Damascus is the capital of Arab culture for 2008 (as decided by UNESCO). Some one told me that last year it was Riyadh. Really? Why? I thought the point of these designations was to increase tourism, and Saudi doesn't encourage tourism other than to Mecca and Medina (there isn't even a such thing as a tourist visa).
But Damascus knows how to do it right, starting out with a star-studded fireworks-laden celebration outside Dar al-Asad for Culture and Art. I didn't go, but it looked pretty awesome on TV: photos. The President and First Lady of Turkey were in attendance, as well as the Emir of Qatar and Amir Moussa, head of the Arab League. Is there any coincidence between Qatar not being on Bush's itinery last week, though he had time to visit every other Gulfi, and the Emir's gracing the celebration with his prescence?
Coming soon as part of the year-long celebration: Farouz concert!!! Well, Fairouz in a singing play, but still, it's been 30 years since she's sang in Syria. The cheapest tickets cost somewhere between $100-200. Fairouz loves sharing her music with the people!
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
It's Snowing!!!
Holy crap it's snowing! AND sticking to the ground. This is a rare event in Damascus, where it snows maybe once a year, and hardly ever accumulates.
Sunday, January 20, 2008
Look at the Foreign Freak!
My family had guests over last night (I had spent the day, Ashoura, in Sitt Zeinab, more on that later) from their relatives. They tested in my Arabic, with them deciding that I am "shatoura" (clever). Are you happy here? I was asked about how I could possibly live apart from my family, don't I miss them all the time. It was also suggested that I quickly marry a Syrian and stay here forever. Then they turned to one another and began to talk about me.
"Can she read?"
"Yes, you know, but she can't read the scroll at the bottom of the screen and understand the news at the same time."
"But she speaks alright. Does she understand?" (after a conversation in which I at no point had trouble understanding anyone, granted it was about easy subjects such as: why I'm not married, when I'm going to return to America, what I like about Syria, did you really live alone in America away from your parents, really?)
"Yes she's gotten much better but she can't understand us if we speak quickly, so we have to speak slowly" said Um Mazen. "She only studies fusha."
I cut in, saying, "Actually I can understand you. I study fusha but I know some 'ammiya."
Abu Mazen turned to me and said (in English, slowly) " Yes, 'ammiyya hard. (before switching to Arabic) in fusha, 'matha tureedeen' [what do you want], in 'ammiya 'shou bedik' [what do you want] eh? Shou bedik. (back to english) Change!"
This is not the first time Abu Mazen has illustrated the difference between fusha and 'ammiya. It's like he thinks I live in a bubble, and after over 4 months I have not realized that people around me are not speaking formal Arabic on the street, and have not endevoured to learn this crazy 'ammiya. The son, Iyad, with whom I have stayed up many nights talking about politics and society, has told his father many times, several with me present, that I know. That actually, I'm quite comfortable in Arabic. That he doesn't need to use his knowledge of some English words to help because I already know "egg," "sun," and "spoon." Or, which somehow still manages to surprise people after being informed that I've studied 2.5 years of Arabic, that I can read.
I told a story about how I had trouble understanding a word that one of the Iraqi parents of the kids I teach said, a word that apparently means "home" and doesn't exist in Syrian (he was asking where I lived in Damascus and I was all "Where is my WHAT?" until he finally said "manzilik" and I was all "ooooh" and he laughed) Iyad told me about how a few years ago, when the refugees started arriving, he didn't know what "makou" meant, until some one finally told him that it means "mafi" (there is no/ are none). Abu Mazen once again broke in to explain that Iraqi is different than Syrian, and both makou and mafi mean "la yujid" in fusha. I know mafi, I said.
But thanks.
At least it was better than when I was hanging out at Tariq's house, watching a movie with some friends and his mom came in because her friend was over and wanted to see "the American." I was able to beg off until the end of the film, at which point I was exhibited to the friend, who said, "oh, pretty. Does she speak Arabic?" Then the friend demanded that I marry a Syrian. "Why not Tariq?" she said. "Or come with me to my house and I'll show you some good young men!"
"Can she read?"
"Yes, you know, but she can't read the scroll at the bottom of the screen and understand the news at the same time."
"But she speaks alright. Does she understand?" (after a conversation in which I at no point had trouble understanding anyone, granted it was about easy subjects such as: why I'm not married, when I'm going to return to America, what I like about Syria, did you really live alone in America away from your parents, really?)
"Yes she's gotten much better but she can't understand us if we speak quickly, so we have to speak slowly" said Um Mazen. "She only studies fusha."
I cut in, saying, "Actually I can understand you. I study fusha but I know some 'ammiya."
Abu Mazen turned to me and said (in English, slowly) " Yes, 'ammiyya hard. (before switching to Arabic) in fusha, 'matha tureedeen' [what do you want], in 'ammiya 'shou bedik' [what do you want] eh? Shou bedik. (back to english) Change!"
