A Foreigner in Syria

farewell for now

2006-05-05T19:07:00.000+03:00

[written May 3]

My time in Syria is drawing to a close; I suppose this calls for some final thoughts. I've been here just over 8 months, and like many things in life, my stay here in retrospect seems so long and so short at the same time. It's been great fun, living here, and I've learned a lot from the many people I've met. I've grown to love this place and the people here, imperfections included. My feeling of sadness at leaving my life here is tempered by the knowledge that I will return, inshallah.

Is this the last post? Despite my not being here in Syria anymore, I don't suppose there's any reason I can't keep posting thoughts or recollections about my time here. We'll see how things turn out. I can't emphasize enough the vast number of topics and ideas I've jotted down that never ended up getting blogged. For those interested in more Syria reading matter, go check out Syria Planet, a great site that collects blogs by syrians and blogs about Syria.

As a final topic, a few words about generalizations and surprises. Part of my original intention in coming here to Syria was to learn about what lies behind that very vague yet very sinister picture of Syria that reaches the United States. Even with that intention of discovery in place from the beginning, I have been discovering surprising things about the people I meet, up until the very last moment. I'm also surprised by the fact that I continue to be surprised, because of the impression of homogeneity here. I mean that to a certain extent, there's a shared commonality of opinion and behavior here in Syria -- more than I've found, for instance, in my travels in the U.S.

There I go, making a big fat generalization, even as I've just said I'm aiming to get past the generalizations. Despite their potential to be used to misunderstand and misjudge, I think we (as humans) need to generalize to some degree in order to understand the world around us. I guess the trick is remembering that a generalization is just that; it has its limits. I hate to be getting all preachy here, but I've had to face a lot of these thoughts as I've been navigating through life and meeting people here.

Back to my acknowledged generalization about Syrians all acting the same. On this same topic, check out The Script, a post by some other blogging foreigner. I can fully confirm his account: 75% of the time I sit down in a taxi or start a conversation with someone on the street, I am asked exactly the same set of questions and I face almost identical opinions. Now, a big part of this is surely that I am a foreigner: Syrians are aware that their reputation is not-so-hot in the so-called "West", so many make every effort to present a good front, knowing that their words have the potential to reach a wider audience.

I don't mean that people need to lie to make their country seem like a nice place -- Syria is, in my book at least, a very nice place. For example, folks often point out how much more secure Syria is than the United States, and they're not exaggerating: one feels absolutely comfortable walking across all of Damascus at 2 am, an impossibility in any U.S. city. But they (these generalized Syrians) avoid discussion of any of the problems of their city and country.

Another potential contributing factor to the greater homogeneity of opinion here is the education system. All through schooling here in Syria, from elementary school through college, learning is about memorization, rather than about applying knowledge or analyzing. I've been helping some 11th graders with their English; for them to pass their test, they must memorize their English book from cover to cover. They don't have to be able to speak a word of English or write a sentence from their own brains, just know every text and every exercise in the book. This method pervades through the university level, where lectures are typed up, sold, memorized, and then regurgitated for the exams. It would be fair to say that this pervasive attitude does not encourage independent thinking, and since this is not a society big on reading, most people get news and opinions from TV and radio. I think these things help to contribute to a seemingly shared opinion.

OK, now at last back to the point: Surprises.

From these apparent similarities, a foreigner might come away thinking that all Syrians are pretty much the same. Many do in fact get exactly that impression, and I have to admit that I am sometimes tempted to the same conclusion. For example, I now almost laugh when I hear the question, "Which is better, Syria or America?", and I swear to you that I am asked it with 9 out of 10 taxi drivers. It seems like people want me to confirm either their conviction that Syria is great with the one answer, or the stereotype that Americans are pompous assholes with the other. I always turn it back on them, "Better in terms of what?" and try to get the conversation moving on to a more productive place.

The fact is, however, that this impression of homogeneity is based on surface encounters. I've been lucky enough to get enough of this Arabic language to make a number of relationships that reach deeper. With all the people with whom I've reached this more honest level of communication, I've found something unique and distinguishing about them -- often to the point of being deeply surprised.

One feature of Damascene culture that I have found especially pervasive is the obsession with surface appearances. How you look really matters in terms of how you are judged by peers and strangers, so people work hard to look good. One example of this is with mobile phones: it's a common phenomenon for someone with a modest salary to spend it all on a top-of-the-line phone -- not to make calls, simply to be seen with that phone. I, for one, was laughed at, yes, literally laughed at by the attendant at a clothing store when I pulled out my year-and-a-half-old model.

This sort of materialism is of course nothing unique to Syria, but it feels to me especially widespread here. It was not until my last month here that I found good friends who, like me, think that this obsession with appearances is a waste of our precious time. As I got to know these friends I realized how much I had given up hope of finding folks who consciously rejected a piece of the dominant culture in which they grew up. It was a pleasant surprise, not so much because I think parts of the culture deserve rejecting, but rather because I was finding opinions consciously outside of the mainstream -- and that doesn't happen too often here. It reminded me how much the generalizations we must make have their limits.

I also hope that during my stay here I've contributed to the breaking up of some Syrians' generalizations. Generalizations about U.S. citizens, thanks to "Friends" and the rather shoddy rotation of films on American movie sattelite stations, are detailed and often exaggerated. Usually during a taxi-conversation or the like, when I'm asked (or told) about how some certain thing is in America, I end up saying, "Well, it really depends..." because usually it does depend on who you're talking to or where you are. Also, as myself, with my own opinions and behaviors, I will add some new element to any given Syrian's personal generalization about foreigners or Americans. That's not special because it's me they're hearing about, it's special because in at least one way or another, I'll be different from those big fat generalizations people get from TV shows, movies, and news.

I suppose I can look at all of my time here through such a lens: constantly building and breaking down my own "generalizations" while helping others do the same. This way of thinking about communication could helpful in general, since our understanding of each other in the world is so dependent on our generalizations of each other. Yet something about it misses the point: in the best of my relationships here in Syria, we've been able to forget entirely that at some level we "represent" our respective nations. In these special cases, we've been able to connect on a deeper common level as friends -- even as we discuss the differences of opinion, culture or religion between us. Within that connection is a great feeling of success that makes it all feel worth it.

Don't think however, that I'm one of these simplistic optimists: "Let's have the whole world get along -- we're all the same underneath!" I've learned this year that such optimism for peace and harmony is foolish; the differences that separate us are often deep (not merely perceived surface differences) and sometimes extremely powerful forces for conflict. It has been frightening to encounter some of these differences in conversations here, yet I remain convinced that communication is the way through them.

I think that there is no greater challenge than admitting both the similarities and differences between us (the humans of the world). It's much easier to say either that "we're all the same" or that "we have nothing in common," attitudes both of which are wrong. After acknowledging such commonalities and differences, I admit there are times I don't know where to go from there. The path can seem impossible, but I remain convinced that we've got to keep trying it.

Well, it's been great. I'm going to miss my life here in Damascus and Syria so much -- more than I can express in words. Signing off for now,

Peace.

Language Jollies, part II

2006-04-03T22:18:00.000+03:00

I wrote my earlier post about language less than a month after I'd arrived in Syria; now, 6 months later (can it really have been that long?) here are some more thoughts about this complicated and beautiful thing called Arabic. This is a very long post, and I'm afraid parts of it (all of it?) may be a little too deep into technicalities to be of general appeal. Nevertheless, the language is the topic that I've been spending most of my time learning about and experiencing, and I've come to love it dearly. Here's a table of contents, to make it as easy as possible for you to skip around and read at your leisure. I'll say that parts I. and VI., with their direct examples of language, are perhaps the least technical, but the rest have some good anecdotes about my own experience with the language on the ground. I know that one is not supposed to blog in bulk like this -- but so it goes.

[By the way, this is not the big post I had mentioned before that was in the works. This one I've put together over the past 3 days. That other one's been shelved indefinitely. :]

I. Fun with Religious Expressions

II. Arabic's Multiple Identities

III. Spoken Arabic in Action

IV. Arabic as Often Taught

V. Dialects in Contact

VI. Jokes!

For months I've been meaning to do some writing about the use of religious expressions here. In general Arabic is so rich with all kinds of special expressions, religious and otherwise, but the religious ones play such a uniquely integral role in the everyday language of Syrians that I've wanted to write about them in particular.

[Transliteration? I'm not following any system, but trying to make it easy for non-Arabic speakers to read, as well as clear to Arabic speakers what I'm writing. For the `ein I use this [`] little thingy, and for the hamza I use this one ['] -- when I use it at all that is. I also am often writing qaaf as hamza. And if you don't speak Arabic, ignore those last sentences. Sorry.]

To start out this discussion, I first have to let loose a rant about one of my pettest peeves: allah does not mean Allah. The Arabic word allah is an alternative pronunciation of al-ilah, which means "The God" -- it does not mean "the Muslim god". This was the word used for God in Arabic long before Islam existed, and today it is the word used for God by the many Christians, Jews, members of other religions who speak Arabic. This means that whenever you see (for example) a newspaper caption reading: "Here protesters carry signs reading 'We put our trust in Allah.'" this is wrong. The sign actually says "We put out trust in God". Would you ever see see a caption telling about Spanish protesters "putting their trust in Dios"?

I think this is so important because I believe the persistence of this mistranslation helps contribute to the bad rep that Islam has in a lot of non-Muslim countries. It encourages the notion that Muslims worship some strange god, while in fact they worship the same God as Christians and Jews. The fact that it's the same God from the same line of religious traditions does not deny the differences between the religions, but at least it's a first step towards more understanding -- a commodity we're in need of.

I would also like to make a hypothesis that the pervasiveness of this phenomenon (writing Allah instead of translating it) stems not from a conspiracy against Muslims but instead from Muslims themselves living in non-Muslim countries. According to my knowledge, because the Arabic language has a special importance in the religion of Islam (the word of God was revealed in it) it is commendable to know it and to use it. So I imagine that converts to Islam who don't speak Arabic -- or children of Arab Muslim immigrants to other countries -- can manage to use at least allah and even while speaking their other language. Maybe from this usage it caught on. Any thoughts?

Now let's get to it: I've collected a bunch of everyday phrases, all of which have some religious element to them. Some are well-known outside the Arab-speaking world and some lesser-known -- but they are nowhere near the full count. Religious expressions are so common I feel like every week I'm learning a new one. Why are they so common? I heard that in Islam it is commendable to mention the name of God, and from this these expressions became so very popular.

For a foreigner coming from a place where one is not used to hearing the name of God mentioned at least a few times more in any regular brief conversation, this apparent constant presence of God can be a little intimidating at first. As I became aware of the pervasiveness of these expressions, I wondered: is everyone really religious, or have these expressions lost their original meaning? I've found both to be true; in general, religion pervades life much more thoroughly here than in the U.S., and yet a lot of times expressions seem to have lost their original meaning or changed it. There are no hard and fast rules. My teacher made the point that the meaning of any given expression really depends on who is saying it and who is hearing it.

Take for instance religious expressions in English. We have more than I ever realized before, but still nothing close to Arabic. "Oh my God!" is a phrase said all the time in English, but how many of those times is speaker really intending to implore his or her Lord in heaven? It depends on who it is, and on what situation they're saying it in. Here are some other ones in English for you English-speakers to ponder: "Jesus!" ; "God forbid!" ; "God knows how much/many!" ; "Thank God" ; "God bless you" [after a sneeze] ... just think for a second about how you do or don't use these, and what you actually mean or think about when you say them.

Here we go: Unless otherwise noted, these expressions are used by people of all religions in Syria -- Christians, Muslims, and even non-religious people. And remember, these are just a selection of the vast library.

- al-hamdulilah = "thank God" or "praise be to God"

Sometimes shortened to just hamdullah this might just be the most common of them all. You most often say it in response to the question "How are you?" The idea is that no matter how we are, we owe our thanks to God. You can either follow it with a descriptive adjective about how you are, or you can just leave it at the praise to God. This is especially convenient if you are not feeling so great and trying to follow that old saying, "If you can't say anything positive, don't say anything at all." It's a good reminder for me when I'm not in the greatest mood. It is also appropriate say this after someone sneezes.

- allah ma`ak = "may God be with you"

This is one of the "goodbye" phrases you can say in Arabic, used when addressing the person who's leaving. I mention it because I remember a scene in a Syrian TV series when a boss wanted a worker to leave his office and said allah ma`ak in such a particular tone of voice that it clearly meant nothing but "Get the hell out!" A reminder that context is so important for all of these.

- as-salaamu`alaykum = "may peace be upon you" followed by its response:

- w`alaykum as-salaam or the full response:

- w`alaykum as-salaam wrahmat allah wbarakaatoh = "may peace be upon you and the forgiveness of God and His blessings"

One friend described this to me as a greeting that is particularly Islamic, and in my experience I've found this to be true. It's usually used when you greet someone but can also be used when parting.

- in sha allah = "if God wills" "God willing"

It is bad form to say anything about events in the future without including this phrase, since we can be absolutely positive of nothing in the future. When people say it, they generally really mean it, and I've found this to be a very true phrase -- you never know, in fact, something might happen out of your control preventing you from meeting your friend at the cinema at 8 pm. It has even entered my language reflexes: for example I was telling my family (in English of course) the other day what day my plane was getting to JFK airport, and the in sha allah just slipped out right afterwards. On rare occasions, however, I have found people use this as a way of hiding the truth. Example: Me: "Hello, do you have this kind of batteries?" Guy: "Tomorrow in sha allah we'll have them." I discovered the next day that he actually meant: "I don't have any, but I don't want to have to tell you that."

- wallah = "by God" as in "I swear by God"

This is an extremely, extremely common word that we could also translate "really" as in "I really don't want to go" or "I swear" as in "I swear I'm telling the truth!" This is one (because of it commonness) that seems to be used without needing a thought to the original meaning.

- ballah = "by God"

This has two pretty distinct uses: It's often as a question: "Really?" "Are you serious?" to which the answer is always a hearty "wallah!" You can also use ballah meaning "please" as in "Let me off at the next bus stop, ballah"

- yaa rabb = "Oh Lord"

This one can commonly be used before undertaking some strenuous movement or activity -- perhaps just sitting down or getting out of a low chair. Also could be used as a complaint: "yaa rabb, why isn't the bus here yet!!"

- allah y`ateek al-`aafiye = "may God grant you health" with the response:

- allah y`aafeek that has pretty much the same meaning.

This is a very useful multi-purpose polite phrase: it can be used as a greeting, a farewell, or in place of "thank you" -- used especially with strangers, or with someone who has performed some kind of service for you.

- allah ywaff'ak = "may God grant you success"

- allah ytawwal `amrak = "may God lengthen your life"

I put these together since they're often used in similar contexts: when pleading or asking for something politely, or when thanking somebody for something. With most of these polite phrases you can turn them into insults with just the change of a few words. For example allah ytawwal `amrak can be altered to allah y'ata` `amrak = "may God cut short your life" Similarly: allah laa y`ateek al-`aafiye = "may God not grant you health" ; allah laa ywaff'ak = "may God not grant you success". These are pretty serious insults, I gather, so be careful, kids.

- allah ysaamhak = "may God forgive you"

I like this one because it has a very specific use: when you want to respond to something that someone else has said when you disapprove of it: "Don't say that!!" -- often in a half-joking way.

- na`eeman with the response of allah yan`am `alayk

Translation of this one is tricky. Literally, we could go with "The blessings of God!" and then "May God bless you!". True translation is even harder, since you say it only when someone has just taken a bath or shower, or just gotten a haircut or their beard trimmed. There really is no comparison in English. Once the father of one of my friends asked me what we said to each other when we got out of the shower -- he was amazed and could barely believe that we didn't say anything in particular -- to not do so would seem so rude to him.

- yaa muhammad = "Oh Muhammad!"

This is one of many religious phrases for expressing surprise or amazement at something. This one, is naturally only used by Muslims but Christians have one used the exact same way:

- yaa maryam = "Oh Mary!"

- salli `al-nabi = "pray on the prophet"

This is another one that is supposedly used specifically by Muslims. Used when you want to tell someone to slow down or calm down about something -- presumably stemming from actually telling someone to take a moment to pray. I make sure to mention this one since it has proved to me the true universality of all these expressions in the language: I once heard it used by a Syrian Christian. At the time we were staying at a mountain monastery (Deir Mar Musa) talking casually with a small group of people. I was the only one present who took notice of this, of a Christian using what is in origin a Muslim phrase. The Muslim friend of the Christian who had said the phrase did not blink an eye, let alone say, "Hey, that's my prophet you're talking about!"

II.

I commented briefly in my earlier post dealing with language about Arabic's identity crisis between its various spoken and written forms. This truly is a fascinating issue that is impossible to avoid. Almost everyone (whether Arabs or students of Arabic) has a very strong opinion about it, and is most likely willing to discuss or argue this issue ad infinitum. Controversy: what fun!

The conventional wisdom for students of Arabic is that you must study formal arabic: either Fus-ha (the classical language of the holy Quran) or Modern Standard Arabic (MSA, the language of newspapers and satellite TV news stations). Considering that these two (Fus-ha and MSA) are separated by 14 centuries, they are remarkably close to each other; the big differences between them are changes in vocabulary and a few minor grammar differences. For the purposes of this, I'll call them both written Arabic, even though it is spoken for certain purposes (news broadcasts, speeches, sermons...).

The CW continues that one should venture into studying the spoken dialects of Arabic very cautiously, if at all. The reason stated for this is that there are significant differences between the Arabic spoken from region to region, so if you learn one dialect, you're limiting yourself to just a city or a region. Also, spoken Arabic can never be written (except in the cases of a few renegade fiction writers) so if you learn the spoken you are cutting yourself off from all reading and writing.

