First things first, I must clear up the perception that the entire Middle East is a desert. This just isn’t true, especially not for Syria in general or Damascus more specifically. Damascus is the oldest inhabited city on the earth, and thus should be pictured as any normal big city that we’re used to, just omit the skyscrapers and insert hundreds of years old mosques, churches and city walls. That being said, Damascus is no tropical rain forest either. It is incredibly dry and dirty. And by dirty I don’t necessarily mean unclean. I’m thinking more about the way anyone looks after spending a day at the baseball field walking and sitting around all that loose dirt. It turns your sandaled heels black and will make any white shirt dingy.
It must be said that Syrians go to great lengths to keep everything clean. In fact I’ve never seen so much water being wasted in my life! There is no special day of the week designated for Attantheif (cleaning). It always seems to be a looming task. But it’s not really “cleaning” that they do either. It’s more accurately a “watering down.” Every night around 11 when all the shops in Souq Al-Hamidiyya have closed, a big truck with a water tank rolls in and a man hops out, lowers the hose, and just starts spraying everything with water (including people who get in the way)!
The same thing happens at my house where we have three terraces that constantly have to be cleaned. The family gets out the hose and just lets it run over the terrace, washing away the excess dust through the drain in the floor. [There’s a drain in every floor in every non-bedroom room for this exact purpose] Then of course there are the cleaning men in the street every morning with brooms, but I honestly get the feeling that they’re just pushing the dirt around. And shopkeepers who wash the floor of their shops and the area right outside the door, or just sweep everything right outside the door to their shop. Every time I pass by I’m wondering to myself if that isn’t the exact same dirt he swept out on his doorstep the previous morning.
I have finally come to the conclusion that getting the city sparkling clean is just not in the cards for Damascus. I think so myself, “well, at least maybe I can keep myself and my things clean.” But this too is a daunting and hopeless task.
Sunday, September 23, 2007
Thursday, September 13, 2007
Ramadan Kareem!
Ramadan has officially begun. If by no other means, the hustle and bustle in the streets would give it away. The past five days I’ve happily pushed past crowds on the sidewalks selling and buying dates, nuts, sweets, and since this year Ramadan corresponds with the beginning of school, notebooks, pencils, and backpacks.
Imagine the excitement of Christmastime and preparing Thanksgiving meals every night for a month and you have the general idea. Ramadan is a holy month for Muslims, the month in which the Quran was revealed. Throughout the entire month fasting takes place from sunrise to sunset. This morning we woke up at 3:00 to eat before the first call to prayer, which marks the Fajar (sunrise) prayer. This meal eaten before the first light of day is called Suhuur. Most people wake up either to the alarm on their cell phones, or to the sound of the izan calling people to wake up and eat before the call to prayer, but there is also traditionally a man, Abu Tabla, who walks around the city banging on a drum to wake everyone up. Usually every neighborhood has their own drummer to summon them out of their beds.
This morning, our host grandmother came around to all of our rooms to make sure we came down to eat. There were about six of us who sleepily trudged downstairs giggling about each others sleepy faces and thinking about how we’ll be doing this for the next 28 days.
During Ramadan eating, drinking, and smoking of any kind is prohibited during the day. Sometimes it can be a tense month for these reasons since it’s likely that half of the population are smokers. From sunrise to sunset, everything moves pretty slowly. Schools get out an hour earlier, everything opens later in the day, people take extensive naps, and about an hour before the Magreb (sunset) prayer everyone goes crazy trying to make it home in time to break their fast with their families. I remember in Jordan, the hardest thing was finding a cab at this time, and complete strangers would end up sharing cabs. I am interested to see how this works in Syria because it is already complicated to find a cab driver who wants to work and will take you where you want to go. It has gotten to the point where I ask the driver where he is going first and then if it’s in the same direction I want to go, I see if he would mind taking me along.
The evening meal is called Iftar, which literally means “breakfast” since it is technically the first meal of the day. Most people break their fast with a date or soup, and then plunge face first into all the traditional specialties. When I was in Jordan, french fries were also a staple of the dinner table during Ramadan. After dinner, some families go out for a walk or ice cream, and there are always visitors coming by around 10 or 11 to wish each other many blessings and “Ramadan Kareem.”
My host grandmother, and the head of the house, advised me yesterday that if one doesn’t sleep before midnight, it’s best to stay up and wait until after Suhuur to sleep because waking up after only 3 or so hours of sleep is not good for the body. As for me, I don’t think I can afford to stay up to entertain the late-night guests. Between the new schedule, studying and three hours of Arabic a day, a good nights sleep is not something I’m willing to sacrifice!
Imagine the excitement of Christmastime and preparing Thanksgiving meals every night for a month and you have the general idea. Ramadan is a holy month for Muslims, the month in which the Quran was revealed. Throughout the entire month fasting takes place from sunrise to sunset. This morning we woke up at 3:00 to eat before the first call to prayer, which marks the Fajar (sunrise) prayer. This meal eaten before the first light of day is called Suhuur. Most people wake up either to the alarm on their cell phones, or to the sound of the izan calling people to wake up and eat before the call to prayer, but there is also traditionally a man, Abu Tabla, who walks around the city banging on a drum to wake everyone up. Usually every neighborhood has their own drummer to summon them out of their beds.
This morning, our host grandmother came around to all of our rooms to make sure we came down to eat. There were about six of us who sleepily trudged downstairs giggling about each others sleepy faces and thinking about how we’ll be doing this for the next 28 days.
During Ramadan eating, drinking, and smoking of any kind is prohibited during the day. Sometimes it can be a tense month for these reasons since it’s likely that half of the population are smokers. From sunrise to sunset, everything moves pretty slowly. Schools get out an hour earlier, everything opens later in the day, people take extensive naps, and about an hour before the Magreb (sunset) prayer everyone goes crazy trying to make it home in time to break their fast with their families. I remember in Jordan, the hardest thing was finding a cab at this time, and complete strangers would end up sharing cabs. I am interested to see how this works in Syria because it is already complicated to find a cab driver who wants to work and will take you where you want to go. It has gotten to the point where I ask the driver where he is going first and then if it’s in the same direction I want to go, I see if he would mind taking me along.
The evening meal is called Iftar, which literally means “breakfast” since it is technically the first meal of the day. Most people break their fast with a date or soup, and then plunge face first into all the traditional specialties. When I was in Jordan, french fries were also a staple of the dinner table during Ramadan. After dinner, some families go out for a walk or ice cream, and there are always visitors coming by around 10 or 11 to wish each other many blessings and “Ramadan Kareem.”
My host grandmother, and the head of the house, advised me yesterday that if one doesn’t sleep before midnight, it’s best to stay up and wait until after Suhuur to sleep because waking up after only 3 or so hours of sleep is not good for the body. As for me, I don’t think I can afford to stay up to entertain the late-night guests. Between the new schedule, studying and three hours of Arabic a day, a good nights sleep is not something I’m willing to sacrifice!
Saturday, August 18, 2007
No McDonalds Here!
During the 1960s and 70s, Gamal Abd Al-Nasr of Egypt and Hafez Al-Assad of Syria set their respective countries on a path towards ISI (import substitution industrialization) to build up their own economies while effectively keeping them out of the world market. The idea was to cushion their countries with subsidies in order to boost industrialization and production rather than open the floodgates to allow for other, cheaper products from around the world to infiltrate and reduce
There are no McDonalds, Pizza Hut, Burger King or Subway like you will find in nearly every other Middle Eastern country. The only chain in existence is a Costa Coffee, which is basically an Italian Starbucks. This is disappointing for those of us who need a taste of home every once in a while, but at the same time makes me proud of
Another result of these protection policies is that all of the jobs here at every level, are filled by Syrians (although with the Iraqi refugees this is changing a little bit). The street cleaners, the builders, the manicurists at the salon- all Syrian! In
Syria is still a very poor country, mostly because of the massive amount it spends on its military, but in the end it has been able to maintain its identity and a very rich culture that has been somewhat diluted in other more economically open countries.
