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.

Interreligious Dating

We were on a double date of sorts, walking around the Bab Touma neighborhood outside the old city and enjoying the Good Friday festivities. I slept through last week's Western Easter, though I could hear the merrymaking and bands.

We saw a bit of a parade, with a drumline, scout-like uniforms, and a giant paper-mache Jesus on a paper-mache rock, but left before the stage show because of the pressing crowd. It was packed on the street in front of the church, the kind of crowd where moving more than your neck was impossible, and waves of pushing with no discernible source swept through us.

After we extracted ourselves from the crowd with great difficulty, the other woman's mom called. I was instructed to go say something so the mom could overhear and rest assured that her daughter was hanging with the fairer sex. I ran over and said, "Hey! Where are we going now?" She looked at me quizzically. When she hung up I apologized, telling her the boys had sent me over so her mom though she was hanging with girls.

"Oh, she doesn't care that if there's boys, just that we're all Christian."

Earlier, the two boys and me had met up with her and some friends. "Don't mention anything about us being not Christian to her friends" her boyfriend whispered as we approached.

We were out late, until one, and took a taxi back to Jeramana. After we let her boyfriend out, mine turned to me and said, "It's sad. Their relationship can go nowhere."

It reminded me of the matchmaking I had done for some friends. "He's cute, he's educated... he's Druze."
"He's Druze! When can I meet him?"

Or remarks when two friends start dating: "Oh, and they're both Christian. Awesome."
Or sympathizing with a friend when she couldn't date a boy she really like cause it wouldn't go anywhere. "He's X. It's impossible." Or a Christian friend who eloped with a Muslim man. Her parents still won't talk to her. She called on Christmas and they wouldn't answer.

Not that it doesn't happen. Last summer an Alawi friend's relative married a Sunni Muslim woman. He reported that her family didn't seem that happy with all the booze at the wedding. But for every married interreligious couple I know, there must be 10 thwarted relationships, if not by the law, then by parents.

Not that this is a Syrian phenomenon: I know American couples who had to convert from one branch of Christianity to another in order to appease some parents, and a friend who was disowned for marrying a Muslim.

Old and Unfashionable

Thanks to Youtube, I can share my love of Arab pop stars with anyone foolish enough to humor me. "Wait! Just one more! This Nancy Ajram video is awesome! The guy's deaf! Where are you going?"

I roped my 12 year old L.A. born and raised cousin into sitting through one of these sessions. In return, she got to show me the music her generation likes these days. It's not Hannah Montana, to my surprise, but some other Disney with a name that escapes me but reminded me of a latte. (Levi Mochiato?) And vampires.

I was showing her the latest Dana video (ana alasl) when my aunt joined. She mentioned that Dana would be considered somewhat chunky in American media.

Are you fucking kidding me?

At least Syria and America are decided on one thing: tight jeans. Pants that are tight to the ankle are not a Syrian thing, as I supposed, but were everywhere in America. Especially LA. Leggings, often in lieu of pants, are popular in both places as well. Actually, the styles in Syria and America were pretty much the same. My cousin laughed at my flare jeans, as much as my boyfriend does in Syria. The windbreaker I wore to go out on the town was considered as uncool in the States as it in Syria (I don't care! It's freaking cold!) .

Is this what globalization portends? A world in which I can go nowhere without being confronted with stupid skinny jeans? Where the fashion is the same across 11 time zones and supposedly huge cultural gaps? Last summer an American friend went to visit the States and came back with this report: fat and naked. Perhaps it was too early for the expanses of American flesh to emerge, but I still think it's going to be the same basic fashion in NY and Damascus come summer as well.

Whatever. I am now of an age where I can refuse to care about fashion. I liked the pants we were wearing in the late 90s/early 00s and that's what I'm sticking with, and that's what I'm going to stick with for the next 20 years.

This is exactly why I'm going to grad school: sweats for the next 5-6 years. I am officially old and it is damn comfortable!

The Eyes!

