I am in a Valley

I am in a valley in terms of Arabic right now. Class is kicking my ass. To top it off, in order to get all the classes done before Eid we have class 6 days a week. Every night there are pages of readings, the new grammer is not so much explained as shouted and then we are berated for not understanding, and on top of this we are supposed to be reading a novel in the cracks of time. This is good - finally a challenge. But I do feel like concentrating on class has caused my Syrian to slide.

It's also a little annoying, being the only American in class, having to answer to the teacher's tirades against American policy. This is a strange position to find myself in, based on my own political leanings, but there's some shit I just have to clear up. Like the "America wants to make Iraq the 51st state" hypothesis.

The teacher also likes to quickly quote ancient poetry (and I mean quickly), and then looks happy when, as expected, we don't understand a word. He has also told us not to complain about the novel, he could read a 100-page novel in a day. So could I. In English.

Syria's Coming!

Syria's accepted the invitation to come to the Annapolis Peace Conference, I just read on Al-arabiyya's website. Though I would love to dwell on the implications and give my own humble opinion, I'm very busy since I have to give a freakin' two-hour presentation on this same topic Tuesday. Hopefully there's some Zionist in the class who will fight most every one else. That way, my presentation can consist of saying: "Israel. Go!" and serenely presiding over the ensuing tumult.

قصة قصيرة

كنت أنتظر رفيقي على جسر الرئيس في مطر, فكان في مطر ليومين كلهما هذا الاسبوع. ما كان عندي شمسية وكنت بردانة شوي ومبللة كثيرة. جاء اليّ شاب عمره 27 على الاكثر, واعطيني شمسيته. عرفت انّ هدفه ليس برىء. قلت له انّي لا اريد شمسيته وقال لي: بس ما عندك شيء.

. قلت: بس هالا انت ما عندك شيء
قال لي: مافي مشكلة. منين انت؟
فبدأ التغزل
قلت: من امريكا
قال اي متدهشا: امريكا؟ انت امريكية؟
قلت: اه
قال لي: انجد؟
قلت: اه
قال لي: بتحكي عربي منيحة. قديش صار لك هن؟
قلت: شهرين تقريبا
طلب مني رقمي موبيل ورفضت. طلب مني موعد الى معطم لنسف الرد. سالني لمذا وقلت له: عندي صديق, فهمت شلون؟ عندي بويفريند
قال: بدك ثاني؟
قلت: لا,مع وحد في مشاكل بكافي
فاخبرني انه في الامن واذا عندي اي مشكلة لازم اتصل به وحاول ان يعطيني رقمه فمشيت الى مكان ثاني في الجسر

Mehndi Party

The night before the wedding, it was time for a Mehndi Party!


But of course, the best designs were for the bride:

Election Tomorrow

The big news here is the Lebanese presidential election to be held tomorrow, after being delayed 4 times. The news is all ablaze on the topic, especially on the the high interest that America, France, Britain, Israel, Syria, Iran, and others have in the result. Basically (and very basically) from the multitude of Lebanese political parties there are two camps: "pro-West" and "pro-Syrian" (including Hizbollah). The two sides have to agree on a presidential candidate, who must be a Maronite Christain because of Lebanon's insane constitution. The Christians themselves are split between the two camps.

If the parliament cannot decide on one candidate tomorrow, many fear that the two camps, who are probably training and arming supporters, will form rival governments, and its 1975 all over again.

The family I live with and I watch TV together, them agreeing with various mps and ministers from the latter camp. They were impressed that I know from what sect each of Lebanon leaders must be from (President, Maronite Christian; Prime Minister, Sunni; Deputy Prime Minister, Orthodox; Speaker of Parliament, Shi'i). Abu Mazen shakes his head at this, and blame the French. "You know Lebanon used to be part of Syria. They divided us to make us weak. United we are stronger."

My New House

It have not yet been a week in my new house, so it's still growing on me. It's $10 more a month than my old place in the old city, but meals are provided. This has actually turned out to be a double-edged sword, as Um Mazen, the matriarch, has decided her goal is to fatten me. She saw me taking vitamin pills, questioned their purpose. I said, oh, it's just cause I have anemia (yes! I totally know that word!). She shook her head and said I just need to eat more. Now, every mealtime, she watches me eat, always pushing more onto me. I know this is part of Syrian culture to stuff the guest, but I think she takes it to the extreme. And the look of concern on her face also makes me think there is something more than simple hospitality.