Sunday, August 12, 2007
Respecting God's Creation
I was 'schooled' by a six-year old a few days ago. I was sitting with my host family at dinner, we were all just politely chatting and someone brought up how they never see fish served in restauraunts here like they do in the Gulf. I commented "ana ma baHab asSemach," (I don't like fish) in a Kuwaiti dilect to be funny. The laughs tapered off as Sa'id, the six year old son, opened up a long tirade about how you should never say that you don't like something from God's creation. God created fish and all the animals for our benefit, so if we say that we don't like something from his creation we are disrespecting him by not receiving his gifts. Needless to say, I was dumbfounded. Next time I will be sure to say that I prefer not to eat something because it makes me sick!
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Shia' Shrines
This past weekend I visited two Shia shrines. The first, 
Sayyeda Roqayya was in the old city, and the other, for Sayyeda Zainab was about a 30 minute drive away. Both are granddaughters of Mohammad. After the traditional international breakfast at my house Friday morning, my friend took me to Friday prayers at a mosque that holds the shrine of Roqayya. At the entrance of the mosque we separated. I was handed a sort of army green colored abaya to wear and exchanged my Tevas for a token at the shoe check-in. I continued barefoot through a small hallway into an inner courtyard where I met back up with him. There were families sitting, children playing, girls reading verses from the Quran, and even some others sleeping. About 20 minutes earlier this space had been filled with hundreds of worshipers bowing down to pray. Now that the main Friday prayers were finished, there was enough room to roam around.
We continued inside to another large central room, which is the main area of the mosque. It was incredibly ornate, with kaleidoscope-like ceilings of cut mirror. In the middle of the room was the shrine and a wall that split one side of the shrine from the other. We separated again- me to the womens side of the wall, and he to the mens. I found a spot on the ground in front of the tomb and sat down to take in my surroundings. The shrine was beautifully decorated with ornate metal designs and covered in colourful cloths that the worshippers had tossed on the top. There were also shiny, tinsely decorations and flags and flowers.
Women gathered around the shrine, clinging to its cage like exterior, some of them wailing, others chanting and singing. Around me women were talking quietly to one another, some reading the Quran, and others praying. The Iraqi lady in front of me turns around to ask me if I am from Lebanon. When I say no, that I am actually American, a few other ears perk up and I have a small audience. The Iraqi women and her friend continue talking to me, telling me that Islam is peace at least four or five times. Then the little old lady beside me tells me I have noor (light) in my face, and the others around her agree. We have the usual conversation about how great it is that I am learning about Islam, and about how much they love Americans but not our foreign policy. They encourage me to continue my Arabic study and to come see them again next week.
On our way out of the mosque, the Afghani man who is guarding the door hands my friend a piece of paper that addresses (in English) a current debate in the Shia sect. The Islamic scholars of this mosque have issued a statement about the small flat stone that the Shia place their forehead on when they do the raqa which is when they bend over to pray. The story behind the use of this stone for prayer is essentially just to remind the one praying that they were formed from the earth and to humble themselves. It is not compulsory, but lately some groups have been trying to say that the stone is holy and that it must be used for prayer. So the scholars in Damascus got together to discuss the issue, and thus printed their findings that the stone was optional and not sacred. I love this tradition in Shia Islam of constantly checking and re-checking their beliefs and practices with true Islam. It feels very progressive and refreshing.
The next day we went to Sayyeda Zainab, the road to which wound us around some of the poorest places I have ever seen. There were piles and layers of trash on the street, the air was heavy with dust, and the alleys were crowded with people. At one point I looked out of the cab window to see a herd of sheep grazing in a trash-filled sandlot. I couldn’t believe that all this was leading up to what is supposed to be one of the most beautiful mosques in Damascus.
I still remember the smell as I clutched my Iranian style chador in one hand and my Target purse in the other. It was one of my favourite smells – the mixture of frankincense, myrrh, cardamom and other various spices usually found in the Persian Gulf. I waded into the women's half of the mosque amongst the sea of black chadors and was completely awestruck as I crossed the threshold. The huge square building was covered from the inside with elaborately arranged pieces of cut mirror. It was similar to the style of the Sayyeda Roqayya mosque, but on a much grander scale. The light reflecting off of the glass and mirrors magnified little spectrums of brilliant colors all over the walls.
Sayyeda Roqayya was in the old city, and the other, for Sayyeda Zainab was about a 30 minute drive away. Both are granddaughters of Mohammad. After the traditional international breakfast at my house Friday morning, my friend took me to Friday prayers at a mosque that holds the shrine of Roqayya. At the entrance of the mosque we separated. I was handed a sort of army green colored abaya to wear and exchanged my Tevas for a token at the shoe check-in. I continued barefoot through a small hallway into an inner courtyard where I met back up with him. There were families sitting, children playing, girls reading verses from the Quran, and even some others sleeping. About 20 minutes earlier this space had been filled with hundreds of worshipers bowing down to pray. Now that the main Friday prayers were finished, there was enough room to roam around.
We continued inside to another large central room, which is the main area of the mosque. It was incredibly ornate, with kaleidoscope-like ceilings of cut mirror. In the middle of the room was the shrine and a wall that split one side of the shrine from the other. We separated again- me to the womens side of the wall, and he to the mens. I found a spot on the ground in front of the tomb and sat down to take in my surroundings. The shrine was beautifully decorated with ornate metal designs and covered in colourful cloths that the worshippers had tossed on the top. There were also shiny, tinsely decorations and flags and flowers.
Women gathered around the shrine, clinging to its cage like exterior, some of them wailing, others chanting and singing. Around me women were talking quietly to one another, some reading the Quran, and others praying. The Iraqi lady in front of me turns around to ask me if I am from Lebanon. When I say no, that I am actually American, a few other ears perk up and I have a small audience. The Iraqi women and her friend continue talking to me, telling me that Islam is peace at least four or five times. Then the little old lady beside me tells me I have noor (light) in my face, and the others around her agree. We have the usual conversation about how great it is that I am learning about Islam, and about how much they love Americans but not our foreign policy. They encourage me to continue my Arabic study and to come see them again next week.On our way out of the mosque, the Afghani man who is guarding the door hands my friend a piece of paper that addresses (in English) a current debate in the Shia sect. The Islamic scholars of this mosque have issued a statement about the small flat stone that the Shia place their forehead on when they do the raqa which is when they bend over to pray. The story behind the use of this stone for prayer is essentially just to remind the one praying that they were formed from the earth and to humble themselves. It is not compulsory, but lately some groups have been trying to say that the stone is holy and that it must be used for prayer. So the scholars in Damascus got together to discuss the issue, and thus printed their findings that the stone was optional and not sacred. I love this tradition in Shia Islam of constantly checking and re-checking their beliefs and practices with true Islam. It feels very progressive and refreshing.
The next day we went to Sayyeda Zainab, the road to which wound us around some of the poorest places I have ever seen. There were piles and layers of trash on the street, the air was heavy with dust, and the alleys were crowded with people. At one point I looked out of the cab window to see a herd of sheep grazing in a trash-filled sandlot. I couldn’t believe that all this was leading up to what is supposed to be one of the most beautiful mosques in Damascus.
I still remember the smell as I clutched my Iranian style chador in one hand and my Target purse in the other. It was one of my favourite smells – the mixture of frankincense, myrrh, cardamom and other various spices usually found in the Persian Gulf. I waded into the women's half of the mosque amongst the sea of black chadors and was completely awestruck as I crossed the threshold. The huge square building was covered from the inside with elaborately arranged pieces of cut mirror. It was similar to the style of the Sayyeda Roqayya mosque, but on a much grander scale. The light reflecting off of the glass and mirrors magnified little spectrums of brilliant colors all over the walls.