I was walking around lower Manhattan when I could no longer contain my happiness. "Look!" I said to my friend. "No one is looking at me! No one!" I did a little dance on the sidewalk. No one even acknowledged this.

It was true everywhere in America. I walked into grocery stores, bars, parties, subway cars, streets, apartment complexes, and university cafeterias, and was ignored. It was awesome.

A day after arrival back in Syria, changing servees in Baramke, I really missed the anonymity. Dudes, from those shoulder-high on me to those whose own daughters could be my mother, were staring. Not even attempting to be subtle, some dudes had eyes zeroed in on my chest from a distance of 10 meters to when they walked by.

I don't think this is merely a reflection of my being foreign. Since my coloring could be that of a Syrian, my foreign-ness is usually betrayed by my lack of style. Even on days where I could be, and am, mistaken for a Syrian before opening my mouth, there is the staring. And my Syrian girlfriends all draw looks as well. I might be just extra-sensitive to it, though in the grand scheme some staring is a small annoyance.

But to be without it! So freeing! In Syria, my attempts to sidewalk dance are always blocked by my well-meaning friends exclaiming "Eib!"

In America there is no eib. There is, however, weirdness. My friends in America did give me weird looks every time I would stop and say "Look what I can do!" while breaking it down on the sidewalk. "Isn't this cool?"

Their eyes said no, but all their mouths said was "Come on. We're going to be late."

Back in the Syria

I've been ramboling around the US, enjoying free beer from universities and friends' couches, and then was occupied by deciding my future. It's done at this point: Come fall, I'm going to grad school in California! I've never been one for that coast, though on my travels I discovered interesting things about it. For example: did you know that between Los Angeles and San Francisco there is lots of Iowa? Seriously, nothing but cows.

But I'm back in Syria, finally.

Visiting the universities got tiring, and everytime people would ask me where I was visiting from I always felt a little sheepish saying Syria. The conversation would then inevitably turn to Syria as it wouldn't have had I said Michigan. I love talking about Syria, but answering the same questions got somewhat tiring.

"Syria? Really?"
Luckily most people at these universities knew where Syria was - in other cases not so. I had a dismal amount of people quizzically ask: Syria, where's that? Not that I could pinpoint every country on earth, but shit I'm sure I'd get at least continent and probably region right.
Miming with my hands, I would create a virtual map of Lebanon to the West, Iraq to the East, Turkey to the North, Jordan to the South... Israel to the South-West (only if absolutely needed).

Oooh, that part of the world. Luckily American foreign policy makes several of the neighbors' names recognizable to even the most ardent news-avoider.

Several people asked me if it was safe, if I had to go around in one of those veil things. I met an Iranian-American girl on one of my many planes who was coming back from a recent visit to the Old Country. She asked if in Syria we too had to veil.

I understand that not everybody can be up on the veil politics of every Muslim-majority country, but I wish thinking mandatory veiling is the norm weren't so prevalent- as in actuality, those are the exception, rather than the rule. I'm no slouch in the traveling department and I've never been anywhere the hijab was mandatory other than the inside of mosques.

America was nice though - it has been a while, a year and a half since I last saw my watan. I banned anyone from celebrating my visit with trips to Middle Eastern/Mediterrean restaurants. Funny, many people thought that would be a good suggestion. Sure, I love the shit but I'm ready for some variety. Give me spicy. At a Punjabi restaurant in Michigan the spicy forced tears out of my eyes. Delicious.

But it's back to the ruz and fasoliya (rice and beans)! After a month I was happy to see them again!

Too Nice for This

I'm not cut out to be a real journalist so I guess it's good I'm going into Academia soon. I'm not good at being mean and I actually cringe to think of some of the nice people I've interviewed reading it and thinking, "BITCH!" If there's legitimate criticism I'm pretty cool, but I would hate for some one to feel I misrepresented them. And even if I'm true to a T, there's the whole, that was a lovely chat and LIES LIES LIES.

I can't wait to go up into an Ivory tower, stick my fingers in my ears and go LA LA LA LA.

Damn!

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.