Trapped

I was getting ready for work when the doorbell rang. 10 minutes to eight. This has happened before, though normally a somewhat sane hour like 9. Um Tareq has some rude friends, who think nothing of dropping in at 8 or 9am, before calling ahead, and then act surprised that we're asleep. Actually, most of her friends aren't like that, but Um Ra'id is. She's come before early. I figured if I just ignored her she would go away. Um Tareq was sleeping and I really didn't want to let this woman in to wake her up. Time passed. She didn't leave, just reminded us of her prescence every four minutes by ringing the bell again. After 15 minutes, it was pretty clear she wasn't going to leave anytime soon. The bells woke Um Tareq up eventually and we stood in the courtyard whispering.
"God she is so annoying," said Um Tareq.
"Why don't you just tell her not to come, you are sleeping?"
"I've told her daughter-in-law to not let her come this early."
"Why don't you tell her?"
"Eib!"

It got to the point where I had to leave for work, but Um Ra'id wasn't budging. "I have to get going."
"Wait, wait!"
"I could tell her you are sleeping."
"It doesn't matter, she'll come in. If only she had come later in the day, you could tell her I wasn't here, but now it's too early for me to be gone"
I was trapped. Another 10 minutes and I really should be going, so Um Tareq acquiesed.

I thought Um Tareq should go lie down so at least the woman would feel bad about waking her, but instead she went and opened the door. Um Ra'id came in, saying, "i've been waiting for a long time? Where were you"
"Sleeping"
"Sleeping!"

Shami Wedding

I've finally been to a Shami wedding, and it did not disappoint. From what I had heard, there would be the women, dressed in abayas, who would throw them off to reveal miles of skin covered in patches by sparkly dress. This did indeed happen. I even threw on an abaya over my shoulders, at the bidding of Um Tareq, to hide my by-comparison rather conservative dress. There was a bit of cleavage, it was the first time I've worn this dress without an undershirt, but within a few seconds of entering the wedding hall I was greated by such copious amounts of cleavage all reservations were put at ease.



I sat with the extended family of the groom, who was off partying with the dudes elsewhere. Most of the woman were stripped down, especially the younger ones, but a few of the grandmothers sat stone-faced without removing manteaus or hijabs. A group started dancing in the center, and I joined, but with frequent breaks. I don't understand how these ladies can dance for this long without breaking a sweat. I needed to take breaks and fan myself to avoid looking like I just slipped into this dress after a track meet. Foods and non-alcoholic cocktails came around in rounds.



I got Um Tareq to dance, which had been my goal. I even got her niece to dance, who was introduced to me as able to put my dancing to shame. But she said, no, I'm not going to dance, there's this cleric who said it's haram. How can dancing with a bunch of ladies be haram? But the videographer might accidently catch me on the camera and that would be haram. But she loosened up and did, as predicted, put me to shame.



The bride came out, and walked slowly up the front of the room, and her friends ran up to the throne at the front of the hall where she was seated, screaming and cooing. The girl did look good. Then those of us who don't actually know her went up at randomly to wish her congratuations. The bride came off the throne and did two dances for the camera by herself, mostly just seductive swaying as the dress was huge. Then her girlfriends (and me) ran onto the floor to dance.



The groom came later. The guy's party pulled up outside, and we watched what was happening with the videographer's live feed to a screen inside. Dudes in traditional outfits played music and played with swords around the groom. I was a bit jealous, I mean, the ice cream was good but not as good as swords. There was a rush to redress before the groom and his father could come in. They walked slowly up the aisle, while the girlfriends shouted out "Our bride is the prettiest! ye ah!" and of course, the trilling. My attempts were laughed at, so I repeated them to great amusement.

The party died after the groom and bride has danced their dance. They looked happy and nervous, both pretty young. She's 20, he's was about 25, and a car mechanic. Everyone started leaving, except for some girlfriends and the family.

I was invited to another wedding in July.

Late

After the comparative success of last week's outing, a few friends decided to arrange another one, just for us. I got a call Thursday night, after spending an somewhat intellectual evening with artists, hearing how I really should have gone to the last modern dance evening. It was awesome.

I didn't really want to go to Beit Jinn, described as in Quneitra near the border of the occupied Jolan. I had Capoeira class the next day. I was told the scenery there was amazing. "Can we see the Israelis from there?" I asked. "Maybe". There were also waterfalls, and everyone was going to bring food and drink, and we would fry potatoes and it would be awesome. Somebody was bringing his laptop and we could dance for the entirety of its 2-and-a-half battery life. It would only cost however much it took to get there. And my boyfriend wanted to go really bad. It was 3am, and I thought, "why not see more of the country?" Plus, there would be argileh. We would meet at my place at 11am.

I called M the next morning as soon as I was woken up by Saeb banging on my door at 10:45am. She told her parents something and got out of the house. Everyone was late, some people were sleeping, some people forgot to bring their IDs, which is turned out later we didn't actually need. No one was bringing anything, so we took pots and pans and gas from my place while others went out and bought 7 kilos of potatoes. I convinced Um Tareq to come.

We finally got to Baramkeh, and waited for Shadee, the only non-Jeramanian, to come and bring the argileh. He came late, without argileh. Meanwhile, Sale7 got in a fight with his girlfriend about his going, and stormed off vowing not to come. We talked him back into coming. By the time we set off it was past 1.

At Soymarieh garage there was a half-full servees for Beit Jinn waiting to take off, but we were eleven. That servees had apparently been waiting hours to fill, so we negotiated to take another one without filling it to 14, and have it take us all the way to the top where the waterfalls are, off the standard servees path.

That path was blocked at the top. We turned around and the occupants of the servees continued their loud, bitchy fights about where we would set up. Near that water! We can play in it! No, there's too many shawiya and we have girls with us! Over there! No, there's rocks! Higher, lower! We got off at the very bottom, walking distance to the regular servees path, despite our having agreed to pay an extra 100 lira to get off said path.

It was rocky but we set up. The scenery was alright, but in the area we were in it might as well have been alghouta. Just some trees. A boy came over and demanded money. An aged relation sat under a tree and yelled at picnickers, occasionally going over to the nearest family, yelling, demanding 2000 lira for the right to sit on the rocky field, and hitting people with her stick. We were charmed. The boy on the other hand, demanded 500 lira in earnest and we negotiated to 250. Um Tareq and M, with minimal help from the tons of guys, set to preparing the food. It pissed me off, and I felt like everyone had wanted Um Tareq to come just so she could do all the work.
"What would we have done without you?" asked the boys, and I thought, just fucking fry the potatoes yourself. Even I've done it. I peeled potatoes despite several attempts to take the knife away from me. Really, I'm not that much of a disaster with sharp things.

