Dimashq #1: A Long Time Coming

WHERE TO BEGIN?—A COLLAGE
August 6th, 2010
It has been nearly three weeks since I set out from my homeland. I remember the day it all began, which I would say well represents how I’ve been living my life of late: ride into New York City with pop on his way to work, sit at the bar at the restaurant where pop works, speaking excitedly with ancient soul friend Emanuel, who had just returned from 5 & ½ months in Syria and the general Middle East. We were close and comradely, and we sipped coffee as our minds melded totally like Spock used to do on Star Trek. He told me of his home in the Old City of Damascus, the dialect his ears experienced on the streets of that timeless capital, and his deeply committed study habits at the University there. After I exhausted probing questions and artful comments and we were out of time, we departed from the restaurant, said our goodbyes with profound hugs, and I ran off to the home of an Iraqi journalist recently turned Brooklynite mom, tried to learn a bit of her native dialect, and picked up some aftershave and cash to run to her refugee brother living in Damascus. Walked from there through the incredible heat which I believed to be a preview of Syria, through Prospect Park, got lost, and made a terribly long, painful journey by foot to a bar in Park Slope, where I met strange friend Ian of blond hair and intensely monotone voice. Then we joined dearest friends Jason, of Jimi Hendrix style and over the top ‘70s jive language, and Sherlly, of cornrows, afro, thoughtful speech, and brilliance. It was a fine crew, but we were only able to remain together for less that ten minutes, squeezed tightly into the bar, watching the Spanish team teach the Dutch team a lesson in the World Cup final, before pop came through in sport jacket with car to spirit me away. Brownstones turned into wood clapboard rowhouses and factory shells which turned to rim-of-New York-tiny-homes-with-gardens suburbs, then the airport. Now boarding. Night. Air. Unconsciousness. Awoke in Reykjavik, Iceland, where, for the first time in all my voyaging, I was blank. I knew no Icelandic, nothing of the history or any cultural quirks, and didn’t even know what continent it was part of or what currency was used. An expensive Icelandic breakfast in the ultra-modern, Viking-longhouse-looking airport, then more airplane. Now boarding. Fog and grey Earth. Air. Unconsciousness. Awoke in Paris.

Paris
Taking the RER, the long-distance commuter train that runs through suburb towns and immigrant ghettos alike on the huge fringe of Gay Pareeee. Nearly everyone within frowned as we sped through fields, then tired civic developments from the ‘60s. It was crowded, and exhausted and grim as any commuter train in “the West”. Jo Shmo-types got on with shoulder bags and button-up shirts, and so did Fulani women with gold teeth wrapped in rich green and black garments who spoke in high tones and took up all the space necessary to be comfortable. One of the most beautiful, and typically Parisian, women in the world, perhaps the offspring of one of these West African immigrants, sat right in front of me. My stomach lifted high into my throat at her super-distant gorgeousness. She ignored my existence with averted eyes and white headphones plugged into the sides of her deep, dark face, with innocent, yet roughly braided pigtails descending over each shoulder.
Out of the métro system, and on the edge of death from exhaustion, I met the generous old boy, Kamal, my host, in polo shirt with backwards red Yankees hat, his hipster hair poking out from the edges and his Moroccan face unmistakable. We tossed my enormous bags into his unbelievably small one-room apartment. Later that day we walked all the way up the River Seine, and sat upon the quai, eating bad sushi. As the sun crashed over the Seine river amidst broken orange and gold clouds, we listened to a Bengali band crash little symbols and strum praiseful melodies as they chanted glory to Krishna.
Next day, the point of my visit to this European capital: Institut National des Langues et Civilisations Orientales (INALCO). Me and Kamal found the inconspicuous yet world-renowned little institute tucked away on some grey cobblestone street. Within, modest—yet tasteful—architecture, like an old high school from a nice part of town. Approaching the secretary of light skin and coarse curly black hair at the enrollment office. Slow, disorganized intro and questions on my part, and no-messin’-around rapid fire responses in French on hers. I found that if I wish to enroll in this sweet little institute for master’s level study in Arabic, I’ll have to promptly get on an enormous range of bureaucratic tasks, from embassy letters to grant applications to French proficiency examinations, and that I would no doubt have to take remedial French language classes before beginning my Arabic classes. A blow to the ego on the French proficiency part, but necessary all the same. I asked a couple we’re-both-human questions and found that the tired young secretary was recently a masters student in the Kabyle language, a Berber tongue from northern Algeria. Perhaps secretary was not what she had in mind after obtaining such a degree. Yet, in the same breathe from her powerful torpedo face, she told me that grants and scholarships are available for study and housing Paris, even for gringos like me. Rejoicing. She directed us through a small marble courtyard where we found another room filled with secretaries. They asked me about my dossier social which I had never heard of before, and I realized that the French educational system is way different than what I knew back home. One secretary printed out some scholarship and enrollment information, gave me a few colorful brochures that looked more like they were from a children’s dentist office than a specialized languages and literatures institute, and more incomprehensibly fast French was shot at me. But bless these ladies, working with me on one of the last days that the institute is open for the summer.
