With the summer has come an influx of tourists. There are many Europeans and Iranians, though not at many Gulfis as I would have expected. The Iranians are easy to pick out if I'm in hearing range to realize I don't understand a word they're saying, or if the women are wearing chador, a garment not to popular among Damascenes. Outside Sitt Ruqayya in the old city, massive groups of 30 Iranian grandmothers will sway together, cluchting their chadors and walking like penguins due to the ravages of time on their ankles. These groups move with unstoppable single-mindedness toward their goal, the Mosque, often sweeping up bystanders too weak to fight against the grandmother wave.
The Europeans are naturally easy to pick out. They wear hats to keep the sun off, have cameras around their necks, and when I see them seem to be standing around tired, sick of the heat and somewhat overwhelmed. They also wear tank tops and shorts. While the tank top is a Damascus regular, shorts are not. Even guys don't wear shorts outside of the house except rarely. Tariq was recently chided by Sale7 for wearing shorts all the way to Mezzeh from Jeramana. "You wore shorts? To Mezzeh? Eib, ya zalameh! Eib! (Shame, dude, shame!)"
The tourists wear shorts, and whatever. Not exactly in line with local sensibilities - would it kill you to open a book or ask your tour guide what might be appropriate before you go? I think most people just look at the weather forecast and think "Short weather!" At least its not like in Cairo, where tourists would walk around downtown in tank tops and short shorts (the tank top is NOT a regular in Cairo) and wonder why people were looking at them. Or visit Upper Egypt's ancient tombs in bikini tops.
But sometimes its even better when tourists try to respect local tomes of appropriateness. I see a lot of foreign women wearing hijab, though they tend to let the front of the hair show, which is more Persian or Gulfi. I wonder what they think when they see all the Syrian women walking around without hijab. Unless you are visiting a mosque, there is no reason a foreign non-Muslim needs to be wearing hijab in Syria. You're overdoing it just a bit.
And sometimes attempts to be culturally appropriate fail miserably. I saw a family of tourists in Bab Toma where the women had tried to dress more in line with the locals and wrapped their shoulders, upper arms, and chests in a shawl. However, the women had neglected their bottom halves, and were walking around in short shorts.
The best I've heard is from my roommate who was in a restaurant in Halab when two foreign women walked in. One was wearing hijab - trying a little two hard to fit in anywhere outside of mosque in my opinion - but with shorts and a spagetti strap tank top. According to my roommate the tank was low enough that the bottom of the hijab did not meet the top of her shirt, instead, viewers were treated to cleavage. How so very wrong. It's like 20 times more offensive than just walking around in your tank and shorts.
Seriously, could that lady have thought she was wearing hijab correctly? Did she not notice that no other muhajjiba walking around complemented her wrap with exposed theigh, back, and cleavage? Seriously?
Sunday, August 10, 2008
Saturday, August 9, 2008
The Arab Version of "Moment of Truth"
There's a few channels here that play mostly American movies and tv shows, with subtitles rather than dubbing like Turkish soap operas. Two of my friends claim to have learned English from Friends. A lot of American shows also get remade into an Arab version: "The Biggest Winner", "Who Wants to Win 2 Million [Saudi Riyal]", "Star Academy" (American Idol), and "Sing For Me a Little" which is apparently based on some American show where people try to get song lyrics correct. I used to watch some of these shows back when I lived with a Syrian family. It was back when I was even worse with accents, and so I would understand the Syrian and Lebanese contest, and then have to turn to the family to ask "Gulfi says what? Morrocan says what?"
I was watching an episode of "Moment of Truth" with some friends when they announced at the end that they are looking for contestants for the Arab version. What? For those unfamiliar, "Moment of Truth" is an American television show where people tell their deeply embarrassing secrets on national TV for money. "Have you cheated on your spouse?" "Have you ever stolen money?" "Do you blame your father for this or that?" The person's family, is seated nearby listening to every questio and answer the truthfulness of which is determined by polygraph. The show is like a horrible car accident that you can not help looking at. I've seen about 3 episodes, and in each you could almost identify the moment at which the marriage is destroyed. It's amazing what these people are willing to tell the world, destroying relationships with their family and friends, for some money. One woman I saw went home with nothing after revealing some pretty personal shit and all you could feel was bad for her. It also makes Americans look like horrible shameless money-grubbers.
And now there will potentially be an Arab version. I couldn't believe it when I first heard, and asked my friends to confirm they said what I think they said. I'm having trouble imagining Arabs going on international TV to reveal their most personal secrets for money.
Americans, I have no trouble imagining this. We take insults to our honor regularly and often joyfully. I used to work as a waitress at a bar and smile nicely at men who told me things like wanting a beer with a side of me, or most eloquently, "They say girls in glasses are good in bed." They really say that, do they? Were I propositioned in this way on the street, I would have fucked a mother up. Verbally. But at work, I smiled and suggested they try chips as a better companion to beer. At the end of the night I was crowing about my $250 in tips, whoo! We have a long history of going on television to make complete asses of ourselves: remember that ancient "Newlywed Game"? And many of us Americans also don't have a very developed sense of honor or shame: Look at the kooky things we will do just for a Klondike bar. Americans also seem less beholden to theirs parents. When confronted with the gift of life bestowed by a mother and the years of care most parents giprovide their kids an American will likely say, "Fuck you. I didn't ask to be born!"