The residents of the house are currently myself, Um Mazen, Abu Mazen, and their son Iyad. They have other sons and daughters, but they all live either in Lattakia or Britain. One of their kids got Irish nationality. I said, oh, that's funny, I do too. Not too long after they were talking about their other son, the one who's room I'm in, and how he'll be finished studying soon but wants to stay in Britain.
"Is he going to get a working visa?"
"It would be easier just to marry."
"Is he engaged to a British girl?"
"It's all the same now with the EU. Any European."
"Uh-huh."
"It wouldn't have to be a real marriage. Just on paper."
"Well, maybe he'll find a British girl."

The family's nice, except Abu Mazen has an annoying habit of talking to me like I don't know anything. There were neighbors over, and they were asking me about American politics, so I was explaining how Bush "won" in 2000, why he won in 2004, and we talked about the future election (everyone here loves Hilary). Then the conversation changed to the merits of different types of exercise. I think swimming is the best, the neighbors thought walking. At this point Abu mazen breaks in to say, "Walk-ing" and mimes walking with his hands, and says the English word. "Swim-ming" miming that action as well, though he doesn't know the English word. Everyone just kind of looks at him, because it's obvious that I knew those two words, since I had been using them in normal conversation for a good several minutes. I'm not fluent, but shit, I can get around fine in Arabic. In the morning sometimes he'll point at the various foods on the table and slowly say their names for me. Dude, you hear me speaking to you right? I know the words for cheese and bread!

The house has a hole-in-the-ground toilet, which I don't have a problem with, but I am beginning to appreciate the luxury of a western toilet. It also has no hot shower, which requires me to heat tubs of water with gas and dump them over myself. They promise they'll hook up the gas a water heater and the shower soon.

Karachi

So, what was Karachi like? In the middle of the emergency laws, no less. I have 299 pictures of Karachi, including two arial shots, but sadly my computer decided to die. Hopefully a resurrection will occur, but in the meantime I'll have to rely on my powers of description:

Um, Karachi was like, um, cool, and stuff. The frantic reporters on the news (at least that was the situation on al-Jazeera before I left) must have been stationed in Islamabad or Lahore, because I really didn't see anything. On a typical day in Cairo there are far more security forces and police on the streets than I saw in Karachi. Granted, I was mostly in an area called Defense, where the walls are high, with guards at the gates and generators to guard against failures in city power.

The days after the wedding I did get to go visit a shrine, the burial place of a sufi saint who is revered by both Sunnis and Shi'is. They were way more chill than in Arab world: no one even asked me to cover my hair. I also went to a market, where I bought some earrings for myself and little gifts for the family I have now left. I still want to be invited for Friday morning fatour, after all. I also visited a huge public park, which was gorgeous and clean.

Karachi is hot. This was nice, since Syria was cooling when I left, and has been winter ever since I got back. I am cold.

Karachi is colorful. The fabrics are amazing. I have never seen such an array of colors as I saw at the shrine and especially at the wedding. Very, very cool.

Karachi may be dangerous. The last night, the idea of walking 300-ish meters to the Crepe Factory in Defense was nixed as too dangerous. So we piled into two cars and drove. Some people I met there also carry around a "stealing phone", so that if robbed, they can hand over a phone without giving up their real phone and losing all their numbers.

In other words, I have to visit again, possibly even leave Defense or even Karachi. They say Islamabad has beautiful mountains. I have already been invited to a wedding in July!

Not Going Private

So I'm not going private, mainly because I'm too lazy to enter in the email addresses but more so because I've gotten over my bout of paranoia. It may return, however.

I'm Mistaken for Syrian

Yesterday I was walking home when a group of similarly-aged young people stopped me to ask where Sha'lan is. I happen to know, so I started to tell them.
"Oh, you aren't Syrian, are you?"
"No, but Sha'lan is..."

As they left, they said, "Merci!"

Please Just Take the Money

Saturday I was again at Saida Zeinab teaching English, and during a short break during a marathon of children, I ran out to quiet my stomach. Walking down the street, I really felt like everyone was staring at me. The boys I had just taught were all smiles, yelling "Hello Teacher!", but so were the older boys (men), whose smiles were just a bit less innocent. I bought some bread at the bakery, where the man tried to give me the bread for free.
"It's on me"
"No, no I'd rather pay."
"It's on me. You can pay next time."
"I'm not going to be here for another week."
"It's all right."
"Please just take it." I held out the coin, and finally he asquiesed, looking defeated.