At home, Kamal told me we were going out with friends, and coming out of his tiny salle de bains minutes later I met two chatty friends sitting on the futon. There was Grace, a kind of hefty Congolese woman of shining smile and twenty years, and Ilham, a striking Moroccan woman with light skin and low-cut jet-black blouse. I felt dispirited and tired because of my recent encounter with theft back in the park, and I sat on the old red carpet trying to stay in one spiritual piece, watching—more than listening to—the animated conversation before me. I answered a few questions from Grace and Ilham, chuckled as Ilham exclaimed at my quiet stillness “T’es trôp sage, toi!” (“You’re so wise!”), and I made some jokes between Kamal’s machine-gun-who-knows-what talk from behind his laptop. Grace, I learned, attended INALCO to study Korean, which she speaks quite proficiently, says she, and Ilham studies advertising something or other and was gorgeous and she knew it and flirted with me.
We gathered forces after a while and headed slowly down Rue de Choisy, and met Lori, an Asian woman in glasses and fierce high-heels, by a Vietnamese restaurant. Inside, crowded by humans chowing down on cheap food in the damp tropical old-fashioned lighting of the place, I sat and continued to watch the stream of back-and-forth jive. Even as we sipped tea and ate dumplings and coconut—I so grateful for my rich and nourishing Vietnamese meal—I could not speak to them, for the talking and joking was too intense and fast and I had to focus on the food. But after I finished, I was quickly drawn into the conversation, and soon had a grip on its reins.
Back out on the street, me and Ilham repeatedly found ourselves together, yet distant from the group, talking with pokes and mock insults about racism, Moroccan Arabic dialect, and French snobbiness. Soon me and her and the whole group were on a clean and comfy bus to the River Seine, with Ilham sitting across from me, making constant hilarious jabs at my “snobby” French accent, and Kamal talking rapidly, Lori giggling, and Grace making fun of people I don’t know. Up by the River, we wandered through cobblestone alleys in the spic-and-span tourist zone, the girls singing bad pop songs in English, then we moved through a crowd of tourists, and watched a group of Moroccan men in t-shirts with drums playing Gnawa music. Minutes later, with tiny gelattos in hand, and still chattering, we headed down to the quai, the sun almost a memory at that point. Me and Ilham talked about her parents, and she told me about her ex-boyfriends and how, she doesn’t know why, but she just has a thing for American guys. Then me and Lori made jokes about Chinese accents in French, and I started to see that as Ilham cooled off on me somewhat, Lori was warming up. I just reminded myself that it’s all just fun and that I got to remain light and whole. On the quai, we sat around like vagabonds. I asked about where to find a cheap new camera, was told all the stores would be closed tomorrow for Bastille Day (?), and as bateaux mouches hauled tourists past on the river, Ilham talked loudly about her breasts.
A few days later, I took the RER in reverse, out towards the rising pink sun in the morning chill, past hamlets, factories, and slums. Got lost several times at the huge Charles de Gaulle airport. As I breathlessly went through the final stage of security, I witnessed an intense and obvious ethnic profiling on the part of airport security of all passengers who were even possibly Muslim, including those West African beauties in their heaven garments. Saddening, enraging, and disgusting, and if I can actually be disciplined writer, a poem will be forthcoming on that terrible scene. Now boarding. European morning sun. Air. Unconsciousness. Awoke in Istanbul. As I expected, even through I never breached the air-conditioned interior of the Istanbul airport, the place was weird. Not in a bad way. But everything smelled strange, and the Turkish language pressed into the mold of Roman characters was mind-stretching, at least for me. I saw a well-groomed tough dude with what appeared to be two wives, one covered by a full black niqab, and the other young and slightly less covered by red headscarf, yet very under-his-thumb looking. I think the guy was an asshole, for cold and calloused was his brown goateed face. Saw another West African woman in her traditional garb waiting at the gate with me, and thought how totally strange it was to see her here, in Turkey, that place stretched historically and psychologically between Europe and Asia in that no-man’s-land, which seems to be highly un-African to me, whatever that means. Further explanation forthcoming. Now boarding. Hot Mediterranean dry land. Air. Unconsciousness. Awoke over the terrifying inhospitable-looking deserts around Damascus, dotted by weak patches of agriculture. Immediately thought I must have made the wrong decision for a place to study Arabic and felt nervous as knives.

