An Outing, More or Less Successful

I ran into Abd, back from Russia for a few months, in the old city. He invited me and M to an outing with students of the literature college to Sweida. There was a cave, and they were bringing a DJ and speakers and going to set up a regular dance party there. 300 lira only, food and drink on us. It sounded fun. I agreed to get the booze, M the food.

The next morning those of us from Jeramana met at Rawda to make the journey to Mezzeh. Abd and his friends were 15 minutes late. The bus was supposed to leave at 9, and going to Mezzeh in the morning rush can take a while.

I shouldn't have worried. I forgot that "bus leaves at 9, don't be late!" means the bus will leave closer to 11. We waited in the hot sun. It is summer now, at least during the day, until the sun goes down and I grab a coat.

The bus finally came, filled, and got moving raucously. The driver played Arabic songs, and students were in the aisles dancing the entire time. We stopped in Jeramana to pick up the DJ, prompting those of use who were in Jeramana to complain that we could have saved a lot of time had we known.

We rolled through Sweida to Areeqa, and got out in front of a restaurant. "Where's the cave?" we asked, until it became clear that we were going to hang out in this restaurant. I complained to who I had finally identified as the trip organizer, "What, there aren't any restaurants in Damascus? We could have partied on a rooftop and saved ourselves the trip. I was promised a cave party."

He promised it would be cool, and that we were near a cave, but it was unfortunately closed. We went into the restaurant, set up the DJ, and started on M's sandwiches and my vodka. After eating, people started dancing, including a girl in black who memorized the crowd with her hips. I don't understand how these girls dance this much - in a short sleeve teeshirt I was sweating within minutes but the muhajibat danced the entire time without so much as a feminine glistening of perspiration.

Finally an expedition set out for this cave, which is currently under some sort of construction. Even though cave reconstruction isn't the sort of thing that just pops up one day when you're making plans, the organizer had told everyone we would party in a cave, meanwhile booking the restaurant. It had small opening, and inside was cool and pitch black. With mobiles and lighters we navigated around, stepping in a lot of mud. It would have been impossible to hold a party in this place.

The party finally ended at around 5, which was good as my buzz was wearing off. On the way back I sat next to the good dancer in black, and we got to chatting. She volunteers for an organization that fights domestic violence, and my boyfriend and her also had a long talk. Afterwards he told me he was surprised that a muhajiba would be so cool and down with gender equality... which shows that not only the foreigners have misconceptions about the hijab.

Achieving Dreams Without Shiny Hair

A couple of months ago, there was a commercial for Pantene. In it, a woman washed her hair, which became so brilliant and shiny she could change a sign reading NO WORK AVAILABLE to WORK AVAILABLE (I forget exactly what was written in Arabic - لا توجد وظيفة?). Seconds later, she emerged victoriously from the building, hair scintillating in the sun, and announced, "Now I'm a journalist!"

At the time, I scoffed.

Turns out, it might be easier than that. Even lacking shiny hair I was able to send a few emails, knock on a few doors, and a month later (it was Eid, then Christmas, then New Year's), hey! I'm writing.

It's fun. Today I got to go to the test run of the Syrian stock market. Wearing sneakers no less, because my ankle is still healing. Yesterday I chatted with a gentleman about Islamic banking. A week ago, it was pretending I know anything about art. I'm also visiting gyms and annoying sweaty ladies with my questions.

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.

Hidden Camera

Is there a conspiracy among Taxi drivers and embassy guards of Sham?

I was trying to find a building and asked a guard outside the Belgian Embassy. He directed, I went. When I came back he nicely asked if I had found it. Why yes, thank you.
You're from Lebanon? he asked.

The day before I caught a cab to Jeramana, who told me usually he would refuse someone going to Jeramana, but because of my crutch he would go. Thanks, I said.
"You're from Jeramana?" He couldn't possibly be asking if I'm from albalad, right?
"I live there..."
"But are you from there?"
"I'm foriegn..."
"Oh, I thought you were Syrian."

