As I envoke the "liberation of men" to do childcare or other activities not considered traditionally masculine, in the back of my head I hear a conversation from several months ago, back when I was living with a Syrian family on Sharia Baghdad.
Back during the now-unimaginable February cold, I got into a 2-day, well, discussion with them.
It began innocently enough when I came home Friday at around 5pm, planning to eat and then retreat to my room with the Ghassan Kanafani play I had to write an analysis on and the Andalusian poetry I had to lead the class in the following Sunday. As per usual in the biting cold I took my meal in the sobia room, joining Iyad, the unemployed law school graduate midget (literally) and two of his friends. I ate my meal in silence, listening to their conversation. I was soon incorporated into that conversation, which began with the usual "So, how do you like Syria?" (one of the boys I had not met before) and somehow ended up on The Gays and my strange lack of revulsion to their Ways and complete willingness to let them live and marry. "But what is the point of marriage? Children!" Iyad claimed. I told him I know some gay couples with children. But how? That is impossible!
"They adopt. I know people who have done this, and they have beautiful families." That someone could love a child that did not squirm out of her vagina or result from his penile squirt some months previous was denied:"Blood is blood."
That my aunt, with two adopted children, loved them as much as "real" children was as well.
Then we landed on the women. The conversation kept me up until late into the night, preventing me from getting any work done, and spilled over well into Saturday night. One of the highlights was when Iyad denied that men have estrogen and women have testosterone. "Why would women have testosterone? It's obvious they don't. Their voices aren't low, they don't have hair." But his insistance that men do not have estrogen was even stronger. "Of course they don't! What, is it for their period?" The next day, when I returned from Sitt Zeinab and teaching English to Iraqi kids, Iyad was in the sitting room, triumphantly looking over his highschool biology textbook. He pointed me to the short passage, where it said that testosterone was the male hormone, and listed its effects on the male during puberty. Estrogen is the female hormone, with its effects. And progesterone is also a female hormone, with its effects. The complete passage was three small paragraphs - hardly what I would call comprehensive review of the complicated subject of hormones. I considered letting him believe what he wants, but instead printed out some more complete information from the internet, which identified the existance of all three hormones in both sexes and even included the gem about how while most men have more testosterone than most women, the ranges for both sexes are very wide and overlap, thus some women have more testosterone than some men.
The hormones came up because wehad been talking about the babies.
Iyad insisted that full equality was impossible, and sarcastically asked me if we should make men pregnant, because it isn't equal that women have to go though that. "That must be hard." I told him not to act like I am an idiot - naturally women have a womb, but the moment after birth why can't the man take care of the baby?
"Because they don't have attifiya (kindness and feelings) like a woman!"
Abu Mazen joined in to ask me why I was mad about this if it is what God wants. Being a mother and taking care of children is an honored and respected role. I was accused of thinking of childbearing and taking care of the home as an "insult". No, I insisted, it's not an insult, which I why I want men to be free to do childcare as well. Why should that be denied to them?
"What, you want all men to stay home and take care of children?" Iyad asked.
"No, but both parties should be free to choose what they want to do. In some families, the woman may want to take care of the children, and the man may want to work. In some families, the man may want to stay at home, and the woman may want to work. In other families, both want to or have to work so they share raising the children 50-50. What's wrong with that?"
"If the man stays home he is lazy."
This allowed me to appeal to Um Mazen, asking her if raising 6 children had been easy. She looked at me like I was crazy, saying of course not. Um Mazen was not exactly on my side during the debate, telling me several times that while girls are loved, boys are preferred. And that God loves men more than women. But at least she told her son that raising kids is not the lazy choice.
During the converstation, no one present had a problem with women working, but the problem was with men take on such a feminized role. Childcare is an honored and respected role, unless a man takes it on and then he is a lazy pussy. Of course, this is far from a Syria-specific double standard, and reflects the situation in most of the world.
But it was a fun conversation in that I was also asked several times if I hated men.
Monday, June 30, 2008
Sunday, June 29, 2008
To Save Humanity: Men Take Care of Babies
There has been conservative hand-wringing for quite some time now about the "demographic crisis" of falling European birthrates, some arguing that concurrent Muslim immigration is going to cause the downfall of Western Civilization. Often these critiques blame (white) European women for their selfishness, exhorting them to pop the babies out.
But in a NYTimes article, awesomely titled "No Babies," Russell Shorto (also an awesome name) finds that gender relations, more so than selfish, decadent European women, are a reason for low fertility.
To explain, the author compares the Netherlands and Italy, the former with less traditional views about gender roles than the latter. Geert is much more likely to change some diapers than Guiseppe, so Geert's wife is more likely to want to have more babies: "It's about how much the man participates in child care."
The article finds this true across regions, not just in Europe:
In Syria and many other "developing" countries, fertility rate is very highly inversely correlated to a women's education status and workforce participation (fertility goes down when education or working goes up). This "embracing the modern" (not a fan of that expression, but letting slide) is one of the best ways to reduce fertility in high-fertility countries, but this article suggests a tipping point of beneficiality. If these workforce changes are not supplemented by cultural changes with regards to gender roles, fertility rates will slip below replacement, and humanity will be doomed.
Thus addressing inequitable gender roles is a solution for both underpopulation and overpopulation. While women moving in traditional "male roles" of working outside the home is more and more acceptable in more places, often out of necessity, there is still widespread resistance to men moving into traditional "female roles" of child care or housework. Gender issues are often thought of as "women's issues" but this emphasizes, how realizing equality is not just about women's issues, but men's, and fighting the societal restraints upon men as well. This is a the companion to the liberation of women; the liberation of men.
Of course, whether negative population growth is inherently harmful is also up for debate. In an era where overpopulation is certainly a greater concern in most places than underpopulation, and in which we are just beginning to see the manifestations of our effect on the global climate, is less humans a bad thing? The article delves into this as well:
But in a NYTimes article, awesomely titled "No Babies," Russell Shorto (also an awesome name) finds that gender relations, more so than selfish, decadent European women, are a reason for low fertility.
“In all of these countries [mostly southern European with emphasis on traditional gender roles]," Billari said, “it’s very difficult to combine work and family. And that is partly because, within couples, we have evidence that in these countries the gender relationships are very asymmetric.”Counter to intuition, that working ladies have less babies, the article points to a study since the mid-1990s, lowest fertility levels in Europe are in countries with lowest female labor-force participation.
To explain, the author compares the Netherlands and Italy, the former with less traditional views about gender roles than the latter. Geert is much more likely to change some diapers than Guiseppe, so Geert's wife is more likely to want to have more babies: "It's about how much the man participates in child care."
The article finds this true across regions, not just in Europe:
By this logic, the worst sort of system is one that partly buys into the modern world— expanding educational and employment opportunities for women — but keeps its traditional mind-set. This would seem to define the demographic crisis that Italy, Spain and Greece find themselves in — and, perhaps, Japan, South Korea, Hong Kong, Taiwan and other parts of the world. Indeed, demographers have been surprised to find rapid fertility changes in the third world, as more and more women work and modern birth-control methods become standard options. “The earlier distinct fertility regimes, ‘developed’ and ‘developing,’ are increasingly disappearing in global comparisons of fertility levels,” according to Edward Jow-Ching Tu, a sociologist at the Hong Kong University of Science and Technology. According to the United Nations, the birthrate in 25 developing countries — including Cuba, Costa Rica, Iran, Sri Lanka and China — now stands at or below the replacement level. In some cases — notably China — the drop is explained by a concentrated effort at containing the population. In the rest, something else is happening. The lesson of southern Europe is perhaps operative: embrace the modern only partway and you put your society — women in particular — in a vise. Something has to give, and that turns out to be the future.Interesting to hear Iran put on this list, as Iran is held up as a "best practices" example within the UNFPA of how to be culturally sensitive and achieve major results in reducing population growth.
In Syria and many other "developing" countries, fertility rate is very highly inversely correlated to a women's education status and workforce participation (fertility goes down when education or working goes up). This "embracing the modern" (not a fan of that expression, but letting slide) is one of the best ways to reduce fertility in high-fertility countries, but this article suggests a tipping point of beneficiality. If these workforce changes are not supplemented by cultural changes with regards to gender roles, fertility rates will slip below replacement, and humanity will be doomed.
