I Did My Laundry!!

I wouldn't normally consider the above to be anywhere near exciting, but Um Mazen and Abu Mazen cheered this morning when I returned from the roof where I had hung my clothes to dry. The water is only strong enough to wash clothes in the morning, and until recently I have had class until 1 or 2pm, so Um Mazen has been doing my laundry. Last night I asked her to show me how their machine works: there are no instructions in any language on it, and the numbers on the dial have long worn off. She replied, oh, just put your clothes here and I'll do them in the morning. I convinced her that I wanted to wash my own clothes since I had time, so she said in the morning she would show me how to do work the machine and then I could hang them on the line. Oh goody!

I don't know exactly why, but Um Mazen and Abu Mazen seem to think I am amazingly incompetant at all things. They know that I've been living on my own for some years now: clearly I managed to keep myself alive, somehow. Searching for a laugh sometimes, Um Mazen sometimes asks me to repeat the short list of things I can cook. Most of these items are met with "That's not really cooking!" but the largest laugh comes with "toast".

I also am assumed to be fragile. When Um Mazen suggested I switch the table in my room for a bigger one, she told me to wait until Abu Mazen was done bathing so he could take it up for me. I carried it up myself and 30 minutes later was called downstairs. "Where's the table!"
"It's in my room."
"Did you take it up yourself?"
"Yes"
"Bravo!"
I don't know why it is assumed that I would need the help of a 70-year-old man, but it is.

Um Mazen and I put my clothes in the laundry machine this morning, and she turned the dial. "So, there's no numbers, but there's this kind of red spot here." The second cycle is marked by a kind of bigger red spot. I was climbing the ladder to get to the roof with my basket of clothes but Um Mazen insisted that she hold the clothes then pass them to me once I was up. "Don't do this when someone isn't around to pass it to you." I appreciate the concern, but she gets her 65-year-old self up this ladder every other day with a basket of clothes, I don't understand why my early-20s self wouldn't be able to.

I came down from hanging to cheers. "Shatura!" Um Mazen looked at the roof and told me I did a good job hanging. "You learn quick!" I told her this was no where near the first time I have done laundry in my life, but this was ignored

"We're going to teach you everything," said Abu Mazen.

Baby!

Mazen, the oldest son of Abu and Um Mazen (figures), who lives in Lattakia, is now a father. His wife gave birth to a little girl, named Aml (hope) after her grandmother (Um Mazen), tipping the scales at 3.5 kilo yesterday. I broke the no-sweets Lenten fast in order to eat a celebratory chocolate passed around by Um Mazen. Iyad is now an "3am" (paternal uncle). He told me this, and I was surprised, saying, aren't you already an uncle? Your sister has a bunch of boys, but then was reminded that yes, he had been a "khal" (maternal uncle), but now is also an 3am. I was shamed for forgetting that paternal and maternal uncles are very different things.

Iyad told me the news while Um and Abu Mazen were visiting the neighbors, and we exchanged the usual formalities (mabrouk! wallah yubarrak fiki! alf mabrouk!) and he politely expressed a wish that my future pregnancies will also be a success, to which I laughed and reiterated (from previous discussions) my desire to adopt. He and his two friends present were, as always, surprised and grilled me on this. The family has told me several times that it is impossible to love an adopted child like a "real" child. I only say I want to adopt as I feel at least this is somewhat more appropriate than being all, "I don't want no kids! Ewwwwww!".

I Swear My Parents Love Me

Nights are often spent chatting with the family, and the subject often turns to the differences between "Western" and "Eastern" culture (how I am so sick of that dichotomy), and as I try to narrow it down to, "American" and "Syrian" culture, though again I like to narrow it down, explaining that New York and Texas can be very different, and they remind me that Sham is very different from the reef (countryside) and Lattakia is very different from Sham.

