Habeebas (Lovers) and Wives

I met my friend outside the old city last Saturday. I was surprised at first when I saw her, as she was without hijab. We went over to the car, which was driven by an older man, with a younger older man in the passenger seat. They took us to a restaurant by Barada Club, nothing special except it seemed the few clientele at that time (4pm) were mostly older men with younger women. There was heavy makeup and one woman in a backless strappy top. Then again, that's not so weird - everytime I walk by the restaurants on sahat ar-Rawda in Jeramana I see the same equation, the guys often in Khaliji dress.

I was a bit stand-offish, but tried not to broadcast my disaproval. This is everyone's fear for a runaway girl- that she falls in with an older guy who takes advantage of her. But no, the older older guy (who asked me to guess his age - I guessed 48 and his 37-year-old self was not happy) was just doing the driving and the younger older man knew my friend, through a friend. And they were both married and passed around mobiles with pictures of their latest babies so I eased up a bit.

The conversation went around over appetizers. No one ordered drinks, though the men wanted us too. The younger older man got up to return to work. The older man, a former boxer and current trainer, began talking about exercise and how it keeps you young (this is when I guessed his age incorrectly, shooting holes in his theory - but then again I don't think getting hit in the face is the kind of exercise that keeps you young). Even my wife exercises, he says.

Then he got to talking about his former habeeba, who is living in the Gulf and married but before her marriage sent him text messages and cried on the phone. But no, he said, he had to let her go because it was best for her to settle and all that. It wasn't fair to her if she didn't marry. I loved her, I'm not one of those who has more than one habeeba, but I had to let her go.
"Wait, aren't you married?" I asked.
Yes, but apparently this is inmaterial. He explained that at home is at home but outside of that he's fine. He explained to me his day, and the splits between home life, work life, and hanging out in cafes with habeeba life.
"I'm married, but I need someone to love, to take out to dinner, to spoil, to spend money on," he explained.
"Can't you take your wife out?"
"Well, she's old fashioned. She hijabs. There's the kids at home."
"Hire a babysitter."
"We tried that. But she's very jealous. She gets angry if I look away from the table for a minute. 'What are you looking at?'"
"Maybe she's in the right to be jealous if you're running around with girls. Wouldn't you get jealous if she was going out to restaurants with other men?"
"She would never do that. She's old-fashioned. That's Eib (shameful)."
"Isn't it eib for you too?"
"yes, but it's different. She gets jealous even if I just am with friends who are girls, just a sadeeqa, not a habeeba."
"So would you not get jealous if she were with shabab friends, who were just friends?"
"That's eib."

I was completely incredulous. I kept coming back with What if your wife did what you did? But that's impossible, she loves me! She's traditional! She wouldn't want to. Arabic has a great word for use in this situation, لو. It means an impossible if. Like if I were a man, if people were able to breath underwater, if your wife wanted to go to a restaurant with a pretty young man. Assuming that if, what would you think IF your wife acted like you act. Impossible! Eib!

The worst part was that he kept admitting, "You're speaking logic, but this is just society." And that he admitted what he was doing was wrong, but there it is. At one point he told me how at home he's great with the wife and the kids and he prays...
"What's the good in praying if you go out and cheat on your wife?"
"No, no, no, I don't cheat on her. There's no sex. Hold hands, go out to restaurants, maybe some kissing, that's it."
"Would it be alright for your wife to go around with young men?"
"No, no, no, that's not allowed. She's a woman."
"So what? What's the difference?"
"What's the difference? There are huge differences."
"Like what?"
"A woman gives birth. I have to know that those are my children, not someone else's."
"But if your wife was just going around holding hands, eating at restaurants, and kissing young men she wouldn't get pregnant. Where's the problem?"
"It's eib. It's not allowed."

He agreed that his running around with the young ladies was eib and haram, but c'mon, what else is he going to do. A man needs a change of location - he can't be in the house all the time. Your wife might like to get out of the house too - but oh right, you can't take her out because... right.
"And you can't just go out to a restaurant and hang out with your friends."
"No, all of them have habeebas." He mentioned the younger older guy who had been with us. He has a habeeba as well. She's very very beautiful... (he went off while I thought, am I supposed to give a fuck that she's pretty? Like, cheating is bad, but if she's beautiful, it's awesome!) "What am I going to be the only one without a habeeba?"
"Maybe you need to get new friends."

My friend returned from the bathroom and we got out of there to meet my boyfriend at Bab Sharqi. When we were alone, me and my friend, I told her the guy was a creep. She said yeah, she knows. She doesn't know him, she knows his friend, who is her friend's (married) boyfriend. Her friend is the beautiful habeeba. She knows, but the younger older guy dating her friend despite his marriage is getting her a good job in a pharmacy.

While I was talking to the older guy about his habeebas and wife, it struck me that, especially if there really was no sex, bravo to the ladies.

Then we went to an art gallery.

Trapped

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

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

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

Shami Wedding

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



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



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



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



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

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

I was invited to another wedding in July.

Late

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

An Outing, More or Less Successful

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Modern Dance

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Interreligious Dating

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Old and Unfashionable

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

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

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

Are you fucking kidding me?

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

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

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

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

The Eyes!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Back in the Syria

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

But I'm back in Syria, finally.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Too Nice for This

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

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

Damn!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Polygyny

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

Neat Bread

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

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

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

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

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

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

Amerrica

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

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

Anyways, ya America, looking at cha in March.

Achieving Dreams Without Shiny Hair

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

At the time, I scoffed.

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

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

French

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Crutchin' Round Sham

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

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

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

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

Hidden Camera

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

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

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

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

Not Even a Little Syrian

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

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

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

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

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

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