مغامراتي المغربية

المضارع المرفوع أو المنصوب؟

2011-07-27T01:34:00.000-07:00

I am sitting in on Rida’s morning class. This means I will not have my homework done for my own class with him this afternoon. I am reading an article about the relationship between Obama’s election and the Middle East and North Africa. Finding out exactly what the author thinks will just have to wait ‘til this evening.
At this very moment, the students are changing sentence from active to passive. In rather advanced sentence, they have just overcome an issue of changing long vowels in the verb beautifully, but missed a point of basic grammar when putting the sentence together. Rida praised the success of the passive, then paused opened palms to the class and said: I have a personal question: why have you put a fatha on the present tense verb? When do we put a fatha on present tense verbs???” Can any of you, dear students (above first year), recall this small, but important point?

2011-07-27T01:12:00.001-07:00

I'm sneaking this posting in while I observe an advanced Arabic class. I have three days of class left and I probably won't be able to post anything of substance before I travel. I will still answer your questions and respond to your comments, just not while I'm in Morocco.
I have, by the way, enjoyed reading all your comments very much.

2011-07-18T02:33:00.000-07:00

2011-07-18T02:29:00.000-07:00

It is almost 1AM, and I am sure that I am going to be sick day after tomorrow. This is entirely my fault, and given the reason for my inevitable fall into the depths of exhaustion and illness, I wouldn’t have it any other way. That reason is, of course, that life is too full of love, wonder and adventure to sleep. And not sleeping (for any reason) does have a history of making me ill.

I just got in from a four hour “tea” with three wonderful new friends. This followed a four-hour one-on-one lesson making for a total of 8 hours of intense concentration, and eight hours of new information and fresh conversations. The second four hours were spent in a world where no one language was understood by the whole group, and thus, I spend most of the night following tones of Spanish voices, with the occasional Arabic synopses to keep me in the loop. Nonetheless, I have a very good sense of the people I was with, and they are all great!

In a very uncharacteristic move, I did not freak out and leave in order to be back before 10, but I stayed until midnight. When we finally finished our lemon cake and stepped outside, the full moon was overhead was nearly as bright as the laughter in our eyes. The decorative lights on the palm trees of the main square were no match for either.

I was worried that I would be in trouble with my host family, but the anxieties that I had suppressed all evening turned out to be for nothing. Alhumdu lilleh!

I am going to walk up a mountain tomorrow and I have to be up at 5 for my ride. I sure hope I can hold it together. In the meantime, I am hoping my dreams will take me flying up through the fast moving coastal clouds and to the moon, where I might rest for at least a few hours before morning.

Never enough

2011-07-15T06:38:00.001-07:00

Yesterday, my conversation about 3aisha Qundisha, the mysterious man-eating beauty of Moroccan myth, was interrupted by a visit from another Arabic teacher. She came into my tutoring session because she, like me, is not a native speaker of the language she teaches and loves, and she wanted some tips from the best teacher at my institute: Muhammed Rida. The three of us chatted for a bit about classroom resources, and eventually this lovely woman declared that she aimed to study in Tetouan next summer. Saying so, she turned to me and asked: What do you think, is two weeks here enough? I smiled, caught Rida's eye and explained, you'll get so many precious moments out of two weeks, but nothing will ever be "enough." Since then, I have been coming to terms with the fact that I'll only be here for another two weeks. I have every intention of squeezing the preciousness out of every second.
In sha' allah:
I will drink more Avacado Juice.
I will climb more mountains.
I will speak more Darija (and try to work the Tetouani squeek into the music of my voice, replacing my Syrian drawl-temporarily at least).
I will take more walks on the beach.
I will read the newspaper more.
I will write more summaries of articles about Nature and Sufism.
I will eat more tagines of more varieties.
I will be so sad to leave.
And of course, it will be so good to be home.

a green world

2011-07-13T10:22:00.000-07:00

One of my favorite things about Morocco is women's fashion. Though there's all manner of dress, the galbabs please me best. Years ago, a friend coming from Morocco to Syria commented on missing the colorful streets, filled with women's galbabs. At the time, I had no idea what he meant. Now, I walk slowly from the bus to my class so I can lose myself in a world of red silk roses that the woman walking in front of me wears. I drown in the head to tow brown with yellow flairs of the woman riding with me from the beach town Martil. I fly through the weather map clouds that swirl over oceans and continents of the old lady walking with her grandchild. I was jolted back to my childhood wedding delusions by cream colored silk and lace this morning. I never know where the rainbow of texture and shade will take me.

too long

2011-07-08T06:46:00.000-07:00

With a world full of things to do, read, see and discover, I've been neglecting my writing. All my energy has gone into understanding a study on the famous Historian Ibn Khaldoun for the past two days. I'm taking a breath by reading a simpler article on travel accounts, but it will be back to the grindstone this weekend because my brilliant teacher has decided I should read about gender roles in Moroccan mysticism. He says I'll like it, but I just hope I'll understand.

inthewestofthenorthofafrica.blogspot.com

2011-06-28T04:09:00.001-07:00

Despite the same old web address, my experience is no longer limited to the middleoftheeast. It's related, but not the same!

for the record

2011-06-28T03:28:00.000-07:00

Fish guts are not a Moroccan food. I totally ate them by accident.

الضفدع في غرفتي

2011-06-28T03:06:00.000-07:00

I woke to find a little green frog on my inner windowsill. Strange, as my room is on the second floor of the house.

I was quite glad of the adventure as I have recently felt the strain of coming up with topics to fill the two hours of دردشة chatting I have with Jemaal everyday. As I am responsible for picking the topic for each class, I'm getting a bit concerned about what we will be talking about four weeks (40 hours of chatting) from now.

The history of Moroccan literary theory, however, has blossomed before me. Two hours of looking over my latest summaries and clarifying the historical context for the Moroccan Novel passed quickly this morning. Honestly though, I'd rather read Moroccan Novels than about them. لا بأس

2011-06-27T04:48:00.000-07:00

2011-06-27T04:38:00.000-07:00

التعليق على التعليق (comment on comment)

2011-06-27T04:36:00.000-07:00

شكرا على تعليقك يا جيمي!
As for my response, I have found that being a foreigner in Morocco (and Egypt, Syria, Jordan, Lebanon...) means a warm welcome. Of course, it's easy to get picked out of a crowd, but having Arabic up my sleeves is my greatest asset. When I (and you) speak in Arabic, a transition from being a guest to potential conversant takes place. But even when I botch my week-old darija, most people are willing to help me, الحمد لله.
You also asked about the role of gender in my daily life. I start by saying that gender roles, expectations, and, sadly, inequality plays into most everything I do in the US, at school, when I consume mass media, as I interact with friends, colleagues and students. Often, gender is taken for granted in Western culture, but once you start to see the ever present dominance of Patriarchy, and assumed gender boundaries in American (and other) culture(s), you can really see them everywhere. Of course, Arab culture has its own understanding of gender and gender roles, and just as naturally, that will effect the way I function in Morocco, just as a man visiting Morocco might have to adjust to a new set of expectation for his gender. For example, dominant American culture dictates that men should always maintain space between each other. Whereas in Morocco, men often walk with their arms linked, or holding hands.
You also mentioned your friends' reactions to the idea of travel in the Arab World; it's a reaction that I get from a great number of people, having lived in so many Arab countries. First of all, I like to remind those who are nervous about traveling to an Arab country that the world is rather large, and it is not so hard to avoid trouble. There are plenty of places in the US that I would avoid at certain times, or when certain events are going on. Of course, accidents happen, but they happen everywhere. In the years that I have spent happily living in Arab cultures, I have been very glad not to have stayed home.
And on the flip side, Moroccans have many ideas about Americans. For the most part though, and particularly given that I am able to express my personality, I'm processed as an individual, not as a generic, Hollywood American. الحمد لله

صباح الخير من تطوان!

2011-06-27T03:59:00.000-07:00

I've nearly made it to the end of my first week, and boy is there a lot I want to share. First of all, the institute where I'm studying is fabulous. I'm blown away by the quality of instruction and attention to the needs of students here. True, I've only been here five days, but already I've spent many happy hours discussing the history and development of Moroccan literary theory with my ever so gentle professor, Mohammed. In addition to his ridiculously thorough knowledge of Andalusian history and his PhD in mysticism, he is just the nicest teacher I could hope for. Just yesterday, midway though one of our marathon reading sessions, he helped me grasp what التوشيح means by breaking into a quiet verse of the popular Andalusian poetry.

I spend the other half of my class time with Jemaal, struggling through the vowel-free syllables that are Moroccan dialect. والحمد لله الدارجة المغربية كتعجبني بزاف even if I stumble through and occasionally (في الحقيقة بزاف د مرات) insert a bit of Syrian to grease my sentences as they form in my mouth. But for the most part, I’ve been pleasantly surprised by the accessibility of Darija, despite all the scary stories of how different it is from other dialects.

درس اليوم

2011-06-24T07:01:00.001-07:00

Don't eat fish guts; they taste like fish guts.

يا طلابي!!!!!

2011-06-20T04:25:00.001-07:00

أريد أسئلتكم!
I want you questions and comments dear students. It will make my writing more varied and interesting if you tell me what you want to know, إن شاء الله.

before the fall

2011-06-20T04:07:00.000-07:00

I am always humbled when I travel to places beyond my New England stomping grounds. Just getting on a plane and heading across the Atlantic brings back enough vivid memories of the fool I was at 19, when I first descended a plane in Jordan. Equally as clear are all the ways I am still struggling to work with and make a place and understand my place in Arab cultures.

It's no secret that I am both proud and stubborn. Thus, the humbling process happens constantly and occasionally with a pinch of resistance from my ego. My pride is one among many reasons I should constantly travel to places where I can't even feign knowing how things work. That said, I am also constantly underestimated as I move thorough the Arab world. In the line for my flight to Tangier today, for example, a man turned to me and asked: "Istanbul or Tangier?" to which I replied:"المغرب" Not even a complete sentence, but the man broke into a grin. "Wow! المغرب very good." It happens all the time that strangers offer undue praise for my untested knowledge of Arabic. Somewhat seriously, I have blamed my struggle to find honest and productive appraisals of my language on this phenomenon. In the case of the man in line, his compliment was based on a single word. I could have melted right onto the rhinestone encrusted flats of the woman behind me. I vowed not to use anymore Arabic until I arrived in Morocco and had the chance for a real conversation. If it is not already clear, I should note that this is a completely unproductive reaction; I would avoid any cheap praise, as well as the smiles that inevitably come when I engage in Arabic. Haha!

I have since boarded the plane, and I am left to sit in my window seat and mull over what a stubborn selfish jerk I am.

2011-06-07T14:54:00.000-07:00

أهلا وسهلا يا طلاب اللغة العربية!
سوف أكتب لكم هنا بالعربية وبالانجليزية هذا الصيف.

As soon as I arrive in Morocco, I'll be writing to you, my dear students. Feel free to ask me questions and comment on my reflections.

أستاذتكم

2010-07-26T13:51:00.000-07:00

There's plenty more to share: snorkeling in the red sea; hiking mount Sinai; accidentally ordering a kilo of meat for each of five people as opposed to for five people; our trip to Cairo; riding horses in the desert; climbing minarets; sailing on the Nile; and the other "mandatory" activities that keeps us busy between our tests and presentations.
I'll try to post more pictures, but I haven't had the strong urge to write much because most of what makes me laugh these days are inside jokes about homework. The usual creative fodder of self deprecating anecdotes that demonstrate some larger point about the ridiculousness of most situations in life has been low. Today was no exception. Yesterday on the other hand, I was thrilled to make my second trip to downtown Alexandria (the first since the orientation scavenger hunt) only to find that 80% of the shops were closed. Annie, my roommate, was as surprised as I that the weekend we know and love from our years in the Levant (Friday/Saturday) is not to be taken for granted. Here in Egypt, you can count on Friday/Sunday rest and a bustling Saturday at the souk. I take great pleasure in these details, and learning their subtleties. Still, I'd like to pick up some Ramadan decorations and it will be difficult to find another afternoon I can afford to spend away from my books.