But still, one point that comes up a lot is weakness of American (or Western) families. The father Um Mazen likes to point to how he has provided for Iyad, the law school grad, as an example of how Syrian culture is superiour to American. "Look! My son Iyad, 26, has never had to work. We let him focus on studying, and now, he is going to intern with a lawyer (you need two years of working under a lawyer before you can get your liscense. Iyad has been somewhat picky about who to work with). He graduated in May, and we feed him and take care of him. Why? Because we love him. He is in my heart, my son. Not like America, when at 18 your parents throw you out and you have to take care of yourself. No, no. We don't make him study and work at the same time." Previously, they have asked if I worked and I have listed some of the jobs I had, at grocery store, in ice cream shop, waitress, telemarketer, at the school in NY, etc. They apparently think this means a lack of love. Especially in high school.

"My parents love me. They wanted me to be independent, and I wanted to work."
"Why?"
"I wanted to buy things."
"Why wouldn't your parents buy things for you? That's what parents are supposed to do. Look we feed and take care of Iyad."
"I mean, they fed me and all that, but I wanted to buy a car."
"Why couldn't they buy that for you? If you needed it?"
"What? If I want something, does that mean I parents should buy it for me?"
"Of course!"
"So if I wanted ahorse, or a plane, my parents should buy it for me?"
"Be reasonable. But if they could afford it, why not?"

This isn't the first time I've heard similar complaints about how Americans and Europeans abandon their children at 18, though I explain that parents usually help pay for college and all that and actually the 18 years olds want to leave. And I wouldn't say providing everything for your children is necessarily Syrian as I know tons of spoiled Americans (I mean, I went to NYU). But I've written my mother to tell her that my family here doesn't agree with her parenting style, and it's time for her to prove her love: "I want a pony. You love me, right?"

I Still Don't Think Nesreen is a Dude

Tariq has a differnt take on Nesreen and her bathroom messages. "It's probably a guy just trying to meet girls."
"What? That doesn't make any sense. The only girls who would call would be lesbians."
"Yeah, but he'd have their phone numbers."
"So? They wouldn't want him."
"He'd have their phone numbers. That's how Syrian guys think."

I'm doubtful.

Sad Gay

Being gay (officially مثلي referring to sameness but in practice more often شاذ meaning irregular)in Syria must be hard. I was at Sibke park in a chi-chi part of town studying and went to the public bathrooms. In the lady's room, on the back of a stall door, the only graffiti in the stall actually was written (in English): "For girl only Nesreen" and then her number. After several hours of reading (during which I was only accosted 3 times by strangers asking if I needed help, or if Arabic was hard, or where I came from. One gave me a day planner) I went back to the bathroom, and found on the back of a different stall the same message from the same girl, this time in Arabic.

It made me really sad. She might really be desperate to write her name and cell number on the doors. Or she really likes strangers. These type of messages in public restrooms (especially mens') are old news in American, mined for comedy in sloppily put together films. But it was the only graffiti in the entire bathroom, and the only message like that I've seen here in 5 months (though I can't claim to have done a thourough investigation of all Damascene bathrooms, and my survey has been limited to the ladies').

I tried to imagine her life. Does she live near hadiqa sibke? Or elsewhere, and came to Sibke because she didn't want anyone she knows to stumble across her messages? Has she gotten any responses? I imagine the awkward meetings that would result. Would they meet first in a cafe, or public place, or jump straight to dark fumblings? It would be easier to conceal a gay relationship than a straight one often, as most parents don't get unnerved by their daughter's spending time with her girlfriend. Will Nesreen find love? or at least sexual release? Will she be goaded into an unfortunate marriage in the future?

Randeep Is Not Having That Great of a Time in Syria

I was excited all week for the visit of my friend Randeep, who was to arrive Thursday. I had several things planned: of course all the du rigor old-city tourist stops, a night or two out, Sitt Zeine, a day trip to Maloula, and more. But these plans have fallen through. Ya maskeen Randeep and his friend are still at the airport, waiting.