What? This is getting crazy. I fully expect the next time this happens for a crew to jump out and say, "Gotcha!" People watching at home will laugh at how I believed people actually mistook me for Syrian, Iraqi, or Lebanese. With that accent! How stupid!

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.

Driving in Syria

I don't drive. I like to live in cities where it is not a requirement. Since leaving the familial home, I've lived in New York, Cairo, Washington DC and Damascus, none of which require a car. This is at the top of conditions for future living as well.

But I rented a car last week.

Overall, not as much fun as just taking servees. After a year, I'm down with the servees. I know how to get from A to B and if I don't, I just ask. It's easy. With cars, there's oneways and highways and weird-ass twisty streets. I know my way around pretty well as long as I'm on a servess route I know well. Outside of that, not so much.

There are some mad aggressive drivers here! On the Damascus-Homs and Hom-Tartous highways (yes, we went to Krac des Chevaliers) people drive up on your ass if you are in the left lane, no matter that you are actually passing 3 trucks, making it impossible for you to move over now. At night, they not only honk but flash their brights, as if to say MOVEmoveMOVEmoveMOVEmoveMOVEmoveMOVE. Do you not see this truck I am passing? Or the motorcycle I'm passing? Would you like me to move over immediately and just kill the dude? Even when there were trucks in both lanes, meaning one has to slow down and wait for a lane to clear up, there would be a dude on my ass blinking his brights and honking. Come on!

In the city, lanes lines are apparently suggestions.

Some roads aren't marked all that well, which is how I ended up a bunch of villages when returning from Tartous at night. But on the upside, I got to ask some people for directions and the Tartousi accent is so cute! Really adorable. I could listen to a Tartousi man giving me directions to the autrostrad all day.

Driving is also expensive. Filling up my tank is at least 2000 lira ($40) and that stuff seems to go quick. Servees and inter-city buses are better by far.

But parking in Damascus appears to be mostly free. Except when it's not, like last night around Sahat Arnous. I didn't see any signs, and came back after an hour to find a boot on my car. Turns out a block away there was a small sign about paying 50 lira an hour for parking. The man was very nice, and told me since I didn't know we'll just pretend I paid him for an hour and he'll tear up the ticket. He thought I was Russian (many do) but when I said, no, American he congratulated me on my new president.

Ilhamdulah!

The water finally came!

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

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

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

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

Noor and Awkward Moments

There's an almost daily battle now between watching Noor and watching the Eurocup. Noor is a Turkish muselel (Gumus) that's been dubbed into Syrian Arabic, and while I could claim I watch it for the Arabic, the truer reason is probably:


Kivanç Tatlitug is the most attractive man on the entire planet. I should've studied Turkish, at least so I could just pronounce his name.

The problem is its on daily at 10, right during matches. I can watch a match and then rush home after work to catch the 5pm replaying the next day. Truth be told, while I am a fan of football my viewing is along the same lines: though I'm for the Nederlands (having been a fan since living there for a bit as a kid en ik kan nog steeds een beetje nederlands spreken) it becomes "The Italians are playing? Fuck the Dutch!"

Noor's been winning most nights as I can just turn on my TV, while watching a match means going over to a friends house who's bought the al-jazeera special sports channels.

And compared to a draw at zero, Noor is very exciting: Noor is married to Mohanet (pictured), who just discovered that his previous lover didn't die in a car accident years ago but instead is paralyzed AND has a toddler who is his son. Noor just found out and left, with her grandmother who is living in the same house with Noor, Mohanet, and Mohanet's sister, mother, and grandfather, but walking out the door Noor's grandmother had a stroke so Noor couldn't leave and instead she and Mohanet are pretending everything's ok for the grandmother's sake but really Noor wants a divorce. Meanwhile, Mohanet's Aunt remarried secretly after divorcing her douche husband Tariq but her new husband's daughter won't accept her. And there's something about drugs and newspapers.

