Peace by Chocolate

The Hadhad Family's Remarkable Journey from Syria to Canada

Jon Tattrie

• Publisher: Goose Lane Editions
• Year: 2020
• ISBN:
  9781773101903
• Topic: Business
• Subtopic: Business Biographies
• Index: Business

Finalist, Dartmouth Book Award for Non-Fiction, and Taste Canada Awards (Culinary Narratives)
Nominated for 3 Gourmand Awards
An Atlantic Bestseller
A Hill Times Top 100 Selection February 2016. Antigonish, Nova Scotia.

Tareq Hadhad was worried about his father: Isam did not know what to do with his life. Before the war began in Syria, Isam had run a chocolate company for over twenty years. But that life was gone now. The factory was destroyed, and he and his family had spent three years in limbo as refugees before coming to Canada. So, in an unfamiliar kitchen in a small town, Isam began to make chocolate again.

This remarkable book tells the extraordinary story of the Hadhad family — Isam, his wife Shahnaz, and their sons and daughters — and the founding of the chocolatier, Peace by Chocolate. From the devastation of the Syrian civil war, through their life as refugees in Lebanon, to their arrival in a small town in Atlantic Canada, Peace by Chocolate is the story of one family. It is also the story of the people of Antigonish, Nova Scotia, and so many towns across Canada, who welcomed strangers and helped them face the challenges of settling in an unfamiliar land.

Part One

One

Isam Hadhad first fell in love with chocolate as a child. He lived with his mother, father, sisters, and brothers in the ancient city of Damascus, a green oasis in a lifeless desert. Some traditions say Damascus is where God breathed life into dust, created humans in God’s own image, and blessed them, and that deep under Damascus lie the ruined walls of the Garden of Eden. Adam and Eve climbed the slopes of Mount Qasioun and prayed in its caves. They celebrated the birth of their first son, Cain, and their second-born, Abel, in the mountain’s shadow. (In Islam, Cain and Abel are known as Qabil and Habil.) But Cain turned on Abel and smashed his head in with a rock. The Qur’an tells us if you murder one of your brothers or sisters, you have murdered all humanity; if you save one life, you have saved all humanity.

Archaeological evidence proves the oasis was inhabited six thousand years ago. Under today’s Old City, scientists have found pottery from five thousand years ago. The name first appeared in print in Egypt, when in 1490 BCE scribes recorded that Thutmose III had conquered Damascus.

In 1516, Turkish forces won the land and brought it into the Ottoman Empire for four centuries. Mark Twain visited in 1867 and ascended to the top of Mount Qasioun on horseback. The ancient city lay at his feet. “As the glare of day mellowed into twilight, we looked down upon a picture which is celebrated all over the world,” he wrote. “Go back as far as you will into the vague past: there was always a Damascus. In the writings of every century for more than four thousand years, its name has been mentioned and its praises sung. To Damascus, years are only moments, decades are only flitting trifles of time. She measures time not by days and months and years, but by the empires she has seen rise, and prosper, and crumble to ruin.”

During World War I, Arab troops captured Syria and ended Ottoman rule. In 1919, Syria held elections, and Faysal I was crowned king of Syria. France attacked and made Syria a French mandate. France drew a new borderline, parting Lebanon from Syria. Syrian rebels fought French rule; France bombed Damascus in the 1920s. Syria won its independence from France in 1936, but France, worried about Hitler and the implications of losing its Middle East territories, deferred ratification of the treaty. France attacked Damascus again after the war, killing hundreds of people, before withdrawing from Syria for good in 1946. In the years that followed, Syria endured coups, countercoups, and foreign meddling until 1963, when the Ba'ath Party took control.

