Shoes!

I got shoes on the brain, though I didn't catch the news at all yesterday - I was too busy arguing at a shoe store.

A Dutch journalist friend with a name like a fan manufacturer bought a pair of shoes, workman boot types, from a store in Jeramana. He paid quite a bit, 1200 lira. Within the first day of wearing them, he realized there were problems. The left one had unfinished leather that rubbed against his sock, making holes, and the right one's toe was made improperly and cut into his foot. He hobbled around painfully before calling me up to try to return them and get a less painful pair.

Tariq and Ali, came with, predicting success was a longshot. "But take me and I'll speak Allawi," joked Ali.

The salesman, whose eyebrows were so light I thought he didn't have any at first, took one look at the shoes.
"These have been worn. I can't take them back."
"They were only worn once. This is obviously a flaw in manufacturing. The toe of the left one is fine and the toe of the right one is crap."
"Obviously some one stepped on it."
"THIS from someone stepping on it? It's obviously manufactured differently."

Tariq led the charge, with the Dutchman's and my occaisonal input. Ali mostly hung out in the background, offering mostly moral support. The salesman, and his manager, maintained that someone must have stepped on the toe of the shoe, resulting in it to be a different shape.
"How weak is that shoe? When he bought it the salesman assured him they were the strongest shoes available. One day and it breaks?"
"All the shoes are like that! I can get out other pairs and you can see."
"Ok show us."
"Ya Ahkhi there's nothing wrong with that shoe, it got stepped on. It would happen to all shoes."
"He can't wear the shoe it's so painful."

Tariq challenged the man to prove that it would happen to all shoes. The shoes' twin, for example, held its shape despire being worn for a day. The salesman assured him that, if stepped on, it would hold the same shape. Tariq put the shoe down, stamped on the toe a couple of time, and put it back on the counter. It held its shape, not sharing its brother's fate.
"It must have been stepped on in a different way."

The argument was getting quite dramatic, what with shoe-stomping theatrics. The Dutchman turned to a customer about to buy the same type of shoes and told him, "Don't get them. These broke after one day. They're bad boots." The manager did not appreciate the quality review. He told us to take the shoes to the goverment goods office, or offered to ship the shoes back to the factory. If there is indeed something wrong, it's from the factory and not from me.
"You're responsible for what you sell in your store," the Dutchman maintained.

The manager posited that he had nothing to do with the shoes once they left the store. You could walk out of his store and have a car run over the shoes and that's not his responsibility.

"Do you think he had a car run over his boot? For fun?"

The manager agreed to send the shoes back to the factory. Though we failed, Tariq enjoyed the arguing, so all was not lost.
"It's hard for me to speak when I'm angry," the Dutchman said.
"Oh, just wait. Angry Arabic is the most fun of all," I told him.

Today I was told twice before noon about Bush's shoe incident yesterday, where an Iraqi journalist for al-Baghdadiyya threw his shoes at Bush. First while buying fatayir for breakfast, then at the internet cafe where I am filling in more grad school applications. The guy working there was joking with another about it, then turned to me.
"You don't like Bush, do you," he said, joking. The first time I came into this internet cafe he asked me the same question more seriously. I told him the majority of Americans in Syria don't like Bush, as his supporters are probably scared of Arabs and Syrians especially.
"Bravo to the journalist!" I said.

Dentistry

I was walking to Capeoira class famished. The UNFPA office in Mezzeh is located in a food desert. There's a little market (baqaliyya) nearby, but the owner is a douche who charges 50 lira for yogurt I can get anywhere else in Damascus for 35 lira. There was no way I could get through two hours (ok, one-and-a-half with the breaks and always-late starts) without something in my gut.

I grabbed some chips from a store outside the sports club, and began to stuff them in. Then, a crack. I spit out a small rock and part of a molar. These weren't the crappiest, cheapest chips you can buy either, but Uncle Chips. I expect no rocks when I spend 15 lira on chips, damnit! My tooth wasn't bleeding or anything so I went to Capeoira class.

Luckily in Jeramana there are a glut of dentists near my apartment on Sahat as-Suyuf. On the way back I got off early, walked into a random dentist's office, and made an appointment. The next day after work I choose tooth-colored over gold fill, and walked out 20 minutes later with a fistful of candy. I asked him why he had candy - trying to get more business? He laughed and then gave me some candy, and for the first time, asked if I was Russian. No, no, American.

It was 1000 lira ($20) total and even comes with a guarantee. Should anything happen with that tooth, he said he'll fix it for free.

Ilhamdulah!

The water finally came!

Last week, the water stopped coming. Usually we just turn on the motor and the water tank fills up, and we're good for the next two days or so. But last week, it just stopped coming. And didn't come back.

