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.
Showing posts with label culture. Show all posts
Showing posts with label culture. Show all posts
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Sunday, April 26, 2009
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.
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.
Saturday, April 18, 2009
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.
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.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
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!
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!
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
Iraqi Wedding
With shame, I admit that last night was the first time I have been to a wedding in Syria. While since moving to Syria I have been to a wedding in Pakistan and an engagement party here, no wedding. Early last summer my friend Saleh teased me by inviting me to an upcoming wedding, promising a good time as it would be an Allawi wedding, meaning mixed and drinks (Shami weddings are traditionally gender segregated). But the day rolled around and he was in the village and forgot about me and went and I got to hear about it later.
Last night Um Tareq suddenly announced that she and Um Qassam were going to a wedding and I should come too. This despite a day of traveling that began at 5am- my pleas of exhaustian were ignored. As were the fact that I would have to go in sneakers and less-than-formal wear, everything being packed. And that I was dirty.
"It's fine! Yalla!"
So I went. I asked who's getting married. She told me, oh, I don't know, somebody's relative, which doesn't exactly narrow it done.
The salle was a place called قصر الأميرة, Castle of the Princess, which at least to me sounds less cheesy in Arabic. It was mixed, though mostly ladies. The bride and groom were seated on a raised dance platform, her dress fanned about her. They both looked young and nervous, and for not the first time I couldn't help but think of a wedding as a vulgar affair, announcing to the world the couple's (assumed) sexual initiation. The bride wore the popular style: elaborately detailed bodice, large sweeping skirt, intricate hair, layers of makeup. Um Tareq leaned over, telling me that the bride was fat, but the groom looked neat and na'im. I told her she was a little mean and she said, what, she is fat! Look at her arms, they're full.
The bride turned out to be a relative of Um Rad, a jovial friend of Um Tareq I've met before several times. She was very interested in my joining the party, and anytime a song coaxed the seated to the floor she would grab me by the arm and drag me out there. I got a quick lesson in dancing the "Iraqi way", which involves a lot of head movements. Luckily I'm an ace at the snake so I embressed. But the star of the show was an approximately 8 year old girl, who had tricked herself out for the party: full blue dress, teased up hair with sparkles that flew and glittered in the air every time she flung her hair around. Girl got down, and enjoyed being the center of the dancing ring. The bride joined the dancing occaisonally, but the dress limited substantial movement. There was some debke, but it was nothing like the non-stop debke frenzy I experienced at a Palestinian engagement party this summer.
During dancing breaks, I chatted with some ladies, some of whom I'd met before and most I hadn't. Luckily Um Rad was there to introduce me:
"She's American but she doesn't like Bush," a sentence repeated verbatim with every introduction.
Really? American? The introducee would reply. Then would come questions about America vs. Syria and such. Sadly, Um Rad had some cake-related matters to attend to, and I was briefly left alone dancing with some ladies and their fiances and an eight-year-old without introduction. One woman said she liked how I danced and I returned the compliment.
"Oh! Are you not Syrian?" she said at my accent.
No, no, American.
I left somewhat early, due to aforementioned fatigue, but I might have to honor three engagements to really learn some Iraqi dance.
Last night Um Tareq suddenly announced that she and Um Qassam were going to a wedding and I should come too. This despite a day of traveling that began at 5am- my pleas of exhaustian were ignored. As were the fact that I would have to go in sneakers and less-than-formal wear, everything being packed. And that I was dirty.
"It's fine! Yalla!"
So I went. I asked who's getting married. She told me, oh, I don't know, somebody's relative, which doesn't exactly narrow it done.
The salle was a place called قصر الأميرة, Castle of the Princess, which at least to me sounds less cheesy in Arabic. It was mixed, though mostly ladies. The bride and groom were seated on a raised dance platform, her dress fanned about her. They both looked young and nervous, and for not the first time I couldn't help but think of a wedding as a vulgar affair, announcing to the world the couple's (assumed) sexual initiation. The bride wore the popular style: elaborately detailed bodice, large sweeping skirt, intricate hair, layers of makeup. Um Tareq leaned over, telling me that the bride was fat, but the groom looked neat and na'im. I told her she was a little mean and she said, what, she is fat! Look at her arms, they're full.
The bride turned out to be a relative of Um Rad, a jovial friend of Um Tareq I've met before several times. She was very interested in my joining the party, and anytime a song coaxed the seated to the floor she would grab me by the arm and drag me out there. I got a quick lesson in dancing the "Iraqi way", which involves a lot of head movements. Luckily I'm an ace at the snake so I embressed. But the star of the show was an approximately 8 year old girl, who had tricked herself out for the party: full blue dress, teased up hair with sparkles that flew and glittered in the air every time she flung her hair around. Girl got down, and enjoyed being the center of the dancing ring. The bride joined the dancing occaisonally, but the dress limited substantial movement. There was some debke, but it was nothing like the non-stop debke frenzy I experienced at a Palestinian engagement party this summer.
During dancing breaks, I chatted with some ladies, some of whom I'd met before and most I hadn't. Luckily Um Rad was there to introduce me:
"She's American but she doesn't like Bush," a sentence repeated verbatim with every introduction.
Really? American? The introducee would reply. Then would come questions about America vs. Syria and such. Sadly, Um Rad had some cake-related matters to attend to, and I was briefly left alone dancing with some ladies and their fiances and an eight-year-old without introduction. One woman said she liked how I danced and I returned the compliment.
"Oh! Are you not Syrian?" she said at my accent.
No, no, American.
I left somewhat early, due to aforementioned fatigue, but I might have to honor three engagements to really learn some Iraqi dance.
Sunday, December 21, 2008
First Name Last Name
This is something I noticed while translating at the UNFPA: first names are formal. When putting out a press release, a person would naturally first be mentioned with their full title and name, but subsequent mentions could be shortened to as-sayed Ahmad (Mr. Ahmad) or ad-docktora Leena (Dr. Leena). In the English versions, of course, I'd have to refer to them by title and last name. So it seems there's none of that awkward "May I call you by your first name?"
That's it. Just an observation.
That's it. Just an observation.
Sunday, December 14, 2008
Getting Down at Eid
I was invited up to Aleppo for Eid by my boyfriend's family. They are no strangers to the draw of ajnabiyyat as his uncle is married to a Russian woman. We went out to dinner all together the first day,a group of more than 20 plus innumerous children running around everywhere (bill was only 8000 lira). Every one thought it was a little weird I don't eat meat, but Abd al-Karim's wife doesn't either so at least I had an ally. I've meet the uncle and his Rusiyya wife before, but this was the first time I had seen her outside of the house and was surprised to see she's muhajiba. Since last summer, she said.
"Maybe you'll be hijabing eventually too."
"Impossible."
"Why?" She and two of the other uncle's daughters leaned in.
"I already have enough trouble matching pants and shirts - match a hijab too? Impossible. I see how all the muhajibas got it going on - matching it all up. Look at me - today I'm wearing blue and black and white and green with a red coat. It's a disaster."
They laughed, and the subject was dropped. I thought this was easier than responding as I had, throughout Ramadan, to inquiries why I wasn't fasting: "I'm not Muslim." This would usually have to be expanded on with reference to Lent.
"Why don't you just try fasting?"
"I did Lent, so I'm good." or "We have our own fasting time." ("We" being Christians).
But this is just dishonest, and slids into that murky grey area where a little lie about being a Christian turns into immense discussions in which I have to defend Catholic theology. Not that I thought a pleasant Eid dinner would turn to dicussions of the divinity of Jesus; but still in awe of Syrian women's ability to put together an outfit, this is more true than professing my devotion to the Christian faith.
But luckily the family's religiosity on hijab did not extend to alcohol, and we were able to enjoy a regular bachanal (well, kind of). The second day of Eid we went to a Saher (staying-up-late) party at the Jalal Sport Club, decked out to look like not a sports club. On the way in I whispered to my boyfriend, asking if there would drink, and if so, would it be alright to drink in front of his family. He said probably, but since we're still on the trying-to-impress them stage, only if others are drinking.
There was a bottle of whiskey waiting for us at the table, with uncles and a cousin already sipping it neat. Most every other table had wine or whiskey as well. The table was overfilling with appetizers, most of which were meatless. A known singer entertained and during particularly engaging songs half the congregation got up to boogie. We ate and drank and danced till well past 2am. It was interesting to celebrate a Muslim holiday with a family where most of the women veil and the whiskey is liberally poured. I think there's a conception in America that Muslims as a rule are very religious and strict, when proponents of any faith vary in adherence to the letter and spirit of the Law.