Again I sat down on the floor, in a space just big enough for me to sit with my knees tucked under me. The room was completely packed with Iranians, Iraqis, Pakistanis and other Shias who had come to pay their respects to this great female leader and granddaughter of Mohammad. A lady trying to pass through the mass of people fell over me and onto someone praying, but neither one of them seemed to notice- the one continuing to pray and the other brushing herself off and continuing to the doorway. Yet amidst all the chaos, there was peace. It reminded me of how I always try to tell myself that to be considered a patient person, my patience has to be tested. Likewise, to be peaceful people we have to deal peacefully with chaos. And that is exactly what was happening. And it was beautiful.
* spelling and grammatical errors due to a strange Italian keyboard where I couldn't find some of the right keys.
Sunday, July 22, 2007
Suraat
Pictures from an engagement party in Syria
View from my window. Beautiful sunset over the Umayyad Mosque
Syrian coin and my little host sister
Thursday, July 12, 2007
Mektab Al-Hijra wa Jawazat : The Office of Immigration and Passports
Before 14 days after your arrival in Syria have passed, you must report to the Office of Immigration and Passports. My friend and I decided to go there together in hopes to team up with our Arabic and figure out what exactly we need to do since this office is known to be a bureaucratic nightmare. As we approach the building there are "Six-Flags stlyle" lines out front in the 100 degree weather. Luckily we find out that we have to go up to the third floor. We ascend the narrow stairwell, dodging kids, women fully covered in black, some scantily clad tourists and several groups of men who are congregating on the landing for a smoke break.
The third floor is complete chaos, and to be honest my stomach started churning with guilt. The room is full of Iraqi refugees who have fled to Syria trying to get the right documents and permits to stay here. The counter that extends the length of the room is really only suited for regular business, not to withstand the current refugee crisis that Syria is experiencing. To make matters worse, there is no que for the window and so everyone is sort of rushing the counter the way that a crowd pushes towards the stage at a concert. But we don't have to wade through the crowd yet. We are told to go make copies of our passports, three passport size pictures, a special stamp and come back to fill out our paperwork.
Luckily the stamp man down the street has copies of the paperwork that we can buy. We return to the office and sit on the stairs to fill out our paperwork. It's interesting and quite sad that way the colonialist period still leaves its mark on the countries of the Middle East. The papers were in Arabic on the right side and French on the left. (In Jordan and Kuwait there was always an Arabic/English option) Knowing know French and very little official Arabic, I was happy to have my Italian friend along who knew enough French to get us by.
We wade through the crowd to turn in the originial papers. Then we are given more. We fill them out and wade through again. The man behind the counter does some scribbling and stapling. Then tells us we need to take the papers upstairs. Upstairs consists of four rooms, and we have to ask an officer to direct us to where exactly we're supposed to go. He points us to the office of some important man who signs our documents and sends us back downstairs. We give the papers back to the same guy behind the counter, and somehow we're still not finished! He then points us to a room in a corner where we hand someone our passports and he tells us to wait for 5 minutes. Once we have our passports back we return yet again through the crowds to the window where we hand over our passports. The man says come back tomorrow and they will be ready.
"Are you kidding!?," I think to myself. "There must be about 200 people in this room right now and somehow they are going to find my passport again tomorrow!? Yea right!" But sure enough I return the next morning and the very same officer from the day before is there and pulls out all the American passports out of a file in a drawer and hands mine back to me. My Italian friend couldn't come with me, but she told me to see if I could get her passport back too. So I figure I'll try my luck and ask the officer if I could get hers as well. He asks for her full name, opens the drawer again, pulls hers out and hands it over to me! No questions asked! I couldn't believe it! I wasn't sure if I should be happy or horrified. I love Syria and all of it's nonsensical ways!
The third floor is complete chaos, and to be honest my stomach started churning with guilt. The room is full of Iraqi refugees who have fled to Syria trying to get the right documents and permits to stay here. The counter that extends the length of the room is really only suited for regular business, not to withstand the current refugee crisis that Syria is experiencing. To make matters worse, there is no que for the window and so everyone is sort of rushing the counter the way that a crowd pushes towards the stage at a concert. But we don't have to wade through the crowd yet. We are told to go make copies of our passports, three passport size pictures, a special stamp and come back to fill out our paperwork.
Luckily the stamp man down the street has copies of the paperwork that we can buy. We return to the office and sit on the stairs to fill out our paperwork. It's interesting and quite sad that way the colonialist period still leaves its mark on the countries of the Middle East. The papers were in Arabic on the right side and French on the left. (In Jordan and Kuwait there was always an Arabic/English option) Knowing know French and very little official Arabic, I was happy to have my Italian friend along who knew enough French to get us by.
We wade through the crowd to turn in the originial papers. Then we are given more. We fill them out and wade through again. The man behind the counter does some scribbling and stapling. Then tells us we need to take the papers upstairs. Upstairs consists of four rooms, and we have to ask an officer to direct us to where exactly we're supposed to go. He points us to the office of some important man who signs our documents and sends us back downstairs. We give the papers back to the same guy behind the counter, and somehow we're still not finished! He then points us to a room in a corner where we hand someone our passports and he tells us to wait for 5 minutes. Once we have our passports back we return yet again through the crowds to the window where we hand over our passports. The man says come back tomorrow and they will be ready.
"Are you kidding!?," I think to myself. "There must be about 200 people in this room right now and somehow they are going to find my passport again tomorrow!? Yea right!" But sure enough I return the next morning and the very same officer from the day before is there and pulls out all the American passports out of a file in a drawer and hands mine back to me. My Italian friend couldn't come with me, but she told me to see if I could get her passport back too. So I figure I'll try my luck and ask the officer if I could get hers as well. He asks for her full name, opens the drawer again, pulls hers out and hands it over to me! No questions asked! I couldn't believe it! I wasn't sure if I should be happy or horrified. I love Syria and all of it's nonsensical ways!
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
Da'iuf bSham - Guests in Syria
Fridays are important days at Um Zaheer's house. As if the two children, their parents, Um Zaheer and the seven foreigners aren't enough, every Friday there are at least 10 others who are invited to join us for breakfast. The family spends a good part of Thursday and all of Friday morning in the kitchen preparing a huge meal, which is usually gobbled up in about 30 minutes. This is all part of the oh so typical Arab hospitality, which never fails to amaze me.
Needless to say, after all that company, last Friday my Italian friend and I needed to escape. We pulled out a map, and knowing that we wouldn't have enough time to go far, found a city that looked within day-trip distance. It's called Ma'lula. I previously knew nothing about the city and my friend just knew that it is an old Christian village. Whipping out her Syrian guidebook (which is in French), we managed to decipher that there were monasteries there and some people still speak Aramaic. We agreed to go for it. Our host father told us where he thought we would be able to find a micro (a small public van) and warned us that the sun is very strong there and we should wear something on our heads.
We walk for about 20 minutes to a bus station (really more like a parking lot) where we hope to find a micro to Ma'lula or Sedniya, a nearby town. There are only a few buses on the lot and none of them are ours. We decide to grab some juice and ice cream while we're waiting from the shabby stand nearby. We ask the boy behind the window where we should wait for the bus to Ma'lula. "TeHt asShajarah, (under the tree)" he says. We sort of smirk at the unorganized way of doing things here, but sure enough, right under the tree awaits about 3 families, 3 huge cartons of eggs and some other odds and ends that people are taking back with them from Damascus.
About 15 minutes later we are piled onto a bus, second row from the back. Behind us are a man, his wife and their four children- packed in a space meant for three average sized adults so they only have to pay for three. We ride quietly for a while, and then I open the floodgates by asking the fully covered lady behind us what city we are passing. She responds in a very incoherent rural accent, but then continues by asking us the usual questions: Where are you from? Is this your first time in AsSham? What are you doing here? Are you with your family? The list goes on. So now we've established a connection. We talk briefly about the weather and their kids and Ma'lula.
As we were chatting I couldn't resist whipping out my new camera and snapping a picture of the scenic mountains and the trees that point straight up into the sky as if they are trying to puncture the clouds for the rain.
