I'm back in the States. It is somewhat strange. More on that later.
In writing an article on women and sports in Syria, I used the football team I played with/limped alongside of last spring. I also met the younger girls' team and interviewed a bunch of players, the administrator, and the coach. They are awesome, but unfortunately the article I was doing was short and focused mostly in another direction so I couldn't go into them.
I thought hmmm, I should propose this later. The girls' team started 3 years ago when the administrator and the coach went around to recruit girls. They had a lot of girls who wanted to play but parents wouldn't let them. The coach and admin went to homes to try to convince the parents that playing wouldn't damage their girls' bodies or things of that nature. While a lot of sports, volleyball are basketball included, are normal and widespread for girls, football is still mostly considered a boys' sport and too rough for the ladies.
Every summer teams from 8 governorates meet in Aleppo to have their tournament and the Damascus ladies have won it all three years of its existance.
I thought it would be awesome to go to this tournament and chat with the girls and coaches from other places in Syria and see if they had similar experiences, writing a piece about the tenative expansion of girls' sports to football. I imagined this would be a happy, positive piece with a lot of plucky sporty girls who worship Michael Ballack. I thought it would be interesting to pitch to a foriegn publication as it 1) shows a different face of Syria than what most Amerricans see and 2) would both dispel some myths that exist about Syrian (read: Muslim/Arab cause it's all the same really, right?) with the fact that many Syrian girls do sports, but also have that "happy social change/confronting gender stereotypes" angle with the fact that football specifically is a rather new sport for girls (versus your karate or swimming).
So yeah, fuck you New York Times: In Turkey, Women Playing Soccer Vie for Acceptance.
Okay, so it's about the professionals. But funny how there's establish women's pro basketball and volleyball leagues but football? New and not for the ladies but look these ladies are doing it and kicking ass and changing minds! Oh Turkey, you steal my time with your soaps that I can't watch now from the States, and my ideas for rah rah lady sports pieces. Poo.
Showing posts with label just my luck. Show all posts
Showing posts with label just my luck. Show all posts
Thursday, March 5, 2009
Sunday, February 1, 2009
French
When I began learning Arabic oh so long ago, and would say خ for ج, or mess up case endings, or find myself resorting to complex body language when completely unable to verbally communicate, I thought fondly of French. I was never a Francophile, and thought Madame Marsh unbearable in high school, but in retrospect it was easy. I took breaks from French, a year or two, but found picking it back up again in high school or college simple. Just a quick review of the irregular verbs and voila, I was once again one of the better students in the class, annoying the others with my answering questions and writing longer essays and doing extra credit comics.
Sure, in the four years since I last took a French class, I knew I've been getting rusty. But I could easily scan a newspaper. And didn't I translate for lusty Americans and Tunisian footballers in 2006? And don't I listen to France Gall, Brigitte Bardot, and Francoise Hardy and understand them all the time? When I went to Tunisia last year and I found myself telling people over and over again, seriously, just speak to me in Arabic. It's easier. So I thought I might need to brush up on those skills a bit. That's all.
I showed up early on a Friday morning to take a placement test at the French Cultural Centre. A French woman asked me things, and I struggled to say anything back.
It's hot in here, right? she said, and I wanted to say yes, but it is cold outside. I said "Oui, mais il est .... froid... fait... il fait froid..." I pointed to the window "...burra... kharij" more pointing. Silence. (What is French for kharij!!!) Defeat.
All the words I wanted to say were there, just in Arabic.
The women nicely, and slowly, told me that even though I might do well on the written test, I showed probably go into a lower level than I test since my French is better suited for miming than actual conversation.
I'm three weeks into the class now and all I can say is damn, Syrians be speaking some French. I though what with my mother tongue being much closer to French I would be a star pupil. Instead, every time I speak I have to repeat myself at least thrice cause the teacher cannot understand me. I have by far the worst accent in the class. I know Americans and Brits are famous for our horrible French accents ("But isn't it at least a little cute, like when French have horrible English accents?" I once asked a French friend. Answer: no). And most of the Syrians in the class sound good, and the worst are at least understandable. They also know grammer. I'm doomed. My only advantage is in vocabulary, as I am very good at guessing the meanings of cognates. Though I am at a loss to explain their meaning in French.
Every time we're called on to answer a question, I think how freaking easy it would be in Arabic. Like, I could just say it.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Not Even a Little Syrian
I finally have an interview at the UNHCR, no mind that I'm hobbling due to a Capoeira accident the night previous. I quietly wait my turn among the other candidates, not really knowing what I'm interviewing for: the day before I had recieved a call to be at UNHCR at 10:15 and ask for Ustaz Ihsam. When it's my turn I ask my escort if we can please take the elevator - it's obvious every step is painful for me.
Once in the room I and another candidate hand the Ustaz our IDs, and are instructed we have 15 minutes to complete a test of our Microsoft Office skills. The test ends and Ihsam asks me if I have my hiwiyya (ID) with me. I tell him the passport from earlier.
"You aren't a dual national?"
"Not Syrian."
"Your heritage isn't Syrian?"
"No."
"Oh... I'm pretty sure this position is just for Syrians."
"Oh."
"Did you not write on your cv that you're foreign?"
"Uh, no, but my name isn't Arab at all, and the first thing on my cv is that I learned Arabic at the Damascus University Institute..."
He makes a call and confirms that the position is just for Syrians. "We're very sorry."
I hobble back to the reception area, where they ask me how it went.
"Doesn't matter - the position's only for Syrians."
There's a man standing near the guard who exclaims, "But you speak Syrian!"
"Thanks, but don't have the nationality."
I hobble out to a cab to go back to Jeramana. I chat a bit with the driver.
"...and then it turns out the position is only for Syrians! Like, you couldn't tell from my accent that I'm not Syrian?"
After a minute the driver asks, "Which is nicer, Syria or Iraq?
"Iraq?? What do I know about Iraq??"
"You're not Iraqi?"
When I told this to a friend, she said some people are really stupid. Maybe Lebanese, maybe, but Iraqi? Impossible.
Once in the room I and another candidate hand the Ustaz our IDs, and are instructed we have 15 minutes to complete a test of our Microsoft Office skills. The test ends and Ihsam asks me if I have my hiwiyya (ID) with me. I tell him the passport from earlier.
"You aren't a dual national?"
"Not Syrian."
"Your heritage isn't Syrian?"
"No."
"Oh... I'm pretty sure this position is just for Syrians."
"Oh."
"Did you not write on your cv that you're foreign?"
"Uh, no, but my name isn't Arab at all, and the first thing on my cv is that I learned Arabic at the Damascus University Institute..."
He makes a call and confirms that the position is just for Syrians. "We're very sorry."
I hobble back to the reception area, where they ask me how it went.
"Doesn't matter - the position's only for Syrians."
There's a man standing near the guard who exclaims, "But you speak Syrian!"
"Thanks, but don't have the nationality."
I hobble out to a cab to go back to Jeramana. I chat a bit with the driver.
"...and then it turns out the position is only for Syrians! Like, you couldn't tell from my accent that I'm not Syrian?"
After a minute the driver asks, "Which is nicer, Syria or Iraq?
"Iraq?? What do I know about Iraq??"
"You're not Iraqi?"
When I told this to a friend, she said some people are really stupid. Maybe Lebanese, maybe, but Iraqi? Impossible.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Pleasant Neighbors
My new apartment is kind of a shithole. It didn't seem that bad when I first moved in, but then I noticed the walls getting worse and worse. The roof of the bathroom began to peel and grow something like mold. My downstairs neighbors came up and told me that water was leaking down into their apartments. They were angry.
I tried to call the owner, but she didn't answer. My friend went up to the crawl space above the bathroom, where the water tank is. There wasn't even a fawasheh, which is the thing that floats up and lets the water pump know when the tank is full (I have no idea what this is called in English). My friend put one in but then no water came for several days. Going down, I found that one of my neighbors had helpfully broken my water pump and disconnected the electricity. I guess they weren't happy about the leaking.
I called the owner. She answered, finally. I told her what was up with the pump and the water tank. Uh-huh, she said. I asked if she could get a guy over to fix it. She then just hung up. I tried calling her back, but she wouldn't answer.
I managed to get a guy myself but he had to fix the water tank and put in a new electric cord down to the water pump. Finally that night the owner answered when I called her from a friend's phone. I asked why she hung up and she said she didn't answer strange numbers (we exchanged numbers when I took the apartment, so unlikely). I asked her why she hung up on me. She said she didn't know it was me, this despite my identifying myself at the beginning, her assenting, my telling her the problem. It wasn't until I asked her to get a repair guy that she hung up.
Whatever. I'm taking it out of the next rent.
I tried to call the owner, but she didn't answer. My friend went up to the crawl space above the bathroom, where the water tank is. There wasn't even a fawasheh, which is the thing that floats up and lets the water pump know when the tank is full (I have no idea what this is called in English). My friend put one in but then no water came for several days. Going down, I found that one of my neighbors had helpfully broken my water pump and disconnected the electricity. I guess they weren't happy about the leaking.
I called the owner. She answered, finally. I told her what was up with the pump and the water tank. Uh-huh, she said. I asked if she could get a guy over to fix it. She then just hung up. I tried calling her back, but she wouldn't answer.