But glad we're in agreement alcohol is the way to celebrate a holiday.
"Maybe you'll be hijabing eventually too."
"Impossible."
"Why?" She and two of the other uncle's daughters leaned in.
"I already have enough trouble matching pants and shirts - match a hijab too? Impossible. I see how all the muhajibas got it going on - matching it all up. Look at me - today I'm wearing blue and black and white and green with a red coat. It's a disaster."
They laughed, and the subject was dropped. I thought this was easier than responding as I had, throughout Ramadan, to inquiries why I wasn't fasting: "I'm not Muslim." This would usually have to be expanded on with reference to Lent.
"Why don't you just try fasting?"
"I did Lent, so I'm good." or "We have our own fasting time." ("We" being Christians).
But this is just dishonest, and slids into that murky grey area where a little lie about being a Christian turns into immense discussions in which I have to defend Catholic theology. Not that I thought a pleasant Eid dinner would turn to dicussions of the divinity of Jesus; but still in awe of Syrian women's ability to put together an outfit, this is more true than professing my devotion to the Christian faith.
But luckily the family's religiosity on hijab did not extend to alcohol, and we were able to enjoy a regular bachanal (well, kind of). The second day of Eid we went to a Saher (staying-up-late) party at the Jalal Sport Club, decked out to look like not a sports club. On the way in I whispered to my boyfriend, asking if there would drink, and if so, would it be alright to drink in front of his family. He said probably, but since we're still on the trying-to-impress them stage, only if others are drinking.
There was a bottle of whiskey waiting for us at the table, with uncles and a cousin already sipping it neat. Most every other table had wine or whiskey as well. The table was overfilling with appetizers, most of which were meatless. A known singer entertained and during particularly engaging songs half the congregation got up to boogie. We ate and drank and danced till well past 2am. It was interesting to celebrate a Muslim holiday with a family where most of the women veil and the whiskey is liberally poured. I think there's a conception in America that Muslims as a rule are very religious and strict, when proponents of any faith vary in adherence to the letter and spirit of the Law.
But glad we're in agreement alcohol is the way to celebrate a holiday.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
I Watch a Play, Am Bored
I am starting to hate the theatre.
I have been fortunate enough to see a couple of plays here, most of 2008's Damascus: Arab Capital of Culture. And with rare exception, I thought every single one blew.
Last night I saw "Tactic," a play that is running this week at Hamra Theatre in downtown Damascus. It's got some famous actor in the title role. I forget his name. It's supposed to be about a broken family, a runaway daughter, an estranged mother, revealed family secrets and drama! Oh yeah! Unfortunately, the "plot" turned out to be little more than a backdrop for a series of dramatic monologues.
Within the first five minutes, we know the entire backstory of the mother, her secret, why she fled to Paris, etc. Then after a dance number we see that her daughter has run away to join some sort of casino/nightclub/brothel where the whores/dancers dress like in quasi-futuristic shiny hoodies. We then meet some of them, and the two dudes who work there through one after another monologue about how this happened in their life and how they became whores/dancers. It usually involves a broken family of some sort.
These stories range from a mother's cancer to the Shatila refugee camp massacre. I thought that latter backstory was... odd in the context. It seemed like the writer just wanted to stick in something that would get an emotional rise out of the audience - I'm just sitting there thinking, yes, massacre is bad, but what does this have to do with the play? At the end the father character is talking about love and war - and then veers off into hating on Bush and his wars. The audience appreciated the dig but it felt like a random anti-Bush zinger in almost every New York play I've ever seen: cheap shot. Pandering to the audience. In New York, and Damascus, you know putting in something about Bush being a dick is going to get a clap.
I seemed to be alone in my opinions. The people I saw the play with really enjoyed it and told me I just didn't understand it. Actually, there were parts of it I just didn't understand ("Why was he talking about Russian ladies and is now talking about Suq Hamidiyya?" "He's talking about buying things for their marriage" "Oh"). I know I should have appreciated the go! lady power messages (including one monologue about how boys and girls are treated differently) but part of me was thinking: is the message more effective when delivered in skintight shiny spandex? And are they going into space at some point or is that just a tease?
"What about the acting?" I asked my companions.
"Awesome."
Um, ok. Once again, not that I'm an expert, but I didn't feel like there were any characters. All of the ladies delivered their monologues in the same style, with healthy doses of yelling, screaming, and anguished hair-pulling. I felt like each lady-monologue could have been delivered by the same girl and it would have made no difference. The men also delivered their monologues in the same style, except the famous guy whose character actually seemed to have some.
I've seen plays like this before. Way too much. In Damascus but mostly in New York. I hated them too.
I know that Damascus isn't exactly a hotbed of performing arts and I should be happy with what there is, but shit, is it too much to ask for a play with a plot, characters (who are different from one another) and dialogue?
So afterwards I'm feeling like the grinch because everyone liked the play. The whole audience loved it, my fellow-theatregoers insisted. Though I have a feeling the male potion of the audience would have enjoyed it a lot less without the female cast in those matching miniskirt spacesuits. But anyways, I'm wrong.
I have been fortunate enough to see a couple of plays here, most of 2008's Damascus: Arab Capital of Culture. And with rare exception, I thought every single one blew.
Last night I saw "Tactic," a play that is running this week at Hamra Theatre in downtown Damascus. It's got some famous actor in the title role. I forget his name. It's supposed to be about a broken family, a runaway daughter, an estranged mother, revealed family secrets and drama! Oh yeah! Unfortunately, the "plot" turned out to be little more than a backdrop for a series of dramatic monologues.
While no great patron of the arts (I never understood anything my college roommate's experimental theatre did), I'd appreciate, some, you know, dialogue. And strong characters. That's what I like to see in a play, or in a film: the interaction of different characters and some sort of plot. The kind where secrets and backgrounds are revealed slowly, organically. In film I also like a healthy amount of explosions but understand that the stage has limits.
Within the first five minutes, we know the entire backstory of the mother, her secret, why she fled to Paris, etc. Then after a dance number we see that her daughter has run away to join some sort of casino/nightclub/brothel where the whores/dancers dress like in quasi-futuristic shiny hoodies. We then meet some of them, and the two dudes who work there through one after another monologue about how this happened in their life and how they became whores/dancers. It usually involves a broken family of some sort.
These stories range from a mother's cancer to the Shatila refugee camp massacre. I thought that latter backstory was... odd in the context. It seemed like the writer just wanted to stick in something that would get an emotional rise out of the audience - I'm just sitting there thinking, yes, massacre is bad, but what does this have to do with the play? At the end the father character is talking about love and war - and then veers off into hating on Bush and his wars. The audience appreciated the dig but it felt like a random anti-Bush zinger in almost every New York play I've ever seen: cheap shot. Pandering to the audience. In New York, and Damascus, you know putting in something about Bush being a dick is going to get a clap.
I seemed to be alone in my opinions. The people I saw the play with really enjoyed it and told me I just didn't understand it. Actually, there were parts of it I just didn't understand ("Why was he talking about Russian ladies and is now talking about Suq Hamidiyya?" "He's talking about buying things for their marriage" "Oh"). I know I should have appreciated the go! lady power messages (including one monologue about how boys and girls are treated differently) but part of me was thinking: is the message more effective when delivered in skintight shiny spandex? And are they going into space at some point or is that just a tease?
"What about the acting?" I asked my companions.
"Awesome."
Um, ok. Once again, not that I'm an expert, but I didn't feel like there were any characters. All of the ladies delivered their monologues in the same style, with healthy doses of yelling, screaming, and anguished hair-pulling. I felt like each lady-monologue could have been delivered by the same girl and it would have made no difference. The men also delivered their monologues in the same style, except the famous guy whose character actually seemed to have some.
I've seen plays like this before. Way too much. In Damascus but mostly in New York. I hated them too.
I know that Damascus isn't exactly a hotbed of performing arts and I should be happy with what there is, but shit, is it too much to ask for a play with a plot, characters (who are different from one another) and dialogue?
So afterwards I'm feeling like the grinch because everyone liked the play. The whole audience loved it, my fellow-theatregoers insisted. Though I have a feeling the male potion of the audience would have enjoyed it a lot less without the female cast in those matching miniskirt spacesuits. But anyways, I'm wrong.