While usually very possible to buy a visa at the airport, particularly if there is no Syrian embassy in your country (i.e, Singapore), Randeep and his friend found themselves unable to do that, and futhermore unable to be deported until Saturday. I went today, but wasn't allowed to even see him, or talk to anyone important as Friday is the weekend. Tomorrow I'm going to go to Hijra wa Jowazat and hopefully get him either in or out of the country. In Sha Allah. Two days in an airport is hell.

Car Bomb in Damascus

Imad Mughniyeh, a senior Hizbollah commander, was killed last night in a car bomb at around 10:45pm in Kafer Susseh, a residential neighborhood in Damascus. Hizbollah has accused Israel.

While sayara mufakhkhakha (car bomb) is one of my favorite words to say in Arabic (along with shilaymon - straw) it is only because of the repeated خ , while use of the word itself is tragically limited to events no one wants to happen.

I Had Nothing to do with Getting Kicked out of Serail

In keeping with my talent for getting kicked out of places, I have been kicked out of Serail, the fancy dance club near Bab Sharqi. At least it wasn't my fault. I went with a group of friends from Jerimana for a rap party advertised as "Ladies Free, Guys 500 SL ($10) - 1 hard drink and 2 soft drinks". This turned out to be false advertising, for though Abyad wa Aswad (White and Black), a local rap duo performed a few songs in the middle of the dance floor to a rap beat, the rest of the songs were sadly deformed by techno beats, rendering them shit. And the bar didn't even hold on its drinks with entry price deal. When we first got there they said that the choice was between 1 hard drink OR 2 soft drinks, but Tariq raised hell and they said he could have 1 hard drink and 1 soft drink. Then an hour later, this had changed to 1 soft drink OR 1 hard drink, then a hard drink if you pay an extra 100 SL. To express his anger to the bartender, Tariq flailed his arms in the air, accidently hitting and breaking some of the glasses above the bar. The bartender jumped over the bar to hit him, but Tariq beat him up until security came and escorted him and his friends outside. Turns out the night before the bartender had gotten in another fight with an Italian kid I know.

The best part of the evening by far was fitting the 7 of us into a taxi from Jerimana to Bab Sharqi.

Hersh on "That Thing in September"

“Our experts who have carefully analyzed the satellite imagery say it is unlikely that this building was a nuclear facility.”

Hersh in the New Yorker on the Israeli bombing raid on Sept 6 (day before I flew to Syria!)

Snow in Damascus

It snowed!! a while ago but I didn't post any pictures of this rare event until now:


Are we in Lebanon? Close!

Ashoura

Every year on the 10th of Muharram (first month in Islamic calendar), Shi'is mourn the death of Hussain, grandson of the prophet. While Karbala and the most important holy sites are in Iraq, Syria has Sayida Zeinab, his sister, and Sayida Ruqayia, ensuring a steady stream of Iranian pilgrims. Ashoura this year was on a Saturday (January 20), when I'm in Sitt Zeinab anyways, teaching English, so I walked down the road and watched a procession of what other viewers told me were Pakistanis, beating themselves in time, rising and falling intensity.
I followed them into the Sitt Zeinab mosque, quickly transforming my scarf into a hijab.

I missed the "hard core" stuff - the cutting themselves with swords - because it was at 6am, but my friend Miqdad (British) caught it, though he has very strong opinions about inflicting pain to one's self being un-Islamic and unsupported by text. But he also told me to look out for Arba'een, forty days after Ashoura, when Sitt Zeineb is supposed to see even more pilgrims.

The Gym

In trying to avoid a blow-up like in Egypt, where koshari and ta'amiya somehow added 20 pounds to my frame, I have joined a gym. Syria is much, much more perilous, being a land of delicious food and especially the sweets. Shami sweets are famous, renowned around the world. I love them so freaking hard.