Thus addressing inequitable gender roles is a solution for both underpopulation and overpopulation. While women moving in traditional "male roles" of working outside the home is more and more acceptable in more places, often out of necessity, there is still widespread resistance to men moving into traditional "female roles" of child care or housework. Gender issues are often thought of as "women's issues" but this emphasizes, how realizing equality is not just about women's issues, but men's, and fighting the societal restraints upon men as well. This is a the companion to the liberation of women; the liberation of men.
Of course, whether negative population growth is inherently harmful is also up for debate. In an era where overpopulation is certainly a greater concern in most places than underpopulation, and in which we are just beginning to see the manifestations of our effect on the global climate, is less humans a bad thing? The article delves into this as well:
For there are those who argue that low birthrate in itself is not a problem at all. Paul Ehrlich, the Stanford scientist who warned us about the “population bomb” in the 1960s, is more certain than ever that the human race is catastrophically straining the planet. “It’s insane to consider low birthrate as a crisis,” he told me. “Basically every person I know in my section of the National Academy of Sciences thinks it’s wonderful that rich countries are starting to shrink their populations to sustainable levels. We have to do that because we’re wrecking our life-support systems.”
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Muslims are Similar to American Anti-Contraception Pharmacists
In the current Pharmacists-for-Life controversy in the States, on a group of pharmacists who refuse to sell birth control, some writers like to make analogies to show just how crazy these pharmacists are and how wrong it is for them to shove their beliefs down others' throats. And guess who is a great analogy for that? Muslims! And racists, naturally.
I usually like this blog, because they write some posts on international reproductive health, but I was not a big fan of this recent post from Reproductive Health Reality Check:
Earlier post from the same blog:
I usually like this blog, because they write some posts on international reproductive health, but I was not a big fan of this recent post from Reproductive Health Reality Check:
If a pharmacist refused to fill out a Viagra prescription for a black man he saw walking around with his white wife, we would have no problem seeing this behavior as bigotry, even if said pharmacist claimed that Jesus told him to do it. But if a pharmacist refuses to sell birth control pills to a woman who isn't wearing a wedding band, somehow that's legitimate religious expression, even though his rights are extending well past her nose. If Muslim pharmacists started refusing to fill out prescriptions for Christians because those Christians don't share their beliefs, we would have no problem seeing that the religious freedom pinched was that of the customer's, not the pharmacists.Because you know that's a part of Islam: refusing to give medicine to Christians. What? Sorry, where did you pull that out of?
Earlier post from the same blog:
If, however, we're going to let everyone's political beliefs or religious enthusiasms govern our important life decisions, then we must allow that any political or religious convictions can hold sway. In this case, why not permit a Muslim fundamentalist pharmacist to simply put up a sign politely explaining that his religious beliefs require him to deny a woman's prescription for any medication? No doubt Aryan pharmacists have a belief system too. Why should they be forced to violate their dearly held beliefs and serve blacks?
Because Muslims hate women? I think I remember hearing that sura, in which antibiotics and allergy medication are denied to women. It's a core religious conviction in Islam.
From Feministe:
What happens if next, pharmacists or doctors refuse to serve non-Christians? Or if it comes back to bite them in the ass when, say, a conservative male Muslim paramedic refuses to touch women? Or if religious doctors and pharmacists decide that STDs are appropriate punishments for the sexually active and refuse to fill prescriptions for treatment medicine? Or if a paramedic or doctor refuses to deliver the baby of an unmarried woman?
Cause Muslim men never touch women, and Muslim doctors don't perform thousands of procedures everyday on women. If any man did have qualms about touching women, I doubt he would become a paramedic, which I think is the point of this post: don't become a pharmacist if you can't do the freaking job.
I understand why Muslims are getting thrown into the mix, alongside Aryans (do they mean Iranians and northern Indians?) and racists. It's an attempt to expose the hypocrisy of these right-wing movements, that are all for respecting religion as long as that religion is Christianity. But claiming Muslims would deny medicine to Chrisitans or to women, is smearing Muslims based on common stereotypes:
1) that Muslims hate Christians
2) that Muslims hate women, I mean, they must since they veil them and don't let them drive and don't let them get an education and... 60 other misconceptions people have about Muslim women.
There are other analogies that could be made, such as an orthodox Jew refusing to give out condoms (according to some Talmudic interpretations, birth control is allowed for women but not for men, so pill in, condom out), but of course Jews just aren't as scary as Muslims.
Later in the Feministe post, I think they did a better job with analogy:
Wingers were all up in arms about the Somali women who wanted to wear more traditional clothing to work (even though they were still doing their jobs) and the Muslim cab drivers who wouldn’t pick up passengers who had alcohol on them, but if it’s fundamentalist Christianity that’s an excuse for not doing what you were hired to do, and if it’s women you’re refusing to help, then it’s a-ok.
This exposes the hypocrisy of the right, eager to defend the right of Christians lock-step with their views to exercise their religious views, but quick to lambast Muslims for the same. And this features actual events where Muslims felt that some aspect of their job and their beliefs were at odds, not random hypothetical that accuse Muslims of hating Christians and women. When, from personal experience, I know many who are very fond of both, especially the combination. Oohh!
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Worst Syrian Host Ever
My continued failings as a host were put into stark relief Sunday night, when Manar invited my roommate and me over for tabouleh. We arrived at 9:30, bearing Bear Beer (the highest alcohol content of any beer in Syria) and a bottle of wine. Manar welcomed us, set us up in the newly redone living room, in which they have traded out the couches for the old-style floor pads and painted the walls green. The importance of hosting cannot be emphasized more than in Manar's house, where despite only being a two-room apartment (not two bedrooms - two rooms total), the family reserves one to entertain guests.
Manar shooed her mother away, and ceremoniously brought out three bottles of wine - 2 red, 1 rose - before going to the kitchen and retrieving salad, jarjir (a green plant thing), chips and french fries. Soon the doorbell rang and it was delivery argileh! We sat down to feast and chat.
Manar said she had to invite us over because we're always inviting her over. She works right near our apartment and gets off at eight, so I often call her to come over. Sometimes I order an argileh, usually there's a beer in the fridge if she'd like, and there's hardly ever food unless I whip up some Indomi (like ramen).
This has been perhaps the hardest adjustment for me. When I go to peoples' houses I feel weird being waited upon. Now that I have a place, I know I should wait on guests, but its hard to snap out of my hard-wired American hosting: "There's a beer in the fridge," and you can go get it. Hungry? "I think there's some cheese, olive oil and zaatar." Thirsty? "There's drinkable water in the kitchen pidot." Then I sit, and as my guest gets up to walk to the kitchen I remember my role, and jump out, chasing them down the hall.
"Nooo! You! Sit down."
"It's really no problem," they protest. "I can grab the beer/bread/cup of water."
I physically block their path, yelling, "No! You are my guest! Sit down in the saloon! I will bring you water!"
"Ok," they say, now thirsty and terrified.
As a good Syrian host, I shouldn't wait for my guests to voice thirst or hunger. I should offer from the moment they walk in the door, until, in need of refreshment or not, they acquiesce. But from America I'm used to going to a friend's house, voicing my hunger, and asking if I can eat their food. "Sure, everything in the right cabinet, but not the milk or jam in the fridge cause that's my roommmate's." Then I make a solo search of the options and eat their crackers.
Manar shooed her mother away, and ceremoniously brought out three bottles of wine - 2 red, 1 rose - before going to the kitchen and retrieving salad, jarjir (a green plant thing), chips and french fries. Soon the doorbell rang and it was delivery argileh! We sat down to feast and chat.
Manar said she had to invite us over because we're always inviting her over. She works right near our apartment and gets off at eight, so I often call her to come over. Sometimes I order an argileh, usually there's a beer in the fridge if she'd like, and there's hardly ever food unless I whip up some Indomi (like ramen).
