Power Outages

are becoming a bit annoying. They were common during the summer, every midday (this on the authority of my roommate, as I was usually at backup-generator-powered work). This fall it seemed the power was out most mornings when I woke up, meaning I just changed my routine to shower at night.

Sometimes the power would go out at night, and I would admire the moon. I had never noticed how bright the moon is, that you can actually see things, in detail, by moonlight. That moonlight casts shadows. I noticed this while standing on the stairway next to my open door. Neighbors would pass by and look at me confusedly. I just smiled and said Hi, because explaining that an axe killer might be hiding in my apartment, waiting for a power outage as the opportune time to strike, might get me labled as crazy. With candles, things got better.

But now, power outages are not only daily but several times a day. Today, I have experienced four. The power was out when I woke up, went out at the internet cafe, went out during dinner, and went out when I went back to the internet cafe to finish my previous interrupted session.

But then the power comes back on after a half hour, hour, whatever, we turn the TV to al-Jazeera and watch Gaza coverage. And I realize I should stop my bitching - if I were to trip and injure myself on a power- and moonless night, at least the hospital would have fucking gauze. And not destroyed by a bomb or tankfire.

More on Attack

Um Tariq and I went to the site in the afternoon. Jaramana is not far from where car bomb went off, which is on my daily work commute. We walked there.

The bomb went off at the Saida Zeinab offramp of the highway, near the big signs for Tariq bin Ziad greeting cards. Even the earliest reports I saw fixated on how Sayda Zeinab is a Shi'i shrine and packed with Iranian tourists. It was early so news items were three short paragraphs, with one describing Sayda Zeinab and its significance and the type of pilgrims that usually come. The NYTimes for example, describes the bombing as "close to a major Shiite shrine". Then again they are reporting from Beirut, not Damascus.

Based on where the bomb actually went off, this doesn't seem that relevant to me. The offramp from the highway is still a couple miles away from Saida Zeinab. Riding a servees to Sitt Zeinab, you still have a good 15 minutes after taking this exit before actually reaching the town, with the shrine a bit further. But perhaps the American news is so used to reporting everything from this part of the world in terms of Shi'i, Sunni they thought it must be significant. The car bomb went off, geographically, much closer to Mughayyam Jeramana (Palestinian) and Jeramana (Druze and Iraqi) but none of that was mentioned in the reports.

At the site, all of the nearby apartments had busted out windows. There were a lot of parked cars around, most of which had busted out windows as well. There was glass everywhere and even little parts of car that had missed being swept up. The bomb warped nearby shops and destroyed part of a wall that apparently is a mukhabarat building, which workers were already rebuilding. The nearby school didn't look that damaged. There was a crowd of people standing around, one guy showing pictures of the smoke and fire afterwards on his cell phone to others. Um Tariq started talking to a woman who lives there. She said they first thought it was an earthquake this morning, then they saw the smoke.

Several people there said they saw the police arresting people on the site soon after the explosion. They said no one was in the car when it exploded.

Despite reading foreign reports that said the explosion happened at 8:45, the woman at the scene and all my neighbors and friends who heard it go off said it happened at about 20 to 8.

Syria news that night had an official statement from the president calling the terrorists cowards, which was repeated often throughout the broadcast. There were also interviews with the wounded in the hospital. One had been on his way to work and described seeing a car drive up onto the sidewalk, which he thought strange, and then it exploded. There were other wounded, one of whom called whoever did it "not human". It is stupid for some (ahem Daniel Pipes) in the West to criticize "moderate" Muslims for not denouncing terrorism. They are freaking denouncing! If your head wasn't up your own ass maybe you would hear! Some of the injured had been praying in the nearby mosque and got hit when leaving. It was Leilat al-Qadr, the celebration of the Quran's first relevation. Many people spend all night in a mosque, praying and reading the Quran (like Um Tariq. She invited me but I was sleepy. And not Muslim).