2010-07-26T13:49:00.000-07:00

And they are beautiful.

2010-07-26T13:47:00.000-07:00

We did get to the canyons eventually.

2010-07-26T13:41:00.000-07:00

Our director, Khalid, and Casey at it again. Other activities to stave off the boredom included pokey, in my magic black frying pan and what has now become known as "ahmed, ahmed, ahmed, ahmed, whoooops, ahmed, whooooops ahmed." Yes, we sank to translating brain teasers we learned in middle school.

2010-07-26T13:37:00.000-07:00

My classmate, Casey, and our guide, Nour, playing whatever that game is where you can't touch each other, but you try to make your partner fall over.

2010-07-26T13:34:00.000-07:00

On the way to the canyons on the second day, the other car blew a tire. We found ways of entertaining ourselves though...

2010-07-26T13:32:00.000-07:00

Wouldn't it be neat if the Tourist Police were somehow involved in rounding up herds of unruly tourists? I would like that, and fear it.

2010-07-26T13:22:00.000-07:00

On the way through Cairo, we passed this "gamousa" in the back of a truck. I was quite pleased to see a gamousa in the back of a pickup truck on the highway, and only slightly disappointed when I found out that I had not been introduced a new species; I had simply failed to recognize a water buffalo.

2010-07-26T13:19:00.000-07:00

Two weekends ago, a trip to Sinai took us out of Alexandria.

2010-07-26T13:13:00.000-07:00

Due to frustratingly slow (and occasionally nonexistent) internet in the women's dorms combined with homework that keeps me up most of the night, I have been extremely inattentive to the blog. Tonight these factors are still present, but I will try to upload some pictures while I read what I hope will turn out to be a stunning piece of literature.

2010-07-05T11:24:00.002-07:00

I have long joked that the principle factor preventing me from settling down in an Arabic-speaking country is the lack of bicycling culture. The dream of speeding across desert highways in spandex tends to dominate my thoughts each time I leave the din of the cities for the peaceful and wild sandscapes. So when my resident director, Khalid, announced an early morning biking opportunity, I signed up immediately.
Early Friday morning, a group of ten arose before breakfast and trudged to the far end of the corniche. It was only then that I began to realize that the next hours would not exactly align with my vision of cycling.

Since I was old enough to hold my head up on my own, I have had a bike helmet that I was expected to wear if I were so much as touching a bike. I knew I couldn’t expect to find helmets at this event, just as I couldn’t expect to find seatbelts in most cars, but when it actually came down to riding without head protection, I felt quite ill about the reality. The bikes themselves were a one size fits all deal, with disabled gears and nearly disabled breaks as well. I longed for my own sleek (and functional) racing bike.

Finally, the sidewalks of the corniche were far too crowded for bikers, so we spilled out into the three-lane highway that runs along the coastline. To understand just how unnerving this is you must understand that we have only three rules in our program: 1) never speak English, 2) If you go to Cairo, take the train instead of the buses that have constant accidents, and 3) Never ever set foot on the corniche highway. So there we were, bent over on twisted bikes, weaving through pedestrians, busses pulling out, and cars wizzing by. The situation was topped off by a group of Egyptians who insisted on speaking English despite our pure Arabic responses and explanations that we were in Egypt to study Arabic. I’m not exactly sure which was the leading reason, the awful bike, the mortal danger, or the insistent English, but I ended the ride in a foul mood.

I have come to the conclusion that I need to lighten up.

Stephen had more fun than I did. Can you tell?

I don't suppose taking pictures while biking made the experience any safer.

This is my unhappy face. I was not trying to look like this.

2010-07-05T11:24:00.001-07:00

I haven’t quite figured out how I manage to have no time when I only spend four hours a day in class. Given that I spent most of yesterday afternoon “reading” in the shade of a grass umbrella at the Silsila café, I realize I have some responsibility in the matter. When coffee and pureed fruit drinks are expensive at five pounds (a dollar) and I can sit at a table overlooking the crashing waves, it’s hard to resist lounging about with classmates and trading stories of our various faux pas’s.
I do manage to do other things. For example, Thursday night, I attended an outdoor concert of the famous Egyptian pianist, Omar Khayrat. It was a breathtaking night, and we (the ISLI teachers, and our guests) crammed into the seats arranged next to the massive stone library. I sat between my dormmate, Abeer, and my classmate, Casey. When the orchestra began with the thumping drums and blaring trumpets, and swooning violins, Abeer leaned in close and whispered: “Doesn’t it remind you of the greatness of the pharaohs?” I nodded silently, and observed Casey leaning in to say: “Just like James Bond music!”
You can check him out on youtube and decide for yourself.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ju1hbg2hLMo

2010-07-05T11:17:00.000-07:00

Choice. The most important thing in the world is choice.

2010-07-05T10:39:00.000-07:00

2010-07-05T10:38:00.000-07:00

There's no shame in love; the shame is in forbidden (حرام) love.

2010-07-05T10:36:00.000-07:00

A woman in forbidden (حرام)love falls from the eye (favor) of the man.

2010-07-03T13:22:00.001-07:00

Sleep awaits me, in sha' allah.

2010-07-03T13:11:00.000-07:00

Silence has returned.

2010-07-03T13:06:00.000-07:00

When was the last time you read a book?

2010-07-03T13:02:00.001-07:00

Revolt! Speak!

2010-07-03T12:55:00.000-07:00

I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you.

2010-07-03T12:50:00.000-07:00

2010-07-03T12:47:00.000-07:00

Love is beautiful...for those who are in it.

2010-07-03T12:39:00.000-07:00

Doesn't he know God sees?

2010-07-03T12:34:00.000-07:00

-Would you accept that (behavior if it were directed) at your sister?
-Yup.

2010-07-03T12:30:00.000-07:00

I am free. (f.)

2010-07-03T12:24:00.001-07:00

2010-07-03T12:18:00.000-07:00

Annie (my fantastic roommate), Stephen and I spent over an hour photographing graffiti along the corniche. I'll upload as much of it as I have time for now.

This one says "I love you, Fatin. -Your darling Ala'" and "Ala' and Fatin; I love you so much!"

2010-07-03T12:15:00.000-07:00

On my first day here, I switched my weather from New England to Alexandria, but it was only a moment before I realized I have no need for a five day forecast. Every day has been the same: Sunny and breezy with a high in the mid eighties and a low in the mid seventies. It's no wonder even Egyptians flock here to escape the stifling Cairo heat.

2010-07-03T12:13:00.000-07:00

Stephen found the sweet shop حلويات مصر! Yum...

2010-07-03T12:06:00.000-07:00

Our first day in Alexandria, we had a scavenger hunt orientation. Stephen (with whom I studied first year Arabic waaaaaaay back when) and I came in second. Here, I'm standing in front of the tomb of the unknown soldier.

a week already!

2010-07-03T12:01:00.000-07:00

It's shocking that I've been here a week already. Perhaps my severe lack of sleep as kept me thinking that it's just been one very full day, but it doesn't feel like I've been in Alexandria long. Maybe the fact that I made up for all my nights of homework by sleeping fifteen hours yesterday has also had in impact on my sense of time.

I'll try to upload some pictures tonight, with some brief explanations. A warning: the internet in the girls dorm cuts out constantly. (Could you have guessed by my lack of posts?)

in the inbetween

2010-06-27T08:33:00.000-07:00

I’ve navigated miles of lines, and now on the second side of the maze that is Frankfurt Airport, I’m only hours from Cairo. There’s little to do but take in the gentle click of my neighbor’s prayer beads and meditate on the weeks ahead.

The unknowns are many and varied; I stand at the edge of a country, culture, dialect and program of which I know only through the stories of friends. My experience will fill in the details of these aspects of my adventure soon enough. What I really don’t know is this: Who will I be in Egypt?

This is not as profound (or pretentious) a question as it sounds.

I’ll have to do a bit of explaining in order to clarify just why my behavior and identity are an issue. In the first months of my life in Syria, my host family there gave me the gift of a role in their social system. I was my Syrian mother’s daughter, my four siblings’ sister and a cousin and niece to countless others. My strong sense of place in Aleppo sprung from my family ties. I learned to dance the steps of (one) Arabic culture while living among the house of Al-Homsi, and I learned them well. As long as I acted in such a way that reflected well on my family*, I enjoyed the privileges and gifts of a deeply loving community. With my family’s constant presence, intervention, support and protection, I was always safe and usually quite comfortable. That was in the spring of 2007.

When I returned to Syria in the summer of 2008, I lived hours South of Aleppo, with a very different peer group (15 Americans). I learned quickly that if I were to act as I had in Aleppo, I would alienate myself from my American peers. Yet, I was still responsible to my northern family whom I continued to visit, and they, in turn, continued to check in on and support me. I renegotiated my lines in Damascus; I hung out in mixed gender groups and traded my jacket in for long-sleeve (but waist-length) shirts. At first, I was very uncomfortable; I felt lost and cut off from the assurances of family relationships. Eventually, though, I learned to separate the customs dance I had learned in Aleppo, from the music of the culture, for which there are many awesome moves. That metaphor has gone on long enough.

Now, here I am in Alexandria, Egypt, with little chance of running into any of my aunts or cousins. I am neither bound nor guided by my Syrian family’s presence though my memories from Syria continue to do both. I can only guess how this will all play out.

*There were small details with which I had never concerned myself before, but that became part of my routine. Examples include returning home before dark, wearing jacket that fell below my waist, and responding appropriately to guests and family members. These lessons give me precious insight to this day.

I need to make the name of this blog more general, but Syria's still what I love.

2010-05-24T10:36:00.000-07:00

I’m going to hurtle over the apology for having left this blog hanging for over a year. I am not really all that sorry that my life has been exciting and exhausting to such an extent that I have only occasionally paused to think of writing.

My adventures of late haven’t exactly followed the pattern of my accounts on this blog, but I still manage to think of them as such. A brief explanation of my absence will also cover why I’m writing anew.

Upon returning from an exhausting and productive year in Damascus, I moved back to New England and made my home in a different relative “East.” I currently manage an Arabic program at an independent school where I teach 9-12th graders the self same subject I’ve gone on about for years. Obviously, it’s a wonderful way to spend my time.

I had fleeting thoughts of blogging on what it’s like to transition from being a foreigner learning Arabic into a teacher whose job it is to bring Arab context and culture into a classroom. That went out the window fairly early on. Now, however, I am committing to write for six weeks this summer.

Egypt awaits. And this time, I’ll be studying, observing, and blogging, not for just for myself, but for my students. My Arabic II’s and III’s are charged with commenting on this summer’s entries, though everyone is welcome to comment and question.

Before we can get to the mischief and adventure, I must first say that beginning June 22, 2010 and ending August 7, 2010:
“Information on this website (or in this article) reflects in part my experience as a participant in The Intensive Summer Language Institutes Program, which is funded by the U.S. State Department, Bureau of Education and Cultural Affairs and administered by American Councils for International Education: ACTR/ACCELS. The opinions expressed herein are my own and do not represent the views of either the U.S. Department of State or American Councils.”

That’s done.

WELCOME Arabic II and III!

12/23 3am

2009-04-15T11:56:00.000-07:00

Gosh -- so it's 3:00am local time right now and I'm lying in bed.

My bag never showed up and we spent about forty minutes trying to figure out how to deal with it. Apparently, Damascus rules are such that things only happen on their terms. The "them" in this case is anyone who has the opportunity to flex their muscles of power towards anyone else. Ruth spoke for five minutes with a smooth-haired gentleman in a leather coat who took my passport wrote down some information and made himself tea before informing us that he actually didn't work for the airport, and his cousin would be returning soon.

But, before you jump to any conclusions, he did so with a smile, and would have offered us tea had we not been separated by a wall with a tiny window that can only be compared to an American mailslot.

It's as though all Syrian men are family, each individual never finding himself alone; instead, they work in possees, standing around smoking and talking...very little ever seems to get accomplished. [note: When I wrote "very little ever seems to get accomplished," I felt a bit like Tocqueville, or some 17th century explorer, documenting my preliminary observations of an indigenous society].