Once the potatoes were frying the boy came over and demanded another 250, and some people were mind to just give it to him. No, said others, he's just waited until we were settled to demand more. We've agreed on a price and we're sticking to it. He can give us our money back and we'll move, otherwise not. A group went over for negotiations and the kid, unwilling to part with the money, said make sure we didn't stay longer than another hour. We'll have to check with the women, said the group.

We finished eating, cleaned things in the spring, and M started worrying about time. Sale7 called the micro driver to come pick us up. We moved next to the road, where a group of guys driving tractors almost tracked through our stuff. Shadee joked with them, and then they stayed, offering tractor rides to all interested and drinking our tea. M took a ride on a tractor with one, causing him to confess soon after to one of our group that he was in love with her. We turned on the laptop and played some good music, but with the presence of the unwashed I was forbidden to dance, or even sway.

I sat with some friends by the stream, who remarked on the fallaheen as more people took tractor rides. "Look at how happy they are, without worries."
"What worried could they have? Their life is so simple."
"They only worry about what to eat for breakfast, lunch, and dinner."
"Not even. They probably eat the same thing everyday."
"Look, there's more coming! They're like flies."

Finally the micro came, and a panicked M made us turn down the driver's offer to stop at his house for some coffee. We got caught in heavy traffic outside of Damascus, barely moving, and didn't make it back to Jeramana until after 9pm. Manar jumped out and ran home.

The next day I saw M at Capoeira and asked if she caught hell.
"Oh yeah. It was a massacre. I can't hear out of this ear today, they hit me so many times." She said her dad went crazy with anger and grabbed a knife at one point. She's staying at her uncle's for now. I asked when I could see her and she said next Capoeira class - nothing outside of it.

On the way back, we had to be quiet twice, once when M's parents called, and she told him she was on the way home, and again when one of the guy's parents called. He said he was at Sale7's parents house outside of Damascus and was coming home soon. See, I was told, guys have to lie to their parents to get out of the house too. But I wonder if they get beat up for coming home at 9pm too.

An Outing, More or Less Successful

I ran into Abd, back from Russia for a few months, in the old city. He invited me and M to an outing with students of the literature college to Sweida. There was a cave, and they were bringing a DJ and speakers and going to set up a regular dance party there. 300 lira only, food and drink on us. It sounded fun. I agreed to get the booze, M the food.

The next morning those of us from Jeramana met at Rawda to make the journey to Mezzeh. Abd and his friends were 15 minutes late. The bus was supposed to leave at 9, and going to Mezzeh in the morning rush can take a while.

I shouldn't have worried. I forgot that "bus leaves at 9, don't be late!" means the bus will leave closer to 11. We waited in the hot sun. It is summer now, at least during the day, until the sun goes down and I grab a coat.

The bus finally came, filled, and got moving raucously. The driver played Arabic songs, and students were in the aisles dancing the entire time. We stopped in Jeramana to pick up the DJ, prompting those of use who were in Jeramana to complain that we could have saved a lot of time had we known.

We rolled through Sweida to Areeqa, and got out in front of a restaurant. "Where's the cave?" we asked, until it became clear that we were going to hang out in this restaurant. I complained to who I had finally identified as the trip organizer, "What, there aren't any restaurants in Damascus? We could have partied on a rooftop and saved ourselves the trip. I was promised a cave party."

He promised it would be cool, and that we were near a cave, but it was unfortunately closed. We went into the restaurant, set up the DJ, and started on M's sandwiches and my vodka. After eating, people started dancing, including a girl in black who memorized the crowd with her hips. I don't understand how these girls dance this much - in a short sleeve teeshirt I was sweating within minutes but the muhajibat danced the entire time without so much as a feminine glistening of perspiration.

Finally an expedition set out for this cave, which is currently under some sort of construction. Even though cave reconstruction isn't the sort of thing that just pops up one day when you're making plans, the organizer had told everyone we would party in a cave, meanwhile booking the restaurant. It had small opening, and inside was cool and pitch black. With mobiles and lighters we navigated around, stepping in a lot of mud. It would have been impossible to hold a party in this place.

The party finally ended at around 5, which was good as my buzz was wearing off. On the way back I sat next to the good dancer in black, and we got to chatting. She volunteers for an organization that fights domestic violence, and my boyfriend and her also had a long talk. Afterwards he told me he was surprised that a muhajiba would be so cool and down with gender equality... which shows that not only the foreigners have misconceptions about the hijab.

Modern Dance

My friend invited me to a modern dance performance at Dar al-Asad. We were in the company of artists, her boyfriend the sculptor, and his friends the theatre director and the actor. As soon as the lights went down and the show started, I knew I would need their help.

The four dancers, three of whom were wearing masks, appeared to have seizures. There was heavy breathing, and lot of rolling around on the floor moaning as well. Exciting. The music never varied much from an annoying repetition of sounds. Then, intermission and the realization that we were only half done. The second half features more rolling and moaning, with a DJ beatboxing in the background.

The director and "writer" were invited on stage for a discussion with the audience. We were here to be educated. The Dutch company held their collective noses in the air when an audience member asked if there had been a story or tale or something? The writer crossed and uncrossed his legs, and said, that while they do not aim for a story, yes, there was a simple story in the second piece, perhaps you recognized it... and trailed off.

"What was the story?" my boyfriend called from the balcony.
The writer sniffed and said that's for the audience to interpret. My boyfriend directed his question to the audience, "Okay, can anyone tell me what happened? What was that?"

The writer, clearly annoyed, said, "It was about a man and a woman who come together, make love, have a child, play with the child for a while, and then it leaves."

Which was not at all what seemed to be going on. I don't know what part of rolling around conveyed having a baby, or the sex, or the leaving, but whatever.

Several audience members self-congratulatingly asked about the "use of sound" and "diconnectedness of the body". The director was annoyed by repeated questions about whether having the dancers dance as if they were disabled was her signature. "I did not see their movements as disabled, but your interpretation is valid." Another person asked about the disabled movements and why the dancers moved like zombies. The director visibly grit her teeth to repeat that that was not her interpretation of the movements.

The play director with us, who was not impressed, said that he was sorry, but he felt like theatre and dance should connect with the audience and that the pieces lacked this, the audience didn't even understand the story. The director looked affronted and said she liked that the story in the second piece was unclear, she likes to challenge the audience, and some crap about disassociating the self and commenting upon the human condition. I felt bad for the translator, called upon to translate bullshit that doesn't mean anything to begin with.

An older woman in the audience apologized for being a "regular viewer, not a professional," but she wanted to know "where was the beauty?" You could see the director scoff to herself. THe question went unanswered.

A young woman in the first row, whose hand had been up eagerly for a while, was finally called on by her brother, the translator. She delivered an annoying speech about how the problem in this country is audiences come to shows expecting to see a story or see beauty, and so it's good for them to see something outside of their narrow expectations and tastes. Blah.