This has been perhaps the hardest adjustment for me. When I go to peoples' houses I feel weird being waited upon. Now that I have a place, I know I should wait on guests, but its hard to snap out of my hard-wired American hosting: "There's a beer in the fridge," and you can go get it. Hungry? "I think there's some cheese, olive oil and zaatar." Thirsty? "There's drinkable water in the kitchen pidot." Then I sit, and as my guest gets up to walk to the kitchen I remember my role, and jump out, chasing them down the hall.
"Nooo! You! Sit down."
"It's really no problem," they protest. "I can grab the beer/bread/cup of water."
I physically block their path, yelling, "No! You are my guest! Sit down in the saloon! I will bring you water!"
"Ok," they say, now thirsty and terrified.
As a good Syrian host, I shouldn't wait for my guests to voice thirst or hunger. I should offer from the moment they walk in the door, until, in need of refreshment or not, they acquiesce. But from America I'm used to going to a friend's house, voicing my hunger, and asking if I can eat their food. "Sure, everything in the right cabinet, but not the milk or jam in the fridge cause that's my roommmate's." Then I make a solo search of the options and eat their crackers.
Sunday, June 22, 2008
Phone Calls
About a month ago a strange number called me on my cell, saying he was from the simsar's office and asking me how I was doing. He knew my name, but was a young guy, not the old man that handed me the keys to my apartment three months ago. He asked how I was doing and if he could come over, while I was cagey and refused. His name was Ra'id, and I know of no other Ra'id than my friend over on Rowda. "Why do you want to visit?"
"To see how you are doing."
"I'm fine, thanks."
"Can I come over."
"No. Who are you?"
"I'm Ra'id, from the office."
"I don't need anything from the office."
"Do you like the apartment?"
"Yes."
"Can I visit?"
"No."
"Why?"
"Why do you want to visit?"
"To see how you are. Just to visit."
"I don't know you. No."
"You're on the second floor right?"
After wasting his minutes more, he finally didn't call back when I hung up again.
Strange phone calls from strangers are not uncommon. Often someone will call a wrong number, and if a girl answers, they keep calling back trying to get a date. My friends have confirmed this happens to them all the time, so it doesn't have to do with my foreignness, just my ladyness, but in an attempt to not get me to hang up they always bring it up:
"Allo?" I say
"Marhaba."
"marhabtayn. Who is this?"
Sometimes they say their name, often they just ask for some one who I am not.
"Sorry, wrong number."
"Where are you from?"
After the call has ended, the guy calls back, to let me know that I have a pretty voice and where am I from? Am I a student? I hang up. They call back.
They call back the next day. They call back at 1am. And again the next day. I finally hand the phone to a male friend standing nearby, who bitches them out for me, identifying himself as my khateeb.
Sometimes the guy tries to speak to me in English, producing sentences like: "You voice nice."
Sometimes the English is a bit better, and they try to pass themselves off to me as another foreigner. "I am American too. Why don't we talk?" as if I'm not going to detect the Syrian-accented English or be unable to identify another American. I told him, in Arabic, that I didn't want to talk with him and he was an asshole. "What? I don't understand. Speak English." This was only the second time that particular guy had called back, but I was standing next to a friend, so I handed him the phone. He invoked the man's sister's genitals in a disrespectful manner, but the man just kept repeating, "I don't understand. Speak English. What?"
But at least he didn't call back.
According to some guy friends, some of these calls are not the result of wrong numbers, but bored guys sitting around dialing random numbers until a girl picks up. I don't really know what they are expecting to get out of this: BINGO! Got a girl! I'm sure she'll want to go on a date with a complete stranger who keeps calling her! I mean, maybe there's a glimmer of hope the first time, but after that, really, what are you thinking? That if you call me at 1am I'll be happy, put on some pants, and come over to your parents' house for some lovin?
"To see how you are doing."
"I'm fine, thanks."
"Can I come over."
"No. Who are you?"
"I'm Ra'id, from the office."
"I don't need anything from the office."
"Do you like the apartment?"
"Yes."
"Can I visit?"
"No."
"Why?"
"Why do you want to visit?"
"To see how you are. Just to visit."
"I don't know you. No."
"You're on the second floor right?"
After wasting his minutes more, he finally didn't call back when I hung up again.
Strange phone calls from strangers are not uncommon. Often someone will call a wrong number, and if a girl answers, they keep calling back trying to get a date. My friends have confirmed this happens to them all the time, so it doesn't have to do with my foreignness, just my ladyness, but in an attempt to not get me to hang up they always bring it up:
"Allo?" I say
"Marhaba."
"marhabtayn. Who is this?"
Sometimes they say their name, often they just ask for some one who I am not.
"Sorry, wrong number."
"Where are you from?"
After the call has ended, the guy calls back, to let me know that I have a pretty voice and where am I from? Am I a student? I hang up. They call back.
They call back the next day. They call back at 1am. And again the next day. I finally hand the phone to a male friend standing nearby, who bitches them out for me, identifying himself as my khateeb.
Sometimes the guy tries to speak to me in English, producing sentences like: "You voice nice."
Sometimes the English is a bit better, and they try to pass themselves off to me as another foreigner. "I am American too. Why don't we talk?" as if I'm not going to detect the Syrian-accented English or be unable to identify another American. I told him, in Arabic, that I didn't want to talk with him and he was an asshole. "What? I don't understand. Speak English." This was only the second time that particular guy had called back, but I was standing next to a friend, so I handed him the phone. He invoked the man's sister's genitals in a disrespectful manner, but the man just kept repeating, "I don't understand. Speak English. What?"
But at least he didn't call back.
According to some guy friends, some of these calls are not the result of wrong numbers, but bored guys sitting around dialing random numbers until a girl picks up. I don't really know what they are expecting to get out of this: BINGO! Got a girl! I'm sure she'll want to go on a date with a complete stranger who keeps calling her! I mean, maybe there's a glimmer of hope the first time, but after that, really, what are you thinking? That if you call me at 1am I'll be happy, put on some pants, and come over to your parents' house for some lovin?
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Noor and Awkward Moments
There's an almost daily battle now between watching Noor and watching the Eurocup. Noor is a Turkish muselel (Gumus) that's been dubbed into Syrian Arabic, and while I could claim I watch it for the Arabic, the truer reason is probably:
Kivanç Tatlitug is the most attractive man on the entire planet. I should've studied Turkish, at least so I could just pronounce his name.
The problem is its on daily at 10, right during matches. I can watch a match and then rush home after work to catch the 5pm replaying the next day. Truth be told, while I am a fan of football my viewing is along the same lines: though I'm for the Nederlands (having been a fan since living there for a bit as a kid en ik kan nog steeds een beetje nederlands spreken) it becomes "The Italians are playing? Fuck the Dutch!"
Noor's been winning most nights as I can just turn on my TV, while watching a match means going over to a friends house who's bought the al-jazeera special sports channels.
And compared to a draw at zero, Noor is very exciting: Noor is married to Mohanet (pictured), who just discovered that his previous lover didn't die in a car accident years ago but instead is paralyzed AND has a toddler who is his son. Noor just found out and left, with her grandmother who is living in the same house with Noor, Mohanet, and Mohanet's sister, mother, and grandfather, but walking out the door Noor's grandmother had a stroke so Noor couldn't leave and instead she and Mohanet are pretending everything's ok for the grandmother's sake but really Noor wants a divorce. Meanwhile, Mohanet's Aunt remarried secretly after divorcing her douche husband Tariq but her new husband's daughter won't accept her. And there's something about drugs and newspapers.
Watching the episode where Noor has her suspicions after finding out Mohanet wasn't at work when he said he was (instead he was playing with his newly discovered son and sharing shy glances with his wheelchair bound former sweetheart) with roommate Michelle, some friends and their mother, the mother jokingly said, "He should just marry the other one too! Problem solved!"
Her daughter was shocked, "They're Muslim?" The characters don't come across as terribly pious with their penchant for unwinding with some booze in the grandfather's study, but I'm not one to judge.
"Of course they are; they're Turkish."
"But who could share him (Mohanet)?"
