Capoeira and Crazy Globalization

I've been going to Capoeira class for two weeks now, and it is amazing. I can actually touch my toes now! Class is held 4 days a week, 2 at Theatro, a theatre near suq hamadiya, and 2 in a room behind Nadi Barada (Damascus' most expensive health club).

Capoeira is a Brazilian fighting style/dance that works up a freaking sweat (though almost anything does in this heat). After the first day I was so sore I had trouble moving. It was a vision of being old and getting out of any chair required a groaned "ya rab".

The class is mostly Syrian dudes and foreign girls and NYU alums. There's a few Syrian girls and a few foreign guys, but mostly its the other way around. As for NYU, I don't know how this happened but there seems to be an NYU-Damascus shuttle: there's me, a girl names Kate, a guy named Ben, and another girl just at Capoeira, in addition to the NYU Ph.D I hear is floating around the city and another dude I graduated with.

The instructor is an Algerian guy named Mousa whose Arabic is a little weak having lived most of his life in Germany and being Berber, not Arab. I first went to class with two guy friends who were surprised that an Algerian would be bad at Arabic. "Then again, they all speak French over there," they said. I told them that he doesn't speak Arabic cause he's Berber. He speaks Berber. He told me he learned most his Arabic since moving to Syria.

My friends were shocked to learned that Berbers exist, because they said that sounds like something really ancient. And were shocked to learn that there is a Berber language (actually, several of them).
"Don't you remember that Moroccan kid in my class last fall? He lived in Belgium since he was a kid and learned Berber from his parents."

Americans are always given flack for being complete dumbasses about the outside world, and I sometimes take this flack (how many people told me how they had heard only a third of Americans can identify Iran, Saudi Arabia, Israel, and Iraq on a map). The first time I went to Syria, in 2006, I remember a man on a bus asking me if I knew who the president of Syria is. When I answered correctly, he looked genuinely impressed. "Bravo!" And how many times do I get asked about "How can Americans not know what's going on in Palestine!"

But seriously, how can you not know that Berbers exist? I don't think everyone can know everything about everwhere, but this is within the Arab world and a major part of North African countries' (وهي بلدان شقيقة) history and culture and politics. I mean, damn. Perhaps this is a consequence of Syria's focus on Arab Unity, so not much is said about non-Arabs in Arab countries. But still.

But though Mousa's Arabic isn't stellar (but totally workable), he does speak Berber, German, French, English, and Portugese as well so he's no slouch in the language department (I envy him). During class he often gives instruction in Arabic, English, and sometimes French (there's a woman and her mother who come who speak French).

We end most classes with a circle, banging on instruments and trying to sing in Portugese while people spar in the middle. Since no one actually knows Portugese except Mousa, we mostly just try to keep up phonetically, and are probabling singing no words recognizable to any Brazilian. But we have fun. The last two classes I've been dragged into sparring, two weeks being apparently enough time in the womb. There's a group that's been doing this for 9 months or so, and they run circles around me while I jinga back and forth, dropping to the floor with incorrect technique as my bum knee doesn't allow me to make all the movements.

It might be a sign of the times for a bunch of Syrians, Americans, and Europeans to be learning a Brazilian dance from a Berber German Algerian. A fun sign.

Ilhamdulah!

The water finally came!

Last week, the water stopped coming. Usually we just turn on the motor and the water tank fills up, and we're good for the next two days or so. But last week, it just stopped coming. And didn't come back.

The dishes piled up, clothes could not be washed. I bathed using the drinking water. I polled the neighbors, and found out it was at least a building-wide problem. Until the 4th day in, when the across-the-hall neighbors' water magically returned but the upstairs neighbors and I were without.

Then, after six days, just like in the Bible, a miracle happened and water returned.

And the seventh became a day of washing and thanking the Lord and taking showers. There was much cheering and the clanking of dishes.

Thanks for the Advice

I'd have to say that after 10 months of Syria, I do occasionally miss the "I don't give a fuck about you, you don't give a fuck about me" attitude of New York. Especially when strangers feel like they need to give you unsolicited advice.

Yesterday I was riding the micro to work, a little late. The horribly insane heat has made sleeping rather difficult, and thus waking rather difficult as well. On these days I essentially brush my teeth and put on pants, grabbing breakfast for the 45-minute ride ahead. Sometimes I also brush my hair on the micro, waiting until no one is sharing a seat with me. When I got off the micro yesterday this guy got off too, and then started trying to talk to me. It was the usual, where are you from, your Arabic is very good, how long have you been here. Then:
"Can I tell you something without you getting upset?"
"What is it?"
He laughed at the abruptness of my sentence, the exasperation.
"You shouldn't brush your hair on the micro. You're a very pretty girl and it's not good."
Not good how? And is it alright for uggos to brush their hair in public, or was that just mujamale to soften the blow of realizing how wrong my hair brushing had been."
"Oh, it's just that I was late today-"
"No, I see you on this micro a lot and you brush your hair a lot."
"I'm late a lot."