At some level, I think this Convential Wisdom is bunk, and here's why: Let's judge what it means to be fluent in a language by taking the example of an average, educated Arab person. This person grew up (whether in Libya, Aleppo, Yemen, or Baghdad) speaking Arabic, in the dialect of his or her particular region, of course. This young Arab most likely starts to hear written arabic spoken when he or she begins to attend religious services (whether Muslim, Christian, or whatever else) and then as soon as schooling begins and though the equivalent of High School, written Arabic is studied as a subject in school. Keep in mind that despite the essential importance of written arabic in so many aspects of life in any Arab country, no average educated person ever stops speaking the spoken Arabic that they grew up with, even if they mix in phrases from written or work at a job (newscaster) that requires them to speak written Arabic. The spoken is their language just as much as much as the written is.

Thus, judging from the reality on the ground and not from any ideology about how Arabic should be, basic fluency in Arabic means speaking one dialect and being able to read and write spoken Arabic, not just one or the other. If we take this for granted, then for foreigners comes the issue of which to study first, the written or spoken. I studied written Arabic for two years in college (without coming close to fluency but learning a lot) before coming here to Syria and focusing on the spoken language. More recently, I've gone back to working on written Arabic as well. The vast majority of people will tell you that you must study written Arabic first, otherwise the dialect you study will confuse you when you get to written. Although my previous studies in Arabic have helped me so much in learning the spoken, I'd be willing to question the Conventional Wisdom on this point as well, that maybe it could in fact be good to study spoken Arabic first. My proof for this is to look at how every Arab learns: first the spoken, then the written. Of course students' goals may specify what they want to study: for example, anyone interested in religion must study the Fus-ha branch of written Arabic.

It may sound silly to the uninitiated that I'm making such a big deal about the importance and value of the spoken language, but any Arab or student of Arabic will know that there are plenty of folks who consider spoken Arabic a worthless mess and not a language -- even as they speak it themselves. The name for the spoken language (`Aammiyya) means "slang" -- and that pretty much describes how the spoken language is considered around here. (N.B. that I'm purposefully not using that word to describe it.) The fact is, it is not slang. It (like every language) includes slang words and phrases, but those are a tiny minority of what the language contains. There remains, however, a very widespread attitude here that it's not really a language. For example, a friend of mine acknowledged the worth of learning the spoken Arabic, but when I told her some details about my lessons she said, "But `Aammiyya doesn't have grammar!" She thinks this because she's never studied that grammar, but of course it's there. Another friend told me (while speaking the spoken language) that he prefers Fus-ha and that he wishes all Arabs would speak it.

One funny result of this language duality in Arabic is people's perceptions of other languages. Many people think that British English is like Fus-ha and American English is like `Aammiyya -- Ha! In fact, being here and encountering this problem has made me thankful that my native language has no classical form. Sure we have some words we usually only write, and other words we usually only say, but there are no big differences in grammar, vocab, or usage. Also: because there's no pure English, there's less language snobbery than in Arabic. For instance, in English a novelist or a columnist can use an informal spoken-language phrase as an effective tool in their writing. In Arabic, it seems that what's most admirable in written style is what is farthest away from spoken expression -- even if that spoken expression is directly rooted in the classical Fus-ha Arabic. Ick. Down with snobbery.

III.

The part of the conventional wisdom saying that the dialects are the slangy "language of the street" (and therefore only useful for gossiping, joking, and trash-talking with uneducated people), was so well drilled into my head that I was surprised and overjoyed to find it untrue. What has proved this to me most over the past months has been my work with the Syrian Arab Red Crescent. I've been volunteering doing various activities with the Youth Volunteers group of this organization (which is the exact same thing as the Red Cross).

In December, the Red Crescent (al-Hilaal al-Ahmar) participated in a 96-hour nationwide disaster preparedness exercise. That means al-Hilaal had to have a corps of volunteers ready for all of those 96 hours during which various "disasters" would take place, calling on the services of the volunteers, testing their response time. I showed up at the branch office for the one shift I'd signed up for and suited up -- along with the 30 or so other youths -- into gray jumpsuits supplied to us. The night passed without getting called out to rescue any "victims" but it certainly was a quirky little experience. I talked a lot with people, played some cards, and we all ordered out for fatayer (those tasty little pie thingies) before going to sleep crowded onto some crunchy mattresses.

What most struck me about this evening -- and the reason I brought it up now -- was when we received our instructions about how the procedures worked and what we might be called to do. Naturally -- though perhaps surprisingly -- everything was spoken in spoken Arabic, but this was no joking or gossiping -- we were being instructed how to be better prepared to protect and save the lives of innocent victims. Also, these are not uneducated people we're talking about: Syrians aged between 18 and 30, nearly all of them in college or already graduates. And yet throughout this, everybody spoke the regular old Damascus spoken language. For someone to have stood up in front of us all and start speaking written Arabic would have been absolutely preposterous. It would have approximately the same effect as somebody speaking Shakespearean English at a similar meeting. The reaction would be, "Who the heck does he think he is?"

Everything I've done with the Red Crescent, whether it be talking with the residents of the old folks' home we visit, consulting with the administrator of the school where I teach, or attending the weekly meeting with all of the Youth Volunteers -- all of it has used exclusively the spoken Arabic, the so-called `Aammiyya.

IV.

This reality on the ground of how regular Arabs use their language is in stark contrast to how the language is taught here at any of the language institutes for foreigners. I can talk in particular about Damascus University's program, since I was enrolled in one of their courses in January and February. The basic attitude of these places is that foreigners must only learn written Arabic and not touch the spoken with a 10-foot pole. What this means is that the scores of foreigners who come here to Damascus to study Arabic can do so -- but many come for months without ever being able to speak a single, complete, correct sentence to their Arab neighbors, since these programs only teach the written Arabic, and that in a way that emphasizes theoretical grammar above all else and shuns anything to do with spoken.

The result of this is that these programs become isolated environments that have nothing to do with the life going on around them. My friend Farah was enrolled in one of the beginning classes at Damascus University and on her first day the teacher asked "How are you?" "tamaam," replied Farah, using a word that she'd learned from a Syrian friend meaning "perfect" -- a word that is part of the most classical Arabic. Yet her teacher clicked her tongue and corrected Farah, encouraging her to use instead a response that is rarely used in the spoken, "jayyid." This anti-spoken prejudice was even embedded into the system: for Farah's spoken test, she was told that use of so-called "`Aammiyya" words would result in points taken off.

Similarly, in my class we were given scenarios to act out with a partner: My partner Maria (from Spain) and I received one that called for one of us to be the proprietor of a restaurant and the other a customer who forgot his wallet at home. We were of course required to speak these in written Arabic -- but to deal with such a situation in real life using Fus-ha -- it would just be ridiculous! "innanii ureedu an adhhaba ila bayti li'ajii'u binuquudi" Let me try to put that into English: "I do desire to betake myself to my house in order to bring forth my currency." Can you imagine anyone saying that? So these classes become totally detached from reality, teaching students to speak a language as it is never spoken.

Not only is this way of teaching a big waste, but it also has a terrible effect on how all these foreigners experience Syria. I saw this effect most clearly riding the bus from University one day. I didn't usually take this certain bus, but that day I was meeting a friend at Bab Tuma square, which is where the vast majority of foreigners live here in Damascus. There were about 10 foreigners on this bus -- all clustered in a couple rows of seats and talking loudly in English about what happened last night: "Did you see how drunk so-and-so got?" "Did she really end up sleeping over in his room?" Did these people have any awareness of our Syrian fellow bus-riders, some of whom certainly understand English? Sometimes these foreigners tried to speak in poorly pronounced (and poor) Fus-ha with each other, but that was almost worse than the English to my ears. I wished I could have disappeared, or at least to go sit at the other end of the bus

A British guy sitting across the isle from me and I began to make small talk. When I told him my nationality he gave me an over-exaggerated "shhh" and said, "American?? Don't let it out out of the bag!" as if the Syrians around us on the bus were likely to attack or kidnap me at any moment. I guess this was an attempt at some kind of joke, but at its heart it really wasn't, I'm sure. I don't know how long this particular Brit had been in Damascus, but I couldn't believe his ignorance and rudeness towards the people he's living among. Maybe, I've thought, if he had been learning the language in a way that put him in natural communication with people, he would have learned that Syrians as a matter of principle are extremely welcoming to people of all nationalities -- see my previous post on when I went to the anti-American demonstration for proof.

I should point out that a huge number of foreign students here are Muslims studying with the goal of being able to read the holy Qur'an. For most of these folks they would have every reason to study only the formal written Arabic -- not only is this the language of the holy Qur'an but also the spoken language among the international Muslim community. For them, these institutes are focusing on the right thing, but for students like me who are interested in a lot in addition to the religious context of Arabic, they fall short.

I don't want to come out of this seeming like a big hater of written Arabic -- I'm not. I love the fact that it so amazingly logical, that it's pretty much the same as it was 14 centuries ago, and that it is shared over such a wide area of the world. The reason I'm pushing so hard for the spoken Language is that it's seriously oppressed as a serious field of study in the current situation. Also, I've been mostly studying spoken Arabic here. My logic behind that is that I can study Fus-ha all I want once I get back to the U.S., but here the opportunity for experiencing and practicing the spoken language is unique. And we must remember that the spoken and the written share so much in common that the study of each of them can help each other, as long as the differences are kept clear.

The other reason mentioned of the Conventional Wisdom for not studying spoken Arabic is the differences between dialects. While it is true that speaking and understanding just one dialect cannot get you around every corner of the Arab speaking countries, the situation is not as drastic as all that. The most important thing to remember is that though every Arab has grown up speaking one dialect, everyone here has a large capacity for understanding other dialects, a capacity which decreases the farther one goes from one's hometown. For this reason, a Moroccan and an Iraqi would have a great deal of trouble understanding one another, while a Damascene and a Palestinian would have very little trouble at all. Besides the significant differences in pronunciation, the words that change between the different dialects make up a small percentage: no more than 10% of words. Most of those shared words are also shared with written Arabic too. [I don't know if those statistics include the North African countries east of Egypt -- I doubt they do in fact]

I don't want to de-emphasize the differences too much, since they can be significant, but let me give some examples of how the different dialects interact with one another on the ground.

Damascus is known by the name ash-Sham, which is also a name that refers to the whole region. What is now Syria, Lebanon, Jordan, and Palestine were all together known as Bilaad ash-Sham (Lands of Sham) with Damascus as it's capital -- this is before the European powers came in during WWI and carved up the region into the current nations. My point is that for a long time Damascus has been a central point in the region; people speaking all different dialects have come and still do come to trade, find work, and study.

For this reason the Damascus dialect is more well known than others and yet at the same time the city becomes something of a dialogue melting pot. Among this mix, there of course remains the very thick Shami dialect which is characterized by, among other things, extending the final syllable of sentences with rising intonation. People who come to Damascus for work or study usually pick up at least some elements of that Damascus dialect, but rarely all of its thickest and most slangy elements. Because of this situation, many living here and originally from other regions can switch back and forth from their native dialect to the shared dialect spoken here.

What's even more fascinating than this is the ability among people of the region for shared understanding without the need to switch into one another's dialects. I've experienced this in a limited way from the traveling I've done here. In Halab (Aleppo), for instance, the word for "what" is ish as opposed to the Damascus shoo that I've grown familiar with. Having learned that and a few other bits of info about the Halabi dialect before going, I was able to manage talking with Aleppans without the need for us switching into each other's dialects. (I must mention that in the grand scheme of things, these two dialects are very close.) It is also common here for people to enjoy talking about the other dialects -- this mostly involves making fun of them, but from that mocking comes a general knowledge about the surrounding ways of speech.

I saw this phenomenon of shared understanding most dramatically while riding in a taxi from Amman to Damascus. There were five Syrians with me in squeezed into one of these boat-wide classic American cars used as the inter-city taxis of the region. We had to wait for 2 hours at a rest stop since the border doesn't open up for taxis until mid-afternoon, and this gave us a good chance to talk.

The driver was the most talkative of all: I never learned exactly where he came from in Syria, but his speech was thick with elements that I've learned to be part of the Beduin dialects. For example, he pronounced the letter qaaf as a hard G and bii replaced fii as the "there is/there are" verb. For me, being only the slightest bit familiar with this dialect, I had a great deal of trouble understanding all the details (and the point) of the long story he narrated with dramatic pauses and all sorts of rhetorical expressions. It had something to do with a certain shady character cheating some other folks out of something or other, with lots of travel between countries on airplanes...

Seated up in the front seat next to the driver were two young men from Aleppo, both having gone to Amman to pick up their visas to Singapore where they were headed to attend some computer conference. On my left was a large man from Raqqa (a small town on the Euphrates) dressed in a very nice suit. His dialect also had Beduin elements (the hard G for example) but it was clearly distinct from the driver. He works in China as a businessman. Next to me on the right was a less talkative fellow, whose dialect I couldn't identify but who was most certainly not from Damascus. I was seated squeezed in the middle of the back seat, listening to all of them.

The miraculous thing was that everyone stuck to speaking their own dialect throughout and no one (except for me, rather desperately!) ever felt the need to say, "Uh, excuse me, could you say that one more time?" They all did fine understanding one another and communicating with one another without needing to switch into any sort of common tongue, whether that be Fus-ha or a common dialect like Damascus's. In fact, with the modest contributions I managed to make to that soup of accents and words, I was proud to be the sole Damascus representative.

[While I've been writing this post over the past few days, I was loaned a book that deals with how all the different types of Arabic fit together in peoples lives and the relationships between the dialects (among other things). I've only just started to read it, but it's great fun, and of course the author is drawing from a wider range of experience and research than my humble observations. Already I've learned some great new things. For anyone interested, it is: "Modern Arabic: Structures, Functions, and Varieties" by Clive Holes, Georgetown U. Press]

VI.

The main way I've been learning something about these dialects is through studying jokes. There is this great radio show here called "Nikte-Life" -- Nikte means joke, so I guess you could translate the title Joke-Life, but the important part is not the meaning but that they managed to stick an English word in there somehow. A new 5 minute episode comes out each day, containing 5 jokes and repeated 4 times each day.

My teacher has recorded a boat-load of episodes and every lesson we study an episode or 2 -- among other more literary pursuits. Not only is it great fun to be studying jokes, but it's also gives access to a wide range of everyday language and a great deal of cultural insight. Most jokes are in the Damascus dialect, but a lot of them take advantage of the comic properties of all the dialects: there have been Egyptian, Beduin, Haurani, Halabi, Jordanian, Syrian Coastal, and even Sudanese!

The jokes come in the form of dialogues between two or more people, and the actors who do them are terrific. In the U.S. there's no such thing anymore as radio dramas, but here they're still honing their skills at making the human voice, in and of itself, both captivating and hilarious. Sometimes the only thing that's funny about these jokes is the brilliant delivery; the content can be very lame. Whether funny or not, each joke is followed by uproarious canned laughter that lasts for much longer than any of the jokes deserve.

I must admit that I often tell one or two from these Nikte-Life jokes at social gatherings -- they are always well-received and I always learn a few new jokes in return. I think it fits in with the importance of proverbs in this culture that I wrote about before: there exists an incredibly rich shared spoken language heritage.

Here are some favorites:

-Young Woman: Dad... there's this young man ... who would like to ask you for my hand in marriage...

-Father: Does he have money?!? I mean, does he earn a lot?!?!?

-Young Woman: Hm, how strange! He asked me the exact same question about you!

Plenty of them fall into the universal husband-wife joke category:

-Wife: Honey, I'm going over to visit our neighbor; 5 minutes, I'll be gone 5 minutes only!

-Husband: Okay, goodbye Dear.

-Wife: Sweetie, I've put a dish on the stove; every half hour stir it a little, okay?

Also, lots of bad puns, a few of which translate easily...

-Customer: Do you have color televisions?

-Store Owner: Of course, ma'am, which would you like?

-Customer: Give me a green one, please.

... and most of which need some explanation: in Arabic the word for "hour" and "wristwatch" (and "clock" for that matter) are all the same: saa`ah

-Doctor: Take this medicine. Every saa`tayn [two hours] on the dot!

-Patient: But Doctor, I only have saa`ah wahdeh [one watch]!

And like jokes the world over, many take advantage of people being stupid:

-A: Um Hamdi! What on earth are you doing??

-B: Hm! It's as if you're not seeing today. I'm installing the heater! [The sobia, this type kerosene stove which is a real cultural fixture here in Syria]

-A: You're installing the heater outside??

-B: Yes, because outside is colder than inside.

-A: Excuse me, mister, where's the other sidewalk?

-B: There's the other sidewalk over there.

-A: How strange! I was just over there and they told me it was here.

This last one is a good example of how oftentimes the stupid person in the joke is assigned a different dialect than Damascus -- this person happens to be speaking in the Halabi dialect. I gather that this works in a similar way to how people make redneck jokes in the States.

A few take special advantage of the radio format, and make the joke out of how the listener can't see the situation:

[driving noises]

-A: Watch out, man, there's a telephone pole in font of us, what's wrong with you?

-B: I see it, I see it!!

-A: I'm telling you watch out. Watch out, we're gonna hit that telephone pole, dammit!

-B: I told you, I see it!

-A: Wha-- Aaaaaghghghghgghhh!!! [car crashes into telephone pole] Agh, Agh!! May God not grant you success! [see 1st part of this post] Help us!! Didn't I tell you to watch out for that telephone pole?!?

-B: Look, I saw it, but you were the one who was driving!

Some play on the language of politeness:

-Customer: One coffee, if you please.

-Waiter: How's your coffee, sir? [i.e., how do you want your coffee?]

-Customer: My coffee's well, thank you. How is your coffee?

This one plays on the relatively similar sound of the words for coffee (ahwe) and family (`a'ile) and the fact that "How's your family?" is one of the everyday polite questions one can ask when greeting another.