The Hadhad family home was a wide, rectangular structure made primarily of concrete. It was located in the al-Midan suburb, just south of the Old City’s walls and close to the modern centre. The neighbourhood’s crowded, narrow streets and alleys are famed for the many scholars born there and for the traditional sweet shops selling pastries such as baklava and sweet cheese rolls. When Isam’s grandfather started to build the house decades earlier, he laid a deep foundation but built only one storey. He dreamed that the air above it would one day be filled with new storeys for his children and their children. In the 1970s, Isam’s parents added another storey, a self-contained home, and connected it to the first by an exterior staircase. They added a third storey in the early 1980s. Isam, his parents, his three brothers, and his three sisters lived on the ground floor. Above them lived three of his uncles, their wives, and their children. About twenty-five relatives lived in the building by the time Isam entered his teenage years. The sprawling Hadhad clan gathered at that time to discuss an idea: should they build even higher on the foundation their ancestor had laid? After many late-night cups of tea, they answered yes. In an extended growth spurt, the Damascus house acquired a fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh, eighth, ninth, and finally tenth floor. The top floor offered breathtaking views of nearby Andalus Park and the ancient city’s southern district. On clear days, you could glimpse Mount Qasioun.

Modern Damascus is a sprawling city, home to 2.7 million people, but Isam and his six siblings grew up in a spacious, green community, playing soccer on the streets and running through the fields, until new houses sprouted in the empty spaces and the neighbourhood became indistinguishable from the rest of the capital. Even as the dust and noise of the city surrounded it, when you were on Hadhad land, you felt you were in an oasis of peace and quiet. A small indoor courtyard with a water fountain hosted most of the festivities. In one corner, an open-air iwan had a second fountain where everyone gathered in the summer. A swing hung nearby, and children loved to pump their legs to see if they could turn a full circle. In the garden grew apricots, olives, figs, Damascus berries, and a pretty white flower called Damascene jasmine. The top of the apricot tree that once nodded against a first-storey window grew until it bent into a bedroom window on the second storey.

On special occasions, hundreds of people would celebrate at the Hadhad home. Isam loved Eid-al-Fitr, the feast to celebrate the end of Ramadan, the month of fasting. Family would come from all across Syria to the Damascus house. First came prayers, thanks to God for life and its blessings. Then came feasting, music, and dancing. When there was a family wedding, the bachelor’s celebration happened at their home. The groom would arrive with all his male relatives. Music would play as the men danced. Any neighbours who heard the commotion would hurry over to join the party. As a boy, Isam wasn’t always clear on who were near neighbours and who were family. It seemed like the same thing.

Like all Syrian men, Isam was required to serve in the military for three years. He deferred his service until after he’d completed his engineering degree. He was twenty when he began his service; most of the other new recruits were still teenagers. Some of these boys looked to him almost as a father figure, which he liked. When it came time to parachute out of a plane during training, Isam jumped first to reassure the others. The fourth time he jumped, he almost enjoyed it.

Isam completed his military service at a time of relative peace in the Middle East. When he was four, Syria’s armed forces had gone to war with Israel in the Six-Day War, losing the Golan Heights. In 1970, when he was seven, Syrian forces got tangled up in a conflict between Jordan, Palestine, and Israel. Unrest led the minister of defence, Hafez al-Assad, to launch a bloodless coup and seize power that year. Three years after that, Syria tried and failed to take back the Golan Heights; in the years that followed, an uneasy truce had held between Syria and Israel. The civil war next door in Lebanon terrified Syrians, but by 1986 it seemed to be stabilizing. Isam’s three years in uniform in the mid-1980s had passed mostly uneventfully. He felt on the brink of a time of peace and prosperity in his nation and his own life. Even the United Nations had declared 1986 the International Year of Peace.

Tasting chocolate imported from Europe for a cousin’s wedding changed Isam’s life. He was at the talbeeseh, the groom’s celebration, with all his male relatives. Isam slipped a chocolate into his mouth and smiled as the smooth exterior melted on his tongue and slid down his throat. Isam was transfixed. He didn’t know a single person who made chocolate. He had no clue how he could win a wife and support a family by making chocolate. But it was clear nonetheless: he needed to make chocolate.