I wanted to ask, well, what's the fucking point? Why should some one have to be a "professional viewer" to appreciate some art? What's so wrong about wanting to see some beauty- I'm not a great dancer and I could have done most of the moves on that stage. I like to see dancers with skills. Shit, I'm great at rolling around. It's like the show is only put on for a select few to congratulate themselves on their enjoying what is too "high-art" for the masses, demonstrate this through questions on use of the voice in dance, and let the smugness between director, writer, and audience reverberate in the small theatre.

After we left I realized my wallet was no longer in my hand, and freaked. After searching the theatre, no luck. I gave the office my number and expected to never see my wallet again. My friends begged to differ and told stories of wallets left in servees, in stores, who knows where, and returned.

The next day during Capoeira, while running 45 minutes over, I heard my cell go off and left the roda to go answer. They found my wallet! I was admonished in front of the whole group for leaving, thereby taking energy from the group. Fuck that, people have lives. I left for Dar Al-Asad, and the office guy gave me my wallet. Check, make sure nothing's missing! he said. Not a lira gone.

Interreligious Dating

We were on a double date of sorts, walking around the Bab Touma neighborhood outside the old city and enjoying the Good Friday festivities. I slept through last week's Western Easter, though I could hear the merrymaking and bands.

We saw a bit of a parade, with a drumline, scout-like uniforms, and a giant paper-mache Jesus on a paper-mache rock, but left before the stage show because of the pressing crowd. It was packed on the street in front of the church, the kind of crowd where moving more than your neck was impossible, and waves of pushing with no discernible source swept through us.

After we extracted ourselves from the crowd with great difficulty, the other woman's mom called. I was instructed to go say something so the mom could overhear and rest assured that her daughter was hanging with the fairer sex. I ran over and said, "Hey! Where are we going now?" She looked at me quizzically. When she hung up I apologized, telling her the boys had sent me over so her mom though she was hanging with girls.

"Oh, she doesn't care that if there's boys, just that we're all Christian."

Earlier, the two boys and me had met up with her and some friends. "Don't mention anything about us being not Christian to her friends" her boyfriend whispered as we approached.

We were out late, until one, and took a taxi back to Jeramana. After we let her boyfriend out, mine turned to me and said, "It's sad. Their relationship can go nowhere."

It reminded me of the matchmaking I had done for some friends. "He's cute, he's educated... he's Druze."
"He's Druze! When can I meet him?"

Or remarks when two friends start dating: "Oh, and they're both Christian. Awesome."
Or sympathizing with a friend when she couldn't date a boy she really like cause it wouldn't go anywhere. "He's X. It's impossible." Or a Christian friend who eloped with a Muslim man. Her parents still won't talk to her. She called on Christmas and they wouldn't answer.

Not that it doesn't happen. Last summer an Alawi friend's relative married a Sunni Muslim woman. He reported that her family didn't seem that happy with all the booze at the wedding. But for every married interreligious couple I know, there must be 10 thwarted relationships, if not by the law, then by parents.

Not that this is a Syrian phenomenon: I know American couples who had to convert from one branch of Christianity to another in order to appease some parents, and a friend who was disowned for marrying a Muslim.

Old and Unfashionable

Thanks to Youtube, I can share my love of Arab pop stars with anyone foolish enough to humor me. "Wait! Just one more! This Nancy Ajram video is awesome! The guy's deaf! Where are you going?"

I roped my 12 year old L.A. born and raised cousin into sitting through one of these sessions. In return, she got to show me the music her generation likes these days. It's not Hannah Montana, to my surprise, but some other Disney with a name that escapes me but reminded me of a latte. (Levi Mochiato?) And vampires.

I was showing her the latest Dana video (ana alasl) when my aunt joined. She mentioned that Dana would be considered somewhat chunky in American media.

Are you fucking kidding me?

At least Syria and America are decided on one thing: tight jeans. Pants that are tight to the ankle are not a Syrian thing, as I supposed, but were everywhere in America. Especially LA. Leggings, often in lieu of pants, are popular in both places as well. Actually, the styles in Syria and America were pretty much the same. My cousin laughed at my flare jeans, as much as my boyfriend does in Syria. The windbreaker I wore to go out on the town was considered as uncool in the States as it in Syria (I don't care! It's freaking cold!) .

Is this what globalization portends? A world in which I can go nowhere without being confronted with stupid skinny jeans? Where the fashion is the same across 11 time zones and supposedly huge cultural gaps? Last summer an American friend went to visit the States and came back with this report: fat and naked. Perhaps it was too early for the expanses of American flesh to emerge, but I still think it's going to be the same basic fashion in NY and Damascus come summer as well.

Whatever. I am now of an age where I can refuse to care about fashion. I liked the pants we were wearing in the late 90s/early 00s and that's what I'm sticking with, and that's what I'm going to stick with for the next 20 years.

This is exactly why I'm going to grad school: sweats for the next 5-6 years. I am officially old and it is damn comfortable!

The Eyes!

I was walking around lower Manhattan when I could no longer contain my happiness. "Look!" I said to my friend. "No one is looking at me! No one!" I did a little dance on the sidewalk. No one even acknowledged this.

It was true everywhere in America. I walked into grocery stores, bars, parties, subway cars, streets, apartment complexes, and university cafeterias, and was ignored. It was awesome.

A day after arrival back in Syria, changing servees in Baramke, I really missed the anonymity. Dudes, from those shoulder-high on me to those whose own daughters could be my mother, were staring. Not even attempting to be subtle, some dudes had eyes zeroed in on my chest from a distance of 10 meters to when they walked by.

I don't think this is merely a reflection of my being foreign. Since my coloring could be that of a Syrian, my foreign-ness is usually betrayed by my lack of style. Even on days where I could be, and am, mistaken for a Syrian before opening my mouth, there is the staring. And my Syrian girlfriends all draw looks as well. I might be just extra-sensitive to it, though in the grand scheme some staring is a small annoyance.

But to be without it! So freeing! In Syria, my attempts to sidewalk dance are always blocked by my well-meaning friends exclaiming "Eib!"

In America there is no eib. There is, however, weirdness. My friends in America did give me weird looks every time I would stop and say "Look what I can do!" while breaking it down on the sidewalk. "Isn't this cool?"

Their eyes said no, but all their mouths said was "Come on. We're going to be late."

Back in the Syria

I've been ramboling around the US, enjoying free beer from universities and friends' couches, and then was occupied by deciding my future. It's done at this point: Come fall, I'm going to grad school in California! I've never been one for that coast, though on my travels I discovered interesting things about it. For example: did you know that between Los Angeles and San Francisco there is lots of Iowa? Seriously, nothing but cows.