There have been a couple that make fun of a Beduin coming into contact with modern life. One with the Beduin riding in an airplane for the first time, one with the Beduin who thinks his son is in love with a foreigner named "Nokia" ("Didn't I tell you to only marry your cousin, you dog!") and my favorite where the Beduin goes out for Pizza (Or Bitza, rather, since Arabs have some trouble with the letter "P"). I won't write it all out because it's long and because it would be impossible to translate the drastic difference between the thick Beduin dialect and the hip, urbane speech of the Damascene waiter.

The gist is that the Beduin tells the waiter he's forgot something to go with the Bitza... The ketchup? ... no ... the mayonnaise? ... no ... "What," he says, "Do you think I've never eaten this Bizta before? You brought the what's-it-called, this Bista, but you forgot to bring the bread!!"

The joke is that people here (not just Beduins) eat lots of bread with every meal, and this poor foolish Beduin guy doesn't get it that Bitza with bread is a little redundant. I can vividly imagine the type of restaurant where this takes place: very "hip" and "modern" decor, young folks lounging around who are just way to cool for themselves, and "western" food which is likely to be rather terrible, by anyone's standards.

I couldn't write about jokes is Syria without mentioning Homsni jokes. Basically, the people of the city of Homs have been selected as the "dumb blonds" of Syrian jokes -- why, I don't know, since everyone seems to agree that they are wonderful people. There are lots of jokes about Homsnis. The best one I've heard recently is this: The people of Homs and Hama are having a battle, and they're set up firing at each other from behind barricades. From the Hama side someone shouts out: "Hey, Abu Muhammad!" and then Abu Muhammad on the Homs side stands up and they shoot him. "Hey, Abu Khaalid!" and the same thing happens to Abu Khaalid. This keeps going until half the Homsnis are dead, so the remaining ones call a meeting. They realize they're going to have to do something if they want this to stop. The smartest one of them stands up and says, "Okay, next time, Abu `Ali, you stand up instead of Abu `Abdo when they call his name.

The other day I studied one from "Nikte-Life" that was remarkable because it didn't have a punch line at all, but rather described a situation that any Syrian would presumably know and could laugh about:

-A: Damn, damn these terrible times. I was once "Prince Nakis" who played the world on his fingers [=was in control of everything like a puppeteer] and a thousand people wanted some sign of all that money I had. But then I suffered a killer relapse, and where am I now? Selling radishes on a board in the vegetable market. Oh, I hope people will buy, at least, at the very least so I can earn the price of the tobacco for this pipe of mine. Seriously, seriously, these are terrible times!

-B: For this pipe of yours? Of course no one's going to buy your radishes with you sitting there, one leg on top of the other, and your nostrils about to knock on the clouds [=you've got your nose in the air; you're pompous], and your snout is stuck out front [=you've got that grumpy face], and you've put this pipe stuck inside it, and you're calling out with disgust: "Radishes, you idiots! Radishes, you riffraff!"

I'll close with my most favorite, since it has some true cleverness to it. But to let those non-Arabic speakers among you figure it out yourselves, here's a glossary of some key words: rizz = rice ; djaaj = chicken ; shuurba = soup ; baarid = cold ; saakhin = hot. If you don't get it, try saying the "French" words out loud.

-A: Look, bro -- you -- I mean -- I told you I don't know how to say a single word of French, I mean -- why do you insist on embarrassing me...

-B: Hey, this is the most delicious and very best restaurant in the city -- and do you need to talk poetry? OK, now as soon as the waiter comes, put "oh" after every word you want to say and it will become French-like. What, is it chemistry?

-A: Now, I just put "oh"?

-B: Yeah, just "oh". What do you think? -- Ha! Look, here he comes, get ready!

-A: Yes, uh ... waiter? If you please, I would like ... rizz-oh and djaaj-oh and a bowl of shuurb-oh.

-Waiter: baarid-oh?

-A: No! saakhin-oh!!

So there you have it. A whole cart-load of saved-up thoughts about this crazy Arabic language. In sha allah I have been able to pass on to you some of the joy I get from it. Allah y`ateekon al-`aafiye.

Update and Comments on a Protest

2006-03-22T20:57:00.000+02:00

Dear Blog-reading Friends,

Once again I apologize for being a terrible blogger. I should indeed never promise big upcoming posts, but I can say that I've been having a great time. Just got back from a quick trip to `Amman, barely getting back into Syria. Al-hamdulilah. I am glad to be back in ash-Sham, my home.

I do have a little something to offer up for you now however. Not a post about my life or my activities really, but I just read this post on syriacomment about a small protest. As I had been at the protest too (by chance!) and seen some things rather differently than the other guy, I had to type up my version of the story right away. You can read it as a comment to that post.

I won't promise any posts coming up soon, but... Uul in sha' Allah. Say "inshallah".

Where am I?

2006-02-26T22:08:00.000+02:00

Not a bad question, judging from my presence on this blog.

The answer is, yes, I'm here, still in Syria and still doing just fine. Doing great in fact. I've been a good deal busier than I had been, and because of this I haven't gotten any posts done. There's a big fat one that I've been planning for weeks (i actually wrote an outline for it) about a lot of big ideas about how we experience other cultures -- but I don't know for sure when I'll get it finalized since in the immediate future I'm staying busy.

In terms of Syria in the international news, I have a few of my own observations on the whole Danish Cartoon Hoopla, but most of my experience here has been regular life: studying Arabic, teaching English at a school for blind kids!, and studying `oud as well. The most interesting (and most complicated) thing I continue to experience is my continued conversations with different kinds of Syrians. As I acquire a more and more detailed and complex idea of "what life is like here", the less and less I can imagine how I could ever put together an adequate answer to the question: "So, tell us, what is Syria like?"

All in all, life is good. I miss things about home after all these months, but I can already feel the end of my time here approaching -- and it's a little bit scary.

That's the report for now. I will do my utmost to have a good post or two coming up in the next few weeks.

Peace.

clothes, clothes, and more clothes

2006-01-05T03:40:00.000+02:00

Although I usually go through life paying little attention to what everyone (including myself) is wearing, here I have had a chance to take more notice than usual. Being an outsider of sorts makes it easy to be conscious of what people are wearing and why, so here are some things I've noticed about the clothes of Damascus. I'll start by saying that what people wear can change a lot from place to place, from neighborhood to neighborhood. Since I haven't come close to visiting all the neighborhoods and suburbs of Damascus, this will not come close to being an exhaustive survey.

The Kuliyat al-Adab (College of Literature), one of the campus areas of Damascus University, is a fascinating place. Well, the place itself is not beautiful or exciting: buildings surrounding a little park and some driveways. The interesting aspect are the people there, who can probably be said to best represent the clothes of Syrian Youth. More interesting than just their clothes is everyone's behavior. My estimate is that far less than 50% of the people you see hanging out there on any given day will enter a lecture hall -- and there are probably a number of them not even enrolled. But the Kuliat al-Adab is (as far as I have gathered) the place for daytime hangout. Strolling pathways or lounging on benches you will see groups (usually same-sex groups) of students chatting and generally looking cool -- cooler than me at least. In vulgar terms, it seems like a sort of mating grounds -- and clothes are key. (I must say, however, in defense of some friends who are serious students, that that is not all that goes on there.)

To properly describe the clothes of the students (or not) of Damascus University, I have to go astray a little ways and describe one of the strangest experiences on this trip: my few hours spent lounging around at the American University of Beirut. The campus of AUB has to be one of the most spectacular in the world -- clinging to a hillside above the Mediterranean are beautiful buildings and even more beautiful trees. All the students speak a mix of Arabic and English so much so that I don't think I overheard one "pure" sentence in any conversation. (In Damascus, the question, "Bt`arif wayn al-Bookstore?" would make me stand out as a foreigner -- at AUB it made me fit right in!) The really creepy part was their clothes: So American! So stylish! Aaagh!! It was terrifying. I recommend that GAP, Abercrombie & Fitch, and whoever else is even more stylish than those 2, go and film some commercials there -- the scenery can't be beat and they wouldn't have to pay to dress anyone! And I mean "American" in the most straight-out-of-the-catalog sense. I would swear that they all looked more "American" than people I'm used to seeing back home.

If that's not the case, then I have grown accustomed to how young, hip folks dress here in Damascus. While there's certainly nothing "traditional" about how these young people dress, it's a far cry from the AUB overly-American style, and from what I gather of the hip Euro-youth style, the Syrian styles differ from that as well. In general young people here very much get dressed on a daily basis -- what I mean by that is there don't seem to be many folks like me who just grab whatever's nearest and cleanest -- people are stylish. There's of course a lot of variety, but here's a typical shebb's (youth's) outfit, from the bottom up: Leather shoes are a must, often even with pointy toes. My year-and-a-half-old New Balances give me away as not "with it" immediately. Usually jeans (sometimes slacks) are the pants of choice: never worn baggy but I haven't seen many super-tight examples either. The top could be a snazzy button-down shirt, or maybe a sweater; a leather jacket on top would always be a good touch. English writing on shirt or jacket is always a plus, and colors tend towards the conservative side. (In my winter coat, a two-tone navy and light blue, I feel like I'm wearing hot pink.) Last but not least, hair is important: always trimmed and often slicked back. That there's the dominant look on young guys.

With girls, there's more variety -- nothing so widespread that I can describe it like I did the guy's outfit above. I can reaffirm, however, that in general the girls dress very stylishly like the guys, even if they need to be categorized into more separate styles. It's interesting to me that while in the US for guys to be concerned too much about their appearance is a little taboo, here males seem to be the more image conscious of the sexes. (I have that from report, rather than my opinion.)

Because girls' clothing has a lot more variety than guys', I will not be able to describe a typical "outfit", but I will have to talk about the Hijab. At first I was reluctant to write about this since I feel like in general Western observers make WAY too big of a deal about this piece of clothing and culture, but I want to share some of the things I've thought and learned about it over my time here.

First of all, some women in Syria wear hijab, some don't, and this is not really a big deal. Sure, it is a part of what defines peoples' image and culture, but that's the way clothes are the world over. I was surprised at the extent to which wearing a hijab or not seems to make no difference in the way people are treated here -- the environment here has made the policy of France banning headscarves in schools seem to me especially extreme and racist.

There's also the issue of what exactly is the hijab? Judging from world media coverage of Islam, there's probably somebody reading this who is imagining I'm talking about the burka, which everyone obsessed over during the war in Afghanistan -- the answer is, no, I haven't seen any burkas here. I think hijab (veil) once meant strictly the fabric covering the eyes and face, but now folks also mean the headscarf type of covering when they use the word.

Since most Syrians are Sunni Muslims (roughly three quarters), the majority of women wear the hijab. Most of those people cover their hair, ears and neck with a tightly pinned scarf. A small percentage have only their eyes showing, and an even smaller have their entire face covered with a piece of fabric. I don't know all the details about the practices of the various other sects, but a number of them also wear the hijab. In addition to this, many Christians (especially older women) wear a scarf over their hair, though this is in a distinguishably different style from the Muslim headscarves. Daughters of mothers who wear hijab start wearing hijab at different ages, probably from 6 to 14 or so -- I don't know what governs that variety.

What the hijab actually ends up looking like ranges a lot from person to person or from place to place. On the most conservative end seems to be the all-black outfit with black hijab. On the other end, many people wear western-style clothes and a brightly colored mesh wraps sparkling over their headscarf. There are of course a lot of varieties in between those two extremes. One very common outfit among women is a long, simple, darkly colored coat-type garment with a hijab of white, patterned, or sometimes colored fabric.

One thing the hijab certainly does not do is stop people from trying to look pretty. Like I said, many people get dressed here. It also doesn't stop people from being pretty, whether or not they have been making an effort -- but that's nothing out of the ordinary, right?

My own thoughts about the presence of the hijab here have changed a lot since I first arrived. My first few weeks, while I was not much going outside of my largely Muslim neighborhood, I thought about the hijab a lot. I really missed seeing people's hair. I think what did this for me (and perhaps part of what gets many non-Muslims all worried about the hijab) is that it somehow seems like people lose their individuality without their hair showing. When you think about it, it's kind of an absurd idea: why should I have to see someone's hair to value them as an individual? Do I need to see any other particular body part? Maybe to be more precise, I was having trouble seeing these folks as individuals since they appeared different to me -- wearing this item of clothing that sets them distinctly apart from how I'm used to seeing most people. (I guess I should mention, though, that my next-door-neighbors in the states wear the hijab -- so this was not a completely foreign thing to me.)

The first new thought I had was thanks to the wife of my teacher. Coming to answer the door for me, she would of course grab a scarf to put over her head, and if for some reason the scarf slipped a bit, she would immediately fix it. Now what is it that makes her want to fix this scarf? I think before this moment, somewhere in my head there was a very vague picture of Muslim husbands cruelly forcing unwilling wives to wear this barbarous symbol of their domination. Rather, I think what makes her want to fix the scarf is simply because that's the appropriate and decent thing to do. It's what her mother does, and it's what her grandmother would have done.

For this reason, I think people who focus negatively on the hijab and talk about "liberating" the Arab woman are simplistic and inconsiderate. Despite having met men with deplorably chauvinistic attitudes about the issue, (e.g. "I only want to marry someone with her face covered.") most of all I think its a deep-seated tradition. It seems much more just "what we do", rather than being imposed by a force. And when it is imposed, it seems to be just as much (if not more) women as men who enforce these types of social standards. I've also experienced what should have been obvious: that wearing a hijab or not does not determine one's "liberalness." In a group of mixed-gender companions -- some of the girls with hijab, some without -- it was one of the ones wearing hijab who rightly called out one of the guys for a chauvinistic comment and set him straight.

The other big moment I had in my early thoughts about the hijab was when I first went to visit Jaramana, an outlying neighborhood of Damascus that's mostly made up of Christians and Druze -- i.e., people who don't wear hijab. Before that point I had not spent a lot of time far from my almost entirely hijab-wearing neighborhood. Walking around Jaramana was really mind-blowing for me. Those first 3 weeks, thinking about the hijab, I had very much associated in my mind the categories "Arab" and "Muslim". Of course I knew of Syria's diversity and I had seen plenty of non-hijabbed people around, but this was different. It made me think, being in a neighborhood where more than 90 percent of people have their hair showing, and yet: they're all Syrians, they're all speaking this language I could not really understand, they're all very different from me -- without that surface difference of the hijab to set us apart. And that's just what the hijab is: a surface difference. I'm not saying that it's inconsequential, but that all the fuss seems a little misplaced.

Since that time, the most notable thing has happened: I've stopped thinking about the hijab so much. I've gotten used to it, in a way that I wouldn't have thought possible. It's just not a big deal to me anymore. Sure, I notice if someone is wearing it or not, but no longer do I miss seeing people's hair. I think what has most contributed to this is my getting to know a few girls who wear hijab. I can look at these friends and see them rather than the fact they are wearing this thing. This helps to remind me that everyone I pass on the street is like that: they've got a unique personality underneath -- I just can't see it right away, whether or not their hair is covered by a piece of fabric. That sentence seems rather simplistic, but perhaps it takes a couple of months to really internalize these things when we're in a new and different place.

As I've already explained, how many people you see with or without hijab depends on the neighborhood or the occasion. At the Kuliyat al-Adab, there are a fair number of people wearing hijab (maybe 40 percent-ish?) but a lot of those (though not all) are the type that get dressed up to the nines. The place where I've seen the fewest heads covered was not (as you might expect) the church I went to on Christmas Eve, but instead the concert I saw of the Syrian National Symphony Orchestra. I'm not sure exactly what the meaning of that was -- but it was on the whole a very moneyed crowd there. In Hamra, the downtown super-fancy clothes shopping district, more than half of women shopping there are veiled. I'm trying here to give some figures here, but as I've been noticing less and less, I really can't say anything for sure!

Note: (1/7/2005) As a commenter has revealed, my treatment of the veil here does not talk about the religious reasons for wearing it. These are of course a big part of the picture -- I did not write about them because they have not played a big role in my surface perceptions and my interactions with people. Hopefully some other folks will comment, since as this commenter said, there is a wide range of opinions on this issue.

In terms of older men -- not the snazzy young shebaab (plural of shebb), there is some variety, but especially on the ends of the wealth spectrum. I mean that both the guy wearing a super-sharp business suit and the construction worker both stand out, since a lot of men seem to wear the same general thing all the time: Long dark pants (never shorts) and a simple shirt or sweater, often with a tacky pattern on it. People seem to be really consistent about this -- and this is not at all in a fancy or dressed-up way. I've wondered how many of those shebaab will trade in their snazzy imitation Harley Davidson shirt for a plaid sweater when they get married.

Another clothing item that I can't forget is the Bajaama. Here, pajama does not mean just for sleeping -- oh no. You've got the Bajaamat an-Nawm, i.e. pajamas of sleep, and then the Bajaamat ar-Riyada, i.e. pajamas of sport, and maybe even more varieties than I'm aware of. "Pajamas of Sport" just means a sweat-suit or work-out clothes. But it seems that many men change into their "pajamas" as soon as they get home from work, and often go back out to the market dressed in their Adidas (or "Adidas") suit. All little kids seem to have a set of "pajamas of sport" as well, that they're often wearing after getting back from school and changing out of their uniforms. It's funny how this type of clothing (the work-out suit) has a totally different role compared with it's role in America.

Kids' school uniforms are kind of interesting: the youngest wear little unisex blue jumpers, with little pleated skirts and bandanas attached. The older kids wear matching grey pants and jacket -- this also doesn't vary between boys and girls. The uniforms for kids are a relatively new phenomenon: friends my age did not wear them when they were in school.

