, fascinated Khaldoon, as well her perfect, full, beautifully contoured red lips. He watched her for a long time in silence... he watched her in the reflection of the glass... like a lion on hunting ... He was patient... And smiling. We talk to her and found out that she goes to visit her boyfriend, that she is an student of Arts in Paris, that her father is Algerian, and that her passion is painting. Coincidence? I don’t think so! Suddenly Khaldoon got up, went to the end of the wagon where to our luggage, took out from there a huge book "Jordanube"... an exquisite art book, with poetry a book of culture, elegance, finesse and refinement. He sat down tactfully in front of Sarah, opened the book and began to show her some of the paintings in there that bore his signature. I could see Khaldoon lighting up, the flames in his eyes starting to burn. Passion... Sarah, took the book and start watching it slowly…page after page. Every time Khaldoon's name came up, she gently touched the name and painting with her fingertips and looked at Khaldoon for a long time under the frames of her glasses. She would throw her hair back, arranging it with her fingers, then pin it in a twist in bun on the top of her head. She provoke him. And he loved it. She repeated the gesture every few pages. He pretended not to notice, that he was too busy with the scene unfolding at as train rolled on, but he had his eyes on her, in the reflection of the window... I think that for a moment, he fell in love with Sara, with her beauty, femininity and gentleness ...of her soul...It was as if I saw in their minds, both Khaldoon's and Sara's, a movie, a story... a game... a love story between two train stations... And I, a witness to an insight …what an experience... He promised her that he would paint her... that I would write about her. The girl came down after about two hours, but not before exchanging contact addresses, to communicate later.

Part 6 – St.Luis

Everything went smoothly until one station before Basel, about four policemen in uniform and two in civilian, entered our carriage. They went directly to the Chinese, asked for his documents and briefly interrogated him. The Chinese, with a cheeky, arrogant and with anger  asked them to show their badges, which they did, this is how I understood that the two civilians were from Interpol. They spoke in German, with a strong Swiss accent, but I understood that this Chinese came from Canada and was returning to Zurich, where he had a rented an apartment... but I didn't understand why they were looking for him and what the problem was . I let  my imagination free, thinking of with conspiracies, triads, mafia... But the Chinese is another story...

We arrived in Basel... a corridor of policemen greeted us, they carried the Chinese...

It was getting dark. We were unsuccessful of finding a place for the night, as we decided to interrupt our journey in Basel. We were going to go to Vienna the next morning. There was an important tennis tournament going on in Basel, so we had to take a taxi and go back to France, to St Louis.

We found a cute place close to the border. At the reception we listened to the story of Alsace and Lorraine. We had dinner and then walked a little through  the narrow streets of St.Louis. We talked ...Khaldoon had Sarah on his mind. Nostalgic... Deep... and I, I was  a witness of a love story between two  train stations...

 

Part 7 – To Vienna

The night passed quickly, the warm rays of the sun woke me before my alarm rang. I opened the window, inhaling deeply the fresh autumn air. I got ready for the road and went down to the lobby. After a few minutes, Khaldoon appeared with his huge suitcase, we called a taxi and we headed  for the station. We took the train to Zurich, from where we  changed trains to Vienna, but not before arming ourselves heavily with delicious  croissants and black coffee. In train we were silent. We were looking out the window at the incredible view unfolding before our eyes.

The Swiss Alps...followed by the Austrian Alps...huge mountains, bare rocks hidden in the fluffy white clouds that floated lazily on the sky of incredible blue...Forests that lost their green, turned to multicolored forests that looked like  a hastily thrown cloak, covering the mountains picks that poked the horizon line.

Here and there a small village with wooden houses, free animals  in the pastures...people minding  their business in peace...as if they had all the time in the world. How I envied them and that ancestral peace. As if they were cut out  of time…

Khaldoon was enjoying the view, savoring every detail, recording everything in a silence disturbed only by the creaking of the rails and the cadence of the train wheels.

I had that feeling that binds twins, a belief that we came from the same group of souls, that he was a kind of older brother, a kind of twin brother but more mature... Difficult to explain.

I was looking out the window, running for a while with the clouds, reflecting on what happened during the last two days, sometimes writing down a thought, and reading "The manuscript from Accra " by Coelho... I had time...

The journey took about twelve hours, in which if I spoke to Khaldoon once, is much to say. He was in his own world. Sometimes he would "come down" to us mundane, he would start up a conversation with those around him, either with a retired couple who wanted to visit Vienna, or with a former army colonel who had initially had an aversion to Khaldoon but Khaldoon turned the situation in an happy ending with jokes and laughter… and a glass of wine.It was fascinating to see how he turned the energy. I observed them from a distance, enjoying a cup of coffee in the dining wagon. Khaldoon was either dreamy, reserved and in another world, or he was so present that he caught all attention.

I saw him sketching something on a paper... it was Sarah. He was still thinking about her…

I had finished reading the book when I arrived in Vienna. My  thoughts were swirling around everything I experienced in this short time.

We parted at the train station, agreeing to meet each other the following days, yet years have passed since then. I have not seen him again that time . Of course I knew it was good. But I always felt a sweet-painful connection that scared me.

 

Part 8 – The Book

Some evenings ago  I got a call from  Khaldoon.

He visited his children in Italy. He wanted to take the plane home and made a stop  Vienna.

He told me that at the reception of the hotel  where he was staying, he was going to leave something for me, and asked me to  get it  next day. Doing so, I asked at the reception if there was  a package for me.  They handed me the package and there it was  : THE BOOK OF BREAD.

I was stunned  for a moment, then I ran out the door, I looked for a place to sit...I leafed through the book. What I had written was printed... and... my name was at the end of it ...

Khaldoon had told me the truth… Only now have I understood the value of this man, of extraordinary modesty and simplicity, a man who chose to transform excruciating pain into exquisite art, a man who chose to lift others up, give them value... a man who of what it was imperfect and cast out,or rejected... he made a masterpiece... a rebel... a soul full of light... a flame that consumes itself and is reborn every time stronger, brighter and cleaner.

Part 9 –  The Note

In the book I  found a piece of paper:

"I grew up in Jordan... I walked barefoot  on the dry land promising myself that when I grow up... I will walk on all the waters of the world...

I've deepen my feet  the waters of  Jordan river ... I set my feet in the Danube... from west to east and from east to west I always searched...

I followed the waters...smooth or turbulent...birds and deer  have accompanied me, I was alone...and with God...or rather God  was always with me...

I walked the big cities, the small villages... eternal traveler was I... looking for myself...

I was in your country... in my world... and in the worlds of others... always searching…

One day  I found you on an ancient street in Vienna... And when I found you... I found me. I finally  got home. I saw myself in the mirror... the heavens opened and I was no longer afraid... I am no longer alone... There is  another  "I"... "me"... that understands.

Maybe the Danube carried you up and down...

And when I found you… I found myself… and  I found  Him, The Eternal Flame of Love…  the Grand  Master who  allowed me to see a ray of His Light…

And you are the Mirror…”

As I finished reading, I  humbly whispered: "and you are the MASTER"

Silence! I have words no more. Just gratitude.

Thank you Khaldoon, Khaldoon of Jordan.

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