The dishes piled up, clothes could not be washed. I bathed using the drinking water. I polled the neighbors, and found out it was at least a building-wide problem. Until the 4th day in, when the across-the-hall neighbors' water magically returned but the upstairs neighbors and I were without.

Then, after six days, just like in the Bible, a miracle happened and water returned.

And the seventh became a day of washing and thanking the Lord and taking showers. There was much cheering and the clanking of dishes.

Rent Smack Down

My roommate is in awe of me since last night, an appreciation so great I might be able to avoid washing dishes or sweeping our eternally dirty balcony for a week. I have saved the house.

Two days ago, our Homsi landlord Abu Yallis called to let us know rent was due. Our apartment, beautifully situated in Jerimana on the main street, is paid for tri-monthly out of a curtesy to Abu Yallis and his not wanting to come down to Damascus every month. This is our first payment since the initial. I told him we would need a few days to get the money together, due to the daily limits my bank places on ATM withdrawal.

He said we need to talk about "ziyadeh" (extra) for the summer. No I told him, there is no extra. We agreed to meet last evening to pay.

The night before last the simsar (real estate guy) who had hooked us up with the apartment showed up on our doorstep, ringing the bell at 11:00pm. Who shows up at 11:00pm at a strangers house without at least calling ahead? Furthermore, who goes to a house where they know two women live alone at 11:00pm? To talk business? Dude's Syrian, he knows the rules and he would have never done that to two Syrian girls living alone (while rare, they exist. I met two medical students from Deraa sharing an apartment in Mezzeh). He asks if Abu Yallis has been by about the rent yet, I say no, he asks about renewing the rent contract. No I say. I'm going to sleep.

Abu Yallis comes over yesterday, checks the electricity, remarks that we are very good with not wasting power, since our bill is half of what the previous tenants were paying. Before he came I had been powwowing with my roommate, determined not to pay a cent over the agreed amount. "Let's practice again," I cojole her, "ma byseer! mustaheel!" (no way, imposssible!)

Abu Yallis and I go around for a good 20 minutes cause he says we need to renew the contract, and we have to pay a simsar (a different one) 1000 lira for this. I question him what the money's for, and apparently its because we're foreign. I mention how we're only paying rent, not renewing the contract, but am told they need a record that we're still in the apartment. I cave. The simsar comes over, draws up the contract, and Abu Yallis asks for the money.

54,000 lira right, 18 a month? I say. No, no, no, he shakes his head. There's ziyadeh because of the summer. How is summer more, I ask, since we pay electricity seperate?

"Because its summer. There's a summer rate and a winter rate." 3 months ago, there was no mention of this when we got the place. "I could rent this place out today to a guy ready to pay 25,000 a month 6 months in advance." He doesn't name what he expects this ziadeh to be. he also tells us the Iraqis before us were paying 30,000 a month.

I tell him prices have gone down since a lot of Iraqis are leaving. I seriously doubt he has a man ready to move in today. I tell him that I will pay what we agreed upon three months ago. He tells me its summer: "I could get 25,000. I'm not asking for that, but I have to benefit." He says he told the simsar office that naturally prices would go up in the summer.
"You didn't tell me that."
"That's not my fault. When you go the place I asked if you could pay 6 months in advance, and you said you could. But I only took three. If the price was going to stay the same, why wouldn't I have taken all 6?"
"This place was already a lot more expensive than any other place I saw. I only took it for the balcony. But I can live without one. I would not have taken it if I knew about a 'summer price'".

I finally ask him how much ziyadeh we're talking about here. He repeats about how he could get 25,000, and he's not asking for that, but he's looking to benefit. The simsar, quiet during our debate, has stopped filling out the contract renewal forma and steps in to mediate. "So there's 18 and 25. Let's meet in the middle?"
"What like 22?"
"ok, 22." Simsar says.
"MA BYSEER! I prefer to move!"

The simsar and Abu Yallis tell us we don't really want to move, its tiring and hard, and we're girls, and we'll have to pay 5,000 at least to a new simsar. He tells me to go try to find a cheaper apartment.
"Of course! I'll just get off the main street. We'll save more money paying the simsar 5 once and having a cheaper apartment than paying 22 every month!"

At one point I stormed off to my room next to the salon and started throwing clothes into an open suitcase. Then I remembered that grown-ups do not solve problems by making scenes. I returned and sat next to my silent roommate, smoothing my skirt with propriety.