But I'm back in Syria, finally.

Visiting the universities got tiring, and everytime people would ask me where I was visiting from I always felt a little sheepish saying Syria. The conversation would then inevitably turn to Syria as it wouldn't have had I said Michigan. I love talking about Syria, but answering the same questions got somewhat tiring.

"Syria? Really?"
Luckily most people at these universities knew where Syria was - in other cases not so. I had a dismal amount of people quizzically ask: Syria, where's that? Not that I could pinpoint every country on earth, but shit I'm sure I'd get at least continent and probably region right.
Miming with my hands, I would create a virtual map of Lebanon to the West, Iraq to the East, Turkey to the North, Jordan to the South... Israel to the South-West (only if absolutely needed).

Oooh, that part of the world. Luckily American foreign policy makes several of the neighbors' names recognizable to even the most ardent news-avoider.

Several people asked me if it was safe, if I had to go around in one of those veil things. I met an Iranian-American girl on one of my many planes who was coming back from a recent visit to the Old Country. She asked if in Syria we too had to veil.

I understand that not everybody can be up on the veil politics of every Muslim-majority country, but I wish thinking mandatory veiling is the norm weren't so prevalent- as in actuality, those are the exception, rather than the rule. I'm no slouch in the traveling department and I've never been anywhere the hijab was mandatory other than the inside of mosques.

America was nice though - it has been a while, a year and a half since I last saw my watan. I banned anyone from celebrating my visit with trips to Middle Eastern/Mediterrean restaurants. Funny, many people thought that would be a good suggestion. Sure, I love the shit but I'm ready for some variety. Give me spicy. At a Punjabi restaurant in Michigan the spicy forced tears out of my eyes. Delicious.

But it's back to the ruz and fasoliya (rice and beans)! After a month I was happy to see them again!

Too Nice for This

I'm not cut out to be a real journalist so I guess it's good I'm going into Academia soon. I'm not good at being mean and I actually cringe to think of some of the nice people I've interviewed reading it and thinking, "BITCH!" If there's legitimate criticism I'm pretty cool, but I would hate for some one to feel I misrepresented them. And even if I'm true to a T, there's the whole, that was a lovely chat and LIES LIES LIES.

I can't wait to go up into an Ivory tower, stick my fingers in my ears and go LA LA LA LA.

Damn!

I'm back in the States. It is somewhat strange. More on that later.

In writing an article on women and sports in Syria, I used the football team I played with/limped alongside of last spring. I also met the younger girls' team and interviewed a bunch of players, the administrator, and the coach. They are awesome, but unfortunately the article I was doing was short and focused mostly in another direction so I couldn't go into them.

I thought hmmm, I should propose this later. The girls' team started 3 years ago when the administrator and the coach went around to recruit girls. They had a lot of girls who wanted to play but parents wouldn't let them. The coach and admin went to homes to try to convince the parents that playing wouldn't damage their girls' bodies or things of that nature. While a lot of sports, volleyball are basketball included, are normal and widespread for girls, football is still mostly considered a boys' sport and too rough for the ladies.

Every summer teams from 8 governorates meet in Aleppo to have their tournament and the Damascus ladies have won it all three years of its existance.

I thought it would be awesome to go to this tournament and chat with the girls and coaches from other places in Syria and see if they had similar experiences, writing a piece about the tenative expansion of girls' sports to football. I imagined this would be a happy, positive piece with a lot of plucky sporty girls who worship Michael Ballack. I thought it would be interesting to pitch to a foriegn publication as it 1) shows a different face of Syria than what most Amerricans see and 2) would both dispel some myths that exist about Syrian (read: Muslim/Arab cause it's all the same really, right?) with the fact that many Syrian girls do sports, but also have that "happy social change/confronting gender stereotypes" angle with the fact that football specifically is a rather new sport for girls (versus your karate or swimming).

So yeah, fuck you New York Times: In Turkey, Women Playing Soccer Vie for Acceptance.

Okay, so it's about the professionals. But funny how there's establish women's pro basketball and volleyball leagues but football? New and not for the ladies but look these ladies are doing it and kicking ass and changing minds! Oh Turkey, you steal my time with your soaps that I can't watch now from the States, and my ideas for rah rah lady sports pieces. Poo.

Polygyny

While there are some who think that most Muslims are marrying tons of Muslimas or that polygyny is the norm in the Middle East, I might be the opposite - I was expecting practically none and was actually shocked by the little I saw in Syria.

From when I began studying "the Middle East," or took some courses on Islam, it was repeated almost ad nasuem while though polygyny is allowed, and on the books in most Muslim countries (notible exceptions: Tunisia and Turkey), it is and has been throughout history not the norm. It's hard enough to afford one family, let alone two or four. When I studied in Egypt for six months, I can't say I exactly immersed myself in Egyptian society (I went to AUC) but I never met or heard a hint of these kinds of marriages. Oh sure, it happens, but rarely. Ok, it happens more than rarely in the Gulf, cause they have all that money.

Oh sure there are the jokes: I remember in Dubai once meeting an Emirati, family friend of a friend, who was gorgeous. My girlfriend and I stared. I failed to notice the wedding ring, but my friend (his friend) told me to cheer up: there's room for more. He's already got his respectable Emirati wife, you could be the scandelous foreign one. But this was all on the same level of serious as a teenagers catcalling a group of girls, "why don't you all mary me! C'mon, the religion says it's okay!"

In Syria, I have been amazed how many families with more than one wife I have met. Granted, if your stereotype of Arabs is oppressive men hauling around truckloads of wives, the few families I've met would contradict that. And it's important to note that they are a few among the many, many families I've met.

The first woman contradicted all of my stereotypes: she's a businesswoman, living alone with her children, making money, doing well. Married three times before, she divorced them all because each was an asshat in his own right. Her current husband lives in Lebanon with his other wife, and visits every other weekend or so. Sometimes she visits him. After some shitty, abusing, controlling husbands, this one suits her just fine.

The situation, though, does not suit the other woman fine. I've only heard about her, so this is all hearsay, but she's a foriegner who fell in love, got married, gave birth to seven children, and then was informed by her husband one day that there's another woman. Her son, my friend, told me the first wife stopped all relations and is still pissed. Husband can't believe it. He gave her seven children, a house, a good life. I mean, he remarried four years ago, get over it. I said that probably to her, her husband has been cheating on her twice a month for four years. She doesn't get over it, its a reopened wound every time he goes to Damascus. When they got married, I bet it never crossed her mind that a few decades later he'd be all, thanks for the babies and years, I'm gonna go get my swerve on in a religously-sanctioned fashion.