Watching the episode where Noor has her suspicions after finding out Mohanet wasn't at work when he said he was (instead he was playing with his newly discovered son and sharing shy glances with his wheelchair bound former sweetheart) with roommate Michelle, some friends and their mother, the mother jokingly said, "He should just marry the other one too! Problem solved!"
Her daughter was shocked, "They're Muslim?" The characters don't come across as terribly pious with their penchant for unwinding with some booze in the grandfather's study, but I'm not one to judge.
"Of course they are; they're Turkish."
"But who could share him (Mohanet)?"
"God I know," I added "impossible!"
We all pretty much put in our thoughts that another wife would be unbearable, the son said he thought no one would be able to share a spouse, to which the mom reminded us she is the second wife of a Lebanese man. "I know he's with the other woman, so what?"

Then it was awkwardly silent and we concentrated on Noor's distraught wanderings through the streets of Istanbul.

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.

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.

Street Funeral

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How to Get an Internship in Syria

Getting an internship in the States can be a drawn-out process. Prospective interners want interns' cover letters, transcripts, resumes, writing samples, interviews. All this for work in which one is usually not even paid. At a place like the UN, pretty much forget it as an undergraduate (at least I had to).

In Syria, this is a less formal process. If willing to work for free, the intern market is just about wide open. Getting an internship consists of walking into an office and saying you would like to work. UNHCR (High Commission for Refugees i.e. works with the Iraqis) is from what I hear, desperate for interns. They have an office in Kafer Sousse. You have to fight your way in past the refugees and just press your CV into someone's hands.

I decided to do something more useful for my Arabic than watching soaps, so I sent in a CV and cover letter a week ago to the UNDP (Development Program), and heard nothing. Yesterday I printed out copies of my CV, put on a nice shirt, got on a servees and asked the guy next to me if he knew where the "UN offices in West Villas Mezzeh" are. He did, so I landed in front of the UNDP, asked the guard if he knew who I could talk to about "volunteer work" (after several days of asking around, I have found no translation for internship). He took me to a woman who took my resume, told me she would forward it on. Hearing me speak Arabic to the Syrian dude next to her, she said that would be helpful. Outside again, I asked the guard if he knew where the UNFPA (population) and the UNIFEM offices were ?

Just then another dude walked up. UNIFEM? I work there! I'm the driver for the director. So we went up to the office, the director didn't even read my CV, just chatted with me for a few minutes about what I do here in Syria, if I like it, what I studied in college, and then said "Welcome!". So now I have an internship at UNIFEM, the United Nations Development Fund for Women.

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).

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.

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.

Got to be Moving On

I am moving. While living with the family has been nice these past four months, it's time I had my own apartment and little more freedom. Confining my search to furnished apartments in Jerimana, I found some 2-bedrooms for 10,000 Lira/month ($200) and 12,000 Lira, and some 1 bedrooms for 8,000 Lira, but ultimately settled on an 18,000 ($360) 2 bedroom because it is right on sahat-alsuyuf, rather than a 10 minute walk off the main road, has a balcony overlooking the square, airconditioning, and was the only apartment I saw with a full kitchen rather than an electric burner or two. I'll be living with an American girl Michele I met my 2nd day in Damascus when we moved into Um Zahir's house in the old city. Her condition is that we speak only Arabic, something I'm fine with, and if yesterday's seeing the place and negotiating with the owner and broker are any indication, we should be able to do.

I haven't told the family I'm leaving yet. I love Um Mazen and Abu Mazen, and would gladly stay in the house for several more month, but the problem is Iyad, the son. Iyad, though graduated from law school last May, doesn't work and doesn't study, so an inordinate amount of interest in my life seems to be how he's passing the time. He also seems to think America is a drug and sex orgy of sin, leading to situations where an American movie is on TV, characters are doing coke or something, so he asks me "Have you ever tried cocaine?". I laugh, saying "Are you kidding? It's so expensive!" and the rest of the family and his two friends laugh. He however, very seriously raises his eyebrows and says "Really, that's why? If it wasn't expensive, no problem?"

