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.

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.

Why do Dudes Sing to Dudes in Arabic?

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

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

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

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

Possible explanations?

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

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

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

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

Not That There's Anything Wrong With That

I was watching al-Jazeera a couple days ago, and caught a report on AIDS. It was a small report, mostly a chat with an expert in the studio. They threw up a graphic on the sources of AIDS transmission (I don't remember if this was supposed to be world-wide or Arab world only). The sources included unknown, blood transfusions, gays (شذوذ), drugs, and by far the largest category: zena (زنا).

First of all, I was surprised that homosexuals were referred to as shuzuz, instead of مثليون, which is usually used in formal writing. The latter word refers to "similar" like the word homo, while shaz means different. Like irregular verbs in grammar are shaz. I thought that word was strictly 'ammiyya, and kind of an insult.

And on the sex. I thought the word zena meant "adultery" but have been told it generally refers to all extra-marital, harram sex. Fornication.

So much for de-stigmitization of HIV/AIDS. Why do you have this disease? Because of dirty, dirty zena, you whore. This despite one of the fastest-growing groups of HIV/AIDS cases is women in (supposedly) monogamous relationships (there's more recent links but I'm lazy).

Fluency?

Am I fluent in Arabic? It's a question I'm having to ask myself these days for applications to grad school. I don't think I'm perfectly fluent, if fluent is defined as have native-speaker skills. I can live solely in Syrian, love myself some muselel, was working a job where I had to read and write Arabic, but fluent? Not when watching an Egyptian movie means leaning over to my seatmate every minute to ask, "Sho 'al? Sho 'alat?" (What'd he say? What'd she say? What?) or just an exasperated, "Shooo?" That last part is especially annoying as, at one point, I did live 5 months in Egypt and got better at Egyptian than anything else. I even took a class in Egyptian colloquial literature once, and now I'm reduced to embarrassment at how little I understand or their crazy geem-filled dialect. I mean, if it was Moroccan I couldn't understand, that'd be fine as no one here does. Even the Iraqis or Eastern Syrians have Shawam (Damascenes) asking Shoo? every once and in a while. But not understanding Egyptian? ya Batl!

As for MSA, I can watch the news and, especially on reproductive health, read newspapers and stuff, and I was writing press releases at my old job. BUT, I read rather slowly, and pick up a literary novel and crap, I don't actually know this. I once read this novel, the Bleeding Stone, which had a million different terms for types of deserts and stones and plateaus and goats that sent me running to the dictionary every page. And those press releases needed to be edited before being released - there was always some grammar mistake lurking.

But on these applications, there's no place to express the complications of defining my level of Arabic. It's just a 3-level rubric for speaking, reading and writing: Low, Medium, High. High is defined as fluency- accuracy and range of a university-educated native speaker. Considering how often I make grammar mistakes when speaking, especially when excitedly telling a story (though I most often now correct myself immediately), I ain't like no native. The educated Syrian could read laps around my ass.

But Medium? I'm better than that man.

Why can't there be something in between these choices?

A few Syrian friends have told me I'm practically fluent or whatever, just put that one down. I'm putting it down for speaking, as I can hold my own in coversation, but I'm afraid putting it down for reading and writing will produce this scenario:
"Read this 200-page book and write a 5-page paper by Friday in Arabic."
"Shooo!?"
"Thought you said you were FLUENT? FLUENT people could do this easily! Banished from grad school for shameless lying! Banished!"

Thanks for the Advice

I'd have to say that after 10 months of Syria, I do occasionally miss the "I don't give a fuck about you, you don't give a fuck about me" attitude of New York. Especially when strangers feel like they need to give you unsolicited advice.

