The first time I met Mohamad was in a garden in Greece. He squatted to show the wild garlic he had planted. He pulled up two slender dark green leaves and handed me one to taste. Orange netting encircled the patch of bared soil in the hope of keeping boars out. He scrolled through pictures of his five sons on his phone, and his face flushed with pride. I was shocked to learn he and I were the same age.
The second time I met Mohamad was in a hotel in Ireland. He told me that when his sixth son Yousef was born, the taxi driver who took them to the hospital snuck him a congratulatory bottle of Jameson afterwards. So a few nights later I snagged the opportunity to take him for his first Guinness. We stuck out like sore thumbs at the Marine Bar, the busy local pub with nightly trad music. The accordion player by the fireplace stopped when we sat at an empty table, and an older woman against the wall sang out alone in the sudden silence. Everyone nodded into their beers as she drew out each word slowly of the story of a young boy’s first broken heart.
When she finished, an old man pounced on me from the bar, pointing his finger, “Have you a song in your heart then?” My face flushed, and every part of me wanted to say yes, but I haven’t conquered that shyness yet. So he turned his finger to Mohamad who pointed back unexpectedly. The man gaped in astonishment, then shouted, “I know you!” Mohamad beamed back, “I know you!”
The third time I met Mohamad was in the garden in his backyard. His greenhouse had tamed Ireland’s wild unstoppable greenness into neat rows of flourishing vegetables. Mohamad squatted to pick garlic and his sons moved through plucking weeds. When I left, Yousef waved.