Furthermore, I've already seen more machine guns than I have in my whole entire life. It's fascinating how quickly I have become immune to it, though. I was so scared as Ruth and I walked by young men smoking, guns slung nonchalantly over their shoulders, but the reality is that they are just standing guard and doing their civil duty.

I think that my mind is prejudiced to look at guns being wielded by a foreign-tongued soldier as a threat, rather than a reassurance. For this, I rest the blame solely on Hollywood, as it is their influence that has caused me to believe there is a threat of being yelled at (with subtitles, of course), or shot at, a la James Bond.

We travelled by bus from the airport to Damascus.

Once in Damascus, we approached a corral of clunky white vans that Ruth informed me were called "Service" (sehr-veece) vehicles. I had to crouch down while Ruth sat; then, the second the man sitting next to Ru got up, I had to fill the space to "protect" her. It was a crash course in Syrian etiquitte, and I loved the fact that everyone just passes the money up to the driver in front. I continually hear people say the word "wahed" when they pass the money, and I wonder what it means. I swallow my tongue because I feel embarassed to speak English.

The service vans...

[note: I would later share a service vehicle with everyone from women who were hijab (covered), to soldiers, businessmen and students...all of us crowded into a little white van].

Ruth seems great, and her house really helps me to keep all my priorities in order -- I don't need half the stuff I have at home. I'll be fine without anything else, and with gratitude for my safe travels on my mind, I give myself into sleep.

the airport

2009-04-15T11:50:00.000-07:00

On the other end of the world, I am a foreigner -- no safety net exists save for the Arabic tongue of my baby sister.

I've never anticipated anything as much as seeing her face; I've never needed her more.

Many men emerge from dark corners with thick fingers and ancient accents. They leaf through my passport, mutter a sand-hardened "Welcome," and never smile.

I didn't know Ruth's address, but nodded lots as the probing questions about identity, profession and place of origin streamed through me.

I've never felt so unrelatable before; it is 11pm in Syria, and I am a little scared awaiting my bag's arrival on the squeak-ridden carousel. I need it so I can move forward; find Ruth; embrace.

still 12/22...it's hot

2009-04-15T07:01:00.000-07:00

IT IS HOT.

I'm sitting at the airport, in my three-day-old jeans, white t-shirt, purple sweatshirt.

I look -- I feel -- American.

My bag, corderoy jacket and dress shirt sit beside me.

IT IS HOT...muggy.

I am sticky in my plastic seat, uncomfortably wedged amongst my fellow travelers at gate twenty-one.

It is deathly silent and I wish someone would talk.

Am I afraid? Sure.
Excited? Absolutely.
Intrigued that everyone here has a reason to be in Syria? Of course.

The man in front of me keeps staring at me as he wipes (pats, really) his forehead with a tissue. He looks really newvous...my mind is doing cartwheels. I sweat. I shake.

Why can't I just relax and remember why I am here. I'm going to see Ruth; I cannot wait. But I must.

Finally, people start to talk, breaking the barriers, erasing the sweltering airport heat (there is a difference between "sweltering heat" and "sweltering airport heat." Airport heat is dirty, engulfing). So many beautiful languages joining together in a sweet, succinct rhythm.

There is at least one other youngish American...a girl with a US passport.

I think about all of the stern, silent people and wonder if they are nervous because they are in the UK, and it is the prospect of being home, to something familiar in Syria, that eases their uneasiness.

My mind wanders...how will I keep my blatant, transparent American accent respectful to avoid prejudices. Do I strike up conversation? I should have asked Ruth. I continue to wonder, and look forward to answers.

.............

On the plane, Michael Jackson's ambiguously American (and bizarrely inter-racial) songs lighten my mood a bit, as do the plethora of warm smiles I receive from everyone. Once I see that the "qibla" (direction of Mecca) is indicated -- and continuously updated -- on the on-flight television screen, I think of my students and the opportunity I have.

Next thing I know I am chatting up a nearby Syrian economist about a paper one of my 8th grade students wrote about Islamic finance and the post-meltdown world economy. I am excited; I am nearly there.

..............

Spiced lamb and saffron-yellowed rice send me into sleep (along with a healthy dose of white wine) somewhere above Budapest.

Forty Minutes from Damascus and I am wired and on eggshells. What wild expectations! What anxious caffeine-fueled emotions.

I am on the cusp of seeing my sister in the midst of this wonderful world she has come to love. I walk off the plane with open arms in anticipation of the eruptions within me, as the Arab world envelopes me, changing my life -- my perspective -- forever.

Rewind: London 12/22

2009-04-15T06:57:00.000-07:00

14:54
London Heathrow

Glazed and unshorn,
I watch time
melt off the departure board.

"16:15 Aleppo via Damascus BD 943 Gate Opens 15:15"

I wait, I watch,
steadfast
as my British Breakfast
tumbles through me
and the coffee I've swallowed
threatens to erupt from my
jittery veins.

I will be seeing my sister,
my heart reminds my nervous brain.

I will be seeing my sister,
I will be seeing her Syria.

Stranger in a strange land

2009-04-15T06:55:00.000-07:00

There was something dripping from the ceiling.

I was used to airports where an unattended KitKat bar would be means for emergency attention (and possibly the extermination of the orange-encased chocolatey wafers; yet, here I was, suddenly strewn into a sleep-deprived march through the hauntingly dim halls of the Damascus International Airport. As far as first impressions go, I felt like the airport in Damascus would have served the faux-town in Blazing Saddles well. It was a façade made to appear like it could, in bad lighting, be mistaken for an airport. It wasn’t that the conditions were poor, but rather, I was entering a world more different than any I’d beheld. Cigarettes were puffed vehemently around me, and the murmered tones of melodic Arabic wafted smoothly about, waltzing in time with the tobacco-rich air. So this was it. Here I was in Damascus, Syria; home to my sister, and innumerable other groups of people, about whom my 8th grade students and I had been learning for months, back in Connecticut. I was fascinated by the prospect of scribbling EVERYTHING down into my little black moleskin book so I could share my tales with them upon my return. Somehow, though, now hardly seemed to be the appropriate time…there was something dripping from the ceiling.

It was a bit unnerving to jostle forward, all the while bumping into a number of trench coat clad “employees” of the airport, each of whom I informed that I neither had any cash, nor had I ever set foot within the Voldemort-ianly-not-to-be-named land to the southwest (starts with an “I”, rhymes with…). Finally, after getting my passport nervously stamped; realizing my pumpkin-orange duffle bag had not made the trip with me from London; and being offered a cigarette by a fellow Yankee, I stepped into a land I had only known through the soundtrack of memories my sister, Ruth, has used to explain explain it. Her stories represent the people and places behind the magnificent flicker of passion her eyes shine with any time she refers to her other home, far, far away from the one I’ve shared with her…the one nestled between green mountains and carved by the gurgling brooks of northern New Hampshire.

After four months, I think it is time for me to begin writing. This is difficult for me, and I struggle with knowing where to begin. The beauty of Ruth’s words have set the bar high, and I know that the longer I wait to begin the harder it will be to do justice to the tender journalism she has shared with us all. I have decided that the only way to accurately describe the incredible, life-altering beauty of the Syrian landscape, and the people who inhabit it, is to transcribe my notes (each of which was documented in my tiny black moleskin notebook during my adventures in Syria).

Opening Remarks

2009-04-15T06:52:00.000-07:00

It is with great respect (and a wee bit of trepidation)that I commence my contributions to this beautiful blog. I am a very different person than my sister, and I hope that my observations of the Syrian landscape will do justice to the incredible country.

Will M.
April 15, 2009

not dead, just hibernating

2009-03-21T02:52:00.000-07:00

Dear Friends,
My silence over the last few months has in no way been a reflection of lost interest, disregard for you, the reader, or a desire to stop writing. I know I should have written an explanation a long time ago, but I was not prepared to face the fact that I can't write right now. I kept hoping I would sit down and write to you. (There is so much to share, for example, last night I opened my kitchen window to see a roaring bonfire atop my neighbor's roof. Surely I could find something to say about that!) The facts are these: I am currently a fellow in a demanding program that is basically paying me to be a student. When my job is to study all the time, it's hard to justify making time for non-essentials. This semester we are focusing on our writing and as a result, all my ideas and energy are going into my Arabic assignments. If anyone is interested, I wouldn't object to posting some of them. Let me know. In the meantime, soon after I stopped writing, my big brother, Will, visited me. He has my blessing and full reign of this forum to share his first impression of Syria. You can expect to see his writing in the coming weeks, or even days. Please know, I have not forsaken you; I'm just taking the time I need to fulfill my responsibilities.

Peace,
Ruth

2009-02-16T06:37:00.000-08:00

theatre

2008-12-23T13:21:00.001-08:00

I went to see my first play in Arabic. As much of the dialogue was lost on me, I focused on some pretty genius staging...at least at first. Eventually, the action progressed to stringing giant beeds and spiking letters on a pike. It ended with the two-man cast stripped to their underwear and blackout.

I went with a Syrian friend so as we exited the playhouse, I prepared myself for an explanation of what just happened over the last forty-five minutes. But when he asked his usual question: "Did you understand?" and I sheepishly responded in the negative, he laughed and said even more sheepishly, "Neither did I."

a little comment on comments

2008-12-22T05:26:00.000-08:00

There was recently a comment concerning the use of the word ghetto, which I thought might happen. It's true that the history of the word is a long and sad one. While explaining what it meant in modern American slang, I made sure to include that history. In my own usage of the word, it is about using limited resources to make something that may come out funky as a result, but "low class" has nothing to do with it. Regardless, the positive connotations I associate with the current use of the word are not heedless of its past. Language is a beautiful, complicated, living thing and I am more than happy to wallow in its riches. I do apologize though, if I offended anyone.

As for moderating comments, which I am trying out right now, it has nothing to do with stopping critical voices, but allows me to read the comments since I cannot always see the blog itself since it is blocked here in Syria. I like being able to respond and explain myself and I enjoy the exchange. Please keep commenting, and forgive me the delay so that I can read your comments along with everyone else.

part 2

2008-12-22T05:19:00.000-08:00

c Tammam invited me along to see their plot of land before the sun went down. We piled into the car, all of us inside this time, and rolled out of town. Out of the village, we turned off onto a set of tire marks cutting through the plain scattered with obsidian boulders. It looked like the access road to Mordor and I worried that the car would bottom out, but we turned left and a few minutes later we were parked next to a field that Udai told me he and his brothers had helped his dad clear for farming. The evidence of their efforts lined the field in the form of a black stonewall. A single fig tree stood leafless and ready for winter in the field, but other than thistles and the occasional scrubby bush, the land was rocky and dark. We all took off our shoes and socks to walk. My feet which had long been bound by city shoes rejoiced and remembered their former toughness. My feet know how to navigate pebbled driveways strewn with fallen crabapples, and I was pleased to find the skills could be transferred. The wind was brisk and cold, especially after we finished our tour of the fields and scrambled to the top of an overlooking shelf. Ubai went to look at the fallen Roman watchtower while I stood with the older brothers, facing the west and the wind. The sun was setting, but the stretching black clouds muted the light so that only a faint glow reached us.
We drove back after sunset in silence, back to the light of oil heaters and salty snacks.
The younger generation of cousins and I played cards until Abu Amr insisted we return home. My pockets were full of candies as I climbed back into the trunk, this time with Abu Amr’s fleece lined coat spread over us like a blanket. We took off into the night which had been miraculously cleared of clouds, leaving only the moon to dampen the stars. Once out of the village and in the lightless desert, we began to go faster. At first I was half terrified that a sudden stop would snap my neck against the trunk, but then it occurred to me that if I were to die of a snapped neck, I would want to be enjoying myself this much before it happened. Once I arrived at this realization, the car on which I perched disappeared, I could not see it facing backwards anyway, and I flew. I know what it feels like to ride a carpet. Cars came up behind us and honked or waved and I watched the road appear under my feet and extend into the endless night. The fireworks were more prominent in the night and although it was only 42 km home, each moment lasted forever.

Once home, Ubai and Udai lit their sketchy fireworks. I had read the instructions and knew very well that they did not have the proper equipment to do this safely. I told them so, then hid behind the car and prayed for their hands and faces. The rest of the night was dedicated to placing the necessary holiday phone calls to everyone I know and watching old Egyptian comedies.