Or after filming the muselel, I was approached to be in another one, where I and 5 other girls would dance behind a singer in a scene. I was told I would have to wear a belly shirt, low-cut, etc, so I told them no thanks. I told the story to the family and Iyad asked why I refused. "When I'm the secretary of state, I don't want pictures of me out like that," I joked.
"So you really think you're going to be secretary of state? And that's why?"
"C'mon, I really don't need to be on TV like that."
"So the problem is just TV? But in life, in the street, no problem with belly shirts, right?"
Sure, just like the ones I wear everyday? My wardrobe consists of football jerseys and ankle-length skirts (a combination that has had my look called "homeless" on more than one continent).

These may seem like small complaints, but their continuation creates an atmosphere where I feel like I'm constantly under surveillance. Plus, I'm tired of questions like, "I happened to accidently see tampons in the trash. Are you a virigin?"

Shaming my Nation With Each Missed Kick

I have joined a womens' football (soccer) team last week, and I am shaming my nation with my subpar skills twice weekly at practice. While in my youth I played quite a bit and was rather good, the last time I touched a football was 13, and in the intervening years I focused on running, which though requiring less coordination, I still managed to injure myself, necessitating 4 knee surgeries over the past four years.

The two teams of women, one of teens and one of 20-year-old practice, once a week at Tishreen, Damascus' biggest sport club, and twice at a field out in Kafer Souse. When I first heard about it from Maureen, a Chinese girl learning Arabic here, we were under the impression that it was an informal lot of women playing together. Instead, the teams represent Damascus in nation-wide tournaments and are traveling to Dubai in a month for a tournament. They are actually quite good.

The first practice the coach asked us if we had ever played before. Maureen isn't bad, a credit to China, but between my slowness and lack of skills America's already questionable football reputation has only suffered further.

While fierce on the field, fighting about calls and injuring their best goalie's ankle today, off they are really nice and have promised trips to the mountains in spring. Nobody seems to mind my shittiness, and both they and the coach even seem disappointed by my inability to join them Saturdays as well (conflicts with English teaching).

I Did My Laundry!!

I wouldn't normally consider the above to be anywhere near exciting, but Um Mazen and Abu Mazen cheered this morning when I returned from the roof where I had hung my clothes to dry. The water is only strong enough to wash clothes in the morning, and until recently I have had class until 1 or 2pm, so Um Mazen has been doing my laundry. Last night I asked her to show me how their machine works: there are no instructions in any language on it, and the numbers on the dial have long worn off. She replied, oh, just put your clothes here and I'll do them in the morning. I convinced her that I wanted to wash my own clothes since I had time, so she said in the morning she would show me how to do work the machine and then I could hang them on the line. Oh goody!

I don't know exactly why, but Um Mazen and Abu Mazen seem to think I am amazingly incompetant at all things. They know that I've been living on my own for some years now: clearly I managed to keep myself alive, somehow. Searching for a laugh sometimes, Um Mazen sometimes asks me to repeat the short list of things I can cook. Most of these items are met with "That's not really cooking!" but the largest laugh comes with "toast".

I also am assumed to be fragile. When Um Mazen suggested I switch the table in my room for a bigger one, she told me to wait until Abu Mazen was done bathing so he could take it up for me. I carried it up myself and 30 minutes later was called downstairs. "Where's the table!"
"It's in my room."
"Did you take it up yourself?"
"Yes"
"Bravo!"
I don't know why it is assumed that I would need the help of a 70-year-old man, but it is.