Friday, November 14, 2008
Yo, You Fat
Every culture has its own boundaries for polite behavior. There's a lot of horribly rude things in Syria that would be considered normal in America, such as not insisting guests eat until they are unable to move or directing them to the fridge to get their own drinks. Of course, there are also completely normal things in Syria that are unspeakably, horribly rude in America. Foremost in my mind is the nonchalance with which people tell others they are fat:
One morning, I greeted Shaza and Rahaf, coworkers of my age I would often chat with, and after the usual pleasantries, Shaza added, "Samnaneh!" or "You're fatter!""What?"
"Samnaneh" She repeated. "Been eating lots lately huh?"
Whoa. In America, you could probably sue some one for that. But here, as she explained to me, that's normal. She and the other young woman said they tell each other all the time, "hey, you're fatter!" or "Hey, thinner!". I told them that would be considered totally rude in America.
"But why? I'm just saying you've gained some weight. It's not a bad thing. You're just fatter. We say it all the time. Hey Rahaf, looking thinner! She'll tell me Hey Shaza, you've gained weight. It's normal."
I'll see friends and they'll let me know Nahfaneh! or Samnaneh! I'm still not used to this. While in America people will tell you if you've lost weight, weight gained is not voiced. If I greet some one I haven't seen for a while at Capoeira, the first words besides shloanik and shu akhbarik will be a commentary on my preceived slimmer-ness or fatter-ness.
In the Turkish baths (hammam) the other day, the other ladies had no reservations telling me "you are fatter than her (my companion)" or pointing to my kirsh (belly).
Maybe I'm just too sensitive. Being fat isn't necessarily a bad thing. The girl in Capoeira that every man is in love with was described to me by my friend Saleh as such: "She is fat and it is good!"
Monday, October 13, 2008
Update and Consequences
Manar ran away the first week of September. For almost a month after she returned home I didn't hear from her. Her phone was off, her family refused to talk to me. Then, last week I ran into her near Rowda in Jeramana. We was alone. We both screamed and hugged excitedly. We talked briefly. She laughed when I told her about her family's insistence she was in Sweida.
"How are you alone?"
She said it had taken some time - the first two weeks she had only left the house if accompanied. But her father had at some point sat down and had a talk with her. He finally told her how he had passed out at the police station, how he had a heart attack. She promised not to run away again.
She also has a new job. She's working security at a foreign embassy in Mezzeh (turns out "security" means carrying a walkie-talkie and checking bags, which is good because the woman must be less than 5'2"). She's making 10,000 lira a month and has a two-day weekend, which is a massive improvement over her old job, where she only had friday off and made 4,000. The new job wanted some one who spoke English as well, but luckily in the interview the only question on this was "Do you speak English?" (in Arabic, naturally)
"Sure"
I met her Thursday after work and we sat at a cafe in Jeramana. We only had two hours because her new curfew is very early. She usually goes home straight from work but is now allowed to stay out until 8pm two or three nights a week.
Her parents are not pressuring her to marry anymore. At first, she said, they tried to get her to reconsider the same one from before. They arranged for him to come over. She told them that she would not get married and if they brought him over she would run away again. The matter was dropped and her mother later came to her and said they would stop pressuring her.
So Manar's life isn't ruined. There's even some good: her parents have stopped pressuring her to marry. She has a better job, with more money. She's thinking about using the money to take some English courses. More time at home means more time to study English with Friends DVDs. Her family hates me, so we have to meet outside of her home secret, but at least I don't have to worry I will never see her again. Her other friends have been able to visit her at her home, even back when she was under house arrest.
But she did tell me that her extended family has turned against her parents. Her father's family, all her uncles and aunts except for one, have informed the family that they will no longer be visiting or speaking with them because of the shame of Manar's having run away. She's back at home, but it doesn't matter. It's too shameful that she did run away for them to have relations with their brother.
It's easy to think of Manar's family as villains. She wanted things that in her words, are completely natural and normal, right? She wants to be able to go out to parties and cultural events, to have some freedom, to study, to travel, to date. To live on her own. To buy a book without being questioned about it and being told she's wasting money. To not feel pressured to hurry the fuck up and get married already at 22. These seem like completely normal things to me, since they were all natural parts of growing up where I'm from.
When Manar's brother was trying to talk her into coming out of the cupboard, he told her to imagine how life would be for him if she didn't come back home. People would laugh when he walked down the street and talk about him behind his back "his sister ran away!" When Manar's mother cradled her, she cried "binti! sharafi!" my daughter, my honor.
The consequences are great, not just for Manar, but for her whole family. Her family has lost their support system. There is no social security in Syria - your family supports you. Family is very important. And now her family has lost that network because of what Manar did - it's understandable why they acted like they did. It's also true that things could have been a lot worse - her uncle wasn't kidding when he told me if they were a different family, Manar would have been killed. They couldn't even consider the suggestion that Manar live with me.
What kind of burden is that to bear? I have been able to live my life knowing that the decisions and mistakes I make will reflect upon me, not have disastrous effects for my family. Though her extended family may come around, especially if Manar gets married someday, I have no doubt her family is blaming her for the estrangement. Her brothers naturally don't have to worry about this, they can move out of the house (one is considering it), stay out all night, travel, fuck and drink without ruining familial ties.
There's a lot of things I would have done differently if I could repeat the episode. It's useless to list these now, and I still would have chosen to help Manar. Despite how many times I got the speech "there is Arab society and Western society" from her family, and told I couldn't understand the implications of her actions as a foreigner, I still would choose to help her. She is a friend, she was in potential danger and she asked for my help. That's universal. However I know that part of the reason I was able to help was because of my situation: being a foreigner. I wasn't scared to accompany Manar with her family because while Syrian law protects a family killing their daughter, it punishes for killing the naive American with her. I'm no hero: when at her uncle's house, I mostly nodded and agreed with what her family said. When they threatened my boyfriend I apologized for helping.
I still don't know what exactly to make of the whole situation. But at the very least, Manar is well and safe and somewhat happy.
"How are you alone?"
She said it had taken some time - the first two weeks she had only left the house if accompanied. But her father had at some point sat down and had a talk with her. He finally told her how he had passed out at the police station, how he had a heart attack. She promised not to run away again.
She also has a new job. She's working security at a foreign embassy in Mezzeh (turns out "security" means carrying a walkie-talkie and checking bags, which is good because the woman must be less than 5'2"). She's making 10,000 lira a month and has a two-day weekend, which is a massive improvement over her old job, where she only had friday off and made 4,000. The new job wanted some one who spoke English as well, but luckily in the interview the only question on this was "Do you speak English?" (in Arabic, naturally)
"Sure"
I met her Thursday after work and we sat at a cafe in Jeramana. We only had two hours because her new curfew is very early. She usually goes home straight from work but is now allowed to stay out until 8pm two or three nights a week.
Her parents are not pressuring her to marry anymore. At first, she said, they tried to get her to reconsider the same one from before. They arranged for him to come over. She told them that she would not get married and if they brought him over she would run away again. The matter was dropped and her mother later came to her and said they would stop pressuring her.
So Manar's life isn't ruined. There's even some good: her parents have stopped pressuring her to marry. She has a better job, with more money. She's thinking about using the money to take some English courses. More time at home means more time to study English with Friends DVDs. Her family hates me, so we have to meet outside of her home secret, but at least I don't have to worry I will never see her again. Her other friends have been able to visit her at her home, even back when she was under house arrest.
But she did tell me that her extended family has turned against her parents. Her father's family, all her uncles and aunts except for one, have informed the family that they will no longer be visiting or speaking with them because of the shame of Manar's having run away. She's back at home, but it doesn't matter. It's too shameful that she did run away for them to have relations with their brother.
It's easy to think of Manar's family as villains. She wanted things that in her words, are completely natural and normal, right? She wants to be able to go out to parties and cultural events, to have some freedom, to study, to travel, to date. To live on her own. To buy a book without being questioned about it and being told she's wasting money. To not feel pressured to hurry the fuck up and get married already at 22. These seem like completely normal things to me, since they were all natural parts of growing up where I'm from.
When Manar's brother was trying to talk her into coming out of the cupboard, he told her to imagine how life would be for him if she didn't come back home. People would laugh when he walked down the street and talk about him behind his back "his sister ran away!" When Manar's mother cradled her, she cried "binti! sharafi!" my daughter, my honor.