There are not a whole lot of clothes that seem "traditional" in one way or another. It is common to see white scarfs with black embroidery (whose name I has slipped my mind) that are Arab in origin -- mostly in practical use by people who work outside to protect them from sun and cold. Some older men wear long simple robes. I'm not sure what their origin is, but often times in this cold weather you see them combined with a sport coat on top -- a great combination in my opinion.

One interesting place to see variety in clothes is near the Abu Noor Mosque, where Muslims come from all over the world to study Arabic and Islamic Law. On these people you often see clothes much more "traditional" than what the local Syrians are wearing. You might see two bearded, robed, and skull-capped men walking towards you -- a "picture" of Islam -- only to find them conversing with the most distinguished British accents you have ever heard.

I at first had a significant desire to imitate the style of the Syrian shebb -- not because I wanted to become Syrian, but in the interest of helping out my language: the more local I look, the more likely people are to talk with me naturally -- that was the idea. Thankfully, I didn't make any significant purchases towards this goal, and this desire has dissipated as my language as improved. That's the great thing about learning the language and speaking with people: I'm trying to get past all these surface things (clothes included) and aiming at the deeper and more important differences and similarities between us.

"The Case for Contamination"

2006-01-02T02:21:00.000+02:00

I just had a great time reading "The Case for Contamination", an article by Kwame Anthony Appiah in this week's New York Times Magazine. It blew my mind. One of those things you read that seems to express clearly everything that's been running wildly around in your head, while at the same time saying so much more.

I got into a discussion with some friends who were lamenting the presence of Western Christmas carols being sung in a Damascus church on Christmas Eve. They fear the infringement of these songs will wipe out the much older singing that goes on in some of the churches here. I was arguing against this, not in favor of the christmas carols (no!), but against our deciding what music these folks should be singing. I argued clumsily, but Mr. Appiah here has argued most skillfully, as well as bringing up a lot of other fascinating ideas.

I encourage anyone who has found what I've written interesting to check it out. The link should be permanent now (thanks upyernoz!), so if it stops working let me know and I'll see what I can do.

Please keep commenting and keep emailing me! Thanks.

An Update for the New Year

2006-01-02T02:17:00.000+02:00

2006 is upon us. My life continues much as it has been. I'm still focusing on language; much of my time is spent listening to and thinking about the various radio programs that my teacher is using to teach the language. I'm still spending time volunteering with al-Hilaal al-Ahmar, and there's also time left over to see friends.

I'm writing this post mainly to respond to a question that a few friends have asked me; one I think people in general might be curious about. Here's the gist of it: "So, this blog is fine and good and all, but are you actually happy there?"

It's a good question, and my short answer is yes. There is a lot to be excited about here: I'm learning a lot and making a lot of good and true connections with people here. I can be made happy pretty easily. After a successful evening spent at my desk with my books, I usually end up just as thrilled as after a really great conversation with an old friend. When I told one of my cousins this she replied, "You Nerd!" -- she's right. (I'm also satisfied to now be able to say "old friend".)

Nevertheless, there have been plenty of times when I've been feeling lonely, bored, and aimless. Sometimes this is from frustration with myself for sitting around all day; sometimes this is from a discouraging day with the language. Other times its probably just from being away from home and on my own for the longest period so far in my life.

One thing that I think has contributed to these spells of discouragement is that my ability to hold a decent conversation in Arabic is no longer a surprise as thrilling and sustaining as it was at first. I'm still making good progress in the language, but it's less of a breakthrough moment when I can talk to people. Now my challenge is to find good things to talk about and to put my language to good use.

Thankfully, these periods of feeling down are a minority of the time. Most of the time I find my self with a lot of productive and fun things to do, and if not that, a lot of interesting things to think about. I am happy to be here in Damascus.

Let's all give our strongest prayer for peace in the coming year.

Perceptions of the U.S.

2005-12-21T12:41:00.000+02:00

This will be a quick one; a response to a commenter's question.

"In the end I would like you to ask all your Arab friends a simple question. What do they really know about the American community, how do the Americans live, their social behavior, and their day to day activities?"

As we are all apt to do when concieving of other groups of people we don't know, people here generalize a lot. I often find myself saying, "Well, not everybody in America does that..." Most people's perceptions come directly from hollywood films, and from that are often exaggerated to a greater or lesser degree. But when you think about it, much of the American definition of our own society has come from the movies, so that's not so very strange. More interesting to me is how people's reaction to that percieved American society defines their own cultural values. For instance, many folks ask concernedly if my relationships (with family, with girls) are really as they see in films -- this is definitely a socially conservative society.

In terms of what people actually know, some know more, some know less. A few people have relatives living in the states, so usually those folks' perceptions are colored by their relatives' experience, which of course varies. Some people have absurdly wrong perceptions, such as that I can just go to the American Embassy and pick up money, since all Americans live off the money they get from the government. One thing that people are generally ready to talk about is the lack of security in America -- of course contrasted with very safe Damascus. Even then I remind people that it depends a lot on where you are, but for the most part, they're right: the security here is unparalled in the US, except in isolated neighborhoods and regions.

Most often, even with those who have some personal connection with the America, I find that people have absolutely no sense the massive size and the astounding diversity (and I don't just mean racial diversity) of the United States. I myself have trouble getting my mind around those two a lot of the time.

And most of the time, rather than asking (notepad in hand) "what do you think about Americans?", I prefer (and I think it's probably more effective) to make relationships with folks where we really get to know each other. This way, any generalizations we make about each others' societies must be limited by our familiarity with this other person, who, naturally, breaks out of those generalizations in at least one way or another.

Iraq, My Neighbor

2005-12-20T02:45:00.000+02:00

For a number of reasons, living in Syria has made the situation in Iraq seem closer to me than it ever has before. Most obviously, we're simply close: roughly speaking, Damascus and Baghdad are about as far apart as Washington D.C. and Boston. This relatively small distance, however, is not what has most made me feel this proximity.

I'll begin in a kind of roundabout way, with a story from my friends Gabe and Theresa. They are here studying Arabic like me, with the goal of working with Iraqi refugees. Before the war started, they traveled to Iraq 4 times as members of a peace group working against the sanctions, trying to show how they harmed the people. Back in the US, they made presentations about their work. Once, after Theresa pointed out a picture of a girl's birthday party that they attended, a woman asked, "Do they have birthdays in Iraq?"

Though it may by easy to call this woman foolish, take a moment to think about how many pictures of Iraq you have seen that do not relate to the war. Personally, most all that I can think of are some mounds of earth from my 10th grade ancient history class -- and even then there was minimal connection made between "Mesopotamia" and "Iraq". I think that for the people in the world whose active awareness of Iraq began with the war (most of us, probably), they understandably have trouble thinking of the country in terms other than violence.

Now, however, if I see on TV the aftermath of a bombing on a Baghdad street, my attention is first drawn not to whatever shell of a car is still smoking, but rather to the curbstones. Curbstones, you ask? Yes, the curbstones, because they're the type of curbs that often line the larger Damascus streets: Stones alternatively painted black and white; I'm sure in mini-imitation of the styles of Islamic architecture that use this alternation. It's a little thing, but it means a lot: rather than seeing a tragic explosion on a street in "somewhere else", I now see a tragic explosion on a street that looks a whole lot like my neighborhood. It makes for a very different perspective.

In addition to the curbstones, there seem to be a lot of physical similarities between the two cities. Among the Baghdad storefronts I can see the shop where I bought a sweater last month; among crowds of Iraqis I can pick out the guys who sell vegetables on my street. I imagine that Baghdad and Damascus are really quite similar cities. They've got similar climates, they are both the administrative capitals of states that have been isolated from types of international development over the past half-century. Judging by my impressions of Gulf cities, Cairo, and by my visit to Beirut, Damascus seems likely to be the city most similar to Baghdad.

The tragedy is that these similarities illuminate the differences. One of my very favorite things about Damascus is the children: running errands, playing soccer, crying, laughing; living life everywhere. Perhaps the children of Baghdad once played in the streets like this; now, however, I'm sure they cannot. Here, I can come closer to imagining the nightmare that it must be to live in Baghdad, constantly in fear of violence. All normal life is impossible.

The second factor that has really brought Baghdad to Damascus for me are the Iraqis themselves. A huge number of Iraqi refugees have moved here since the beginning of the war. I'm afraid that I don't know figures, but it's enough that I have met a number of them without trying. This very random sampling of mine has been quite diverse. One was a shebb (young man -- we really need this word in english) exactly my age who went to high school in Virginia -- the son of one of the few Iraqi diplomats who had been working in Washington. Very much a smooth talker, this friendly kid spoke very fondly of his days in the US, but not so fondly about the day of the beginning of the war: he and his family were evacuated with barely a chance to pack their bags straight into Baghdad, bombs dropping around them. Needless to say, an interesting character, and an interesting face of the "Ba`ath party officials" that Bush accuses Syria of harboring. Another I met was a girl about my age at the birthday party of a common friend. We did not have a chance to discuss the fact that my country is occupying hers; too busy playing cards and dancing the debke with everybody else.

The Iraqi who really got me thinking was a man named `Imad who I met once about 2 months ago. He was living at the time with some friends who I was visiting. `Imad had only recently come from Iraq; when I met him he was attending cooking school and hoping to go to Britain to start a restaurant. I'm not sure where he is now, but I can attest that his cooking was delicious. The conversation we had was not much of a conversation: At that point, my ability to express myself in Arabic was rather poor, but I learned a lot from listening to him.

He spoke, among other things, about the inhumane behavior of the American soldiers he experienced for 3 years. A hard thing to hear -- what can I say to that? There's no point in attempting to defend those poor American kids trained to be fearful of and violent towards the culture they are entering. I eked out a feeble "I'm sorry," and then tried to excuse myself by explaining that there were and are Americans against the war, including me. But `Imad then asked me straight: "how could the American people have let their government do this?"

I think it's a pretty damn good question. When I later told an American acquaintance about my encounter with `Imad, he gave me a response that missed the point entirely: "Is he Sunni?" These political-science types who love more than anything to assign people in groups that define what they think are really missing a lot. Sure, this guy I've met is just one of thousands of Iraqis here in Syria, but from this one guy we have heard a story of suffering. I have no idea of what `Imad's religion is, or even what exactly his experience with Americans' "inhumane treatment", but in my opinion, it doesn't matter: his grievance and his question remain as pointed and as relevant.

So I've asked myself: why didn't I do more to oppose the war? I could excuse myself by saying that Bush would have done it no matter what anyone said, or even by claiming that American "democracy" is nothing but a set of illusions to give people the sense of having power -- but I think those are lame cop-outs. What it's made me realize is that Americans (like myself) who have pride in "our" ideals (e.g. democracy, free speech, or citizen involvement), who complain about the evils of something in the system (e.g. Bush), and yet who don't actually do anything about it -- we are a big bunch of hypocrites. Yes, I went to that well-intentioned anti-war protest in February 2003, I waved my sign, but once the war started and I went to college, I didn't give much thought to it at all. In my own defense, I'll say that there didn't seem to be anything to do once it began, but I have to wonder: what would I have done differently if I could have imagined (as vividly as I can imagine now) the tragedy of the war and its incredible human cost? More importantly: what can I do differently? -- present tense.

On the topics of hypocrites and Iraq, I have some criticism to dole out for others too. Many people I meet here share my disgust for the policies of Bush, especially when it comes to the war. (Certainly not all, however: two days ago, I got into an great discussion with a Kurdish taxi driver who could not believe I don't like Bush.) When talking about the war with those critical of American policy, there's plenty we can say to condemn the American army and what has become of the situation. What gets me peeved are people who so easily condemn atrocities committed by foreigners, but who become suddenly silent if I mention the "resistance fighters" who kill 70-some people at a Mosque on a Friday. If pressed, they'll admit that this is just as terrible, but will quickly change the subject back to Abu Ghraib or Guantanamo Bay. How can we work to condemn all wrongs, whether it is convenient for us to condemn them or not?

The third way that I've been close to Iraq is the elections. Just over a week ago, I was asked by a friend if I wanted to be an international observer for the Iraqi parliament elections -- those held here in Damascus for all the Iraqi refugees. It was not any special connection that got me this, just a friend who had happened to be involved and who thought I might also be interested. I thought this sounded like a rather unique and important experience, so I signed up. The IMIE (Internation Mission for Iraqi Elections) OCV (Out-of-Country Voting) authorities were looking for international people to observe these elections. First, I had to sign a pledge of respect, impartiality, and non-interference; then I received documents with the procedures to be followed at all the voting centers.

The elections lasted 3 days, followed by a day of vote counting, all taking place at 10 different centers in Damascus and 1 in Aleppo. I observed for a couple of shifts (4 hours each) of both voting and counting. This was not a thrilling experience, no, you could not say that, but it was very interesting. The other observers were fascinating folks (on my different days I ended up with a Brit, a Bulgarian, a Czech, and a Canadian), and I especially liked getting to know the Syrian translator/observer with us at each center. Talk never turned to politics, (since we had signed a form saying it wouldn't) and that was just fine with me. The one really interesting conversation I had was with a stylish young Iraqi woman there observing (not with our group) as a representative of an Iraqi political entity. We talked about cultures -- this mostly meant her offering up amusing opinions: "You Americans simply do not know how to dress!"

From what I saw, the staff running the voting and counting (Iraqis living here) were very professional and stuck to the rules well. I missed (but heard about) such dramatic moments as when people were rejected coming back a second time having tried to scrub the purple ink off their fingers. We all (observers) gathered for a debriefing session the other night, and although it was not an absolutely cheat-proof election, it seems like they did a pretty solid job here in Syria. Perhaps the most fun of all was getting to really talk with the other observers after the debriefing. There was an amazing discussion about Gay marriage, between: a Spanish ambassador, a few young Syrians, a Finnish ambassador, a Swedish student (snatching bits of scandinavian conversation with the Finn), 2 American students (one a Quaker, one a Mormon), and a middle aged Syrian woman -- and this in a country where homosexuality "does not exist." I'll let you guess who said what!

From the election days and the debriefing session I got a very hopeful feeling about the elections. Seeing this apparently positive step in the Iraqi situation, I have not retroactively become a supporter of Bush's invasion; nevertheless, I am not in denial of the current situation: any step towards stability must be encouraged. I sensed that the Iraqis voting could feel that hope too, yet I also heard people distressed about the security situation and very resentful of the occupation. From out of America's lies, and from the violence and the suffering on all sides, let's hope that some real good will come out of it.

"we are with international legality but we refuse international mess"

2005-12-03T23:51:00.000+02:00

This is the first time I've lived in a foreign country -- i.e. the first time I've not been a tourist somewhere. I like things much better this way. Among other things, it's an opportunity to witness change over the long-term. The tourist only ever sees a snapshot. There have been seasonal changes aplenty that I've been lucky enough to witness so far: Ramadan, `Eid, and of course the weather getting colder. One dramatic change in the city over the past few weeks has been an amazing explosion of patriotism.

The phrase in the title of this post is printed on a big banner above Baghdad St., along with a big Syrian flag and the Arabic equivalent. I didn't have time to write down or translate that Arabic bit, but I'm sure it sounds at least a little more natural than the awesomely awkward English version. More importantly: Sharia Baghdad is not an exception; the whole city has been pasted with flags and patriotic slogans painted onto banners.

As far as I can keep track, this big burst of showing your patriotism began in full force after the speech of the president early in November. In a move that nobody expected (none of the Western commentators, at least), he talked tough, saying that the behavior of the US and the UN investigation was nothing less than a kind of war against Syria. Although he called for cooperation with the UN investigation, the tone was one of national unity and defiance against the so-called "international mess".

Let's keep in mind that, for as long as I've been here, Damascus (and beyond, of course) has been pretty well coated with the faces of the president, his father, and sometimes his brother too. On any government building or office you're sure to find at least a few of them. (Regarding presidential faces on buildings, try this witty comment of another visitor to Damascus.) Many shops have a framed photo of the father or the son, and many cars have a bashar-in-sunglasses windshield sticker. About 3 weeks after my arrival, I wrote in my journal that the role of their faces (in terms of where people put them) seemed similar to how flags appear in the states -- while noting the significant difference of meaning between a single human being's face and a set of symbols. I've got two favorite types of pictures: one has the president up front, with his father and brother ("martyred" in a car accident) behind, each one floating above a shoulder, as if advising him from the beyond. The other one is with Bashar laughing -- not only is it nice to see his lighter side, but in that picture he's also sporting a riotous double chin.

In this new burst of patriotism, however, the majority of signs and slogans are (very wisely, I think) focused on the flag and Syria, rather than the ruling family. While before this happened I had only a vague sense of what the syrian flag looked like, now it has been indelibly printed onto my memory. Billboards all over the city are covered with them, and at at least two of the city's major traffic circles, (besides being covered with flags and slogans), there are tents set up for patriotism organization. Many of these billboards have little comments at the bottom such as, "May God take care of Syria." Letter-sized versions of these billboards now appear everywhere, in car and store windows. There are also lots of painted banners, proclaiming that "we all love Syria and will defend her" and the like. Mention of the president is of course not absent from all this new effort, but it seems to me to take a back seat.

And so what do I think, is it all manufactured by the state or a is it a true outpouring of patriotism from the people? I would say it's certainly a mix of the two, as it would be in any country in such a situation. Of course the big displays in the big squares and on the billboards are engineered, but that can't explain the newly-hung flag outside the miniscule snack-shop next door to my apartment -- our street is just inches wider than a car, so who would have interest to "place" a flag there? The way that flags and slogans are appearing in car windows reminds me of the situation of patriotism after 9/11 in the states. A country is threatened, and both its government and people feel the need to emphasize their national unity.

I must come clean: I dislike this kind of crazy, flag-wild patriotism, wherever it may be found. Not only does it encourage malicious "who's more patriotic than who"-type intimidation, but it also ... well, my good Syrian friend `Abdullah put it best: "All this flag-waving is silly. A person's true feeling about their country is found on the inside, not in how they show it." That pretty much says it all.

