12/23 3am

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

theatre

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

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

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

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.

Still no luck with image uploads.

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…

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!).