The consequences are great, not just for Manar, but for her whole family. Her family has lost their support system. There is no social security in Syria - your family supports you. Family is very important. And now her family has lost that network because of what Manar did - it's understandable why they acted like they did. It's also true that things could have been a lot worse - her uncle wasn't kidding when he told me if they were a different family, Manar would have been killed. They couldn't even consider the suggestion that Manar live with me.
What kind of burden is that to bear? I have been able to live my life knowing that the decisions and mistakes I make will reflect upon me, not have disastrous effects for my family. Though her extended family may come around, especially if Manar gets married someday, I have no doubt her family is blaming her for the estrangement. Her brothers naturally don't have to worry about this, they can move out of the house (one is considering it), stay out all night, travel, fuck and drink without ruining familial ties.
There's a lot of things I would have done differently if I could repeat the episode. It's useless to list these now, and I still would have chosen to help Manar. Despite how many times I got the speech "there is Arab society and Western society" from her family, and told I couldn't understand the implications of her actions as a foreigner, I still would choose to help her. She is a friend, she was in potential danger and she asked for my help. That's universal. However I know that part of the reason I was able to help was because of my situation: being a foreigner. I wasn't scared to accompany Manar with her family because while Syrian law protects a family killing their daughter, it punishes for killing the naive American with her. I'm no hero: when at her uncle's house, I mostly nodded and agreed with what her family said. When they threatened my boyfriend I apologized for helping.
I still don't know what exactly to make of the whole situation. But at the very least, Manar is well and safe and somewhat happy.
Sunday, August 31, 2008
Born in the U.S.A.
How to broach a topic like this, littered with landmines? Especially when a woman from the supposedly-enlightened bastion of freedom and equality that is the United States deigns to bestow her help and knowledge upon the poor oppressed masses of the other, chained by their religion and backwards culture and, perhaps, hummus. The portrayal of all Arab women or all Muslim women, or all non-Western women as pitiable creatures draws some of my more exasperated sighs. The falsehoods that are perpetuated, the generalization of the restriction of one country to all, the thought that the hijab might as well be a stamp marked "Please Liberate Me!". The undertone (though not always so under) accompanying much of this hand wringing that "we" are so much better. That we have achieved gender equality. That much of this is insincere is unsurprising: there's a long history of using "Save the brown woman from the brown man" to justify occupying and controlling both. Lord Cromer, the British colonial head in Egypt (1883-1907), decried the treatment of Egytian women and thundered against the veil, then went home and co-founded an anti-women's suffrage group. The sudden sympathy of American government officials for the poor Afghani woman coincidentally arising with the desire to invade brings to mind certain parallels.
And at the same time, I'm glad I was born a woman in America.
Most of the time I can't even comprehend how much privilege I have, and not just from my nationality. I am a white woman born into a middle-class educated family in America. Despite the relative strictness of my upbringing, at 18 there was never a question of my shipping off to college a thousand miles away, in New York City, no less. No sense that the honor of the entire family rested between my legs. And it doesn't in every family - but it does in some.
Just the fact that I'm here in Syria, a woman living by herself, is something. Most weekends I hang out with my guy friends more than girls because a lot of the girls have to be home at 8 or 9, or if lucky, 10.
A lot of my freedom comes from money. I could afford to travel here, can afford to get a place on my own and have no responsibilities other than myself. And sure enough, among the more well-off, daughters go off to college in Beirut or England and stay out late. And there is a contingent of girls who come from other areas of Syria to go to college in Damascus, and live alone or in groups, especially from the Jolan (whose seperation from their families is quite understandable). But I'd say from my Western woman perch that more typical is going back to Jeramana from Capoeira class with a 28-year-old woman, her cell phone ringing every 5 minutes with parents telling her to hurry up and get home, as if she can will the traffic away or the servees faster. It is 8:30 pm.
Even as pharmacists refuse to give out contraceptives, even as rape victims are blamed, even as the worth of a woman is measured in fuckability, even as lifting your t-shirt for a free hat are being trumpeted as "expressing yourself", I thank fucking God that I am woman from America.
And at the same time, I'm glad I was born a woman in America.
Most of the time I can't even comprehend how much privilege I have, and not just from my nationality. I am a white woman born into a middle-class educated family in America. Despite the relative strictness of my upbringing, at 18 there was never a question of my shipping off to college a thousand miles away, in New York City, no less. No sense that the honor of the entire family rested between my legs. And it doesn't in every family - but it does in some.
Just the fact that I'm here in Syria, a woman living by herself, is something. Most weekends I hang out with my guy friends more than girls because a lot of the girls have to be home at 8 or 9, or if lucky, 10.
A lot of my freedom comes from money. I could afford to travel here, can afford to get a place on my own and have no responsibilities other than myself. And sure enough, among the more well-off, daughters go off to college in Beirut or England and stay out late. And there is a contingent of girls who come from other areas of Syria to go to college in Damascus, and live alone or in groups, especially from the Jolan (whose seperation from their families is quite understandable). But I'd say from my Western woman perch that more typical is going back to Jeramana from Capoeira class with a 28-year-old woman, her cell phone ringing every 5 minutes with parents telling her to hurry up and get home, as if she can will the traffic away or the servees faster. It is 8:30 pm.
Even as pharmacists refuse to give out contraceptives, even as rape victims are blamed, even as the worth of a woman is measured in fuckability, even as lifting your t-shirt for a free hat are being trumpeted as "expressing yourself", I thank fucking God that I am woman from America.
Monday, August 25, 2008
In Sha Allah Mabrouk
I had a weekend just chock-full o' parties, beginning Thursday night when I went to Um Mohammad's daughter's engagement party.
Um Mohammad is a Palestinian woman who cleans the UNFPA and sometimes we ride the servees together. We got to talking, and I no longer lament my Jeramana -Mezzeh commute as she lives in Husayniyya, out past Sitt Zenaib and the airport. It takes her an hour and half to get to work.
She further told me she had 8 girls and two sons. I remarked that it must be crazy with all those kids, to which she replied that oh, all the girls but three are married off so there's not that many. And Iya is getting engaged next week! Would you like to come? You can sleep over! We'll kick the men out so you don't have to worry, it'll just be girls!
I accepted the invitation for the party, which is how I found myself dancing with 50-year-old muhajjibas to reggaeton.
I had been expecting a lot more meat. It's almost shameful that I've been here 11 months without a single Shami wedding, but I had heard what to expect: Ladies be off by themselves, stripping down to impressively gaudy dresses and putting Rotana video to shame. But while the party was predominantly female, there were a few guys so many hijabs stayed on. This however, did not stop the Sexy Dancing. Neither did the heat, which had hit 43 C that day, compounded by the sweaty multitudes dancing inside a concrete room. I thought that I would be able to impress with my ability to bust a move, but I was put to shame by grandmothers and 12-year-olds in belly tops.
The engaged girl, Iya, who is 18, looked mostly bored as she sat on her raised platform above the revelers. She must have spent hours at the salon: makeup heavily done, each strand of hair shackled down, and everything topped off with glitter and stick-on stud rhinestones. Her pink dress had an impressive circumfrence that, when she sat, fanned out behind her. An aunt helpfully stuck a kleenex into the halter bustier to cover up the cleavage.
The groom was brought in with much fanfare and photos. The fiances looked at each other nervously when he walked up to her and took his seat next to her on the platform. For the official photos, the mother of the bride hauled out a matching pink cape to drape over her daughter's bare shoulders. The two awkwardly shuffled a dance, careful with her dress, before retaking their thrones and we, the masses, began to shimmy and debke again. Then the groom left to go back to his party in Mughayyam Jeramana.
The evening ended after 9pm, but the seeminly endless sisters of Um Mohammad and their children and children's children stayed. We sat out in the garden sipping sugary tea and talking. I had to focus a bit more than usual because they are from countryside Palestine and have a different accent: most notably they say gaff for qaff, though a few of them used kaff. They all lamented the tiny size of my family (my brother and I) while boasting of their own. Um Mohammad has her 10, one of her sisters, 13, another 12. "Palestinians love children!" they told me. Um Mohammad's 24-year-old niece has three and one on the way. There were children everywhere during the party, running underfoot, being handed off, staring at me and offering me candy.
A Syrian friend later told me, "Oh the Palestinians. They have children like they're competing against each other."
Yes Palestinians and Irish Catholics! We will breed our way into taking back our lands!
Um Mohammad and her son refused to let me go home alone. "We understand its different in Jeramana, but girls don't walk by themselves in Husayniyya." They came with all the way to Mughayyam Jeramana, despite my protests of knowing the way. Really sweet woman, Um Mohammad - since I didn't stay over I've now promised a sleepover in the near future.