Nevertheless, it can't be denied that people reacted positively to the president's speech. One Syrian wondered why the US is behaving as it is, because they have only strengthened the popularity and power of the president. "People who were against him earlier now support him, because he has stood up against the US and its aims in the region." One American friend made the delightfully absurd hypothesis that maybe maybe the Syrian government hired the US to threaten it -- a 21st century "Mouse that Roared".

I don't want to make it seem, however, that his popularity is brand new. Although I don't talk about this topic with my friends a lot, I've gotten the sense that Bashar's popularity is, in fact, rather long-standing and widespread. One friend portrayed him as an island of honor and goodness in a corrupt government that (according to him) needs to be changed. A good illustration, I think, that most people are not either 100% for or against their government.

Despite the rumors of Americans now being turned down for visa renewals, the situation has not changed how people treat me when I first tell them my nationality. Ahlan wa Sahlan (welcome), they say, and, as usual, most seem to really mean it, though with some it's harder to tell. I can never know for sure, since welcoming guests is such a big part of people's pride here -- to not say Ahlayn (another form of the "welcome" phrase) would be unfathomably rude, no matter what you think. I hope in the future to write more about the richness of Arabic polite expressions, insha'Allah.

And, as always, the little bits of life continue without a second thought: The souqs open and close, people are buying long-underwear and replacement chimney-pipes for their heaters, and as I write I can hear a little girl counting to 40 outside my window -- they're playing hide-and-seek, I suppose? This whole Mehlis-etc. business has, at least for the current moment, made itself visible mostly as some TV news specials, increased discussion, and the flags that have flooded the city. Nevertheless, as we go about our lives, many of us here are watching very carefully as the drama of this "international mess" unfolds.

various thoughts: three months and counting

2005-11-30T11:54:00.000+02:00

Hello! I've been here now a little over 3 months, which, depending on how you look at it, seems like either a very long or very short time. I'm still learning a lot, meeting people, and having fun. I still occasionally feel stupid, incompetent, and without purpose, but I tell myself that's natural.

I haven't written here in what feels like a long, long time -- I think it feels so very long to me because I'm always telling myself I'll do a post "really soon" and end up not having the time for whatever reason. I have a long and ever-growing list of topics and experiences that I want to write about, and I see no way that I'll ever get to all of them. I mention this so that no one thinks this blog is a collection of writings that completely document my time here; the topics are ones I happen to feel like writing about and that I think would be interesting and informative for people to read.

In some ways my life is very much the same as it has been, and in other ways it's changing. I'm still spending a good chunk of each day studying, which I'm still enjoying a lot, especially because what I'm learning has such real-life use for me here -- my language continues to improve. Things are changing as I meet more people and make more new friends. I've started to volunteer with the Damascus branch of al-Hilaal al-Ahmar, which has been great. (I hope to write more about my many experiences there in the future). Not only am I doing something productive with them, but I've also met a lot of great friends there. This past week I've also been trying to get out to see some of the films at the Damascus International Film Festival. It's funny to think of regular old Hollywood movies as "international."

I want to take the opportunity of this post (in which I'm writing about no one thing in particular) to affirm the statement I made in my first entry: that my writings and observations here are those of just one person. I recently sat down separately with two of my American acquaintances and I was struck by the differences between our three separate sets of impressions of Syria. Of course there are things that we have observed in common, but I think how we each see this place depends in large part on the relatively small number of Syrians we have individually gotten to know.

For instance, I asked one of these acquaintances what kind of attitudes she had encountered about African-Americans among Syrians. This is not something that I have discussed with every one of my acquaintances about, but from some I've gotten a sense of ignorance at best, and at worst of blatant hatred.

One day, while talking with some boys who live down the street from me, I exchanged pleasantries with a woman who lives near us. She is black, from California, and has moved here with her family to live and to study at the nearby Islamic university. When I told them that she, too, is from America, they replied "yes, but not originally American." I told them (with a very abridged version of the appropriate history lesson) that in fact I am just as "not originally American" as she is. In fact, in another earlier conversation with those boys, I had lamented that in my high school education we never learned that much about the Arab world. By replying that what they're learning similarly ignores history outside the Arab world, they reminded me that the problems of regionalism and ignorance of other cultures is not an American monopoly.

In one group of acquaintances I've seen a "Grand Theft Auto"-inspired impression that all black people are in gangs. In two other acquaintances (unconnected with each other) I encountered a more vicious racism. One, whose cousin lives in Virginia, sang the praises of the KKK, claiming that he didn't "hate black people, just the things they do." To this fellow, "the things they do" mainly meant dealing drugs. Incidentally (or not at all incidentally perhaps) he was also obsessed with asking me what I thought of his favorite blues, rock, and classic R&B musicians, most of whom were black. The other, without offering even a pretext of reason, emphasized that he "just hated n*****s." First, I must mention that the other Syrians present when these opinions were expressed were either firmly against them or they remained indifferent in the subsequent discussion we started up. In both situations (after asking people not to use offensive words) I tried to get people to apply their skepticism of media sources (plentiful when it comes to depictions of Arabs there) to the situation of African-Americans. Maybe, just maybe -- I suggested -- the information you have heard and seen about these people is selective or simply not true.

So, when asking my American acquaintance about this issue, I had already formed in my head a little mini-thesis about Syrians' opinions of African-Americans; that there is widespread ignorance, and the occasional deeply racist attitude. She replied that the impression she had gotten was only that generally people here are fond of the African-American culture. Not only did my impressions differ from these other Americans on specific issues like this one, but I also sensed that each of our general impressions of the country and its people had a very different tinge to it. Clearly, the specific Syrians I have met and know have a big influence on my writings. That being said, I don't mean to completely devalue any of my "mini-theses" that I present here. I've thought about the things I'm writing, and if I didn't think they were important, I wouldn't be doing this in the first place.

I would also encourage folks to comment, especially when I get something wrong. Some friendly soul corrected my last post: the "mini-pizzas" are actually called "fataer," which pretty much scratches the point I was making. Though I have heard them occasionally called "pizzas," I don't actually know if they come from "The West" as I suggested. So comment, please do, and help me out.

To close, and to specify how I see my life changing here, I'll throw in another Arab proverb. People here are really obsessed with their proverbs -- I'm very jealous. This one is a dialogue proverb, which means you can either narrate the dialogue yourself, or if a person next to you knows it, actually act it out with them. I'm not sure if I'll get the wording perfectly, but the spirit is there.

#1: Your cow got into my farm!!

#2: But I don't have a cow!

#1: I know, I don't have a farm either; I just wanted to talk.

I think this pretty well describes a lot of my conversations and acquaintances here, up to this point. Talking for the sake of talking. And while meeting conversation partners in city parks is a fun, important, and infinitely interesting activity, I'm glad to be getting to the point where I'm spending more and more time with people with whom I find a lot of things in common.

Peace.

Fun with the Roman Script - and - some Thoughts on Cultures

2005-11-11T20:26:00.000+02:00

One of my favorite pastimes here is collecting things written in the Roman script that make me laugh. It's not hard to do, since although you still see Arabic script most of the time here, Roman script -- in particular, English -- is widespread and very cool. Widespread, yes, but not widespread enough for there not to be a huge number of misspellings, mistakes, or just awkward usage. They make me laugh, so I want to share some examples I've seen or heard about from others.

-- First of all, you have your basic misspellings. Thanks to irregular spelling in English, you can trace how someone took an English word written in Arabic script, transliterated it back into English and came out with the wrong letter combination. One popular place for English words is on car windshield stickers, where I saw "Kees Me", a pretty standard example of how this double mis-transliteration happens.

-- My friend Martin saw "Go To Hill" written on a windshield. "What," he thought at first, "is this some slogan of a mountaineering club?" As I'm sure you can figure out, it's not, though I think that might be a good use for it.

-- For those who know Arabic script, it is clear how they came up with "Habbi Trafel" written on the side of a bus -- there is no P or V in Arabic.

-- One of my favorites is a plastic bag that I found. On it there is printed a flower of vague anatomy, above which are the words: "lust For You". It's not actually an L that starts it off, but a capital I -- they somehow got the I and the J confused. To add to the awesomeness, below is written: "Tha nks for gour visit". This is a truly fine specimen.

-- Another more predictable category of mistakes you see are not accidental -- imitation brand name clothing -- but still fun. I've seen "NO FAER" and "FUESS JEANS", while "Adibas", "Abidas", or "Abibas" are consistently popular. I wonder why some manufacturers take the trouble to misspell these names while most others have no qualms about pirating the logos and spelling them correctly.

-- What is even better than misspellings is when words are spelled correctly but used in a way that's just not quite right. In huge letters on the central Damascus post office is written "GENERAL ESTABLISHMENT OF POSTS". Not wrong, per se, but something's just a little funny about it, especially written up on a government building.

-- When my friend Josh was visiting last week, he joined me in my search, sighting this one printed on the backpack of a school-kid: "I'm the Friend!" Say it in the right voice and it's funny.

-- This morning I saw a new fancy restaurant with a faux-Italian name that I forget -- in its windows were banners printed with the phrase, "Soft Opening". I don't even know what to say about that one.

-- Last week Josh and I were sitting in the Ummayad Mosque courtyard (a great place to sit) and watching the little kids run around us (a great thing to do). On the back of a smiley little fellow we saw a fake leather jacket that said in big letters:

ARE YOU HAPPY?
YES I DO!

-- Another type of item always plastered with English words are the school notebooks that are ubiquitous here. They are fairly standard: spiral bound, with plastic covers (the cover is key) decorated in a very "flashy", "cool" way. This usually means a photo collage, adorned with a few words in English that may or may not make sense. They are often very sentimental, like my friend Joachim's that says "You are My Lonely Rose", with a picture of a rose floating over some quaint-looking village scene. (I think they meant Lovely).

-- I just bought one that is decorated with an orange orb magically floating above a hand -- inside the orb is the @ symbol, and around it are flying a number of electron-type balls of light. It says:

Technology
is the language of this period
My friend Josh (taking this way too seriously) pointed out the theoretical implications of this one: According to this notebook, technology is not the language of the future, it's the language of this period only, one day to be replaced by some other language. I love it.

-- My most favorite notebook phrase is this: (Imagine the O to be the full size of the notebook and filled with sports photos)
SPORT
Would you Have the Challenge?

And now for some other examples:

-- "Whatever", written in snazzy yellow letters on a pink shirt, worn by one very tough-looking tough-guy, babe on his arm, missing the essential cultural context that comes with that word.

-- "For Kids", written on the shirt of one of my middle-school-age Syrian pals. He showed it to me proudly, emphasizing that it was from America -- not realizing that a shirt that says "For Kids" would definitely be "not cool" for any middle-schooler.

-- You know that type of sassy shirt that is popular with some girls in the states? The shirts that say stuff like "Princess" or "Sexy" or "Stop Looking at my Chest"? Well, in the middle of the pre-`Eid shopping spree, I saw one of these shirts on a model in a store window -- I classify it as "one of these" because of its style and the way the text was printed. But this is what it said, straight out of the dictionary: "They Hold Me in High Regard"

-- Someone had managed to squeeze this entire sentence onto his car windshield: "Do Not Look At The Girl Sitting Next To Me Because She Is My Girlfriend". Wow.

-- Another favorite, spotted by Joachim, printed on the back of a sweatshirt some guy was wearing.

Do You Like This Move?
[Below that, a stylized picture of guy slam-dunking]
Your Girl Does.
Oh, what I would pay for a sweatshirt like this.

Well, I started out writing this post to merely share some funny things I like to laugh about, but I think there's more to be said. First of all, I want to make it clear that I'm not trying to poke fun at people for not having mastered the English language, especially since you can find merchandise pasted with equally ridiculous slogans all over the states. What's funny are the instances of confusion and error.

More importantly, I think all this begs the big question: what makes Western culture (and especially American culture) seem so cool here? What makes my little middle-school friend show me his American shirt with pride, and what makes his friends assume that United Colors of Bennetton is an American company just because it's the height of style here? I don't know, but I do think the result is not as terrible as some people think. This is not because I am an advocate for spreading Western culture around the globe -- on the contrary, it seems to me that the parts of Western culture that are exported are usually the worst. The reason it's not so bad in my eyes (and rather interesting in fact) is that never do the adopted aspects of foreign culture ever wipe out what is here -- there is always some sort of mixing or adaptation.

One place to see this is in pizza. Besides a few restaurants that sell it the way Americans know it, most pizza here is essentially an entirely different food. They are little round bits of dough no wider than 6 inches in diameter, on which is usually just one ingredient: tomato, lamb, chicken, or other options -- each one costs about 10 cents, so you buy a whole pile if you want a meal. The cheese pizzas (no sauce, just cheese and spices) are shaped like boats to keep in the cheese -- so now the appearance and ingredients are totally distinct from the original imported form, yet it's still a "pizza".

More evidence is found in music. I have heard at least a few other expats here lamenting the state of Arabic Pop, saying that all it does is ape the Western styles. Now, at some level they're right: the huge amount of imitation (as opposed to innovation) going on in the music seems regrettable, and yet, when you listen to the radio here, you could never mistake one of the songs for a Western Pop song -- something distinctly Arabic remains, to a greater or lesser degree. (Except, of course, when they are playing Brian Adams or Celine Dion, whom I heard described by one expat wit as the "national singers of Syria.") Another thing to keep in mind is that incorporating from Western music is not something new to the music of this area -- in the seminar I took last year on Middle Eastern Music one of the "overarching themes" drilled into my head was the continual willingness of musicians here over history to borrow instruments and styles from other cultures.

I got a chance to think about all this when about a month ago I saw a Lebanese rap group in concert. The whole thing was somewhat laughable: in terms of their clothing and body language, the 4 members of the group seemed to be copying exactly from the look of American Hip-hop. Gold chains were all over the place; the tall guy had dreds; the short guy was wearing Fubu pants. I was especially disappointed with the beats they used, which were the most canned, formulaic, and uninteresting hip-hop beats you've ever heard. Although I didn't understand much more than the choruses of each song, I was also not impressed with the apparent quality of their lyrics. Nevertheless, I felt a glimmer of hope for these guys and for the genre of Arab Rap. No matter how the form and surface may be a carbon-copy of the imported genre, the words they were saying are all their own -- and that is the real substance. So maybe give all the Arab rappers a decade or two or three and I'm sure something will come of it that's more their own.

I think it's important to not ignore the aspects of culture that are borrowing from here and there, even when it makes that culture come closer to resembling whatever may disgust us of Western culture. Under the surface, beyond the marketing and commercialism, I sense there's something new there, even if we can't quite yet understand it.

Anti-Mehlis Demonstration

2005-11-03T20:32:00.000+02:00

(written 10/31)
I had claimed at first that this wasn’t a political blog, but here I go posting a somewhat political post. I’ve been feeling the pressure from the non-stop news about Syria – I want to get my take on issues up here before they become totally obsolete. So here’s my story about last week’s Syria news, the demonstration in Damascus.

On the morning of October 24, I was taking a servees (microbus) to the center of the city to run an errand. There were people in the streets, carrying signs, waving flags – I was immediately reminded of an email I had read the night before from the US embassy saying that there were reports of a demonstration planned for today, and that Americans should avoid downtown. But I had forgotten this (whoops!), and there I was downtown, … and, … well, I just couldn’t resist. What a great opportunity to talk to people and see what they are thinking.

When I finished my errand, I started out walking from Abu Romane, following the scattered folks who were following a big crowd moving a few hundred meters ahead of us. The wide street I was on was largely empty; I sidled up next to some high school boys walking and carrying flags to start a conversation.

Before I approached these boys, I had considered introducing myself as Canadian today, despite the fact that I’ve never once felt threatened here on account of my nationality. I had, after all, been warned not to come here – I was a bit scared. At the last minute, however, I decided against it. Partly because I’m no good at lying, and partly because that would ruin one of my goals – not only am I here to get to know Syrians, I also want to be an example of an American separate from his government.

I asked them about the demonstration, what’s the purpose, why they came, etc. Of course I knew what the purpose of the demonstration was, but I wanted to hear it from them. They proved to be a pretty lousy bunch. Only one of them actually spoke to me – the others acted too cool to even greet me. From the one who talked to me, I learned that all high schools had been canceled today because of the demonstration. He could tell me that it was against America and Israel, but when I asked about Mehlis, he didn’t even know who that was. Not very impressive. My conversation with this guy faded and then eventually trailed off.

I kept walking, turned right after the park towards Baghdad St.. The big group in front of me met and joined an even bigger group at a large traffic circle with a big fountain in the middle (it turns purple at night) – this was the center of the demonstration, where it remained for the next 2 hours or so. I took up a post by the side of the road a few meters from where the thick crowd began. At this point I was still a little bit scared – what is the deal actually with me being here – am I in danger?

What did this thing look like? Well, there were indeed a lot of people there. The entire traffic circle (it’s big) was filled to the brim, and the crowd spread out into the 6 or so streets that feed the circle as well. Still, I would estimate the number as far lower than the 100,000 reported by official Syrian news. I’m no expert, but it didn’t seem to me to be much bigger than the crowd we had in Philly on Feb. 15 2003 against the Iraq war buildup – and that was supposed to be 10,000 or 20,000.

Generally, to me it looked like any peaceful political demonstration I’ve seen. There were many signs, in Arabic, French and English, along with lots of Syrian flags and the necessary Hafizs and Bashars. From loudspeakers were coming the speech of some official speaker. There were also scattered groups of people doing some call-and-response chanting. There was of course a military presence, but much less than I expected. Lots of young folks were there (as mentioned, no school today!) but there was also a significant presence of adults, who seemed to be coming from different parts of society.

