Sunday, May 29, 2005

Kids Wandering Around

I wandered up to the market near Ruknedin today. It's quite a nice long, fairly straight souk, tucked away under shade and with several picturesque mosques along the way. School had just gotten out and little kids were running around eating ice cream, wandering around with friends, and doing errands. I saw one little girl probably no older than four trapising along purposefully with a bag full of beans.

That's one thing that I will miss about Syria. Kids here run around with abandon. There's no fear that they will be kidnapped, so you see them by themselves in parks and the souk. There are no worried parents watching them constantly or keeping them at arm's length. It's nice that they're allowed to be kids like that and that parents don't have to live in fear.

The flip side of this, of course, is that you also see kids who are quite young who are working. I see boys who can't be older than eight or nine selling cigarettes and gum. It's hard to see them doing that. Life here can be blissfully lovely, like when you see kids running around by themselves, but it is also really difficult. Today it was fantastic, though, to see so many kids being just kids.

Saturday, May 28, 2005

Cat Ladies

The five months I was living in Sha'alan, I didn't write about the cat ladies. As in most neighborhoods in Damascus, there are a swarm of stray cats in Sha'alan. The stray cats here are generally not cute. They're scraggly, dirty, and make horrible screeching mewls that sound like enormously unhappy babies.

For whatever reason, a few women in my neighborhood feed the cats on a regular basis. They come out sometime mid-morning and make little platters of gooey, slippery animal innards for the little felines. It's enormously disgusting to see the innards and to see the cats slurping them down. The cats seem happy, which I think sometimes diminishes my recoil upon seeing them eating.

I don't have a soft spot for cats eating chicken innards, but I do on occasion find the stray cats amusing. Just down the street from my apartment building is a bustling vegetable market. The past few months quite a few people have been selling fresh grape leaves and they'll often sit with their boxes of produce on my street, away from the noise of the market, to count and prepare their grape leaves.

One morning I was walking to school and saw two men sitting on the sidewalk, boxes of grape leaves surrounding them. They had stashed one box in a shady spot, and one of the stray cats was sitting regally on top of it. Between the regular feedings and the nice spots to laze around, the stray cats in Sha'alan have a pretty good life.

Moving, Democracy

A fellow Syrian blogger pointed out to me that the comment about democracy having Arabic roots was made by Colonel Mohammar Qaddafi of Libya. That came up in our conversation on Thursday but I had forgotten to write about that. What I thought was interesting was that one of my friends who attends IFEAD, the French center for learning Arabic here, said that her professor had told her that as well and a few of our Syrian friends agreed that the word democracy has Arabic roots. Looking up the word, I saw that it has Latin, Greek, and Indo-European roots.

In other news, I'm moving today. After talking to her the morning of the 24th and reminding her that I would be moving out on the 31st, as we had agreed, my landlady decided later that day that she wanted me to leave on the 25th but I managed to work it out so I could move today. I hate packing and I hate moving my stuff. It's so stressful. Oh well. It will all be over today. It makes my leaving Syria rather final, though, at least packing up my stuff. I'm leaving in about a week and a half, this after coming here and thinking I would be here for two months.

Thursday, May 26, 2005

Thursday Night

Two of my friends who also have birthdays at the end of May and I had a party at my place last night. It was a typical sort of party. We bought a case of beer and several bottles of wine, made some fruity alcoholic punch, and invited a slew of friends over. I hooked up my iPod to my friend's speakers and - voila - party.

Among the hot topics last night: the origin of the word 'democracy'. My friend's teacher insisted to her that the word has a partial Arabic root, with 'cracy' coming from the Arabic word for chairs, 'kuwarsi'. Another hot topic: tarantulas. Recently quite a few of my friends and I have seen quite a few large, fist-sized furry spiders around the Old City. We've wondered if they're tarantulas. They're certainly rather scary, especially when you run across one scampering across a cobblestone street late at night.