The fact is, it is a privilege that I witnessed the Eid in Sweda. The joy of sharing in the festivities was of course counter balanced by the fact that I cannot share this with the other people I love. I feel this sadness always due to geography and well, reality. Usually though, I can’t bring my American and Syrian worlds together, but even within Syria, I live a refracted existence. Aleppo is a world away from Sweda and the cultures that I know in each one are somewhat irreconcilable. I know this tear in my heart is only the result of a gift. Nonetheless I am a child of a broken world and the more of the world I see, the more painful it becomes to love it.

half #1 Eid in Sweda

2008-12-16T07:23:00.000-08:00

For those of you unfamiliar with Islamic holidays, Eid Al-Adha fell on this past week. For Muslims, it is a celebration of Abraham’s faithful near sacrifice of Ishmal (that’s right, NOT Isaac) and the last moment substitution of a ram. Though the holiday most famously involves a commemorative sheep sacrifice, there are plenty of less sober aspects to the weeklong celebration. I, however, did not spend the holiday with a traditional Muslim family, but partied Druze style-a previously undiscovered culture for me.

My visit to Sweda was so last minute that I am now revisiting the notes I took on the photocopy of my passports with a borrowed pen. I literally left Min down town with all my shopping to catch the southbound bus. The next days were only better for the fact that I arrived with nothing in hand but a bag of sweets and a cheap toothbrush. With only the weight of these items holding me to the Earth, I walked from the bus to Udai's house in the cold, starry mountain night. Compared to Damascus, Sweda seemed empty and dark. We walked in the kina lined streets with few automotive interruptions.

We knocked on the door of the dark house well after midnight to be greeted by the semi-wakeful half of Udai's family (his mom, dad and middle brother, Tammam). I have known Udai and his second sister, Ruba, for a few months now but until I saw their parents, I hadn't figured out how they could look so different. Along with the source of pure kindness that radiates from both their faces, so too were the ingredients of their features clear. The next morning, I met all but one absent brother. Udai, Rasha, Ruba, Tammam and Ubai woke one by one, giving me a gradual introduction to the family.

One of the peculiarities of Arab cultures that I have observed and participated in from Amman to Aleppo-and one that still strikes me as foreign- is that pajamas are not cast aside with sleep, but that until business calls one to leave the house, there is no reason to change clothes. What really pleases me is that nine times out of ten, the pj's themselves are matching velveteen jumpers, a fashion which both upsets and fascinates me. I had borrowed an old set of Rasha's so as to fully participate in spending half the day dressed like workout Barbie. Seriously though, it was a lovely morning for drinking yerba matte in turn and watching everyone catch up on family news.

We had only one day before the start of the holiday, so we took advantage of our fleeting flexibility by walking around town. I was accompanied by Udai and Ubai (the youngest coming in at 13) to their aunt's house where we drank more matte and I ripped a righteous hole in the seat of my pants. Never a dull moment.

The weather was breezy and warm so we walked everywhere, and occasionally Ubai and I raced. We crossed through fields scattered with pumice which confused me until the boys confirmed that Sweda was in fact built on the sight of ancient volcanoes. The Old City is build completely out of volcanic rock. Thus the name Sweda which shares its root with the world Aswed (black).

There was plenty to talk about as we walked and among the subjects coverd were a set of new American slang: sketchball (n), hardcore (adj) and ghetto (adj). Ghetto turned out to be the toughest sell, but not for lack of historical background or lack of examples. The problem was that everything I might have identified as "so ghetto" was kind of normal (the toilet that doubles as a kitchen sink in Udai and Shady's apartment comes to mind*).

We dropped by Leen's and then returned home by the cover of darkness punctuated by early Eid fireworks. Ubai insisted we buy some, so we searched the streets until we found a guy selling the explosives out of a black duffle bag. I wanted to say that we should probably steer clear of buying those ghetto fireworks from that sketchball, but within the context, the words would not have meant anything other than "salesman" and "available" relatively.

*This kind of double use is not, I should mention prevalent in Syria. We have very good plumbing, I swear.

2008-12-13T05:32:00.000-08:00

Still no luck with image uploads.

2008-12-13T05:31:00.002-08:00

It has only been a few days since Min traveled to Korea and left me to reign supreme in our apartment, but it feels much longer. Inspired by our regular power outages, I have taken to turning the lights off, even in times of plentiful electricity so as to enjoy the candlelit silence. I dance in the living room and sing in the kitchen. The Eid (Eid al-Adha) started on Sunday so the calmness stretches beyond my three rooms to the unusually empty streets. I am getting ahead of myself, because I all this quiet happiness has followed in the wake of other adventures…

2008-12-13T05:31:00.001-08:00

As consolation for all the stress we (CASAwiyeen) have felt over the last three months, we capped off the trimester with trip to Happy Land and dinner at the current holder of the Guinness record for World’s Largest Restaurant. Sadly the majority of both classes were in no mood for Happy Land after our test, so only the most enthusiastic of us paid the entrance fee of a dollar while everyone else went straight to Damascus Gate for dinner. We were early for the crowds and in fact, early for even the ride attendants, so our group of six was assigned an employee who followed us around the empty park and ran whatever struck our fancy. With no lines before the bumper cars and no homework for the weekend, we ran from ride to ride screaming and clapping. I was most excited about the gravatron, but opted to keep my feet on the ground after the electricity went out on the rollercoaster and we had to push it back to its original position. Awesome.
Min, who we’d kidnapped from the restaurant very much against her will was ruined by the Dancing Fly, and thus refused to ride the much tamer ferris wheel from which we could see the other parks and themed restaurants (see picture of Aladdin’s lamp-hmm, I just discovered that I can’t post pictures today…but I will!).

and we're back

2008-12-10T05:03:00.000-08:00

Not writing over the past weeks has, in part, been the result of a ridiculous workload, but gratefully, I can say that papers and tests did little to stop the momentum of my life. From finally buying an adult onesy complete with crotch snaps (something I’ve wanted to do for years now) to a weekend trip to the Beirut marathon, I have been enjoying adventures that make up the stuff of life.

I’m on break right now so I enjoyed the pleasure of rewiring my ghetto electric heater this morning and now, I’ll fry up some bulgur with eggs before I sit down to recount some highlights.

Although December is well underway, the weather here still feels better suited for mid-October. Thus, while I was physically ready for a break, emotionally, it’s hard to process that the end of the calendar year is coming so soon. Thanksgiving usually serves as a seasonal benchmark, but this year it wasn’t the same. My oven (a glorified toaster) is seriously defunct so the Friday following my favorite holiday I took my ingredients to the swanky apartment American missionaries. They have a sweet kitchen and happen to be out of the country, so we took over with Christmas music and pie baking. The party itself was held at the even swankier apartment of a friend who works at the Embassy. Americans and Syrians were there to feast, and despite the lack of my usual holiday company, it was fun hanging out in the kitchen while stripping the bird and laughing about how other Americans celebrate the day (there was an obscene amount of fruit-infused jello (then again, I think any mount of jello is obscene)).

The following morning I was up early and riding a taxi to Beirut where Zach-my prized travel buddy-would run the marathon on Sunday. Although Beirut lies less than an hour West of Damascus, it is a very different place. Looking out over the sunny sea, mountains at my back, I felt as though I’d gone much farther West. I didn’t do much sight seeing since we didn’t want to ruin Zach’s legs for the race, so we found the start and finish, had dinner and went to a movie that cost more than I generally spend in a week in Syria.

Five AM the next day, we were up and on our way. I happily served as holder of camera and warm-ups while Zach ran and after he finished, I was ready to hold him up too. It was Zach’s day, so I didn’t complain when he chose to eat at TGIF Friday’s. It was my first experience with the chain.

2008-11-25T04:11:00.000-08:00

Hey, hey,
Despite ideas overflowing my brain, I won't have time to write until the Eid (roughly two weeks). I miss writing and I miss hearing from you. -A very busy Ruth

2008-11-17T04:15:00.000-08:00

My usual Thursday routine is fairly straightforward: I do my best to stay awake for our Thursday lecture series (usually a two hour conversation on some aspect of Syrian civil law or government structure). Then I savor my walk home-half an hour up hill with my ipod pumping all peripheral noise out of my head. I cook something and then either start my homework or just sit and think about how much I will have to do before the weekend is over. Yesterday was different.

Yesterday, I had places to be. My friend Leen was having a gradation party…in her hometown, an hour out of Damascus. Before I could rondez-vous with the rest of the gang for what would be a marathon of sing-alongs from door to door, I had to find a gift for Leen. In the Old City, I found a loom-silk wrap and a friendly conversation with its vendor. Leen was already home with her family, so we packed a hired minibus with friends. I didn’t know everyone, but that hardly mattered when the singing started. Attidal, the fifty-something director of a local elementary school, passed sang as enthusiastically as her twenty-something son, Quais; and we all did our best to keep up with Odai who seemed to know every word to ever song in the history of radio in the Arab world. I clapped happily until Attidal turned to Zach and me saying “Your turn.” We did what we could, but two voices were not going to cut it when the whole bus could be chanting.

At last, we pulled up to Leen’s door under an apple-moon. The mountain air felt clean and cold. When lean came to the door in a little brown halter-top dress, I felt suddenly underdressed, but that was hardly important. The room inside was lined with the typical cushions and pillows and a reception line of Leen’s relatives, all ready to shake hands. From nowhere, one of the then pulled and oud and began to play with a steadiness I have never achieved in music. Two by two, couples took turns on the floor-their leading foot flat, the back heel never touching down. They rose and fell with the resounding strums. Umpa, umpa, umm…

Next came the food-salad and fata’ir. Dinner was punctuated with pop music that brought everyone out to dance. I don’t usually dance in co-ed environments here and learning the system took some concentration. One must be dancing with someone exclusively, which simply means that your torso is turned to that person and you make more eye contact with him than anyone else. Only once did this entail awkward conversation (“So, you’re American, huh?”). Regardless, I was glad when a solid dipkeh picked up and I was suddenly squished between cousins, stepping in time with the music. We spiraled inward, hands clasped and fingers interlocked.

The energy of dancing lasted long after the radio was turned down and the oud was back out. The room was suddenly filled with song. Each voice seemed to come from a smiling face. Looking at those loving faces, a single thought rested in my mind: this is what it feels like to be the luckiest person on Earth. I did not want to lose the feeling, but I wanted to examine what constituted it. On either side of me, sat a friend. My body radiated with residual heat from the last dipkeh, and I smelled a familiar brand of domestic cigarettes coming from my left. Everything was sweet and slow. I tried to think of –just to test my state of mind. It was not hard to think of the usual things that usually enter my selfish mind: my family, my home, more vocabulary, no homework, a hand to hold, the nearness of my distant friends. But none of that wet my appetite. I was, for ten minutes, completely satisfied. I knew that all these wants would come in their time, but that this moment, this now, was as good as it gets; the juicy process of living in that moment out weighted everything else. I felt like a noble gas. I didn’t I didn’t need to sing, or clap or even smile. I simply sat and let my life fulfill me.

We arrived back in Damascus around two AM after a full hour of charades on the bus. The moment I got home, I collapsed into bed, ready to dream it all again.

"anissa Judy"

2008-11-11T03:27:00.000-08:00

In the wake of a truly miserable midterm, I decided it was high time to get out of my dark, curtained apartment and do something more productive than stair despondently at the assigned novel on Lebanon’s civil war. Lucky for me, there’s a middle school that has a grant for providing Iraqi refugees with school on the weekends and they can always use auxiliary English teachers. I spent my afternoon there, winging planless lessons for intermediate classes. The sensation of standing at the white-board in front of the kids, with no sense of what they knew or needed to learn was comparable to nightmares of starring on Broadway with no rehearsals-naked. But the kids were amazing and forgiving. I taught fifth and seventh grade, barely containing my elation at their successes, and doing my best to hide the fact that I simply found them darling. They, in turn, did little to disguise their enjoyment of my sometimes flustered and broken Arabic. I’m glad my incompetence is good for something.

