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.

Neat Bread

I have watched Um Tareq every time there is bread from the government oven - at 15 lira a rabta the price can't be beat and it's also much tastier and filling than the more expensive siyahi bread - perform a ritual. She takes each flat piece of pocket bread out one by one from the government bag, makes a whole in an edge, uses her hand to seperate the sides, then folds the bread and put them by eights into bags for the freezer.

I have been told I should start helping around the house more. I occupy a weird place between daughter and renter. We can watch Turkish muselsels together and discuss the attractiveness of Asmar vs. Sameer, but I also stay out late and it's not eib. But I'm trying to help out in my gender-neutral way: going out sometimes to fetch items like a boy, and folding bread like a girl.

By first attempt did not go well. I imitated the actions, but the desired result was not acheived. I couldn't perceive a difference between my folded bread and hers, but each piece she unfolded and reopened and refolded.

I've gotten better, but the last time I finally thought to ask her why we were doing this. I assumed that seperating the sides meant the bread would freeze better and come out fresh once dethawed, not crumbly and crap.
"So it looks neat (muratab)," she said.
"Really? Neat?"
"Bread comes from the bakery and they've got these wrinkles. Like with clothes I've got to make them look nice."

I laughed really long, and Um Tareq laughed with me, asking why I thought we folded the bread. I said you know, the freezing process. She laughed and said no, so it looks nice.
"I open it and flatten it and get all of the wrinkles out." She then saw a wrinkle-less piece, told me it didn't need anything since it was already neat and pretty.

"But we're going to eat the bread," I said.
"yes, so it should look nice."
"Do they not do that in America?" No, in my experience, American don't care whether our pitas are wrinkled. Um Tareq laughed. Ajanab are weird.

Crutchin' Round Sham

Sham while temporally crippled is interesting. For one, I had never noticed how many stairs are required to get to most things. But the lack of accesability is tempored somewhat by how helpful people are.

If they see me waiting to cross a street, cops or guards will run over to stop traffic and carry my bag across the street. My embarrassed, "No really, I'm good. Thanks. I'm fine, thanks." doesn't dissuade. I've even had a random car stop, a husband and wife with some kids, and ask me if I need a ride.

The pity in passerbys' eyes is getting a bit annoying. I mean, I ain't walking all that badly - I'm down to once crutch. But people passing by will stare, turn their heads around, with this look that just screams, "Ya haram!"

I told Um Tareq about the looks, and she said they're probably thinking, "ya haram she's pretty and this happened!"
"So if I was ugly it would be alright."
She laughed and said no, but haram she's pretty and broken.
"People think, 'Allah ma kamala'" (God didn't finish her), which made me laugh for a good couple minutes. And again everytime I catch someone eyeing me pitiably and imagine them thinking God was on role, then got to my left leg and said, whatever.

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.

The Anxious Tour Guide

Finally guests! Some friends visited me this weekend; Jolianne, who was a roommate from Cairo in every way but actuality, and James, a friend of hers. They are both Americans living in Dubai, and thus had a great appreciation for the mild Shami weather and buildings older than 10 years.

It was a good time; I had an excuse to go out to restaurants and argileh, went back to Crac des Chevaliers for the first time since two years ago, and got to show off my Arabic (Joli remembers me well from our Arabic formative stages in Cairo: fi mushkila? ma feesh fuloos! mush iyeza haga! iyeza arouh liwusta balad - oh Cairo). But like anytime anyone visits me, I always feel an insane amount of pressure to really show off the place and especially communicate why I love it. This is no fault of my guests - all my friends are naturally superawesome, being my friends. But even in New York, I would freak out before a friend came through. What the hell am I going to do with them? I only go to school and work! How am I going to show them a good time in New York?

My father and brother came from Ireland to visit me for four days when I lived in Cairo. I tried desperately to convey why I loved Egypt. After all, my father didn't come to Egypt out of some burning desire to see the pyramids (or come to New York for the Statue of Liberty), but to see me and make sure I was alright. But I failed. We visited every tourist attraction in Cairo, which every Cairene transplant knows are the worst part about Cairo. All my dad seemed to get out of the trip was the arguments I had with taxi drivers, the noise, the dangerous abandon with which I ate street food, the garbage, the pushy postcard sellers at the Pyramids, the 4am call to prayer waking him every night, and the heart attack I gave him when I jokingly showed up at the airport in hijab (to his credit, we were a full 20 minutes in the taxi before he asked me about it). I failed to communicate how the rush of activity in Midan Tahrir swelled my heart.

