Fulbright Conference Rox my Sox

The Fulbright conference finished yesterday. That is the purpose of my being in Tunisia, to go to this conference of Middle East and North Africa Fulbrighters (with flight and hotel paid for by Fulbright, naturally and awesomely). I saw this and thought, "Well the conference will be bullshit, but hey! free trip to Tunis!"

It was not bullshit. I was actually amazing. Meeting the other Fulbrighters in other countries, mostly Jordan and Egypt but also the UAE, Bahrain, Tunis, and even Israel. The rest of us had no idea Israel was coming, and there was a collective "what?" going through the room when they were introduced, except for the PhD student studying the Palestinian national movement of the 1930s. People were saying they should go to Europe, but it actually turned out to be very interesting talking to them.

Most people were not at all pretentious, despite many having reasons to be, as their projects and previous work are amazing. The conversations! Oh, the conversations! It makes me miss college and having these intellectual discussions. Wow. These people are so cool. I felt happily inadequate compared to many of them, but others shared my same feelings.

There's more, but I have to go enjoy Tunis.

Flight to Tunis

Tariq's friend Tariq gave me a ride to the airport this morning. The line for checkin on the TunisAir flight was long and rowdy, all of us fanning ourselves with tickets in the unseasonable heat.

I was behind someone working for the ministry of culture, who gave me gum after finding out that I was Americain, not Tunisian. A girl in the line next to us asked me if I could hold her bag, and I became confused. She was Tunisian and the accent was hard to follow. Her mother butted in, pointing out my one little bag and thrusting one of her mountain of bags my way. "Can't you take it with you?"

She was large with eye makeup and a garish lipstick painted on; she seemed like a nice lady. But I refused, having seen "Brokedown Palace". I doubt there was anything in the bag; but I want to decrease the chances of my ending up in a Thai prison to as small as possible. She kept insisting and I kept repeating asifa (sorry), then she just let the bag at my feet until the people behind me backed me up, saying "she's not going to take it".

Soon after, a group of about five pushed their way through the first line, cutting off and joining the second line (mine). They claimed to be first class so people grumbed and let them. Upon arriving at the counter the ticket agent found they were not, and refused to serve them, pointing to us who had been waiting patiently in line. "We're here anyways! God!" They tried to force their bags onto the ramp, and refused to join the line, increasing the chaos, but the agent held firm and we had to pass our bags over theirs and hand our passports and tickets through their protests. Bravo TunisAir lady!

Going to Tunis!

I'm leaving tomorrow for a Fulbright enrichment seminar in Tunis. Very excited to have both my Shami Arabic and atrophied French be almost no use at all!

A Word About the Dudes

Ask the foreign tourists or students about the Middle East, and most will wax lovingly on beautiful ruins, good food, and charming locals. Oh, except the men. In Egypt this is practically written in bold type across the face of every travel guide. And while most will agree that Syria is much better harrassment-wise, people still be complaining up a storm. In a recent NPR story on foreign students in Damascus, two American girls were interviewed who said "they had a hard time adjusting to the aggressive attentions of Syrian men".

But let's give the dudes a fair shake. Yes, the boys be looking. But get out of the old city and you'll realize that whoa! it's not as bad. Paradoxically, the places that are buzzing with tourists and assorted ajanab are where they are stared at like crazy. Plus, most of the times when dudes say something to me it is "Allah khaliki" (God keep you) or something similar, as I'm passing. Which, in a way, is kind of nice, I neither do I want to be struck down by god.

Plus none of the western ladies are ever talking about the other side of the dude story: how many times a day do men squat or stand so that you can sit down on the micro or bus? How many times do they let you cut in front of all the men at offices, cutting down your dealing-with-bureaucracy time considerably. How many times has a man passed me in a busy street, putting his hands behind him so that he does not even accidently brush against anything? All the freaking time. Micro drivers won't usually stop before big a big muhata (big station-stop), where at certain times of the day crowds of people swamp micros and you have to fight for a place. Some cheaters like to walk ahead of the muhata and flag down a micro, but the drivers know this game and refuse. Unless a lady flags them down.