Then at capoeira class, I arrived a little early and had to wait for the boys to finish in the changing room. I chatted a bit with Mousa, the Algerian instructor, while a nearby dude suddenly broke out laughing "She speaks Arabic better than him! You (Mousa) are asli (here meaning of an Arab country) but she is speaking much better. Ha ha! She even speaks Shami!" He then repeated some of the "very Shami" phrases I had said (Mousa, while Algerian, has spent most of his life in Germany and is Berber, not Arab).

There was another dude nearby who started talking to me in fusha, formal Arabic. People do this to foreigners a lot because they we learn fusha, not ammiya, in school. But this guy was asking why I don't speak fusha. He started lecturing me about how I should speak fusha because it is the pure language. When someone goes to America, he said, they should learn real English, not slang. When he learned French, he learned the proper language, he said, switching into French to reiterated la pure langue. Why would you learn the language of the streets?

Because I want to talk to people. Turns out he's Tunisian, not Syrian, but has lived here for 18 years with his Syrian wife.

But, he said, I have not strayed from correct Arabic.

He continued to try to convince me that I should speak fusha. I told him I know fusha, and I write and read fusha, and fusha has its place, but so does ammiya. What's wrong with that. He then dared me to prove I can speak fusha to him, so I did, but not as smooth as the Syrian since I never practice speaking in fusha. I just left the conversation once the changing room was open because I don't need to listen to some asshole go on and on about how every one should speak the correct Arabic, especially foreigners, and how street language is disgusting. Get off it.

Then he told me I should work on my pronunciation. Oh my God really? I got this same advice from a doctor who had lived for 20 odd years in the Michigan a couple of months ago. Do they think I am oblivious to how foreign I sound? Am I supposed to snap up and go "By Jones, you're right! Pronunciation! Why did I never think of that?" Plus, shit isn't all that bad if people understand me and I am occaisonally mistaken for Lebanese or Tunisian (or in Tunis, Syrian). But thanks for the advice: I'm sure I'll start asking the storekeeper for a half kilo of cheese in formal Arabic any day now.

There's certain kinds of advice that are fine. If I'm saying something incorrectly, please correct me. If you can see the money poking out the top of my pants pocket, go ahead and tell me to tuck it down (which happens all the time).

But on other stuff, I wish some people would just stay out of my crap. It's not hurting you, so why you gotta tell me?

Government Hospital

I thought I was having a bad day. Yesterday I was still recovering from my cold, had a pretty frustrating day at work (whoever said that the internal workings of the UN are like seeing sausage made - best avoided, was very true), and only upon arriving in Jerimana, realizing I had left my key in the office on the other side of Damascus. Then I got some chili powder in my eye while making Endomi (like ramen) soup.

By 7:00 I was ready to go to Capoeira, the Brazilian dance/fighting thing that Tariq, Saleh, and I been doing for a week. Tariq's little brother planned to hit up Tariq's work, right next to the class, and all go together. Quarter to seven I call to let him know we're around the corner, but some one else picks up and lets me know "Tariq is very busy, he's doing a lot of work right now."

We go to the office and get greeted by Tariq's boss and a coworker, who are very happy to meet his little brother. "Tariq will be back in 10 minutes" Abu Ous tells us, so we sit and chitchat. 15 minutes later I'm asking, "Where the hell is he?"
"At the hospital or doctor's"
"What?"
"He seperated his shoulder." For the 17th time, I might add.
"When?"
"Oh, about 10 minutes before you guys came in. They rushed off to the doctor."

I like how we were just sitting there for 15 minutes and no one told us what was up, nor had Tariq's coworker who picked up the phone. Even though we said we were on our way to the office, and then waiting for him, apparently no one wanted to make us worry.

Tariq's little brother and I go to the doctor's, where every one has decided to go to the hospital because this doctor is an asshole, anyway. We go to Mushtahid - government hospital.

The emergency room has no orderly checkin, but a collection of green-sheeted gurneys with dividers that can be closed. The gurney Tariq sat on had a few small blood stains and there was bloody gauze on the floor. Groups of people were huddled around each gurney, which mostly contained children with casts. I was afraid this would be a nightmare of trying to get a doctor's attention, but one came over within a minute, assessed the problem, handed him over to a technician for xrays, and within 5 minutes xrays were done.