The report thanked God that it was Saturday, a sentiment repeated often as well. Saturday is weekend, not a schoolday, so the nearby technical and electrical engineering college and the very nearby school was closed. The school would have had something like 1000 students (I forget what the news said). While the damage was not apparent from the outside, TV cameras showed the inside, with doors knocked down, glass all over the floor, walls warped. Almost everyone interviewed, including the injured in the hospital thanked God it was not a schoolday.

Car Bomb

Car bomb exploded this morning in Damascus around 8am, where the highway meets Airport Road. Killed 17 and wounded 14, civilians. While I was sleeping, some of my friends heard it and Sale7 said he saw the smoke from his apartment. The Syrian Interior Minister on Al-Arabiyya blamed it on terrorists.

Microbus Anecdotes

I'm spending a good hour-and-a-half, at least, on seravees (micros) daily. But not all rides are bereft of excitement!

----- Winter ---------------
Coming back from Sitt Zeineb, the micro I was in got pulled over by a cop. The driver calmly called a greeting to him, then grabbed a fifty-lira bill from the stack under the prayer rug on the dashboard while getting out to walk over to the cop. He talked with the cop, getting agitated and soon losing the nonchalant aura he had previously expressed, returning to huffily put the 50 back under the prayer rug, the ticket in his other hand.

-----Last Week------------
I was riding the Baramke - Jerimana micro home, and, as is common with the heavy traffic, lack of lanes, and verying width of Sharia' al-3am, our micro and an adjacent car got bottlenecked when the car decided it felt the need for speed. Both vehicles stopped, the area chosen for overtaking not wide enough to accomodate the both. The yelling began, not just between the young joyriders and the micro driver but also the passengers. The vehicles lurched forward and back, neither able to actually take off without the acquiesce of the other, but neither actually wanting to take the first step. "YOU GO!" "NO YOU GO!" was exchanged back and forth before the micro driver finally did go. The car, pissed to all hell, sped up to get along side us and yelled, until we were bottlednecked again. The yelling was much more inspired than the previous encounters' more-annoyed-than-angry tone. "GO AHEAD YOU DONKEY!" "SON OF A DONKEY!" "ASSHOLE!"

The car went ahead, but our driver was not having it. The frey continued with us and the car continually trying to cut off, stop, and just annoy the shit out of each other. We passed my stop, but I doubted my meagre "On the right, please" would be acknowledged over the shouts of men invoking each other's sisters' vaginas. Luckily, right past my stop the driver had enough, blocked the car, and everyone got out to fight. I got out to watch. Words about peoples' mothers and sisters were exchanged, fists were raised threateningly, and traffic was blocked with a cacophony of horns. Then everyone got back in the micro and car, drove off, and the din of horns ceased.

-----SPRING------------
I needed to make a connection from the Jerimana-Baramke line to the Sa'na - Muhajireen line, and I was late to a meeting. I could wait until the end of the former, walking over to catch the other, but I was pretty sure I they overlapped and I could transfer earlier. I asked the driver if the Sa'na - Muhajireen micro comes down this road, and he asked if I wanted to get on it. "Yeah." He surveyed the scene, and upon seeing the other micro, called out the window to the other driver that the young lady would like to get on. We were in heavy traffic, a good two lanes from the sidewalk, but to the detriment of the passengers he and the other micro negotiated to the side of the road, where I hopped out of one and onto the other.

A Realistic Fear

There's a profile on Chris Matthews, very loud pundit on CNBC, in the New York Times Magazine, which includes this interesting travel wish:

As we approached the airport gate, Matthews mentioned that he and his wife, Kathleen, have been contemplating a trip to Damascus. It’s something they have wanted to do for a long time. But he worries that he might make an inviting target for a kidnapper. “I can imagine getting some big-name media figure would be a big propaganda catch for them,” Matthews said. “You can imagine what the neocons would say if I were kidnapped. They’d be like, ‘See, Matthews, terrorism isn’t so funny now, is it?’ ”

What? When was the last time anyone got kidnapped in Damacus? Who does that? I sent out an email to his show inviting him to come to Damascus where many Americans and other foreigners go days without being kidnapped. But I guess we aren't big-name media figures like Mr. Matthews.