Um Mazen and I put my clothes in the laundry machine this morning, and she turned the dial. "So, there's no numbers, but there's this kind of red spot here." The second cycle is marked by a kind of bigger red spot. I was climbing the ladder to get to the roof with my basket of clothes but Um Mazen insisted that she hold the clothes then pass them to me once I was up. "Don't do this when someone isn't around to pass it to you." I appreciate the concern, but she gets her 65-year-old self up this ladder every other day with a basket of clothes, I don't understand why my early-20s self wouldn't be able to.

I came down from hanging to cheers. "Shatura!" Um Mazen looked at the roof and told me I did a good job hanging. "You learn quick!" I told her this was no where near the first time I have done laundry in my life, but this was ignored

"We're going to teach you everything," said Abu Mazen.

Baby!

Mazen, the oldest son of Abu and Um Mazen (figures), who lives in Lattakia, is now a father. His wife gave birth to a little girl, named Aml (hope) after her grandmother (Um Mazen), tipping the scales at 3.5 kilo yesterday. I broke the no-sweets Lenten fast in order to eat a celebratory chocolate passed around by Um Mazen. Iyad is now an "3am" (paternal uncle). He told me this, and I was surprised, saying, aren't you already an uncle? Your sister has a bunch of boys, but then was reminded that yes, he had been a "khal" (maternal uncle), but now is also an 3am. I was shamed for forgetting that paternal and maternal uncles are very different things.

Iyad told me the news while Um and Abu Mazen were visiting the neighbors, and we exchanged the usual formalities (mabrouk! wallah yubarrak fiki! alf mabrouk!) and he politely expressed a wish that my future pregnancies will also be a success, to which I laughed and reiterated (from previous discussions) my desire to adopt. He and his two friends present were, as always, surprised and grilled me on this. The family has told me several times that it is impossible to love an adopted child like a "real" child. I only say I want to adopt as I feel at least this is somewhat more appropriate than being all, "I don't want no kids! Ewwwwww!".

I Swear My Parents Love Me

Nights are often spent chatting with the family, and the subject often turns to the differences between "Western" and "Eastern" culture (how I am so sick of that dichotomy), and as I try to narrow it down to, "American" and "Syrian" culture, though again I like to narrow it down, explaining that New York and Texas can be very different, and they remind me that Sham is very different from the reef (countryside) and Lattakia is very different from Sham.

But still, one point that comes up a lot is weakness of American (or Western) families. The father Um Mazen likes to point to how he has provided for Iyad, the law school grad, as an example of how Syrian culture is superiour to American. "Look! My son Iyad, 26, has never had to work. We let him focus on studying, and now, he is going to intern with a lawyer (you need two years of working under a lawyer before you can get your liscense. Iyad has been somewhat picky about who to work with). He graduated in May, and we feed him and take care of him. Why? Because we love him. He is in my heart, my son. Not like America, when at 18 your parents throw you out and you have to take care of yourself. No, no. We don't make him study and work at the same time." Previously, they have asked if I worked and I have listed some of the jobs I had, at grocery store, in ice cream shop, waitress, telemarketer, at the school in NY, etc. They apparently think this means a lack of love. Especially in high school.

"My parents love me. They wanted me to be independent, and I wanted to work."
"Why?"
"I wanted to buy things."
"Why wouldn't your parents buy things for you? That's what parents are supposed to do. Look we feed and take care of Iyad."
"I mean, they fed me and all that, but I wanted to buy a car."
"Why couldn't they buy that for you? If you needed it?"
"What? If I want something, does that mean I parents should buy it for me?"
"Of course!"
"So if I wanted ahorse, or a plane, my parents should buy it for me?"
"Be reasonable. But if they could afford it, why not?"

This isn't the first time I've heard similar complaints about how Americans and Europeans abandon their children at 18, though I explain that parents usually help pay for college and all that and actually the 18 years olds want to leave. And I wouldn't say providing everything for your children is necessarily Syrian as I know tons of spoiled Americans (I mean, I went to NYU). But I've written my mother to tell her that my family here doesn't agree with her parenting style, and it's time for her to prove her love: "I want a pony. You love me, right?"