This is not the first time Abu Mazen has illustrated the difference between fusha and 'ammiya. It's like he thinks I live in a bubble, and after over 4 months I have not realized that people around me are not speaking formal Arabic on the street, and have not endevoured to learn this crazy 'ammiya. The son, Iyad, with whom I have stayed up many nights talking about politics and society, has told his father many times, several with me present, that I know. That actually, I'm quite comfortable in Arabic. That he doesn't need to use his knowledge of some English words to help because I already know "egg," "sun," and "spoon." Or, which somehow still manages to surprise people after being informed that I've studied 2.5 years of Arabic, that I can read.
I told a story about how I had trouble understanding a word that one of the Iraqi parents of the kids I teach said, a word that apparently means "home" and doesn't exist in Syrian (he was asking where I lived in Damascus and I was all "Where is my WHAT?" until he finally said "manzilik" and I was all "ooooh" and he laughed) Iyad told me about how a few years ago, when the refugees started arriving, he didn't know what "makou" meant, until some one finally told him that it means "mafi" (there is no/ are none). Abu Mazen once again broke in to explain that Iraqi is different than Syrian, and both makou and mafi mean "la yujid" in fusha. I know mafi, I said.
But thanks.
At least it was better than when I was hanging out at Tariq's house, watching a movie with some friends and his mom came in because her friend was over and wanted to see "the American." I was able to beg off until the end of the film, at which point I was exhibited to the friend, who said, "oh, pretty. Does she speak Arabic?" Then the friend demanded that I marry a Syrian. "Why not Tariq?" she said. "Or come with me to my house and I'll show you some good young men!"
Yes, Tunisian
I had to go to the far store, a 5-minute walk away, as opposed to the the one in my alley because the latter had no diet coke and I was studying. At the far store, I bought some coke and candy, and the owner asked if I was Tunisian.
Um, what? No, I replied, American.
"American?"
Since this is the second time I have been mistaken for Tunisian, and I am now even farther from Tunisia, I asked why he thought I was Tunisian. "Do I look Tunisian?"
"No, but you speak with a Tunisian accent." I don't even know what a Tunisian accent sounds like, but I'll take it!
Um, what? No, I replied, American.
"American?"
Since this is the second time I have been mistaken for Tunisian, and I am now even farther from Tunisia, I asked why he thought I was Tunisian. "Do I look Tunisian?"
"No, but you speak with a Tunisian accent." I don't even know what a Tunisian accent sounds like, but I'll take it!
Thursday, January 17, 2008
I Make a Funny
Humor in a new language is always tricky. While some humor is immediately transferable, i.e. وين شهاتي؟ Where are my sandals?
انت شهاتة\ ابوك شهاتة You are a sandal/ Your father is a sandal*
a lot of the funny takes some practice and lots of failed, lame jokes.
My friends here tell me I am funny. Mostly on accident. For example, saying "I execute" أعدم rather than "I support" أدعم my mother in her attempt to make the Olympics this summer. This statement was met with laughter as no one present thought I actually meant to kill my mother. Other times, like when I mixed up "patience" and "boob" the matter took a few minutes to sort out. ("Why are you talking about her boob?" "Because I like her boob. She never gets exasperated and always corrects my mistakes in speaking." "What?")
The first joke I made on purpose was back the first week I arrived in Syria. I ate dinner at Ra'id's house, and when I complimented his mother on the deliciousness of the food, she replied "Health!". This is the normal thing to say with food, with the meaning "may it give you health." The proper reply, I had learned the day before, is "On your heart." Um Ra'id continuted to wish me good health throughout the meal, throwing in a "sahatayn!" (two healths - the dual is often used as as intensifier) so I replied "3ala 'albaynik" (on your two hearts). Ok, so kind of a lame joke, but the effort was applauded.
Lately, things have been getting better. A few puns here and there. My friend Manar asked me if "the cultural things" are ever hard on my friendships with Syrians. No, I replied, for I am an open girl (بنت مفتوحة). Open in the sense of open-minded is more correctly mutafatteha, not maftouha, which implies that I am a slut (which, as we all know, and overcome any cultural misunderstanding). She thought it was funny, but told me never ever to repeat it again in front of anyone, as they would "get the wrong idea." She made me promise.
Yesterday I also made a pun. In Syrian, "womanizer" is نسوانجي (niswanji). My friend Tariq's brother Tarif hogs the sobia (see: how fucking cold Damascus is right now) of whatever room he is in, so I christened him a sobianji (sobia-izer) yesterday. "That's clever. I'm going to use that," said Tariq. Go me!
*Proceed cautiously with "your mother" jokes, unless you know the person extremely well and insulting one another's family members is no big deal, or you can take them in a fight.
انت شهاتة\ ابوك شهاتة You are a sandal/ Your father is a sandal*
a lot of the funny takes some practice and lots of failed, lame jokes.
My friends here tell me I am funny. Mostly on accident. For example, saying "I execute" أعدم rather than "I support" أدعم my mother in her attempt to make the Olympics this summer. This statement was met with laughter as no one present thought I actually meant to kill my mother. Other times, like when I mixed up "patience" and "boob" the matter took a few minutes to sort out. ("Why are you talking about her boob?" "Because I like her boob. She never gets exasperated and always corrects my mistakes in speaking." "What?")