As I stood there leaning up against a wall by the side of the street, looking things over, I was greeted by a group of 3 men, probably in their 30s or 40s. Judging from their clothes, they were blue-collar workers of some kind. Ghazi, Shadi, and Khalid. They were friendly and welcoming, and of course somewhat thrilled at finding an American here – and what’s more one who speaks “al-lugha al-mazboota,” (the correct language) as Shadi called it, i.e., spoken Arabic and not Fusha or MSA.

This day for me at the demonstration was a personal language breakthrough. I spoke only Arabic with the people I met. Because so many foreigners only learn written Arabic, finding someone who speaks their normal language (not fluently, yet) seems to be a real treat for people here. I can feel them open up to me right away.

After we talked together for a while, Ghazi, Shadi, and Khalid linked their arms in mine and swept me into the crowd. There was somebody they wanted me to meet. They addressed this person as Ustaz, literally “professor,” but also a general term of respect for any white-collar type. This guy was just that – a respectable middle-aged white-collar type. We talked in Arabic for a while, and something of a crowd gathered around – not more than 12 people or so. Everyone was rather curious about me – I had trouble fitting asking questions to them in edgewise. They were glad to hear that I am against Bush and his aggression, but when it came to the Mehlis report, I was impressed with their restraint. They asked me about it and I replied “shoo bya`rafnee?” – a slangy phrase meaning “how would I know?” That is quite how I felt, having not read the report or any in-depth analysis of it. One of those present asked again, pressing me for an answer, but a chorus of voices quickly silenced him, letting me keep my silence on the issue.

Someone (I can’t really remember who) decided that that was enough conversation for me, and so everyone dispersed – a few thanked me and shook my hand. Ghazi, Shadi, Khalid suggested that I join the group of youth dancing in a circle, but I turned them down in favor of walking a little. Together we worked our way around the large traffic circle, squeezing between the crowd. Again I was impressed with their not wanting to take advantage of me as an American at an anti-American protest: After one of them suggested taking me to a TV camera, I said “ma biddee” – “I don’t want to.” That was that, end of discussion, they weren’t going to take me. We traded phone numbers and parted ways not long afterwards.

I continued my stroll around the perimeter of the traffic circle, and as I took a pause to take in the scene in front of me, a late-middle-aged guy (suit and tie) started up a conversation with me. We spoke rather briefly, and loudly as well, since we were standing near one of the loudspeakers amplifying the official speech. At one point he leaned forward and said into my ear, “I love the American people, but Bush is going to destroy the world!” Again and again this phrase or sentiment is repeated to me: “I love the American people.” Sometime I should go as a Canadian, if only to see if people still say that to someone who is not an American. My gut tells me, however, that most people really do mean it.

Things were getting a little crowded in the direction I was going, so I headed off on a side street and approached the demonstration from a different direction. I was next greeted by a group of students – some university and some high school. Again, very surprised that I was speaking Arabic. Having seen that school had been let out and that some teachers were shooing kids here and there, I asked these students whether it was required that they come here. They were absolutely adamant that it was not required, and that they were present of their own accord. [More on this topic later. And a side question for anyone reading: how could I have asked them that question without asking it? I.e., so as not to arouse their suspicions that I was accusing their rally of being fabricated?] One of the girls went on to say how much she loved her president: “Bashar habeeb elbee” – “Bashar is the love of my heart!” The young guys there backed her up saying it was great that he was so young. The one I ended up talking with was Annan, a Palestinian currently studying at a private medical university in Damascus. He was very aware of the issues of the day, but I did not discuss with him long, because I wanted to run back home and grab my camera to make some documentary evidence.

On the way there, not far from the protest, I heard a call from the side of the road: “Hello! How are you?” This happens fairly often: when kids see I am a foreigner they sometimes call out to me with whatever English they know. I’ve discovered this is a great way of starting conversations – I answer them back in Arabic and then we are on a roll. This ended up being a really nice conversation with about 7 boys in their early years of high school. These guys were very nice and very much aware of the purpose of the rally and the events behind it. Like the previous group of students I’d met, most definitely in full support of their government. They were rather curious about the anti-Bush types in America, and our conversation often left politics to just talk about life and culture. Once their teachers passed by, telling them to do something (I couldn’t catch what – were they telling them to go to the center of the protest?), but they excused themselves by saying they were talking to an American. By the time our conversation ended, the crowd at the circle was thinning out, so I gave up on getting my camera and wandered around the premises some more as it cleared out.

I’m glad I ended up downtown that morning and that I decided to go. I’m glad I had a lot of conversations with different sorts of people, and I’m really glad that Syrians can distinguish between Mr. Bush and me. What I really wonder about is the all the people who were *not* at the demonstration. I’m not saying that all those absent are in favor of the Mehlis report, but naturally everyone there was against it. How many people sit at home, watch BBC along with the Syrian propaganda news shows, and ask, “well, I wonder if our government did do something wrong?” But if people do think that, there is no place here to ask such questions.

It’s been a more than a week now since the protest. I’ve done some more reading about the Mehlis report, and faster than I can keep up with, international politics is moving on: The UN issued a resolution against Syria on Nov. 1st. I’m now going to try to boil down my feelings about the demonstration and the whole Mehlis report into a big, fat, blanket statement that perhaps fits both situations: The way things appear can keep people from looking honestly at their content.

In terms of the demonstration, I will refer to an article (within a blog post) of a Fulbrighter (Roland McKay) who was there: http://texanabroad.blogspot.com/2005/10/damascus-and-street-politics.html. He gives some good description, but pretty much writes off the demonstration as a propaganda stunt. He’s largely right: the fact that students got out of school and were encouraged or required by their teachers to go does not make the protest seem very grassroots. Hence, the Assad government seems even more weak and desperate for support. What this line of thinking can miss is that most of the people I talked to there knew what they were talking about, had some real legitimate grievances about US aggression, and support their government. The fact that the protest was rather stage-managed hides the fact that most people there (excluding the first group of oblivious flag-wavers I met) were serious and passionate about their concerns.

The problem I see with the Mehlis report situation is that it has never been separated from the aggression of the United States. However true and unbiased it may be, the report will always be tied to the US/French/British escalation of this issue. It has seemed to me that this escalation is not based on the search for truth but rather on the goal of eliminating the current Syrian government. Thus, the Syrians will always have excuses – “The report is political!” “Mehlis is Bush’s puppet!” – and will not have to actually take stock of the potential criminality in their government. The fact that the report has been politicized by the US (whether it’s content is politicized or not) will hide from so many Syrians and other defenders against US aggression the truths that could be found in it.

interesting article: the Jews of Syria

2005-11-03T20:28:00.000+02:00

I found this article upended a lot of my assumptions and stereotypes. Check it out:
http://faculty-staff.ou.edu/L/Joshua.M.Landis-1/syriablog/2005/10/jews-of-syria-by-robert-tuttle.htm

what `Abdo had to say

2005-10-21T23:20:00.000+02:00

Today was the release of the Mehlis report, the investigation into the death of Rafiq Hariri. At least one top Syrian official was implicated, and Condi and the rest of them are stepping up the threatening talk towards Damascus.

One place I’ve seen a reaction to this is on TV: I just bought a little TV (oh, Horrors!) for the purpose of practicing my listening and language. As it turns out, the Syrian TV shows are hilarious and quite good – especially during Ramadan. Today, though, it seems that their normal schedule was offset a bit to make room for non-stop news segments and discussions put out to counter the report. Remember, this is official Syrian TV – I don’t have satellite.

All these news bits have been very cleverly titled: “Bayn al-Tahqiq wal-Haqiqa” – “Between the Investigation and the Truth.” The one I was just watching a minute ago was a panel discussion – I didn’t understand completely enough to put an analysis here, but it was rather apparent that everyone – the panelists, the interviewer – was pretty much in agreement with each other, and against the report.

In terms of the reaction of people, I have not done any kind of survey of the street. The kids are still playing soccer and setting off fireworks outside my window; the souq is just as busy as it always is. On the surface, not much has changed.

This evening I was invited to break the fast with `Abdo – a friend of mine, the co-owner of a corner store near me. We broke bread together sitting on overturned buckets in front of the store, surrounded by the strange silence of iftaar-time. In the store the TV was showing satellite news, talk talk talking about this investigation.

`Abdo’s opinion about it all was pretty simple: “The issue doesn’t matter too much to me. But if someone wages war on me, I will fight back.” I’ve heard this line of thought a number of times, and often referring to Islam. It is a religion that calls for peace, yet if you are attacked, you must fight back. I expressed to him my sincerest hope that nothing of the sort happens.

The discussion moved on to other topics – it was not the most clear of conversations I’ve had. `Abdo speaks not a word of English, and like many people I’ve met, he does not have the ability explain a word I don’t know with simpler language. One thing he talked about was his hope to travel to the USA – maybe to become a chef, maybe a drink seller, maybe a teacher. I can imagine just how my conservative freshman-year roommate would react to this: “Look at this hypocrisy! First he is saying he will fight with our country, and then he wants to move here!” Well, there is in fact quite a difference between the two issues. One is the perception of prosperity and freedom in the US, the other is the perception of the US imperializing in this area. Not necessarily contradictory.

`Abdo pointed out that there we were, a Syrian and American, breaking bread together as brothers. This would all be different, however, if I were attacking him, or if he were attacking me, he said. I tried to get across to him that it seemed to me that everyone loses in a war – whether the attackers or the defenders, for so many reasons. We seemed to agree, though I don’t think my language was quite advanced enough to get the subtleties across.

So that’s what `Abdo thought. I sense that lots of folks here simply avoid talking politics and such – whether it actually matters to them or not. This might be because of fear of the secret police, or it might just be people caring more about their own lives – their own jobs, their own kids, and what’s for dinner tonight. We know all about that kind of attitude in the old USA…

In terms of my own reaction to this investigation, it’s also pretty simple. I have no personal insight into knowing who killed (or did not kill) Hariri or into the integrity of Mehlis, so I see no reason to comment about the report itself. I do see, however, that the American and French interest in this issue is not guided merely by the search for truth. I’m sure we can all remember some political assassinations that the US has just seemed not to notice. Their clear goal is to destabilize the Syrian government – a destabilization that would be seriously bad news for everyone’s interests. Check out this article (http://faculty-staff.ou.edu/L/Joshua.M.Landis-1/syriablog/2005/10/washington-and-damascus-between.htm) for lots of information about the situation of U.S.-Syrian relations, and an argument calling for communication between the two.

And I can't deny it, the issue is personal: I fear that the US will do something stupid and violent to disrupt my time here. I am learning so much – in terms of both language and people – and put simply, I’m enjoying myself. It’s a rare opportunity I’ve got, being here now, and a premature return home would really put an onion in my rice. That’s an Arabic idiom I just learned – I bet you can guess the meaning. Thus, I’m hoping for the very best.

ramadan

2005-10-21T23:16:00.000+02:00

Right now we’re in the middle of the holy month of Ramadan – that means that all Muslims are supposed to fast while the sun is in the sky everyday. It’s quite fascinating how this tradition puts the city on an entirely different schedule every day. Of course for about 25% of Syrians this is not their tradition (for Christians and certain sects of Islam) but in my area at least, which is largely Muslim, it really does seem universal. I know a few non-Muslim foreigners who are fasting only because it’s such an integral part of life here.

The day starts every morning at around 2 am, when a guy comes around to wake everybody up to eat before the sun rises: He beats a drum, bangs on doors, and rings doorbells – he also calls out every now and again: “oomoo yaa naayimeen!” or something like that, meaning “Get up, sleepers!” These wakers – there are usually 2 or more, separated by a half hour or so – always bring a smile to my face.

During the day, it seems that stores seem to open a little bit later than usual. People go about their usual business, buying food, buying whatever, though of course many food shops have changed their offerings for the month – e.g., from quick eats to take-home food. Many food shops take the opportunity of the drop in business during Ramadan to redo their décor. I can’t deny that I really miss the convenience of being able to get a quick shawarma sandwich at any time – yum.

Starting at about 2 pm, things start to get crazy on the streets – everyone is in the rush to get home in time for the sunset call to prayer, when eating can begin again. Traffic is hellish, and markets are busy busy with people buying the last ingredients for the iftar meal. Right up until the last minute, those still out on the street are rushing – finally, the maghrib call rings out (around 5:05 currently), and people eat – silence reigns.

The evening (starting about 6:30 or so) has quite a festive atmosphere. Stores open again, and streets that were silent 2 hours before become noisy and bright. At first I was impressed that there is a month-long holiday devoted to not consuming, rather than our American Day-after-thanksgiving-till-christmas sacred month of going to the mall. After almost 3 weeks, though, I see there’s plenty of Ramadan consumption – the iftar meal is a big deal, and the evening shopping ritual. We’re still a week and half away from `Eed, the holiday which comes at the end of Ramadan, but I’ve heard from a number of people what a busy shopping-fest that is.

People always ask if I am fasting, and sometimes I feel pressure from them for me to do so. As is the case with so many religious formalities, the letter of the law seems to become more important than the spirit. On the whole, I note that people seem to think more about the start, end, and completeness of the fasting, rather than the pious thoughts that are supposed to come with it.

I will be relieved when the month is over, but I’ve enjoyed experiencing the different sides of this. One thing is to take part in the running around to buy food and get home just in time – because although I’m not fasting, if I'm eating with others it's when I eat. Another is to be waiting around the table, food ready, waiting for that call to prayer – often watching the chanters at the Ommayyad Mosque on TV. As soon as the first syllable is out, it’s time to dig in. I especially enjoy being an onlooker. I once sat in a city park through it all, starting at around 4 pm. I could see the traffic intensify, then drop to just a trickle as the park emptied out except for just a few of us. I walked home through silent, silent streets. Occasionally during this time I see people on the streets – they often offer me a bite of the food they’re eating. On roads that 30 minutes ago were crowded and loud, the only noise I can hear is the occasional clink of plates or silverware from inside the houses all around me.

The Epic Search

2005-10-14T13:56:00.000+02:00

This is the story of how I found an apartment here in Damascus. The short version is that I got really, really lucky. The long version is below. It is perhaps too long: there are lots of tangents and I talk about a lot of things that don’t relate at all to finding an apartment. I hope that leaving it this way, as a messy narrative, shows that my experiencing life here is not pre-divided into topics for convenient blog-posting – everything is rather a big, delightful mush.

Before arriving, I didn’t have any clue about where I was going to live when I got here. Basically, I had put my faith in the hands of my teacher Hussein, with whom I had been in email contact. He said that he could manage to find some housing for me. I knew a few things: 1) that I wanted to avoid Bab Touma, the neighborhood where many foreign students live, speak English, and get ripped off for their rents; 2) that finding a place would not be especially easy, and 3) that landlords here are notoriously eager to rip off foreigners. I didn’t worry too much about the issue however. One of those “cross that bridge when you come to it” things.

Within the first few days of my arrival in Damascus (August 25) I learned what the nature of this “housing help” would be. I was staying in the small flat below the flat of my teacher. The other resident with me in this place was Martin, another student of Hussein’s. Martin is a smart, amiable Swiss who harbors a special taste for gangsta rap – I was glad to be living with this more experienced and friendly companion. He had been here for 6 weeks and was headed home in another week. The place was not quite big enough for the two of us; it was clearly intended for me after Martin’s departure. I knew right away that I wouldn’t be staying there longer than a month. The issue was not that the apartment was terrible, but rather that I was paying rent to my teacher and his wife – a situation that was a little too close for comfort.

Martin departed, I was on my own, and I set out on this epic search. I let Hussein know right away that I intended to move after September, and asked him for his help. He didn’t do such a great job at this, mostly because he is busy teaching many hours of the day, and also possibly because he wouldn’t have minded someone staying in his own apartment. I was aware that in the end I was alone on this – for the first time in my life I was (and am) really on my own: no home or university support systems in place to catch me. This is not to say that I intended to do everything by myself – that would have been rather foolish – but that I couldn’t just expect someone else to take care of things for me.

I did my best at asking around to everyone I met about housing; I followed some of these leads up, others I let be, like the “easy” options in Bab Touma. It was tough going, this search, not least because 6 days of every week I was in class or studying for at least 5 hours each day. The one way that Hussein did help me was in hooking me up with a distant cousin of his living here in Damascus – the idea was that Fadi and I could live together. In theory, quite a good one: with Fadi asking for price quotes we would not get the “foreigner’s price”, we could share rent, we would have to speak Arabic all the time, and I could show him some English. Fadi is an extreme beginner in English, so it wouldn’t have “harmed” my progress at all. We looked around at some places, but it didn’t work out for a couple of reasons. He wanted something in a neighborhood far from where my teacher lived; he smokes, which wouldn’t have been very pleasant for me; and the money situation was a little too unclear for my taste – was I being taken advantage of? Nevertheless, spending that time searching with Fadi was good for my language, and we have remained friends. Still, there were no real promising leads for an apartment.

My eventual finding of an apartment depended much less on my own initiative than on dumb luck and the hospitality and kindness of strangers – strangers who quickly became friends. One day (September 19th, to be exact), I was coming back frustrated from looking for apartments with Fadi. Even though it was late and I was tired, I made a spur-of-the-moment decision to stop by the internet place (there’s nothing really “café” about them). It’s funny: those little decisions that are so small – but when you look back at them – so, so fateful. (Cue romantic music.) What made me decide to go to the particular internet place that I did, as opposed to the 4 others within 100 yards that I also use? I don’t know, but I did, and as I was fumbling with my change to pay for my time there, a guy at a computer turned around and said eagerly: “Do you speak English? Do you need help?”