Needless to say, after all that company, last Friday my Italian friend and I needed to escape. We pulled out a map, and knowing that we wouldn't have enough time to go far, found a city that looked within day-trip distance. It's called Ma'lula. I previously knew nothing about the city and my friend just knew that it is an old Christian village. Whipping out her Syrian guidebook (which is in French), we managed to decipher that there were monasteries there and some people still speak Aramaic. We agreed to go for it. Our host father told us where he thought we would be able to find a micro (a small public van) and warned us that the sun is very strong there and we should wear something on our heads.
We walk for about 20 minutes to a bus station (really more like a parking lot) where we hope to find a micro to Ma'lula or Sedniya, a nearby town. There are only a few buses on the lot and none of them are ours. We decide to grab some juice and ice cream while we're waiting from the shabby stand nearby. We ask the boy behind the window where we should wait for the bus to Ma'lula. "TeHt asShajarah, (under the tree)" he says. We sort of smirk at the unorganized way of doing things here, but sure enough, right under the tree awaits about 3 families, 3 huge cartons of eggs and some other odds and ends that people are taking back with them from Damascus.
About 15 minutes later we are piled onto a bus, second row from the back. Behind us are a man, his wife and their four children- packed in a space meant for three average sized adults so they only have to pay for three. We ride quietly for a while, and then I open the floodgates by asking the fully covered lady behind us what city we are passing. She responds in a very incoherent rural accent, but then continues by asking us the usual questions: Where are you from? Is this your first time in AsSham? What are you doing here? Are you with your family? The list goes on. So now we've established a connection. We talk briefly about the weather and their kids and Ma'lula.
As we were chatting I couldn't resist whipping out my new camera and snapping a picture of the scenic mountains and the trees that point straight up into the sky as if they are trying to puncture the clouds for the rain.
"Bsouurna! (take a picture of us)," she says. I very willingly accepted. I love these opportunities to try to capture the real people here without invading their privacy. They all crowd around to see the picture in the viewer, thinking it's so amazing that you can see the picture right away.
About 20 minutes into the ride, everyone starts passing up the money to pay for their seats. The family behind us tells the people in front of us not to let us pay. They pass up money for us and themselves. "Antu da'iufna (you are our guests)," they say very matter-of-factly. I can't believe what's happening. I mean, I have experienced so much Arab hospitality during my times in Kuwait and Jordan, but here I am with my huge fancy digital SLR camera casually snapping away and this family we just met is offering up what is likely a good portion of their monthly income to treat us like guests. Wow. My mouth is just sort of hanging open in disbeleif. No amount of refusal on our part will get them to take our money. And we can't talk any sense into anyone else on the bus. They're all in on it. We are guests and should be treated as such.
If that isn't enough, once we arrive in Ma'lula, everyone on the bus insists that the driver drive up the steep hill to drop us off at the monestary and then return back down to where the normal stop is.
The next hour or so we spend wondering around the church and monestary, drinking cool spring water served by a nun from a tin cup on a chain that she lovingly dips into the well and serves to everyone passing by. The monestary is full of Christian tourists from Syria, Lebanon, Palestine and Jordan. Some are Catholic, others Greek Orthodox but they all have this very strong bond, as most minorities do. I overhear one conversation as two families introduce themselves: "We are Palestinian Christians from Lebanon," and "We are Palestinian Christians from Syria." The two fathers embrace each other and an immediate connection is formed between the wives, the children, the grandmothers.
About 20 minutes into the ride, everyone starts passing up the money to pay for their seats. The family behind us tells the people in front of us not to let us pay. They pass up money for us and themselves. "Antu da'iufna (you are our guests)," they say very matter-of-factly. I can't believe what's happening. I mean, I have experienced so much Arab hospitality during my times in Kuwait and Jordan, but here I am with my huge fancy digital SLR camera casually snapping away and this family we just met is offering up what is likely a good portion of their monthly income to treat us like guests. Wow. My mouth is just sort of hanging open in disbeleif. No amount of refusal on our part will get them to take our money. And we can't talk any sense into anyone else on the bus. They're all in on it. We are guests and should be treated as such.
If that isn't enough, once we arrive in Ma'lula, everyone on the bus insists that the driver drive up the steep hill to drop us off at the monestary and then return back down to where the normal stop is.
The next hour or so we spend wondering around the church and monestary, drinking cool spring water served by a nun from a tin cup on a chain that she lovingly dips into the well and serves to everyone passing by. The monestary is full of Christian tourists from Syria, Lebanon, Palestine and Jordan. Some are Catholic, others Greek Orthodox but they all have this very strong bond, as most minorities do. I overhear one conversation as two families introduce themselves: "We are Palestinian Christians from Lebanon," and "We are Palestinian Christians from Syria." The two fathers embrace each other and an immediate connection is formed between the wives, the children, the grandmothers.
We spend the rest of the day trekking through a ravine that leads to another monestary and wandering around the steep winding streets of the ancient city. I'm trying to keep my ears open for people speaking Aramaic, but to no avail. We pay the equivalent of 20 cents to use the bathroom, and I realize that between the potty and the ice cream I've only spent like 50 cents all day!
As we're heading back down the hill towards the bus, an old man with a sunburned nose wearing a kufiyah hobbles over to us and starts to play the question game.
"men wein antu? Furansi? (Where are you from? Are you French?)"
No, Italy and America.
"Antu maseHia? (Are you Christian?)"
Yes.
"Alhamdulilah!! (Praise God)"
Then he walks off. We chuckle to ourselves at such a random encounter, hop on the bus, and 50 cents and 40 minutes later we're back in Damasucs.
Thursday, July 5, 2007
4th of July- International Style
When living as an expat, holidays become 10 times more important than at home. I decided that we should still have a Fourth of July BBQ in Syrian style with all of our international friends! My host father took me and a friend around the morning of the fourth to the Souq for veggies and meat. At the open air vegetable stand we got 8 green bell peppers, 12 potatos, nearly 20 onions, 8 potatos and 10 cucumbers for the equivalent of about $7 US.
A few shops down was the chicken. It's a small "hole-in-the-wall" type place that basically has a display case of the meat you can buy, and a fridge under it where they keep the meat. There are 3 options for chicken: legs, breasts with bones or breasts without bones. Being the spineless Americans that we are, we went for the breasts without bones. A chicken "breast" here is actually both halves of the breast, so it's much bigger than back home. I think we ended up getting at least 10 of those.
Next was the coal and the kharouf (sheep) meat. It's funny because there are a billion little shops here that sell exactly the same thing. Choosing between one or the other doesn't have anything to do with quality or service though, you just go to the shop of whoever you know. For example, my host dad was taking us to his friend's store that had coal, but they were closed so we went to the place next door. Then for the kharouf we went to a shop that he's gone to since he was a little kid. Again there was the display case with the hanging sheep carcus and the fridge of meat below. He cut all the meat off of the bones and pushed it through grinder that sort of gave it the shape of raw hamburger meat like we have in the states.
We slaved away all day in my friend's tiny little kitchen, save for the 5 separate trips we made to get eggs, mayo (twice), skewers for kabobs, and more olive oil. Our shopkeeper friends on the street were really nice, telling us where to go and giving us the Arabic name when needed. It was funny when I was trying to find skewers since I didn't know the name I had to describe it in Arabic like "ya know the thing that you put the meat on when you want to BBQ it?" One of the carpet shopkeepers, Ibraham, took us all the way to the Souq Al-Hamidiya to find the Siyakh Lehme (skewers).
Our party was planned for 7, but around 6:15 we realized we didn't know how to light the coals. There is no lighter fluid to be found. My host dad came to the rescue again, rigging up this contraption on the grill. The grill is basically this small little stand, and then he got a metal cylinder from somewhere and kept putting coal down it and somehow created fire. I can't possibly describe it withouht a picture, it was just too inventive!
