ma salama, ya damashq!

My last few days in Damascus were spent with friends and the intangible character of the city. On my final night, after enjoying my last sunset on the highest ledge of the Jebel, I joined my remaining Damascene friends at a restaurant that overlooked the Omayyad Mosque, smoking argileh and talking to amazing people, before heading off to dance to 80's music at Jackson's... as it should have been.

I've been asked a lot lately what I will miss most about Damascus. This has been 9 months of my life... there will be a lot to miss. Honestly though, number one is the people. Damascus weeds out most of the narrow-minded ones... the ex-pat community here is so special.

And then I will miss the city itself. When I came back to Damascus in January, I had a few days of complete uncertainty with my choice to return, bordering on regret. My brief stay in America had left me wanting more, and the two people I was closest to in Damascus had just left. Then one day I was walking down the main road from my Sharia Qassa house to Bab Touma. As the road leads into the square, a string of brightly colored flags hangs above the traffic. I remember looking around and fully taking in this perfect Damascene evening for the first time since my return. A billboard of Arabic script, the swarms of people, the houses scattered down the side of mountain in the background. Women dressed in nakabs, in red heels, in shirts that say “Another break fast with you?” and other meaningless, slightly sexual English phrases. Groups of shabab with gelled hair, men selling grilled corn on the sides of streets. The sound of the call-to-prayer. I remember watching the orange sun set behind a simple blue-roofed mosque and its neighboring minaret. After that, I did not regret, even for a second, my decision to come back to Damascus.

I often think that reverse culture-shock is exaggerated. Whenever I go “home” to anywhere, it only takes me a few hours to feel like I never left. But I know that when I buy something from a store or order something at a restaurant, my instinctual response will be “Shokran kateer” not “Thank you.” I am sure that at first I will be taken aback by all of the girls wearing shorts. When I say “Israel,” I will probably lower my voice, if I use its name at all. The clean streets, the lack of habibi music, the fact that I don't stand out at all... this will take a little while to wrap my mind around again.

But tonight I am staying on a couch in the living room of a hostel in Beirut, mere feet away from an awkward Tunisian teenager. It is my last day in the Middle East, probably for a long time to come. After walking again through the hills of the city, past the most spectacular mosque I have ever seen, past army guards, past Hezbollah flags, I am sitting in a cafe with what will hopefully be my last Turkish coffee for a while. An Enrique Iglesias song is playing. And I wouldn't have it any other way.

where red, green, and black meet pale blue

Special pass and cameras in hand, we drove through several UN security checkpoints and into Quneitra. A special guard was assigned to stay with Anna and I, in addition to our driver and his 5-year-old son. Quneitra is the town that borders the Golan Heights. It was almost completely destroyed with bombs and airstrikes during the war with Israel in the 1970's, which is apparent even at first glance. From talking with Syrians about Golan, I know that this is still a major issue for the Syrian people. Syrians feel adamant that Golan was rightfully theirs, and still belongs to them. It is more than a point of lost pride or desire for land; it is about the people who lived there. It is about how families were ripped apart when the Golan Heights became part of Israel instead of Syria. Women had to choose between their families in Golan, and their husbands in Syria, knowing that the choice was permanent. You had to say good-bye to one of them forever; there was no chance that you could ever cross that border again.

We drove straight to the border of the Golan Heights and pulled over near a group of men. Three of them were in the green army uniforms worn by so many men in Damascus, the Syrian soldiers. One of them was in a uniform of pale blue and white... he looked like a walking Israeli flag. The border between Syria and the Golan territory is a patch of road in between two heavily guarded checkpoints. On our side, Syrian and Baath party flags hang from the roadblock. Looking across the brief patch of pavement, there is a star of David and a sign that states, in clear bold letters, “Welcome to Israel.”