"God I know," I added "impossible!"
We all pretty much put in our thoughts that another wife would be unbearable, the son said he thought no one would be able to share a spouse, to which the mom reminded us she is the second wife of a Lebanese man. "I know he's with the other woman, so what?"
Then it was awkwardly silent and we concentrated on Noor's distraught wanderings through the streets of Istanbul.
Kivanç Tatlitug is the most attractive man on the entire planet. I should've studied Turkish, at least so I could just pronounce his name.
The problem is its on daily at 10, right during matches. I can watch a match and then rush home after work to catch the 5pm replaying the next day. Truth be told, while I am a fan of football my viewing is along the same lines: though I'm for the Nederlands (having been a fan since living there for a bit as a kid en ik kan nog steeds een beetje nederlands spreken) it becomes "The Italians are playing? Fuck the Dutch!"
Noor's been winning most nights as I can just turn on my TV, while watching a match means going over to a friends house who's bought the al-jazeera special sports channels.
And compared to a draw at zero, Noor is very exciting: Noor is married to Mohanet (pictured), who just discovered that his previous lover didn't die in a car accident years ago but instead is paralyzed AND has a toddler who is his son. Noor just found out and left, with her grandmother who is living in the same house with Noor, Mohanet, and Mohanet's sister, mother, and grandfather, but walking out the door Noor's grandmother had a stroke so Noor couldn't leave and instead she and Mohanet are pretending everything's ok for the grandmother's sake but really Noor wants a divorce. Meanwhile, Mohanet's Aunt remarried secretly after divorcing her douche husband Tariq but her new husband's daughter won't accept her. And there's something about drugs and newspapers.
Watching the episode where Noor has her suspicions after finding out Mohanet wasn't at work when he said he was (instead he was playing with his newly discovered son and sharing shy glances with his wheelchair bound former sweetheart) with roommate Michelle, some friends and their mother, the mother jokingly said, "He should just marry the other one too! Problem solved!"
Her daughter was shocked, "They're Muslim?" The characters don't come across as terribly pious with their penchant for unwinding with some booze in the grandfather's study, but I'm not one to judge.
"Of course they are; they're Turkish."
"But who could share him (Mohanet)?"
"God I know," I added "impossible!"
We all pretty much put in our thoughts that another wife would be unbearable, the son said he thought no one would be able to share a spouse, to which the mom reminded us she is the second wife of a Lebanese man. "I know he's with the other woman, so what?"
Then it was awkwardly silent and we concentrated on Noor's distraught wanderings through the streets of Istanbul.
Monday, June 16, 2008
Red Wings Won the Stanley Cup!
On June 4th. And I totally missed it. Growing up, the Detroit Red Wings were my second-most beloved team, right behind the Michigan State Spartans. Luckily they rewarded my family's devotion with several Stanley Cups, the last one when I was in highschool.
I seriously live on the moon. Why has no one told me about this? My dad emailed me with my brothers' graduation pics, but no hockey news. My mother let me know when Hillary dropped out, as if that wasn't on the news here, but no hockey news. Why did my dad and I spend yesterday talking about the Netherlands-France game in the Eurocup, but for the last several months no one mentioned the Red Wings were in the playoffs and then WON THE FREAKIN' STANLEY CUP?
I realize I could have gone online and followed this myself, but hockey is one of those things that slips that mind when one leaves Michigan for the Arab World. When I was laboring over some Arabic poetry from the Middle Ages, hockey didn't occur to me, nor when I was writing materials for UNFPA on the UN Syria website. This is why people have parents and friends from highschool: to let them know about hockey.
I seriously live on the moon. Why has no one told me about this? My dad emailed me with my brothers' graduation pics, but no hockey news. My mother let me know when Hillary dropped out, as if that wasn't on the news here, but no hockey news. Why did my dad and I spend yesterday talking about the Netherlands-France game in the Eurocup, but for the last several months no one mentioned the Red Wings were in the playoffs and then WON THE FREAKIN' STANLEY CUP?
I realize I could have gone online and followed this myself, but hockey is one of those things that slips that mind when one leaves Michigan for the Arab World. When I was laboring over some Arabic poetry from the Middle Ages, hockey didn't occur to me, nor when I was writing materials for UNFPA on the UN Syria website. This is why people have parents and friends from highschool: to let them know about hockey.
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Weekend Getaway
My friend Rachel is leaving Sham after a somewhat disappointing 9-month stay, returning to where truly calls her heart, Nicaragua. But for her last weekend she decided to get in her favorite part of Syria one last time, which is traveling. She and my roommate Michelle have taken off to Tartous just to eat at one of their favorite restaurants, walk around the corniche, then return by bus (more than 3 hours each way).
So Friday morning we were out the door and on a bus bound for Lattakia by 9am. Four hours later during which I demonstrated by superhuman ability to sleep on buses, we arrived. A taxi wanted 50 lira to take us to the karaj where we could catch a micro to the Blue Beach, or 150 to take us the beach directly. We opted for the former, but as we got closer to town he tried to convince us otherwise.
"The micro is 15 each, that's 45. With the taxi its basically 100. Why not just go straight for only 50 extra?"
"Only 50? That's an entire beer!" I chipped in from the back. He laughed and took us straight to the beach for 100.
At the public beach we bought beers, some grub, planted ourselves under the shade of an umbrella, and stripped, taking the nearby girl-in-bikini as a sign that we could discard without 'Eib. None of us actually with suits, we changed instead into sundresses, shorts, sportbras, tank tops, and skirts. There was a moment of hesitation before taking the plunge, "Lattakia is more open, Lattakia is more open".
Every once in a while guys came over and annoyed us, one asking for my contact solution. Symphathizing with another contact wearer, I let him borrow, only to see him and his friends start to wash their hands with it. He had tried to chat us up when he borrowed it - "I have three friends, you are three. Do you have a car? We have a car. We should travel together. Your Arabic is good." - so I marched over and asked if he knew what the solution was. "Yes."
"Do you know what it is?"
"Yes."
"then what is it?"
"Hand - oxygen..."
"Its for contacts. Eyes." I grabbed it and walked back.
I hadn't been back to Lattakia since two years ago when it was a stop on my week-and-a-half Grand Solo Tour of Syria. What I remember as a construction sight two years ago are now luxury apartments close to the water. But the city still feels laid-back with a sea breeze coming in over the water and girls walking around in strapless dresses.
We stayed at the same hostel I had two years ago as well. In the morning, Rachel and Michelle continued on to Aleppo, Rachel's favorite city in Syria. I got back on a bus for Sham, cause I got laundry and work Sunday morning.
So Friday morning we were out the door and on a bus bound for Lattakia by 9am. Four hours later during which I demonstrated by superhuman ability to sleep on buses, we arrived. A taxi wanted 50 lira to take us to the karaj where we could catch a micro to the Blue Beach, or 150 to take us the beach directly. We opted for the former, but as we got closer to town he tried to convince us otherwise.
"The micro is 15 each, that's 45. With the taxi its basically 100. Why not just go straight for only 50 extra?"
"Only 50? That's an entire beer!" I chipped in from the back. He laughed and took us straight to the beach for 100.
At the public beach we bought beers, some grub, planted ourselves under the shade of an umbrella, and stripped, taking the nearby girl-in-bikini as a sign that we could discard without 'Eib. None of us actually with suits, we changed instead into sundresses, shorts, sportbras, tank tops, and skirts. There was a moment of hesitation before taking the plunge, "Lattakia is more open, Lattakia is more open".
Every once in a while guys came over and annoyed us, one asking for my contact solution. Symphathizing with another contact wearer, I let him borrow, only to see him and his friends start to wash their hands with it. He had tried to chat us up when he borrowed it - "I have three friends, you are three. Do you have a car? We have a car. We should travel together. Your Arabic is good." - so I marched over and asked if he knew what the solution was. "Yes."
"Do you know what it is?"
"Yes."
"then what is it?"
"Hand - oxygen..."
"Its for contacts. Eyes." I grabbed it and walked back.