An American Mix

2008-11-08T06:49:00.000-08:00

My cell phone's clock reads quarter to eleven and I am in bed, halfway through compiling a playlist for a friend. I've been at this for an hour and a half, but I've only just finished the albums starting with m. I certainly don't have time for this, but if there's anything I'm willing to let distract me from my work, it's this. Here's why: last week this vary same friend patiently sat at my side for two hours while I pressed my left ear his computer's speaker and cupped my right hand around the residue his shrinking cigarette as not to be interrupted by the retrieval of an ashtray. All the while we listened to Marcel sing the poems of Mahmoud Darwish, word for word and line for line. "Two years, I lost myself in Ritta and two years, she slept upon my arm…" The tune, the words, the moment were all beautiful and slow. And now it is my turn to share.

Yet suddenly I'm realizing that I may be over my head with this project. As anyone familiar with High Fidelity can tell you, arranging a mix is an art. It's a chance to say something, send words right into someone's ears and have them stick with the adhesive of a good tune, but this is not one of those collections. On the contrary, this is much more complicated than the mixes I put together at sixteen, leading with Dylan's I want you. What I'm doing now goes back to the pure joy of exploring and exchanging poetry. Under normal circumstances, the music I tend to share provides something beyond insight into my general sensibility; it's never just stuff I like to hear, but the play on the word "broke" or the way the melody changes in the third verse that makes me feel as though I just hit the incline on a rollercoaster-a rush of wind and joy. Finding songs worthy of precision-listening is easy, but presenting them to raw ears (unaccustomed to Western styles) is a challenge.

At 16 I learned that pleasing an ear tuned to the Um Kalthoum-Hani Shakker range is as simple as putting on an Enrique Eglesias CD. (A fact that has remained the single, yet prevailing, factor in my own somewhat abashed love of Enrique (that and my until now secret fascination with his Tired of Being Sorry cover).) But I'm not going to use comfort as a crutch and I'm certainly going to delve into multiple genres. Besides, Arabic music is full of variety that doesn't come through on the channels that loop videos of scantily clad pop icons-some things are the same everywhere. Based on the fifty songs my friend gave me, I am confident that 'oud music can condition a listener for banjo; some dipkas may even pave the way for jazz; and the heart breaking ballads might just make John Prine accessible. With each song I add to my friend's flash drive, I try to listen without my nearly twenty-two years of context. And I have found that a significant portion of my enjoyment comes from the memories that go along with the music, memories I cannot pass along in a computer chip. I also feel a degree of responsibility to the music; how can I isolate Beatles songs from their arrangement, let alone their history? With the absence of everything I have known about music for the majority of my life, there comes a kind of freedom in that nothing is cliché. I get to include Imagine, Blowing in the Wind and Turn! Turn! Turn! Without the burden of overplay.

Since writing that first paragraph, I have filled the flash and returned it to its owner. I spent a somewhat absurd amount of time agonizing (the fun kind of agonizing) over both the integrity of the music and this particular friend's potential pleasure from any given song. What has allowed me to finish the project and move on is the following: he will fit whatever I give him into his own contest. It is ridiculous of me to even think I should or could worry about preserving the dimensions of the music. I decided to let go when I thought back to how I hear the songs I first heard while sandwiched between a speaker and a cigarette. For me, these songs will always be attached to the early days of this friendship and I can only return the favor hoping that my songs too will carry me with them.
An American Mix

My cell phone's clock reads quarter to eleven and I am in bed, halfway through compiling a playlist for a friend. I've been at this for an hour and a half, but I've only just finished the albums starting with m. I certainly don't have time for this, but if there's anything I'm willing to let distract me from my work, it's this. Here's why: last week this vary same friend patiently sat at my side for two hours while I pressed my left ear his computer's speaker and cupped my right hand around the residue his shrinking cigarette as not to be interrupted by the retrieval of an ashtray. All the while we listened to Marcel sing the poems of MahmoudDarwish, word for word and line for line. "Two years, I lost myself in Ritta and two years, she slept upon my arm…" The tune, the words, the moment were all beautiful and slow. And now it is my turn to share.

Yet suddenly I'm realizing that I may be over my head with this project. As anyone familiar with High Fidelity can tell you, arranging a mix is an art. It's a chance to say something, send words right into someone's ears and have them stick with the adhesive of a good tune, but this is not one of those collections. On the contrary, this is much more complicated than the mixes I put together at sixteen, leading with Dylan's I want you. What I'm doing now goes back to the pure joy of exploring and exchanging poetry. Under normal circumstances, the music I tend to share provides something beyond insight into my general sensibility; it's never just stuff I like to hear, but the play on the word "broke" or the way the melody changes in the third verse that makes me feel as though I just hit the incline on a rollercoaster-a rush of wind and joy. Finding songs worthy of precision-listening is easy, but presenting them to raw ears (unaccustomed to Western styles) is a challenge.

At 16 I learned that pleasing an ear tuned to the Um Kalthoum-Hani Shakker range is as simple as putting on an Enrique Iglesias CD. (A fact that has remained the single, yet prevailing, factor in my own somewhat abashed love of Enrique (that and my until now secret fascination with his Tired of Being Sorry cover).) But I'm not going to use comfort as a crutch and I'm certainly going to delve into multiple genres. Besides, Arabic music is full of variety that doesn't come through on the channels that loop videos of scantily clad pop icons-some things are the same everywhere. Based on the fifty songs my friend gave me, I am confident that 'oud music can condition a listener for banjo; some dipkas may even pave the way for jazz; and the heart breaking ballads might just make John Prine accessible. With each song I add to my friend's flash drive, I try to listen without my nearly twenty-two years of context. And I have found that a significant portion of my enjoyment comes from the memories that go along with the music, memories I cannot pass along in a computer chip. I also feel a degree of responsibility to the music; how can I isolate Beatles songs from their arrangement, let alone their history? With the absence of everything I have known about music for the majority of my life, there comes a kind of freedom in that nothing is cliché. I get to include Imagine, Blowing in the Wind and Turn! Turn! Turn! Without the burden of overplay.

Since writing that first paragraph, I have filled the flash and returned it to its owner. I spent a somewhat absurd amount of time agonizing (the fun kind of agonizing) over both the integrity of the music and this particular friend's potential pleasure from any given song. What has allowed me to finish the project and move on is the following: he will fit whatever I give him into his own contest. It is ridiculous of me to even think I should or could worry about preserving the dimensions of the music. I decided to let go when I thought back to how I hear the songs I first heard while sandwiched between a speaker and a cigarette. For me, these songs will always be attached to the early days of this friendship and I can only return the favor hoping that my songs will carry me in them too.

maBRooK BaRacK

2008-11-04T22:48:00.000-08:00

Today, my Damascene clothes line is draped in Red White and Blue laundry. Never in my life have I been so proud to be an American.

2008-11-01T23:31:00.002-07:00

I hadn’t planned to stay more than three hours, just enough time to cook dinner and share it; I was even supposed to be at a classmate’s birthday party later. But after our dinner of green beans, Shadi invited me to meet some of his friends at a beauty salon. It was already dark, so I figured it wouldn’t matter if I stayed another hour. Fadi, the salon’s chief hairdresser and owner greeted us at the door. He rocked a purple argyle sweater and a perfect unibrow. I was introduced to all the hairdressers and Fadi’s business partner, a gentle woman in her fifties who smiled and winked with both eyes every time I looked at her. Over the course of two hours, I watched a woman come in with thick waves and walk out with her face framed by smooth lines of straightened hair; fifteen minutes later, Fadi transformed a customer’s long black tresses into a set of doll-perfect ringlets which he then teased into a full bodied train of curls. At that point, Shadi got restless and said he wanted to learn so for the first time in my life, I had my hair straightened-for educational purposes of course. There was a surprise birthday cake for Fadi and I was as surprised as he was when the lights went out and everyone started singing.

By the time we were back at Shadi’s store, it was past ten. I knew it was a bad idea to try getting home by myself at that hour in light of the political situation, so Shadi and Odai insisted that I stay the night. There was an extra mattress and blanket and no reason to risk leaving under darkness. As soon as I agreed to stay and convinced both boys that I was the one who would sleep on the floor, and not the two of them Shadi’s eyes lit up with a smile. “Do you know what they say about Druze?”(1) I didn’t. “They say we grow horns at night and if we have guests, then we slit their throats and eat them!” He cried gleefully, miming horns emerging from his helmet of gel. Odai laughed and said that although everyone knows the story, only the real bigots still believe it. I could picture my little sister in Aleppo repeating the every word Shadi had spoken. If there’s anyone out there with doubts, I can tell you definitively that the rumor is not true-at least they didn’t eat me, nor slit my throat for that matter. Instead, we stayed up eating homemade apple jam from the boys’ hometown and drinking cherry tea. I felt as though I were back in my last weeks of college, sitting with friends and letting the conversation take us where it would-trees, music, love, travel, politics, poetry, reasons. When we finally moved from our chairs, we were shocked to discover the approaching five-thirty dawn. Miraculously, I did manage to get three hours of sleep before breakfast. I woke with my arms wrapped around a pillow and my toes curled into my feet for warmth. After eggs spread with tomato paste, I walked home by the midday sun feeling my spirit recharged by the joys of friendship and my head drained of sleep.

(1) The Druze are a people of the Syrian, Lebanese and Israeli mountains who practice a religion of One God and maintain a unique culture within their tight communities. Shadi and Odai are Druze.

A Departure into Politics

2008-11-01T23:31:00.001-07:00

Last week, as I hope you have heard by now, American forces crossed into Syrian airspace and bombed an agricultural area in the eastern desert. Eight Syrian civilians were killed in the attack. Here in Damascus, it’s big news. A foreign army crossed political boundaries and killed citizens going about their daily business. I realize I am repeating myself, but imagine (if you are not Syrian) how you would feel if your country was attacked by another nation’s army. For me, that question ends in the image of an outraged American public; ready to obliterate the attackers’ entire homeland. Americans are privileged to be to imagine answering an attack on home soil. Syrians are not so spoiled, but the outrage and shock are still here. Having your country bombed is a big deal, but having your country bomb someone else’s should be too. Obviously an international action such as this has warranted front-page coverage over the course of the week, so when I spoke with my dad back in America today, and he said the American media had covered the subject in a brief blip before returning to the election, I was socked. I am in the midst of people with the word America on their lips and anger in their eyes; and Americans, they’re not even picking up the static.

So what does this mean for Syria? The Syrian government doesn’t have the international leverage to even produce an apology from the US. They certainly can’t take military action and the US must have considered this before last week. There’s no way American forces could cross an international boarder without clearance from high up; its almost more upsetting that someone with political knowledge must have looked at the situation and thought: “Yeah, we can get away with this.” All that Syria has been able to do in response is shut the doors of the American Cultural Center and the American School, partly in protest and party for the protection of the American employees who work there. Here’s the catch: these institutions provide resources to Syrian students. I have a friend whose teacher training classes have all been canceled and many others will have to find another source of English lessons. At first glance, these closings appear to be folly, as though Syria is trying to step on its own toes. It’s hard to see the connection between denying education and improving any situation. But really, what else can Syria do? Nothing is not an option. And American institutions inside Syria are the only ones Syria can deal with. It is easy to forget the kind of power the US holds when we (Americans) are inside our boarders, but the way we have been using it lately highlights the carelessness of our foreign policy and the dangers of that carelessness. The US has the power to set the standard of international conduct and it is embarrassing to see how that is turning out.