Quneitra itself is just a physical memory of the past. The old town is now just remains of bombed-out buildings that with time have become overgrown with weeds. It is startling to see so much destruction on both sides of you as you drive down the road. The main “attraction” of Quneitra is a hospital that was bombed during the war. Above the entrance, a sign reads “Golan Hospital: It was destroyed and changed into a firing, target, and training place by Zionists.” This sign, as read by a third-party, is phrased as such blatant propaganda that you have to laugh. But the inside of the hospital takes your breath away. Bombs have ripped apart entire sections, pillars have been torn down. More than that though, it is clear that at some point the inside walls were used as a make-shift shooting range. A misplaced bomb did not cause the destruction of this hospital alone; people with guns must have purposely. Bullet holes cover even more hospital wall space than the graffiti does.

Our cab driver had brought his son along because the little boy's only alternative was to stay home along. His name was Adain, and of course was more interested in the guard dogs than the ruins of the war-affected town. His father kept trying to explain the surroundings, describing in Arabic how bombs had come from Israel and destroyed the town, how everyone had to leave, how the hospital was filled with explosions. At first I thought that the man was essentially instilling in his son a hatred of Israel. I hate the concept of children on either side of a conflict being fed ideas that perpetuate a circle of violence. But from everything that I understood, the man only stated facts. He did not describe ideals or religion; he only recounted facts from past violence and war.

I will say though, this may have been the only time in Syria where I have felt out of place because of my American passport. It was clear from how many times our military guard said “One of them is American” that my nationality was a point of interest. Even our driver seemed unsure if the scenes around us would evoke emotion in me, and if so, which kind of emotion.

We ended our tour of Quneitra after seeing a church that was practically hollowed out. Before getting in the car, Adain ran full speed screaming at a group of cows crossing the road. We all laughed as the cows began bounding away from him. Next to the church was the single wall of a house, still upright. While graffiti lined almost every surface you could think to write on in Quneitra, on this wall was a detailed drawing. It was a woman who looked like she was wearing a hijab, smiling, and holding her hand up in a peace-sign. In an area where every piece of fallen cement reminds you of a bloody past, it was nice to see a message of peace for the future etched into one still standing.

treatment of children

There was in article on BBC News recently that dealt with keeping Syrian children in school. The life of a child here is so different from in the U.S. The happy, healthy children seem to dominate their parents in public. You will be sitting in a nice restaurant, and two screaming boys will dart under your table, while their parents sit smoking and chatting up a storm a few yards away, unaware or indifferent. However, in our Sharia Qassa house, we can hear the yelling matches that go on in the next-door apartment, and it is fairly clear that the mother of the house beats her children.

When we were at the pyramids, Kate and Bill rented horses to ride. Even with my complete lack of horse knowledge, I could tell that the horses were weak and badly cared for. The horses wouldn't run, even after being hit repetitiously with whips by the young boy who was assigned to be the guide. These were not just scraps of clothe, but whips with worn-in knots at the end. Kate said that eventually she couldn't handle the mistreatment of her horse, so she told the young boy that they wanted to head back to the stable and wait for us (after my last horse-in-front-of-the-pyramids experience, I opted for a camel, along with Jesse and Cooper). After desperately trying to convince Kate and Bill to continue riding, pleading with them that the horses would go faster, that he would ride with them, that they could have extra time, the boy broke down in sobs. Kate was taken aback, and asked him what was wrong, saying that of course they would still pay him. He pointed back at the head-guide, who was riding camels with us, and mimicked being hit. Nothing that Kate and Bill said, even when they gave him an extra-large tip and praised him to another man at the stable, changed the state of this little boy.

It's situations like those that I feel show the difference between child work and child slavery. In Petra, kids run around trying to get your attention, whether to sell you a necklace or grab your hand and give you a tour. But those kids are also the ones sitting in groups on rocks near the amphitheater, eating candy as they play with dogs. They are, without a doubt, being used as adorable wide-eyed tools by their parents to earn money. But there is a difference in my mind between pushing kids to manipulate tourists and forcing them to pull the rein of a horse with the knowledge that if no tip is earned, pain will follow. Neither is right or good, but they are different. Understanding this behavior is not cultural sensitivity, it is a cultural excuse. Some things I simply do not understand, nor do I want to.

night buses, sunsets, bedouin children

A roadtrip from Damascus to Amman... Petra... Wadi Rum... Dahab... Cairo. And then back.