I hadn't been back to Lattakia since two years ago when it was a stop on my week-and-a-half Grand Solo Tour of Syria. What I remember as a construction sight two years ago are now luxury apartments close to the water. But the city still feels laid-back with a sea breeze coming in over the water and girls walking around in strapless dresses.
We stayed at the same hostel I had two years ago as well. In the morning, Rachel and Michelle continued on to Aleppo, Rachel's favorite city in Syria. I got back on a bus for Sham, cause I got laundry and work Sunday morning.
Thursday, June 12, 2008
Rent Smack Down
My roommate is in awe of me since last night, an appreciation so great I might be able to avoid washing dishes or sweeping our eternally dirty balcony for a week. I have saved the house.
Two days ago, our Homsi landlord Abu Yallis called to let us know rent was due. Our apartment, beautifully situated in Jerimana on the main street, is paid for tri-monthly out of a curtesy to Abu Yallis and his not wanting to come down to Damascus every month. This is our first payment since the initial. I told him we would need a few days to get the money together, due to the daily limits my bank places on ATM withdrawal.
He said we need to talk about "ziyadeh" (extra) for the summer. No I told him, there is no extra. We agreed to meet last evening to pay.
The night before last the simsar (real estate guy) who had hooked us up with the apartment showed up on our doorstep, ringing the bell at 11:00pm. Who shows up at 11:00pm at a strangers house without at least calling ahead? Furthermore, who goes to a house where they know two women live alone at 11:00pm? To talk business? Dude's Syrian, he knows the rules and he would have never done that to two Syrian girls living alone (while rare, they exist. I met two medical students from Deraa sharing an apartment in Mezzeh). He asks if Abu Yallis has been by about the rent yet, I say no, he asks about renewing the rent contract. No I say. I'm going to sleep.
Abu Yallis comes over yesterday, checks the electricity, remarks that we are very good with not wasting power, since our bill is half of what the previous tenants were paying. Before he came I had been powwowing with my roommate, determined not to pay a cent over the agreed amount. "Let's practice again," I cojole her, "ma byseer! mustaheel!" (no way, imposssible!)
Abu Yallis and I go around for a good 20 minutes cause he says we need to renew the contract, and we have to pay a simsar (a different one) 1000 lira for this. I question him what the money's for, and apparently its because we're foreign. I mention how we're only paying rent, not renewing the contract, but am told they need a record that we're still in the apartment. I cave. The simsar comes over, draws up the contract, and Abu Yallis asks for the money.
54,000 lira right, 18 a month? I say. No, no, no, he shakes his head. There's ziyadeh because of the summer. How is summer more, I ask, since we pay electricity seperate?
"Because its summer. There's a summer rate and a winter rate." 3 months ago, there was no mention of this when we got the place. "I could rent this place out today to a guy ready to pay 25,000 a month 6 months in advance." He doesn't name what he expects this ziadeh to be. he also tells us the Iraqis before us were paying 30,000 a month.
I tell him prices have gone down since a lot of Iraqis are leaving. I seriously doubt he has a man ready to move in today. I tell him that I will pay what we agreed upon three months ago. He tells me its summer: "I could get 25,000. I'm not asking for that, but I have to benefit." He says he told the simsar office that naturally prices would go up in the summer.
"You didn't tell me that."
"That's not my fault. When you go the place I asked if you could pay 6 months in advance, and you said you could. But I only took three. If the price was going to stay the same, why wouldn't I have taken all 6?"
"This place was already a lot more expensive than any other place I saw. I only took it for the balcony. But I can live without one. I would not have taken it if I knew about a 'summer price'".
I finally ask him how much ziyadeh we're talking about here. He repeats about how he could get 25,000, and he's not asking for that, but he's looking to benefit. The simsar, quiet during our debate, has stopped filling out the contract renewal forma and steps in to mediate. "So there's 18 and 25. Let's meet in the middle?"
"What like 22?"
"ok, 22." Simsar says.
"MA BYSEER! I prefer to move!"
The simsar and Abu Yallis tell us we don't really want to move, its tiring and hard, and we're girls, and we'll have to pay 5,000 at least to a new simsar. He tells me to go try to find a cheaper apartment.
"Of course! I'll just get off the main street. We'll save more money paying the simsar 5 once and having a cheaper apartment than paying 22 every month!"
At one point I stormed off to my room next to the salon and started throwing clothes into an open suitcase. Then I remembered that grown-ups do not solve problems by making scenes. I returned and sat next to my silent roommate, smoothing my skirt with propriety.
We went around. The price got lowered to 20. "Mustaheel! No," I said. "We agreed on a price. We'll pay the price, or we'll move. And what does girls have to do with it?"
"You're going to fight over 2000 lira?"
"This apartment is already more expensive than I could get. 18 was expensive. And what will happen after three months?"
"You can leave then if you want, or you can stay."
"So why not leave now and save money? How much is the price going to be next time?"
"It'll stay the summer price."
"MA BYSEER ABADAN! Summer will be over. ma byseer."
There was a long silence. I broke it. "Alright. By when do we have our stuff cleared out?"
There was no answer, and I thought to myself I had called Abu Yallis' bluff. He finally agreed to take the 18, citing pity and the fact that we were girls. Call it what you will Abu Yallis, but we met in the staring contest of life and you blinked.
In the post-game analysis over a game of trex with friends, who were all very proud of me, I was told that he had a right to try to get more money. "If he can get more, why shouldn't he? It's a game." A game that I won.
Two days ago, our Homsi landlord Abu Yallis called to let us know rent was due. Our apartment, beautifully situated in Jerimana on the main street, is paid for tri-monthly out of a curtesy to Abu Yallis and his not wanting to come down to Damascus every month. This is our first payment since the initial. I told him we would need a few days to get the money together, due to the daily limits my bank places on ATM withdrawal.
He said we need to talk about "ziyadeh" (extra) for the summer. No I told him, there is no extra. We agreed to meet last evening to pay.
The night before last the simsar (real estate guy) who had hooked us up with the apartment showed up on our doorstep, ringing the bell at 11:00pm. Who shows up at 11:00pm at a strangers house without at least calling ahead? Furthermore, who goes to a house where they know two women live alone at 11:00pm? To talk business? Dude's Syrian, he knows the rules and he would have never done that to two Syrian girls living alone (while rare, they exist. I met two medical students from Deraa sharing an apartment in Mezzeh). He asks if Abu Yallis has been by about the rent yet, I say no, he asks about renewing the rent contract. No I say. I'm going to sleep.
Abu Yallis comes over yesterday, checks the electricity, remarks that we are very good with not wasting power, since our bill is half of what the previous tenants were paying. Before he came I had been powwowing with my roommate, determined not to pay a cent over the agreed amount. "Let's practice again," I cojole her, "ma byseer! mustaheel!" (no way, imposssible!)
Abu Yallis and I go around for a good 20 minutes cause he says we need to renew the contract, and we have to pay a simsar (a different one) 1000 lira for this. I question him what the money's for, and apparently its because we're foreign. I mention how we're only paying rent, not renewing the contract, but am told they need a record that we're still in the apartment. I cave. The simsar comes over, draws up the contract, and Abu Yallis asks for the money.
54,000 lira right, 18 a month? I say. No, no, no, he shakes his head. There's ziyadeh because of the summer. How is summer more, I ask, since we pay electricity seperate?
"Because its summer. There's a summer rate and a winter rate." 3 months ago, there was no mention of this when we got the place. "I could rent this place out today to a guy ready to pay 25,000 a month 6 months in advance." He doesn't name what he expects this ziadeh to be. he also tells us the Iraqis before us were paying 30,000 a month.
I tell him prices have gone down since a lot of Iraqis are leaving. I seriously doubt he has a man ready to move in today. I tell him that I will pay what we agreed upon three months ago. He tells me its summer: "I could get 25,000. I'm not asking for that, but I have to benefit." He says he told the simsar office that naturally prices would go up in the summer.
"You didn't tell me that."
"That's not my fault. When you go the place I asked if you could pay 6 months in advance, and you said you could. But I only took three. If the price was going to stay the same, why wouldn't I have taken all 6?"