I managed to get a guy myself but he had to fix the water tank and put in a new electric cord down to the water pump. Finally that night the owner answered when I called her from a friend's phone. I asked why she hung up and she said she didn't answer strange numbers (we exchanged numbers when I took the apartment, so unlikely). I asked her why she hung up on me. She said she didn't know it was me, this despite my identifying myself at the beginning, her assenting, my telling her the problem. It wasn't until I asked her to get a repair guy that she hung up.
Whatever. I'm taking it out of the next rent.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Damascus Can Be A Tiny Place
They say there's something like 5 million people in Damascus and its environs, but honestly sometimes I feel like there are 30 with how I keep running into people.
UNFPA and SHABAB (that's an acronym) did some training of kids (15-30) for interactive theatre last week. The week ended with two performances where they did their skits on education and women's rights for youth and NGOs. I covered the training for UNFPA, showing up early and on a Saturday to get photos of the first day.
Soon, I was recognized. A guy came up to me and asked if I was "that girl" at the Danish party in Jeramana the previous Thursday night. "You dance well!" he said, which is exactly how you want people to identify you when trying to be all professional. "To Nancy Ajram - remember?"
All too well. The Thursday evening in question I and several others from Capoeira class went to a party hosted by Danes at a pool in Jeramana. They rented out the entire pool, and we ate meshawi, swam a bit, drank a bit, argeelaed a bit and danced. At one of the later points in the night, for a large group of us debke became booty shaking or raqs sharqi depending on the music. A Nancy Ajram song came on, one of those that my roommates and I back in Cairo 2006 had spent long nights dancing to, and I busted out the raqs sharqi.
For this, I was recognized by two of the interactive theatre actors who did not know each other but both happened to be at the party. Well, nice to meet you too.
Friday I skipped the first performance because of a conflict with my Capoeira class. It got out at eight, and as I was walking on Sharia Baghdad I ran into two of the actors. "Why weren't you at the show??" they demanded. "Tomorrow, in sha Allah" I said, but was a little embarrased because I was wearing a tiara.
It was my birthday, so my capoeria class had surprised me with cake and a tiara, which I was now wearing for all of Shariah Thawra and Baghdad to see.
So I think all of those people in the theatre group think I've crazy and possibly on crack. Which sucks because I know I'm going run into them in the future.
UNFPA and SHABAB (that's an acronym) did some training of kids (15-30) for interactive theatre last week. The week ended with two performances where they did their skits on education and women's rights for youth and NGOs. I covered the training for UNFPA, showing up early and on a Saturday to get photos of the first day.
Soon, I was recognized. A guy came up to me and asked if I was "that girl" at the Danish party in Jeramana the previous Thursday night. "You dance well!" he said, which is exactly how you want people to identify you when trying to be all professional. "To Nancy Ajram - remember?"
All too well. The Thursday evening in question I and several others from Capoeira class went to a party hosted by Danes at a pool in Jeramana. They rented out the entire pool, and we ate meshawi, swam a bit, drank a bit, argeelaed a bit and danced. At one of the later points in the night, for a large group of us debke became booty shaking or raqs sharqi depending on the music. A Nancy Ajram song came on, one of those that my roommates and I back in Cairo 2006 had spent long nights dancing to, and I busted out the raqs sharqi.
For this, I was recognized by two of the interactive theatre actors who did not know each other but both happened to be at the party. Well, nice to meet you too.
Friday I skipped the first performance because of a conflict with my Capoeira class. It got out at eight, and as I was walking on Sharia Baghdad I ran into two of the actors. "Why weren't you at the show??" they demanded. "Tomorrow, in sha Allah" I said, but was a little embarrased because I was wearing a tiara.
It was my birthday, so my capoeria class had surprised me with cake and a tiara, which I was now wearing for all of Shariah Thawra and Baghdad to see.
So I think all of those people in the theatre group think I've crazy and possibly on crack. Which sucks because I know I'm going run into them in the future.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
Dentistry
I was walking to Capeoira class famished. The UNFPA office in Mezzeh is located in a food desert. There's a little market (baqaliyya) nearby, but the owner is a douche who charges 50 lira for yogurt I can get anywhere else in Damascus for 35 lira. There was no way I could get through two hours (ok, one-and-a-half with the breaks and always-late starts) without something in my gut.
I grabbed some chips from a store outside the sports club, and began to stuff them in. Then, a crack. I spit out a small rock and part of a molar. These weren't the crappiest, cheapest chips you can buy either, but Uncle Chips. I expect no rocks when I spend 15 lira on chips, damnit! My tooth wasn't bleeding or anything so I went to Capeoira class.
Luckily in Jeramana there are a glut of dentists near my apartment on Sahat as-Suyuf. On the way back I got off early, walked into a random dentist's office, and made an appointment. The next day after work I choose tooth-colored over gold fill, and walked out 20 minutes later with a fistful of candy. I asked him why he had candy - trying to get more business? He laughed and then gave me some candy, and for the first time, asked if I was Russian. No, no, American.
It was 1000 lira ($20) total and even comes with a guarantee. Should anything happen with that tooth, he said he'll fix it for free.
I grabbed some chips from a store outside the sports club, and began to stuff them in. Then, a crack. I spit out a small rock and part of a molar. These weren't the crappiest, cheapest chips you can buy either, but Uncle Chips. I expect no rocks when I spend 15 lira on chips, damnit! My tooth wasn't bleeding or anything so I went to Capeoira class.
Luckily in Jeramana there are a glut of dentists near my apartment on Sahat as-Suyuf. On the way back I got off early, walked into a random dentist's office, and made an appointment. The next day after work I choose tooth-colored over gold fill, and walked out 20 minutes later with a fistful of candy. I asked him why he had candy - trying to get more business? He laughed and then gave me some candy, and for the first time, asked if I was Russian. No, no, American.
It was 1000 lira ($20) total and even comes with a guarantee. Should anything happen with that tooth, he said he'll fix it for free.
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Government Hospital
I thought I was having a bad day. Yesterday I was still recovering from my cold, had a pretty frustrating day at work (whoever said that the internal workings of the UN are like seeing sausage made - best avoided, was very true), and only upon arriving in Jerimana, realizing I had left my key in the office on the other side of Damascus. Then I got some chili powder in my eye while making Endomi (like ramen) soup.
By 7:00 I was ready to go to Capoeira, the Brazilian dance/fighting thing that Tariq, Saleh, and I been doing for a week. Tariq's little brother planned to hit up Tariq's work, right next to the class, and all go together. Quarter to seven I call to let him know we're around the corner, but some one else picks up and lets me know "Tariq is very busy, he's doing a lot of work right now."
We go to the office and get greeted by Tariq's boss and a coworker, who are very happy to meet his little brother. "Tariq will be back in 10 minutes" Abu Ous tells us, so we sit and chitchat. 15 minutes later I'm asking, "Where the hell is he?"
"At the hospital or doctor's"
"What?"
"He seperated his shoulder." For the 17th time, I might add.
"When?"
"Oh, about 10 minutes before you guys came in. They rushed off to the doctor."
I like how we were just sitting there for 15 minutes and no one told us what was up, nor had Tariq's coworker who picked up the phone. Even though we said we were on our way to the office, and then waiting for him, apparently no one wanted to make us worry.
Tariq's little brother and I go to the doctor's, where every one has decided to go to the hospital because this doctor is an asshole, anyway. We go to Mushtahid - government hospital.
The emergency room has no orderly checkin, but a collection of green-sheeted gurneys with dividers that can be closed. The gurney Tariq sat on had a few small blood stains and there was bloody gauze on the floor. Groups of people were huddled around each gurney, which mostly contained children with casts. I was afraid this would be a nightmare of trying to get a doctor's attention, but one came over within a minute, assessed the problem, handed him over to a technician for xrays, and within 5 minutes xrays were done.
Returning to the emergency room, the doctor and technician shooed us away, and closed the curtain. Tariq's screams reverberated across the emergency room as they readjusted his shoulder. Then the doctor came out, told us "It's a boy," and revealed a paled Tariq. Tariq's coworker ran off to get some wrap for the arm, and within 5 minutes the second set of xrays to make sure the shoulder was in place were done. Doctor wrapped up his arm, and we were out: no bill, no nothing. The whole thing had taken about a half an hour. We only paid for the arm wrap.
Much better experience than the private hospital we had to go to when Tariq's shoulder seperated last time: cleaner, faster and free. The only pro for private as far as Tariq was concerned was that the private hospital had given him drugs and he hadn't felt a thing during the readjustment.
As we left Tariq's little brother was amazed to find out that we don't have free hospitals in the States. "So if some one's poor they'll just let him die?"
"Well, usually they'll do the surgery and then he or his family will have massive debts."
By 7:00 I was ready to go to Capoeira, the Brazilian dance/fighting thing that Tariq, Saleh, and I been doing for a week. Tariq's little brother planned to hit up Tariq's work, right next to the class, and all go together. Quarter to seven I call to let him know we're around the corner, but some one else picks up and lets me know "Tariq is very busy, he's doing a lot of work right now."
We go to the office and get greeted by Tariq's boss and a coworker, who are very happy to meet his little brother. "Tariq will be back in 10 minutes" Abu Ous tells us, so we sit and chitchat. 15 minutes later I'm asking, "Where the hell is he?"
"At the hospital or doctor's"
"What?"
"He seperated his shoulder." For the 17th time, I might add.
"When?"