We were pulled into an hour long dance-off to Usher's “Yeah” in a downtown Amman cafe, boosted ourselves up onto the ledges of Petra, felt the heat of orange sand blow against us in the valley of Wadi Rum, saw the moon sink into the smooth Red Sea.

Petra was a day of climbing and staring at the glare of the sun from cliffs. “Off the beaten path” is sometimes an understatement. I was led around by a little Bedouin girl pulling my hand. She insisted on using my and Kate's cameras to take pictures of everything, from dogs running in the dust to the inside of her mouth. In Wadi Rum, after a day of jumping from rock to rock and running down sand dunes, Jesse and I pulled our mattresses outside into the desert. We slept outside under a blanket of stars, the moon bright enough for you to read a book.

In a drastic contrast, Dahab was tequila sunrises and sheesha and sun and crystal clear water, and cats jumping onto your lap, and telling time by where the moon hung over the water at night. It was full of open-wall cafes and bars right on the coast, with mattresses spread along the beach. I stared across the sparkling Red Sea each day at (bizarrely enough) Saudi Arabia... as I lay on the beach... in my teal bikini... drink in hand. And was left feeling shway haram.

One long night bus later, and we were in the city of a thousand minarets. I have a weird attachment to Cairo. There's something homey for me about the trash-covered sidewalks that border Talat Harb Street. When I went to Cairo after my freshman year at GW, it was the first time I had left the US, and going back there always reminds me of that time in my life when I really started living.

Easter was spent in Egypt, walking around Coptic Cairo. I am far from religious, but churches always do something for me. I guess I've only ever been in churches for funerals, when I'm in need of some form of spirituality anyways. But that's what I get when I go into churches, no matter where I am. I always light a candle and think about the people who are far away and mean so much to me. I always light a candle and think of my grandparents.

After the Coptic area, we went into the oldest mosque in Africa. Everyone who I've met in the Middle East associates me, with my blue eyes and uncovered curly hair, with Christianity. When I stumble around mosques in oversized “special clothes,” I think the world can tell that I am not Muslim. By default, I become a Christian. In churches, especially the history-laden churches that I've visited here, I have seen such emotion coming from people. As I look at the texture of mosaics, women next to me kneel down, pressing their hands gently on the relics and whispering bible passages. Similarly though, in mosques, while I sit on the rug adjusting the hood of my “special clothes” and take pictures of the symmetrical courtyard, men near me pray with unwavering focus. These places have such beauty... they have sun shining through tinted glass windows with scenes of crucifixions... they have curved calligraphy in wooden walls proclaiming “la allah ila allah”... but in these places, the spirituality I inevitably feel comes from the faith of people around me.

I am not too worried about going back to Cairo. There is no doubt in my head that the smog, desert puppies next to the pyramids, and 24-hour bar at the Oedian will see me again... AUC offers an amazing graduate program at the Center for Forced Migration and Refugee Studies. Time will tell.

But for now, time cannot be trusted. In less than a month, I will be on a plane from Beirut to Boston.

I just finished a book called “Six Months In Sudan.” At one point the author describes his reasons for working in Sudan, and I've never read a statement that more perfectly encompasses my reasons, and the reasons of so many I know, to be here. “Pushed by the sharp thrill of being somewhere new and rare and exciting, pushed towards that free feeling where anything can happen. Pulled because I want to understand.”

A good friend of mine once told me that I “seek it out... I don't know what it is, but you seek it out.” This is what I seek out.

cyprus

After a night out on Gemayze Street and a day getting lost on the never-ending hills of Beirut, I finally met up with Catherine in Cyprus! We stayed in Agia Napa, a coastal city on the Greek side of the island. This place is like the Jersey Shore of Cyprus. The streets are lined with kitschy restaurants, little souvenir shops, clubs, strip joints, live music... during the summer, it is supposed to be the hot spot for drunken Greek youth. In March, it was me and Catherine and a dozen 70-year-old's who spent their time day drinking. I had a wonderful time though, surrounded by beautiful bays, and the clear water of the Mediterranean.