I know where this comes from, and I was annoyed when I first got here. I can stand on the freaking bus! It is especially embarassing when an old man shakily gets to his feet and offers you the seat. No it's okay old-timer. I can stand. No really. why don't you sit down before a hip breaks. No really, I swear that the burden of female is not so heavy that I am unable to carry it this 15-minute bus ride. Thank you though.

I would prefer to not to be treated special just because of my extra x-chromosome, but I feel that the ladies, when ranting about the dudes of Syria, should relate this side too. My ass has been pinched 3 times in 7 months of Syria, but countless times men have moved around so I could sit next to another woman on the micro, or squished themselves so that they didn't touch me. Or the line of men that ran up to offer to help me carry my full 20-Liter jug of water (tap water undrinkable in Jerimana, we have to buy) yesterday without one horndog look or unpolite word. There's more than just the piercing eyes of frustrated, aggressive men in Sham.

Bitch be Stealing My Name!

There's an American woman living in Sana'a, Yemen, who has been blogging since January 2008 under the name Yemenista (theyemenista.blogspot.com - unable to insert links). Since I have been Orientalista since last June, months before I even moved to the Orient, she has obviously stolen the practice of adding -ista to create awesome blogging names. انتقام I demand, and انتقام I shall have! It's like that time in high school when, as captain of the cross country team, I made team shirts that said "I'll cross your country!" only to see other girls' teams with identical slogans the following year! Totally!

The only solution, obviously, is a duel. I shall have to fly to Yemen immediately and slap her. Then I will throw clearly superior Shami sweets at her until she can't handle the 'ishta-goodness and explodes. And changes her name.

Actually, I doubt she's even seen this blog, and her name is probably a play off "fashionista" as she used to work at a woman's magazine, whereas my name is a reference to both Orientalism and my leftist politics. Fine then, Yemenista, you may keep your name without fear of bodily harm. If I expect Israelis to give up al-Quds and Palestinians to agree to financial compensation in lieu of Right of Return, I guess I can accept the existance of another -ista in the Middle East. For peace.

Racism in America, Outside of It

I was finishing up an English lesson in Sitt Zeinab on Sunday, when an Iraqi dude came into the class and asked me for help. His family found out they had been granted refugee status in America that morning, and they would be moving to Chicago Tuesday (today). The government sets them up with an apartment and English classes for a set period. He was asking if I knew anyone in Chicago that could help him, and if he could get my email just to use as a resource on America. This is the third family from the school that have been granted refugee status. The other two went to Atlanta.

Then the guy asked if he would be safe in Chicago. "Of course!" I said. "It's a nice city, cold in winter, but nice. You have to be careful, but it's not that dangerous."

"But what about the blacks?"

"What?"

"Isn't there a war between the blacks and the whites?"

This is always awkward. Everyone has seen "Crash," in addition to every other movie that addresses race in America. The family I used to live with was surprised when I said something that hinted my non-hatred toward blacks. "But don't most the whites hate the blacks? We saw Crash." Or talking to my friends, when I objected to a conversation in which two participants expressed opposite preferences - one for black chicks and the other for white chicks. "What's wrong with that?"

"You're talking about people like ice cream flavors."

"So? I don't think black women are that attractive. He does. I don't hate blacks. I'm not racist, like Americans."

"We're not all racist!"

"Why are the criminals in TV shows and movies always black?"

"..."

Fuck. While racism obviously exists in America, it isn't THAT bad. Though I'm speaking from a position of white privilege, it's not as if everyone is a frothing racist. I mean, at least there's a committment to recoil at the surface of racism, such as expressing sexual preferences for different races or making "Asian eyes". I struggle with trying to convey racism in America. How, while far from perfect, it's better than it was. How it's not "Crash", but it's not a rainbow of races holding hands and singing. How some films like to delve into racism because it does exist, but that doesn't mean most of White America is on their porches with guns. It's... complicated.

I told the Iraqi dude not to worry about the race war.