Most of the women I know who are in polygynous marriages are the first wives, which is obviously different than being the second wife. Their husbands, for the most part, seem like asshats, using weak-ass excuses to marry exclusively younger women. A friend was trying to tell me that some women don't mind - which I'm sure there are some who don't - but used the example of one of Um Tareq's friends. When her husband wanted to remarry, she went out and vetted the girls. I said this doesn't mean necessarily that she loves the idea, but thinks there's no getting around it and being involved in the process is a way to have some control over it. Months later, she comes to Um Tareq, crying that her husband ignores her and spends all his time with the other wife, who is now pregnant (and 20 years old - first wife and hubby are in their late 40s).

Another woman I know divorced her husband because he wanted to marry another woman. It adversely affected her living situation. This is a huge problem - if the woman doens't have any idependent wealth and her husband gets all asshaty and wants to marry again, what are her choices? Divorce, and live on what?



Another friend of the Umahat (moms), who mostly live in Jeramana and love me for some reason, is essentially separated from her husband. He wanted to marry some one "in order to have a boy". Nevermind the couple already has a boy - he's actually grown and getting engaged soon. When the subject has come up before, I've been told her inability to have a boy is a legitimate reason to remarry (even though in the same conversation it's been admitted that, yeah, the sex comes from the father). And in this, there's already a boy.

It's complete bullshit, especially when the source says treatment between wives has to be equal. Of course, the responsibilies are completely set aside when dudes are grabbing the "rights" afforded to them. That condition of equality doesn't interfer with marrying a younger woman, moving in with her, and ignoring the "old" wife in many cases. Then there are the men who go behind their wives back and secretly marry. Wife may know or not. Yeah, like I'm sure that's completely halal and exactly what God meant.

When polyandry has come up in discussion, I've been told that its because a woman just couldn't handle this - women are sensitive creatures who couldn't love more than one. Ah, bullshit.

I know polygyny is a lot more nuanced than this - my first example is some one who is very happy with her shared husband. It's possible there are some very happy families where everyone is pleased with the situation and gets along fine. I haven't met them. Generally, from my experience, it makes for some very unhappy women and asshat men. Though I'm not a Muslim, I'm in favor of the train of thought that interprets Sura 4:3 as historically limited or saying: marry one, two, three, or hour, but if you can't be equal, marry only one. And who can be truly equal and fair, besides God? No one. So focus on making that one wife happy.

Neat Bread

I have watched Um Tareq every time there is bread from the government oven - at 15 lira a rabta the price can't be beat and it's also much tastier and filling than the more expensive siyahi bread - perform a ritual. She takes each flat piece of pocket bread out one by one from the government bag, makes a whole in an edge, uses her hand to seperate the sides, then folds the bread and put them by eights into bags for the freezer.

I have been told I should start helping around the house more. I occupy a weird place between daughter and renter. We can watch Turkish muselsels together and discuss the attractiveness of Asmar vs. Sameer, but I also stay out late and it's not eib. But I'm trying to help out in my gender-neutral way: going out sometimes to fetch items like a boy, and folding bread like a girl.

By first attempt did not go well. I imitated the actions, but the desired result was not acheived. I couldn't perceive a difference between my folded bread and hers, but each piece she unfolded and reopened and refolded.

I've gotten better, but the last time I finally thought to ask her why we were doing this. I assumed that seperating the sides meant the bread would freeze better and come out fresh once dethawed, not crumbly and crap.
"So it looks neat (muratab)," she said.
"Really? Neat?"
"Bread comes from the bakery and they've got these wrinkles. Like with clothes I've got to make them look nice."

I laughed really long, and Um Tareq laughed with me, asking why I thought we folded the bread. I said you know, the freezing process. She laughed and said no, so it looks nice.
"I open it and flatten it and get all of the wrinkles out." She then saw a wrinkle-less piece, told me it didn't need anything since it was already neat and pretty.

"But we're going to eat the bread," I said.
"yes, so it should look nice."
"Do they not do that in America?" No, in my experience, American don't care whether our pitas are wrinkled. Um Tareq laughed. Ajanab are weird.

Amerrica

So it's finally come time for me to visit my watan. It's only a visit, for now, as I see grad schools and the family.

It's been a while, ya US. When I left it was Sept 07 and every one hated the government but there was mooooney! Now I'm half-expecting to find abandoned, decaying buildings where the luxury high-rises in New York were going up. And Michigan... things weren't all that great back in the boom, and now I imagine they'd be worse. Much worse.

Anyways, ya America, looking at cha in March.

Achieving Dreams Without Shiny Hair

A couple of months ago, there was a commercial for Pantene. In it, a woman washed her hair, which became so brilliant and shiny she could change a sign reading NO WORK AVAILABLE to WORK AVAILABLE (I forget exactly what was written in Arabic - لا توجد وظيفة?). Seconds later, she emerged victoriously from the building, hair scintillating in the sun, and announced, "Now I'm a journalist!"

At the time, I scoffed.

Turns out, it might be easier than that. Even lacking shiny hair I was able to send a few emails, knock on a few doors, and a month later (it was Eid, then Christmas, then New Year's), hey! I'm writing.

It's fun. Today I got to go to the test run of the Syrian stock market. Wearing sneakers no less, because my ankle is still healing. Yesterday I chatted with a gentleman about Islamic banking. A week ago, it was pretending I know anything about art. I'm also visiting gyms and annoying sweaty ladies with my questions.

French

When I began learning Arabic oh so long ago, and would say خ for ج, or mess up case endings, or find myself resorting to complex body language when completely unable to verbally communicate, I thought fondly of French. I was never a Francophile, and thought Madame Marsh unbearable in high school, but in retrospect it was easy. I took breaks from French, a year or two, but found picking it back up again in high school or college simple. Just a quick review of the irregular verbs and voila, I was once again one of the better students in the class, annoying the others with my answering questions and writing longer essays and doing extra credit comics.

Sure, in the four years since I last took a French class, I knew I've been getting rusty. But I could easily scan a newspaper. And didn't I translate for lusty Americans and Tunisian footballers in 2006? And don't I listen to France Gall, Brigitte Bardot, and Francoise Hardy and understand them all the time? When I went to Tunisia last year and I found myself telling people over and over again, seriously, just speak to me in Arabic. It's easier. So I thought I might need to brush up on those skills a bit. That's all.

I showed up early on a Friday morning to take a placement test at the French Cultural Centre. A French woman asked me things, and I struggled to say anything back.

It's hot in here, right? she said, and I wanted to say yes, but it is cold outside. I said "Oui, mais il est .... froid... fait... il fait froid..." I pointed to the window "...burra... kharij" more pointing. Silence. (What is French for kharij!!!) Defeat.

All the words I wanted to say were there, just in Arabic.

The women nicely, and slowly, told me that even though I might do well on the written test, I showed probably go into a lower level than I test since my French is better suited for miming than actual conversation.