Isam raced home from his cousin’s wedding to his mother’s kitchen. He stood still for a few moments. This was not a familiar room. It took him a while to assemble the pots and pans he thought he would need. He found a recipe for chocolate and tried to follow the instructions carefully. He failed and produced a brown puddle. He borrowed books that claimed to hold the secret to the perfect batch. He failed again. He thought his frustration made the chocolates bitter, so he willed himself into a state of calm.

Chocolate fascinated him. He loved how you could make a tiny piece that balanced on your finger, or enough to fill a factory. He realized he was an artist, and chocolate was his medium. It was intimate, edible art. He loved it in its melted stage, a warm liquid that could be poured to take the shape of any mould: a flower, an animal, a heart, a star, or an intricate pattern. Once in the mould, it hardened. Just like people, he thought. We are born with our raw ingredients, heated and stirred by our early lives, and poured out into a mould called adulthood. But the chocolate is not the mould, and neither are people. You can always melt chocolate and make it into a new shape.

He also grew obsessed with the ancient ritual of making chocolate. Any time he ate in a restaurant, he listened patiently through the dessert options until they mentioned their finest chocolate. He consumed it, studying the texture and taste, how smoothly it melted, what sweet aftertaste remained. He turned his nose up at chocolate-covered candy. Only premium chocolate would do. Pure, dark, and deep, every bite releasing happiness.

He gained control over the mysterious process. He melted the raw cocoa, sweetened it with sugar, added nuts and dried fruits, and poured it into moulds. His family and friends felt their mouths watering as he approached, bringing the scent of chocolate with him. He put down the recipes and followed his heart. The happier he was, the sweeter the chocolate. He took boxes of chocolate on the bus and visited gift shops. He gave the owners free samples and promised to return. If the gifted chocolate sold, perhaps they would be interested in buying some?

Everyone loved his chocolate, except for his mother. Well, she loved the chocolate, but not the mess in her kitchen. Isam would whip up a batch and then abandon the mess of pots and pans. His mother scrubbed the brown splatter off her cupboards and counters several times before she complained. He promised to find his own kitchen. But he still couldn’t find the nerve to tell her he planned to make chocolate his life’s work.

In the summer of 1986, Isam and his closest friends took a six-hour bus ride from Damascus to Latakia, Syria, to spend a week at the beach. They played beach volleyball and swam in the ocean. In the evening, Isam sought some time to himself to come to grips with the big decision he was about to make. On the last night, he walked along the beach, feeling the damp sand crumble between his toes. The Mediterranean Sea tried to climb up the beach, then sighed, fell away, and tried again. Children chased it out and fled in gales of laughter when it returned.

He savoured the sunset. His breathing slowed as the sun melted into the sea. He’d always been drawn to the water. Damascus was so dry. Like many Syrians, he felt a constant thirst that led him to lakes, rivers, and the open sea.

The waves deepened his meditation. Happiness rose in his heart as the sun slipped away in a red blaze, but anxiety churned in his stomach. He knew what he wanted could upset his family and jeopardize his future. His mother had long hoped he would grow up to be a doctor or an engineer. He’d picked engineering, and his family expected he would start a stable career. It would allow him to marry, have children, and provide a good life for them.

His father had devoted his professional life to the government, working in the legal department for long hours and providing his family with a comfortable middle-class life. His father’s closest friends had all grown up and had sons and daughters; those sons were Isam’s closest friends. Isam was expected to make the same choices. But he knew he had to follow his dream, or he’d regret it forever. Now, as he walked along the sandy beach, he decided it was time for courage.

Once home, he sat down with his mother and father.

“I don’t want to be a civil engineer,” he told them.

“Well, what are you going to be?” his mother asked him.

“I’m going to make chocolate.”

The news took a moment to sink in. “Why?” she asked.

He took a moment to answer. “I want to have an impact on the community I live in, and being a civil engineer isn’t my passion anymore.”