I love how people say, "In sha Allah mabrouk!" (Hopefully congratulations!). It is after all just the engagement, with the actual wedding planned after a year or so. Anything could happen between now and then, so mabrouk, in sha Allah.
Sunday, August 10, 2008
Let's Be Culturally Appropriate!
With the summer has come an influx of tourists. There are many Europeans and Iranians, though not at many Gulfis as I would have expected. The Iranians are easy to pick out if I'm in hearing range to realize I don't understand a word they're saying, or if the women are wearing chador, a garment not to popular among Damascenes. Outside Sitt Ruqayya in the old city, massive groups of 30 Iranian grandmothers will sway together, cluchting their chadors and walking like penguins due to the ravages of time on their ankles. These groups move with unstoppable single-mindedness toward their goal, the Mosque, often sweeping up bystanders too weak to fight against the grandmother wave.
The Europeans are naturally easy to pick out. They wear hats to keep the sun off, have cameras around their necks, and when I see them seem to be standing around tired, sick of the heat and somewhat overwhelmed. They also wear tank tops and shorts. While the tank top is a Damascus regular, shorts are not. Even guys don't wear shorts outside of the house except rarely. Tariq was recently chided by Sale7 for wearing shorts all the way to Mezzeh from Jeramana. "You wore shorts? To Mezzeh? Eib, ya zalameh! Eib! (Shame, dude, shame!)"
The tourists wear shorts, and whatever. Not exactly in line with local sensibilities - would it kill you to open a book or ask your tour guide what might be appropriate before you go? I think most people just look at the weather forecast and think "Short weather!" At least its not like in Cairo, where tourists would walk around downtown in tank tops and short shorts (the tank top is NOT a regular in Cairo) and wonder why people were looking at them. Or visit Upper Egypt's ancient tombs in bikini tops.
But sometimes its even better when tourists try to respect local tomes of appropriateness. I see a lot of foreign women wearing hijab, though they tend to let the front of the hair show, which is more Persian or Gulfi. I wonder what they think when they see all the Syrian women walking around without hijab. Unless you are visiting a mosque, there is no reason a foreign non-Muslim needs to be wearing hijab in Syria. You're overdoing it just a bit.
And sometimes attempts to be culturally appropriate fail miserably. I saw a family of tourists in Bab Toma where the women had tried to dress more in line with the locals and wrapped their shoulders, upper arms, and chests in a shawl. However, the women had neglected their bottom halves, and were walking around in short shorts.
The best I've heard is from my roommate who was in a restaurant in Halab when two foreign women walked in. One was wearing hijab - trying a little two hard to fit in anywhere outside of mosque in my opinion - but with shorts and a spagetti strap tank top. According to my roommate the tank was low enough that the bottom of the hijab did not meet the top of her shirt, instead, viewers were treated to cleavage. How so very wrong. It's like 20 times more offensive than just walking around in your tank and shorts.
Seriously, could that lady have thought she was wearing hijab correctly? Did she not notice that no other muhajjiba walking around complemented her wrap with exposed theigh, back, and cleavage? Seriously?
The Europeans are naturally easy to pick out. They wear hats to keep the sun off, have cameras around their necks, and when I see them seem to be standing around tired, sick of the heat and somewhat overwhelmed. They also wear tank tops and shorts. While the tank top is a Damascus regular, shorts are not. Even guys don't wear shorts outside of the house except rarely. Tariq was recently chided by Sale7 for wearing shorts all the way to Mezzeh from Jeramana. "You wore shorts? To Mezzeh? Eib, ya zalameh! Eib! (Shame, dude, shame!)"
The tourists wear shorts, and whatever. Not exactly in line with local sensibilities - would it kill you to open a book or ask your tour guide what might be appropriate before you go? I think most people just look at the weather forecast and think "Short weather!" At least its not like in Cairo, where tourists would walk around downtown in tank tops and short shorts (the tank top is NOT a regular in Cairo) and wonder why people were looking at them. Or visit Upper Egypt's ancient tombs in bikini tops.
But sometimes its even better when tourists try to respect local tomes of appropriateness. I see a lot of foreign women wearing hijab, though they tend to let the front of the hair show, which is more Persian or Gulfi. I wonder what they think when they see all the Syrian women walking around without hijab. Unless you are visiting a mosque, there is no reason a foreign non-Muslim needs to be wearing hijab in Syria. You're overdoing it just a bit.
And sometimes attempts to be culturally appropriate fail miserably. I saw a family of tourists in Bab Toma where the women had tried to dress more in line with the locals and wrapped their shoulders, upper arms, and chests in a shawl. However, the women had neglected their bottom halves, and were walking around in short shorts.
The best I've heard is from my roommate who was in a restaurant in Halab when two foreign women walked in. One was wearing hijab - trying a little two hard to fit in anywhere outside of mosque in my opinion - but with shorts and a spagetti strap tank top. According to my roommate the tank was low enough that the bottom of the hijab did not meet the top of her shirt, instead, viewers were treated to cleavage. How so very wrong. It's like 20 times more offensive than just walking around in your tank and shorts.
Seriously, could that lady have thought she was wearing hijab correctly? Did she not notice that no other muhajjiba walking around complemented her wrap with exposed theigh, back, and cleavage? Seriously?
Saturday, August 9, 2008
The Arab Version of "Moment of Truth"
There's a few channels here that play mostly American movies and tv shows, with subtitles rather than dubbing like Turkish soap operas. Two of my friends claim to have learned English from Friends. A lot of American shows also get remade into an Arab version: "The Biggest Winner", "Who Wants to Win 2 Million [Saudi Riyal]", "Star Academy" (American Idol), and "Sing For Me a Little" which is apparently based on some American show where people try to get song lyrics correct. I used to watch some of these shows back when I lived with a Syrian family. It was back when I was even worse with accents, and so I would understand the Syrian and Lebanese contest, and then have to turn to the family to ask "Gulfi says what? Morrocan says what?"
I was watching an episode of "Moment of Truth" with some friends when they announced at the end that they are looking for contestants for the Arab version. What? For those unfamiliar, "Moment of Truth" is an American television show where people tell their deeply embarrassing secrets on national TV for money. "Have you cheated on your spouse?" "Have you ever stolen money?" "Do you blame your father for this or that?" The person's family, is seated nearby listening to every questio and answer the truthfulness of which is determined by polygraph. The show is like a horrible car accident that you can not help looking at. I've seen about 3 episodes, and in each you could almost identify the moment at which the marriage is destroyed. It's amazing what these people are willing to tell the world, destroying relationships with their family and friends, for some money. One woman I saw went home with nothing after revealing some pretty personal shit and all you could feel was bad for her. It also makes Americans look like horrible shameless money-grubbers.
And now there will potentially be an Arab version. I couldn't believe it when I first heard, and asked my friends to confirm they said what I think they said. I'm having trouble imagining Arabs going on international TV to reveal their most personal secrets for money.
Americans, I have no trouble imagining this. We take insults to our honor regularly and often joyfully. I used to work as a waitress at a bar and smile nicely at men who told me things like wanting a beer with a side of me, or most eloquently, "They say girls in glasses are good in bed." They really say that, do they? Were I propositioned in this way on the street, I would have fucked a mother up. Verbally. But at work, I smiled and suggested they try chips as a better companion to beer. At the end of the night I was crowing about my $250 in tips, whoo! We have a long history of going on television to make complete asses of ourselves: remember that ancient "Newlywed Game"? And many of us Americans also don't have a very developed sense of honor or shame: Look at the kooky things we will do just for a Klondike bar. Americans also seem less beholden to theirs parents. When confronted with the gift of life bestowed by a mother and the years of care most parents giprovide their kids an American will likely say, "Fuck you. I didn't ask to be born!"
But honor is very important for many in the Arab world. Just look at how many of my girlfriends have to be in at 9 because their neighbors might talk. There are many, especially among the upperclasses, for whom is this not an issue, but those aren't exactly the type to go on a TV show diggin' for cash. If doing something private like putting on makeup (or brushing your hair) outside in the street is weird, just imagine admitting to cheating on your husband or wife on TV. And parents! People generally seem to have them in higher regard. For a lot of Americans, if your family disapproves of your dating choice, that's their problem. They need to get over it. Here, if your family disapproves you likely ain't getting married.
