He imports the most amazing product from Damascus, but worries ‘Syrian’ on his shopfront scares away customers

Imad Karkotli's sweet and pastry shop in downtown Brussels is like something out of a storybook. We stumble upon it on the first day of the security lockdown here after the Paris attacks. Dusk is falling but the display cases gleam with color and plates of heaping candies and sweetmeats beckon us in. 

There are only two customers inside, so Karkotli is only too eager to show us his wares.

"We have the nut finger, it taste very well," he tells us. "Here we have mabrouma with pistachio. Aleppo is famous for pistachio. Here we have cookies we call ghorayeba. And here we have mamoun with walnut. This is homemade."

He walks along the counters, pointing out the different delectables. He picks up one of the pistachio bird's nests and hands it to me to taste. A trio of  young women from the Netherlands comes in. He banters with them, as he does with all his customers. 

He tells me he's had the shop for three years. It used to be called Mediterranean Sweets but three months ago he decided to change it to Delight of Damascus – Patisserie Syrienne (Syrian Bakery).

"Because I miss my country that’s why I changed the name," he says. 

But now he's reconsidering that move. In the last week, since the Paris attacks, business has plummeted. He says he watches people look up at the word "Syrienne" on the sign, and then move on. Before, people streamed into the store.

"That's why I was thinking I would change the name, to something French, like La Maison Des Delices (House of Delights). I think it’s better for me and better for the people."

So he called a painter and asked him to change the sign as soon as he can.

Karkotli left Syria as a young man and settled in Germany and later worked in the US. But in 2008, he decided to go back to his homeland and start a restaurant. In 2011, the Arab Spring began and Syria erupted. He had no faith in the regime changing its ways. So he left again. 

"I don't know what to tell you. I don't watch the news. I don't like to watch the news. I don't like to watch people killed. I'm not interested anymore about it, because I feel sad from inside."

Karkotli is almost 50 now. He keeps having to start over. He’s sad about the war and he’s sad about the Paris attacks. And he’s worried what people think about Syrians because of ISIS and because of the Syrian passport that was found with the Paris attackers.

"Europe, they were very helpful for our people when they come here," he says. "I really appreciate it. Everybody helped Syrian people when they entered the country. We don’t have to hurt these people. We have to respect them, with huge smile, not big smile. This is my opinion."

I ask him to clarify, just to make sure I'm really understanding what he's telling me. "You're worried Brussels people and tourists see 'Syria' and think ISIS?" I ask.

"Maybe," he says. "I have to think about it. They don’t understand what going on."

He asks me what I think about changing the name.

"It makes me terribly sad, but I understand," I tell him.

"Me too," he answers.

We linger awhile and sample his Syrian sweets. Karkotli makes a mean Belgian waffle too. So we have some of those as well, slathered with chocolate. And strong, thick, Turkish coffee. I can’t think of anywhere I’d rather be in this moment. His shop is warm and bright and colorful. Outside there’s a cold raining falling and a scary security alert and lots of soldiers with guns.

That was Saturday. Today, Monday, I go back to see if he has painted over the sign yet. It's still there. But the shop is shuttered. And the streets are deserted, as the Brussels lockdown stretches into a third day.