We didn't come to any conclusions on either of these topics and the conversation shifted abruptly when a friend got a call from his journalist friend saying there had been an explosion in Mezzeh, a neighborhood in Damascus. We couldn't find any information on Al Jazeera or Al Arabiya (and, over 12 hours later I still haven't seen anything on the tv or internet news). Since there was no moreinformation, though, we went back to drinking and joking. What else do you do?

Ah, Birthday

My birthday was rather low-key. I got some kiwi-mango-orange juice from my favorite juice place and sat in the park watching some huge, tall-legged ants run around while waiting for my friend to pick me up to go to lunch. He had rented a car so he can travel around Syria with his friend, so we took advantage of this and went up to Jebel Qassion for lunch. Restaurants on the mountain are usually ripoffs but we, surprisingly, managed to end up at one with a menu, admiring the view and saying, over and over 'What a nice view!', 'Oh why yes - did you notice the view?'

Afterwards I went to my friend's shop in the Old City and hung out with him for a while. We sat outside, watching people walk past: a group of four military-looking American men, kids in the neighborhood, and vegetable vendors pushing large wooden carts. My friend jumped up when he saw our tall British friend and his parents, who were in town for a week and a half. His mom was on the hunt for feather dusters (which are rather expensive in the UK) and was insistent that my friend acquire one for his flat in London. He was rather embarassed that the one thing his mother wanted to buy here is feather dusters. I thought it was rather cute.

I went out to dinner with some friends at my favorite restaurant, Beit Shammi. It's a beautifully restored courtyard house and the food and service is always good; I think the fresh, hot bread there really wins me over, though. It's such a disappointment to go to a restaurant and get pita bread in little plastic bags.

I don't expect people to lavish me with attention on my birthday, but a few people turned up and didn't even say hello to me. That's just rude. it was a nice evening, though. I got to see some people that I don't see very often, and I met one of my friend's dad who is visiting for a few weeks.

Afterwards, several of us went to get some stiffly overpriced beers at Oxygen, a deeply red restaurant bar in the Old City, the sort that is decorated fairly well except for the large, plastic pharaoh statue in the middle of the wall. Somehow we got into a discussion about working long hours and the resultant decrease in productivity and I mentioned that I know that, when I had to work 12 hours or more, at some point my productivity and my concentration significantly decreased. To this one of my friends said rather snarkishly, 'What sort of job did *you* ever work where you had to work long hours?' I very cooly said 'I was a journalist working during the war in 2003.' This is from a guy who has casually mentioned to me that he's possibly interested in a career in journalism; I know I've told him I used to be a journalist.

It was definitely a low-key birthday. Fairly relaxing. And now I'm 28.

Tuesday, May 24, 2005

Today is...

my birthday!

Monday, May 23, 2005

In Which I Am Vigorously Scrubbed Clean

This morning my mom and I went to a hammam in the Old City. I hadn't been since shortly after I got to Damascus; my first experience was at a hammam I didn't particuarly like and this hammam is open to women only on Mondays, when I had classes (Such is life in the Arab world).

My mom was particularly excited about the experience. Spa days in the US cost a lot and I had told her that the hammam here costs about $6. It's all wonderful, too. We walked in through two sets of doors and curtains straight into a marble tiled, skylit courtyard changing room (hence the multiple curtains and doors, to keep eyes on the street from looking in). Women in hijab came in, undid their hijab and settled in for some relaxation at the hammam. After wrapping up in towels and putting on getting our bowls full of loofahs, a scrub mitten, olive soap, and sumptuous smelling shampoo, we too were on our way and headed into the steam room to sweat a little.

While we were in there a woman strolled in and, after refusing our offer to make room for her to sit down, ever-so-casually asked us where we were from and what we were doing in Damascus. As she pressed us for more information, we found out that she's from Morocco. For the first time since I started learning Arabic, I was talking to someone from Morocco and I at last understood that their dialect is difficult to understand. I also finally understood that the hammam really is a place for women to socialize and check each other out.