Of course there is no place on earth devoid of people selling themselves. Look at the prostitutes, for a very obvious example. But still, and this is probably really naive, I am having trouble wrapping my head around an Arab "Moment of Truth".
Of course my friends and I asked ourselves if we would go on such a show, with responses from "Hell no" to "Why not? I have nothing to hide." But everyone has something to hide, even if its not the worst thing in the world, there's always something we wouldn't want everyone to know. At least I hope.
Still, I am immensly excited for the this Arab "Moment of Truth", whenever it comes out.
I was watching an episode of "Moment of Truth" with some friends when they announced at the end that they are looking for contestants for the Arab version. What? For those unfamiliar, "Moment of Truth" is an American television show where people tell their deeply embarrassing secrets on national TV for money. "Have you cheated on your spouse?" "Have you ever stolen money?" "Do you blame your father for this or that?" The person's family, is seated nearby listening to every questio and answer the truthfulness of which is determined by polygraph. The show is like a horrible car accident that you can not help looking at. I've seen about 3 episodes, and in each you could almost identify the moment at which the marriage is destroyed. It's amazing what these people are willing to tell the world, destroying relationships with their family and friends, for some money. One woman I saw went home with nothing after revealing some pretty personal shit and all you could feel was bad for her. It also makes Americans look like horrible shameless money-grubbers.
And now there will potentially be an Arab version. I couldn't believe it when I first heard, and asked my friends to confirm they said what I think they said. I'm having trouble imagining Arabs going on international TV to reveal their most personal secrets for money.
Americans, I have no trouble imagining this. We take insults to our honor regularly and often joyfully. I used to work as a waitress at a bar and smile nicely at men who told me things like wanting a beer with a side of me, or most eloquently, "They say girls in glasses are good in bed." They really say that, do they? Were I propositioned in this way on the street, I would have fucked a mother up. Verbally. But at work, I smiled and suggested they try chips as a better companion to beer. At the end of the night I was crowing about my $250 in tips, whoo! We have a long history of going on television to make complete asses of ourselves: remember that ancient "Newlywed Game"? And many of us Americans also don't have a very developed sense of honor or shame: Look at the kooky things we will do just for a Klondike bar. Americans also seem less beholden to theirs parents. When confronted with the gift of life bestowed by a mother and the years of care most parents giprovide their kids an American will likely say, "Fuck you. I didn't ask to be born!"
But honor is very important for many in the Arab world. Just look at how many of my girlfriends have to be in at 9 because their neighbors might talk. There are many, especially among the upperclasses, for whom is this not an issue, but those aren't exactly the type to go on a TV show diggin' for cash. If doing something private like putting on makeup (or brushing your hair) outside in the street is weird, just imagine admitting to cheating on your husband or wife on TV. And parents! People generally seem to have them in higher regard. For a lot of Americans, if your family disapproves of your dating choice, that's their problem. They need to get over it. Here, if your family disapproves you likely ain't getting married.
Of course there is no place on earth devoid of people selling themselves. Look at the prostitutes, for a very obvious example. But still, and this is probably really naive, I am having trouble wrapping my head around an Arab "Moment of Truth".
Of course my friends and I asked ourselves if we would go on such a show, with responses from "Hell no" to "Why not? I have nothing to hide." But everyone has something to hide, even if its not the worst thing in the world, there's always something we wouldn't want everyone to know. At least I hope.
Still, I am immensly excited for the this Arab "Moment of Truth", whenever it comes out.
Thursday, August 7, 2008
Anything Strange is Shameful
I asked some friends about why a stranger would see the need to call me out about brushing my hair on a micro. Their reaction: "You brushed your HAIR on the MICRO?"
"I was running late."
"Why didn't you just brush your teeth too?"
They confirmed that it is 'Eib (Shameful) to do these things, because no one does them. I asked why no one does them, and was told because they are shameful. I see circular logic.
"So what if I'm brushing my hair?"
"People just don't do that. It's shameful."
"But why?"
"Anything strange is shameful"
Since as a foreigner I am by definition strange, I am therefor by definition shameful.
"I was running late."
"Why didn't you just brush your teeth too?"
They confirmed that it is 'Eib (Shameful) to do these things, because no one does them. I asked why no one does them, and was told because they are shameful. I see circular logic.
"So what if I'm brushing my hair?"
"People just don't do that. It's shameful."
"But why?"
"Anything strange is shameful"
Since as a foreigner I am by definition strange, I am therefor by definition shameful.
Thursday, July 24, 2008
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?
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?
Monday, June 30, 2008
Men Don't Wanna Take Care of No Babies
As I envoke the "liberation of men" to do childcare or other activities not considered traditionally masculine, in the back of my head I hear a conversation from several months ago, back when I was living with a Syrian family on Sharia Baghdad.
Back during the now-unimaginable February cold, I got into a 2-day, well, discussion with them.
It began innocently enough when I came home Friday at around 5pm, planning to eat and then retreat to my room with the Ghassan Kanafani play I had to write an analysis on and the Andalusian poetry I had to lead the class in the following Sunday. As per usual in the biting cold I took my meal in the sobia room, joining Iyad, the unemployed law school graduate midget (literally) and two of his friends. I ate my meal in silence, listening to their conversation. I was soon incorporated into that conversation, which began with the usual "So, how do you like Syria?" (one of the boys I had not met before) and somehow ended up on The Gays and my strange lack of revulsion to their Ways and complete willingness to let them live and marry. "But what is the point of marriage? Children!" Iyad claimed. I told him I know some gay couples with children. But how? That is impossible!
"They adopt. I know people who have done this, and they have beautiful families." That someone could love a child that did not squirm out of her vagina or result from his penile squirt some months previous was denied:"Blood is blood."
That my aunt, with two adopted children, loved them as much as "real" children was as well.
Then we landed on the women. The conversation kept me up until late into the night, preventing me from getting any work done, and spilled over well into Saturday night. One of the highlights was when Iyad denied that men have estrogen and women have testosterone. "Why would women have testosterone? It's obvious they don't. Their voices aren't low, they don't have hair." But his insistance that men do not have estrogen was even stronger. "Of course they don't! What, is it for their period?" The next day, when I returned from Sitt Zeinab and teaching English to Iraqi kids, Iyad was in the sitting room, triumphantly looking over his highschool biology textbook. He pointed me to the short passage, where it said that testosterone was the male hormone, and listed its effects on the male during puberty. Estrogen is the female hormone, with its effects. And progesterone is also a female hormone, with its effects. The complete passage was three small paragraphs - hardly what I would call comprehensive review of the complicated subject of hormones. I considered letting him believe what he wants, but instead printed out some more complete information from the internet, which identified the existance of all three hormones in both sexes and even included the gem about how while most men have more testosterone than most women, the ranges for both sexes are very wide and overlap, thus some women have more testosterone than some men.
The hormones came up because wehad been talking about the babies.
Iyad insisted that full equality was impossible, and sarcastically asked me if we should make men pregnant, because it isn't equal that women have to go though that. "That must be hard." I told him not to act like I am an idiot - naturally women have a womb, but the moment after birth why can't the man take care of the baby?
"Because they don't have attifiya (kindness and feelings) like a woman!"
Abu Mazen joined in to ask me why I was mad about this if it is what God wants. Being a mother and taking care of children is an honored and respected role. I was accused of thinking of childbearing and taking care of the home as an "insult". No, I insisted, it's not an insult, which I why I want men to be free to do childcare as well. Why should that be denied to them?
"What, you want all men to stay home and take care of children?" Iyad asked.
"No, but both parties should be free to choose what they want to do. In some families, the woman may want to take care of the children, and the man may want to work. In some families, the man may want to stay at home, and the woman may want to work. In other families, both want to or have to work so they share raising the children 50-50. What's wrong with that?"
"If the man stays home he is lazy."
This allowed me to appeal to Um Mazen, asking her if raising 6 children had been easy. She looked at me like I was crazy, saying of course not. Um Mazen was not exactly on my side during the debate, telling me several times that while girls are loved, boys are preferred. And that God loves men more than women. But at least she told her son that raising kids is not the lazy choice.
During the converstation, no one present had a problem with women working, but the problem was with men take on such a feminized role. Childcare is an honored and respected role, unless a man takes it on and then he is a lazy pussy. Of course, this is far from a Syria-specific double standard, and reflects the situation in most of the world.
But it was a fun conversation in that I was also asked several times if I hated men.
Back during the now-unimaginable February cold, I got into a 2-day, well, discussion with them.