I'm three weeks into the class now and all I can say is damn, Syrians be speaking some French. I though what with my mother tongue being much closer to French I would be a star pupil. Instead, every time I speak I have to repeat myself at least thrice cause the teacher cannot understand me. I have by far the worst accent in the class. I know Americans and Brits are famous for our horrible French accents ("But isn't it at least a little cute, like when French have horrible English accents?" I once asked a French friend. Answer: no). And most of the Syrians in the class sound good, and the worst are at least understandable. They also know grammer. I'm doomed. My only advantage is in vocabulary, as I am very good at guessing the meanings of cognates. Though I am at a loss to explain their meaning in French.

Every time we're called on to answer a question, I think how freaking easy it would be in Arabic. Like, I could just say it.

Crutchin' Round Sham

Sham while temporally crippled is interesting. For one, I had never noticed how many stairs are required to get to most things. But the lack of accesability is tempored somewhat by how helpful people are.

If they see me waiting to cross a street, cops or guards will run over to stop traffic and carry my bag across the street. My embarrassed, "No really, I'm good. Thanks. I'm fine, thanks." doesn't dissuade. I've even had a random car stop, a husband and wife with some kids, and ask me if I need a ride.

The pity in passerbys' eyes is getting a bit annoying. I mean, I ain't walking all that badly - I'm down to once crutch. But people passing by will stare, turn their heads around, with this look that just screams, "Ya haram!"

I told Um Tareq about the looks, and she said they're probably thinking, "ya haram she's pretty and this happened!"
"So if I was ugly it would be alright."
She laughed and said no, but haram she's pretty and broken.
"People think, 'Allah ma kamala'" (God didn't finish her), which made me laugh for a good couple minutes. And again everytime I catch someone eyeing me pitiably and imagine them thinking God was on role, then got to my left leg and said, whatever.

Hidden Camera

Is there a conspiracy among Taxi drivers and embassy guards of Sham?

I was trying to find a building and asked a guard outside the Belgian Embassy. He directed, I went. When I came back he nicely asked if I had found it. Why yes, thank you.
You're from Lebanon? he asked.

The day before I caught a cab to Jeramana, who told me usually he would refuse someone going to Jeramana, but because of my crutch he would go. Thanks, I said.
"You're from Jeramana?" He couldn't possibly be asking if I'm from albalad, right?
"I live there..."
"But are you from there?"
"I'm foriegn..."
"Oh, I thought you were Syrian."

What? This is getting crazy. I fully expect the next time this happens for a crew to jump out and say, "Gotcha!" People watching at home will laugh at how I believed people actually mistook me for Syrian, Iraqi, or Lebanese. With that accent! How stupid!

Not Even a Little Syrian

I finally have an interview at the UNHCR, no mind that I'm hobbling due to a Capoeira accident the night previous. I quietly wait my turn among the other candidates, not really knowing what I'm interviewing for: the day before I had recieved a call to be at UNHCR at 10:15 and ask for Ustaz Ihsam. When it's my turn I ask my escort if we can please take the elevator - it's obvious every step is painful for me.

Once in the room I and another candidate hand the Ustaz our IDs, and are instructed we have 15 minutes to complete a test of our Microsoft Office skills. The test ends and Ihsam asks me if I have my hiwiyya (ID) with me. I tell him the passport from earlier.
"You aren't a dual national?"
"Not Syrian."
"Your heritage isn't Syrian?"
"No."
"Oh... I'm pretty sure this position is just for Syrians."
"Oh."
"Did you not write on your cv that you're foreign?"
"Uh, no, but my name isn't Arab at all, and the first thing on my cv is that I learned Arabic at the Damascus University Institute..."

He makes a call and confirms that the position is just for Syrians. "We're very sorry."
I hobble back to the reception area, where they ask me how it went.

"Doesn't matter - the position's only for Syrians."
There's a man standing near the guard who exclaims, "But you speak Syrian!"
"Thanks, but don't have the nationality."

I hobble out to a cab to go back to Jeramana. I chat a bit with the driver.
"...and then it turns out the position is only for Syrians! Like, you couldn't tell from my accent that I'm not Syrian?"
After a minute the driver asks, "Which is nicer, Syria or Iraq?
"Iraq?? What do I know about Iraq??"
"You're not Iraqi?"

When I told this to a friend, she said some people are really stupid. Maybe Lebanese, maybe, but Iraqi? Impossible.

No Negotiation

The ceasefire today, while desperately needed to get medical and other aid to Palestinians, should not be taken as any kind of compassion on Israel's part.

The unilateral ceasefire reinforces what was already made clear by the pullout of Gaza: there is no negotiation. It is how Israel says, when it says. In 2005, despite the show the Kadima party made for peace, going ahead with the Gaza pullout against much opposition, it was not a sign for peace. It was a sign, among the latest and among the clearest, that this is on their terms. This ceasefire being the latest.

Hamas (and much of the international community) has been trying to get a ceasefire called since the beginning of the aggression, and actually was in favor of continuing the previous ceasefire, which, need it be reminded, was broken by Israel on November 4th.

Why has Israel called the ceasefire? Why now? Not because it has achieved its stated objectives, of destroying Hamas or stopping the rockets, though they are claiming that as of last week, international agreements have been made to stop arming Hamas. Of course, not breaking the previous ceasefire would have been an option to preemptively stopping the rockets (yet with no deaths - strange what diplomacy can do). And actually honoring the terms of that agreement and lifting the blockade on Gaza would have been nice too. But I guess the Palestinians are just supposed to accept whatever crumbs the leaders of Israel are willing to throw their way.

It certainly was that way throughout the Oslo peace process. It lurched from undefined time table to another with the backdrop of increased settlements, as Palestinians accepted limited sovreignty in a limited number of towns, separated from one another by Israeli-controlled roads and checkpoints.

It was that way also during the Israel-Egypt peace, when Sadat acquiesed to all of Begin's demands, giving up any mention of the Palestinians. It should also be noted that this peace was made to avoid the voices that had been calling for a comprehensive Arab-Israeli peace.

Just as today the Arab peace offer has been constantly ignored by the Israelis. It is not on their terms. It may offer full recognition and normalization of relations with Arab countries, but apparently Israel would prefer to declare peace on their time, rather than negotiate it. And among the consequences of the Gaza "campaign" is taking the peace talks with Syria right off the table. Whew - that was a close one. Who can blame them really, when as we all know negotiating is an ugly process - one might be forced to give up something in exchange for something else. No, better to rest on the assurance that as long as America has its back, Israel can do whatever the fuck it wants, ignoring the international opprobrium.

I'm glad the Israeli forces are pulling back, and the bombing campaigns are stopping, and maybe the people of Gaza will have some time to breath and start rebuilding. But there will be no peace and there will be no negotiation.