Returning to the emergency room, the doctor and technician shooed us away, and closed the curtain. Tariq's screams reverberated across the emergency room as they readjusted his shoulder. Then the doctor came out, told us "It's a boy," and revealed a paled Tariq. Tariq's coworker ran off to get some wrap for the arm, and within 5 minutes the second set of xrays to make sure the shoulder was in place were done. Doctor wrapped up his arm, and we were out: no bill, no nothing. The whole thing had taken about a half an hour. We only paid for the arm wrap.

Much better experience than the private hospital we had to go to when Tariq's shoulder seperated last time: cleaner, faster and free. The only pro for private as far as Tariq was concerned was that the private hospital had given him drugs and he hadn't felt a thing during the readjustment.

As we left Tariq's little brother was amazed to find out that we don't have free hospitals in the States. "So if some one's poor they'll just let him die?"
"Well, usually they'll do the surgery and then he or his family will have massive debts."

Grammar SMACKDOWN!

Last week's workshop was pretty cool - I feel like I've learned so much on Syrian media. I was there helping with logistics, mostly doing everything technology as I was the youngest one present. Every time the power point needed setting up or the instructor wanted to play a clip, it was youngest-person-in-the-room to the rescue! We are at one with technology, those who cannot imagine writing a school paper without the internet, the children of the 90s.

But I was also allowed to participate. And while I can understand college-level lecture, I don't know how I'd fare in any class. In exercises for the instructor they would come back covered with corrections but have "mumtaz!" at the bottom, because I'm foreign and at least I'm trying.

It was quite heartening when the instructor spent a session on grammar mistakes and had us correct a text together. I was all over "it's قال إن" not " قال أن". And on the last day the journalists turned in their group reports on subject related to UNFPA's mandate: reproductive health, AIDS, youth, gender equality. On one groups' report the first sentence began "ما تزال ظاهرة " and I was all, "grammar error smackdown!" Even though when I write in Arabic there are still tons of errors, it's nice to know that even trained Arab journalists, who when to school for this, make grammar mistakes, and that grammar is an issue in many publications.

I related this exciting story to a friend later who said there was nothing wrong with the verb as is. I told him you can't negate a present tense with ما so they either need to say ما زالت or لا تزال . He disagreed and told me the ما was not a negation here, but it really is. Seriously. I then asked him was زال means and he told me still or continue, when it actually means to kinda disappear or go away, thus with a negation it means the equivalent of English "still".

I know it's embarrassing when a non-native speaker corrects YOUR language, but it happens to me in English more than I'd like to admit. This is why I don't want to teach English: I'd be afraid of being called out daily. I mean, I can write or speak grammatically correct English and did take one grammer class in high school, but the various explanations behind "this sounds wrong" or "this sounds right" ellude me, so in the nitty gritty questions I'd just prefer to leave the room. This winter, I spent a few good weeks pondering the English equivalent of من اربعة شهور or the like. If the action is continuing, it's not "four months ago", and "from four months" which I found muself using in English conversation is literal and not actually used. I told a Syrian friend who asked "since four months ago, I think. yeah." I guess we don't have an exact match for that phrase, but make do depending on the preceding question.
"When did you start college?"
"Four months ago."
"How long have you been in college?"
"for four months."

I don't know. My head hurts. I also can't spell in any language. When friends ask me what is this word in English and to write it down for them, it's only on the second or third try that I think the word "looks right", and still tell them to go check me in a dictionary cause I'm not sure. I try to tell them that I all my writing on computers who correct me, but they still look at me trying to figure out I am not joking in that I cannot spell my own language.

Speaking of media, Wednesday evening, Syrian TV news incorrectly identified the Israeli knesset as being in Tel Aviv, not Jerusalem. As a friend said of it: If any one should know where the knesset it, we should. They hadn't actually seen the broadcast, nor had I, but heard of it through the office. No one actually watches Syrian TV except during Ramadan.

Sorry to Brag

I've been attending a workshop this week, and thus have not had the usual idle moments at work in which to jot a few thoughts about life and shit, as it is technically known. The workshop has been awesome, the Ministry of Information and UNFPA are conducting it for Syrian journalists.

It's convinced me that I could understand a college-level lecture in Arabic, which is exciting in itself. There are naturally some words I don't understand, but they are few enough I can jot them in a notebook for later, and do not affect my understanding the lecture.