We spent our last day in Nicosia. A sign at the checkpoint dividing the Greek and Turkish sides claims “Nicosia: The Last Divided Capital.” From the woman standing behind the front desk at our hostel to the taxi driver who took us to Nicosia, we heard many talks of the “Turkish occupation” from Cyprus' Greek occupants. We didn't have a chance to hear what the people on the Turkish side thought about the division of their island.

You had to present your passport at the check-point in Nicosia, though you didn't need a tangible border to feel the division within the city. On the Greek side, Catherine recognized the brand-name stores from London, and I enjoyed a much-missed Starbucks chai latte. Contrastingly, moments after crossing the border, we heard the call-to-prayer echoing from a mosque. On these streets, I recognized the nameless shops full of heaps of clothing and piles of pistachio sweets, and the many advertisements for Effes beer, from similar alleyways in Syria.

Cyprus was sort of a spur-of-the-moment choice. From the taxis back and forth from Lebanon, where I was forced to rely on my own Arabic and bargaining abilities, to the many hours I spent at airports, it was also a fairly independent trip for me. In between a book and another Starbucks-style coffee, I saw a quote etched in wall at the Larnaka Airport in Cyrpus... something that I feel as a reality now for myself and for many of my friends:

“Every day is a journey, and that journey itself is home.”

syriati

I was recently talking to a few friends about the movie “Syriana,” which none of us has seen. “Syriana” means “Our Syria” in Arabic, and we were joking about what “Syriati,” or ”My Syria,” means to each of us. Because my Syria is not desert or bombs or hatred towards Americans or daily danger. My Syria doesn't have camels.

My Syria is living a block away from a KFC, and only a few houses down from a store called “Paris Hilton Fashion.” My Syria is getting sunburned while I study vocab on my balcony amongst the branches of the orange tree rooted our yard. It is passing 50 leera through seven different people on a bus, which I got onto with a running leap (because why would it come to a complete stop?), and knowing that my bus ticket will be passed back to me as well as all of my change. You will ALWAYS get your change back. My Syria is vegetables being sold on every street for basically nothing, and souks full of fresh fruit and clothes and roaming cats. It is playing backgammon in smoky cafes next to crazy men singing and chanting verses from the Koran, and argileh, and the strongest gin and tonics you could imagine. It is children on the street, their faces smeared with dust, who will simultaneously break your heart and infuriate you. After being followed for a block by a little boy begging for money, I offered to buy him food instead; he refused and told me to “fuck off.” My Syria is the turquoise tint of mosques at sunset, and pushing my way through crowded alleyways in the Old City. It is banana & milk smoothies, and crouching on micro-buses, and the constant presence of sweetened tea. It the long discussions about Arabic grammar that I kind of hate but actually get really into. My Syria is going out every weekend and stumbling home at 5am as you hear the call-to-prayer. It is my first manicure, for only $10. My Syria is bantering with cab drivers about the creation of a Kurdish homeland and why I'm not married. It is the sound of cats in heat, and Akon blasting from slow-moving cars, and the hisses and propositions of men on the street. It is the sound of my ipod so that I don't have to hear the hisses and propositions of men on the street. My Syria is water from the tap, because it hasn't made me sick yet, and sometimes ignorance is bliss. It is meeting field organizers from the Obama campaign, archaeologists, linguists, musicians, UN staff, students who are specializing in everything and have been everywhere. It is friends who are not only Syrian or American, but from all over Europe and Turkey, from Iraq, from Venezuela, from Japan, China, Korea, from Africa.