This was the start of my relationship with Mahmoud. He is a year or two older than me, heavy-set, most often wearing a typical Adidas or Puma sporty shirt. We made small talk and the question came up: “Where are you living?” “Just over in Sheikh Muhiddeen,” I replied, “but I’m thinking about moving.” This opened up the subject of where I was moving. Mahmoud said that he had recently been looking at some flats in the area, so he might be able to help me out. I told him thanks, we traded phone numbers, and I left for home that night feeling a glimmer of hope. I also learned that Mahmoud had just graduated from college in infomatics (I knew it had something to do with computers), and was living just up the hill with some other guys. Interesting…

A few days later, on the 22nd of September, I was making special effort to follow up on all housing leads, however tenuous. I had visited an overpriced, hotel-like, basement flat with not a single window, and I also called Mahmoud to see how he might be able to help me. He was glad to hear from me and told me that he would call back sometime in the next few days. That sometime turned out to be 5 minutes later, when he asked what I had going on and if I wanted to come over to his place. I agreed, and met him where we had parted the other night to walk back to his apartment.

There, I was introduced to two of his roommates, Ali and Usama. Ali is somewhat short, and seems to be rather shy, though that might be because his English is not as good as the others’. Usama is built rather like me, with a face that reminds me of a guy I know from High School. Whenever he introduces himself to foreigners (or at least to Americans) he says his name in a “scary” voice and wiggles his fingers next to his face as if he is the boogey-man coming to get us. I appreciate this type of humor. As we talked, it became clear that all three of them were very nice guys. We sat, drank some soda and talked until after 1:00 am – how pleasant.

Despite my final impression that this was a great evening, however, there was a brief moment of panic for me. After the first time I met Mahmoud I had written in my journal that he may have “at first thought I was a Muslim.” This was an easy assumption for him to make, since we met right near the Abu Noor University, the most prestigious Islamic school in Syria. There are many foreign students around from all around the world, including many from the UK and USA. (This also explains the 5 internet cafes right near each other.) Most foreign Muslims would be studying classical Arabic (the language of the Qur’an,) so I thought I cleared this up when I said I was studying spoken Arabic only. It turns out that I had not made this so clear, though, since early on in our conversation he asked, “What is it like for you being a Muslim in America?”

I wonder if they noticed the panic that must have slipped across my face. As a true American, trained by our fair and balanced news media, I was able to imagine the scenario in an instant: Once I tell them I’m not a Muslim I will be gagged, bound, and my picture will end up on the Internet. I took a deep breath to clear my head of all this muck and I spoke the truth, simply, in Arabic: “I am not a Muslim.” Of course, nothing happened. Mahmoud, Ali, and Usama were still sitting there, as friendly as before – my response did not seem to surprise them one bit.

I should have expected as much: the hospitality of the Syrians is deservedly famed. For them, hospitality is a cultural duty that they take great pride in. Almost every time I have a significant conversation with a stranger they invite me to their home. Occasionally, this is done as what seems to be a matter of form: I am invited, the new friend takes down my number, and I never hear from them again. Most of the time, however, it’s genuine. People here are very friendly.

So even if these three fellas had held any hostility against me for my religion, (and its crystal clear now that they did not – I know them to be good people and true friends) they would not have made any sign of it. To do so would be `eib, meaning socially wrong. (As opposed to haraam, religiously wrong, or memnoo`, legally wrong – so many words we are missing!) It is interesting to note that since that moment, although we have discussed religion in general and Islam in particular, they have never asked me about my own religious background.

That evening we went on to talk (in Arabic and English) about lots of things, but mostly about America and cultural differences between here and there. This is a topic that I’ve been forced to think a lot about here, since a lot of people want to talk about it. Never before have I had to define for myself what “American Culture” is. This definition is especially tricky since I don’t really consider myself a good representation of mainstream American Culture – yet at the same time I’m not in denial: I am American; I never tell people that I’m from Canada or something. I have not yet found a perfectly satisfactory definition (probably never will) but I’m thinking about it and working on it.

The tricky part is getting across the diversity (and I don’t just mean racial diversity) of the USA. Syrians and Americans (generally speaking) have many assumptions about each other and each other’s country. Many Americans believe (thanks to Bush’s threats and accusations) that Syrians are terrorists. Many Syrians I’ve met think that Americans don’t care about what’s happening in the world. Of the two assumptions, I must admit that the Syrians’ is much less harmful and much closer to the truth. Nevertheless, I try to get people to understand that a lot of issues (especially cultural ones) depend on where you are in the USA and who you are talking to. For me, I’m still struggling with where I myself stand on all of these issues. I’ve certainly never had such a good opportunity to talk it all out, and in an environment that is most different from the USA.

One frustrating thing is that I lot of people I talk to have their own idea about what is plaguing the USA (whether it be Bush, Zionism, lack of morals, etc.) and from me, the American in front of them, they want to hear their thesis supported. In other words, they don’t listen very carefully. With these three guys, however, Mahmoud, Ali and Usama, I felt that it was different. Although they had their ideas and preconceptions about American life and culture, they asked me genuinely what I thought, listened to me, and we discussed the issues.

For example, we talked about family for quite some time. They asked about what kind things are expected of family relationships in the USA. I think they were hitting on the big difference, which is that in Syrian culture a lot of things are clearly expected or even required of family relationships, while in America, sure, you can say that about some communities among the greater population, but there are no overarching “rules.” I told them with pride about my own family, in which the relationships are in place (maybe not of the specific type that these guys had in mind) and we do old-fashioned things like eat meals together. Mahmoud spoke, suggesting that families without such relationships are no good – I tried to counter by saying firmly that even if things like divorce are not good for families, it doesn’t mean that these families cannot contain good, caring people.

All in all, these discussions critical of the USA are a good challenge for me. I have to get across my own personality and my own opinions, both those that are critical of my country and in support of it, and at the same time reminding people here that I am just one person. It is interesting to note that everyone here with whom I’ve discussed Bush or the US government emphasizes that they distinguish between the American government and the American people – “I love the American people,” they always say. When Syrians travel to the USA, do they get a similar reception?

It is also interesting to see how Syrians portray their own country. All in all, they are very proud of it and eager to point out their nation’s strong points. For example, people often point out how safe it is here or how friendly the people are – on both counts they are right. What I have not seen is many people willing to admit that there are things wrong with the country. In a typical exchange, a friend was going on and on bashing the US’s “pretend democracy” yet refused to admit that his own country has something of a “pretend democracy” itself. Mahmoud, Ali, and Usama presented to me a Syria where 99% of marriages are faithful. I’m with them in that the social mores here are less lenient than in the West, but is the number that high behind all the closed doors here? I doubt it (and I swear I have no first-hand experience with marital infidelity here!) I have, however, had some first-hand experience with the fear inspired by the secret police – most people seem to refrain from mentioning that when we talk about Syria. Overall, I see people wanting to paint a very pretty (and sometimes overly-optimistic) picture of their country for me, the foreigner. An understandable goal, considering what is written about their own country in the western media. Of course I see exceptions to this, but that’s usually only when I know someone better.

In going on and on about all these conversations, I have neglected the most interesting thing about Mahmoud, Ali, and Usama: they (along with Sharif, their 4th roommate) are all computer game programmers. Betcha didn’t expect that one! They work as a game design team for a computer game company here in Damascus. Each one has a specialty, like A.I., special graphics, designing the landscapes in the games, etc. They showed me a little sample of what they were currently working on. It seemed like a pretty standard 1st-person shooter game to me (I’m no expert) and in this one the goal was to kill the terrorists. Another time they described to me that their goal was to work on games that were non-violent – so I’m not sure whether the one I saw was an exception or perhaps a project for their company rather than their own creation.

Now, at last, back to the main story: The night that I met and talked with the computer boys (as I call them to myself) an apartment opportunity opened up. They were going to move out of their apartment at the end of the month but had paid the next month in advance – if I could step in to take the apartment, then I would have an apartment and they would get their rent back. That night in my journal I forced myself to be skeptical (and it’s against my nature) and think of the ways this plan could be problematic. 1) These guys are total swindlers, they’ll take the next month’s rent from me and skip town. 2) There is something terribly wrong with the place as the reason they wanted to move out. 3) The landlord will jack the rent up as soon as he sees that I am ajnabi – foreigner.

As I got to know them better over the next couple times we met, I completely eliminated possibility #1. These 4 guys are good and honest men who want to help me out as a stranger in their country. Concerning possibility #2, I asked them, and they told me honestly: “There is no fan in the WC; we broke the sink in the shower room; this light needs replacing” – that sort of thing. It was also patently clear from the beginning that this was no deluxe suite here: peeling paint, couch that’s falling apart – but that’s okay with me. The reason they were moving out was that the place was two small for them. Four young men, sleeping and working in 2 smallish rooms – this meant that every day they dismantled and reassembled the 2 beds to have room their computers. Wow.

As for possibility #3, well, we learned about that when we went to visit the landlord the next week on the 25th. Mahmoud and Sharif came with me since they have the best English. They gave me invaluable help in dealing with this guy – an impossible task without them. We three entered his flat, which was on the first floor of a more modern building down the street. We sat in the sitting room near the door – a room sparsely furnished with lavishly decorated table and chairs. Here, I shall call the landlord hajji (one who has made the hajj) since that’s what I call him – this is a general term of respect for an older person. Hajji is an old man, and this first night I met him I was struck by the features of his face – they seemed very over-exaggerated to me, and a little bit scary – one of those folks whose face’s natural resting place is a mean-looking grimace. He wears a simple robe as some of the men do in my neighborhood. We three sat on one side of the room, Hajji on the other. Behind him on the wall was a picture of Hajji himself from a few years ago. This is quite a normal thing here: in many stores and shops you will often see (sometimes in addition to dear old Bashar and Hafez) a picture of a man who is the owner or former owner – a patriarch of sorts. Nevertheless, talking to this guy with his picture on the wall right behind him made for a somewhat surreal situation.

The conversation itself went okay – Hajji is definitely a little bit gruff in his old age. He did indeed want to pump up the price since there is a tax on foreign renters, but only 1,000 lira (less than $20) more than what the guys were paying. I figured that I could do much worse in terms of overpricing for foreigners, and since this was looking like my best (actually, my only) option, I’d better take it. Hajji’s grandson (10 or so) brought us some tea on a tray. This of course was not that strange – wherever you go here you are offered tea. Then Hajji’s son entered, probably somewhere in his 40s. Now, although the gruffness and age of Hajji scared me a little bit, his son is scary in a different sense: he looked at me and clearly saw only money, trying to raise the rent even further – without any success, alhamdulilah. Later the boys mentioned to me that the landlord has a nice son in addition to this mean one.

That night I went back to sit and talk with the computer boys again. Sharif, who I met that night, seemed especially nice. This time the conversation was much lighter than before. We talked about what music we liked – they all had different tastes, though of course when it came to the greats like Um Kulthum and Fairuz, we could all agree. Ali (the supposedly shy one) did an amazing rendition of “Hit me baby one more time” – Britney is his favorite western singer. Stupendous.

The best part of this evening was talking about proverbs and jokes. Man, these guys seriously showed me up: they know so many proverbs… I of course know them in a passive way, but I just couldn’t come with any English proverbs on the spot – they were able to just string them off one after another. Remember, these are not young literary types but computer programmers, talking and laughing for hours about proverbs – without a doubt a true cultural difference. The rich oral and literary traditions of the Arabic language seem to pop up everywhere here. I couldn’t come up with any English jokes either, which is a real disappointment since I used to know so many. I think I redeemed myself by remembering an Arabic proverb from the text I’m studying, and also by reciting a few lines from the classical poem that my Arabic teacher made me memorize last year. For that, I got a round of applause from the 4 of them. Everything seemed to be going well, with the apartment and with my new friends.

A few days later, the 28th of September, things were not so clear. Mahmoud called and had me come over – the place was busy with all of them packing up to move out as well as Mahmoud running in and out in some kind of negotiation or argument with the landlord and his son, who is also part of this housing business. I’m not clear on all the issues that were going on that night, but Mahmoud, Sharif, and I went down to talk to Hajji again. This time he came out of his flat onto the landing dressed in shorts and beater – he was already ready for bed, and this outfit was not nearly so flattering to his sizable belly as his usual white robe. He was definitely angry this time around, concerning, I believe, whatever he and Mahmoud had been arguing about. From this conversation a few things I was sure I understood from him: biddee naam, (I want to sleep) and ma biddee ajnabi, (I don’t want a foreigner). And so it seemed like things might just fail at the very last minute, even as my teacher’s wife was threatening to charge me a second month if I wasn’t moved out by the 1st of the month

The morning after this disturbing encounter there was a meeting scheduled with everyone involved. I didn’t understand what was going on at the time, so here’s the experience from my as-it-happened perspective. Mahmoud, Usama and I (I think it’s no accident that Mahmoud always took a companion with him to these meetings) walked down the hill, just past the landlord’s apartment where the street runs into the souq (market). First we met with a man who runs a corner store right there; we explained to him our situation. I though that maybe this guy was the other, nicer son of the landlord. We crossed to the other side of the street – not more than two or three meters; these are narrow streets in this neighborhood – and then the owner of the corner store went back talked with the landlord and his son. Store-owner then talked with us some more; then we all walked back up the hill to the apartment, discussed some more and things seemed to be all worked out. I would pay and get the key when we make the contract on the next business day.

As the computer boys and I walked past the corner store on our various ways, Mahmoud and Ali stopped to talk to the owner. I asked Usama if this was the landlord’s second son. “No, he is just a good man, he’s a very good man. Everybody knows him around here.” All at once I understood what had happened: I had experienced a strange (to me), wonderful, and (I believe) ancient cultural practice: These two parties, the landlords and the renters, had had an argument, but they agreed to meet with this store owner (Abu Firas is his name) who is apparently well-known as a negotiator, as a peacemaker. What an amazing thing. Sure, there were angry words exchanged the night before, and even a few at this meeting too, but this local, simple, and non-bureaucratic method was available to solve the dispute. I’m impressed, and I feel lucky that I got to experience this first-hand.

I moved out of my place on the 30th and temporarily into the house where my friend Joachim from Sweden lives. That was a pleasant little interlude. On the morning of the 2nd, I walked to meet Hajji, today was the day we were to make the contract. I was scared out of my mind, since I had said I would bring another Arab friend with me, but that didn’t end up working out. I would have to deal with Hajji on my own. I met him at the corner store, we spoke a few words, struggling somewhat to communicate. We then walked to catch a taxi together down to the Muhafaza, the building downtown where you go to make a contract. I was lucky in that Mahmoud and the boys were also at the Muhafaza, making the contract for their new apartment. There was some confusion about what was happening: for me to sign the contract I needed a special form from elsewhere, then Mahmoud nobly volunteered to let me rent under his contract with Hajji, but Hajji wanted everything to be official. That was fine with me, though of course I would have been glad to be done with the issue then and there. I paid my 2 months’ rent, Hajji gave me my key, and that day I moved my stuff into my new home. It’s taken me a while, but by now I’m pretty much settled and quite happy here.

I’ll take another quick tangent to mention about language: when talking with Mahmoud and the computer boys, they were always eager to speak English with me, because, I think, they didn’t consider my Arabic to be so great. Indeed, as we were dealing with plenty of money and potentially confusing stuff, I was glad for this. I learned however, that my ability in speaking Arabic seems to depend on what the person I’m talking to thinks about that ability. Whenever I tried to speak Arabic with Mahmoud, I would always fumble, while when talking with someone who has faith in my abilities, I seem to remember everything. I’ve now taken up the strategy of speaking Arabic always, even when a Syrian speaks to me in English. I tried this on the phone with Mahmoud the other night, and it worked: he gave up on the English! Other times, however, it’s not so successful: today I had a 2- or 3-minute conversation with a store owner, throughout which he spoke entirely in English and I spoke entirely in Arabic – how delightfully absurd!

But the story’s not over! Yes, the apartment was set, but I still needed to make that contract. First, however, I needed that special form, the Ikhraj Qeed. Sunday (the 2nd): I went to the American Embassy to get it, but their American citizen services close at 11:00 am – I was too late. Monday: I went again to the Embassy on time, but I learned that I need a photo of myself for this form. Tuesday: I went to the Embassy for the third time with everything ready. The strangest part of the embassy is the waiting room. Everybody waiting is quiet and seems rather somber. Maybe because from the windows where business takes place, we can hear an official ask a woman with her child embarrassing questions in really bad Arabic. I feel super-awkward as the only American there, especially with all the bullshit posters on the wall of flag-waving 4th of July parades, somber immigrants waiting at Ellis Island, and a sensible Colin Powell asking if we want to join him in the fight against terrorism. I wish I could hear the story of everyone waiting in that room – those sorts of things are hard to guess. I got called to one window where a guy checked the info on my form, then I got called back out of the waiting room where they took my $30 payment (why such a rip-off?), and after another wait I met the first nice person I’d met so far at the embassy, the vice-consul. He was very friendly to me; he made me raise my hand and swear that the form is correct; and then we small-talked for a little while. He’s a jazz musician too, so maybe he’ll call me sometime and we’ll jam. I wish I had thought on my feet and asked him if he knew why the US is behaving as it is towards Syria.

Wednesday: I took the form (with the help of my friend Fahed) to the Syrian ministry of the exterior, where we paid a few lira to get a stamp and a scribble (a signature) on it. The Ikhraj Qeed is nothing that special, just all the information from my passport but also translated or transliterated into Arabic. Thursday we could not go to make the contract, since it was October 6th, national holiday in remembrance of the Harb Tishreen, the October War, the one victory (of sorts) that Syria claims over Israel. I talked with Hajji, asking him for a table and chair (the apt. had none) and also to fix the sink that the guys had broken. He rudely said that there is no table and chair and that if I wanted to buy some I could. I tried to get across to him that I would have no use for these things after I move out, but he didn’t listen.