We roasted the kabobs with onions and peppers, occupanied with my potato salad, Afghani salad and good ol' sweet tea! My American friends teased me about the obvious southern influence on the meal. There were also four Brits who celebrated the "loss of a colony" and teasingly complained of the mochary we have made of the fine British tradition of tea drinking. We were also joined by a couple Syrians and a Spaniard. There were no American flags to be found, so we settled for a Hezbollah flag and sang parts of "My Country Tis of Thee," which the Brits swore was to the tune of their national anthem.
There were no fireworks, or pledges or American flags, but the jovial spirit, good food and new friends weakened the longing for home and familiarity on Independence Day.
A few shops down was the chicken. It's a small "hole-in-the-wall" type place that basically has a display case of the meat you can buy, and a fridge under it where they keep the meat. There are 3 options for chicken: legs, breasts with bones or breasts without bones. Being the spineless Americans that we are, we went for the breasts without bones. A chicken "breast" here is actually both halves of the breast, so it's much bigger than back home. I think we ended up getting at least 10 of those.
Next was the coal and the kharouf (sheep) meat. It's funny because there are a billion little shops here that sell exactly the same thing. Choosing between one or the other doesn't have anything to do with quality or service though, you just go to the shop of whoever you know. For example, my host dad was taking us to his friend's store that had coal, but they were closed so we went to the place next door. Then for the kharouf we went to a shop that he's gone to since he was a little kid. Again there was the display case with the hanging sheep carcus and the fridge of meat below. He cut all the meat off of the bones and pushed it through grinder that sort of gave it the shape of raw hamburger meat like we have in the states.
We slaved away all day in my friend's tiny little kitchen, save for the 5 separate trips we made to get eggs, mayo (twice), skewers for kabobs, and more olive oil. Our shopkeeper friends on the street were really nice, telling us where to go and giving us the Arabic name when needed. It was funny when I was trying to find skewers since I didn't know the name I had to describe it in Arabic like "ya know the thing that you put the meat on when you want to BBQ it?" One of the carpet shopkeepers, Ibraham, took us all the way to the Souq Al-Hamidiya to find the Siyakh Lehme (skewers).
Our party was planned for 7, but around 6:15 we realized we didn't know how to light the coals. There is no lighter fluid to be found. My host dad came to the rescue again, rigging up this contraption on the grill. The grill is basically this small little stand, and then he got a metal cylinder from somewhere and kept putting coal down it and somehow created fire. I can't possibly describe it withouht a picture, it was just too inventive!
We roasted the kabobs with onions and peppers, occupanied with my potato salad, Afghani salad and good ol' sweet tea! My American friends teased me about the obvious southern influence on the meal. There were also four Brits who celebrated the "loss of a colony" and teasingly complained of the mochary we have made of the fine British tradition of tea drinking. We were also joined by a couple Syrians and a Spaniard. There were no American flags to be found, so we settled for a Hezbollah flag and sang parts of "My Country Tis of Thee," which the Brits swore was to the tune of their national anthem.
There were no fireworks, or pledges or American flags, but the jovial spirit, good food and new friends weakened the longing for home and familiarity on Independence Day.
Friday, June 29, 2007
Buyout AsSham - Houses of Damascus
The houses of Syria are, in a word, amazing. There are alleyways throughout the old city and then very ornate doors that lead inside. Sometimes this leads directly into the courtyard of the house and sometimes it leads into another alley.
This picture on the left is of the second floor looking down from the my window on the third floor. The bathroom is on the left, and at the top of the picture is the trees coming up from the courtyard. The rooms all surround this open courtyard and there are terraces on every level.
Everywhere you look there is greenery. Vines climbing up the houses, potted plants on every step, trees growing right through the middle of the courtyard, and yesterday I even saw a house that had grapes randomly growing.
Last night there was a music festival at these huge beautiful homes all around the city. I went with my friend and her parents, who are originally from here to five different houses to hear old Arabic music with Ouds and other instruments whose names I don't know. How it worked was there were like 3 different bands assigned to each house, so someone was always playing. The crowds just moved from home to home to hear all the different ones.
** After all my comments about how lovely the houses are and how much I love the open courtyards in the middle, as I was sitting in the courtyard with my host family last night beneath a tree, a bird decided to release droppings all over my hair and shirt. I suppose there are downsides to the openness.
Thursday, June 28, 2007
Cell phones
Everyone in the Arab World has a cell phone or two or three. Some people switch them out to coordinate with their outfits or their mood. You can't live without one. In some cases they have bypassed landlines and just use cell phones (here we call them "mobiles"). At any rate, I survived in Kuwait for a week without one, but it was on my priority list to go and purchase one yesterday.
My friend that I stayed with lives with only her mom, and they said I should wait until I was with a man to buy a phone because the women don't really know anything about them. So when my guy friend came to show me around and help me find a place to live, he also took me around to cell phone stores. These stores are actually more like booths where they keep models of the phone and try to get you to pay more than you should. If you like a phone, they call some number and have a person bring it. This could take 30 minutes to an hour.
When I found my phone - of course the cheapest one available- they insisted that I leave my money with them and come back in an hour to pick it up. They also needed a copy of my passport and entrance visa. Ok, I thought. This isn't America, this is Syria and I can trust them with my money. I pay the guy my money and leave to go look for a house. An hour later we return. No guy. Door locked. I almost get upset but I calm down by reminding myself that people do go to lunch and things do come up, so we'll try back later. Two more tries back later and the guy has come back and I get my phone! alhamdulilah!
My friend that I stayed with lives with only her mom, and they said I should wait until I was with a man to buy a phone because the women don't really know anything about them. So when my guy friend came to show me around and help me find a place to live, he also took me around to cell phone stores. These stores are actually more like booths where they keep models of the phone and try to get you to pay more than you should. If you like a phone, they call some number and have a person bring it. This could take 30 minutes to an hour.
When I found my phone - of course the cheapest one available- they insisted that I leave my money with them and come back in an hour to pick it up. They also needed a copy of my passport and entrance visa. Ok, I thought. This isn't America, this is Syria and I can trust them with my money. I pay the guy my money and leave to go look for a house. An hour later we return. No guy. Door locked. I almost get upset but I calm down by reminding myself that people do go to lunch and things do come up, so we'll try back later. Two more tries back later and the guy has come back and I get my phone! alhamdulilah!
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
Fursa Sai'da - Happy Chance
There are so many wonderful phrases in Arabic that one can't fully grasp until they experience them in the Middle East. The first and most important phrase is of course inshallah (God willing). Whenever you make plans or say you will do this or that, inshallah always follows. The second phrase I want to mention today is fursa sai'da (happy chance).
Yesterday a friend in Kuwait told me she would be taking me to the airport. First I went out with my "abaya friends" from the wedding to the all women's brunch at the Kuwait Towers and I was planning to go home and get ready for the other friend to come. I called and called. No answer. Luckily, my "abaya friends" being the sweet Kuwaitis they are offered to take me to the airport instead. I wasn't upset about it. It just wasn't inshallah!
We arrive at the airport check in my one allowed bag of 40lbs and are off to sit in Starbucks and chat for a while before I have to go in. Right when I'm about to go through the first security checkpoint we see the sister and cousin of the bride from the wedding a week ago. The cousin and I had chatted and she mentioned she was going to Damascus, but I didn't ask when. As it turns out she was going on the same plane as me! What a fursa sai'da! Two minor issues with my carry-on and my visa were solved and then I was on the plane to AsSham!
Watching out my window I saw 12 strollers being loaded onto the plane before I stopped counting. Yes, this is also a good indication of the noise level. --quick sidenote-- the guy sitting beside me just lit the 2nd cigarette in 10 minutes!-- The atmosphere on the plane was really exciting. People were so happy to be going back, and the children were SO cute the way they said Suriyya.
Next thing I know I'm standing at the customs/border control counter sweating like crazy. I handed the officers my passport, and they let me just stand there and they were making me so nervous flipping through and thoroughly checking it for anything suspicious (even though I already had a visa). They were so intimidating!