Yesterday I was riding the micro to work, a little late. The horribly insane heat has made sleeping rather difficult, and thus waking rather difficult as well. On these days I essentially brush my teeth and put on pants, grabbing breakfast for the 45-minute ride ahead. Sometimes I also brush my hair on the micro, waiting until no one is sharing a seat with me. When I got off the micro yesterday this guy got off too, and then started trying to talk to me. It was the usual, where are you from, your Arabic is very good, how long have you been here. Then:
"Can I tell you something without you getting upset?"
"What is it?"
He laughed at the abruptness of my sentence, the exasperation.
"You shouldn't brush your hair on the micro. You're a very pretty girl and it's not good."
Not good how? And is it alright for uggos to brush their hair in public, or was that just mujamale to soften the blow of realizing how wrong my hair brushing had been."
"Oh, it's just that I was late today-"
"No, I see you on this micro a lot and you brush your hair a lot."
"I'm late a lot."

Then at capoeira class, I arrived a little early and had to wait for the boys to finish in the changing room. I chatted a bit with Mousa, the Algerian instructor, while a nearby dude suddenly broke out laughing "She speaks Arabic better than him! You (Mousa) are asli (here meaning of an Arab country) but she is speaking much better. Ha ha! She even speaks Shami!" He then repeated some of the "very Shami" phrases I had said (Mousa, while Algerian, has spent most of his life in Germany and is Berber, not Arab).

There was another dude nearby who started talking to me in fusha, formal Arabic. People do this to foreigners a lot because they we learn fusha, not ammiya, in school. But this guy was asking why I don't speak fusha. He started lecturing me about how I should speak fusha because it is the pure language. When someone goes to America, he said, they should learn real English, not slang. When he learned French, he learned the proper language, he said, switching into French to reiterated la pure langue. Why would you learn the language of the streets?

Because I want to talk to people. Turns out he's Tunisian, not Syrian, but has lived here for 18 years with his Syrian wife.

But, he said, I have not strayed from correct Arabic.

He continued to try to convince me that I should speak fusha. I told him I know fusha, and I write and read fusha, and fusha has its place, but so does ammiya. What's wrong with that. He then dared me to prove I can speak fusha to him, so I did, but not as smooth as the Syrian since I never practice speaking in fusha. I just left the conversation once the changing room was open because I don't need to listen to some asshole go on and on about how every one should speak the correct Arabic, especially foreigners, and how street language is disgusting. Get off it.

Then he told me I should work on my pronunciation. Oh my God really? I got this same advice from a doctor who had lived for 20 odd years in the Michigan a couple of months ago. Do they think I am oblivious to how foreign I sound? Am I supposed to snap up and go "By Jones, you're right! Pronunciation! Why did I never think of that?" Plus, shit isn't all that bad if people understand me and I am occaisonally mistaken for Lebanese or Tunisian (or in Tunis, Syrian). But thanks for the advice: I'm sure I'll start asking the storekeeper for a half kilo of cheese in formal Arabic any day now.

There's certain kinds of advice that are fine. If I'm saying something incorrectly, please correct me. If you can see the money poking out the top of my pants pocket, go ahead and tell me to tuck it down (which happens all the time).

But on other stuff, I wish some people would just stay out of my crap. It's not hurting you, so why you gotta tell me?

Grammar SMACKDOWN!

Last week's workshop was pretty cool - I feel like I've learned so much on Syrian media. I was there helping with logistics, mostly doing everything technology as I was the youngest one present. Every time the power point needed setting up or the instructor wanted to play a clip, it was youngest-person-in-the-room to the rescue! We are at one with technology, those who cannot imagine writing a school paper without the internet, the children of the 90s.

But I was also allowed to participate. And while I can understand college-level lecture, I don't know how I'd fare in any class. In exercises for the instructor they would come back covered with corrections but have "mumtaz!" at the bottom, because I'm foreign and at least I'm trying.