Car Bomb in Damascus

Imad Mughniyeh, a senior Hizbollah commander, was killed last night in a car bomb at around 10:45pm in Kafer Susseh, a residential neighborhood in Damascus. Hizbollah has accused Israel.

While sayara mufakhkhakha (car bomb) is one of my favorite words to say in Arabic (along with shilaymon - straw) it is only because of the repeated خ , while use of the word itself is tragically limited to events no one wants to happen.

Damascus: Capital of Arab Culture 2008

Damascus is the capital of Arab culture for 2008 (as decided by UNESCO). Some one told me that last year it was Riyadh. Really? Why? I thought the point of these designations was to increase tourism, and Saudi doesn't encourage tourism other than to Mecca and Medina (there isn't even a such thing as a tourist visa).

But Damascus knows how to do it right, starting out with a star-studded fireworks-laden celebration outside Dar al-Asad for Culture and Art. I didn't go, but it looked pretty awesome on TV: photos. The President and First Lady of Turkey were in attendance, as well as the Emir of Qatar and Amir Moussa, head of the Arab League. Is there any coincidence between Qatar not being on Bush's itinery last week, though he had time to visit every other Gulfi, and the Emir's gracing the celebration with his prescence?

Coming soon as part of the year-long celebration: Farouz concert!!! Well, Fairouz in a singing play, but still, it's been 30 years since she's sang in Syria. The cheapest tickets cost somewhere between $100-200. Fairouz loves sharing her music with the people!

It's Snowing!!!

Holy crap it's snowing! AND sticking to the ground. This is a rare event in Damascus, where it snows maybe once a year, and hardly ever accumulates.

Ice on the Ground

It is cold now, a cold that my family, the oldest members of which are mid-60s, claim to never have seen the likes of previous. My family blames me for bringing it with me from America. Yesterday was -1 C at 1pm, an insane temperature here in Damascus, where supposedly the temperature only dips below freezing at night for a week or two total. It is now even colder at night. Riyadh hit a low of -5C yesterday. There was snow in Baghdad. There is ice on the ground here: frozen water! The rarity of this should be evident in the Arabic language itself, while Inuit are said to have something like 40 words for snow, Arabic has one word for both snow and ice.

Before you scoff and stare out your window in Michigan, New York, or any more northern clime at the foot of snow and the thermometer reading -10, you should know that the cold in Damascus is just so much colder. There is no central heating, so instead family members crowd around sobias (gas burning little stove-things) or sleepers try to position the electric space heater close enough to the bed to warm them a bit during the night, but not so close as to set the blankets on fire (so far so good). This is the case in many apartments, where there is only one sobia so everyone gathers together. If you want to hang out in another, sobia-less room, you had better bring some booze or huddle umcomfortably close to your friends.

The cold is even worse in beyt arabis, such as my house. There is no roof, just rooms off a central courtyard, so when I walk in the front door and close it behind me I am still outside. The kitchen too is essentially outside, which means I brush my teeth wearing gloves. The cruelest part is the shower: I must wake up an hour early to turn on the water heater, then an hour later, after the nice, warm shower, I have to get from the bathroom back to my room, walking outside.

My room is also so cold in the morning, leaving those sheets is like leaving the womb every single morning, it makes me want to cry. I don't usually leave the space heater on since I am understandably scared of more fires, I don't really have blankets to spare.

Back Home

After 10 hours at the border, Rachel got the visa and we went home. Home! I love to travel, but there's always a sigh of relief to return to the comfort of home, back to a familiar bed, even if it doesn't have sheets because of a recent electric blanket fire.

Having the other passengers go ahead without us when it was clear we would have a wait awhile, we had to negotiate a ride from the border to Damascus. In Damascus, we all passengers got out somewhere random and shared a taxi into the center of the city, during which the driver repeatedly asked me why I would not marry or at least give my phone number to the nice Jordanian sitting shotgun. How old are you? he asked, guessing 15, maybe 17?