I meet up with my friend at the baggage claim and she insisted that I go back with her family and stay with them for a night. My previous plan was to get a taxi and just try to find a hotel from the hotel names I had previously written down. I took my friend up on her offer. We went back to her house, talked with her family a LONG time, and had dinner out on their veranda at midnight. They asked me a zillion questions and I had to try my best to answer them in Arabic and convey the exact meaning I wanted since they spoke very very little Arabic. At 1:30 everyone finally left and we slept. Another long day!
8:00, 9:00, 10:30, 12:00, 12:30 and I finally decide that I need to get up and out of the bed. I need to find a hotel, a room in a house, and buy a phone. We sit down with the phone book, which is just like ours, except in Arabic of course. We call every single hotel in the book under three starts. Feesh gharafa. No rooms. My friend and her mom and I keep blinking hard and looking back and forth at each other silently and try some four stars. Feesh gharafa. Finally the Sultan hotel says they have a room. alhamdulilah! (another useful phrase meaning "Praise God!")
By three my things are in the room and I've met up with a friend of a friend of a friend who is a Palestinan American Fulbrighter and has agreed to show me around the old city and help me get a phone and an apartment... inshallah.
We casually stroll through Souq Al-Hamidiya and the Umayyad Mosque and all the way to Bab Touma which is in the "Christian Quarter" and the area where he was staying. This was a safe bet he was saying. If I liked the place then I could probably just take his room. The old city is set up in long corridors. Then there are doors to other corridors and also to homes. We open the door to his house and it leads down a small hallway into a courtyard surrounded by rooms. The rooms aren't connected to each other, so to go from one to the other you have to cross the outdoor courtyard. It is beautiful. I love it. Unfortunately the family has already arranged for someone to take his place. On to plan B.
I am starting to feel really small, realizing that my life is no consequence. Here I am walking around the oldest inhabited city in the world trying to find a place to call my home for three months. There are so many foreigners here learning Arabic. They're all staying for 3 months or 7 months or a year, all vyying for a piece of Damascus, but when they leave the city will forget them. The host families will take in more students and rain will wash away their footprints.
My friend suggest we go and see Um Zaheer. Someone at the hotel already mentioned I should find her, so by now I'm getting the idea that she is like the "big momma" of Damascus- sort of like a South American drug lord, only she deals with foreign students not drugs. So we head to Umm Zaheer's house. She's a nice but tough little old lady and her daughter and grandchildren live with her. Her house is in the old Syrian style with the courtyard in the middle, but it is two stories so there are stairs in the courtyard leading up to rooms that she rents to students. Um Zaheer invites us to sit. She looks me up and down as the runs through the formalities. She says that everyone she knows has rented their rooms out. Then she sits thinking for about 5 minutes while I sit awkwardly wondering what she is about to say. She turns to me talata shahur? 3 months? tayyib, andi ghorfa kibeera fouq. I have a big room for you upstairs. YES! She goes on to say that I'm not like the other girls who come, and I shouldn't be staying in Bab Touma because those foreigners have a bad reputation. Since I am a nice girl, conservatively dressed, I can stay with her for $150 a month. alhamdulilah! fursa sai'ida!!
Yesterday a friend in Kuwait told me she would be taking me to the airport. First I went out with my "abaya friends" from the wedding to the all women's brunch at the Kuwait Towers and I was planning to go home and get ready for the other friend to come. I called and called. No answer. Luckily, my "abaya friends" being the sweet Kuwaitis they are offered to take me to the airport instead. I wasn't upset about it. It just wasn't inshallah!
We arrive at the airport check in my one allowed bag of 40lbs and are off to sit in Starbucks and chat for a while before I have to go in. Right when I'm about to go through the first security checkpoint we see the sister and cousin of the bride from the wedding a week ago. The cousin and I had chatted and she mentioned she was going to Damascus, but I didn't ask when. As it turns out she was going on the same plane as me! What a fursa sai'da! Two minor issues with my carry-on and my visa were solved and then I was on the plane to AsSham!
Watching out my window I saw 12 strollers being loaded onto the plane before I stopped counting. Yes, this is also a good indication of the noise level. --quick sidenote-- the guy sitting beside me just lit the 2nd cigarette in 10 minutes!-- The atmosphere on the plane was really exciting. People were so happy to be going back, and the children were SO cute the way they said Suriyya.
Next thing I know I'm standing at the customs/border control counter sweating like crazy. I handed the officers my passport, and they let me just stand there and they were making me so nervous flipping through and thoroughly checking it for anything suspicious (even though I already had a visa). They were so intimidating!
I meet up with my friend at the baggage claim and she insisted that I go back with her family and stay with them for a night. My previous plan was to get a taxi and just try to find a hotel from the hotel names I had previously written down. I took my friend up on her offer. We went back to her house, talked with her family a LONG time, and had dinner out on their veranda at midnight. They asked me a zillion questions and I had to try my best to answer them in Arabic and convey the exact meaning I wanted since they spoke very very little Arabic. At 1:30 everyone finally left and we slept. Another long day!
8:00, 9:00, 10:30, 12:00, 12:30 and I finally decide that I need to get up and out of the bed. I need to find a hotel, a room in a house, and buy a phone. We sit down with the phone book, which is just like ours, except in Arabic of course. We call every single hotel in the book under three starts. Feesh gharafa. No rooms. My friend and her mom and I keep blinking hard and looking back and forth at each other silently and try some four stars. Feesh gharafa. Finally the Sultan hotel says they have a room. alhamdulilah! (another useful phrase meaning "Praise God!")
By three my things are in the room and I've met up with a friend of a friend of a friend who is a Palestinan American Fulbrighter and has agreed to show me around the old city and help me get a phone and an apartment... inshallah.
We casually stroll through Souq Al-Hamidiya and the Umayyad Mosque and all the way to Bab Touma which is in the "Christian Quarter" and the area where he was staying. This was a safe bet he was saying. If I liked the place then I could probably just take his room. The old city is set up in long corridors. Then there are doors to other corridors and also to homes. We open the door to his house and it leads down a small hallway into a courtyard surrounded by rooms. The rooms aren't connected to each other, so to go from one to the other you have to cross the outdoor courtyard. It is beautiful. I love it. Unfortunately the family has already arranged for someone to take his place. On to plan B.
I am starting to feel really small, realizing that my life is no consequence. Here I am walking around the oldest inhabited city in the world trying to find a place to call my home for three months. There are so many foreigners here learning Arabic. They're all staying for 3 months or 7 months or a year, all vyying for a piece of Damascus, but when they leave the city will forget them. The host families will take in more students and rain will wash away their footprints.
My friend suggest we go and see Um Zaheer. Someone at the hotel already mentioned I should find her, so by now I'm getting the idea that she is like the "big momma" of Damascus- sort of like a South American drug lord, only she deals with foreign students not drugs. So we head to Umm Zaheer's house. She's a nice but tough little old lady and her daughter and grandchildren live with her. Her house is in the old Syrian style with the courtyard in the middle, but it is two stories so there are stairs in the courtyard leading up to rooms that she rents to students. Um Zaheer invites us to sit. She looks me up and down as the runs through the formalities. She says that everyone she knows has rented their rooms out. Then she sits thinking for about 5 minutes while I sit awkwardly wondering what she is about to say. She turns to me talata shahur? 3 months? tayyib, andi ghorfa kibeera fouq. I have a big room for you upstairs. YES! She goes on to say that I'm not like the other girls who come, and I shouldn't be staying in Bab Touma because those foreigners have a bad reputation. Since I am a nice girl, conservatively dressed, I can stay with her for $150 a month. alhamdulilah! fursa sai'ida!!
Sunday, June 24, 2007
Wajbat
I love the way the sound of the azan (call to prayer) welcomes me every time I visit the Middle East. Upon my first encounter, the sound rising louder and louder in a low eerie pitch gave me the feeling that I was in a haunted desolate ghost town. Now, my perception has changed -it is a welcoming gesture, one that reminds me of the beauty and spirit of the region. It doesn't wake me up anymore, more often I stay up to hear it.
