Sojourning Clouds

Smoke, Memories, and Narghile

I've often heard the claim, “Smoking hookah for one hour is the equivalent of an entire package of cigarettes.” This refrain has echoed hundreds of times from friends, family, and even the occasional stranger who felt the need to dispense unsolicited advice for my well-being. In the community where I grew up in North Florida, it was frowned upon, especially for a young Christian. Some saw it as an act of rebellion. I recall a particular Christian summer camp where an invited youth pastor fervently warned a room packed with teenagers - all awash in Axe body spray and adolescent hormones - about the dangers of the "cursed pipe."

But for me, smoking hookah has always symbolized a story, a laugh, a cry, or even a momentary vision of a better future. This centuries-old water pipe, native to the Middle East, Africa, and South Asia, is steeped in myth and legend. Also known as the Shisha pipe or nargheela, western travelers often indulge while vacationing in the Middle East, and might even purchase a pipe as a souvenir, nestled between their smokh (an Arab traditional scarf) and a wooden camel figurine with a “made in China” sticker underneath.

The hookah is an indelible hallmark of life across the Middle East. In the cultural tapestries of Syria, Lebanon, Jordan, Palestine, and the Arab Gulf, it's a revered tradition. As the sun dips in Jordan, young men, their hair slicked back and gleaming, congregate at picturesque vantage points, their hands wrapped around cups of aromatic street coffee and their lips drawing from the hookah. Meanwhile, the Arab elders fill the cozy interiors of coffee houses, puffing shisha and strategizing over games of tawila, a local iteration of backgammon. When space becomes scarce, they seamlessly migrate to sidewalks or quiet lanes, establishing impromptu salons of smoke and camaraderie. And as dusk envelops the highways, you'd spot families - a tableau of togetherness - lounging on the sidelines, the elders with their shisha, and the young ones darting playfully around.

At 18, amidst the labyrinthine alleys of eastern Amman, I took my first tentative puff of a hookah. That summer, having moved to Jordan and immersed myself in teaching English, I wrestled with the nuances of Arabic. An early Jordanian friend believed in immersion over traditional "reading and reciting" methods. He championed experiential learning, leading me to a local coffee shop. "Tafahtayn (two apples)," he instructed the waiter, a nod to a cherished local flavor. What arrived was a piece of art: a copper pipe, hammered to a shine, its rubber hose snaking out. Atop sat a clay bowl, its aluminum foil crown shimmering as twin coconut coals simmered, coaxing clouds from the dense tobacco beneath. The scent was intoxicating - a bouquet of apples laced with hints of charred licorice. Though initially apprehensive, I surrendered to the enticing aroma. It was no love at first taste – watermelon mint would later claim that title – but the experience was ethereal. The gentle mist felt like a second breath. My exhale danced with those of seasoned smokers, forging an unspoken camaraderie in the hazy room.

The hookah, for me, became more than just a pastime – it was a gateway into the soul of the Middle East. Over the course of 13 enriching years in the region, it seamlessly wove together a tapestry of faces, both familiar and new. My initiation into Arabic took place amidst these gatherings, where eager friends and random strangers jostled, often in jest, to introduce me to a new word or two. My lexicon blossomed, sprinkled with colloquialisms, tender endearments, words that blush the cheeks, and those that carry the weight of honor and benedictions. The very essence of my speech, from my accent to my dad-like humor, bore the imprint of countless hours, deep in conversation, under the aromatic canopy of shisha smoke.

As I delved deeper into the Arabic language and navigated my career, the essence of the hookah ritual remained unchanging, even as faces, settings, and conversations evolved. In the wake of the Arab Spring, the wisps of smoke became the backdrop to fervent discussions, with friends dreaming aloud of new opportunities and brighter futures for their homelands. The ripples of the Syrian civil war, just north of Jordan, added layers of complexity to these dialogues. What began as optimistic tales of newfound hope and burgeoning opportunities in Syria gradually transformed. As the years rolled on, optimism was overshadowed by heart-wrenching accounts of atrocities, loss, and the profound pain of a nation in turmoil.

As years went by, my personal and professional tapestry grew intricately woven with the region's ever-shifting narratives, Syria's plight looming large. Amidst the turmoil of a nation fragmenting and the deaths of hundreds of thousands, the shisha pipe transformed from a mere pastime to a crucible for strategy and response. Over the sweet smell of watermelon mint, I would pour over maps with colleagues and humanitarian activists, mapping every jot and tittle of the military landscape to assess the scale of displacement and needs to respond to the growing crisis. Time and again, our gatherings would bear witness to Syria's tumultuous epoch: the menacing ascent of ISIS, harrowing chemical onslaughts, the melancholic descents of Aleppo and Dara’a, Raqqa's eventual liberation, the dire blockades at Rukban, and even the tremors that shook Türkiye one fateful February.

The hookah has been a witness to not just solemn moments but also moments of pure joy and discovery. Nestled within the sprawling deserts of eastern Jordan, amidst timeworn Roman ruins, my friends and I would indulge in shisha. There, surrounded by a vast expanse of boulders, we pursued our archaeological quest, chronicling long-forgotten inscriptions. In the serene heart of the Jordanian countryside, a friend and his wife, over gentle plumes of smoke, shared the joyful news of their impending parenthood. Years later, despite a quarter-century of distance and time, the shisha pipe reconnected me with long-lost kin, bridging the gaps of both time and memory.

The hookah presents a peculiar juxtaposition: a pleasure that, in overindulgence, carries risk, yet also serves as the backdrop to myriad profound life moments. To me, the hookah is an enchanting blend of a time machine and a communal tent. Within its swirling mists, one journeys through history's pivotal episodes, simultaneously etching personal milestones. It's a haven where souls converge, to exchange stories, to share laughter and tears, to recite poetry, sing age-old songs, and to dream aloud of a brighter tomorrow. Within its embrace, every participant, irrespective of their walks of life, merges into a shared essence with each exhale, becoming part of a timeless collective ritual.

By Jesse Marks