When the weather was nice, I would walk the 40-50 minutes from my house to the university, but once that temperature dropped and getting out of bed in the morning became harder than labor, I took the micro. So I joined a gym 10 minutes from home walking a month ago. For $24/month, I can go to the gym 3 times a week (it's more if I want to go everyday and I'm not ready for that level of commitment yet). The gym is two rooms: a crapload of weights, 3 treadmills, 3 elipticals, a recumbent bike (blaugh). A little pricy, but what kept me from joining at a cheaper ones is Ladies' Hours.

Ladies' Hours at almost all gyms are from 10-12, when I have class. The thinking is that most ladies would like to work out without the eyes of men on them, and many would, but unfortunately the thinking also is that they have nowhere to be during the day. I have class.

More expensive gyms mix it up. Mine has ladies' hours from 10-12, but ladies are welcome at any other time as well. There are no only-fellas hours. Usually when I go there's one or two other women working out, muhijaba and non. The only problem is that there is only one changing room, meaning men have to wait while I shower and I have to wait while they change.

There is a crazy swanky gym called Nadi Barada. It even has a freaking indoor pool. But it's $50 a month and from what I've heard, quite a "scene". I don't really want to just rub (sweaty) elbows with the elite.

My gym works well enough. I think I'll go for another month. I really would like to join a gym where I could a class in kickboxing or something fun though. Take out some of the pent-up aggression from frustrating "place of women in society" chats with the family.

Being Christian

can get a little annoying when you are not actually Christian. Athiesm is a cultural no-no in the Arab World, where any faith (even Jews: as my family likes to tell me over and over again they don't like the Zionists, but they love the Jews. "We used to have Jews" they say sadly, before America pressured Syria into making their Jews go live in America) is better than no faith.

So except with very good friends, I am a Christian. Catholic, to be exact. It's rather easy to remember who I've told what to, as those who ask are usually those who it's just easier to lie to. This is rarely onerous, as few people get into the nitty gritty of faith. But for those who do, it's lucky that I once was very Catholic, so that I can convincingly pretend to believe. Plus, playing Christian leads people to rethink their views of a irreligious US, because in truth were I to be an "average American" I would be Christian, though I probably wouldn't travel to Syria.

But with my family and my private teacher Ibrahim sometimes I regret having told them the Lie because of how often I have to check myself and say things as if I were actually Christian. With Ibrahim this isn't such a big deal, especially now that we don't do much conversation (I now get enough of that from Life). But with the family this comes up a lot.

I especially hate getting quizzed by Abu Mazen, i.e. "How old was Jesus when he died?"
"33."
"Bravo!"
Or lectured by Abu Mazen. I have so far endured the Bible/Qur'an stories of Abraham, Moses, Jesus, Soloman, and others. When I attempt to speed up these recounts by filling in the details, Abu Mazen always, always acts surprised. Honestly, as a Christian why is it surprising that I know the story of the Messiah? The other night my family complemented me on being muthaqifa (cultured). "You know about politics, science, history, religion!" Thanks, but as the Catholic I say I am, the last part really shouldn't be all that surprising.

Sometimes I'm lecured on Islam, and the knowledge I have on this is also apparently astounding, but this is more understandable. But still, I get to hear how the Qur'an tells people to be clean, for example you can't enter into a mosque unless you washed and you can't pray until after absolutions, and women can't enter a mosque on their period, but don't get them wrong, "the Christians here are also very clean people, and good. They also cover their heads when they go to church." I told them that you don't have to be physicially clean to enter a church, but you have to be mentally clean (ol' State of Grace) to receive communion. But, you know, we do shower out of common sense and all that. They were shocked when I told told them that women on their period are allowed to go to church. "The Christians here don't do that," Um Mazen said somewhat disapprovingly, perhaps imagining a libertine West in which women are allowed to pray while bleeding out of the vagina.

I really hope the family looks to my frequent flossing and not the admittedly scattered state of my room to judge my cleanliness.