It reminds me of going to a play within my first few months here, and my friends told me to jot down any words I didn't understand. 20 minutes in there were two words on the paper and the dude next to me asked if I understood the play. "No."
"Why didn't you write down words you didn't understand?"
"I don't understand enough to write down words!"

I can now write down words.

It's also exciting because the trainer isn't speaking Syrian, but what I think is part Palestinian (at least in pronounciation) and part Egyptian (there are quite a bit of Egyptian constructions). Of course, he also is speaking in times in fusha, though at this point I understand Syrian more easily than even fusha.

So yeah, sorry to brag but this is exciting for me. And at the end of the course I will get a certificate! Yes!

So I'm a Dumbass

Ok, so Noor and Abdeen weren't supposed to be in France, but as my friend's mother explained to me, "on the border of France and Turkey." I told her France and Turkey don't share a border, but its not like I can be one to point fingers as I thought they were supposed to be in France. Still, Abdeen was trying to make his getaway via helicopter to Paris, then changed his mind to Morrocco when he found out Mohannad was his trail. Isn't Paris or Morrocco from Turkey rather far for a helicopter?

So I feel like an idiot, but less so as the Syrians watching with me also thought they were supposed to be in France as well.

Noor killed Abdeen, finally taking a little initiative after fainting, falling asleep, and struggling pitifully while in a softer and softer voice protesting "Get away from me. Leave me alone."

Was Noor raped? There's some hints that Abdeen raped Noor, and there's some that he didn't. It's hard to tell because while the Turkish version was apparently chock-full of French kissing and other sexy things, the Arabic version has been cleaned up, like everything else on MBC. So was a scene more suggestive of rape cut out, or is there no such scene and he didn't rape her? Maybe they'll discuss it tonight in coded language I'll have to concentrate intently on and probably have to ask a friend about. I've heard you can go on youtube and see scenes from the original Turkish version with all the sexy (or rapey) left in.

I promise no more Noor-related posts for a while, though the fact I'm this excited about a muselel is an indicator on the heat level here, which prevents me from leaving the indoors and participating in non-TV activities.

Nour Update!

Things are going crazy on Nour, the Turkish muselel dubbed into Syrian Arabic. Nour and the diabolical Abdeen, who is plotting to win Nour's heart from her gorgeous husband Mohannad, go to Paris for business. While Abdeen has been a douche for a while, we were finally able to see the depths of his depravity when Mohannad's family's factory caught on fire - a fire set by Abdeen's henchmen! People died and were injured, but of course not the members of the central family, except for Mohannad's sister who sustained a bandaid on her cheek. Ouch.

Nour finds out in Paris that she is pregnant. Yay fertility treatments! But she wants to wait until she returns to Istanbul to tell Mohannad face to face. But in the meantime - Abdeen kidnaps her! Holy shit! Now she is tied up in a very nicely decorated cave in near "Paris" and has not moved since Abdeen strangled her in anger when she wouldn't profess her love to him or eat breakfast! Is she dead? Mohannad has flown to "Paris" and is running around the streets, showing pictures of his love to passerbys and exploring the mountains (you know, the mountains near "Paris").

Which brings me to a complaint: This is worst Paris ever. Either I'm misunderstanding, or Nour and Abdeen are supposed to be in Paris. In France. A France that is so Turkish it can't be anything but Turkey, and I've never even been. Everybody in "France" speaks Arabic (and I'm assuming Turkish in the orginal), though that can be forgiven because every American show does the same thing. But all of shop names are in Turkish. All of the people look Turkish. The grandmothers are muhajjiba, while if actually trying to be in Paris, a bunch of younger girls would be too. When Mohannad goes to the police station, not only is the sign "Police Station" in Turkish, but behind the officer there is a picture of Ataturk. What?

I keep thinking, maybe I've misunderstood. Maybe they're supposed to be in Turky now, and were planning to go to Paris later. But then Mohannad's mother in Istanbul wonders if perhaps there are just mechanical problems with Noor's plane and she'll be landing soon. And Mohannad's sister calls Paris to ask hotels and things if anyone has seen Nour and has to speak French, the only time anyone actually speaks French throughout the Paris ordeal. But come on, couldn't they have at least included a stock footage shot of the Eiffel Tower, or greenscreen a Parisien street in the background?

I'm guessing the budget for a Turkish muselel might not cover an actual jaunt to France, but all I'm asking for is a little effort. When Mohannad is asking obviously Turkish townspeople if they have seen Nour, couldn't they all be in berets? Or have one guy in the background carry a baguette?