It began innocently enough when I came home Friday at around 5pm, planning to eat and then retreat to my room with the Ghassan Kanafani play I had to write an analysis on and the Andalusian poetry I had to lead the class in the following Sunday. As per usual in the biting cold I took my meal in the sobia room, joining Iyad, the unemployed law school graduate midget (literally) and two of his friends. I ate my meal in silence, listening to their conversation. I was soon incorporated into that conversation, which began with the usual "So, how do you like Syria?" (one of the boys I had not met before) and somehow ended up on The Gays and my strange lack of revulsion to their Ways and complete willingness to let them live and marry. "But what is the point of marriage? Children!" Iyad claimed. I told him I know some gay couples with children. But how? That is impossible!
"They adopt. I know people who have done this, and they have beautiful families." That someone could love a child that did not squirm out of her vagina or result from his penile squirt some months previous was denied:"Blood is blood."
That my aunt, with two adopted children, loved them as much as "real" children was as well.
Then we landed on the women. The conversation kept me up until late into the night, preventing me from getting any work done, and spilled over well into Saturday night. One of the highlights was when Iyad denied that men have estrogen and women have testosterone. "Why would women have testosterone? It's obvious they don't. Their voices aren't low, they don't have hair." But his insistance that men do not have estrogen was even stronger. "Of course they don't! What, is it for their period?" The next day, when I returned from Sitt Zeinab and teaching English to Iraqi kids, Iyad was in the sitting room, triumphantly looking over his highschool biology textbook. He pointed me to the short passage, where it said that testosterone was the male hormone, and listed its effects on the male during puberty. Estrogen is the female hormone, with its effects. And progesterone is also a female hormone, with its effects. The complete passage was three small paragraphs - hardly what I would call comprehensive review of the complicated subject of hormones. I considered letting him believe what he wants, but instead printed out some more complete information from the internet, which identified the existance of all three hormones in both sexes and even included the gem about how while most men have more testosterone than most women, the ranges for both sexes are very wide and overlap, thus some women have more testosterone than some men.
The hormones came up because wehad been talking about the babies.
Iyad insisted that full equality was impossible, and sarcastically asked me if we should make men pregnant, because it isn't equal that women have to go though that. "That must be hard." I told him not to act like I am an idiot - naturally women have a womb, but the moment after birth why can't the man take care of the baby?
"Because they don't have attifiya (kindness and feelings) like a woman!"
Abu Mazen joined in to ask me why I was mad about this if it is what God wants. Being a mother and taking care of children is an honored and respected role. I was accused of thinking of childbearing and taking care of the home as an "insult". No, I insisted, it's not an insult, which I why I want men to be free to do childcare as well. Why should that be denied to them?
"What, you want all men to stay home and take care of children?" Iyad asked.
"No, but both parties should be free to choose what they want to do. In some families, the woman may want to take care of the children, and the man may want to work. In some families, the man may want to stay at home, and the woman may want to work. In other families, both want to or have to work so they share raising the children 50-50. What's wrong with that?"
"If the man stays home he is lazy."
This allowed me to appeal to Um Mazen, asking her if raising 6 children had been easy. She looked at me like I was crazy, saying of course not. Um Mazen was not exactly on my side during the debate, telling me several times that while girls are loved, boys are preferred. And that God loves men more than women. But at least she told her son that raising kids is not the lazy choice.
During the converstation, no one present had a problem with women working, but the problem was with men take on such a feminized role. Childcare is an honored and respected role, unless a man takes it on and then he is a lazy pussy. Of course, this is far from a Syria-specific double standard, and reflects the situation in most of the world.
But it was a fun conversation in that I was also asked several times if I hated men.
Sunday, June 29, 2008
To Save Humanity: Men Take Care of Babies
There has been conservative hand-wringing for quite some time now about the "demographic crisis" of falling European birthrates, some arguing that concurrent Muslim immigration is going to cause the downfall of Western Civilization. Often these critiques blame (white) European women for their selfishness, exhorting them to pop the babies out.
But in a NYTimes article, awesomely titled "No Babies," Russell Shorto (also an awesome name) finds that gender relations, more so than selfish, decadent European women, are a reason for low fertility.
To explain, the author compares the Netherlands and Italy, the former with less traditional views about gender roles than the latter. Geert is much more likely to change some diapers than Guiseppe, so Geert's wife is more likely to want to have more babies: "It's about how much the man participates in child care."
The article finds this true across regions, not just in Europe:
In Syria and many other "developing" countries, fertility rate is very highly inversely correlated to a women's education status and workforce participation (fertility goes down when education or working goes up). This "embracing the modern" (not a fan of that expression, but letting slide) is one of the best ways to reduce fertility in high-fertility countries, but this article suggests a tipping point of beneficiality. If these workforce changes are not supplemented by cultural changes with regards to gender roles, fertility rates will slip below replacement, and humanity will be doomed.
Thus addressing inequitable gender roles is a solution for both underpopulation and overpopulation. While women moving in traditional "male roles" of working outside the home is more and more acceptable in more places, often out of necessity, there is still widespread resistance to men moving into traditional "female roles" of child care or housework. Gender issues are often thought of as "women's issues" but this emphasizes, how realizing equality is not just about women's issues, but men's, and fighting the societal restraints upon men as well. This is a the companion to the liberation of women; the liberation of men.
Of course, whether negative population growth is inherently harmful is also up for debate. In an era where overpopulation is certainly a greater concern in most places than underpopulation, and in which we are just beginning to see the manifestations of our effect on the global climate, is less humans a bad thing? The article delves into this as well:
But in a NYTimes article, awesomely titled "No Babies," Russell Shorto (also an awesome name) finds that gender relations, more so than selfish, decadent European women, are a reason for low fertility.
“In all of these countries [mostly southern European with emphasis on traditional gender roles]," Billari said, “it’s very difficult to combine work and family. And that is partly because, within couples, we have evidence that in these countries the gender relationships are very asymmetric.”Counter to intuition, that working ladies have less babies, the article points to a study since the mid-1990s, lowest fertility levels in Europe are in countries with lowest female labor-force participation.
To explain, the author compares the Netherlands and Italy, the former with less traditional views about gender roles than the latter. Geert is much more likely to change some diapers than Guiseppe, so Geert's wife is more likely to want to have more babies: "It's about how much the man participates in child care."
The article finds this true across regions, not just in Europe:
By this logic, the worst sort of system is one that partly buys into the modern world— expanding educational and employment opportunities for women — but keeps its traditional mind-set. This would seem to define the demographic crisis that Italy, Spain and Greece find themselves in — and, perhaps, Japan, South Korea, Hong Kong, Taiwan and other parts of the world. Indeed, demographers have been surprised to find rapid fertility changes in the third world, as more and more women work and modern birth-control methods become standard options. “The earlier distinct fertility regimes, ‘developed’ and ‘developing,’ are increasingly disappearing in global comparisons of fertility levels,” according to Edward Jow-Ching Tu, a sociologist at the Hong Kong University of Science and Technology. According to the United Nations, the birthrate in 25 developing countries — including Cuba, Costa Rica, Iran, Sri Lanka and China — now stands at or below the replacement level. In some cases — notably China — the drop is explained by a concentrated effort at containing the population. In the rest, something else is happening. The lesson of southern Europe is perhaps operative: embrace the modern only partway and you put your society — women in particular — in a vise. Something has to give, and that turns out to be the future.Interesting to hear Iran put on this list, as Iran is held up as a "best practices" example within the UNFPA of how to be culturally sensitive and achieve major results in reducing population growth.
In Syria and many other "developing" countries, fertility rate is very highly inversely correlated to a women's education status and workforce participation (fertility goes down when education or working goes up). This "embracing the modern" (not a fan of that expression, but letting slide) is one of the best ways to reduce fertility in high-fertility countries, but this article suggests a tipping point of beneficiality. If these workforce changes are not supplemented by cultural changes with regards to gender roles, fertility rates will slip below replacement, and humanity will be doomed.
Thus addressing inequitable gender roles is a solution for both underpopulation and overpopulation. While women moving in traditional "male roles" of working outside the home is more and more acceptable in more places, often out of necessity, there is still widespread resistance to men moving into traditional "female roles" of child care or housework. Gender issues are often thought of as "women's issues" but this emphasizes, how realizing equality is not just about women's issues, but men's, and fighting the societal restraints upon men as well. This is a the companion to the liberation of women; the liberation of men.