"This place was already a lot more expensive than any other place I saw. I only took it for the balcony. But I can live without one. I would not have taken it if I knew about a 'summer price'".
I finally ask him how much ziyadeh we're talking about here. He repeats about how he could get 25,000, and he's not asking for that, but he's looking to benefit. The simsar, quiet during our debate, has stopped filling out the contract renewal forma and steps in to mediate. "So there's 18 and 25. Let's meet in the middle?"
"What like 22?"
"ok, 22." Simsar says.
"MA BYSEER! I prefer to move!"
The simsar and Abu Yallis tell us we don't really want to move, its tiring and hard, and we're girls, and we'll have to pay 5,000 at least to a new simsar. He tells me to go try to find a cheaper apartment.
"Of course! I'll just get off the main street. We'll save more money paying the simsar 5 once and having a cheaper apartment than paying 22 every month!"
At one point I stormed off to my room next to the salon and started throwing clothes into an open suitcase. Then I remembered that grown-ups do not solve problems by making scenes. I returned and sat next to my silent roommate, smoothing my skirt with propriety.
We went around. The price got lowered to 20. "Mustaheel! No," I said. "We agreed on a price. We'll pay the price, or we'll move. And what does girls have to do with it?"
"You're going to fight over 2000 lira?"
"This apartment is already more expensive than I could get. 18 was expensive. And what will happen after three months?"
"You can leave then if you want, or you can stay."
"So why not leave now and save money? How much is the price going to be next time?"
"It'll stay the summer price."
"MA BYSEER ABADAN! Summer will be over. ma byseer."
There was a long silence. I broke it. "Alright. By when do we have our stuff cleared out?"
There was no answer, and I thought to myself I had called Abu Yallis' bluff. He finally agreed to take the 18, citing pity and the fact that we were girls. Call it what you will Abu Yallis, but we met in the staring contest of life and you blinked.
In the post-game analysis over a game of trex with friends, who were all very proud of me, I was told that he had a right to try to get more money. "If he can get more, why shouldn't he? It's a game." A game that I won.
Sunday, June 8, 2008
Humped
Thursday night I was attacked. I was pretty tired from my week of pre-7am rising, and wanted to clear my head, so I went for a walk. While the main streets in Jerimana are bustling at almost all hours, you don't have to walk too far to hit farms and a little desolation. I needed to get away from noise and people for a bit. I walked this way before at 11pm with some friends, including guys. It wasn't yet 8:30 pm when I left home.
I was walking along a road near a field. There are small farms and the occaisonal apartment building on this road, with the lights of Jerimana not far behind me. While not busy, there were cars, bikes, and other walkers passing by in frequent intervals. I walked next to a pile of dirt and a young man, who had been crouched behind it, started walking very quickly towards me, when a car turned the corner and man's pace relaxed. I yelled at him, "What are you doing? What was that?" and kept walking, thinking maybe I had misinterpreted the situation. A second car, behind the first, passed and the man came running at me. I started yelling at him to leave me alone, and when he got near hit him with my bag and tried to aim for his face with my other hand. He tried to kiss me, and though I managed to prevent that, I got humped as he tried to grope things, when the headlights of a car came up the road. He ran, grabbing his bike that he had hidden alongside the road.
I flagged down the car, a taxi with a man sitting next to the driver. Clearly shaken and freaked out, I yelled that the guy on the bike attacked me.
"Why are you walking by yourself?"
I said I was going to a friends house, but thinking "Why does that fucking matter?" They invited me to get in the car and I thought they would try to catch up with bikeattacker, but instead they just questioned me why I was out by myself, where I lived, and what the guy had taken from me. "Did he take your wallet? your bag?"
"He didn't take anything, he attacked me."
"But he didn't take anything?"
"No, he attacked me."
The passenger muttered "harassement," as though I were silly to get so worked up over it. I got out of the car at the beginning of the road, where the streets were bustling.
I felt like maybe I shouldn't have been walking alone. It's strange that the first time I go walking by myself in a non busy area I get attacked. Everyone likes to talk about how safe Syria is, and not that my one little incident negates the true general low incidence of crime and especially violent crime, but for all the years I've lived in the horribly unsafe and crimeridden (according to popular opinion) States nothing like that has ever happened to me. Running through much more desolate areas of Michigan pre-dawn or after nightfall in sportsbra and shorts, walking home from the subway to my apartments in Brooklyn and Long Island City at 3am: nothing.
Friday afternoon I had some friends over and some one made the whole Syria is completely safe argument, to which I told what happened the night before. The guys were flabbergasted, saying that was a weird thing that hardly ever happens. They also could not believe that the men in the car had reacted like that, saying that most Syrian guys would chase the guy down. "Syrians love to be heroes." It was suggested that I return to the same spot and walk around as bait, while two of my guyfriends hide in the bushes so they can get anyone who messes with me.
The ladies present refuted the idea that this shit is rare, with examples. Not that some one full on attacking is common, but harrassment (not meaning verbal. Verbal harrassment or catcalling is talteesh, while if its physical it is taharrosh)
I was heartened though, when I pointed out that it had only been 9pm and Tariq said, "That doesn't matter. You should be able to walk around at 2am naked without being attacked."
I don't mean this post to reinforce the stereotype that Arab men are sex-starved maniacs. Obviously the vast majority of men do not attempt to hump women on the street. But there there is a lack of awareness about harrassment among guys. When one of my friends refused to believe that this kind of stuff happens more than "hardly ever" he said he'd never heard of such an incidence before tonight. Really? How often do you hang out with girls and how often would they be comfortable talking about it to you? He then cast a critical eye on several of Manar's anecdotes, because she said this had happened to her cousin, that to her friend. "Syrians exaggerate. A guy says he saw a hat with 4 colors and after a month the hat had 200 colors." He also said it was women's fault for not making a bigger scene when something like this happens.
I'm just feeling very pissed off about the incident.
I was walking along a road near a field. There are small farms and the occaisonal apartment building on this road, with the lights of Jerimana not far behind me. While not busy, there were cars, bikes, and other walkers passing by in frequent intervals. I walked next to a pile of dirt and a young man, who had been crouched behind it, started walking very quickly towards me, when a car turned the corner and man's pace relaxed. I yelled at him, "What are you doing? What was that?" and kept walking, thinking maybe I had misinterpreted the situation. A second car, behind the first, passed and the man came running at me. I started yelling at him to leave me alone, and when he got near hit him with my bag and tried to aim for his face with my other hand. He tried to kiss me, and though I managed to prevent that, I got humped as he tried to grope things, when the headlights of a car came up the road. He ran, grabbing his bike that he had hidden alongside the road.
I flagged down the car, a taxi with a man sitting next to the driver. Clearly shaken and freaked out, I yelled that the guy on the bike attacked me.
"Why are you walking by yourself?"
I said I was going to a friends house, but thinking "Why does that fucking matter?" They invited me to get in the car and I thought they would try to catch up with bikeattacker, but instead they just questioned me why I was out by myself, where I lived, and what the guy had taken from me. "Did he take your wallet? your bag?"
"He didn't take anything, he attacked me."
"But he didn't take anything?"
"No, he attacked me."
The passenger muttered "harassement," as though I were silly to get so worked up over it. I got out of the car at the beginning of the road, where the streets were bustling.
I felt like maybe I shouldn't have been walking alone. It's strange that the first time I go walking by myself in a non busy area I get attacked. Everyone likes to talk about how safe Syria is, and not that my one little incident negates the true general low incidence of crime and especially violent crime, but for all the years I've lived in the horribly unsafe and crimeridden (according to popular opinion) States nothing like that has ever happened to me. Running through much more desolate areas of Michigan pre-dawn or after nightfall in sportsbra and shorts, walking home from the subway to my apartments in Brooklyn and Long Island City at 3am: nothing.
Friday afternoon I had some friends over and some one made the whole Syria is completely safe argument, to which I told what happened the night before. The guys were flabbergasted, saying that was a weird thing that hardly ever happens. They also could not believe that the men in the car had reacted like that, saying that most Syrian guys would chase the guy down. "Syrians love to be heroes." It was suggested that I return to the same spot and walk around as bait, while two of my guyfriends hide in the bushes so they can get anyone who messes with me.