"Do the whites hate Arabs? too"

"No, not really. You'll be fine."

A Realistic Fear

There's a profile on Chris Matthews, very loud pundit on CNBC, in the New York Times Magazine, which includes this interesting travel wish:

As we approached the airport gate, Matthews mentioned that he and his wife, Kathleen, have been contemplating a trip to Damascus. It’s something they have wanted to do for a long time. But he worries that he might make an inviting target for a kidnapper. “I can imagine getting some big-name media figure would be a big propaganda catch for them,” Matthews said. “You can imagine what the neocons would say if I were kidnapped. They’d be like, ‘See, Matthews, terrorism isn’t so funny now, is it?’ ”

What? When was the last time anyone got kidnapped in Damacus? Who does that? I sent out an email to his show inviting him to come to Damascus where many Americans and other foreigners go days without being kidnapped. But I guess we aren't big-name media figures like Mr. Matthews.

Enjoying the Lack of Safety Laws

Went on Sir'an yesterday. On Friday, the only day of the week most people have off, tons of families load up and take off for the countryside, with argila, grilled meat, and the children in tow. Yesterday some friends and I went off to Deir Mar Musa, a monastery up in the desert mountains around Nebq (small town hour away from Damascus). We packed food, though not grilled meat, and an argileh from Sali7, who decided to stay home and study like a loser instead of coming out. At the bus station, we realised we had a problem in that both Tareef and Rachel had no ID (a trickier issue for Rachel, as a foreigner who needs her passport). The police also made us empty the gas burner we had brought for the argileh, citing possible explosion as their concern. To empty it, Tareef opened the spigit and we stood nearby as the flammable gas rose in the middle of a busy bus station. No danger here. They let him stop before it was empty, leaving us to carry a mostly-empty cannister of gas, which is actually most likely to cause it to explode. Oh, whatever.

We had to get permission from the police to let those without IDs come, and we just said that Rachel, who remained mute and can easily pass for Syrian, was Syrian too. Her name is Lana.

At Deir Mar Musa, after climbing the crapload of steps to the top, we met up with Marios, at a lunch of mujedera (lentils and burgal), chicken, and salad prepared by the monks and nuns before hiking out a ways into the mountains. There we set up camp and the argileh, realizing after everything else had been done that Sali7 had neglected including the pipe. We tried hilariously to smoke straight from the argileh, which yielded good pictures but little else.

We spent the rest of the afternoon climbing up the mountain, for which i was yelled at to stop running around the mountain and climbing things (how familiar). With the sun getting low, we left not sure exactly how to get to Nabq. Luckily some guys had a flatbed truck and we jumped in. While some sat, the rest of stood, screaming with the wind in our face and waving at other trucks and people at the side of the road. I think this saved the trip for Manar, who until then had not expressed much interest in the climbing, preferring to chill with her beer. We would never be able to do that in America. Riding in the truck would probably get you stopped by the cops, and standing up while navagating the hairpin turns on hills and going 40mph definitely would. The drivers passed us bags of nuts and we passed them some candy. At Nabq we declined their repeated requests to join them at their house for coffee.

Once we got back, everyone came to Jerimana for ice cream at Bouza Ummaya, Damascus' best ice cream. Oh, happy days!

What do You Think About Islam?

I have been occaisonally asked this question by two broad groups of people: Muslims in the Middle East, and non-Muslims in America.

The question always catches me off guard coming from the former group. It's not an everyday occurance, somewhere around 1/100 of how often I'm asked my marital status. I'll meet some one new, we'll chat, and then, working to maintain the causual ambience, they will ask what I think about Islam. The question is dropped in apropos: "Your Arabic isn't bad. What do you think about Islam?" My answers to this are always awkward. "Oh, Islam? It's... cool." Sometimes the question is worded in such a way to imply that I, as an American, may have a problem with Islam. "Oh no, I don't have any problem with Islam. It's... cool. I like the sweets at Eid."