Ad Hominum

I've traveled quite a bit throughout the Middle East, to places where people have good reason to be angry at America. From Egypt, where our foreign aid helps prop up a discredited and hated regime, to Lebanon, where we supported Israeli occupation of the south for some 18 years, and more recently, a war. Yet the amount of times I personally was a target of even negative remarks? Maybe twice... if you count the farmer in the countryside around Saida in Lebanon who, after giving me directions and asking where I'm from, said, "Ah America! No!" and jokingly mimed that he was pointing a weapon at the car. Then he told me about his cousin's son in New Jersey or something, and waved as we drove off. This was in 2006, a few months before the war.

The only other tme was a friend of a family I used to live with, who visited once and was very proud to tell me that he hated America and all things American. The son pushed for clarification, saying you possibly couldn't mean the people too? Yes, I mean the people. I hate them too. I won't even eat pizza.
I pointed out that pizza is Italian.
Whatever, I won't eat hamburger either!
I pointed out hamburger is German.

The man was steadfast in his hatred of Coca-Cola, the government, and the American people, but stating this hatred was the extent. And that is the one incident among almost two years total of Arab world livin' and travelin'.

From Iraqi refugees in Damacus, most of whom have had their lives and livelihoods taken away from them because of my government, I have never been cause of any negative reactions. Governments are governments, people are people, I'm told. Even when my country directly attacked Syria and people were in the streets burning my flag in anger, nothing against me personally.

So it is very sad to me that this enlightened view does not hold true in all cases. There is a lot of hostility against Syrians in parts of Lebanon. I've heard dudes saying how a car with a Syrian liscense plate in Beirut is going to be stolen or fucked with, no doubt. One of my friends who lived in Beirut the past six months told me how she had to be careful not to speak in Syrian when trying to find a job. And then there are the stories of Syrian dudes getting beat up. At one point a couple months ago I was considering relocating to Lebanon and my boyfriend expressed reservations - of course I'd be fine, as an American girl, but there might be some trouble for him, he said. I know obviously all Lebanese are not hating on the Syrian people, but it's very sad to me that there are some willing to take their anger out on people.

Good Gaza Analysis

For excellent ongoing analysis of Gaza, especially on the political debate in the U.S and cutting down Israeli justifications for the aggression, see Glenn Greenwald's blog on Salon. Yesterday, he called Thomas Friedman out for supporting the textbook definition of terrorism. He blogs about other issues as well, but his posts on Gaza have been very good and very evenhanded. If they teach you to argue like that in law school, shit, maybe I should sign up.

Over 1,000 Palestinian Dead

Since the aggression against Gaza began, we have been watching the numbers of dead and injured climb while hearing the increasingly riduculous and disgusting justifications. I don't even the NY Times articles about Gaza anymore. The best news source by far is al-Jazeera. From the first day they have been in Gaza, reporting live.

But everyday we watch less. The first few days it was constant. Now, we switch to news for updates occaisonally. I can't take more dead and wounded children. Arabic television is much more graphic than American tv; there is no sanitizing war. The cameras show tiny bodies wrapped in shawls, parents wailing, people with horrible injuries.

I haven't written much about Gaza because I really don't feel I can add anything that hasn't been stated more eloquently elsewhere. The information is out there: Israel broke the ceasefire on Nov 4. The climbing dead and wounded. Hamas wants a ceasefire. Israel doesn't, as Kadima wants to look tough before elections. How many dead will be enough? And it's not as if anything I write will convince some one set against it. On the Palestinian issue, it's rare that logic or compassion actually changes anyone's mind. The response to the enormous loss of life is "What if New York / Seattle / Dublin / Toronto / Houston / etc was fired upon daily? Wouldn't you respond if everything you've got?" Of course the counteranalogy, what if your family was forced off of its land 60 years ago into a tiny strip of land, then punished for its democratic choice by months and months of midevil seige while food and medicine ran out and then bombarded by one of the world's most technologically advanced armies? That, apparently, does not occur to American politicians because they can see themselves as Israelis, but not as Palestinians.

I have also seen some criticism of the world response to Gaza, compared to the relative silence on Congo, Darfur, and Somalia. Ideally, media and world should respond to all of these crises, though the intranational nature of these conflicts is much more complicated then: Israel - Stop bombing the fuck out of Gaza! While some of this coverage inequality may be due to racism, as well as the news cycle (Gaza is fresher), as an American I see why American media SHOULD respond to Gaza more - those are our bombs killing Palestinians. It makes me sick to watch the news, then read about American politicians' steadfastness to Israel. We will continue to support the killing of a defenseless population. We will continue giving lip service to "peace" that asks of the Palestinians consessions on top of all they have endured and rewards Israel for its blatant violation of past agreements by excising illegal settlements out of the Palestinian state.

That is all. Tomorrow more amusing anecdotes.

Why do Dudes Sing to Dudes in Arabic?

This is something that has bugged me for a while. In most Arabic music, male singers often sing to/about ostensible females, but use all male forms (Arabic differs between the male and female you as well as he/she). At first, it messed up my comprehension:
"Why is he waiting for a man with his name tattooed on his arm?"
"No, it's a woman, his lover, she has his name tattooed on her arm."
"Well then he should say eeda and not eedu!"

I'll still mistake the third-person female (she) for the second person male (same verb form in Arabic) even though the second-person male is actually supposed to be a female! It's very confusing! And just... strange. If he means a lady, why don't he talk to her like a lady? Lady singers in Arabic sing to/about men, using masculine forms.

Most of my friends who I've brought this up to don't think it's that strange. "Oh, we're used to that. All of the songs are like that." There's no confusion. Of course he's singing to a girl, even though he's saying inta and bhbak (rather than inti and bhbik). Cause there's no way he would be singing to guy.

There are notable exceptions, such as Kazim asSahir's songs based on Nizar Qabanni's poetry, as Qabanni was all about the ladies. But for the most part, it's habibi, not habibti.

Possible explanations?

1) Melody.
This is what most Syrian I ask think. Try to sing "inti ghaliyya" in the same melody as "inta ghali" (Amr Diab). Don't work. So the male forms work better with melody. I don't buy this, as the melody or words can easily be changed around. I can sing "inti helwa" perfectly in sync with Amr Diab. Arabic isn't the only language with male and female forms, and somehow the others manage to sing to/about the ladies, addressing them as ladies.

2) Eib!
An Italian friend getting her master's in Arabic literature told me this theory. In classical poetry, it was considered immodest and rude and whatever to address a lady as such, so they used male forms. The convention continues. It's possible, though I've read some pretty rude classical poetry (with both the قديب and the ماء الحسن which eminates from it).