When I got up to go, the bulge in my jeans pocket gave away my excuse that I didn't have a phone (my excuse I don't want to get married until I'm 30 was met with "I would wait, won't you wait?" by the taxi driver and "yes" by the Jordanian student).

At home, I inhaled chicken and dumped heated buckets of water over myself (there's only enough water pressure for the shower in the morning). Abu Mazen and Iyad questioned me about how much I know about the differences between Shi'ism and Sunnism, and Abu Mazen tried to convince me that believing Jesus is the son of God and God himself is kind of silly - I've told the family I'm Christian - my atheism is best not broadcast. I walked to Bab Toma to catch a micro, looking at all the Christmas lights still up. Ah, home.

Micro Etiquette

The micro is my primary means of transportation. These friendly little vans seat usually seat 12, with enough room to squeeze in 2, or at times 3 more, who have to awkwardly squat. A ride anywhere in Damascus and the nearby environs is 5 lira or about 10 cents. They run on almost-always regular routes, with destinations written on the top. I take them just about any where at any time, except between 2 and 6 am they can be rather thin on the ground. They are a pretty awesome public transportation system.

Their use is quite simple:
As you see the micro you would like to take approaching, signal to the driver to stop. Stick your hand out and kind of wave it. Or something. Just indicate your desire for a ride. But not too much, cause then you'll look kind of spastic. Be cool, yo. The driver will either slow down, or put out his hand to indicate that the seats are full but you can squat if you'd like, or just wave a refusal based on the stuffed state of his micro. Then you wait more. At certain popular micro-stops, such as Bob Toma and Shariah Sawra, you will have to fight a bit to get on one. Women less so, as men will often step aside to let you on.

Once on the micro take any open seat. Usually women prefer to sit next to women, but often necessity dictates sitting next to man. Men will often shift seats to let women sit next to one another, but this is a luxury for times other than the morning, afternoon, or Thursday night rush, when you are to have caught a micro with a free seat. If you have gotten on a full micro, squat for about 5 seconds, at which point (if you a woman) a man will insist you take his seat. Take out your money and hand it to a man sitting in front of you. All change will be passed up to one of the men directly behind the driver, who will pay the driver and make sure every one gets correct change. If everyone occupying these seats are women, the money can be given to one of them to make change, but generally a man is preferred. In certain circumstances, even a random foreign chick with a weird hat can take on this duty.

When you are near your stop, tell the driver to go to the right (please) or that you would like to get down here. He will pull over to the right. Say thank you as you exit!

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!"

Moving, moving

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

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

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

Damascus: City of Freaks

So it's been quite an eventful weekend. I turned down a date with a friend (because "I'm just not ready to date now") on Thursday evening and on Friday evening the whole family and a few of the girls went up into the mountains to have iftar with some of Um Zahir's family. They were up in a village in the mountains about 30 minutes away. The family was happy because they had two engaged girls, sixteen and fourteen. "Do you think that's young?" we foreigners were asked, and replied in the affirmative. "It's common in ar-reef (the country)". The "older" one is getting married not long after Ramadan, the younger one in about a year. We oohed and ahhed over the pictures from their engagement parties, but the older one had about 30 professional pictures, with classic wedding and senior pic poses, in which she had professional hair and makeup and a massive dress. The younger one had 3 dark, crappy pictures. We're not sure why the disparity. Both girls are cute, and their finances are, um, less so. They're both marrying cousins.

Back at home, we the foreign girls sat around talking about how young these girls are. Huda, Zahir's wife, is only 24 and has two kids, 6 and 4. She was engaged at 16, married at 17, gave birth at 18. Mindy has a theory that marrying cousins has caused a great rift between the attractive and nonattractive. "In America, most people are in the middle, from the top side of average to not that attractive, but still not horrible. Here is seems like people are either gorgeous or hideous."