"Oh, about 10 minutes before you guys came in. They rushed off to the doctor."
I like how we were just sitting there for 15 minutes and no one told us what was up, nor had Tariq's coworker who picked up the phone. Even though we said we were on our way to the office, and then waiting for him, apparently no one wanted to make us worry.
Tariq's little brother and I go to the doctor's, where every one has decided to go to the hospital because this doctor is an asshole, anyway. We go to Mushtahid - government hospital.
The emergency room has no orderly checkin, but a collection of green-sheeted gurneys with dividers that can be closed. The gurney Tariq sat on had a few small blood stains and there was bloody gauze on the floor. Groups of people were huddled around each gurney, which mostly contained children with casts. I was afraid this would be a nightmare of trying to get a doctor's attention, but one came over within a minute, assessed the problem, handed him over to a technician for xrays, and within 5 minutes xrays were done.
Returning to the emergency room, the doctor and technician shooed us away, and closed the curtain. Tariq's screams reverberated across the emergency room as they readjusted his shoulder. Then the doctor came out, told us "It's a boy," and revealed a paled Tariq. Tariq's coworker ran off to get some wrap for the arm, and within 5 minutes the second set of xrays to make sure the shoulder was in place were done. Doctor wrapped up his arm, and we were out: no bill, no nothing. The whole thing had taken about a half an hour. We only paid for the arm wrap.
Much better experience than the private hospital we had to go to when Tariq's shoulder seperated last time: cleaner, faster and free. The only pro for private as far as Tariq was concerned was that the private hospital had given him drugs and he hadn't felt a thing during the readjustment.
As we left Tariq's little brother was amazed to find out that we don't have free hospitals in the States. "So if some one's poor they'll just let him die?"
"Well, usually they'll do the surgery and then he or his family will have massive debts."
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
Catching Concerts by Chance
I've been getting out more, whether dragged by friendship obligations last Thursday to Cave de Baal to support my friend Noor's DJing (party every Thursday), or more willingly to a few concerts. In either case it means I'm behind on watching Noor, the dubbed Turkish muselel, and I hear very exciting things are afoot!
Noor's a good DJ, in that he plays more than techno, but his party's at the matinee hour and coming on the heels of highschool exams, the place was packed with teenagers. I love teenagers as much as anyone, but I felt like I should have brought my walker. Whatever, it's always fun to watch muhajibbat grinding on the dance floor.
The concerts I stumbled upon going the International Flower Exhibition in Tishreen Park. There's been signs all over, so I went Sunday. It cost 50 lira to get in, and the exhibition itself was quite underwhelming. "International" apparently meant Jordan, Egypt, Iraq, and Homs. The best design by far was Hama's.
A little disappointed, we started to leave, only to find a stage all set up for a concert near the Sahat Umuwe'en entrance. We asked the techs what was up, and they casually informed us there would be an Itar Shama' concert later. Itar Sham'! They are an awesome husband-and-wife band that plays Arabic rock. I saw them earlier in the year at an Arab Cultural Center outside of Damascus and the place was packed. The kids love 'em. I been keeping up on concerts, even the ones I know there's no way I'm attending (Julio Iglesias in the Bosra Ampitheatre). How had I not heard? No body has heard. The publicity for the exhibition has unfortunately not included the fact that they have all of Syria's most popular bands booked.
The tech gave us a schedule: Itar Shama', LEENA CHAMAMYAN (probably Syria's most popular singer), Anas and Friends, Daraja Aliya - all of Syria's most popular bands. Each night a different band.
I didn't see the concert Sunday night because of a prior commitment to watch Germany get their asses handed to them (ok, so the game wasn't actually that one-sided, but still yay Spain) the same evening, but returned to see Daraja Aliya two nights ago and Anas and Friends last night. Not so impressed with the last one, except the last song, a cover of a 10-year-old Mohammed Monir song (who I saw in concert in Cairo with Nancy Ajram in 2006).
And tonight- Leena Chamamyan (maybe that's how you spell her name, but probably not). It'll be the third time I've seen her and I own her two CDs. She rocks the Arabic jazz-ish music. And my socks.
Hopefully I won't end up on TV. Everytime I go to a cultural event, my friends try to push me to talk to the Syrian TV camera roving around. Yesterday Tariq even went up to the reporter and told her there was a foreigner over there, while I was yelling, "She doesn't care." Some of my friends, who I met back when I was struggling to say things like, "The sheep also meat no meat tummy pain no thank you pain," and are very proud of teaching me to now say things like, "Thank you, I'm sure the meat is delicious but it will cause me stomach pain," and swearing, of course.
They also try to push me to introduce myself to the artist.
"What would I say?"
"Just that you like their music. They'll be flattered that a foreigner likes it."
I believe this is just a plot to have an excuse to shake hands with the musician themselves, as I observed when pushed to congratulate an opera singer at Dar al-Assad. I imagine while I'm saying "I like your voice," in my retarded accent, my friends are behind me, looking at the artist as if to say, "Sorry what can you do? She's foreign and weird. But nice to meet you too."
Noor's a good DJ, in that he plays more than techno, but his party's at the matinee hour and coming on the heels of highschool exams, the place was packed with teenagers. I love teenagers as much as anyone, but I felt like I should have brought my walker. Whatever, it's always fun to watch muhajibbat grinding on the dance floor.
The concerts I stumbled upon going the International Flower Exhibition in Tishreen Park. There's been signs all over, so I went Sunday. It cost 50 lira to get in, and the exhibition itself was quite underwhelming. "International" apparently meant Jordan, Egypt, Iraq, and Homs. The best design by far was Hama's.
A little disappointed, we started to leave, only to find a stage all set up for a concert near the Sahat Umuwe'en entrance. We asked the techs what was up, and they casually informed us there would be an Itar Shama' concert later. Itar Sham'! They are an awesome husband-and-wife band that plays Arabic rock. I saw them earlier in the year at an Arab Cultural Center outside of Damascus and the place was packed. The kids love 'em. I been keeping up on concerts, even the ones I know there's no way I'm attending (Julio Iglesias in the Bosra Ampitheatre). How had I not heard? No body has heard. The publicity for the exhibition has unfortunately not included the fact that they have all of Syria's most popular bands booked.
The tech gave us a schedule: Itar Shama', LEENA CHAMAMYAN (probably Syria's most popular singer), Anas and Friends, Daraja Aliya - all of Syria's most popular bands. Each night a different band.
I didn't see the concert Sunday night because of a prior commitment to watch Germany get their asses handed to them (ok, so the game wasn't actually that one-sided, but still yay Spain) the same evening, but returned to see Daraja Aliya two nights ago and Anas and Friends last night. Not so impressed with the last one, except the last song, a cover of a 10-year-old Mohammed Monir song (who I saw in concert in Cairo with Nancy Ajram in 2006).
And tonight- Leena Chamamyan (maybe that's how you spell her name, but probably not). It'll be the third time I've seen her and I own her two CDs. She rocks the Arabic jazz-ish music. And my socks.
Hopefully I won't end up on TV. Everytime I go to a cultural event, my friends try to push me to talk to the Syrian TV camera roving around. Yesterday Tariq even went up to the reporter and told her there was a foreigner over there, while I was yelling, "She doesn't care." Some of my friends, who I met back when I was struggling to say things like, "The sheep also meat no meat tummy pain no thank you pain," and are very proud of teaching me to now say things like, "Thank you, I'm sure the meat is delicious but it will cause me stomach pain," and swearing, of course.
They also try to push me to introduce myself to the artist.
"What would I say?"
"Just that you like their music. They'll be flattered that a foreigner likes it."
I believe this is just a plot to have an excuse to shake hands with the musician themselves, as I observed when pushed to congratulate an opera singer at Dar al-Assad. I imagine while I'm saying "I like your voice," in my retarded accent, my friends are behind me, looking at the artist as if to say, "Sorry what can you do? She's foreign and weird. But nice to meet you too."
Monday, June 16, 2008
Red Wings Won the Stanley Cup!
On June 4th. And I totally missed it. Growing up, the Detroit Red Wings were my second-most beloved team, right behind the Michigan State Spartans. Luckily they rewarded my family's devotion with several Stanley Cups, the last one when I was in highschool.
I seriously live on the moon. Why has no one told me about this? My dad emailed me with my brothers' graduation pics, but no hockey news. My mother let me know when Hillary dropped out, as if that wasn't on the news here, but no hockey news. Why did my dad and I spend yesterday talking about the Netherlands-France game in the Eurocup, but for the last several months no one mentioned the Red Wings were in the playoffs and then WON THE FREAKIN' STANLEY CUP?
I realize I could have gone online and followed this myself, but hockey is one of those things that slips that mind when one leaves Michigan for the Arab World. When I was laboring over some Arabic poetry from the Middle Ages, hockey didn't occur to me, nor when I was writing materials for UNFPA on the UN Syria website. This is why people have parents and friends from highschool: to let them know about hockey.
I seriously live on the moon. Why has no one told me about this? My dad emailed me with my brothers' graduation pics, but no hockey news. My mother let me know when Hillary dropped out, as if that wasn't on the news here, but no hockey news. Why did my dad and I spend yesterday talking about the Netherlands-France game in the Eurocup, but for the last several months no one mentioned the Red Wings were in the playoffs and then WON THE FREAKIN' STANLEY CUP?