It was quite heartening when the instructor spent a session on grammar mistakes and had us correct a text together. I was all over "it's قال إن" not " قال أن". And on the last day the journalists turned in their group reports on subject related to UNFPA's mandate: reproductive health, AIDS, youth, gender equality. On one groups' report the first sentence began "ما تزال ظاهرة " and I was all, "grammar error smackdown!" Even though when I write in Arabic there are still tons of errors, it's nice to know that even trained Arab journalists, who when to school for this, make grammar mistakes, and that grammar is an issue in many publications.

I related this exciting story to a friend later who said there was nothing wrong with the verb as is. I told him you can't negate a present tense with ما so they either need to say ما زالت or لا تزال . He disagreed and told me the ما was not a negation here, but it really is. Seriously. I then asked him was زال means and he told me still or continue, when it actually means to kinda disappear or go away, thus with a negation it means the equivalent of English "still".

I know it's embarrassing when a non-native speaker corrects YOUR language, but it happens to me in English more than I'd like to admit. This is why I don't want to teach English: I'd be afraid of being called out daily. I mean, I can write or speak grammatically correct English and did take one grammer class in high school, but the various explanations behind "this sounds wrong" or "this sounds right" ellude me, so in the nitty gritty questions I'd just prefer to leave the room. This winter, I spent a few good weeks pondering the English equivalent of من اربعة شهور or the like. If the action is continuing, it's not "four months ago", and "from four months" which I found muself using in English conversation is literal and not actually used. I told a Syrian friend who asked "since four months ago, I think. yeah." I guess we don't have an exact match for that phrase, but make do depending on the preceding question.
"When did you start college?"
"Four months ago."
"How long have you been in college?"
"for four months."

I don't know. My head hurts. I also can't spell in any language. When friends ask me what is this word in English and to write it down for them, it's only on the second or third try that I think the word "looks right", and still tell them to go check me in a dictionary cause I'm not sure. I try to tell them that I all my writing on computers who correct me, but they still look at me trying to figure out I am not joking in that I cannot spell my own language.

Speaking of media, Wednesday evening, Syrian TV news incorrectly identified the Israeli knesset as being in Tel Aviv, not Jerusalem. As a friend said of it: If any one should know where the knesset it, we should. They hadn't actually seen the broadcast, nor had I, but heard of it through the office. No one actually watches Syrian TV except during Ramadan.

Sorry to Brag

I've been attending a workshop this week, and thus have not had the usual idle moments at work in which to jot a few thoughts about life and shit, as it is technically known. The workshop has been awesome, the Ministry of Information and UNFPA are conducting it for Syrian journalists.

It's convinced me that I could understand a college-level lecture in Arabic, which is exciting in itself. There are naturally some words I don't understand, but they are few enough I can jot them in a notebook for later, and do not affect my understanding the lecture.

It reminds me of going to a play within my first few months here, and my friends told me to jot down any words I didn't understand. 20 minutes in there were two words on the paper and the dude next to me asked if I understood the play. "No."
"Why didn't you write down words you didn't understand?"
"I don't understand enough to write down words!"

I can now write down words.

It's also exciting because the trainer isn't speaking Syrian, but what I think is part Palestinian (at least in pronounciation) and part Egyptian (there are quite a bit of Egyptian constructions). Of course, he also is speaking in times in fusha, though at this point I understand Syrian more easily than even fusha.

So yeah, sorry to brag but this is exciting for me. And at the end of the course I will get a certificate! Yes!

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.

Pretending to be Syrian

In Tozeur, after almost killing Ester and eating some sandwiches, Lindsey, Ester and I went down to the touristy street to see about buying some crap. We were speaking Shami Arabic to one another, and sure enough we were asked, "Lubnaniyya?" No, no, we insisted, not Lebanese. But close. Syrian. I don't know if it got us any lower prices, but at least it stopped people speaking French to us.

As a foreigner in Tunisia, every one immediately reverts to French when speaking with you. Ester actually knows a good bit of French, I can understand some things but am at a loss to reply, and Lindsey has no French. After our asking questions or beginning conversations in Arabic, people would answer in French. "No, please, Arabic."