As for me, this is the first time in my accumulated year of life in the region that I have felt fear because of my nationality. I have been advised to stay in doors and keep a low profile. Syria has never felt like this before. Although I still feel okay enough to walk to school in the morning, I need only think of the hate crimes against Arabs, Middle Easterners and Muslims that followed in the wake of September 11th to make my heart pound. I need not point out that the connection between the American government and an American is much more direct than Muslims or what have you to the events of September 11th. On Thursday, demonstrators marched from near the University to the American Embassy. If I were back in America and there were a protest of this kind, I would have been there in a minute, but as irony has it I would be a fool to join the Syrian version. Morning classes came and went as usual with only a short discussion of how to stay safe on the streets before our vocabulary quiz. In the afternoon, we were scheduled for a lecture on international investment in Syria, but the lecturer canceled saying that he could not justify speaking to American students on the same day that so many people were protesting our government. He will reschedule for another day. That was a little ridiculous in my reckoning, but I am privileged in ways that sometimes blind me so I have decided not to take the fact that I represent the American Government personally. Instead of the lecture, we watched a film from the eighties appropriately called “The Boarders.” It was a comedy about a taxi driver who loses his passport between boarder checkpoints and gets stuck straddling the line with no identity or freedom to leave. I’ve seen subtler messages, but it was enjoyable and spattered with song and dance. When it was over, I didn’t want to go home, so I walked to the bus station and rode out of downtown to visit Shadi and Odai

2008-11-01T05:55:00.001-07:00

Friday (of last week), I did my best to stay away from the afternoon showing of First Night on TV so as to dent my work enough to warrant some time with friends. I didn’t really get much done, but decided to go out nonetheless since concentrating had clearly proven useless. I needed to move so instead of taking a minibus, I decided to make it an hour and a half walk to the old city. The worst stages of a head cold kept me groggy and sleepy through out the night, despite the good people around me. It was nearly nine when we moved from the restaurant and suddenly we were outside and I was wide awake, ready for an adventure. I was getting ready to deliver Odai and Shadi to their place when Odai suggested that instead of my trip out to South Nowhere, we should walk back to my house. Shadi rolled his eyes and reminded us that he had places to be. We were sorry to lose Shadi, but moments later hit Bakdesh, the ice cream shop at Souq Hamadia, and forgot everything but the sugar high. Passing by the old Baramaka bus station, we spotted a shifty teen who was selling sweets out of a box on the sidewalk. Odai squealed with delight and bought four weightless balls, wrapped in tinfoil. We ate one chocolate covered meringue puff each before he told me what they were called: slave heads. What he didn’t know was that I, along with the rest of my class had been on a slave head search since our teacher, Manel, had mentioned them in class five months ago. The concept of this dessert was so horrifying that the search for the elusive sweet had become a staple of our class culture. We’d come across all kinds of chocolate balls that claimed to be slave heads, but when we’d described them to our Syrian sources, they said we’d been had. But this was it; these were the real deal. There was no way Odai could have anticipated my enthusiasm. We walked back to vender and bought a whole bag of them for Zach. Over the highway and up the mountain we bought more ice cream, and my apartment loomed nearer. We took extra staircases for fun and dropped the slave heads off for Zach. It was nearly eleven as we crested my street. Now despite living in a capital city, I still get noticed by my neighbors, especially since I am neither Kurdish nor Allowite, like the majority of my neighbors. Thus, it is a somewhat foolish move to come home in the middle of the night with a man, even if he is only walking me home for exercise and my own protection. Zach sometimes makes walks up the hill to make sure I go into by building alright, but never goes into the stairwell at night. But Zach lives right down the street and it’s no trouble for him whereas Odai had forty minutes on a minibus ahead of him. I felt torn between my duty to invite him in for coffee (actually a cultural duty, yes) and concern for my reputation-but not that torn. I happily offered water to my thirsty friend before bidding him goodnight. Min was deep in sleep, but I rode my double-ice-cream-and-chocolate-ball sugar high into an hour of dancing alone in my room before dreams claimed me.

adjustments

2008-10-29T22:45:00.000-07:00

A week ago, I received a phone call from my Syrian Uncle, the older brother of my Aleppine host mom. He was in Damascus for business and hadn’t seen me since the night I burst into tears at his house in Hama following a political discussion that simply broke my heart. With the exception of that exchange though, we had always enjoyed each other’s company. He is both a Mercedes trader and sheikh, thus through him, I have access to two slices of Syrian society I have little contact with these days (and which usually have little to do with each other): the ultra rich and the ultra religious. Our relationship is something I treasure in part because it is so rare, but in the wake of Abu Ali’s visit last week it is somewhat changed.
I met him by his car, down in the park. After the usual greetings we got into the still plastic lined front seat. Immediately he started talking about the car. “A 2008 Mercedes, have you ever been in one of these before?” I could not have cared less how much it cost him, but he told me anyway, comparing it with the price of my family’s home in America. The car was much more expensive. Although Abu Ali owns multiple houses in Syria and abroad, last week, he decided to take me to his principle Damascene house, complete with family. He asked me if I wouldn’t mind wearing a headscarf for the visit, and although I feel it is important to boldly face discomfort with religious diversity, I trusted my uncle to know the situation and out of respect for him, I donned my white hijab. Inside, I was acutely aware of the ambiguity of my relationship with Abu Ali and felt the need to clarify to anyone who would listen that he was my uncle. When the women left the room for a moment, he turned to me and after confirming that I understood that I am not to mention this family to the one up north, he told me not to talk so much. “If I am here, just refer to me if talking needs to be done.” I was out of practice and had forgotten myself.
Min, my roommate and the most unapologetically direct person I’ve ever met, was also invited to dinner (this totally works for her in a wonderful way). She showed up an hour after me by taxi and the moment she walked in I realized just how much I can change when I’m with members of my Syrian family. There I was in different clothes and having been instructed not to speak when Min came in and immediately started complaining that my uncle did nothing for himself. Over dinner they discussed the merits of non-religiosity and while Abu Ali ate oranges peeled by his mistress and placed in front of him, Min declared him a dictator. I watched the color drain from the faces of the women in the room. They were all so embarrassed for Min. But what Min did was fine and my uncle did not get angry at any point. In fact, he engaged her in albeit light debate about her opinions. All this brought my own behavior into a new light. I felt for so long that my role was to observe and understand, and, AND, when the time is appropriate share my view. After watching Min, I felt weak and spineless. Why didn’t I express my distaste for my uncle’s misogynist and ego? Maybe it’s because I hear so many opinions in American about this kind of behavior that judge it out of context and out of scale, and so I have taken the role of its defense. But that’s not it; I don’t’ want to defend it, or curtail my criticism. It could be that I’m an outsider, and from a culture that has made a history of moral (and other) judgments on cultures in which we had no business meddling. But I’m not sure I would have said anything to an American in the same position. Maybe I really am just spineless. I’ve had time to think this over and I can’t trace my behavior back to a single source. The time I’ve spent with Syrians, in their homes and families, has taught me how to look for appropriate contexts for certain conversations and while I admire Min’s clarity, I require more time and reflection to make my move; and when I make it, it will be on Syrian terms, not American ones.

finding an oven

2008-10-18T05:54:00.000-07:00

I ended up making oatmeal cookies instead of pie because I'm still looking for a decent pie tin. There are real ovens in Damascus, but unfortunately I don't know anyone who has one. Miraculously the cookies didn't burn in my giant toaster oven that has no heat settings, even after one of the switches came off in my hand during the course of the baking.

Thursday night was full of other reminders of home including several hours of NPR podcasts. Since I am a Public Radio addict, I make sure to get a good dose of This American Life, Wait, wait and Prairie Home every week to stave off withdrawal. This week however, I managed to download some of my other favorites and it was quite the week to have my taste of home reflect my home away. Not only was the answer to the geoquiz a Damascus restaurant, but The World in Words was a twenty minute piece on Arabic. I also listened to some podcasts in Arabic and laughed out loud alone (something Radiolab claims as abnormal) when I watched the Arabic dubbed podcast of "Today with God." It's a Christian program in which Jesus is depicted by the actor who plays Desmond on "Lost." If you know the show, you know he's got a fantastic Scottish accent, but thanks to the Arabic dubbing, I didn't get to see whether Jesus had the same accent. I don't actually know where the actor is from, but I did get a kick out of hearing him speak perfect Arabic.

Finally, I also heard a blip about the speech patters of Palen, Obama and Bush. It was a good piece on how everyone switches their patterns of pronunciation and cadence depending on the subject and situation. It is particularly interesting in light of how my Arabic has changed over the last months. The difference between classical and spoken is obvious and it's true that I'm getting a better hold on how to integrate them at various levels, but more interesting to me is my new awareness of my own regional adjustments. When I arrived to the capital in June everyone laughed at my Aleppine vowels, but now, I generally use that voice exclusively when I'm in the North or speaking with friends from there. It's all part of me at this point and I couldn't control it much if I wanted to. As a result of the radio article, I believe that is somewhat true of the candidates as well. Nonetheless, when I saw a clip from an Obama rally in which he used the word "ain't" I cringed.

Just as long as I'm on the subject, I would like to share that I voted in my first presidential election, something I didn't imagine would happen while I was in Damascus, but I'm glad to finally had the chance!

welcome

2008-10-14T06:49:00.000-07:00

For several weeks now, I have been promising Shadi and friends an invitation to my apartment. Two days ago, they finally made it over. I was so excited to play host and turn the tables, but for scheduling reasons there was no time to prepare and the request for "American food" was only filled by plain grilled cheese (no tomato soup to go along). I was somewhat despondent by the time they left, feeling that my first attempt at hosting my hosts had, if not failed, not been as much fun as it should have been. The good news is that I got a second chance; only minutes later my cousin Mohammed Nour and his closest friend of the same name Nour and all showed up in my neighborhood. This attempt at somehow appearing graceful in the face of Syrian standards of hospitality went somewhat better. I'm not giving up though...if Min will put up with my experiments, I'm going to invite more friends over soon, and if I can find an oven with temperature control, I will even make pie for them.

A few thoughts

2008-10-10T09:38:00.000-07:00

I would prefer following up on comments in the comment section, but that is a little difficult since I can't always see the comments outside of my email version. I am so glad to read your comments and think them over. Thank you.

As far as my experience in Aleppo goes, I don't think there's much way to combat the misconceptions of Americans outside of being a counter example. I'm doing my best to do just that and thus, I will not keep my identity a secret. Fear will not rule my actions. Secondly, I don't think taking action against anyone is a productive way to improve the situation. It's punishment enough that the guy is someone who would do such an awful thing. I don't really believe in the use of retributive justice. And in any case, I'm far from keeping silent.

Finally, I can't take credit for "seeds of light." That's a phrase found in early Quaker writings that stuck with me over the years. I think it's beautiful too.

My wonderful Aunt Edee called me the other day and for her, here are some random pictures I hadn't posted from the past few months...

2008-10-10T09:24:00.000-07:00

I once asked my amiyya teacher how to say graffiti and after describing what it was, she looked at me like I was crazy and said, that's a sign, an announcement. I like that unoffical writing on walls is not really graffiti here. This particular picture is part of a pilgrimage announcement.

yeah, we're cool

Zach and Leen at Shadi's

Sunrise from the kitchen

Usually, I can't see much from my neighborhood, but one day I looked out my window and there was a mountain!

By now, prickly pears are long out of season

Seida Zainab Mosque, a while ago

This is a party shirt, but not for my kind of party.

Min and some hot summer fashion...ew

We don't have time to lounge about like this anymore (this was last june).

The first CASA fieldtrip...if only it was still that much fun!

Rent over the summer was enough reason to move out of the first house. This is not only more units of money than I'd ever seen in once place, but also more buying power!

the old house

2008-10-06T11:10:00.000-07:00

When I have so little time to spend doing anything but keeping my head above water academically, getting up to Aleppo is a real treat. Unfortunately, because my visits are rare, they are expected to last-a fact that usually means I only tell one to two people that I’m in Aleppo at a time. The most common comment I hear is that I am always late and in a hurry to leave early. This time, I had a day and two nights, but I decided to take on the challenge of actually visiting as many people as possible. Thus, on Sunday, I went from house to house and coffee cup to coffee cup. Without meaning to, I made it through four visits by mid afternoon, but I hadn’t had anything to eat. Only my brothers were home back in the harra so I watched them play Euro-cup soccer on the computer and chatted on subjects ranging from Ottoman torture techniques to the optimal time to get engaged. On my way from the Old City to the New, I picked up some sweets for the next two house calls. I was weak from hunger at that point so I crossed over to the fruit market for an single apple. I knew he would give it to me for free before I asked, but I tried to give him some lira anyway. Of course he did not accept my repeated attempts to pay.