I slept three hours my first night here. Any hopes of sleeping were dashed with the excitement of my first day in Kuwait and worries that I wouldn't wake up on time. I've come to realize that my body has a pretty good internal clock when it's really worried about oversleeping. And I didn't have a minute to lose!
At the wedding I had made plans to go to breakfast with some of the girls. When they ask if they could take me out for lunch or dinner and I politely turned them down because I already had plans for both meals, they insisted that they take me to breakfast at 8:30 (which really means 9:30) since my teacher was picking me up for lunch at 1.
The girls called up to the apartment and I headed down to the car. The girl driving brought her little brother along, and I wasn't quite sure if he was supposed to be our "male gaurdian" or if she was just trying to be sweet and bring him along. One of the girls announces that we are going to The Avenues for breakfast. The Avenues is the new rage in Kuwait- an atrociously huge mall that was just recently built with shiny sqweaky floors and a Starbucks everywhere you turn. Honestly I wasn't the least bit surprised. The cross-cultural fascination certainly goes both ways. At least I was able to persuade them to have breakfast at the Lebanese restauraunt in the food court!
A couple girls met up with us at the restauraunt, neither of which I recognized fully clothed. I was only able to identify them once they said, "she was the one wearing the green dresss" or something to that affect. I really need to start paying more attention to people's eyes.
Both before and after breakfast we participated in a widely practiced Arab ritual: the walk around the mall. It totally baffles me how many people go to malls here. Every time I've been it's taken at least 20 minutes to find a parking spot. And for what? People don't really go to the mall to shop. They're there to check out everybody else and chat with friends and to window shop. An occasional purchase will be made, but mostly people buy some sort of fruit drink and sit at a restauraunt watching people pass. The girls kept commenting and laughing at how everyone was staring at me because I was walking around with four other girls who were wearing the black abaya and hijab. We even heard someone say that I was Russian (which is NOT a good nationality to be in the Middle East).
For lunch my teacher picked me up and started driving, without giving mention of where we were going or asking if I had any preferences. I recognized the road we were on because I had just gone that way earlier. Out of curiousity I ask him where we were going. His reply: "Well I thought I'd do something quintessentially Kuwaiti and take you to The Avenues." I kind of smirked and told him that's where I'd been earlier that morning. "Wow," he says "I guess I'm more dead on than I thought!"
Needless to say, I didn't have my first real Kuwaiti meal (which was actually more Iranian) until that night when the Fulbrighters and some embassy folks went over to the house of a family member of one of the current Fulbrighters who had invited us for dinner. There was a chicken dish, rice with currents, tabouleh (my personal favorite), a spinachy keeshy type dish, and a few other things I'm now forgetting.
I don't remember the last time I've had three full meals in a day. I slept well the second night.
Thursday, June 21, 2007
last night gave new meaning to "hit the ground running"
A very fashionable 2 1/2 hours late in typical Kuwaiti style, and my plane has finally arrived. Time- nearly 7:30pm. The plane doors open and all the passengers wade towards the front eager to get out. A strong gust of desert wind greets us at the door, but it's not a cool breeze. Nope, the temperature is a little over 100 degrees. It's exatly the same sensation as opening the oven door to retrieve a cake in the middle of winter, only it's not an oven- it's a country! Ahlan wa sahlan! Welcome to Kuwait!
After I make it through the visa que and the baggage claim, with an East Asian man who insists on pushing my luggage on the little trolley, I enter the arrivals area where there are like a billion people waiting to pick up their friends and family. (I later learned 7 flights had arrived at nearly the same time) My friends came running up to me, one of which I hadn't seen since I was here two years ago, and I was so excited that I forgot all about my luggage! The man had kept walking thinking that I was behind him, so one of my friends had to go and track him down amidst the crowd.
Shortly thereafter we're on the airport road headed into Kuwait City, my friends yapping in their Khaliji [Gulfi] dialect and I'm trying to keep up... ok mush kitha is now mu chitha and 'ulu is gulu... did she just say dagigatain!? wow... ok... check. I'm also desparately trying to remember to add "ch" to the end of feminine possessive nouns rather than the regular old "k" so I don't offend anyone by addressing them like they are men. AH! Ba7ebak ya Kuwait!
My friends drop me off at another friend's apartment where I'm staying, and one pleads with me to please stay at her house some of the time I'm here. I take all my bags up (alhamdulilah they have elevators in Kuwait). I drop everything off in my room and consult with my friends on whether or not I should still try to make it to a wedding that I am already about 3 hours late for. I decide to go. After all, in Kuwait, 3 hours late could mean you're early!
A 30 minute cab ride later and the mother of a friend of the bride is behind our cab flashing her lights to let me know she's there to pick me up. I hop into the Mercedes and notice she's wearing a niqab (a form of head covering that only had slits for the eyes). She doesn't speak much English. This could get interesting. As we're driving to the reception sight, she warns me that this wedding isn't a typical "Kuwaiti wedding" - it's "bedoui" (bedouin). I couldn't help but smirk thinking about how this very bedoui looking lady is making sure that I understand most Kuwaitis have more posh weddings. She also mentions that she doesn't usually wear "this thing on [her] face," but she put on make-up so no one should see it (in public).
We arrive at the a'rs and I am definately not blending in well. I'm the only person over the age of 15 who is not wearing an abaya (traditional long black robe and headscarf) and among the few who are not wearing the niqab. The party is held in a snazzy reception hall. The men's party was upstairs and was finishing up by the time I got there, but the women were still going strong downstairs. For the first little while, the bride and the groom were still receiving guests up on a stage where they were seated. All of the family members of course had to walk by, shake hands and tell them mabrook. The daughter of the woman who came to pick me up tells me that I shouldn't go up there because Saddam, the groom can't shake my hand. She does however position me perfectly so that I can see the pair as they leave. As they're walking out, the bride's sister catches sight of me (although she's never seen me before... gee I wonder how she figured out it was me?) and pulls me upstairs so I can take a picture with the bride before she leaves. Some random lady (I think one of the camerawomen) jumps in the picture too and clings to me as if I'm a dear old friend. I can't imagine what kind of face I'm making in that picture...
So after the couple leaves, then the party realy gets started. The women all shed their abayas and hijabs to reveal positively gorgeous dresses, the most done-up hair I've ever seen and the make-up.... wow. Many of the ladies have "whitening cream" on their faces, which is lathered on so thick it might as well be white paint. Clearly all of the women in the bride's family have gone to the same make-up artist because on top of the white faces, their eyeliner is probably about a quarter of an inch thick! Everyone has beautiful shimmering eyelids in bright greens, oranges, blues, yellows and pinks (all depending on what color their dresses are of course). Needless to say, I didn't quite measure up with my "just off the plane" look. Most of the people there sort of stared at me for a minute smiling and would come over and introduce themselves. I was happy to be able to use my Arabic, and I have no idea how many time I heard "mashallah anti teHki Arabi aHsan menni!"
Then the dancing begins. Oh, khaliji dancing! I can't do it at all, but I sure did try. It's basically a very intricate scoot kind of swaying from side to side. And then there's the hair! Most everyone's hair is long (one lady's was down to her calves!) and they swish that from side to side too. It was so cute to see the little girls imitating the older ones. The only time when I sort of held my ground on the dance floor was during the couple shami (Levant- Jordan, Syria, Lebanon, Palestine) music came on. Everyone was really sweet to me though, dancing with me and trying to show me some moves.
Around 1:30 the party was over and this little group of girls I am with decides that we should all go to the 24hr McDonalds (even though there was TONS of Arabic food at the party which no one my age touched). We pile into two cars with the niqab-clad mom's driving, and I quickly learn that the McDonalds drive through has a very specific procedure. To avoid waiting with two cars, one car takes the order of the other car. Then when you pull up to order (at a window- and in English) it's someone from the back seat who orders if the driver is an older married woman. The girl who was basically in charge of me for the night flips part of her headscarf over her face to order because she's wearing a lot of make-up. It was quite entertaining to watch the Philippino man at the window take an order from basically a black sheet. Once we get our food we pull around to the other car waiting for us in the lot and pass along their orders through the window. We all just sit there and eat laughing and yelling across to the other car. I wonder whether this is a typical 2am outing for the girls.