Even after we said we were Syrian, so the shopkeepers spoke to us in Arabic, they asked us why we didn' know French. How is that possible? Isn't French the second language of Syria? Not really, we said, everyone wants to learn English now.

After Ester got on her boat back to Italy and Lindsey went to Kuwait, I had some time to myself in Tunis waiting for the next Damascus flight. So I walked around the old city. Guys in the souq would hear my accent and ask if I was Lebanese.
"No, but close."
"Syrian?"

The story changed a bit from place to place. For short interactions, Syrian. The few times I introduced myself as American dudes said, "Really? But your parents are Shami, right?" So I said sure (sorry Ireland). In the hostel I was Canadian, because the front desk guy lied and told the leader of some group of French/island near Madagscar children that I was. Then I had to keep it up in order to get a bed with the 12-year-old girls.

People love the shit out of Syria, though. When I told people I was Shami, they said, "Ahh- marry a Shami girl and your life will be easy." Or, "Bab al-Hara!". And a man sat me down in his shop, bought me a bottle of water, which I could only refuse so many times, and told me he loved Syria. "They protect the Arab identity!"

I even got in the Zaytouna mosque for free. I asked a guy out front if it was open, and he said, yes, and its free for Muslims. I told him I wasn't Muslim and he stared at me, saying, "But you are Arab, right?" So I got in free anyways. A couple of people asked me if I was Muslim, which was strange for me since no one ever asks me that in Sham. In Tunisia, most people are Muslim, and most women don't wear hijab, and I was speaking Arab in the accent of a majority Muslim country, but still. There are non-Muslim Arabs, quite a lot in fact.

Look at the Foreign Freak!

My family had guests over last night (I had spent the day, Ashoura, in Sitt Zeinab, more on that later) from their relatives. They tested in my Arabic, with them deciding that I am "shatoura" (clever). Are you happy here? I was asked about how I could possibly live apart from my family, don't I miss them all the time. It was also suggested that I quickly marry a Syrian and stay here forever. Then they turned to one another and began to talk about me.

"Can she read?"

"Yes, you know, but she can't read the scroll at the bottom of the screen and understand the news at the same time."

"But she speaks alright. Does she understand?" (after a conversation in which I at no point had trouble understanding anyone, granted it was about easy subjects such as: why I'm not married, when I'm going to return to America, what I like about Syria, did you really live alone in America away from your parents, really?)

"Yes she's gotten much better but she can't understand us if we speak quickly, so we have to speak slowly" said Um Mazen. "She only studies fusha."

I cut in, saying, "Actually I can understand you. I study fusha but I know some 'ammiya."

Abu Mazen turned to me and said (in English, slowly) " Yes, 'ammiyya hard. (before switching to Arabic) in fusha, 'matha tureedeen' [what do you want], in 'ammiya 'shou bedik' [what do you want] eh? Shou bedik. (back to english) Change!"

This is not the first time Abu Mazen has illustrated the difference between fusha and 'ammiya. It's like he thinks I live in a bubble, and after over 4 months I have not realized that people around me are not speaking formal Arabic on the street, and have not endevoured to learn this crazy 'ammiya. The son, Iyad, with whom I have stayed up many nights talking about politics and society, has told his father many times, several with me present, that I know. That actually, I'm quite comfortable in Arabic. That he doesn't need to use his knowledge of some English words to help because I already know "egg," "sun," and "spoon." Or, which somehow still manages to surprise people after being informed that I've studied 2.5 years of Arabic, that I can read.

I told a story about how I had trouble understanding a word that one of the Iraqi parents of the kids I teach said, a word that apparently means "home" and doesn't exist in Syrian (he was asking where I lived in Damascus and I was all "Where is my WHAT?" until he finally said "manzilik" and I was all "ooooh" and he laughed) Iyad told me about how a few years ago, when the refugees started arriving, he didn't know what "makou" meant, until some one finally told him that it means "mafi" (there is no/ are none). Abu Mazen once again broke in to explain that Iraqi is different than Syrian, and both makou and mafi mean "la yujid" in fusha. I know mafi, I said.