The ladies present refuted the idea that this shit is rare, with examples. Not that some one full on attacking is common, but harrassment (not meaning verbal. Verbal harrassment or catcalling is talteesh, while if its physical it is taharrosh)
I was heartened though, when I pointed out that it had only been 9pm and Tariq said, "That doesn't matter. You should be able to walk around at 2am naked without being attacked."
I don't mean this post to reinforce the stereotype that Arab men are sex-starved maniacs. Obviously the vast majority of men do not attempt to hump women on the street. But there there is a lack of awareness about harrassment among guys. When one of my friends refused to believe that this kind of stuff happens more than "hardly ever" he said he'd never heard of such an incidence before tonight. Really? How often do you hang out with girls and how often would they be comfortable talking about it to you? He then cast a critical eye on several of Manar's anecdotes, because she said this had happened to her cousin, that to her friend. "Syrians exaggerate. A guy says he saw a hat with 4 colors and after a month the hat had 200 colors." He also said it was women's fault for not making a bigger scene when something like this happens.
I'm just feeling very pissed off about the incident.
Thursday, June 5, 2008
Score One For Me!
When I came back from Tunisia, gleefully sharing with friends how I had been mistaken for Lebanese, and believed when described as Shami, most responded with Bravo! and "See, your Arabic has gotten better." These congratulations were tempered with letting me know that this could never happen in Syria. This I understand - it's like how I keep meeting Indians and one Omani and thinking they're British because of the accent, but a British person would probably recognize the subtle differences (or perhaps not so subtle to them) between a person taught British-accented English and the real thing.
But yesterday, at an electronics store, a young boy and his father were hanging out while I asked the clerk for something. The father asked his son if he thought the foreigner's Arabic was good, and the kid stared at me, wide-eyed, saying, "You're not Arab?"
Alright, so the kid may be not yet versed in the ways of the world, and his father might have immediately identified my foreigness, but I'm still chalking it to my side. The count, if you're wondering, is 12 me - 2,456 Arabic. I'm closing the gap.
But yesterday, at an electronics store, a young boy and his father were hanging out while I asked the clerk for something. The father asked his son if he thought the foreigner's Arabic was good, and the kid stared at me, wide-eyed, saying, "You're not Arab?"
Alright, so the kid may be not yet versed in the ways of the world, and his father might have immediately identified my foreigness, but I'm still chalking it to my side. The count, if you're wondering, is 12 me - 2,456 Arabic. I'm closing the gap.
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
And it All Comes Back to Ireland
My father is proven right. It all comes back to Ireland. Since moving to the States 30 years ago, he has been on a one-man mission to prove that everything comes from the Irish; I have born the majority of this campaign. Growing up, books like, "How the Irish Saved Civilization" littered the house. At any time I was expected to name the four Irish Nobel Prize winners for Literature (Yeats, Shaw, Beckett, Heaney) or recite a Yeats poem. Any discussion on practically anything brought up the inevitable Irish Analogy.
American civil rights movement? Let's hear the story about Catholic Emancipation again. But from where did Martin Luther King draw his inspiration? If you said Ghandi, you'd be only partially corrent: the true source of the Montgomery Bus Boycott, and all boycotts for that matter, was the Irish Land League in 1880. Peasants in county Mayo organized a protest against Charles Boycott, the landlord's agent, for refusing to lower rents. Everyone refused to deal with the man: no one would work the fields, shopkeepers refused to sell to him, servants left the house. Boycott soon entered the English lexicon. Affirmative action, in his mind, has a direct relation to the positive discrimination practiced to bring more Catholics into the police and other government bodies in Northern Ireland after peace.
My father has also been insisting on creating a Palestinian-Israeli peace along the lines of the Good Friday Agreement in Northern Ireland (though wouldn't this create one state? Perish the thought!). No fan of colonalization, he laments the injustice of hundreds of years of English occupation, and was delighted when I pointed him to Edward Said's work on analyzing Irish literature with post-colonial theory.
And now, even Lebanon can be Ireland. Joshua Landis, who runs the awesome blog Syria Comment has written some commentary on a WSJ editorial on Hezbollah. In countering the ed's author, he writes that Hezbollah is a reasonable organization, "not much different from the IRA."
Futher:
Yes! It all does come back to Ireland! Unfortunately I doubt that many in Washington are going to see Hezbollah as more similar to the IRA than to al-Qaeda, as all logic vanishes in the face of the supposed monolith of "Islamic Terrorism". al-Qaeda in the unspoken word in all American pronouncements on Hezbollah (and Hamas), referenced with the all-emcompassing "Islamic Terror" or, what are they calling it? "Islamofascism". Whenever these terms are invoked, the average American sees Osama Bin Ladin, never mind that sect differences, or that Hezbollah is at heart nationalist, or that Hezbollah's beef ain't directly with the US.
But the bigger question is, if Hezbollah is IRA, when are they going to get a Sinn Féin? Both Gerry Adams and Nasrallah do have beards and kindly, grandfatherly smiles.
American civil rights movement? Let's hear the story about Catholic Emancipation again. But from where did Martin Luther King draw his inspiration? If you said Ghandi, you'd be only partially corrent: the true source of the Montgomery Bus Boycott, and all boycotts for that matter, was the Irish Land League in 1880. Peasants in county Mayo organized a protest against Charles Boycott, the landlord's agent, for refusing to lower rents. Everyone refused to deal with the man: no one would work the fields, shopkeepers refused to sell to him, servants left the house. Boycott soon entered the English lexicon. Affirmative action, in his mind, has a direct relation to the positive discrimination practiced to bring more Catholics into the police and other government bodies in Northern Ireland after peace.
My father has also been insisting on creating a Palestinian-Israeli peace along the lines of the Good Friday Agreement in Northern Ireland (though wouldn't this create one state? Perish the thought!). No fan of colonalization, he laments the injustice of hundreds of years of English occupation, and was delighted when I pointed him to Edward Said's work on analyzing Irish literature with post-colonial theory.
And now, even Lebanon can be Ireland. Joshua Landis, who runs the awesome blog Syria Comment has written some commentary on a WSJ editorial on Hezbollah. In countering the ed's author, he writes that Hezbollah is a reasonable organization, "not much different from the IRA."
Futher:
The US very intelligently refused to treat the IRA as a terrorist
organization despite British insistence that it be proscribed as an
evil criminal gang. Fortunately, the the US insisted on viewing the Irish
Catholic struggle as political and not criminal. The result was successful
diplomacy that helped resolve the dispute and transformed Ireland into one
of the happier countries in the world with one of its zippiest
economies. There is no reason Lebanon can not follow suit.
Yes! It all does come back to Ireland! Unfortunately I doubt that many in Washington are going to see Hezbollah as more similar to the IRA than to al-Qaeda, as all logic vanishes in the face of the supposed monolith of "Islamic Terrorism". al-Qaeda in the unspoken word in all American pronouncements on Hezbollah (and Hamas), referenced with the all-emcompassing "Islamic Terror" or, what are they calling it? "Islamofascism". Whenever these terms are invoked, the average American sees Osama Bin Ladin, never mind that sect differences, or that Hezbollah is at heart nationalist, or that Hezbollah's beef ain't directly with the US.
But the bigger question is, if Hezbollah is IRA, when are they going to get a Sinn Féin? Both Gerry Adams and Nasrallah do have beards and kindly, grandfatherly smiles.
Sunday, June 1, 2008
Swimming Pools and Emergency Rooms
It has been getting ungodly hot. I'm slathering on the sunscreen to preserve my fair & lovely complexion that TV ads tell me I need to say Yes! to life. Luckily I trace my descent from sunless climes whose inhabitants mutated to a shocking white much like eyeless newts living a mile underground in Kentucky caves.
I didn't want to spend my weekend sitting around the house in a scandelous state of undress, sweating. So we went swimming! Thursday some friends came over for delivery argileh and we decided to get out to a swimming pool Friday. The plan was to meet at my place 9:30, be on the road by 10, and be swimming by 10:30.