In New Aleppo, I endured the usual scolding for my tardiness, but when that was over the conversation came easily with friend Ghufran and her family. Although Ghufran and her siblings all grew up in Aleppo, are the second generation of Syrian speakers in their family, they still identify as Chadi and as such, they understand more of my outsider experience than most Syrians. Culturally, they are less concerned with social codes than most of my friends here and sometimes the transition out of the relaxed atmosphere in their house is jarring. One such example was my final visit of Sunday evening. One of Ghufran’s brothers accompanied me to my next rendez-vous. I had arranged to see the family of an old friend I’d not visited since 2007. Long absences always make me nervous, but as usual, the graciousness of my hosts was overwhelming. Now when I go back to Aleppo, everything seems different-new busses, new buildings etc, but stepping into this house was like stepping back in time. The kindness in my friends’ eyes and the heavy-handed generosity, even the furniture arrangement were all the same as they had been. I felt that I was the only one who had changed, and I had changed so much. I had a hard time not gawking at the familiarity of the five faces that smiled back at me, all with the same nose, cheeks and facial expressions. It’s a shame I pass the point of cognition and speech after 10PM because I would have liked to be more present for the conversation, but I was ready for bed the moment I left the house. Leaving is always tricky from any house, but Yehiya (not my brother; my friend’s) knows how to bargain; at quarter to eleven I declared my intention to leave and he responded with “fifteen minutes…ten minutes…” I managed to say goodbye within the half hour, but not without a bagful of Eid treats in my hand.

I pushed my luck with so many successful social contacts it seems. This morning, I had agreed to come back to my family’s home at 6AM for a quick call on my brothers. They would be up for an early soccer match and ready for a last goodbye before I departed. I must have just missed them because when I stood outside the door and called Aubiedeh’s phone, I could hear it ringing inside, but nobody stirred. The street was empty save a garbage man in his early twenties. I could feel him watching me so instead of walking past him, I took an alternative route out of the harra to an outer parking lot that connects to the street. He followed me. Politely, he asked if he could have a word and asked if I would like him to wake the house up. I said, they are my family and I can talk to them another time. I just missed them this time, that’s all. He asked where I was from-a common question. America. He offered his hand and I, always wanting to show good will in the name of America, pushed my hesitation to the back of my mind (I don’t like shaking men’s hands here) and offered my own hand. That was my first mistake. My second mistake was not to run as soon as I pulled my hand out of his grip. He had tried to kiss my hand; a sign I know too well as anything but gentlemanly. I scolded him angrily, simply saying “That is unacceptable and you know it!” This of all neighborhoods is not somewhere that a man would come near me under normal circumstances. As I walked briskly toward the street shouts followed me. I turned to yell a warning to stay away only to discover he had exposed himself. That would have been enough to disgust me, but he was set on ruining my day and marring my beloved city. He came after me with the worst sentence I have ever heard, in any language. Thinking about it now, what really upsets me about what he said was that it was not a threat, but a plea. I was almost to safety when he seized his last opportunity to assault me. It was the first time I witnessed something so heinous in Syria and I feel the need to say that this degree of harassment is not acceptable, lawful or common. I almost didn’t write about it at all. But it happened and is an example of the kind of cruelty no one should have to endure, regardless of culture or religion.

I could have gone to the police, or I could tell my brothers and they would take care of the ignorant man, but both of those options mean opening a can of warms for my reputation. I can’t risk the rumors that would run through my family if they knew that my person space was at all violated, even though it was only a momentary grope. This is the sort of thing I have to keep quiet from those who have the power to protect me. It was with this thought that I left for Damascus. Truly, that is a shame.

Although the I am not done feeling sick over this morning, my faith was somewhat restored by the little sun-dried woman who sat next to me on the bus to Damascus. Her leathery, tattooed face smiled at me before she recited pre-departure prayers in a dialect littered with “gaa’s” and “chee’s.” (for those not familiar with Syrian social markers, that means she is Bedouin, from the eastern desert). She was on her way to see her daughter, married with young children south of the city. Though I slept and read for the majority of the ride, we talked occasionally and just before pulling into the Pullman station, she held out a sheet of notebook paper, held it out, upside-down and asked if I could call her son-in-law to inform him of her arrival. I spoke with her daughter and arranged a taxi to the house. How strange, to be a foreigner, but literate in both language and the city’s system. At the taxi door, the old woman planted a broken-toothed kiss on each of my cheeks and said farewell. On the other end of my bus ride home I stopped to get lunch at one of my favorite falafel stands. My favorite employee was there, waiting with a wide, kind smile. We chatted about the Eid and he asked after Zach, who lives near the stand as well.

Although it is the prevalence of goodness in people that makes me trust more than might be wise, I will do what I can to keep my faith in the seeds of light in everyone. I just ask, if you’re reading this, to please let the seeds grow in you. I’m doing my best to water mine. I want to thank that Bedouin woman and the falafel guy. They made better what was much worse.

a few more pictures from Mar Moussa

2008-10-06T10:44:00.001-07:00

beautiful, mooo?

The stairs

If you know my ceramics, you'll know the "Ayn" is of my hand

like heights??

The first stage of sunburn...

older than the trees; younger than the mountains...

2008-10-05T02:17:00.000-07:00

I just tried to post pictures, but I can't see the blog so I don't know if they came out. There are more coming regardless. I'm in Aleppo now and still riding the clouds. By chance, a number of my American friends were already here and had run into the Akkads while siteseeing. Somehow they figured out that I was a common link, thus when I arrived I was greeted by several groups of friends (Aleppines, Swatties, Casaweyen and Arabic-Midkids). What a pleasure to share friends with friends. After a good hour of catching up Dandy caught a cab and the rest of us wound up at the Barron Hotel. Sitting around the pattio, we swapped stories and sang John Denver. Sometimes it's just good to be American.
Today is a day of visits. I'm booked through to nighttime with dinners, teas, coffees and ice creams.

2008-10-05T02:14:00.000-07:00

Look closely for Odai.

2008-10-05T02:12:00.000-07:00

Us, dead.

2008-10-05T02:08:00.000-07:00

Shadi, hangin' out

2008-10-05T02:06:00.000-07:00

New friends

2008-10-05T01:59:00.000-07:00

like a wolf across a valley, like a kid lost in a game

2008-10-04T02:31:00.000-07:00

The monastery, Dair Mar Moussa, did me good. I arrived home yesterday evening and Min took a hard look at me then asked, “Did you meet someone?” That’s the kind of glow mountains give me. In the end, it was just Zach, Shadi and Odai with me, but that turned out to be perfect. We rode a mini bus out into the desert where the roads were so thin and well paved that I started to itch for my bike. I would have loved to tuck down the mountain passes and pump into the hills beyond. When we did arrive at the parking lot my need for exercise was somewhat satiated by the half mile climb up the stairs to the monastery itself. Dair Mar Moussa is a pretty awesome place, not only is it tucked into a majestic mountain range, but open to anyone who wants to stay for along as they like. In exchange for a place to sleep and three impressively delicious meals a day, guests volunteer with tasks that range from washing dishes to planting trees.

Much to my delight, a church retreat from Aleppo arrived the same day as we did. My heart overflowed with joy to let my accent slip back into what it was two years ago and share stories of my favorite city. Shadi and Odai, who occasionally don’t understand what I’m saying when I drop my “qaa’s” for wide open “aaaaa’s” finally saw that that particular feature of my speech is not due to being a non-native speaker, but the result of my love for the north. At our first chance, we scrambled up the peaks, sometimes slipping on pebbles and occasionally free climbing cliffs. On the way down, I suddenly noticed a plethora of tiny white seashells scattered across the mountaintop. Evening prayers began with an hour of meditation in the ancient church. After watching the sunset reflect on the bare mount ranges that seem to transition into flat desert with nothing but shadows, I ducked into the dark church. The hour of silence before mass was, for me, comfortingly familiar. I remembered a particular Sunday morning when I sat on the western benches the sun fell through the window straight to my eyes so that I had no choice but to close them and enjoy the changing shadows from the tree outside the meetinghouse window. The church was dark and crowded, but we shared the floor in the light of only a few candles. At the end of the hour, instead of good morning handshakes from the facing benches, a solo wind pipe broke the silence with a sad melody.

Though more foreign to me than the meditation period mass was beautiful. We sat on pillows, shoes off, everyone singing in the shadows of ancient, painted saints. One particular woman who sat near me sang with a voice that conveyed nothing but belief in a higher power. In her lap, a little girl slept soundly. Scripture and ministry in Arabic separated the songs. I let my mind focus on the words and my favorite moment came when the Priest read that God’s love is not only for Christian; not only for Jews; and not only for Muslims; but for all people. For a moment, I felt I was listening to a Michael Franti song and it made me smile. At one point, a blessing was passed from hand to hand, around the congregation. The man next to me held both my hands in his, transferring the energy for me to give to the woman on my left. I watched to singing mother slightly place her hands on the sleeping child’s face before passing the blessing on to her neighbor. After the Eucharist was presented, there was time for individual prayers; single voices rose from the crowd asking for the safety of and success of those present. Once again, I thought of Swarthmore meeting and holding friends in the light.

Dinner followed mass and the four of us sat out on the veranda, chatting with our new friends over stew and apples. When I finally left the table for bed, I had to walk up the path to the new half of the Dair, which sits on a second mountainside. The stairs were unlit and the sky was full of stars.

Thursday morning I struck a bit of luck. My breakfast table was assigned to pick the last of the olives from the lower orchard. Does it get any better than that? The next four hours were spent wedged into the trunks of trees, filling my pockets with the bitter fruit and taking turns singing. Because I was just so satisfied by my morning work, after lunch I pulled up a down sleeping bag and took what turned out to be a four-hour nap. I awoke to find that Zach had already left for Damascus (he’s headed to Turkey for the weekend and had to get back early). I’d missed saying goodbye to Zach, but I was right on time for a few impromptu rounds of charades. I was looking forward to another few hours of prayer and meditation, but when Shadi and Odai suggested we walk into the dark mountains, I let providence lead me. After all, what could be more spiritual than a nighttime stroll under desert stars.

We left with Ann, a new German friend, and stumbled off into the rock-strewn fissure. Eventurally we reached a rock face that, while climbable, made everyone but Odai nervous about getting back down in the dark. There we stopped, our backs on the stones, a streak of stars over head. It was a shooting star that inspired the lying down and it was the view that then inspired us to sing lullabies in three languages, each of us taking a turn. The low rumble of “Sleep, sleep my little one” filled my mind and kept the cold at bay. We stayed so long that we decided we were dead and proceeded to give eulogies for each other. At last, we removed the rocks that had accumulated on our bellies and made our way toward dinner.

Thanks to my all-afternoon nap, I woke up easily Friday morning. I was ready to seize another day of clean air so after breakfast we (Shadi, Odai, Ann and I) descended to the foot of the mountain. From there, we climbed what one might call the back way. At the peak, we came upon all the people who wished the was cell phone coverage at the Monastery, all standing on the west side of the mountain, making phone calls. We nestled into the eastern ledges for intermittent silence and conversation, punctuated by the endeavors in earth art. Before lunch was served, we’d managed to fit in another hour of charades (a game which involves both cultural and linguistic prowess-thus nullifying my potential as a useful team member). When the games got old, we did what I’d been waiting to do for months; we broke out the frisbee. The cliffs that walled in our playing area chewed the edges of my disk, but the pebbles underfoot were the perfect surface for layouts and it was an hour before we dragged our sweaty, dusty selves back to the veranda for lunch.

When the time came to leave, there was a flurry of hugs, handshakes and kisses. Shadi, Odai and I walked down the stairs a last time and hitched a ride with a couple driving a beat up rapevan. In the back, Shadi and I sat on foldable lawn chairs, Odai on the ground. I only tipped over once on the way to town. Leaving, Shadi said, made him sad. Yes, it makes me sad too to know that the clarity of the barren horizon is behind me, but I’m taking the joy back with me to Damascus.