But thanks.

At least it was better than when I was hanging out at Tariq's house, watching a movie with some friends and his mom came in because her friend was over and wanted to see "the American." I was able to beg off until the end of the film, at which point I was exhibited to the friend, who said, "oh, pretty. Does she speak Arabic?" Then the friend demanded that I marry a Syrian. "Why not Tariq?" she said. "Or come with me to my house and I'll show you some good young men!"

Yes, Tunisian

I had to go to the far store, a 5-minute walk away, as opposed to the the one in my alley because the latter had no diet coke and I was studying. At the far store, I bought some coke and candy, and the owner asked if I was Tunisian.

Um, what? No, I replied, American.
"American?"

Since this is the second time I have been mistaken for Tunisian, and I am now even farther from Tunisia, I asked why he thought I was Tunisian. "Do I look Tunisian?"

"No, but you speak with a Tunisian accent." I don't even know what a Tunisian accent sounds like, but I'll take it!

I Make a Funny

Humor in a new language is always tricky. While some humor is immediately transferable, i.e. وين شهاتي؟ Where are my sandals?
انت شهاتة\ ابوك شهاتة You are a sandal/ Your father is a sandal*
a lot of the funny takes some practice and lots of failed, lame jokes.

My friends here tell me I am funny. Mostly on accident. For example, saying "I execute" أعدم rather than "I support" أدعم my mother in her attempt to make the Olympics this summer. This statement was met with laughter as no one present thought I actually meant to kill my mother. Other times, like when I mixed up "patience" and "boob" the matter took a few minutes to sort out. ("Why are you talking about her boob?" "Because I like her boob. She never gets exasperated and always corrects my mistakes in speaking." "What?")

The first joke I made on purpose was back the first week I arrived in Syria. I ate dinner at Ra'id's house, and when I complimented his mother on the deliciousness of the food, she replied "Health!". This is the normal thing to say with food, with the meaning "may it give you health." The proper reply, I had learned the day before, is "On your heart." Um Ra'id continuted to wish me good health throughout the meal, throwing in a "sahatayn!" (two healths - the dual is often used as as intensifier) so I replied "3ala 'albaynik" (on your two hearts). Ok, so kind of a lame joke, but the effort was applauded.

Lately, things have been getting better. A few puns here and there. My friend Manar asked me if "the cultural things" are ever hard on my friendships with Syrians. No, I replied, for I am an open girl (بنت مفتوحة). Open in the sense of open-minded is more correctly mutafatteha, not maftouha, which implies that I am a slut (which, as we all know, and overcome any cultural misunderstanding). She thought it was funny, but told me never ever to repeat it again in front of anyone, as they would "get the wrong idea." She made me promise.

Yesterday I also made a pun. In Syrian, "womanizer" is نسوانجي (niswanji). My friend Tariq's brother Tarif hogs the sobia (see: how fucking cold Damascus is right now) of whatever room he is in, so I christened him a sobianji (sobia-izer) yesterday. "That's clever. I'm going to use that," said Tariq. Go me!

*Proceed cautiously with "your mother" jokes, unless you know the person extremely well and insulting one another's family members is no big deal, or you can take them in a fight.

Tunisian?

It's been a little strange coming back to Egypt, having forgotten most of my Egyptian. Well, not exactly forgotten, because I know what I'm supposed to say: mish instead of mu, delwaty instead of hala, etc, but when I speak naturally the Syrian comes out. I try in Egyptian and sound awkward.

Syrian is mostly understood, so often I say fuck it and speak in Shami. This leads people to think I'm Arab, usually Lebanese (with my coloring - none - Lebanese is the most likely). Everytime this happens I'm super excited.
Man: Are you Lebanese?
Me: No. Thank you!
Man: Thank you?