C'mon, what does one answer to this? "What do you think about Baptists?" Um, I don't really. "What do you think about Hindus?" That they are... fine... and stuff? The question is weird to me because, like "Weren't you expecting us all to be terrorists, what with the lies of your media?" I thought my existance in the country would preclude an affirmative answer. "Thanks for asking. Islam actually scares the shit out of me." I mean, that's why I live here. For the thrill.

Once I've answered that I have no problems with Islam, and that all religions are pretty much the same, the other person is usually happy to have met an unbrainwashed American. Sometimes, they dig to find out what I know about Islam, which is quite a bit, surprising them.

With the second group, non-Muslims in America, the question is usually delivered in a lowered voice, conspiratorally. You can tell me. I got this after going back from Egypt. I considered it the follow up to the warnings that preceded my going to Egypt: Be careful, you know, there's a lot of Muslims there.

I tell these people that Islam is... fine. People are normal. They do their shit. I knew I'd stayed up too late hearing the 4am-ish call to prayer. I don't really know what this group is expecting, maybe something along the lines of "IT'S CRAZY!" Or maybe they really are just curious to hear "what it's like" from someone who has been in a Muslim country.

I'd like to see what would happen if the first group asked the second.

How to Get an Internship in Syria

Getting an internship in the States can be a drawn-out process. Prospective interners want interns' cover letters, transcripts, resumes, writing samples, interviews. All this for work in which one is usually not even paid. At a place like the UN, pretty much forget it as an undergraduate (at least I had to).

In Syria, this is a less formal process. If willing to work for free, the intern market is just about wide open. Getting an internship consists of walking into an office and saying you would like to work. UNHCR (High Commission for Refugees i.e. works with the Iraqis) is from what I hear, desperate for interns. They have an office in Kafer Sousse. You have to fight your way in past the refugees and just press your CV into someone's hands.

I decided to do something more useful for my Arabic than watching soaps, so I sent in a CV and cover letter a week ago to the UNDP (Development Program), and heard nothing. Yesterday I printed out copies of my CV, put on a nice shirt, got on a servees and asked the guy next to me if he knew where the "UN offices in West Villas Mezzeh" are. He did, so I landed in front of the UNDP, asked the guard if he knew who I could talk to about "volunteer work" (after several days of asking around, I have found no translation for internship). He took me to a woman who took my resume, told me she would forward it on. Hearing me speak Arabic to the Syrian dude next to her, she said that would be helpful. Outside again, I asked the guard if he knew where the UNFPA (population) and the UNIFEM offices were ?

Just then another dude walked up. UNIFEM? I work there! I'm the driver for the director. So we went up to the office, the director didn't even read my CV, just chatted with me for a few minutes about what I do here in Syria, if I like it, what I studied in college, and then said "Welcome!". So now I have an internship at UNIFEM, the United Nations Development Fund for Women.

Halter Top

While I ridicule those who asked the inevitable, "Are you going to have to veil?" or some variation of it, of my moving to Syria, I at times am shocked by what ladies be wearing.

Spring came in unseasonably warm, and while it has cooled down to the pleasant, temperate spring that Sham is known for, I grew quite used to the sight of tanktops. I even saw a few short skirts with no leggings underneath. I had understood the general rule of dressing for success in Syria that tight in any form is ok, but showing skin can not be. Thus muhajibbas think nothing of wearing ass-tight jeans and lycra long-sleeved shirts. Like New York, many girls have also arrived to the erroneous conclusion that leggings are pants. I still maintain they are not, and you should go home and put some damn pants on, as I can see camel toe and we're not in the desert.

And then, among the tanktops and above-the-knee skirts, I actually saw a halter top. A halter top! In Bab Toma. She looked like a highschool girl, and was giggling about boys with her tank-top befitted friend.

I don't understand how these ladies go about in this kind of dress. In my rather wide clothes, I get stared at. In terms of looks, I can kindof pass for Syrian, with clothes and accent usually giving up the game, so it's not that I'm the blond foreigner. My friends seem unperturbed by guys constantly checking them out the street, maybe they just get used to it. But in a halter top? I imagine the intensity of staring could reach the point where the object of affection explodes into flames.