Finally, around 2:30 were making our way back to my friend's apartment in Salmiya and I'm really hoping that I'll be able to recognize anything that would give away her street. I remember the Kuwait-Bahrain Bank sign that I saw on the way to catch a cab earlier, and luckily I'm right. 3:15 and I'm in my bed tuning in to a Kuwaiti radio station with the cool international radio my granfather gave me before I left. I hear the azan (call to prayer) and it's time to sleep. Whew! What an eventful beginning!
After I make it through the visa que and the baggage claim, with an East Asian man who insists on pushing my luggage on the little trolley, I enter the arrivals area where there are like a billion people waiting to pick up their friends and family. (I later learned 7 flights had arrived at nearly the same time) My friends came running up to me, one of which I hadn't seen since I was here two years ago, and I was so excited that I forgot all about my luggage! The man had kept walking thinking that I was behind him, so one of my friends had to go and track him down amidst the crowd.
Shortly thereafter we're on the airport road headed into Kuwait City, my friends yapping in their Khaliji [Gulfi] dialect and I'm trying to keep up... ok mush kitha is now mu chitha and 'ulu is gulu... did she just say dagigatain!? wow... ok... check. I'm also desparately trying to remember to add "ch" to the end of feminine possessive nouns rather than the regular old "k" so I don't offend anyone by addressing them like they are men. AH! Ba7ebak ya Kuwait!
My friends drop me off at another friend's apartment where I'm staying, and one pleads with me to please stay at her house some of the time I'm here. I take all my bags up (alhamdulilah they have elevators in Kuwait). I drop everything off in my room and consult with my friends on whether or not I should still try to make it to a wedding that I am already about 3 hours late for. I decide to go. After all, in Kuwait, 3 hours late could mean you're early!
A 30 minute cab ride later and the mother of a friend of the bride is behind our cab flashing her lights to let me know she's there to pick me up. I hop into the Mercedes and notice she's wearing a niqab (a form of head covering that only had slits for the eyes). She doesn't speak much English. This could get interesting. As we're driving to the reception sight, she warns me that this wedding isn't a typical "Kuwaiti wedding" - it's "bedoui" (bedouin). I couldn't help but smirk thinking about how this very bedoui looking lady is making sure that I understand most Kuwaitis have more posh weddings. She also mentions that she doesn't usually wear "this thing on [her] face," but she put on make-up so no one should see it (in public).
We arrive at the a'rs and I am definately not blending in well. I'm the only person over the age of 15 who is not wearing an abaya (traditional long black robe and headscarf) and among the few who are not wearing the niqab. The party is held in a snazzy reception hall. The men's party was upstairs and was finishing up by the time I got there, but the women were still going strong downstairs. For the first little while, the bride and the groom were still receiving guests up on a stage where they were seated. All of the family members of course had to walk by, shake hands and tell them mabrook. The daughter of the woman who came to pick me up tells me that I shouldn't go up there because Saddam, the groom can't shake my hand. She does however position me perfectly so that I can see the pair as they leave. As they're walking out, the bride's sister catches sight of me (although she's never seen me before... gee I wonder how she figured out it was me?) and pulls me upstairs so I can take a picture with the bride before she leaves. Some random lady (I think one of the camerawomen) jumps in the picture too and clings to me as if I'm a dear old friend. I can't imagine what kind of face I'm making in that picture...
So after the couple leaves, then the party realy gets started. The women all shed their abayas and hijabs to reveal positively gorgeous dresses, the most done-up hair I've ever seen and the make-up.... wow. Many of the ladies have "whitening cream" on their faces, which is lathered on so thick it might as well be white paint. Clearly all of the women in the bride's family have gone to the same make-up artist because on top of the white faces, their eyeliner is probably about a quarter of an inch thick! Everyone has beautiful shimmering eyelids in bright greens, oranges, blues, yellows and pinks (all depending on what color their dresses are of course). Needless to say, I didn't quite measure up with my "just off the plane" look. Most of the people there sort of stared at me for a minute smiling and would come over and introduce themselves. I was happy to be able to use my Arabic, and I have no idea how many time I heard "mashallah anti teHki Arabi aHsan menni!"
Then the dancing begins. Oh, khaliji dancing! I can't do it at all, but I sure did try. It's basically a very intricate scoot kind of swaying from side to side. And then there's the hair! Most everyone's hair is long (one lady's was down to her calves!) and they swish that from side to side too. It was so cute to see the little girls imitating the older ones. The only time when I sort of held my ground on the dance floor was during the couple shami (Levant- Jordan, Syria, Lebanon, Palestine) music came on. Everyone was really sweet to me though, dancing with me and trying to show me some moves.
Around 1:30 the party was over and this little group of girls I am with decides that we should all go to the 24hr McDonalds (even though there was TONS of Arabic food at the party which no one my age touched). We pile into two cars with the niqab-clad mom's driving, and I quickly learn that the McDonalds drive through has a very specific procedure. To avoid waiting with two cars, one car takes the order of the other car. Then when you pull up to order (at a window- and in English) it's someone from the back seat who orders if the driver is an older married woman. The girl who was basically in charge of me for the night flips part of her headscarf over her face to order because she's wearing a lot of make-up. It was quite entertaining to watch the Philippino man at the window take an order from basically a black sheet. Once we get our food we pull around to the other car waiting for us in the lot and pass along their orders through the window. We all just sit there and eat laughing and yelling across to the other car. I wonder whether this is a typical 2am outing for the girls.
Finally, around 2:30 were making our way back to my friend's apartment in Salmiya and I'm really hoping that I'll be able to recognize anything that would give away her street. I remember the Kuwait-Bahrain Bank sign that I saw on the way to catch a cab earlier, and luckily I'm right. 3:15 and I'm in my bed tuning in to a Kuwaiti radio station with the cool international radio my granfather gave me before I left. I hear the azan (call to prayer) and it's time to sleep. Whew! What an eventful beginning!
Tuesday, June 5, 2007
preparations
at the risk of sounding terribly cliche, i am on the road to damascus. syria was never a spectacle of wonder for me. while i was in jordan everyone was talking about how much they wanted to go to syria and i never really caught the bug. but now, over a year later, syria has come to represent so much.
trying to quell my expectations prior to my departure has been difficult. damascus is the oldest inhabited city in the world and was an important center of learning throughout the ages. then of course there are syrian people, which i believe to be some of the friendliest people on the earth! i know my time in damascus will be well spent, but i am trying to be careful not to enter with expectations of what it will be like.
i feel lucky to have jordan under my belt so that i can go into damascus more prepared. i feel more confident in my abilities to only speak in arabic to people, and to venture away from the westerners. i am now better able to live with a family. i know that i want to travel around and see the country, and spend much more time getting to know people and the language.
_____________________________________________________________
the traditional word for the region of the Levant (syria, jordan, lebanon, palestine) prior to the modern nation-state is bilad assham which literally means countries of assham. people often refer to damascus (dimashq) and syria in general as assham.
trying to quell my expectations prior to my departure has been difficult. damascus is the oldest inhabited city in the world and was an important center of learning throughout the ages. then of course there are syrian people, which i believe to be some of the friendliest people on the earth! i know my time in damascus will be well spent, but i am trying to be careful not to enter with expectations of what it will be like.
i feel lucky to have jordan under my belt so that i can go into damascus more prepared. i feel more confident in my abilities to only speak in arabic to people, and to venture away from the westerners. i am now better able to live with a family. i know that i want to travel around and see the country, and spend much more time getting to know people and the language.
_____________________________________________________________
the traditional word for the region of the Levant (syria, jordan, lebanon, palestine) prior to the modern nation-state is bilad assham which literally means countries of assham. people often refer to damascus (dimashq) and syria in general as assham.
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