Damascus
Stood around, so intimidated in the small airport, waiting just outside the gate for my Iraqi journalist friend’s brother Seliim to scoop me up. Nowhere to be found. I asked some other fellas standing around if they were named Seliim, and they said no, but asked why the heck I was waiting outside the gate for him. Silly me, I had to go through customs first.
Standing in the customs line, I was surrounded by thick reality. Men with weathered skin in white jellaba robes stood around with gobs of passports and blue customs forms in their hands, directing old women in near total black niqab coverings on what line to stand in for passport check. The women spoke in high, nasal tones with one another, forming lines that, sadly, looked like kids lining up to go back in from recess, each with their hand on the shoulder of the woman standing in front of them. I believe that they were religious pilgrims, by their pious garb, group nature, and loads of customs documents. Masses of men in white or olive colored robes laid near-sleeping on the polished floor by the wall, some wearing red-and-white checkered headdresses, which I did not expect to see outside of the Gulf countries. Some women in black dresses, with hair covered, sat by the big window, fanning themselves. The room was NOT air-conditioned, and it smelled strongly of humanity. An old Brazilian man in front of me on the line tried to pry information from me in Portuguese, though all I once knew in that language has dried up and blown away. The line moved so irritatingly slowly that I had to try to calmly come to terms with the fact that Seliim, my hopeful savior who I’d not yet met, and my only connection in Damascus, had probably left after all the time that had passed since I arrived. Patience. Be where you are. Much time passed, I switched lines, listened to a Russian woman living in Oklahoma speak worriedly, and finally reached the customs desk. I tensed my body, squeezed my eyes shut like I would for an immunization shot with a huge needle, and handed my passport and customs form to the handsome officers. I waited. A little chatter in Arabic. No pain. They gave my passport back and smiled, saying something like “You are welcome in Syria.” Glory be! Back to worries.
On to the baggage carousel, which I was tremendously late getting to considering how much time I had wasted standing around. The baggage room was, to me, an absolute disgrace, with suitcases and bags scattered and piled everywhere over the floor in the artificially-lit room, the carousel snaking lazily out to the baggage trucks, where a little bit of broken sunlight leaked in. My guess is because so many travelers must wait so long for all the bureaucratic mumbo-jumbo, that bags just pile up. But they were thrown everywhere, with little apparent order, and I was immediately angry at the state of things. “Well, I may have to go find my bags at the lost and found because they’ve probably been here so long that they were removed” I thought to myself. Yet, I looked and I looked, and I found the two bad boys over in a corner. One of the pockets on one of my suitcases, however, had the lock opened and was still sloppily unzipped. Slightly pissed at the invasion of my privacy, yet relieved that I had found all my worldly possessions in this region of the world, I struggled to get my 90-pound backpack on, and strode slowly out to the reception area. One last little splinter of hope that Seliim had remained there to pick me up after all this time remained in my core, so as I walked out into the gated, warm, stale reception area, I moved slowly, hoping with this last splinter that if Seliim remained, he would recognize me after I sent him my picture the day before by e-mail. No calls from anyone in the crowd. As I was about to step out of the gated receiving area, glory came. “Sam?” said Seliim with thick accent, approaching me with his sunglasses perched on shaved head, polo shirt, rotund form, and merry smile like Santa Clause. I gasped for air, relieved. I thanked him repeatedly for waiting for me for two hours until he was tired of the thanks. He smiled his timid smile on big face and asked how my trip was and I said all the good things in the world because my savior had come.
We exited the humble airport at probably about 6:30pm, the sun low and orange over the palm trees, old cars, and dust. We sauntered over to a little ticket booth, Seliim asked for two tickets in this exciting new accent and dialect spoken by the Damascenes— though I wasn’t actually sure if he was simply speaking his own ancient-sounding Iraqi dialect with the ticket seller—we stuffed my bags below deck, and we mounted a huge bus. Within, Seliim and I spoke about the volunteer work he does with an organization that helps Iraqi refugee children in Syria (he cannot have official paid employment here as a refugee, a huge problem faced by three million of his Iraqi brothers and sisters in Syria), we talked about his sister in the States, my interests here in Syria, and about the new dialect I was about to encounter. As we rabbled, squeezed into the little seats, I watched the land around the highways turn from light fringe suburbs to proper suburbs of old concrete square buildings beyond dying pine trees planted at roadside, and it reminded me of my first arrival in Morocco. As we got closer to the city center, we spoke of where I might find housing, and Seliim pointed to a neighborhood outside our window called Jeremana, where he and tons of other Iraqis live, where he said he could find me a place to live. The place looked ancient and derelict, crumbling actually, like a slum, and I wasn’t so sure I could stomach such reality for a home immediately upon arrival. Then he pointed out another slum area of crumbling khaki walls and stated that that was one of three Palestinian refugee camps in Damascus. I asked what it was called. He said it was just called “Palestinian camp.” Finally, the huge mad highway gave way to real streets, and in a few minutes of turning and honking amid the terraced Damascus apartment buildings brown and black with soot, we reached the swirling bus depot.