We got out by 11:30, which I think is our new record in timeliness. At noon, we arrived at the pool by rented micro (all the pools are outside of Damascus - this one in al-ghouta) and got into a tiff with the owner, who didn't want to let us bring in our Coke and 35 sandwiches. We threatened to go to another pool, and protested we didn't know sandwiches were mumnu3 because last summer they were fine. She relented on the sandwiches, but not the Coke, telling us she'd hold it behind the desk until we left, and we could buy Coke from the pool's restaurant.
I slathered up, offering some to the group. Sale7 accepted, as he had forgotten his oil. "Wait, do you want to tan?"
"Of course!"
"This will not help you tan. It's sunscreen."
"Oh, whatever. Better than nothing. Hand it over."
I jumped in and began to swim some laps. After only about 10 lengths Sale7 and Tariq stopped me. "Oh my god you really know how to swim!" They said everyone at the pool had been staring at me do laps. "She must be a professional," Tariq overhead, "see how she flips?"
I tried to teach Tariq and Sale7 how to do front crawl, before we all gave up a bit and played waterpolo in the shallow end with Ra'id and children and jumped around. The other ladies with us, meanwhile, bought beer and chilled from the side.
"Don't you want to come in?"
"I wanna finish my beer."
It was then, during a holding-your-breath underwater contest, that Tariq began screaming and I and a lifeguard had to grab him and haul him out of the pool (good luck he had been at the edge). His shoulder. An old army injury, he has popped his shoulder out of place now 16 times. Mostly playing football and swimming, roughhousing with the guys, and once, when he woke up in the middle of the night and sneezed. In the beginning it would pop itself back in, but for the last 5 or so a doctor has had to do the job. "Aren't you the same guy from last summer?" the lifeguard asked. "That time it popped itself back in."Various friendly neighbors came over, tugging his arm this way and that to his anguished screams. The pool called for a micro to take us to a doctor. While we waited, Tariq laid out on the pool deck and very passing person offered medical advice.
"Please go slowly," Tariq begged the micro driver, who replied that he couldn't help the condition of the roads. We went off, Sale7 and I with Tariq, leaving the others to their beer and pool. Since it was Friday and we were in a small town, no doctors offices were open and we had to go to a private hospital. It was about a 20 minute drive and every bump or shake of the van sent Tariq yelling with pain. At the hospital they had drugs and Tariq calmed down. Money was discussed before we proceeded. They wanted 3500 lira, which no one had on them, so we negotiated to 2500 ($50) by foregoing one diagnostic exam and promised to leave an ID, paying later.
The last time I went with Tariq to the doctor there was anguished screaming as one doctor held him down and the other violently twisted his arm around. This time Sale7 and I weren't allowed in, and we waited outside the door of the operating room. No screaming, and then he was done. "This feels amazing," he said, definitely a fan of the painkillers.
Then we had to pay, but realized none of had our IDs with us. They wouldn't accept my leaving a credit card as a guarantee. I had 1700 with me, but luckily realized I also had a $20, which the doctor accepted as 1000 lira despite now being somewhat less.
In our rush to the hospital, I had only put on shorts and a t-shirt, and after leaving the hospital I stood outside trying to wave down a cab. Guys in passing cars were very appreciative of my shorts.
Back at pool, I swam some more laps before hanging around with Manar and Sale7 and a fat little girl who latched herself onto me (physically) and wanted to know my name, my age, where I was from, what I was doing here, how did I learn to swim, etc. Tariq sat watching at the side in his wrap.
We went home to Jerimana around 7, exhausted and full of chlorine. Sale7 lamented, "I didn't tan at all today!"
My swimming has earned me a new nickname "Samakeh" (fish), to go alone with Anuteh and Um ash-Shamat (mother of freckles). I've also christened Tariq with "Gharban," (broken, as in a TV that doesn't work) which his mother found very funny when we dropped him off, arm in sling, at home.
I didn't want to spend my weekend sitting around the house in a scandelous state of undress, sweating. So we went swimming! Thursday some friends came over for delivery argileh and we decided to get out to a swimming pool Friday. The plan was to meet at my place 9:30, be on the road by 10, and be swimming by 10:30.
We got out by 11:30, which I think is our new record in timeliness. At noon, we arrived at the pool by rented micro (all the pools are outside of Damascus - this one in al-ghouta) and got into a tiff with the owner, who didn't want to let us bring in our Coke and 35 sandwiches. We threatened to go to another pool, and protested we didn't know sandwiches were mumnu3 because last summer they were fine. She relented on the sandwiches, but not the Coke, telling us she'd hold it behind the desk until we left, and we could buy Coke from the pool's restaurant.
I slathered up, offering some to the group. Sale7 accepted, as he had forgotten his oil. "Wait, do you want to tan?"
"Of course!"
"This will not help you tan. It's sunscreen."
"Oh, whatever. Better than nothing. Hand it over."
I jumped in and began to swim some laps. After only about 10 lengths Sale7 and Tariq stopped me. "Oh my god you really know how to swim!" They said everyone at the pool had been staring at me do laps. "She must be a professional," Tariq overhead, "see how she flips?"
I tried to teach Tariq and Sale7 how to do front crawl, before we all gave up a bit and played waterpolo in the shallow end with Ra'id and children and jumped around. The other ladies with us, meanwhile, bought beer and chilled from the side.
"Don't you want to come in?"
"I wanna finish my beer."
It was then, during a holding-your-breath underwater contest, that Tariq began screaming and I and a lifeguard had to grab him and haul him out of the pool (good luck he had been at the edge). His shoulder. An old army injury, he has popped his shoulder out of place now 16 times. Mostly playing football and swimming, roughhousing with the guys, and once, when he woke up in the middle of the night and sneezed. In the beginning it would pop itself back in, but for the last 5 or so a doctor has had to do the job. "Aren't you the same guy from last summer?" the lifeguard asked. "That time it popped itself back in."Various friendly neighbors came over, tugging his arm this way and that to his anguished screams. The pool called for a micro to take us to a doctor. While we waited, Tariq laid out on the pool deck and very passing person offered medical advice.
"Please go slowly," Tariq begged the micro driver, who replied that he couldn't help the condition of the roads. We went off, Sale7 and I with Tariq, leaving the others to their beer and pool. Since it was Friday and we were in a small town, no doctors offices were open and we had to go to a private hospital. It was about a 20 minute drive and every bump or shake of the van sent Tariq yelling with pain. At the hospital they had drugs and Tariq calmed down. Money was discussed before we proceeded. They wanted 3500 lira, which no one had on them, so we negotiated to 2500 ($50) by foregoing one diagnostic exam and promised to leave an ID, paying later.
The last time I went with Tariq to the doctor there was anguished screaming as one doctor held him down and the other violently twisted his arm around. This time Sale7 and I weren't allowed in, and we waited outside the door of the operating room. No screaming, and then he was done. "This feels amazing," he said, definitely a fan of the painkillers.
Then we had to pay, but realized none of had our IDs with us. They wouldn't accept my leaving a credit card as a guarantee. I had 1700 with me, but luckily realized I also had a $20, which the doctor accepted as 1000 lira despite now being somewhat less.
In our rush to the hospital, I had only put on shorts and a t-shirt, and after leaving the hospital I stood outside trying to wave down a cab. Guys in passing cars were very appreciative of my shorts.
Back at pool, I swam some more laps before hanging around with Manar and Sale7 and a fat little girl who latched herself onto me (physically) and wanted to know my name, my age, where I was from, what I was doing here, how did I learn to swim, etc. Tariq sat watching at the side in his wrap.
We went home to Jerimana around 7, exhausted and full of chlorine. Sale7 lamented, "I didn't tan at all today!"
My swimming has earned me a new nickname "Samakeh" (fish), to go alone with Anuteh and Um ash-Shamat (mother of freckles). I've also christened Tariq with "Gharban," (broken, as in a TV that doesn't work) which his mother found very funny when we dropped him off, arm in sling, at home.
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