However, yesterday at the bank, getting dollars for the Nuweiba ferry, I was doing the transaction in Arabic when the teller switched to French. I told him it would be better if we continued in Arabic, since it's better than my French. "You're not Tunisian?" he asked. What?

I'm used to being mistaken for French. At al-Fishawy coffee house the other night, a couple asked me to take their picture in French, and I obliged, asking if they were French. No, Lebanese. I immediately switched to Arabic and was all "I live in Syria!" and they were all "We're in Damascus like every other week!" Awesome!

But Tunisian?

I am in a Valley

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

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

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

My New House

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

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

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

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

I'm Mistaken for Syrian

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

As they left, they said, "Merci!"

Upswing

Much like a sine curve, learning a language is a series of ups and downs. I had been feeling rather down about my Arabic, especially last week. Jesus Christ, I will never learn this fucking language.

Then, the clouds parted (metaphorical clouds, there aren't that many literal clouds here). This past Friday I went to Jeramana to meet friends. I had planned to go home somewhat early, around midnight. But as we were hanging out the power went out in Jeramana, so I had an excuse to stay. Blackouts in different areas of the city is not rare, though I hear this summer it was happening all the time. We got candles and all sat around talking - rules: no English, which was surprising challenging for Ra'id but not the two Americans. Two candles later it was sohour, after which I finally left Jeremana to sneak in to my house with the risen sun.

Since, I've felt much better about my Arabic, not that I was rocking the candle circle, but I feel I'm getting better. I had a language exchange with my friend Monar, who doesn't speak much English - three hours of pretty much all Syrian. I even contributed quite a bit to a class discussion about drugs and addiction (I feel as though having been a resident of the Netherlands gives me liscense to weigh in on legalization), breaking the silence that had fallen over me since defending America.

Also, I'm mad popular. For language exchanges. Even my Arabic professor at school, yesterday she asked to see me after class. What did I do? Nothing, she just wants to have a languages exchange after al-eid. That's like free private lessons, with the only payment my status as a native speaker of English with a cool, sought-after American accent. Did she ask the Australian in my class? Hell no.

Classes Classes

I've had three days of classes thus far, and it's not so bad (when you drink water). Today I didn't even wake up for sohour, so I feel incredibly well-rested, and I've already had a bottle of water and a date so I feel incredibly fucking incredible.

Classes aren't bad. 9am-1pm 5 days a week. I have 14 in my class, Germans, Swiss, French, Koreans, Spanish, Danes, a Norwegian, and another American. You can hear their accents through the Arabic, which is quite funny. Especially the French and the Koreans. But I've already hooked up a language exchange with a medical student twice a week to really learn the Syrian ammiya, as class is straight fusha.

Yesterday after class I went to Yarmouk, a Palestinian refugee camp on the outskirts of Damascus to help my friend Colin teach an English class. There wasn't a great turnout because of Ramadan, but once this month is over there should be a lot more coming. It's sad - we were at a Palestianian Cultural center and the walls were covered with murals drawn by the children. While the situation is obviously more dire for Palestinians in the occupied territories its hard to believe that in all the negotiations the only mention to the refugees is that there should be "a just settlement". Class was on the roof under a large curtain to shield the sun, and looking over Yarmouk (which is huge) I thought, "These people will never return to Palestine." It's really fucking sad.

After class I accompanied Colin to his friend Ra'id's house for iftar (where we all had hung out playing cards last Thursday night). It's really fun hanging with those guys, but Ra'id is hitting on me and I really don't need that. I just wanna hang, yo. He called me Saturday to invite me to an art gallery on Sunday morning, but I had class. Then last night he's asking me if we can go out sometime this week to talk, so he can "get to know me better." Jesus. The food was delicious though, and Ra'id and Ruba's (his 20 year old sister) mom loves me and my laugh and jokingly told me I had to move in.