Although my mom and I had decided against getting the rubdown/scrub with the scrub mitten, when the woman came into the steam room and asked us if we were getting the scrub, we decided to go for it. We had been trying to scrub ourselves with the mittens ourselves and weren't bringing up any dirt, so I thought it would be good to get a scrub. I went first, and, after scrubbing me all over while I was sitting down, the woman had me lie down and scrubbed me all over again. She had me turn over several times. She even scrubbed my hand and my fingers. My skin felt so smooth and lovely afterwards. My mom got similarly scrubbed, and then (after I nearly slipped and cracked open my head on the marble floor after failing to notice a small water channel in the floor) we moved on to wash ourselves, dipping the bowls our supplies came in to big marble basins filling up with water from wall taps and letting the water splash over us.

A nice wash with a loofah, olive soap, and sumptuous shampoo later, we stepped into the sauna to relax. My mom was so pleased; it was such a soothing experience, and we ended up with glowingly soft, smooth skin. All for the low price of $12 for the both of us, including our loofahs and the rest of our supplies. I know that, if my mom lived here, she would go to the hammam every Monday. She told me that I should go more often. It was fun to go with my mom because she enjoyed the experience so much. It really is wonderful, to walk into a soothing courtyard with a marble fountain in the center, into a hamman that's probably a few hundred years old, and walk out glowing, pores humming,

Sunday, May 22, 2005

Oh Fun!

Traveling around with my parents is really nice. It's great to see them get excited about Syria; it makes me excited about being here. We've traveled to Aleppo, the Dead Cities, to Byblos and Beirut in Lebanon, and to Palmyra. It's been quite an extensive and fun trip. They like to do a lot of the things I like to do, to: eat well, walk around, get some juice, see some history.

One of the best parts has been seeing my dad walk around without any problems for the first time in over 5 years. He had knee problems the past several years, making it difficult for him to walk. After undergoing two knee replacements over a period of three years, though, he's walking like he used to before any of the problems started. He's been scrambling over rocks, running up and down stairs, walking kilometers, and jumping into cabs with no problems. He's really been enjoying himself because of that, and that makes me happy.

Sunday, May 15, 2005

Yay! Parents!

My parents got to Damascus yesterday and it's wonderful to see them. Walking around with them is like walking around with new eyes. Because I walk these streets every day, I often forget how fascinating and weird Damascus is. We've walked around the Old City an enormous amount, gone to one of my favorite juice places, and eaten schwarma and falafel. My parents tried zatar for the first time today and declared it delicious. I had it for the first time in months and realized that, even though I had gotten sick of it, it is rather tasty.

The best part is just seeing them. They're so much fun to be with.

Thursday, May 12, 2005

Oh Homs

I just got back from a bit of a whirlwind trip around Syria with my Finnish friend. We took off for Krak des Chevaliers Monday morning. In order to get to Krak des Chevaliers from Damascus we took a bus to Homs, where we were promptly accosted by a taxi driver who assured us there are no buses to the castle from Homs. This is, of course, not true, and we made our way to the line for buses to Tartus, where a nice employee helped us buy tickets and then told the bus driver to drop us foreigners off at the highway intersection leading to the castle.

That’s exactly what happened. The driver stopped at the edge of the highway and we stumbled out, a bit perplexed. I had read there was a bus up the mountain to the castle but wasn’t exactly sure where this bus would be. This being Syria and us looking like foreigners, it took about a minute before someone walked up to us and asked us where we were going, then flagged down a van to take us up the mountain. For once I managed to negotiate a good deal, walking away from this first driver, who I thought was charging too much, then doing the same with a second driver. Unfortunately, the third driver, who I drove a hard bargain with, turned out to be a bit of a creep, gesturing to us to sit in the front next to him. My friend and I told him, no, thanks, we loved sitting where we were and firmly refused his offer to wait for us while we wandered around the castle.

We wandered around the castle for a while. It’s pretty, set up on a hill overlooking green farmland. It was fun to walk around the ramparts and, since the weather was temperate, it was a good day to be climbing around ruins. It was pretty interesting to see a mosque in a castle.