I realize I could have gone online and followed this myself, but hockey is one of those things that slips that mind when one leaves Michigan for the Arab World. When I was laboring over some Arabic poetry from the Middle Ages, hockey didn't occur to me, nor when I was writing materials for UNFPA on the UN Syria website. This is why people have parents and friends from highschool: to let them know about hockey.
Thursday, June 12, 2008
Rent Smack Down
My roommate is in awe of me since last night, an appreciation so great I might be able to avoid washing dishes or sweeping our eternally dirty balcony for a week. I have saved the house.
Two days ago, our Homsi landlord Abu Yallis called to let us know rent was due. Our apartment, beautifully situated in Jerimana on the main street, is paid for tri-monthly out of a curtesy to Abu Yallis and his not wanting to come down to Damascus every month. This is our first payment since the initial. I told him we would need a few days to get the money together, due to the daily limits my bank places on ATM withdrawal.
He said we need to talk about "ziyadeh" (extra) for the summer. No I told him, there is no extra. We agreed to meet last evening to pay.
The night before last the simsar (real estate guy) who had hooked us up with the apartment showed up on our doorstep, ringing the bell at 11:00pm. Who shows up at 11:00pm at a strangers house without at least calling ahead? Furthermore, who goes to a house where they know two women live alone at 11:00pm? To talk business? Dude's Syrian, he knows the rules and he would have never done that to two Syrian girls living alone (while rare, they exist. I met two medical students from Deraa sharing an apartment in Mezzeh). He asks if Abu Yallis has been by about the rent yet, I say no, he asks about renewing the rent contract. No I say. I'm going to sleep.
Abu Yallis comes over yesterday, checks the electricity, remarks that we are very good with not wasting power, since our bill is half of what the previous tenants were paying. Before he came I had been powwowing with my roommate, determined not to pay a cent over the agreed amount. "Let's practice again," I cojole her, "ma byseer! mustaheel!" (no way, imposssible!)
Abu Yallis and I go around for a good 20 minutes cause he says we need to renew the contract, and we have to pay a simsar (a different one) 1000 lira for this. I question him what the money's for, and apparently its because we're foreign. I mention how we're only paying rent, not renewing the contract, but am told they need a record that we're still in the apartment. I cave. The simsar comes over, draws up the contract, and Abu Yallis asks for the money.
54,000 lira right, 18 a month? I say. No, no, no, he shakes his head. There's ziyadeh because of the summer. How is summer more, I ask, since we pay electricity seperate?
"Because its summer. There's a summer rate and a winter rate." 3 months ago, there was no mention of this when we got the place. "I could rent this place out today to a guy ready to pay 25,000 a month 6 months in advance." He doesn't name what he expects this ziadeh to be. he also tells us the Iraqis before us were paying 30,000 a month.
I tell him prices have gone down since a lot of Iraqis are leaving. I seriously doubt he has a man ready to move in today. I tell him that I will pay what we agreed upon three months ago. He tells me its summer: "I could get 25,000. I'm not asking for that, but I have to benefit." He says he told the simsar office that naturally prices would go up in the summer.
"You didn't tell me that."
"That's not my fault. When you go the place I asked if you could pay 6 months in advance, and you said you could. But I only took three. If the price was going to stay the same, why wouldn't I have taken all 6?"
"This place was already a lot more expensive than any other place I saw. I only took it for the balcony. But I can live without one. I would not have taken it if I knew about a 'summer price'".
I finally ask him how much ziyadeh we're talking about here. He repeats about how he could get 25,000, and he's not asking for that, but he's looking to benefit. The simsar, quiet during our debate, has stopped filling out the contract renewal forma and steps in to mediate. "So there's 18 and 25. Let's meet in the middle?"
"What like 22?"
"ok, 22." Simsar says.
"MA BYSEER! I prefer to move!"
The simsar and Abu Yallis tell us we don't really want to move, its tiring and hard, and we're girls, and we'll have to pay 5,000 at least to a new simsar. He tells me to go try to find a cheaper apartment.
"Of course! I'll just get off the main street. We'll save more money paying the simsar 5 once and having a cheaper apartment than paying 22 every month!"
At one point I stormed off to my room next to the salon and started throwing clothes into an open suitcase. Then I remembered that grown-ups do not solve problems by making scenes. I returned and sat next to my silent roommate, smoothing my skirt with propriety.
We went around. The price got lowered to 20. "Mustaheel! No," I said. "We agreed on a price. We'll pay the price, or we'll move. And what does girls have to do with it?"
"You're going to fight over 2000 lira?"
"This apartment is already more expensive than I could get. 18 was expensive. And what will happen after three months?"
"You can leave then if you want, or you can stay."
"So why not leave now and save money? How much is the price going to be next time?"
"It'll stay the summer price."
"MA BYSEER ABADAN! Summer will be over. ma byseer."
There was a long silence. I broke it. "Alright. By when do we have our stuff cleared out?"
There was no answer, and I thought to myself I had called Abu Yallis' bluff. He finally agreed to take the 18, citing pity and the fact that we were girls. Call it what you will Abu Yallis, but we met in the staring contest of life and you blinked.
In the post-game analysis over a game of trex with friends, who were all very proud of me, I was told that he had a right to try to get more money. "If he can get more, why shouldn't he? It's a game." A game that I won.
Two days ago, our Homsi landlord Abu Yallis called to let us know rent was due. Our apartment, beautifully situated in Jerimana on the main street, is paid for tri-monthly out of a curtesy to Abu Yallis and his not wanting to come down to Damascus every month. This is our first payment since the initial. I told him we would need a few days to get the money together, due to the daily limits my bank places on ATM withdrawal.
He said we need to talk about "ziyadeh" (extra) for the summer. No I told him, there is no extra. We agreed to meet last evening to pay.
The night before last the simsar (real estate guy) who had hooked us up with the apartment showed up on our doorstep, ringing the bell at 11:00pm. Who shows up at 11:00pm at a strangers house without at least calling ahead? Furthermore, who goes to a house where they know two women live alone at 11:00pm? To talk business? Dude's Syrian, he knows the rules and he would have never done that to two Syrian girls living alone (while rare, they exist. I met two medical students from Deraa sharing an apartment in Mezzeh). He asks if Abu Yallis has been by about the rent yet, I say no, he asks about renewing the rent contract. No I say. I'm going to sleep.
Abu Yallis comes over yesterday, checks the electricity, remarks that we are very good with not wasting power, since our bill is half of what the previous tenants were paying. Before he came I had been powwowing with my roommate, determined not to pay a cent over the agreed amount. "Let's practice again," I cojole her, "ma byseer! mustaheel!" (no way, imposssible!)
Abu Yallis and I go around for a good 20 minutes cause he says we need to renew the contract, and we have to pay a simsar (a different one) 1000 lira for this. I question him what the money's for, and apparently its because we're foreign. I mention how we're only paying rent, not renewing the contract, but am told they need a record that we're still in the apartment. I cave. The simsar comes over, draws up the contract, and Abu Yallis asks for the money.
54,000 lira right, 18 a month? I say. No, no, no, he shakes his head. There's ziyadeh because of the summer. How is summer more, I ask, since we pay electricity seperate?
"Because its summer. There's a summer rate and a winter rate." 3 months ago, there was no mention of this when we got the place. "I could rent this place out today to a guy ready to pay 25,000 a month 6 months in advance." He doesn't name what he expects this ziadeh to be. he also tells us the Iraqis before us were paying 30,000 a month.
I tell him prices have gone down since a lot of Iraqis are leaving. I seriously doubt he has a man ready to move in today. I tell him that I will pay what we agreed upon three months ago. He tells me its summer: "I could get 25,000. I'm not asking for that, but I have to benefit." He says he told the simsar office that naturally prices would go up in the summer.
"You didn't tell me that."
"That's not my fault. When you go the place I asked if you could pay 6 months in advance, and you said you could. But I only took three. If the price was going to stay the same, why wouldn't I have taken all 6?"
"This place was already a lot more expensive than any other place I saw. I only took it for the balcony. But I can live without one. I would not have taken it if I knew about a 'summer price'".
I finally ask him how much ziyadeh we're talking about here. He repeats about how he could get 25,000, and he's not asking for that, but he's looking to benefit. The simsar, quiet during our debate, has stopped filling out the contract renewal forma and steps in to mediate. "So there's 18 and 25. Let's meet in the middle?"
"What like 22?"
"ok, 22." Simsar says.
"MA BYSEER! I prefer to move!"
The simsar and Abu Yallis tell us we don't really want to move, its tiring and hard, and we're girls, and we'll have to pay 5,000 at least to a new simsar. He tells me to go try to find a cheaper apartment.
"Of course! I'll just get off the main street. We'll save more money paying the simsar 5 once and having a cheaper apartment than paying 22 every month!"
At one point I stormed off to my room next to the salon and started throwing clothes into an open suitcase. Then I remembered that grown-ups do not solve problems by making scenes. I returned and sat next to my silent roommate, smoothing my skirt with propriety.
We went around. The price got lowered to 20. "Mustaheel! No," I said. "We agreed on a price. We'll pay the price, or we'll move. And what does girls have to do with it?"
"You're going to fight over 2000 lira?"
"This apartment is already more expensive than I could get. 18 was expensive. And what will happen after three months?"
"You can leave then if you want, or you can stay."
"So why not leave now and save money? How much is the price going to be next time?"