3) Respect.
I can't remember where I heard this one first, but I definitely heard it. The poet loved his lady so much and had so much respect for her that he would write to her as a male. A sadeeq is better than a sadeeqa! A weird theory, but possible?

If anyone has any idea or other theories, help! It's been driving me crazy for a year.

Power Outages

are becoming a bit annoying. They were common during the summer, every midday (this on the authority of my roommate, as I was usually at backup-generator-powered work). This fall it seemed the power was out most mornings when I woke up, meaning I just changed my routine to shower at night.

Sometimes the power would go out at night, and I would admire the moon. I had never noticed how bright the moon is, that you can actually see things, in detail, by moonlight. That moonlight casts shadows. I noticed this while standing on the stairway next to my open door. Neighbors would pass by and look at me confusedly. I just smiled and said Hi, because explaining that an axe killer might be hiding in my apartment, waiting for a power outage as the opportune time to strike, might get me labled as crazy. With candles, things got better.

But now, power outages are not only daily but several times a day. Today, I have experienced four. The power was out when I woke up, went out at the internet cafe, went out during dinner, and went out when I went back to the internet cafe to finish my previous interrupted session.

But then the power comes back on after a half hour, hour, whatever, we turn the TV to al-Jazeera and watch Gaza coverage. And I realize I should stop my bitching - if I were to trip and injure myself on a power- and moonless night, at least the hospital would have fucking gauze. And not destroyed by a bomb or tankfire.

Iraqi Wedding

With shame, I admit that last night was the first time I have been to a wedding in Syria. While since moving to Syria I have been to a wedding in Pakistan and an engagement party here, no wedding. Early last summer my friend Saleh teased me by inviting me to an upcoming wedding, promising a good time as it would be an Allawi wedding, meaning mixed and drinks (Shami weddings are traditionally gender segregated). But the day rolled around and he was in the village and forgot about me and went and I got to hear about it later.

Last night Um Tareq suddenly announced that she and Um Qassam were going to a wedding and I should come too. This despite a day of traveling that began at 5am- my pleas of exhaustian were ignored. As were the fact that I would have to go in sneakers and less-than-formal wear, everything being packed. And that I was dirty.

"It's fine! Yalla!"

So I went. I asked who's getting married. She told me, oh, I don't know, somebody's relative, which doesn't exactly narrow it done.

The salle was a place called قصر الأميرة, Castle of the Princess, which at least to me sounds less cheesy in Arabic. It was mixed, though mostly ladies. The bride and groom were seated on a raised dance platform, her dress fanned about her. They both looked young and nervous, and for not the first time I couldn't help but think of a wedding as a vulgar affair, announcing to the world the couple's (assumed) sexual initiation. The bride wore the popular style: elaborately detailed bodice, large sweeping skirt, intricate hair, layers of makeup. Um Tareq leaned over, telling me that the bride was fat, but the groom looked neat and na'im. I told her she was a little mean and she said, what, she is fat! Look at her arms, they're full.

The bride turned out to be a relative of Um Rad, a jovial friend of Um Tareq I've met before several times. She was very interested in my joining the party, and anytime a song coaxed the seated to the floor she would grab me by the arm and drag me out there. I got a quick lesson in dancing the "Iraqi way", which involves a lot of head movements. Luckily I'm an ace at the snake so I embressed. But the star of the show was an approximately 8 year old girl, who had tricked herself out for the party: full blue dress, teased up hair with sparkles that flew and glittered in the air every time she flung her hair around. Girl got down, and enjoyed being the center of the dancing ring. The bride joined the dancing occaisonally, but the dress limited substantial movement. There was some debke, but it was nothing like the non-stop debke frenzy I experienced at a Palestinian engagement party this summer.

During dancing breaks, I chatted with some ladies, some of whom I'd met before and most I hadn't. Luckily Um Rad was there to introduce me:
"She's American but she doesn't like Bush," a sentence repeated verbatim with every introduction.
Really? American? The introducee would reply. Then would come questions about America vs. Syria and such. Sadly, Um Rad had some cake-related matters to attend to, and I was briefly left alone dancing with some ladies and their fiances and an eight-year-old without introduction. One woman said she liked how I danced and I returned the compliment.
"Oh! Are you not Syrian?" she said at my accent.
No, no, American.

I left somewhat early, due to aforementioned fatigue, but I might have to honor three engagements to really learn some Iraqi dance.

New Year's Eve in Syria

Many Syrians like to celebrate New Year's Eve like Eid al-Adha or Christmas: going out to a sahara (staying-up-late) at a restaurant, with food, drink, and a singer of varying fame. However, this year, in solidarity with Gaza, all restaurant parties were cancelled by order of the government. I heard the same happened in Lebanon but I don't have any confirmation on that.

So instead, some friends and I met up at out friends apartment and welcomed in the New Year with drinks, dancing, and fireworks. Jeramana has got to be one of the best places for New Year's because the entire neighborhood was going crazy. Baba Noel likes to visit on New Year's here, and I saw several troops of Santas with one or two helpers in animal constumes. Parents pay groups to dress up and deliver presents to their children, which I found out when the upstairs neighbors' kids started screaming in delight.

Other neighborhoods might not be as fun. My boyfriend had to take today off work - it wasn't a holiday for his office. His office is all Muslims and they director found no reason to lose a day of work. He told the director he was taking it off and his coworker told him that New Year's is a Christian holiday and if he celebrates it than he shouldn't celebrate Eid, big or little. This is a coworker who often tries to coax my boyfriend into praying with him, and when I've visited the office he asks me what I know about Islam and if I'd like to know more. "What do you think about Muhammad?"
"He's cool." I usually get out of the situation by saying my standard, "I believe all religions are paths to the same truth" thing and "Oh! look at the time!"

Dude is completely missing the point of living in a multi-confessional society, which is naturally more holidays! I personally can't wait until the number of Muslims in America reaches a critical mass meaning Eid Mubarak specials at the local mall. And no work. A Dutch friend who traveled to Libya last Christmas said there were Christmas trees for sale. Libya is essentially 100% Muslim so he asked the Christmas tree seller about it.
"He's ouir prophet too!" And so he is.
From what I've seen, most Syrians, and the government, embrace the fun of religions and enjoy themselves some breaks. And parties.

Our multiconfessional (Sunni, Shi'i, Allawi, Christian, Druze, athiest) and mulinational (Syrian, Iraqi, American - me!) group got the party started after 11. There was no countdown, instead we all ran to the balcony when we heard the fireworks going off. All the neighbors bought fireworks, from sparklers and roman candles to big ones fired from rooftops. All of Jeramana was lit up. Since we forgot to buy any, we just cheered on the others. After 12 the cellphone networks tied up as all of Syria called to wish each other kul am wa intum bekheer!