The first joke I made on purpose was back the first week I arrived in Syria. I ate dinner at Ra'id's house, and when I complimented his mother on the deliciousness of the food, she replied "Health!". This is the normal thing to say with food, with the meaning "may it give you health." The proper reply, I had learned the day before, is "On your heart." Um Ra'id continuted to wish me good health throughout the meal, throwing in a "sahatayn!" (two healths - the dual is often used as as intensifier) so I replied "3ala 'albaynik" (on your two hearts). Ok, so kind of a lame joke, but the effort was applauded.
Lately, things have been getting better. A few puns here and there. My friend Manar asked me if "the cultural things" are ever hard on my friendships with Syrians. No, I replied, for I am an open girl (بنت مفتوحة). Open in the sense of open-minded is more correctly mutafatteha, not maftouha, which implies that I am a slut (which, as we all know, and overcome any cultural misunderstanding). She thought it was funny, but told me never ever to repeat it again in front of anyone, as they would "get the wrong idea." She made me promise.
Yesterday I also made a pun. In Syrian, "womanizer" is نسوانجي (niswanji). My friend Tariq's brother Tarif hogs the sobia (see: how fucking cold Damascus is right now) of whatever room he is in, so I christened him a sobianji (sobia-izer) yesterday. "That's clever. I'm going to use that," said Tariq. Go me!
*Proceed cautiously with "your mother" jokes, unless you know the person extremely well and insulting one another's family members is no big deal, or you can take them in a fight.
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
Ice on the Ground
It is cold now, a cold that my family, the oldest members of which are mid-60s, claim to never have seen the likes of previous. My family blames me for bringing it with me from America. Yesterday was -1 C at 1pm, an insane temperature here in Damascus, where supposedly the temperature only dips below freezing at night for a week or two total. It is now even colder at night. Riyadh hit a low of -5C yesterday. There was snow in Baghdad. There is ice on the ground here: frozen water! The rarity of this should be evident in the Arabic language itself, while Inuit are said to have something like 40 words for snow, Arabic has one word for both snow and ice.
Before you scoff and stare out your window in Michigan, New York, or any more northern clime at the foot of snow and the thermometer reading -10, you should know that the cold in Damascus is just so much colder. There is no central heating, so instead family members crowd around sobias (gas burning little stove-things) or sleepers try to position the electric space heater close enough to the bed to warm them a bit during the night, but not so close as to set the blankets on fire (so far so good). This is the case in many apartments, where there is only one sobia so everyone gathers together. If you want to hang out in another, sobia-less room, you had better bring some booze or huddle umcomfortably close to your friends.
The cold is even worse in beyt arabis, such as my house. There is no roof, just rooms off a central courtyard, so when I walk in the front door and close it behind me I am still outside. The kitchen too is essentially outside, which means I brush my teeth wearing gloves. The cruelest part is the shower: I must wake up an hour early to turn on the water heater, then an hour later, after the nice, warm shower, I have to get from the bathroom back to my room, walking outside.
My room is also so cold in the morning, leaving those sheets is like leaving the womb every single morning, it makes me want to cry. I don't usually leave the space heater on since I am understandably scared of more fires, I don't really have blankets to spare.
Before you scoff and stare out your window in Michigan, New York, or any more northern clime at the foot of snow and the thermometer reading -10, you should know that the cold in Damascus is just so much colder. There is no central heating, so instead family members crowd around sobias (gas burning little stove-things) or sleepers try to position the electric space heater close enough to the bed to warm them a bit during the night, but not so close as to set the blankets on fire (so far so good). This is the case in many apartments, where there is only one sobia so everyone gathers together. If you want to hang out in another, sobia-less room, you had better bring some booze or huddle umcomfortably close to your friends.
The cold is even worse in beyt arabis, such as my house. There is no roof, just rooms off a central courtyard, so when I walk in the front door and close it behind me I am still outside. The kitchen too is essentially outside, which means I brush my teeth wearing gloves. The cruelest part is the shower: I must wake up an hour early to turn on the water heater, then an hour later, after the nice, warm shower, I have to get from the bathroom back to my room, walking outside.
My room is also so cold in the morning, leaving those sheets is like leaving the womb every single morning, it makes me want to cry. I don't usually leave the space heater on since I am understandably scared of more fires, I don't really have blankets to spare.
Saturday, January 12, 2008
Please Jesus Don't Let Giuliani Win
I've been following the election, though from afar, since it turns out a vote in the Michigan democratic primary will be useless (to punish the state for moving up its primary date, all the democrats pulled out). But I absolutely cannot believe the Republicans that have been dredged up this year. Especially Giuliani.
His New Ad:
OH MY GOD! The middle east is full of people who look middle-easternish and they are angry and Muslim!! Poor Pakistan, at whom many of these references appear to be directed. Haven't we had enough of Bush and lumping everyone in the "Middle East" - an ever-expanding region which has almost reached Cambodia, I think - into a scary group of terrorists?
I hope so. Rudy 2008: Fear is More Effective than Policy or Rudy 2008: Let's Just Bomb Fucking Everybody!
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