But honor is very important for many in the Arab world. Just look at how many of my girlfriends have to be in at 9 because their neighbors might talk. There are many, especially among the upperclasses, for whom is this not an issue, but those aren't exactly the type to go on a TV show diggin' for cash. If doing something private like putting on makeup (or brushing your hair) outside in the street is weird, just imagine admitting to cheating on your husband or wife on TV. And parents! People generally seem to have them in higher regard. For a lot of Americans, if your family disapproves of your dating choice, that's their problem. They need to get over it. Here, if your family disapproves you likely ain't getting married.
Of course there is no place on earth devoid of people selling themselves. Look at the prostitutes, for a very obvious example. But still, and this is probably really naive, I am having trouble wrapping my head around an Arab "Moment of Truth".
Of course my friends and I asked ourselves if we would go on such a show, with responses from "Hell no" to "Why not? I have nothing to hide." But everyone has something to hide, even if its not the worst thing in the world, there's always something we wouldn't want everyone to know. At least I hope.
Still, I am immensly excited for the this Arab "Moment of Truth", whenever it comes out.
I was watching an episode of "Moment of Truth" with some friends when they announced at the end that they are looking for contestants for the Arab version. What? For those unfamiliar, "Moment of Truth" is an American television show where people tell their deeply embarrassing secrets on national TV for money. "Have you cheated on your spouse?" "Have you ever stolen money?" "Do you blame your father for this or that?" The person's family, is seated nearby listening to every questio and answer the truthfulness of which is determined by polygraph. The show is like a horrible car accident that you can not help looking at. I've seen about 3 episodes, and in each you could almost identify the moment at which the marriage is destroyed. It's amazing what these people are willing to tell the world, destroying relationships with their family and friends, for some money. One woman I saw went home with nothing after revealing some pretty personal shit and all you could feel was bad for her. It also makes Americans look like horrible shameless money-grubbers.
And now there will potentially be an Arab version. I couldn't believe it when I first heard, and asked my friends to confirm they said what I think they said. I'm having trouble imagining Arabs going on international TV to reveal their most personal secrets for money.
Americans, I have no trouble imagining this. We take insults to our honor regularly and often joyfully. I used to work as a waitress at a bar and smile nicely at men who told me things like wanting a beer with a side of me, or most eloquently, "They say girls in glasses are good in bed." They really say that, do they? Were I propositioned in this way on the street, I would have fucked a mother up. Verbally. But at work, I smiled and suggested they try chips as a better companion to beer. At the end of the night I was crowing about my $250 in tips, whoo! We have a long history of going on television to make complete asses of ourselves: remember that ancient "Newlywed Game"? And many of us Americans also don't have a very developed sense of honor or shame: Look at the kooky things we will do just for a Klondike bar. Americans also seem less beholden to theirs parents. When confronted with the gift of life bestowed by a mother and the years of care most parents giprovide their kids an American will likely say, "Fuck you. I didn't ask to be born!"
But honor is very important for many in the Arab world. Just look at how many of my girlfriends have to be in at 9 because their neighbors might talk. There are many, especially among the upperclasses, for whom is this not an issue, but those aren't exactly the type to go on a TV show diggin' for cash. If doing something private like putting on makeup (or brushing your hair) outside in the street is weird, just imagine admitting to cheating on your husband or wife on TV. And parents! People generally seem to have them in higher regard. For a lot of Americans, if your family disapproves of your dating choice, that's their problem. They need to get over it. Here, if your family disapproves you likely ain't getting married.
Of course there is no place on earth devoid of people selling themselves. Look at the prostitutes, for a very obvious example. But still, and this is probably really naive, I am having trouble wrapping my head around an Arab "Moment of Truth".
Of course my friends and I asked ourselves if we would go on such a show, with responses from "Hell no" to "Why not? I have nothing to hide." But everyone has something to hide, even if its not the worst thing in the world, there's always something we wouldn't want everyone to know. At least I hope.
Still, I am immensly excited for the this Arab "Moment of Truth", whenever it comes out.
Thursday, August 7, 2008
Anything Strange is Shameful
I asked some friends about why a stranger would see the need to call me out about brushing my hair on a micro. Their reaction: "You brushed your HAIR on the MICRO?"
"I was running late."
"Why didn't you just brush your teeth too?"
They confirmed that it is 'Eib (Shameful) to do these things, because no one does them. I asked why no one does them, and was told because they are shameful. I see circular logic.
"So what if I'm brushing my hair?"
"People just don't do that. It's shameful."
"But why?"
"Anything strange is shameful"
Since as a foreigner I am by definition strange, I am therefor by definition shameful.
"I was running late."
"Why didn't you just brush your teeth too?"
They confirmed that it is 'Eib (Shameful) to do these things, because no one does them. I asked why no one does them, and was told because they are shameful. I see circular logic.
"So what if I'm brushing my hair?"
"People just don't do that. It's shameful."
"But why?"
"Anything strange is shameful"
Since as a foreigner I am by definition strange, I am therefor by definition shameful.
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
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.
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.
Sunday, July 27, 2008
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.
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.
Thursday, July 24, 2008
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?
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?
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
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."
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."
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