Then on the ride home I was a little late so I jumped in a cab instead of walking from the garage to Shariah Baghdad. The driver and I chatted, but at my stop he refused payment. I insisted, and he accepted.

Then I was waiting to meet my teacher, and stomach hungry once again, I bought some peanuts from a dude on the street. "How much do you want?" I asked (this actually sounds polite in Arabic).
"Whatever you would like."
"Um, I want the price?"
"On my head."
"It's 10 right?"
"Yes, 10." he took the coin.

Is this supposed to be come opportunity to flirt? Seriously, just take my money.

Flying to Pakistan

I got to the Damascus Airport rather early, after being offered a ride by Anas and Mohammad, relatives of the people I used to live with (have I mentioned I moved the day after I got back from Pakistan?). Waiting, I read a bit of my short story collection, which drew the curious to ask if I was foreign, and then, how I could read Arabic.

"Can you read that?" They would ask, pointing to the open book in my hands. No, I just really like to stare at Arabic and flip pages.

One man was considerably hard to shake. After complimenting my Syrian Arabic, he attempted to get my number. Dude was mad old, by the way. I asked and found out 38 to be exact. Sorry, no number possible.
He didn't give up (all in Arabic, naturally):"Just for friends. Isn't that common in America? Boys and girls are friends in America."
"Usually they are about the same age though."
"How old are you?"
"How old do you think?"
"You look about 17." Ok, so now its even creepier. "So can I have your number? Just for friends."
"No, I have friends. Of my same age."
"What's the problem? Here, it's not weird for men of 38 to marry 20 year old girls."
"Yeah, I'm going to go to my gate now."
"Can I have your number?"
"No."
"If I ask again, will I get a different response?"
"No, same response. Bye." The last question was asked with a twinkle in the eye, as if we had been flirting and my previous no's had hints of a future yes for the persistant. I assure, there were no hints of any other answer.

At the gate I chilled with all the Saudis, many niqabis. Some women talked to me, shaking their heads when they found out that I was going to Pakistan by myself. The pity in their eyes was clear when they found out my parents live in America. When they inquired and were informed of my age (22), one said, "by God, so young!" Old enough to marry, not old enough to live far from my parents or travel by myself.

In Saudi, those going to Pakistan stayed on the plane while most deplaned, and a few joined us. So all I've I've seen of Saudi is through a plane window. Now event the airport. Back in the air, the plane was very empty. The flight attendents had all heard me speak before and now bored, a few wandered over and chatted.

In Karachi as I got off the plane, an airport employee met me and asked if was "the American." Um, yes. "Go with him, he said, pointing to another man.
"Why?" I asked with palatable fear.
"I got a call from my manager in Damascus. You are American? Go with him."
"Where are we going??"

The employee hustled me to the front of the immigration line, and I sailed through protocol. Hadi's father and sister were there to meet me, when I found out that Hadi's mom, being Syrian, is friends with the few other Syrians in Karachi, including the manager of Syrian Air in Pakistan. He had put in the call.

Before Pakistan

Getting to Pakistan was a bit of a hassle, and the reason I didn't write anything about my planned trip beforehand was that I didn't want to jinx it.

I had to find a flight, and there are very few Damascus-Karachi flights. There are none direct, in fact. Luckily Syria Air has a twice a week flight that stops in Dammam in Saudi Arabia with a less-than-an-hour layover, versus the 8 hour layovers in Doha or Abu Dhabi I was looking at if I flew another airline. I bought a ticket to leave on a Tuesday and come back on a Saturday, only missing two days of class. Yes.

Then, visa. The Pakistani embassy in Damascus requires a letter from your embassy stating that you are indeed the person your passport says you are, that you are an American citizen, and that you are allowed to travel. The American embassy refuses to do this letter since possession of a passport means all of these things. So I had to go to the American Embassy and get a copy of a letter that says they don't do letters, and give that to the Pakistani Embassy, who refused it. "We need the letter."
"Look, it says they don't do letters."

So to ease the situation along I squeezed out a few tears and wailed that it was my sister's wedding and I have to go to Pakistan. The man led me inside to talk to his boss, who asked if I was Syrian, then if my parents were Syrian, then why I spoke Arabic. But he decided to go ahead and give me a visa, as I knew they would, since Lindsey (my friend who got married) had gone through the same letter ordeal two weeks previous, and emerged with a visa.