I have been in Damascus much longer now than I had been in Cairo then; how on earth do I convey my passionate throbbing love for this city? While Joli and James are much chiller and less alarmed than my father (liking street food themselves) I still selfishly want to share the fruits of 8 months with them in 2 days. This led to my forcing sweets on them like a Syrian grandmother (you haven't eaten anything! This is the best place to get halowi ma jibneh! You can't be full, we haven't even gotten to the kinafeh!). I am in deep regret this morning as I realized I failed to feed them fetteh or the falafel and hummos from Falafel al-Masry, Jerimana's best. When eating a lackluster meal at Crac des Chavaliers yesterday, I was thinking, Oh God no! This isn't good Shami food! I have failed! We set out for the castle a little late yesterday, and on the two and a half hour bus rides to Homs and back I was thinking oh God, it's my fault the bus isn't faster! They are bored and this French movie about cops punching transvestites isn't helping!

Though they might have boarded the return plane a couple of pounds heavier, I think they managed to have a good time. But honestly, who wouldn't?

Pretending to be Syrian

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Enjoying the Lack of Safety Laws

Went on Sir'an yesterday. On Friday, the only day of the week most people have off, tons of families load up and take off for the countryside, with argila, grilled meat, and the children in tow. Yesterday some friends and I went off to Deir Mar Musa, a monastery up in the desert mountains around Nebq (small town hour away from Damascus). We packed food, though not grilled meat, and an argileh from Sali7, who decided to stay home and study like a loser instead of coming out. At the bus station, we realised we had a problem in that both Tareef and Rachel had no ID (a trickier issue for Rachel, as a foreigner who needs her passport). The police also made us empty the gas burner we had brought for the argileh, citing possible explosion as their concern. To empty it, Tareef opened the spigit and we stood nearby as the flammable gas rose in the middle of a busy bus station. No danger here. They let him stop before it was empty, leaving us to carry a mostly-empty cannister of gas, which is actually most likely to cause it to explode. Oh, whatever.

We had to get permission from the police to let those without IDs come, and we just said that Rachel, who remained mute and can easily pass for Syrian, was Syrian too. Her name is Lana.

At Deir Mar Musa, after climbing the crapload of steps to the top, we met up with Marios, at a lunch of mujedera (lentils and burgal), chicken, and salad prepared by the monks and nuns before hiking out a ways into the mountains. There we set up camp and the argileh, realizing after everything else had been done that Sali7 had neglected including the pipe. We tried hilariously to smoke straight from the argileh, which yielded good pictures but little else.

We spent the rest of the afternoon climbing up the mountain, for which i was yelled at to stop running around the mountain and climbing things (how familiar). With the sun getting low, we left not sure exactly how to get to Nabq. Luckily some guys had a flatbed truck and we jumped in. While some sat, the rest of stood, screaming with the wind in our face and waving at other trucks and people at the side of the road. I think this saved the trip for Manar, who until then had not expressed much interest in the climbing, preferring to chill with her beer. We would never be able to do that in America. Riding in the truck would probably get you stopped by the cops, and standing up while navagating the hairpin turns on hills and going 40mph definitely would. The drivers passed us bags of nuts and we passed them some candy. At Nabq we declined their repeated requests to join them at their house for coffee.

Once we got back, everyone came to Jerimana for ice cream at Bouza Ummaya, Damascus' best ice cream. Oh, happy days!

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.

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.

Oh, the Love for Syria Grows Evermore

My contact was bugging me last night but I was in Jerimana, far from my home and its contact solution. So I went to a pharmacy across the street from my friend's house and bought a tiny bottle, costing 125 lira. I had a 1,000 note and a 50. She didn't have change.
"Malish, hati al khamees hala' wa al-baqiyya ba'deen" (doesn't matter, give me the 50 now and the rest later).

I blinked. Later? I asked. Ya, she said, later. When you have the rest.

This is not my local pharmacy, my face is not known at this establishment, I don't even live in this neighborhood, and it was my first time in this pharmacy. But still, the trust!

I went back a few hours later when I had change.