His parents were stunned. It seemed to them that a civil engineer was more likely to have an impact on his community than a chocolate maker. Life in Syria could be unstable at the best of times, as governments rose and fell and peace ebbed and flowed. Why would he throw away his education and prospects to make sweets? They made it clear that they would not support his choice, but they also said that they would not stand in his way.

He rented a small shop on the road to the Damascus airport. He turned the back into a tiny, one-person chocolate factory and created a gift shop in the front. His family watched uneasily. It was one thing for a man to make chocolate for fun. Could it really build a career? But Isam had a romantic notion of following his chocolate dream to achieve independence. He had a strange certainty that chocolate would provide for his family, should he be blessed with a wife and children. After he’d been in business for a full year, his family finally saw his passion and the success he was already enjoying, and they threw their support behind him.

Isam’s shop, Hadhad Chocolate, flourished. People travelling to the airport often stopped in to buy a box of chocolates to take on their journey. When they stepped inside and smelled the freshly made chocolate, the sale was already nearly complete. He saved his profits to expand his business. He would build a strong foundation and rise, just as his grandfather had done when he built the family home. On Valentine’s Day in 1987, Isam was melting raw chocolate in the tiny factory in the back when the shop door opened.

He looked up, ready to launch into the charming chatter that won him loyal customers, but fell silent. A beautiful young woman was standing in his store, looking at his chocolates. He watched her move hesitantly. He knew she’d leave soon.

“Hello,” he forced himself to say. “My name is Isam. What’s your name?”

She smiled. “My name is Shahnaz.”

“Shahnaz,” he said, enjoying the sound. “What can I get for you today?”

The young woman told him her family had gone to Istanbul, Turkey, for a short visit. She was supposed to join them, but she’d just missed her flight. It would have been the first time she’d been on a plane and the first time she’d left Syria. But now she was heading home and wanted to buy chocolates as a gift to welcome her family home in a few days. Which box would he recommend?

Isam said he would mix the perfect box for her. As they talked, he assembled two boxes of premium chocolates mixed with hazelnuts, crushed coconut, and dried fruits. It was a business trick, of course: when he carefully packed each box by hand, customers felt special. They ate the chocolates as slowly as he packed them. But on this day, he packed the chocolates slowly because he did not want Shahnaz to leave.

“One moment,” he told her. He stepped into the tiny factory at the back of the building. He found a clean piece of paper and wrote on it. He returned to the shop and added a last chocolate to the boxes. He slipped the paper in without her noticing and handed her the chocolates. He refused to take her money.

“Shukraan,” she said. Thank you.

Isam and Shahnaz smiled at each other.

Later, when she opened the box, the piece of paper fell out. She unfolded it. “I do not make chocolate,” Isam had written. “I make happiness.”

Her heart melted. She found a reason to return to the chocolate shop and the soft-centred man with the sweet exterior, and two years later they married.

After their wedding, Isam and Shahnaz moved into the second storey of the Hadhad’s Damascus home. She chose the room with the apricot tree in the window as their bedroom. Through her window, she saw good things — lemon, orange, and apple trees. Cats roamed through the yard, and bats flittered in the night sky. She saw people, too, walking down the streets and sidewalks. This was a friendly neighbourhood.

They thanked Allah for blessing them with a daughter, whom they named Kenana. Another girl, Alaa, followed. In 1992, Shahnaz gave birth to their first son, and they named him Tareq.

Isam’s business grew, too. In 1995, he left the little gift shop on the airport road and moved into a one-floor factory in Damascus’s eastern industrial district. His religion forbade him from borrowing money with interest, so he earned and saved until he had enough to equip his new chocolate factory. He hired two people. He planned to build a second floor on the factory, and perhaps even a third.

At first, he used pots and pans to heat, melt, and mix the raw chocolate with the rest of his recipe. It tasted good, but the process was too inconsistent to scale up. He needed better tools. At great expense, he importe...