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.

dust storms and iraqi students

A few friends and I visited the amphitheater at Bosra a few weeks ago, and I just got back from a weekend in Palmyra yesterday. I think I've been to most of the famous Syrian sights now... all I have to say is that Europe doesn't have shit on the Middle East. Our weekends mix requesting Jay-Z tirelessly at clubs with jumping around sandy ruins at the world's oldest civilizations. Even simply driving through the desert, past the “Iraq: 100 KM” sign, you can find beauty in a dust storm. About an hour of my drive to Palmyra was made up of limited vision and thick, gray dust surrounding the bus. When we got to Palmyra, dust made the light around us switch seamlessly from day to night, even though the sunset was brief and in the distance.

I am currently about half way through this session at Damascus University, and also teaching a class at an organization called the Iraqi Student Project. It's a program started by two Americans, Theresa and Gabe, after they had traveled all over Iraq in the 1990's. It is designed to prepare exceptional Iraqi students for university in the United States, and network with universities in order to obtain scholarships for the students. ISP reminds me so much of Banaa, an organization started at GW, with similar scholarships for Sudanese students. These two groups give incredible opportunities to students living as refugees from two of the most politically unstable and violent countries in the world, with the goal of providing empowerment through education, and ultimately the hope that these students will provide new, peaceful leadership in their home countries. I am truly inspired by both ISP and Banaa.

My class at ISP is Advanced Writing... I'm actually sort of shocked that Theresa thought I was qualified to teach this class. The students in my class are all applying, with realistic expectations, to Ivy League universities. However, while they could school me any day on the laws of physics, they have trouble with the meanings of words like “personification” and “hyperbole.” Their written and spoken English is beautiful, but they obviously all have to push a little harder to cut out some linguistic mistakes. This class is definitely bringing out the literary-nerd side that I've always had. The students are all around my age, some slightly younger, and everyone in my class grew up in Baghdad. These are some of the most naturally talented people I've ever met, and also some of the sweetest. And I think they actually find my awkward jokes funny, which is always a plus.

u.s. ambassador!

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/middle_east/8519328.stm

I'm friends with enough people working in the embassy to know that all of these changes have been a long time coming. From the amount of staffers and military working at the embassy, to being in the process of transforming the Ambassador's Suite from a game room into an actual living space, it looks like the U.S. and Syria are about to have a very different relationship.

round 2 in the city of jasmine

Went back to Amurrrica, got myself a Cosi asiago bagel with cream cheese, some Thai food, plenty of memorable DC moments... now back to the grind in Damashq.

I've come back to the exact same city, but a completely flipped around life. I'm in a new apartment (a new crazy landlord?), new people, and new choices of tutoring vs. classes, teaching vs. maybe a few new opportunities? And I feel like I had to say good-bye about two minutes after saying hello to all of those people back home who matter most. But while the plane ride back to Syria may have consisted of some tears and “Black Balloon” on repeat, all it took was a walk through an Old City alley for me to realize how happy I am to be here for four more months. I think this is where I'm supposed to be right now.

Last night, my friend (now room mate!) Kate and I had dinner with an incredibly personable, gay Australian man who works as an archaeologist here. The dinner was made up of great conversation, ranging from topics of the security around the Golan Heights to the style of our mutual Swedish friends. The part that really stuck with me though was our discussion of sexuality and gender, the connotations of which drastically verge when comparing Syrian and Western culture.

The concept of sexuality here is completely turned around from the idea that my own American culture has ingrained in my mind. Syrian men seem to spend more time primping than women, their hair wet with gel, their pointy leather shoes shiny, their clothes too tight and bedazzled. And this must seem sexy to at least a fair amount of women here! Oppositely, so many of the women here are stunning, yet instead of noticing the natural beauty of the Syrian women all around, men choose to stare, mouths open, at the Western women who pass by. I could be wearing an oversized turtle-neck with no makeup and still get more attention than the stunning bronze-skinned women walking next to me.

Though a Syrian man would most likely flaunt a relationship with any Western woman, it seems so many other relationships breed second lives here. Speaking to Kate's Australian friend about his experiences with both waiters who hit on him and Syrian women who use him as a secret confidant, it became even more clear how little the surface really shows. Homosexuality, or at least homosexual sex between men, is clearly present, no matter how undercover it is. A Syrian man might have a second life with a male partner. A Syrian woman might have a second life revealing her fantasies to Western male friends, who her Arab girlfriends will never meet nor hear of.

A friend of mine recently spoke to me very convincingly of a “third gender” in the Middle East: western, primarily white, women. I can speak from simple experience... my outward appearance has never mattered more. In addition to any stigma that comes with being a woman, “Western” seems to translate in so many people's minds into “sex.” I know that I am looked at as a prostitute most of the time when I walk down the street without a man by my side. When Kate and I walked home from our dinner with her Australian friend, it was quite late at night, though our walk home was in one of the safest and most liberal areas in Syria, and was well lit. Every. Single. Car. Pulled over as we passed. And the men inside of the cars would hiss intently for us to come over and have sex with them.