"It'll stay the summer price."
"MA BYSEER ABADAN! Summer will be over. ma byseer."
There was a long silence. I broke it. "Alright. By when do we have our stuff cleared out?"
There was no answer, and I thought to myself I had called Abu Yallis' bluff. He finally agreed to take the 18, citing pity and the fact that we were girls. Call it what you will Abu Yallis, but we met in the staring contest of life and you blinked.
In the post-game analysis over a game of trex with friends, who were all very proud of me, I was told that he had a right to try to get more money. "If he can get more, why shouldn't he? It's a game." A game that I won.
Sunday, June 8, 2008
Humped
Thursday night I was attacked. I was pretty tired from my week of pre-7am rising, and wanted to clear my head, so I went for a walk. While the main streets in Jerimana are bustling at almost all hours, you don't have to walk too far to hit farms and a little desolation. I needed to get away from noise and people for a bit. I walked this way before at 11pm with some friends, including guys. It wasn't yet 8:30 pm when I left home.
I was walking along a road near a field. There are small farms and the occaisonal apartment building on this road, with the lights of Jerimana not far behind me. While not busy, there were cars, bikes, and other walkers passing by in frequent intervals. I walked next to a pile of dirt and a young man, who had been crouched behind it, started walking very quickly towards me, when a car turned the corner and man's pace relaxed. I yelled at him, "What are you doing? What was that?" and kept walking, thinking maybe I had misinterpreted the situation. A second car, behind the first, passed and the man came running at me. I started yelling at him to leave me alone, and when he got near hit him with my bag and tried to aim for his face with my other hand. He tried to kiss me, and though I managed to prevent that, I got humped as he tried to grope things, when the headlights of a car came up the road. He ran, grabbing his bike that he had hidden alongside the road.
I flagged down the car, a taxi with a man sitting next to the driver. Clearly shaken and freaked out, I yelled that the guy on the bike attacked me.
"Why are you walking by yourself?"
I said I was going to a friends house, but thinking "Why does that fucking matter?" They invited me to get in the car and I thought they would try to catch up with bikeattacker, but instead they just questioned me why I was out by myself, where I lived, and what the guy had taken from me. "Did he take your wallet? your bag?"
"He didn't take anything, he attacked me."
"But he didn't take anything?"
"No, he attacked me."
The passenger muttered "harassement," as though I were silly to get so worked up over it. I got out of the car at the beginning of the road, where the streets were bustling.
I felt like maybe I shouldn't have been walking alone. It's strange that the first time I go walking by myself in a non busy area I get attacked. Everyone likes to talk about how safe Syria is, and not that my one little incident negates the true general low incidence of crime and especially violent crime, but for all the years I've lived in the horribly unsafe and crimeridden (according to popular opinion) States nothing like that has ever happened to me. Running through much more desolate areas of Michigan pre-dawn or after nightfall in sportsbra and shorts, walking home from the subway to my apartments in Brooklyn and Long Island City at 3am: nothing.
Friday afternoon I had some friends over and some one made the whole Syria is completely safe argument, to which I told what happened the night before. The guys were flabbergasted, saying that was a weird thing that hardly ever happens. They also could not believe that the men in the car had reacted like that, saying that most Syrian guys would chase the guy down. "Syrians love to be heroes." It was suggested that I return to the same spot and walk around as bait, while two of my guyfriends hide in the bushes so they can get anyone who messes with me.
The ladies present refuted the idea that this shit is rare, with examples. Not that some one full on attacking is common, but harrassment (not meaning verbal. Verbal harrassment or catcalling is talteesh, while if its physical it is taharrosh)
I was heartened though, when I pointed out that it had only been 9pm and Tariq said, "That doesn't matter. You should be able to walk around at 2am naked without being attacked."
I don't mean this post to reinforce the stereotype that Arab men are sex-starved maniacs. Obviously the vast majority of men do not attempt to hump women on the street. But there there is a lack of awareness about harrassment among guys. When one of my friends refused to believe that this kind of stuff happens more than "hardly ever" he said he'd never heard of such an incidence before tonight. Really? How often do you hang out with girls and how often would they be comfortable talking about it to you? He then cast a critical eye on several of Manar's anecdotes, because she said this had happened to her cousin, that to her friend. "Syrians exaggerate. A guy says he saw a hat with 4 colors and after a month the hat had 200 colors." He also said it was women's fault for not making a bigger scene when something like this happens.
I'm just feeling very pissed off about the incident.
I was walking along a road near a field. There are small farms and the occaisonal apartment building on this road, with the lights of Jerimana not far behind me. While not busy, there were cars, bikes, and other walkers passing by in frequent intervals. I walked next to a pile of dirt and a young man, who had been crouched behind it, started walking very quickly towards me, when a car turned the corner and man's pace relaxed. I yelled at him, "What are you doing? What was that?" and kept walking, thinking maybe I had misinterpreted the situation. A second car, behind the first, passed and the man came running at me. I started yelling at him to leave me alone, and when he got near hit him with my bag and tried to aim for his face with my other hand. He tried to kiss me, and though I managed to prevent that, I got humped as he tried to grope things, when the headlights of a car came up the road. He ran, grabbing his bike that he had hidden alongside the road.
I flagged down the car, a taxi with a man sitting next to the driver. Clearly shaken and freaked out, I yelled that the guy on the bike attacked me.
"Why are you walking by yourself?"
I said I was going to a friends house, but thinking "Why does that fucking matter?" They invited me to get in the car and I thought they would try to catch up with bikeattacker, but instead they just questioned me why I was out by myself, where I lived, and what the guy had taken from me. "Did he take your wallet? your bag?"
"He didn't take anything, he attacked me."
"But he didn't take anything?"
"No, he attacked me."
The passenger muttered "harassement," as though I were silly to get so worked up over it. I got out of the car at the beginning of the road, where the streets were bustling.
I felt like maybe I shouldn't have been walking alone. It's strange that the first time I go walking by myself in a non busy area I get attacked. Everyone likes to talk about how safe Syria is, and not that my one little incident negates the true general low incidence of crime and especially violent crime, but for all the years I've lived in the horribly unsafe and crimeridden (according to popular opinion) States nothing like that has ever happened to me. Running through much more desolate areas of Michigan pre-dawn or after nightfall in sportsbra and shorts, walking home from the subway to my apartments in Brooklyn and Long Island City at 3am: nothing.
Friday afternoon I had some friends over and some one made the whole Syria is completely safe argument, to which I told what happened the night before. The guys were flabbergasted, saying that was a weird thing that hardly ever happens. They also could not believe that the men in the car had reacted like that, saying that most Syrian guys would chase the guy down. "Syrians love to be heroes." It was suggested that I return to the same spot and walk around as bait, while two of my guyfriends hide in the bushes so they can get anyone who messes with me.
The ladies present refuted the idea that this shit is rare, with examples. Not that some one full on attacking is common, but harrassment (not meaning verbal. Verbal harrassment or catcalling is talteesh, while if its physical it is taharrosh)
I was heartened though, when I pointed out that it had only been 9pm and Tariq said, "That doesn't matter. You should be able to walk around at 2am naked without being attacked."
I don't mean this post to reinforce the stereotype that Arab men are sex-starved maniacs. Obviously the vast majority of men do not attempt to hump women on the street. But there there is a lack of awareness about harrassment among guys. When one of my friends refused to believe that this kind of stuff happens more than "hardly ever" he said he'd never heard of such an incidence before tonight. Really? How often do you hang out with girls and how often would they be comfortable talking about it to you? He then cast a critical eye on several of Manar's anecdotes, because she said this had happened to her cousin, that to her friend. "Syrians exaggerate. A guy says he saw a hat with 4 colors and after a month the hat had 200 colors." He also said it was women's fault for not making a bigger scene when something like this happens.
I'm just feeling very pissed off about the incident.
Sunday, June 1, 2008
Swimming Pools and Emergency Rooms
It has been getting ungodly hot. I'm slathering on the sunscreen to preserve my fair & lovely complexion that TV ads tell me I need to say Yes! to life. Luckily I trace my descent from sunless climes whose inhabitants mutated to a shocking white much like eyeless newts living a mile underground in Kentucky caves.
I didn't want to spend my weekend sitting around the house in a scandelous state of undress, sweating. So we went swimming! Thursday some friends came over for delivery argileh and we decided to get out to a swimming pool Friday. The plan was to meet at my place 9:30, be on the road by 10, and be swimming by 10:30.
We got out by 11:30, which I think is our new record in timeliness. At noon, we arrived at the pool by rented micro (all the pools are outside of Damascus - this one in al-ghouta) and got into a tiff with the owner, who didn't want to let us bring in our Coke and 35 sandwiches. We threatened to go to another pool, and protested we didn't know sandwiches were mumnu3 because last summer they were fine. She relented on the sandwiches, but not the Coke, telling us she'd hold it behind the desk until we left, and we could buy Coke from the pool's restaurant.
I slathered up, offering some to the group. Sale7 accepted, as he had forgotten his oil. "Wait, do you want to tan?"
"Of course!"
"This will not help you tan. It's sunscreen."
"Oh, whatever. Better than nothing. Hand it over."
I jumped in and began to swim some laps. After only about 10 lengths Sale7 and Tariq stopped me. "Oh my god you really know how to swim!" They said everyone at the pool had been staring at me do laps. "She must be a professional," Tariq overhead, "see how she flips?"