2008-09-30T07:25:00.000-07:00

It’s just about noon on Tuesday and I have just finished hanging my colored laundry out to dry. It’s another dry, breezy day (a huge improvement on the sweltering, stagnant days of summer) and the first day of a week-long break for Eid al-Fitr and probably the last day of break that I will spend lounging about the apartment. That is to say, I’m traveling to a mountain monastery tomorrow, where I will stay for a few days and then, of course, I will go to Aleppo for the weekend. This is the time of year I miss home the most; it’s been this way since I left for college. Now that I have my room set up with postcards of New England fall foliage, I feel a little more grounded. With my deep need for trees and mountains throbbing in my core, I am particularly excited about spending a chunk of my break in the monastery. The chance to go came along through the first real friends I feel I’ve made in Damascus. I meet plenty of people who are kind and welcoming, but this group, primarily composed of Leen, Odai and Shadi, is the first to make me feel like I’m just a friend, not The Foreign Student. With them, there doesn’t have to be a cover activity; we just hangout. Like me, none of them are from Damascus, but smaller, mountain towns. I met them through a series of friends, starting with Zach, following his church, and then a school for Iraqi refugees (where all three worked over the summer). Of course I would find my friends working with refugee children…why I didn’t look there long ago I can’t say.
Leen is probably the kindest (and prettiest) girl in Syria. I have her to thank for enchanting Zach, which lead to our eventual introduction. Shadi is a law student who owns a corner store to make ends meet. He may be the only person in Damascus to rival Leen’s kindness of heart. Last night, the five of us spent five hours at the store, telling jokes, arm wrestling, playing “Will you please be my ducky wucky” and laughing. I say that Odai, with his shaggy mop, hollowed cheeks and sparkling eyes looks like the Sirius Black I always imagined, but Zach argues that he looks like Jesus. Either way, he’s a really cool guy who, it seems, has a decent sense of the absurd. I’ll let you know how the monastery was when I get back.

Sorry for all of those who don't know me and don't want to see my vacation pictures!

2008-09-24T00:39:00.000-07:00

We jumped off this path to sleep on the grass. The park smelled like trees and made me think of Swarthmore.
A very still soldier; I thought he was pretty.

I had to wait for twenty minutes while Zach sat on the floor in a crowded tourist spot, waiting for all the people to go away, so he could take the picture above this one. It was the closest I came to frustration all week.
Cola Turka! I didn't try it.
We played airhockey and I wanted to shame Zach, but he surpassed every expectation and kicked my butt.
Turks carve up their sweets like shwarma! Neato.
Ramadan carnival down town!
I don't know what this is, but it pleased me.
This is what I try to remember of when I feel like I'm surrounded by dust and smog.
A very happy me, after climbing the hill.
A view to the Black Sea
This one should be obvious.
Here, we're sitting on Troy and eating her fruit. We were lucky to find a fig tree in season at the inner wall.

One of the adjustments to the Aya Sophia, when it was converted into a Mosque (from a church)-That's me in the left corner.

There are more pictures coming, but unfortunately they will be as disordered as these.

2008-09-23T22:47:00.001-07:00

I’ve been waiting for an afternoon when I could take a few hours to reflect on the last days of break, but after two weeks back in class, it’s clear that day will not come for a few months. With miles to go, I’m going to take a few minutes after lunch to digest my sandwich and some thoughts, I hope.
So back to Turkey! As far as a single week of travel goes, I can’t imagine a more satisfying or refreshing seven days. I attribute the basis of this on three factors: 1) The raw beauty of Turkey 2) The novelty of traveling in a foreign country and NOT understanding anything, and finally 3) A fantastic traveling buddy. I have to start with the third point, since without my friend Zach, I would not have gone to Istanbul. Originally it was going to be three of us: Zach, my roommate, Min, and me but in the end it was just the two of us. From buying tickets to packing sandwiches for the 32-hour bus ride, it seemed we were in step from the very beginning. Although we’d shared a living space with six others all summer, this was my first opportunity to get to know Zach, and by get to know, I mean never be more than fifteen feet from him for seven straight days. By day three, neither of us had any complaints, but only the occasional exclamation of wonder: “Wow, we’re really getting along!” It did help that we ate roughly three ice cream cones each, everyday. I think what made it work was that we were both ready to be spontaneous about how we saw the country (“hey, wanna get on a bus to Gallipoli? It’s only eight hours away.” Or “How about this ferry, I don’t know where it goes, but we’d find out if we got on!”). Additionally imagination is a shared joy between us, thus for example, throughout the day we spent in Troy, we specifically chose only epic verbs. Thus we did not visit the ruins, but conquered the ancient city. What I’m trying to say is there was no one to impress between the two of us so we just got to be kids.
Turkey itself was comfortingly familiar while also managing to be disconcertingly foreign. Coming from Damascus, Istanbul seemed extremely European, and thus felt more like (my western) home than I had expected, but so many of the Islamic features I have grown to love in Syria were also prominent from the skyline to the culture. It is somewhat obvious to note Istanbul as a middle ground between East and West, but for me, the truth in that as a westerner living in the East could not have been clearer. The reality was embodied for me in the Turkish writing. Seeing Latin letters everywhere made reading easy, but what was strange was recognizing so many Arabic cognates. All the while, understanding of the language eluded me on the whole. After watching non-Arabic-speaking foreigners fumble about in Damascus, I dreaded being the tourist, but it turned out to be quite a bit of fun.
Finally, as you can see from the pictures (or you will when I post them), Turkey is green. I had not felt so alive since I left home in June as I did when I climbed to the peak of the tiny mountain that serves as a gate to the Black Sea. Sea air in my face and blackberry thorns in my fingertips made me feel like I was a little closer to home. Even now, weeks later, I draw on the memory and find I can read a few more pages or memorize another word.

2008-09-14T12:47:00.000-07:00

Weeks have passed since the Olympics came to a close, but it seems like even longer. The last week of the games, I was in Aleppo, with my family. I had never really been on vacation and in Aleppo. My mom has a job working long hours on the other side of town so all afternoon and into the night, I was free to visit relatives or just hang around the house, watching the Olympics. I did a great deal of both.

As an Olympics addict, I savored watching my sister Sarah get as interested in the games as her brothers. With various nations constantly on the screen, I had a unique opportunity to sense Sarah’s understanding of the world and its geography. At the start, she did not know that the Olympics came around every four years, that they were a Greek tradition, or that every nation did not have competitors in every sport. At some point, Sarah and I were left alone watching artistic jump roping. Before each routine, I would decode the athlete’s origin through the flag and three-letter combo, and translate it into Arabic for Sarah. She, in turn, would comment on whether the coming routine would be any good. After several rounds, an Israeli woman stepped onto the mat. Before I said a thing, Sarah declared that this woman was beautiful and would surely win. I smiled, thinking the Olympics were a wonderful way for Sarah to see an Israeli in a positive context. The moment the information left my lips, Sarah’s face contorted into a grimace. “Yuck, I hope she falls and comes in last!” I don’t usually take to scolding, especially here (by my estimation, children are overly burdened with shame in these parts), but the Olympics were something I did not want sullied by an ignorant twelve-year-old. For a few minutes I lectured her on the difference between governments and their citizens, the random nature of nationality and our responsibility to attack our own ignorance. What Sarah doesn’t understand is that I get mistaken for my government, or some American stereotype regularly and I find it offense. There are three ways I get wound up in Syria: getting boxed in by my Nationality, hearing English from people who don’t know me, and sexual harassment. It is not uncommon for all three to go together.

2008-09-10T22:53:00.000-07:00

Despite the fast approaching start to fall classes, I have yet to feel that Autumn is encroaching on the Syrian summer. I have been on vacation for almost a month now and obviously I have been spending a great deal of it without my laptop. That’s good news actually because I have all manner of adventures from places where personal computers just aren’t appropriate. I have traveled from Damascus to the Dardanelles and back again, dancing with Iraqi school children and scaling the ruins of epic Troy. There are pictures and stories coming soon.

2008-08-25T09:36:00.001-07:00

With the end of the summer, it is time for an apartment change. I’m ready to live with only one roommate instead of seven and with the change of weather, the open house is getting less and less convenient. So for the first week of break, Min and I did some apartment hunting. We started by taking a minibus to a cheap part of town and then walked into the first real-estate office. We named our price range and were told to go further up the mountain for cheaper options. The second agent said the same. At the third office a deal was just going down-the empty coffee cups and smell of a fresh inkpad gave that away. A redheaded man with a scruffy beard and a minor comb-over smiled at us. When the contract had been thumb printed and signed, the room cleared of everything but smoke and we were ready for our turn. The agent, Abu Abdu, showed us a few apartments before we found the modest place with two bedrooms and a view of Damascus from the kitchen windows. Min and I returned to the agent for our turn at coffee and negotiation. Today, we will pay in full and pick up our keys, in sha’ Allah.

2008-08-25T09:35:00.001-07:00

There are two little Christian villages in the mountains outside of Damascus. They are famous for the fact that Aramaic, the language of Jesus, is still native to the residents of the area. I went out there with my language partner, Rula, and her family. Although Rula is Muslim, she has been going to the convents in the mountains since she was a child. That’s pretty normal. Together, we watched a service in Aramaic, climbed through the quarter-mile crevice that opened to save one of the first Christian martyrs from the Romans, smeared holy oil on our faces and drank from the miraculous spring that flows from the dry mountain. I was fascinated, but far from at home. When we entered St. Thecla’s shine, it was dark. In the candle light crutches and braces from the 1930’s cast long shadows against the wall, cast aside and forgotten in the wake of miracles.
When we left, Rula turned to me, concerned. She wanted to know why I didn’t cross myself like the other Christians and why I seemed to stumble about with church protocol. I tried to explain that where I practiced community worship, we just sit and contemplate God. “We don’t even have churches, just houses” I said, “this is as foreign as a new religion altogether.” I think it’s beautiful, but it’s not mine.

2008-08-24T09:22:00.000-07:00

The road back to Damascus was wet and rainy. I wasn't expecting precipitation for another few months. Today though, with all my responsibilities taken care of by noon, I made my way to the swanky part of town in torrential rain. One of my roommates is house sitting for a senior missionary couple, so we decided to watch a movie and make popcorn in their fancy apartment-we have permission, really.

The moment I stepped through the door I knew I was in an American home. There's just a feeling about the place that sets it apart from every other home I've visited in Syria. Maybe it was the lack of a gold-adorned sitting room or the Campbell's soup in the cupboards. I'm generally pretty comfortable here, but the smell of olive oil and popcorn with garlic and lemon pepper made me feel ready to melt back into American culture. I drank so much apple juice, my stomach still hurts. The two Americans with me had never made popcorn without a mircowave and were rather disappointed at the task's simplicity. Tomorrow I will teach them to make popovers.

on vacation

2008-08-21T04:30:00.000-07:00

I'm in Aleppo for a few days, sitting in pools of my own sweat and playing with the family kids. At my cousin Lena's house I was commanded to tell stories so I pulled out some rough translations from my own childhood. Now I am the backup entertainment-a personal hikawati for the kids. I even told "Loud Mouse" once in Arabic and then, upon request, in English. The kids followed my tone of voice in both versions and translated for each other as I told the tale a second time. It was funny that they laughed at all the same places ("YES, MAMA!"), regardless of the language.

2008-08-18T05:54:00.000-07:00

Probably the coolest thing I’ve seen in Syria so far has been the book fair that just closed on Friday-thousands of books in hundreds of tents, all packed into a few blocks. I went at least seven times, I bought over twenty books and I spent the whole month’s worth of budget in a week. At first, I found the effort of reading titles of books in Arabic exhausting. Figuring out what books looked good and what looked like a waste of time actually took time. With help from my classmates and teachers, I managed to amass a list of authors and titles that should keep me engaged and entertained. The books are exciting, but the fair itself was breathtaking. Bookshops and publishing houses from all over the Arab world were in attendance, some booths specialized in modern literature, while had shelves stocked with nothing but religious texts. Almost every children’s section offered various computer programs that helped teach Qur’anic verses through colorful narrated lessons. I searched for a decent cookbook, but found nothing under forty dollars. I walked away with a number of modern novels mostly by Syrian and Lebanese authors, a book of Arabic synonyms, a dictionary of idioms, a few short stories, the final Harry Potter in hardcover and of course One Thousand and One Nights-perhaps the dirtiest book I have ever begun to read.