Of course, whether negative population growth is inherently harmful is also up for debate. In an era where overpopulation is certainly a greater concern in most places than underpopulation, and in which we are just beginning to see the manifestations of our effect on the global climate, is less humans a bad thing? The article delves into this as well:
For there are those who argue that low birthrate in itself is not a problem at all. Paul Ehrlich, the Stanford scientist who warned us about the “population bomb” in the 1960s, is more certain than ever that the human race is catastrophically straining the planet. “It’s insane to consider low birthrate as a crisis,” he told me. “Basically every person I know in my section of the National Academy of Sciences thinks it’s wonderful that rich countries are starting to shrink their populations to sustainable levels. We have to do that because we’re wrecking our life-support systems.”
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Muslims are Similar to American Anti-Contraception Pharmacists
In the current Pharmacists-for-Life controversy in the States, on a group of pharmacists who refuse to sell birth control, some writers like to make analogies to show just how crazy these pharmacists are and how wrong it is for them to shove their beliefs down others' throats. And guess who is a great analogy for that? Muslims! And racists, naturally.
I usually like this blog, because they write some posts on international reproductive health, but I was not a big fan of this recent post from Reproductive Health Reality Check:
Earlier post from the same blog:
I usually like this blog, because they write some posts on international reproductive health, but I was not a big fan of this recent post from Reproductive Health Reality Check:
If a pharmacist refused to fill out a Viagra prescription for a black man he saw walking around with his white wife, we would have no problem seeing this behavior as bigotry, even if said pharmacist claimed that Jesus told him to do it. But if a pharmacist refuses to sell birth control pills to a woman who isn't wearing a wedding band, somehow that's legitimate religious expression, even though his rights are extending well past her nose. If Muslim pharmacists started refusing to fill out prescriptions for Christians because those Christians don't share their beliefs, we would have no problem seeing that the religious freedom pinched was that of the customer's, not the pharmacists.Because you know that's a part of Islam: refusing to give medicine to Christians. What? Sorry, where did you pull that out of?
Earlier post from the same blog:
If, however, we're going to let everyone's political beliefs or religious enthusiasms govern our important life decisions, then we must allow that any political or religious convictions can hold sway. In this case, why not permit a Muslim fundamentalist pharmacist to simply put up a sign politely explaining that his religious beliefs require him to deny a woman's prescription for any medication? No doubt Aryan pharmacists have a belief system too. Why should they be forced to violate their dearly held beliefs and serve blacks?
Because Muslims hate women? I think I remember hearing that sura, in which antibiotics and allergy medication are denied to women. It's a core religious conviction in Islam.
From Feministe:
What happens if next, pharmacists or doctors refuse to serve non-Christians? Or if it comes back to bite them in the ass when, say, a conservative male Muslim paramedic refuses to touch women? Or if religious doctors and pharmacists decide that STDs are appropriate punishments for the sexually active and refuse to fill prescriptions for treatment medicine? Or if a paramedic or doctor refuses to deliver the baby of an unmarried woman?
Cause Muslim men never touch women, and Muslim doctors don't perform thousands of procedures everyday on women. If any man did have qualms about touching women, I doubt he would become a paramedic, which I think is the point of this post: don't become a pharmacist if you can't do the freaking job.
I understand why Muslims are getting thrown into the mix, alongside Aryans (do they mean Iranians and northern Indians?) and racists. It's an attempt to expose the hypocrisy of these right-wing movements, that are all for respecting religion as long as that religion is Christianity. But claiming Muslims would deny medicine to Chrisitans or to women, is smearing Muslims based on common stereotypes:
1) that Muslims hate Christians
2) that Muslims hate women, I mean, they must since they veil them and don't let them drive and don't let them get an education and... 60 other misconceptions people have about Muslim women.
There are other analogies that could be made, such as an orthodox Jew refusing to give out condoms (according to some Talmudic interpretations, birth control is allowed for women but not for men, so pill in, condom out), but of course Jews just aren't as scary as Muslims.
Later in the Feministe post, I think they did a better job with analogy:
Wingers were all up in arms about the Somali women who wanted to wear more traditional clothing to work (even though they were still doing their jobs) and the Muslim cab drivers who wouldn’t pick up passengers who had alcohol on them, but if it’s fundamentalist Christianity that’s an excuse for not doing what you were hired to do, and if it’s women you’re refusing to help, then it’s a-ok.
This exposes the hypocrisy of the right, eager to defend the right of Christians lock-step with their views to exercise their religious views, but quick to lambast Muslims for the same. And this features actual events where Muslims felt that some aspect of their job and their beliefs were at odds, not random hypothetical that accuse Muslims of hating Christians and women. When, from personal experience, I know many who are very fond of both, especially the combination. Oohh!
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Worst Syrian Host Ever
My continued failings as a host were put into stark relief Sunday night, when Manar invited my roommate and me over for tabouleh. We arrived at 9:30, bearing Bear Beer (the highest alcohol content of any beer in Syria) and a bottle of wine. Manar welcomed us, set us up in the newly redone living room, in which they have traded out the couches for the old-style floor pads and painted the walls green. The importance of hosting cannot be emphasized more than in Manar's house, where despite only being a two-room apartment (not two bedrooms - two rooms total), the family reserves one to entertain guests.
Manar shooed her mother away, and ceremoniously brought out three bottles of wine - 2 red, 1 rose - before going to the kitchen and retrieving salad, jarjir (a green plant thing), chips and french fries. Soon the doorbell rang and it was delivery argileh! We sat down to feast and chat.
Manar said she had to invite us over because we're always inviting her over. She works right near our apartment and gets off at eight, so I often call her to come over. Sometimes I order an argileh, usually there's a beer in the fridge if she'd like, and there's hardly ever food unless I whip up some Indomi (like ramen).
This has been perhaps the hardest adjustment for me. When I go to peoples' houses I feel weird being waited upon. Now that I have a place, I know I should wait on guests, but its hard to snap out of my hard-wired American hosting: "There's a beer in the fridge," and you can go get it. Hungry? "I think there's some cheese, olive oil and zaatar." Thirsty? "There's drinkable water in the kitchen pidot." Then I sit, and as my guest gets up to walk to the kitchen I remember my role, and jump out, chasing them down the hall.
"Nooo! You! Sit down."
"It's really no problem," they protest. "I can grab the beer/bread/cup of water."
I physically block their path, yelling, "No! You are my guest! Sit down in the saloon! I will bring you water!"
"Ok," they say, now thirsty and terrified.
As a good Syrian host, I shouldn't wait for my guests to voice thirst or hunger. I should offer from the moment they walk in the door, until, in need of refreshment or not, they acquiesce. But from America I'm used to going to a friend's house, voicing my hunger, and asking if I can eat their food. "Sure, everything in the right cabinet, but not the milk or jam in the fridge cause that's my roommmate's." Then I make a solo search of the options and eat their crackers.
Manar shooed her mother away, and ceremoniously brought out three bottles of wine - 2 red, 1 rose - before going to the kitchen and retrieving salad, jarjir (a green plant thing), chips and french fries. Soon the doorbell rang and it was delivery argileh! We sat down to feast and chat.
Manar said she had to invite us over because we're always inviting her over. She works right near our apartment and gets off at eight, so I often call her to come over. Sometimes I order an argileh, usually there's a beer in the fridge if she'd like, and there's hardly ever food unless I whip up some Indomi (like ramen).
This has been perhaps the hardest adjustment for me. When I go to peoples' houses I feel weird being waited upon. Now that I have a place, I know I should wait on guests, but its hard to snap out of my hard-wired American hosting: "There's a beer in the fridge," and you can go get it. Hungry? "I think there's some cheese, olive oil and zaatar." Thirsty? "There's drinkable water in the kitchen pidot." Then I sit, and as my guest gets up to walk to the kitchen I remember my role, and jump out, chasing them down the hall.
"Nooo! You! Sit down."
"It's really no problem," they protest. "I can grab the beer/bread/cup of water."
I physically block their path, yelling, "No! You are my guest! Sit down in the saloon! I will bring you water!"
"Ok," they say, now thirsty and terrified.
As a good Syrian host, I shouldn't wait for my guests to voice thirst or hunger. I should offer from the moment they walk in the door, until, in need of refreshment or not, they acquiesce. But from America I'm used to going to a friend's house, voicing my hunger, and asking if I can eat their food. "Sure, everything in the right cabinet, but not the milk or jam in the fridge cause that's my roommmate's." Then I make a solo search of the options and eat their crackers.
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