"Plus, have you notices all the congenital diseases people have, or how many deformitites? You see lots of albinos, people with club feet, humps on their back..." She continued to list types, including types of short people "... some are perfectly proportioned, some have long arms, some have short legs, some have big heads. And this one time I was at Dar Musa (a Christian monastary) talking to this monk you was young and looked normal, but then I looked down at his feet and he had a sixth toe growing out the top of his little toe." Lindsey burst out: "You make it sound like Damascus is a city of freaks!" which is just a hilarious mental image. See the postcards: Visit Damascus, City of Freaks.

The Fulbright orientation starts tomorrow and I'm not very happy because it means I have to miss two full days of class! That's eight hours, and the midterm at the end of this week. And soon I promise to write about the shit that's been going down here: nuclear Syria? and bombs in Beirut.

Syrians Don't Try to Rip Me Off

I had a busy first day in Damascus. I woke up without knowing what time it was, so I just got up and went to breakfast in the hotel. Oh, 7:30 am. Awesome. I asked at the front desk about how to find a family to live with. "Wait for the manager, he knows a family." He'll be here 10.

So I went around looking for the other items on my to-do list: watch, Syrian SIM card, passport photos. At 8 everything was closed but I managed to buy a watch on the street. At 9 I bought a new charger for my Egyptian cell phone. The guy had to dig in the back to find something that worked with "such an old model". I bought it a year and half ago! He sold it to me for 100 lira, ($2) because of my eyes. I also bought a sim card off of him for 600 lira. I have a crap load of lira, and I was counting out when he stopped me, took one of my bills, and told me I was counting out thousands. Oops. I put them back in my bag, took my change. Now I have a friend, Khalid, albeit a friend that wants to marry me.

That's the problem with making guy friends here. First they want to get with you, then when you tell them you're married (I need to get a ring to make this believable), or otherwise taken, or not looking (this is not understood, after all I am old) they want to just be your friend. The taxi driver who took me to the Damascus University today (god that was hard) was singing my praises so I concocted a fake potential husband in New York, an Iranian-American named Amir (thank you Shadee for your brother). Why don't I have a ring? They are expensive in America, I said, and he's working to buy one. He'll visit me here and give me the ring. The driver, Muhammad, was particularly interested in knowing if we go out together. To restaurants? To movies? Sure we do. Do we live together? No, I live with a friend and he lives with his brother. We can't live together until we are married (I don't want the driver thinking I'm some libertine American whore)!

Back to yesterday I went back to the hotel and met the guy, Zahir, in whose house I am now living. He took me to the house, I saw the room (I get to move in September 25 - until then I am on a couch in a living room which is now off limits to everyone else). It's $150 a month - not too shabby. It's off the main street between Bab Touma and Suq al-Hammadiyya in the old city. By 2pm I had paid off the hotel and moved my stuff. There's Zahir, his mother, his wife Huda (24!) and two kids, Said 6 and Samar 4, who are Muslim, plus the foreign girls. It's an old house with an open courtyard in the center and 3 floors (plus two bedrooms on the roof). There's a Polish girl, German, British, and four Americans including myself. I met all of them, with varying degrees of better-than-my-Arabic, except the Brit who arrived five days ago. I don't think I heard her speak Arabic. There's a 33-year old American who is "miserable."

One of the Americans is my parent's worst fear: she arrive two months ago on a CLEO (what I'm on right now too). She met a half-Syrian, half-Pakistani, first language English, and they... got fucking married. She just returned from her honeymoon in Turkey. She's going to Kuwait on Fulbright and he's supposed to join her. At some point she's going to Pakistan for the traditional 400 hundred of his closest friends and family Pakistanti wedding. She's 22.

I did speak a lot of English with Mindy, the miserable American, but after a day of being really good, and speaking a lot of Arabic, I swear. I'm a bit frustrated with where my Arabic is, how much less I comprehend compared to a year ago right after Egypt. But I have to remind myself today is only my second day. Maybe I'll understand more at the dinner table tonight.