In order to get to Hama, our next destination, we had to go back through Homs, a city that’s the butt of Syrian jokes. We soon made our own determination of why that is. We got to the bus station and were immediately accosted by men yelling city destinations at us: ‘HALAB’ ‘HALAB’ ‘HALAB’ ‘SHAM’ ‘SHAM’ ‘SHAM’. It’s all rather irritating when you’re in the best of moods but, when you’re hungry, as we were, it was especially grating. We just wanted to get some schwarma. We plowed through the screaming men, found a schwarma place, and then, after I bought a bottle of water, a man, realizing I spoke Arabic, stuck his face out in front of my face and started blabbing away in Arabic. I don’t know what he was saying, but for some reason, his bobbing head, persistently following me as I wrenched around and tried to get away from him, was too much. ‘Enough! Go away!’ I yelled. ‘I don’t want anything!’ Sometimes the words for 'Piss off you wanker' just elude me in Arabic. I make do with what I know. My friend and I ran off to find our bus, eating our schwarma in the middle of moving buses, away from the madness of the bus terminal.

Our arrival in Hama was blissfully peaceful: with no taxi drivers chirping in our faces as soon as we got off the bus we got into a taxi with a meter, found our hotel, and collapsed on comfy beds. When we were checking in the man at reception sold us on an organized trip to Apamea and the Dead Cities, and informed us that two Americans would be going with us. I turned to my friend and said ‘I’m so sorry – you’re going to have to spend a day with three Americans!’ The receptionist offered her some painkillers as preparation. I ruefully admitted she might need them.

Monday, May 09, 2005

Syrian Social National Party

I meet with a young Syrian woman to do a language exchange once or twice a week: I help her study English and she helps me with my Arabic. Yesterday when I went over to her house she excitedly told me that her father was going to be interviewed on tv in an hour so she wanted to know if it was okay if we watched it. I said sure, we sat down to work on her reading, and then when it came to my time, I asked her why her father was being interviewed.

It turns out he's a member of the Syrian Social National Party, a political party that was only recently once again allowed in Syria. I asked her what the party stands for and she told me that they advocate a greater, unified Syria that would include Lebanon, Jordan, Palestine, Iraq, and Kuwait. Their flag is the flag I had seen at the support rally in March and been unable to identify, so it was quite exciting to learn more about the party and find out that my friend is a supporter of it.

I had quite a few questions for her, like why she thought these areas that are currently separate states and territories should be under one government, why they should be one country. She emphasized her belief that these areas should be unified because they have a common history and language.

There was so much I wanted to ask her: how many people support this idea? How do the Kurds figure into this? What about Jerusalem? that I forgot some other, important questions, like what did she think about the pullout of Syrian troops from Lebanon? What implication does that have for the party's agenda? How does the party plan to bring the 'greater Syria' about?

It was fun to talk about this topic and I hope I get to talk to her about it some more but it talking politics in the Middle East still often makes me a little anxious. I still don't know my way around Middle Eastern politics that well and I definitely have strong opinions on American politics, but sometimes I feel like what I perceive as my curiosity about politics in the region is taken as criticism of political activity here.

Saturday, May 07, 2005

About a Month Left...


Houses on the Barada River, Old City, Damascus
Originally uploaded by HalfPintGirl.
I have about a month left in Damascus. I keep changing my travel dates, I know, but this time I'm fairly certain I'll be leaving by the middle of June. I came here in November with a return ticket for the end of December. I soon decided to stay until the middle of May, and then about a month ago realized I'd be staying longer.

My birthday is coming up at the end of the month and, as happens to me around this time every year, I've been thinking about what I've learned and done in the past year. Since my last birthday I've learned that I never know where I'm going next and, though I often express anxiety about it, I'm actually pretty comfortable with that. I don't have enormous confidence that I will find the job I'm looking for but I have confidence that somehow things will work out.