Good-byes don't really exist here, though it feels like they happen all too often. Who knows where any of us foreigners will be next week, next month, never mind next year? Permanence is a skewed idea here... at some level, I think everyone knows that we may be just crossing paths. My Syria is coffee and Arabic and music in the crowded streets and smoking and laughing and amazing people and just trying to figure myself out a little bit more.

blurred borders

I was at the ISP school last Saturday when an Egyptian film maker came in to talk with the students. There is currently a film festival for documentaries in Damascus and she had directed one of the films, called “startup.com.” In it, she painted the picture of a world where people united cross-culturally through art. This woman was inspired by the mission of ISP and wanted to meet all of the young adults from Iraq, who are displaced in Syria, and will soon be students in America.

Saturday's discussion with the Egyptian director focused mostly on what stories the students felt were not being told from Iraq. They all said that the media focuses unfairly on the negative, on the exceptions. Yes, there is a problem in Damascus with Iraqi prostitution, but what about all of the mothers who stay strong, raise families, and get jobs when their husbands aren't able to? And yes, many extremists cite Islam as a reason for their violent actions, but what about all of those people who, after being forced out of their countries, away from their homes and families, are able to find peace five times a day through prayer? I have never heard anyone talk about religion the way that one of my students, Ziad, did that day. He is one of the most attentive, open-minded people, who speaks about wanting to go to MIT in a flawless accent and laughs at all of my dumb movie references. I hadn't taken him to be particularly religious. But he said that at his mosque, he found a new part of himself. He spoke about finding a community when he felt like he didn't have one... about the sight of his mosque on Fridays, so clean and pure and white... about the feeling that comes when you are surrounded by people kneeling in unison, connected to each other through their movements, but connected to god on a very individual level. I have never heard anyone speak so openly and passionately about religion and his own faith in god.

The discussion also centered briefly around politics. The focus of this conversation was about how exaggerated and generalized sectarian conflicts have become in the media. They all said that before the war, communities mixed with Sunnis, Shias, and Christians lived peacefully. They stressed that the desire of the Iraqi people was peace in their homeland, not any sort of extreme religious ideals of isolation or superiority. According to these students, the people who are creating sectarian violence in Iraq, particularly Baghdad, come from gangs and don't represent any larger trend among Iraqi people.

Saturday felt a little different from most days at the ISP school... The students seemed more excited than usual. At first I thought their excitement was from the chance to speak with this amazing woman, whose roots were so similar to their own. She was the daughter of an American-Syrian marriage, grew up in Egypt, and after receiving an education in the U.S. she went on to become a talented director. Then I noticed the black ink stains on so many pointer fingers in the room.

Sunday, the following day, was the official Iraq election. The black ink marked that the students had voted in one of the local polling stations.

During the next class that I taught, I asked my students a little bit more about the elections. They were all first time voters, and their eagerness for this new-found privilege reminded me of myself in the fall of 2008. They stressed how long the list of candidates was, extending for pages, and how Iraqis all over the world were voting just like them. Jokingly, almost braggingly, they spoke about how easy the ink is to remove with bleach. At the polling stations, you must present a form of identification so that your name can be written down on a list, but the only preventative measure for multiple voting is this black mark on your pointer finger. A few of the students had friends in Iraq who had voted in two different regional polling stations.

Here are kids the same age as me. And among this group of youth, of first time voters, of refugees who were forced out of their country, you can find the same excitement that became such a part my life during the 2008 election. I remember taking a picture with my cell phone of the little check next to “Barack Obama” on my ballot. I remember at every dorm party quoting Obama, toasting: “Nothing can stand in the way of the power of millions of voices calling for change.” Hope felt tangible to me. It felt like the youth around me were the driving force towards creating even the smallest amount of change in a world so big.

The feeling is the same with these students. Their expectations for the results, and probably for the legitimacy of the election, are certainly different than mine were a year and a half ago. But whether you are an 18-year-old Iraqi boy proudly displaying a blackened finger, just hoping for a change in the homeland that you haven't seen in years, or a 19-year-old American girl walking in front of the White House in a pin that says “Yes we can!”, the feeling is the same.