Then I was almost all set, when Lindsey told me the wedding date changed because of all the trouble she had with the Pakistani embassy in Kuwait, and then DC. I took my ticket with "non-refundable, non-exchangable" stamped on it to the office and got it changed, without a penalty or fee or trouble.

Then I just had to convince everyone around me that I would be ok. When I told people I was going to Pakistani, they reacted, well, much the same way people in the States reacted when I told them I was going to Syria.
"Oh my god!"
"Are you going to be safe?"
"Why?"
"But its so backwards!"
"Will you have to wear hijab?" - the last question was especially ironic.

True, Pakistan has been dominating the news lately, what with the Emergency Laws and suspencion of the constitution following on the heels of Benazir Bhutto's return and two suicide bombs that killed around 150 people. But most of the protests happen in Islamabad or Lahore, it seemed, and I was going to Karachi (oh wait, the bombs were there). I actually did call Lindsey, told her I was a little nervous, but she told me it was all good. Plus, I got to stay with Hadi's (her now-husband) aunt.

But I figured it would be fine as long as I stayed away from any political rallies. And it was.

So I've Been in Pakistan...

I just got back this morning from Karachi, where I went to Lindsey and Hadi's wedding. I had left Friday. Much, much more on this later, but today I have to study for my test tomorrow.

Going Private!

I'm going private with the blog in a couple of days. If you would like to continue reading the my adventures in Syria and struggles with Arabic, email me at filledepaille@gmail.com or facebook me and I'll add you!

Moving, moving

I found a place. It's on Shariah Baghdad, close to everything. It's a family of a mother and a father and a 26-year-old son, who just graduated from law school, and is a midget. The father is a professor of law. I met the son and the father yesterday. I get the bedroom of their son who is away in Manchester.

Right now, where I am, I have pretty much complete freedom. Because there are (now) 8 girls, the family can't possibly keep track of our movements and I am able to come home whenever I want - 3am, 7am, whenever. But living with the new family, though I asked them about staying out late and they said, you know, not all the time, but sometimes, ok. As the only foreigner, I can't come and go as I please. Well, I expected that when I first came to Syria, but then I set up with my current situation. Am I ready to give up staying in Jerimana until daybreak? Old Maid marathons and movies until the sun comes up? Clubs until the wee hours? (okay, as I've done the latter twice in two months, I can safely say that will not be missed much).

But the benefit to my Arabic! All Arabic, all the time will be my new home. I'll miss the family I'm with now, but looks like I have to go ahead with it. Even if it is a whole 500 Syrian lira more a month ($10)!!!

Loves the Music

Unlike previous weekends, in which I was a loser and stayed home or came home early(I'll blame the sniffles) I actually got out. Thursday night I went out clubbing with a few friends, Tariq, Salih, and the kickboxing champion of Syria, Abud. I failed to bring my foreign girl friends along (sniffles). Three guys and a girl is not good math for getting into clubs. I asked why this was all on me, don't they know any girls?
"Yeah, but you know Syrian girls. They have to be home by 10 or 11."

We did manage to get in free at a club in one of the fancy hotels near Cham Palace (not Jetset). I have yet to pay to dance. The club was on the fourth floor, dance floor outside overlooking Qasloum Mountain. The music - occaisonally there was a respite from incessant techno, but most (not all- no one fucked with Shakira) rap or latin or Arab song was mixed with a techno beat, rendering it undanceable to me. Not to every one else there, though. What is it with Americans? The world loves techno. The Europeans students love it. Elizabeth from Zimbabwe loves it. Syrians love it. But every American, before heading out to the club goes, "Wait, is it techno?" Football and techno, two things the world loves that America just doesn't. Mindy hypothesises that, as the birthplace of rock, soul, jazz, etc., Americans just can't get down without that soul. Even the white ones.

I did get to hear some music with soul the next day at the Layna Shamyan concert. A Syrian-Armenian (when I said, really? She's Armenian? I was told: with a name like Shamyan? Are you kidding, of course!) singer with an incredible voice. It was in a theatre off Sharia Sawra not far from Souq Hammidiya. Packed to standing room. Afterwards, I bought her two CD's over Tariq's protests that I should just burn his. I like to support an artist every once in a while, especially when four cds (2 Layna, 2 promos of other artists from the label) cost the equivalent of 8 bucks. I got to sit right up in front - it was pretty amazing.