I tried to teach Tariq and Sale7 how to do front crawl, before we all gave up a bit and played waterpolo in the shallow end with Ra'id and children and jumped around. The other ladies with us, meanwhile, bought beer and chilled from the side.
"Don't you want to come in?"
"I wanna finish my beer."
It was then, during a holding-your-breath underwater contest, that Tariq began screaming and I and a lifeguard had to grab him and haul him out of the pool (good luck he had been at the edge). His shoulder. An old army injury, he has popped his shoulder out of place now 16 times. Mostly playing football and swimming, roughhousing with the guys, and once, when he woke up in the middle of the night and sneezed. In the beginning it would pop itself back in, but for the last 5 or so a doctor has had to do the job. "Aren't you the same guy from last summer?" the lifeguard asked. "That time it popped itself back in."Various friendly neighbors came over, tugging his arm this way and that to his anguished screams. The pool called for a micro to take us to a doctor. While we waited, Tariq laid out on the pool deck and very passing person offered medical advice.
"Please go slowly," Tariq begged the micro driver, who replied that he couldn't help the condition of the roads. We went off, Sale7 and I with Tariq, leaving the others to their beer and pool. Since it was Friday and we were in a small town, no doctors offices were open and we had to go to a private hospital. It was about a 20 minute drive and every bump or shake of the van sent Tariq yelling with pain. At the hospital they had drugs and Tariq calmed down. Money was discussed before we proceeded. They wanted 3500 lira, which no one had on them, so we negotiated to 2500 ($50) by foregoing one diagnostic exam and promised to leave an ID, paying later.
The last time I went with Tariq to the doctor there was anguished screaming as one doctor held him down and the other violently twisted his arm around. This time Sale7 and I weren't allowed in, and we waited outside the door of the operating room. No screaming, and then he was done. "This feels amazing," he said, definitely a fan of the painkillers.
Then we had to pay, but realized none of had our IDs with us. They wouldn't accept my leaving a credit card as a guarantee. I had 1700 with me, but luckily realized I also had a $20, which the doctor accepted as 1000 lira despite now being somewhat less.
In our rush to the hospital, I had only put on shorts and a t-shirt, and after leaving the hospital I stood outside trying to wave down a cab. Guys in passing cars were very appreciative of my shorts.
Back at pool, I swam some more laps before hanging around with Manar and Sale7 and a fat little girl who latched herself onto me (physically) and wanted to know my name, my age, where I was from, what I was doing here, how did I learn to swim, etc. Tariq sat watching at the side in his wrap.
We went home to Jerimana around 7, exhausted and full of chlorine. Sale7 lamented, "I didn't tan at all today!"
My swimming has earned me a new nickname "Samakeh" (fish), to go alone with Anuteh and Um ash-Shamat (mother of freckles). I've also christened Tariq with "Gharban," (broken, as in a TV that doesn't work) which his mother found very funny when we dropped him off, arm in sling, at home.
I didn't want to spend my weekend sitting around the house in a scandelous state of undress, sweating. So we went swimming! Thursday some friends came over for delivery argileh and we decided to get out to a swimming pool Friday. The plan was to meet at my place 9:30, be on the road by 10, and be swimming by 10:30.
We got out by 11:30, which I think is our new record in timeliness. At noon, we arrived at the pool by rented micro (all the pools are outside of Damascus - this one in al-ghouta) and got into a tiff with the owner, who didn't want to let us bring in our Coke and 35 sandwiches. We threatened to go to another pool, and protested we didn't know sandwiches were mumnu3 because last summer they were fine. She relented on the sandwiches, but not the Coke, telling us she'd hold it behind the desk until we left, and we could buy Coke from the pool's restaurant.
I slathered up, offering some to the group. Sale7 accepted, as he had forgotten his oil. "Wait, do you want to tan?"
"Of course!"
"This will not help you tan. It's sunscreen."
"Oh, whatever. Better than nothing. Hand it over."
I jumped in and began to swim some laps. After only about 10 lengths Sale7 and Tariq stopped me. "Oh my god you really know how to swim!" They said everyone at the pool had been staring at me do laps. "She must be a professional," Tariq overhead, "see how she flips?"
I tried to teach Tariq and Sale7 how to do front crawl, before we all gave up a bit and played waterpolo in the shallow end with Ra'id and children and jumped around. The other ladies with us, meanwhile, bought beer and chilled from the side.
"Don't you want to come in?"
"I wanna finish my beer."
It was then, during a holding-your-breath underwater contest, that Tariq began screaming and I and a lifeguard had to grab him and haul him out of the pool (good luck he had been at the edge). His shoulder. An old army injury, he has popped his shoulder out of place now 16 times. Mostly playing football and swimming, roughhousing with the guys, and once, when he woke up in the middle of the night and sneezed. In the beginning it would pop itself back in, but for the last 5 or so a doctor has had to do the job. "Aren't you the same guy from last summer?" the lifeguard asked. "That time it popped itself back in."Various friendly neighbors came over, tugging his arm this way and that to his anguished screams. The pool called for a micro to take us to a doctor. While we waited, Tariq laid out on the pool deck and very passing person offered medical advice.
"Please go slowly," Tariq begged the micro driver, who replied that he couldn't help the condition of the roads. We went off, Sale7 and I with Tariq, leaving the others to their beer and pool. Since it was Friday and we were in a small town, no doctors offices were open and we had to go to a private hospital. It was about a 20 minute drive and every bump or shake of the van sent Tariq yelling with pain. At the hospital they had drugs and Tariq calmed down. Money was discussed before we proceeded. They wanted 3500 lira, which no one had on them, so we negotiated to 2500 ($50) by foregoing one diagnostic exam and promised to leave an ID, paying later.
The last time I went with Tariq to the doctor there was anguished screaming as one doctor held him down and the other violently twisted his arm around. This time Sale7 and I weren't allowed in, and we waited outside the door of the operating room. No screaming, and then he was done. "This feels amazing," he said, definitely a fan of the painkillers.
Then we had to pay, but realized none of had our IDs with us. They wouldn't accept my leaving a credit card as a guarantee. I had 1700 with me, but luckily realized I also had a $20, which the doctor accepted as 1000 lira despite now being somewhat less.
In our rush to the hospital, I had only put on shorts and a t-shirt, and after leaving the hospital I stood outside trying to wave down a cab. Guys in passing cars were very appreciative of my shorts.
Back at pool, I swam some more laps before hanging around with Manar and Sale7 and a fat little girl who latched herself onto me (physically) and wanted to know my name, my age, where I was from, what I was doing here, how did I learn to swim, etc. Tariq sat watching at the side in his wrap.
We went home to Jerimana around 7, exhausted and full of chlorine. Sale7 lamented, "I didn't tan at all today!"
My swimming has earned me a new nickname "Samakeh" (fish), to go alone with Anuteh and Um ash-Shamat (mother of freckles). I've also christened Tariq with "Gharban," (broken, as in a TV that doesn't work) which his mother found very funny when we dropped him off, arm in sling, at home.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Microbus Anecdotes
I'm spending a good hour-and-a-half, at least, on seravees (micros) daily. But not all rides are bereft of excitement!
----- Winter ---------------
Coming back from Sitt Zeineb, the micro I was in got pulled over by a cop. The driver calmly called a greeting to him, then grabbed a fifty-lira bill from the stack under the prayer rug on the dashboard while getting out to walk over to the cop. He talked with the cop, getting agitated and soon losing the nonchalant aura he had previously expressed, returning to huffily put the 50 back under the prayer rug, the ticket in his other hand.
-----Last Week------------
I was riding the Baramke - Jerimana micro home, and, as is common with the heavy traffic, lack of lanes, and verying width of Sharia' al-3am, our micro and an adjacent car got bottlenecked when the car decided it felt the need for speed. Both vehicles stopped, the area chosen for overtaking not wide enough to accomodate the both. The yelling began, not just between the young joyriders and the micro driver but also the passengers. The vehicles lurched forward and back, neither able to actually take off without the acquiesce of the other, but neither actually wanting to take the first step. "YOU GO!" "NO YOU GO!" was exchanged back and forth before the micro driver finally did go. The car, pissed to all hell, sped up to get along side us and yelled, until we were bottlednecked again. The yelling was much more inspired than the previous encounters' more-annoyed-than-angry tone. "GO AHEAD YOU DONKEY!" "SON OF A DONKEY!" "ASSHOLE!"
The car went ahead, but our driver was not having it. The frey continued with us and the car continually trying to cut off, stop, and just annoy the shit out of each other. We passed my stop, but I doubted my meagre "On the right, please" would be acknowledged over the shouts of men invoking each other's sisters' vaginas. Luckily, right past my stop the driver had enough, blocked the car, and everyone got out to fight. I got out to watch. Words about peoples' mothers and sisters were exchanged, fists were raised threateningly, and traffic was blocked with a cacophony of horns. Then everyone got back in the micro and car, drove off, and the din of horns ceased.
-----SPRING------------
I needed to make a connection from the Jerimana-Baramke line to the Sa'na - Muhajireen line, and I was late to a meeting. I could wait until the end of the former, walking over to catch the other, but I was pretty sure I they overlapped and I could transfer earlier. I asked the driver if the Sa'na - Muhajireen micro comes down this road, and he asked if I wanted to get on it. "Yeah." He surveyed the scene, and upon seeing the other micro, called out the window to the other driver that the young lady would like to get on. We were in heavy traffic, a good two lanes from the sidewalk, but to the detriment of the passengers he and the other micro negotiated to the side of the road, where I hopped out of one and onto the other.