That evening, as I was sitting and talking with Abu Firas (the corner store owner) Hajji came down and brought me a chair. I thanked him with “yislemu,” one way (of many) to say thank you in Arabic, but he replied without having listened to me: “btarif shukran?” / “Do you know [how to say] Shukran?” the more well-known form of thank you, as if I was an absolute beginner. He also stood there and talked with Abu Firas thinking I did not understand, at one point saying that he hopes I become a Muslim. Now, the sentiment of that did not bother me so much, since many religious people only wish the best when hoping people convert to their religion, but I was tired of Hajji’s disrespect for me. His behavior seemed rather `eeb to me. I no longer feared this man; instead I decided that he was just not a nice one.

A few days later, on this past Sunday, the 9th of October, Hajji and I went again to the Muhafaza. This time around it was just the two of us, but I wasn’t really that worried or scared at all. And now, I can’t resist describing the amazing bureaucratic process of making a contract in Damascus: First, we went to one of the guys sitting at a table on the sidewalk outside of the building. We handed him our IDs and he filled out the basics of the contract. We took that and walked into the archway through this building, where a man at a copy store grabbed us (and our forms) and overcharged us for the appropriate copies. We then entered the big courtyard of this building, to the first window of a gazebo-shaped building (within the larger building). Now, there are no such things as lines here at the Muhafaza. People just crowd around the appropriate window and push push push. Despite the fact that Hajji is an old man who sits down or leans against a wall whenever he gets a chance, he was an expert at getting to the front of these “lines.” He did it every time – amazing. At the first window, the worker did whatever he was supposed to and we put our thumbprints under our names.

Now, back to the copy store, where we got some more overcharged copies and the appropriate stamps. Now, back to the gazebo building where we got in line for the second window (again, chaos) where the appropriate thing was done to our papers. But behold, a semblance of order appeared: we received a receipt with a number on it – the order in which we were called to the next window! Nevertheless, even at this window the smelly, pushy men crowded round. At last we made it to the desk of the guy who looked like the head honcho: he put his scribble and the final stamps on all the copies of our contract, put two into the big pile next to him, and handed Hajji and me our copies. We were done.

Hajji and I got along fine during this adventure. As we sat waiting for our number to be called, he asked me in a friendly manner if this is how you make a contract in America, rolling his eyes at the craziness surrounding us. He also asked me if I could read the 6-digit number on our receipt – as he listened to me read it, I got a different sense of his attitude about my language ability: I think it’s not condescension so much as him just not having the patience to think of me outside his stereotype of foreigners. I also saw something on our contract that shook me: Hajji here was born in 1925. Just think about all that this guy has seen in his life here – so much more than I can even imagine. He’s still a stingy landlord who treats me rudely sometimes, but I try now to cut the old guy some slack. Today, we met and exchanged big smiles; we shook hands and he thought it very impressive (and funny) when I knew that the proper response to marhaba is marhabtayn – this being the simplest pair of greetings in the Arabic language.

And there is the story of me finding an apartment, along with a lot of other stuff along the way.

political happenings...

2005-10-13T00:15:00.000+02:00

Two interesting things happened today.
1) Assad was interviewed by CNN. See the transcript at http://edition.cnn.com/2005/WORLD/meast/10/12/alassad.transcript/. I wonder what has been "edited" out of it.
2) Ghazi Kanaan, Syria's interior minister, committed suicide today. Or, alternatively, he "committed suicide". Go to http://faculty-staff.ou.edu/L/Joshua.M.Landis-1/syriablog/2005/10/ghazi-kanaan-most-senior-alawi-suicide.htm to read an interesting post about the issue.

In regards to this event, I'll try to see what my friends and acquaintances think. I have not posted in a while thanks to busy-ness here on the ground -- moving into a new apartment. A new big fat post is in the works...

night life in Damascus

2005-09-26T20:09:00.000+03:00

I live in Salhiyya – a term that describes a large area that creeps up the slope of Jebel Kassioun, northwest of the city center. The region was settled around 1100 by refugees from the crusader massacres in Jerusalem. My neighborhood is called Sheikh Muhiddeen (or Muhi Ad-Deen), named after the mosque of the same name, just 100 meters down the hill from my door. There lived and died the Sheikh himself (d. 1240), a great Sufi mystic.

I like the neighborhood for a lot of reasons – one of the biggest is the night life here. The space between "night" and "life" is purposeful, mind you. I'm not talking about restaurants, discos, or
hip cafes, (I hear that those can be found somewhere down in the center) but quite simply, the life that happens at night. There's a lot of it here, and it doesn't fit into any of my pre-existing
categories.

People stay up late – more specifically, families stay up late. I am often walking home, well past 11 o'clock, and a husband, wife, young son, and baby in the baby carriage are casually passing me. Stands and stores stay open late, and I see folks of all ages out shopping when I am headed home for an early bed. Children play in the street at all hours of the day and the night. Directly outside my door is one of the flatter sections of street; therefore a popular location for soccer games. As I write the boys are laughing and shouting as they play; their ball occasionally bangs up against my door. Even the littlest of kids are out in the street all day, playing tag or hide-and-go-seek.

This constant activity is a testament to the safety of the city. My neighborhood is not alone: you can walk anywhere in Damascus without fear of theft or violence. It is comforting, as well as impressive in this city of over 6 million. ("Theft" here comes a little more subtly in the form of overpricing for foreigners – a tolerable annoyance.)

It is always a pleasure to walk the souq at night. People are talking, hawking their wares, sitting, eating, and strolling. A portion of this life I do not see. Nearly every night as I fall asleep music is playing somewhere nearby. Sometimes that means the same-old, same-old pop songs on the radio, other times the music of a wedding party – complete with the stomps of dancing and the
celebratory screams of the women. Here, 5 minutes by microbus from the center of the city, everything else seems fairly distant. Life here is enough: what is the price of tomatoes here compared with at the next stand? Which is the newest, hippest, imitation Puma t-shirt for sale? And perhaps most importantly, who is winning the soccer match outside my door?

traffic madness

2005-09-26T20:06:00.000+03:00

The first and most immediately shocking piece of culture shock I have experienced here is the way people drive – it's almost indescribable. People are absolutely crazy – at least that is my initial reaction every time I see some amazing dare-devil move. I'm still getting used
to it all.

To start with, there are no lane markers – in some places you can see the traces of them, but they've all been blackened over, and not even the concept of a lane remains. It really is a free-for-all. Cars start, stop, back up, and turn all without the slightest warning to others. And of course, when there's an open road, people drive FAST. My personal favorite move is folks who want to turn left at a traffic circle; they just skip the circle and cut to the left the shorter way. Honking is also very popular here – constant and loud. It can mean different things like "do you want to get in my taxi?" or "get out of my way!" – potentially confusing, eh? The noise only diminishes on Friday, yawm al-jum`a, when everything is closed.

Accidents? I keep expecting to witness something spectacular, but all I've seen so far is the aftermath of a little fender-bender. People's confidence makes it seem like they are invincible to
accidents – but then I remember Basil al-Assad: This former president-to-be was killed in a car accident a while back. Now parks are named after him and he is featured in songs such as "Basil the Martyr:" A certain type of immortality, I suppose…

At the bigger intersections there are traffic lights, but these are never visible to pedestrians since they come before the intersection. What I love most about these lights is that they have little countdown numbers – not for the green light so you can prepare to stop, but for the red lights: This way, I suppose, you can rev your engine properly or, (more likely) honk at the car in front of you who has not yet revved his engine. There are also a good number of traffic police. I don't quite understand their language of whistles and batons, but they do seem to have a positive effect on the traffic – that is, when they are not chatting with their friends on the sidewalk.

Pedestrians seem crazy too, setting out to calmly cross 6 lanes of moving traffic – the truly amazing things is that they pull it off. That's the thing: despite the every-which-way free-for-all that is driving here, everyone is generally pretty aware of what's going on around them. The Lonely Planet (under the heading Dangers and Annoyances) described it as "chaos mixed with courtesy." Drivers do often watch for pedestrians, even if they honk their horns off. What's unsettling about this courtesy is that nobody (drivers or pedestrians) likes to stop – people just slow down and squeeze around each other. What's really scary is that I have begun to imitate all this behavior – what I have to remind myself for folks here, crossing 6 lanes of traffic on foot is almost in their blood – they've been doing it since they could walk. I am a mere novice.

Last night I saw an impressive example of this phenomenon of motor vehicles here: a guy on a little motorbike was speeding through the narrow souq in my neighborhood: vegetable stands on one side, clothes stores on the other, people strolling in between. I got myself to the side, and in front of me I saw him zip past a family and almost run down a little girl. To my surprise, however, he immediately screeched to a halt, stood up, turned, and took a few seconds to apologize to the girl and her mother. In an instant, he was back on his bike, zooming forward as fast as before.

language jollies

2005-09-24T12:09:00.000+03:00

I am here to learn Arabic, among other things. At this stage, having been here just about a month, that is what I have spent most of my time doing: hours in class and hours outside of class every day, with 1-day weekends so far. So much studying that I have visited hardly any of the touristy sites in the city, and I've only left ash-Sham once. (ash-Sham is Damascus' common name.) This is okay with me though: the theory is that the sooner I become competent (and then fluent) in the language, the more valuable the rest of my time here will be. I also imagine that the value I will get out of those touristy sites then will be even greater than I would now. I am not at any university program, but instead studying with a private teacher named Hussein. This guy is an amazing character: he's got a rare theory about the Arabic language, a rare program that (supposedly) successfully teach foreigners Arabic, and a personality that is all his own.

For the uninitiated, here's a simplified rundown of Arabic's identity crisis: is the true language the spoken dialects that every Arab learns as a child and speaks every day, or is it the written Arabic of newspapers and television news that unites all the countries of the Arab world? Hussein's take on all this is of a "unified Arabic" that identifies the connections, similarities, and differences between the spoken dialects, modern written, and classical Arabic. A pretty cool idea, I think. Despite his talk of "unity," however, Hussein's true favor definitely lies with spoken Arabic as the most vibrant and interesting part of the language. I don't know if I quite agree with him, but I am willing to roll with his opinion for the moment, in order to learn this language.

At this point, therefore, I am only studying the spoken – not reading newspapers, texts, or anything besides signs in shops. The theory is that I'm learning as an Arab does (roughly): first the spoken, then the written. We'll see how it goes. It will definitely take some extra work to keep the differences between the two separated in my brain, but worth it, I believe, since both seem so important to understanding this culture. You can't have one without with other. The first few weeks were a course made up of 30-some chapters that Hussein has written; each chapter is a dialogue based on some everyday situation: meeting people, taking a taxi, or buying shoes and the like. That was all well and good, but now I have hit upon the real gem of his program: "Yawmiyyaat `Aa'iliyye." This is a Damascus radio drama that Hussein has transcribed after recording it from the radio. (Legal? who cares, I'm learning it.) The title means "Family Diary" and the two characters are Abd ur-Rahmaan and Hadiyye, a husband and wife team. The introductory song that the two of them sing at the beginning of every episode gives a pretty good feel of this. Here is my rough translation. I love the goofy music that accompanies it, though since I hear it 20 times a day, I imagine I'll soon be tired of it.

Hadiyye: Where are you Abd ur-Rahmaan?
Abd ur-Rahmaan: Who is calling me?
H: I'm your wife, can't you hear?
A: What does this wife of mine want with me?
H: The radio station called me, … I got up and picked up the receiver…
A: What did they say?
H: They want us to present for them a play.
A: What should we talk about in it?
H: About our daily life!
[Musical interlude with voice-over: "Family Diary"]
A: Who wants to write it?
H: Abd ul-Kariim Ismaa'iil
A: Who wants to direct it?
H: The director is Marwan Qanuu`
A: And who wants to act in it? … Tell me and don't be embarrassed…
H: Wafaa' bint il-Muusallii and `Asaam ibn al-`Abaji
A: You really escaped from my saddlebag!!

Quite a rich text, eh? As we see from the first couple of lines, these two are always arguing and making fun of each other – it's genuinely very funny. Also at the end we see an idiom – and the episodes are full of proverbs, polite expressions, idioms, and religious expressions. This particular idiom (the one about the saddlebag) means "you are cleverer than me," the source of it being: if a bird you caught escapes from your saddlebag, it is cleverer than you. I suppose this could be referring to the fact that as Hadiyye says the names of the actors she is actually talking about "herself" or the "person depicting herself" – clever in a "meta" sense, perhaps? I don't know. A deeper part of me suspects that this particular idiom is in there for a more practical reason: "my saddlebag" and "embarrassed" both rhyme with "`Abaji."

The episodes themselves really are just about daily life. Hadiyye and `Aboody (her pet name for him) discuss taking out the trash, buying meat, quitting smoking, and who's going to make the coffee. The actors are great – just hearing their voices, even before I understand, is hilarious. As I said before, it's filled with slang, proverbs, idioms – language at it's realest. Hussein is very good at explaining these things, as well as pointing out which elements are particular to the Damascus dialect, which to the whole region, and which to written as well as spoken Arabic. I really love listening to these plays and working on understanding and repeating them.

So, am I learning anything? Yes, I think, but sometimes it's hard to see that here in the thick of it. The good news is that almost every day, I hear people on the street using some word or idiom that I learned that very day. My comprehension is definitely many times better than it was 4 weeks ago. Speaking is more of a mixed bag. I still often mumble and stumble over even the simplest interactions (buying bread maybe) that I have done almost every day here. My pronunciation has improved, since sometimes people assume from it that I'm fluent. I walk into a shop, say my prepared line ("Hi, I'm looking for the shampoo.") and then I have to stumble and mumble after they answer me in a full-speed sentence that I have not understood a lick
of. Despite the daily frustrations, however, there have been some breakthrough moments, such as a really nice conversation I had with a taxi driver last week, all in Arabic.

All in all, it seems, the situation is good. I like this language a lot, and I'm enjoying myself with these lessons. I'm aiming to keep my nose to the grindstone and study hard so that I can really master it as soon as possible, insha'allah.

2005-09-19T17:59:00.000+03:00

For more information about the Syrian situation, visit www.syriacomment.com, an interesting blog run by Joshua Landis. You can also check out his recent NYT op-ed piece at: http://faculty-staff.ou.edu/L/Joshua.M.Landis-1/syriablog/2005/09/dont-push-syria-away-ny-times-op-ed-by.htm

Why a Blog?

2005-09-19T17:50:00.000+03:00

Before traveling to Syria, I had great plans for a website: every few days, after writing some clever comments about my most recent experiences, I would take my fancy new USB flash drive to an internet café and upload the writing along with pictures from my fancy new camera – the result would have been a simple but comprehensive letter to all those I've left behind. Last week, however, (my third week here) I had pretty much given up hope: this vision of a website would never come to pass. "Sure," I thought to myself, "I might get some pictures up there eventually, but nothing especially descriptive or elaborate. I'm here in an amazing city, learning language, living life – I don't have time for the internet!"

Things changed last week when I read about continued pressure on Syria from the Bush administration. This was nothing new, really; they've been threatening like this for at least the past few months. Before coming here I had been somewhat unclear about why the US government was behaving so absolutely uncooperatively, as well as frustrated with hearing only this single thing about Syria in the media. Indeed, one of the reasons I wanted to come here (in addition to learning Arabic) was to get past the negative press about Syria's government.

Here and now, however, reading these articles about border crossings and harboring terrorists, I got very angry, and not because I disagree with the government's allegations. I, of course, have no way to really know if they are true or not. I got mad because of this quote from an administration official, saying the plan was to "continue trying to isolate it, as we have been. (NYTimes, September 13 ^th)." What we are seeing here is a deliberate attempt by the US government to completely dehumanize an entire country, to make no distinction between a government and its people. I am not an expert on why the Bush administration and the complicit US media are doing this, but I do know that it is wrong. The issue is not whether or not Bush's accusations are correct and justified or not; the issue is that nothing else is known about this country and these people in the USA (and I imagine other places as well).

What I have seen so far here in Syria is life: people being people, living their lives: laundry hangs out to dry; kids play soccer in the street outside my apartment; folks wearing trendy clothes go shopping for more trendy clothes; people sell grapes in the marketplace; men walk arm in arm (that's ok here); an acquaintance of mine doesn't give a hoot about politics or any of it – he wants to make money and meet girls. I could go on and on – I am continually amazed by the diversity of experience here, of which I have seen merely a fraction. What seems new and strange to me is the normal routine of so many.

This is why I want to make a blog: to show that yes, my friends, even here in Damascus, Syria, life happens. My sense is that nowhere else is anyone saying this, so I want to try to do it, even in this humble fashion. I aim to be a force of anti-isolation for the Syrian people, in contrast to the US government's policy of isolation. My writing may be about a person I met or a place I visited; it also might just be about my own everyday activities: not a native Syrian's life but nevertheless evidence that life goes on here.

Let me make a few things clear about what I'm not doing: This is not a political blog, though of course I might touch on political issues I encounter. I am not a counter-propaganda machine who only writes about the wonderful things of Syria. Naturally, in a place full of life there is a fair share of bad along with the good. Also, please do not read what is written here and think, "Oh, that's what all Syrians must be like." I saw one foolish journalist who came here for a few days and wrote in his own blog judging the national character based on a few folks he'd met in the marketplace frequented by tourists only. Even if I were to meet 10 people every day here for the rest of my 6 months or so, that would be less than 0.1% of the population of Damascus alone. I aim to show a sample of what is here, not to describe the entire place.

Of you (the reader) I ask this: keep in touch with me and let me know what you think, either through this website or just by emailing me. Also, if there's anything that you're specifically curious about, let me know and I'll see what I can come up with. Wish me luck in being consistent and writing here with some frequency. I hope I'll be able to keep it up, what with my studies and the exploring that is always begging to be done here. If we're lucky, I'll figure out how to get some pictures up as well.

Peace.