These are all harsh generalizations, and I've met so many wonderful people who have proven them wrong. For every frustrating moment, I've had a million wonderful experiences. But in my day to day life, being female has never been a bigger part of my identity. At the moment, none of this is coming from a bitter or broken place; it's just where my mind's been at.

from sunrise at the lincoln to sunset in damascus

a) Happy Birthday Xochhhhhhh! Lovelovelove

b) Yesterday was my first class at the UN Relief Works Agency. I was teaching at the UNRWA field office; there were around fifteen 30 to 40-year-old's, from both Palestine and Syria, who were trying to improve their spoken English. My “teaching” was just mostly prompting discussions and conversations, and then a little bit of grammar and sentence structure.

All of the women in the class were incredibly friendly and respectful, even though they were all tens of years older than me. The men in the class were nice too, for the most part, though at times overly nice. When I asked for everyone to briefly introduce and describe themselves, one man instantly made clear that he was single and was looking for a wife. Another man, who was married, was also very forward. He was talking to some of the others about me in Arabic, but I understood everything that he was saying. When one of the women in the class pointed out that he was already married, he responded with “Yes, but my wife is getting old.” He later pointedly commented that the best way to learn English would be to marry an American girl.

The teacher before me was from Holland, so most of my class' discussions were centered around me being from America. One man was very upfront with his opinions about America, and persistently asked me to share my opinions about various situations. He asked about the reasons for the relationship between the U.S. and Israel, about Americans only following what we are told by our media, about racism within America, and discrimination against certain religions. I tried to prompt discussion with all of these questions, but it kept on veering to political opinions and views on the media. Only this one man had any interest in pushing these subjects, and I definitely felt inappropriate prompting political questions. I just kept on repeating that the range of opinion in the U.S. is great and that of course the government's actions do not represent the opinions of all Americans. I tried to bring up the idea that even I as an American am discriminated against and looked down upon by certain people, sometimes in Syria. We spent most of the two hours talking about daily life, cultural differences and traditions, and television. A different man insisted that women do not listen to or watch the news ever, because it simply doesn't interest them. The women in the class, of course, were defensive and tried to convince him otherwise, but he became agitatedly unmoving about his idea that woman only were interested in watching soap operas.
The culture in classrooms is also very different in terms of answering cell phones. I know from watching a few of the Libyan students at Damascus University pick up their cells in the middle of class, and from talking to friends from Jordan who had witnessed the same thing, that answering phones in class is fairly common. About ten cells were answered in the two hours I was trying to teach.

c)Daniela and her friend came to visit, and being around her always makes me feel so positive :) but at the same time, many of my friends from Damascus have left in the last week. Adam's family arrives in Damascus in a matter of hours... this part of my year is really winding down.

Some of us went back up to the top of the mountain again, to watch the sun go down over the city. It really does give you the same feeling as watching the sun rise at the Lincoln Memorial... you just end up feeling so small, and thinking about life and the people you care about... looking at the orange and maroon clouds collide with the tops of the Damascus buildings gives me the same feeling of home as watching the sun frame the Washington in the early-morning distance. I'm glad that I don't have to say good-bye to this city indefinitely quite yet.

christmas in the air?

First of all, so much love for Jess. She left Damascus a week ago, and it's not the same. There have been so many laughs and great times with this girl... she is one of the sweetest and funniest people I've ever met. Beyond excited for London oh TEN!

Christmas is in the air in Damascus... ironically? Most of the streets that I walk down, at least in the Old City and the area around Sharia Baghdad, are filled with shops selling ornaments, wreaths, and Santa hats. There are mini Christmas trees next to posters of Al-Assad's face. It's a lot of Christmas cheer for a city with a 10% Christian minority.

Lately, I feel like I've been having more serious discussions with my friends, mostly veering towards cultural differences. I've had more talks of religious tensions, the treatment of women, how events are framed in both Western and Syrian news sources. The honeymoon period of living here ended a while ago, though I still love this city. I feel like whenever I'm in a group of women my age, we end up talking about our many similar harassment experiences. Everyone who I talk to seems to feel the same way... whether it's someone touching you on the street, following you in a car, or just the constant intense staring, the harassment has, understandably, worn a lot of girls down. After four months, I can sadly see that I am more constantly on edge. I know, from stories and much personal experience, that harassment in Damascus is much less prevalent than in most Middle Eastern cities, but it is still grating. I've started walking most places with my ipod just so I don't hear as many comments.

One month from today, I'll be back in the district! Instead of walking down the street eating falafel from a stand, next to a car blaring music with lyrics like “Habibiti, ya albi, ya amri”... I'll be eating Chinese food with my girls listening to some ridiculous rap song near the monuments. I could not be happier for this brief return to normalcy.