----- Winter ---------------
Coming back from Sitt Zeineb, the micro I was in got pulled over by a cop. The driver calmly called a greeting to him, then grabbed a fifty-lira bill from the stack under the prayer rug on the dashboard while getting out to walk over to the cop. He talked with the cop, getting agitated and soon losing the nonchalant aura he had previously expressed, returning to huffily put the 50 back under the prayer rug, the ticket in his other hand.
-----Last Week------------
I was riding the Baramke - Jerimana micro home, and, as is common with the heavy traffic, lack of lanes, and verying width of Sharia' al-3am, our micro and an adjacent car got bottlenecked when the car decided it felt the need for speed. Both vehicles stopped, the area chosen for overtaking not wide enough to accomodate the both. The yelling began, not just between the young joyriders and the micro driver but also the passengers. The vehicles lurched forward and back, neither able to actually take off without the acquiesce of the other, but neither actually wanting to take the first step. "YOU GO!" "NO YOU GO!" was exchanged back and forth before the micro driver finally did go. The car, pissed to all hell, sped up to get along side us and yelled, until we were bottlednecked again. The yelling was much more inspired than the previous encounters' more-annoyed-than-angry tone. "GO AHEAD YOU DONKEY!" "SON OF A DONKEY!" "ASSHOLE!"
The car went ahead, but our driver was not having it. The frey continued with us and the car continually trying to cut off, stop, and just annoy the shit out of each other. We passed my stop, but I doubted my meagre "On the right, please" would be acknowledged over the shouts of men invoking each other's sisters' vaginas. Luckily, right past my stop the driver had enough, blocked the car, and everyone got out to fight. I got out to watch. Words about peoples' mothers and sisters were exchanged, fists were raised threateningly, and traffic was blocked with a cacophony of horns. Then everyone got back in the micro and car, drove off, and the din of horns ceased.
-----SPRING------------
I needed to make a connection from the Jerimana-Baramke line to the Sa'na - Muhajireen line, and I was late to a meeting. I could wait until the end of the former, walking over to catch the other, but I was pretty sure I they overlapped and I could transfer earlier. I asked the driver if the Sa'na - Muhajireen micro comes down this road, and he asked if I wanted to get on it. "Yeah." He surveyed the scene, and upon seeing the other micro, called out the window to the other driver that the young lady would like to get on. We were in heavy traffic, a good two lanes from the sidewalk, but to the detriment of the passengers he and the other micro negotiated to the side of the road, where I hopped out of one and onto the other.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Bitch be Stealing My Name!
There's an American woman living in Sana'a, Yemen, who has been blogging since January 2008 under the name Yemenista (theyemenista.blogspot.com - unable to insert links). Since I have been Orientalista since last June, months before I even moved to the Orient, she has obviously stolen the practice of adding -ista to create awesome blogging names. انتقام I demand, and انتقام I shall have! It's like that time in high school when, as captain of the cross country team, I made team shirts that said "I'll cross your country!" only to see other girls' teams with identical slogans the following year! Totally!
The only solution, obviously, is a duel. I shall have to fly to Yemen immediately and slap her. Then I will throw clearly superior Shami sweets at her until she can't handle the 'ishta-goodness and explodes. And changes her name.
Actually, I doubt she's even seen this blog, and her name is probably a play off "fashionista" as she used to work at a woman's magazine, whereas my name is a reference to both Orientalism and my leftist politics. Fine then, Yemenista, you may keep your name without fear of bodily harm. If I expect Israelis to give up al-Quds and Palestinians to agree to financial compensation in lieu of Right of Return, I guess I can accept the existance of another -ista in the Middle East. For peace.
The only solution, obviously, is a duel. I shall have to fly to Yemen immediately and slap her. Then I will throw clearly superior Shami sweets at her until she can't handle the 'ishta-goodness and explodes. And changes her name.
Actually, I doubt she's even seen this blog, and her name is probably a play off "fashionista" as she used to work at a woman's magazine, whereas my name is a reference to both Orientalism and my leftist politics. Fine then, Yemenista, you may keep your name without fear of bodily harm. If I expect Israelis to give up al-Quds and Palestinians to agree to financial compensation in lieu of Right of Return, I guess I can accept the existance of another -ista in the Middle East. For peace.
Monday, March 24, 2008
I am a Star
I am now in three different Syrian muselels (serial dramas). In one of them, I even have a role opposite Basil Khayat, one of the hunks of Syrian television. It's a small role, but still. I don't really know how this happened. A month ago I jokingly told a friend that my dream is to be in a Syrian muselel - perhaps an an extra, perferrably as a foreign journalist or tourist or somthing else foreign (there's no getting around my accent. yet). This led to a role as an extra in a disco scene.
Then, as I was finishing up negotiations with my apartment broker (quite heated). I got a call from my friend Sali7. He was at some filming, and I should hurry over quick because they wanted me to have a role in a second muselel. A role in which Basil Khayat has a crush on me. So I came over, production did my hair and makeup, and Basil and I flirted on camera. Seated across from one another at the bar, I was instructed by the director to look at him flirtingly, so instead I grinned like a big idiot as I can't act and this is what I do when trying to flirt in real life.
Then I got a call about filming a scene at a restaurant in Bab Touma, and thinking it was for the Basil Khayat muselel, I went with my friends and found myself in a third muselel, where one of the actresses asked if I was a professional dancer.
Finally, I got called back to finish filming with Basil, which happened yesterday. We're hanging out in his apartment drinking wine (actually grape juice), and he asks me how long I've been in Syria. The first take I didn't answer, since no one told me what I was supposed to say, I thought there are you know, scripts for things like this. I gaped, the director cut the shot, and told me just to say something like "not yet four weeks, and I'll be coming home soon" and to add in a few English words so that it's clear to the audience that I am foreign. So I did. I've earned 5,000 Syrian lira ($100) from my "acting".
I've also turned down two other TV projects because I don't actually like it all that much. It's boring. I don't need money. But my friends are loving it and begging me to go with them to film a fourth muselel Thursday and a music video next month, and a little jealous I'm the only one who has gotten a speaking role. Bla. Having an actual role is a little more fun in that you get to walk around the rest of the day with a professionaly done hair and layers of stage makeup, which makes me look more Syrian (the natural look isn't very popular here).
Then, as I was finishing up negotiations with my apartment broker (quite heated). I got a call from my friend Sali7. He was at some filming, and I should hurry over quick because they wanted me to have a role in a second muselel. A role in which Basil Khayat has a crush on me. So I came over, production did my hair and makeup, and Basil and I flirted on camera. Seated across from one another at the bar, I was instructed by the director to look at him flirtingly, so instead I grinned like a big idiot as I can't act and this is what I do when trying to flirt in real life.
Then I got a call about filming a scene at a restaurant in Bab Touma, and thinking it was for the Basil Khayat muselel, I went with my friends and found myself in a third muselel, where one of the actresses asked if I was a professional dancer.
Finally, I got called back to finish filming with Basil, which happened yesterday. We're hanging out in his apartment drinking wine (actually grape juice), and he asks me how long I've been in Syria. The first take I didn't answer, since no one told me what I was supposed to say, I thought there are you know, scripts for things like this. I gaped, the director cut the shot, and told me just to say something like "not yet four weeks, and I'll be coming home soon" and to add in a few English words so that it's clear to the audience that I am foreign. So I did. I've earned 5,000 Syrian lira ($100) from my "acting".
I've also turned down two other TV projects because I don't actually like it all that much. It's boring. I don't need money. But my friends are loving it and begging me to go with them to film a fourth muselel Thursday and a music video next month, and a little jealous I'm the only one who has gotten a speaking role. Bla. Having an actual role is a little more fun in that you get to walk around the rest of the day with a professionaly done hair and layers of stage makeup, which makes me look more Syrian (the natural look isn't very popular here).
Saturday, March 22, 2008
I Love Jerimana
I am in love with my new apartment in Jerimana. Jerimana is technically outside of Damascus, but it's a little like Damascus' Brooklyn. It has everything: restaurants, Bouza Umaya (the best ice cream in Syria), even trendy little cafes now, plus at least once a week I get to see a man chase another down the street with a beating stick. I live at Sahat as-Suyuf, which is always bustling, day or night. Boredom does not exist since I can sit on the balcony and watch the proceedings below. The tea man serving every passing bar, the workers waiting to be hired like Mexicans outside Home Depot, the men chasing one another with beating sticks, the kids flirting surreptiously.
I wake up with the morning sun shining in my window, make breakfast, and eat it on the balcony. I then usually get a little studying done on the balcony before going into Damascus for lesson, teaching, or other little commitments. Studying on the balcony is awesome, especially now as I'm supposed to be starting my research grant (I have been here 6 months! I can't believe it) now. And if I don't go onto the balcony, I don't even have to wear pants to study; already, the new apartment is better than my old house with the family by several levels.
Dinner is on the balcony at well. Damn I love that balcony. And did I mention that it suddenly became spring 2 weeks ago? The sun is shining, weather is sweet, makes you want to move your dancing feet.