A large part of this past year has been my time in Damascus. Some of the most exciting things that have happened to me have happened while I was here: I've been in a traffic jam with a donkey, I've lounged along the Euphrates, I've slept under the stars in the desert, and I've struggled with and enjoyed Arabic. I've grown very fond of the scene in this picture in Damascus and will miss it. I also feel it is time for me to go home, wherever that is. I think I have to make one.

little triumphs are all it takes

In a few weeks I will be 28. I've made it this far and have been a journalist, lived on three continents, speak five languages in varying degrees of fluency, have embarassed myself to the point of tears at least five times in my adult life, have finally learned how to dance, wear great accessories, have a music collection I'm so pleased with I'd happily let you scroll through my iPod, and I'm still not sure if I like dogs.

I had a particularly cringingly embarassing moment over the weekend and related it to a good friend of mine. I pointed out one small detail I thought made my story just a little less embarassing and he said 'little triumphs are all it takes [to make you feel better]'. My life is full of little triumphs I'd like to think make my awful moments a little easier to bear. At least that's what I need to believe today.

Thursday, May 05, 2005

Beirut, part 1

This past weekend my friend and I went to Beirut. We survived a fairly reckless taxi ride there, our driver making it from Damascus to Beirut in two hours, including about twenty minutes or half an hour we spent at the border. He passed trucks on mountain curves, ate, talked on his cell phone, and drove, and turned around to look at me and my friend when we expressed some sort of anxiety.

Our driver dropped us off in Martyr's Square and under a bright blue sky we blinked and tried to get our bearings. Directly across the street was us was a wall with grafitti saying 'Syria Out!'. We walked over to get a closer look and then headed across the square to Hariri's grave.

Although I've been aware of the consequences Hariri's assassination might have for Lebanon, and understanding of the depth of emotion surrounding his death eluded me until I stepped into the tent over Hariri's grave, a quiet, cool place filled with his photos, flowers, and people walking around quietly. My friend and I walked in front of Hariri's grave, a mound covered in flowers, and then walked back to his bodyguards' graves. I think that's when the enormity of this event overwhelmed me. My friend and I stood there, stunned, looking at the photos of the bodyguards, one of them younger than us, and felt an absolute sadness.

We walked back out into the sun and over to a group of tents set up in the middle of Martyr's Square and ended up talking to a group of enthusiastic young Lebanese guys, all of whom had been sleeping in the Square since Hariri's assassination and were moving out the next day, their mission to get the Syrian troops out of Lebanon accomplished. One of them, a thirty-something man in a green silk East-Asian jacket, leaned over and told me he had lived in the US for 22 years when he found out I am from the US. He told me he had lived and studied with Steven Segal. I was duly not impressed. At the same time, another eager young fellow was asking my friend for her e-mail address (this before he had asked what her name is). That was about the time we decided to leave and wander off to the coast.

A Very High Fidelity Moment

Last night I went to a friend's birthday party at her house in the Old City. I was one of the first guests to arrive, so I was checking out the house, a beautifully restored courtyard house, when three guys I didn't know walked in. It turns out they're visiting. I've been in the mood to meet new people recently so I talked to two of them (the third wasn't feeling fantastic, so he was resting for a a good majority of the party) for a long time. One of them, a Brit, in addition to be a big broccoli fan like me, turned out to be a music fanatic. In typical music geek style, we were talking about our iPods, the iTunes store, and rediscovering music from our childhoods. Then, suddenly, he asked me the one question I always want people to ask me but they never do, which is 'What's the last song you listened to?'

I made a face, because, of course, after years of waiting, I had to admit to listening to something that I didn't want to be his first impression, musically, of me. I told him that the last song I had listened to was Kylie Minogue, probably I Believe in You.

Like Rob Fleming, the protagonist in High Fidelity, I'm obsessed with music. I love listening to it. In London, I had soundtracks for taking the underground, studying, cooking, and chilling out. I've always got a song in my head; my life has a soundtrack. I'm the girl who plans the perfect mix. I stay up too late because I can't stop listening to music. And there I was, having to admit that the last song I listened to was Kylie Minogue. I really wanted it to be something fantastically cool, like the Postal Service or Outkast.

Maybe next time.