Independence Day in Damascus

July 4th I went to a party of mostly Americans at a shared house in the old city, the first time I've hung out with foreigners my age in a long time. After I finished at the university, there was little chance to see foreigners on a daily basis, and the friends I had made all eventually traveled back home. There were a spattering of non-American foreigners as well, mostly Brits and Dutch, who were more than happy to join in the Ammerican merrymaking. I had no idea there were this many Americans here. I was told in the summer the number jumps big time.

But nothing brings you home like vodka watermelon. The party organizers had tried to get some pork, but found the massive half of a wild boar, shot in Jordan and presented to them in a plastic bag at a liquor store in Damascus, unappetizing. Understandably so. I know there are places to get pork in Damascus, in containers other than plastic bags, but not being a big fan of pig I couldn't offer the hosts any direction.

They grilled chicken instead, and I opted to eat some cake.

Good Luck Mom!

My mom is competing in the U.S. Track and Field Olympic Trials today in Eugene Oregon in the 20km racewalk. She's 48, the oldest track athlete to ever go to the US Olympic trials. What's more amazing is that two years ago she was in a coma for four weeks after being hit by a car while biking. There's a story on her in the Detroit Free Press today. Awesome, awesome woman.

Wish I could be there for you, Mom! Good luck!!

Catching Concerts by Chance

I've been getting out more, whether dragged by friendship obligations last Thursday to Cave de Baal to support my friend Noor's DJing (party every Thursday), or more willingly to a few concerts. In either case it means I'm behind on watching Noor, the dubbed Turkish muselel, and I hear very exciting things are afoot!

Noor's a good DJ, in that he plays more than techno, but his party's at the matinee hour and coming on the heels of highschool exams, the place was packed with teenagers. I love teenagers as much as anyone, but I felt like I should have brought my walker. Whatever, it's always fun to watch muhajibbat grinding on the dance floor.

The concerts I stumbled upon going the International Flower Exhibition in Tishreen Park. There's been signs all over, so I went Sunday. It cost 50 lira to get in, and the exhibition itself was quite underwhelming. "International" apparently meant Jordan, Egypt, Iraq, and Homs. The best design by far was Hama's.

A little disappointed, we started to leave, only to find a stage all set up for a concert near the Sahat Umuwe'en entrance. We asked the techs what was up, and they casually informed us there would be an Itar Shama' concert later. Itar Sham'! They are an awesome husband-and-wife band that plays Arabic rock. I saw them earlier in the year at an Arab Cultural Center outside of Damascus and the place was packed. The kids love 'em. I been keeping up on concerts, even the ones I know there's no way I'm attending (Julio Iglesias in the Bosra Ampitheatre). How had I not heard? No body has heard. The publicity for the exhibition has unfortunately not included the fact that they have all of Syria's most popular bands booked.

The tech gave us a schedule: Itar Shama', LEENA CHAMAMYAN (probably Syria's most popular singer), Anas and Friends, Daraja Aliya - all of Syria's most popular bands. Each night a different band.

I didn't see the concert Sunday night because of a prior commitment to watch Germany get their asses handed to them (ok, so the game wasn't actually that one-sided, but still yay Spain) the same evening, but returned to see Daraja Aliya two nights ago and Anas and Friends last night. Not so impressed with the last one, except the last song, a cover of a 10-year-old Mohammed Monir song (who I saw in concert in Cairo with Nancy Ajram in 2006).

And tonight- Leena Chamamyan (maybe that's how you spell her name, but probably not). It'll be the third time I've seen her and I own her two CDs. She rocks the Arabic jazz-ish music. And my socks.

Hopefully I won't end up on TV. Everytime I go to a cultural event, my friends try to push me to talk to the Syrian TV camera roving around. Yesterday Tariq even went up to the reporter and told her there was a foreigner over there, while I was yelling, "She doesn't care." Some of my friends, who I met back when I was struggling to say things like, "The sheep also meat no meat tummy pain no thank you pain," and are very proud of teaching me to now say things like, "Thank you, I'm sure the meat is delicious but it will cause me stomach pain," and swearing, of course.

They also try to push me to introduce myself to the artist.
"What would I say?"
"Just that you like their music. They'll be flattered that a foreigner likes it."

I believe this is just a plot to have an excuse to shake hands with the musician themselves, as I observed when pushed to congratulate an opera singer at Dar al-Assad. I imagine while I'm saying "I like your voice," in my retarded accent, my friends are behind me, looking at the artist as if to say, "Sorry what can you do? She's foreign and weird. But nice to meet you too."