I wake up with the morning sun shining in my window, make breakfast, and eat it on the balcony. I then usually get a little studying done on the balcony before going into Damascus for lesson, teaching, or other little commitments. Studying on the balcony is awesome, especially now as I'm supposed to be starting my research grant (I have been here 6 months! I can't believe it) now. And if I don't go onto the balcony, I don't even have to wear pants to study; already, the new apartment is better than my old house with the family by several levels.
Dinner is on the balcony at well. Damn I love that balcony. And did I mention that it suddenly became spring 2 weeks ago? The sun is shining, weather is sweet, makes you want to move your dancing feet.
Sunday, March 16, 2008
Guilt Trippin'
The family has been away in Lattakia for a while, during which time I found an apartment in Jerimana and moved my stuff (clothes and books). I waited for them to come back, as they said they would only be gone a week, and I wanted to inform them in person, before finally calling them Friday night 8ish to ask when they were coming back. "Oh, about another week," said Iyad. Crap. So I told him that my friend had found an apartment and invited me to live with her, and I agreed, what with my being homesick and all (as they have assumed for a good 2 months), and I was in the process of moving. "When will you be finished?" he asked, and I said, "oh, probably tomorrow."
After 11 I got a call from Iyad. Where are you? he said, and where is all your stuff. He had made the 3-hour trip straight from Lattakia. Strange. I said, Oh, it turns out I didn't have that much stuff and I was able to do it all today. I made an appointment to see him the next day, and hand over the key which I had unfortunately lost in the limo.
The next day I went to the house and saw Iyad. "Did we do something to upset you?" He layed the guilt trip on heavy. They were planning to not even have me pay for the last three months I would be here, he said, and they were planning to take me along to their relative's wedding next month in Lattakia, and they were planning a trip to Turkey in the summer. He asked if I was upset by the political talks we had, and said no, certainly not. I did not mention that I did get peeved by the talks by the overt interest in my past dating life. I said I wanted to maintain the relationship with the family, have them visit me in Jerimana, come see them.
Today I went back again to pay for the damage to the bed when I accidently set fire to it. Again he asked me what the reason was I moved, and moved so quickly like I was escaping. I said it was pure coincidence that this happened while they were in Lattakia. He asked if I wa moving because of a friend they have named Basil who professes to hate all things American: the government, the people, the films, even the food. "I don't eat pizza" he said, to which I protested that that food is actually Italian. He asked if it is because they don't allow me to have male friends in the home. No, no, I said.
No, no, nothing like that. But Iyad also invited me to come to Lattakia for a day or two, I think to prove to the family that I'm not moving because I hate them. I agreed. So tomorrow, guilt trippin' to the sea, where I can be sure to enjoy lots of awkward conversations attempting to penetrate into the reasons I left. Fun.
After 11 I got a call from Iyad. Where are you? he said, and where is all your stuff. He had made the 3-hour trip straight from Lattakia. Strange. I said, Oh, it turns out I didn't have that much stuff and I was able to do it all today. I made an appointment to see him the next day, and hand over the key which I had unfortunately lost in the limo.
The next day I went to the house and saw Iyad. "Did we do something to upset you?" He layed the guilt trip on heavy. They were planning to not even have me pay for the last three months I would be here, he said, and they were planning to take me along to their relative's wedding next month in Lattakia, and they were planning a trip to Turkey in the summer. He asked if I was upset by the political talks we had, and said no, certainly not. I did not mention that I did get peeved by the talks by the overt interest in my past dating life. I said I wanted to maintain the relationship with the family, have them visit me in Jerimana, come see them.
Today I went back again to pay for the damage to the bed when I accidently set fire to it. Again he asked me what the reason was I moved, and moved so quickly like I was escaping. I said it was pure coincidence that this happened while they were in Lattakia. He asked if I wa moving because of a friend they have named Basil who professes to hate all things American: the government, the people, the films, even the food. "I don't eat pizza" he said, to which I protested that that food is actually Italian. He asked if it is because they don't allow me to have male friends in the home. No, no, I said.
No, no, nothing like that. But Iyad also invited me to come to Lattakia for a day or two, I think to prove to the family that I'm not moving because I hate them. I agreed. So tomorrow, guilt trippin' to the sea, where I can be sure to enjoy lots of awkward conversations attempting to penetrate into the reasons I left. Fun.
Monday, March 3, 2008
A Dream Realized
I am in a Syrian muselel! And one starring Sulaf Fuwakharji, no less. Like my dream of being a French singer in the 1960s, my dream of being an Arab pop star soon fell to that cruel bitch, reality. But another, perhaps more realistic dream took its place: to be in a Syrian muselel (TV series). Muselels run for an set length, like a telenovela, and while Egypt may make all the movies and Lebanon the music videos, Syria has the market on muselels. Months ago when I first arrived, I announced my intention. I will be anything: a lost tourist, a reporter, a slutty foreigner (cause we all are). I will speak English or accented Arabic.
And now, يوم ممطر اخر (Another Rainy Day) is enriched by my presence. Saturday night I was hanging with friends and Abud asked me if I wanted to be an extra in some muselel, and my enthusiastic response scared several people. Sunday some friends and I got up extraordinarily early to be on set at 9am. The scene was a club, and we were the crowd. Since there were way less girls than boys, and I look foreign (good clubs, like almost all highclass establishments, have foreigners), I got to be in the front of the background in many scenes, dancing on tables, dancing on chairs, even dancing on the ground. We had to change clothes a few times in hopes that people won't realize that the crowd dancing in the background is the same on both sides of the bar.
I even got a speaking role! Okay, so in one scene I walk into the club, turn to one of the actors and say "Hi Selim." But still, my voice in addition to my likeness and awkward dancing to techno (who can dance to that shit) is preserved forever in muselel history.
Today was Day 2 of filming, and we got to see a lot of Ms. Sulaf, who is the biggest muselel star in Syria. It is a big deal. For two days of our time, we were paid about $20, which isn't too bad, but I heard the foreigners who only came in for day 2 (tourists playing "foreigners") get twice that. I don't know if I'll actually get my share, having skipped out early today because of a prior commitment.
But fuck it. I am a star.
And now, يوم ممطر اخر (Another Rainy Day) is enriched by my presence. Saturday night I was hanging with friends and Abud asked me if I wanted to be an extra in some muselel, and my enthusiastic response scared several people. Sunday some friends and I got up extraordinarily early to be on set at 9am. The scene was a club, and we were the crowd. Since there were way less girls than boys, and I look foreign (good clubs, like almost all highclass establishments, have foreigners), I got to be in the front of the background in many scenes, dancing on tables, dancing on chairs, even dancing on the ground. We had to change clothes a few times in hopes that people won't realize that the crowd dancing in the background is the same on both sides of the bar.
I even got a speaking role! Okay, so in one scene I walk into the club, turn to one of the actors and say "Hi Selim." But still, my voice in addition to my likeness and awkward dancing to techno (who can dance to that shit) is preserved forever in muselel history.
Today was Day 2 of filming, and we got to see a lot of Ms. Sulaf, who is the biggest muselel star in Syria. It is a big deal. For two days of our time, we were paid about $20, which isn't too bad, but I heard the foreigners who only came in for day 2 (tourists playing "foreigners") get twice that. I don't know if I'll actually get my share, having skipped out early today because of a prior commitment.
But fuck it. I am a star.
Saturday, March 1, 2008
Food Poisoning = No Fun
Have been out of commission recently as Wednesday I ate a Greek salad at Flamingo, a restaurant near my home where I often have lessons with my professor. About 45 minutes later, I started to feel bad: upset stomach, hot, tired. Went to the bathroom and revisted dinner, went home and spent the night in agony. The family tried to help, but my stomach unfortunately did not appreciate Um Mazen's remedies. A tea made of natural grasses was puked back up, and a glass of rose water unfortunately met the same end. I then spent about two days lying on my bed in the fetal position. Thursday night I went to the doctor to find I had gastrointestinitis, and he gave me some medecine. Today, feeling better, so I went and taught English is Sitt Zeinab, but did a lot of activities where teacher can sit down.
I miss food other than boiled pototoes and lentil soup.
I miss food other than boiled pototoes and lentil soup.
Friday, February 15, 2008
Randeep Is Not Having That Great of a Time in Syria
I was excited all week for the visit of my friend Randeep, who was to arrive Thursday. I had several things planned: of course all the du rigor old-city tourist stops, a night or two out, Sitt Zeine, a day trip to Maloula, and more. But these plans have fallen through. Ya maskeen Randeep and his friend are still at the airport, waiting.
While usually very possible to buy a visa at the airport, particularly if there is no Syrian embassy in your country (i.e, Singapore), Randeep and his friend found themselves unable to do that, and futhermore unable to be deported until Saturday. I went today, but wasn't allowed to even see him, or talk to anyone important as Friday is the weekend. Tomorrow I'm going to go to Hijra wa Jowazat and hopefully get him either in or out of the country. In Sha Allah. Two days in an airport is hell.
While usually very possible to buy a visa at the airport, particularly if there is no Syrian embassy in your country (i.e, Singapore), Randeep and his friend found themselves unable to do that, and futhermore unable to be deported until Saturday. I went today, but wasn't allowed to even see him, or talk to anyone important as Friday is the weekend. Tomorrow I'm going to go to Hijra wa Jowazat and hopefully get him either in or out of the country. In Sha Allah. Two days in an airport is hell.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