We went around. The price got lowered to 20. "Mustaheel! No," I said. "We agreed on a price. We'll pay the price, or we'll move. And what does girls have to do with it?"
"You're going to fight over 2000 lira?"
"This apartment is already more expensive than I could get. 18 was expensive. And what will happen after three months?"
"You can leave then if you want, or you can stay."
"So why not leave now and save money? How much is the price going to be next time?"
"It'll stay the summer price."
"MA BYSEER ABADAN! Summer will be over. ma byseer."

There was a long silence. I broke it. "Alright. By when do we have our stuff cleared out?"
There was no answer, and I thought to myself I had called Abu Yallis' bluff. He finally agreed to take the 18, citing pity and the fact that we were girls. Call it what you will Abu Yallis, but we met in the staring contest of life and you blinked.

In the post-game analysis over a game of trex with friends, who were all very proud of me, I was told that he had a right to try to get more money. "If he can get more, why shouldn't he? It's a game." A game that I won.

Street Funeral

Many mornings I am woken up by the loudspeaker across the street, announcing Druze dead. My area of town, Jerimana, is predominantly Druze, explaining the frequent liquor stores. We live near the worship sight, called al-mawqif, where funerals are held, so either the day prior or the morning of, funeral announcements are issued on the loudspeaker in Sahat as-Suyuf. Jerimana is a bustling neighborhood, with perhaps as many as 80,000 residents. It's not unusual to hear the loudspeaker go off a couple times a week, announcing the death of old people. I like the euphenism for death used, "moved to the mercy of God [heaven]".

Wednesday morning I thought little on the latest funeral announcement, though it did include "ash-sha'b ash-shaheed" before the name of the deceased. The young martyr. This was the first time I have heard this. Martyr? I thought. Martyr for what? My mind race for a minute to think of what could have happened. I then went back to sleep for an hour and awoke to nothing unusually, just the normal bustle of Jerimana in the morning, and promptly forgot about it.

While, at least in my opinion, the word martyr in English is reserved mostly for religious purposes, the use is much wider in Arabic. The victims of the Iraq war are martyrs. Those who died in the Lebanese Civil War are martyrs. The Palestinians killed under occupation are martyrs. The dead do not have to be actively participating in the cause at the time of their death to be called martyrs.

At noon, I was sitting in the living room with my flatmate Michelle and her friend visiting from the States. The friend went to the kitchen, and asked if people playing with firecrackers was common. Um, no? There were bang bang bang! noises audible from the kitchen window. I shrugged and attributed it to the widespread construction. "Maybe it's like a nail gun."

From the balcony, we started to notice people running and walking quickly. Soon the body of the procession came into the square, holding up pictures of the dead young man, chanting, and shooting pistols into the air (blanks). The square was full of men, before they continued on to al-mawqif. I ran out into the streets and followed the procession at a distance of 10 meters, with other women, and people who happened to be walking somewhere when the procession cut them off. The procession would stop occaisonally to clap and chant (I couldn't make out what they were saying). People on the sides stopped and watched, some crying. I asked an older man watching what had happened.

"A youth died."
"How?"
"Army. Three days before he was done with service there was an accident and he was killed in an explosion."
"Allah yarhamhu"

He then asked me if I wasn't Syrian, so I told him I was American.
"Do you have demonstrations like this in America?"
"Not really for funerals."

I stopped followinf the procession, not going to al-maqwa3 as I decided to be only semi-vulturous.

The kid was probably only around 20. I asked some of my friends about his martyrdom, since it was an accident, tragic, but not in a conflict.
"He died while serving his country. Of course he's a martyr."

I Love Jerimana

I am in love with my new apartment in Jerimana. Jerimana is technically outside of Damascus, but it's a little like Damascus' Brooklyn. It has everything: restaurants, Bouza Umaya (the best ice cream in Syria), even trendy little cafes now, plus at least once a week I get to see a man chase another down the street with a beating stick. I live at Sahat as-Suyuf, which is always bustling, day or night. Boredom does not exist since I can sit on the balcony and watch the proceedings below. The tea man serving every passing bar, the workers waiting to be hired like Mexicans outside Home Depot, the men chasing one another with beating sticks, the kids flirting surreptiously.

I wake up with the morning sun shining in my window, make breakfast, and eat it on the balcony. I then usually get a little studying done on the balcony before going into Damascus for lesson, teaching, or other little commitments. Studying on the balcony is awesome, especially now as I'm supposed to be starting my research grant (I have been here 6 months! I can't believe it) now. And if I don't go onto the balcony, I don't even have to wear pants to study; already, the new apartment is better than my old house with the family by several levels.

Dinner is on the balcony at well. Damn I love that balcony. And did I mention that it suddenly became spring 2 weeks ago? The sun is shining, weather is sweet, makes you want to move your dancing feet.