We stepped out into the thick hug of evening heat and grabbed my bags as a torrent of beat yellow cabs honked for our attention and I was so tremendously grateful I had a friend here to guide me through the seeming madness of this raging hot authentic place. We walked a few meters over a grimy sidewalk and caught a taxi. Tossed bags into a trunk that wouldn’t close completely and we were off to Hotel Al Haramain, which had actually been recommended by a travel guide book and which Seliim was now pressing for. It wasn’t that far actually, and we cruised past the old khaki walls of what Seliim said was the national museum, made a right turn, and were swept up a ramp onto a huge highway. It felt like we were flying over the city, and all around us were big, tattered-looking (to my new eyes) buildings, whose widows caught the last of the shimmering orange-red evening sunlight. They reminded me strongly of the computer-animated depictions of 1980’s Beirut seen in the recent film Waltz With Bashir about the Isreali invasion of Labanon and the massacre at Shatilla. In that way, my entry into the heart of this new city was kind of chilling, aside from just bewildering.
Our taxi descended from its ride on the soaring highway overpass, we sped down the main drag, shēri3 eth-thewra (“Revolution Street”, the 3 representing that famous choking sound in Arabic), we pulled over at the crowded sidewalk, and, amid a stream of older men dressed just like they dressed in the 1950’s passing rapidly on the sidewalk, we exited the automobile. Pulled bags along strenuously, passed an incomplete and very-old looking building beside shēri3 eth-thewra that represented overly-hasty attempts at development, and turned out of the madness down some steps onto a street that made me think, “Right. Isn’t this what Damascus is supposed to look like?” The street was narrow and cobblestoned, lined with tiny, old-fashioned barber shops and tailors and little corner stores, and on the second or third floor of some of the building—made of stucco and inlaid wooden crossbeams, with shutters and terraces---the apartments actually stuck out somewhat from the buildings, as if they were a bunch of cubes stacked on top of each other haphazardly. A few steps up the street and we stepped into the simple, old, soulful Al Haramain hotel, and were greeted by a real smooth cat at the desk with thin goatee, whiiiiite skin, greased back hair, and a weird British accent. Ahmed. He and Seliim spoke as if they had known each other forever, which is how many native Arabic speakers sound to me, and Ahmed stated plainly that a bed was 500 Lira a night, which sounded tremendous to me but which I forked over. It’s actually only slightly more than ten American buckaroos.
Handed over my passport for checking, dropped bags at the entrance, and waded out with Seliim into the evening, up the inclined street, and into the dustiest, most depressing empty square lined with dormant computer and tech shops, and entered one of them. Seliim was looking for some software for something or other, and the joint looked like a closet lit by florescent lights. The guy with terrible facial hair and teeth but a welcoming face and open heart talked with Seliim about what he needed, asked him quietly “Min weyn esh-shebb?” (“Where’s the kid from?”), and I turned and answered “Min emriika” (“From the US”), he seemed pleased, Seliim bought his software, and we split. Standing in the empty square in the last light of Friday, yom l-jum3a, the day of prayer and rest that is the reason for the closed shops, I handed Seliim the cash his sister back in BK had given me. We meandered up to a building surrounded by rubble that was a sign of construction in progress, not war, where I hoped to use internet, Seliim told me I’d find the internet joint up a few floors, and we said we’d meet the next day. He sauntered off. I entered the building, climbed many sets of stairs but found no internet spot in the dim lighting, and in the dust and heat and declining daylight felt homesick and exhausted, and walked back to Al Haramain. Passed a few words with Ahmed, grabbed my backs, and headed up to the room.
I pushed open the ragged yet elegant huge old door to my room in the high-ceilinged, courtyarded home-turned-hostel, and entered. As if he was waiting for my arrival, a half-naked, Derik Zoolander-looking, Adonis-type dude was laying on his bed with an Arabic dictionary in hand, looking my way when I entered. Name is Naadir. We got to talking real quick as he lazily perused his dictionary, mid-section wrapped in a sheet, and I found that he was a Brit studying at the University of Damascus for the month of July. Son of an Islamic religious advisor to the British government. Of Yemeni, Pakistani, and Spanish origins. I learned that in a few days he was finished with classes, then headed out to visit family in Dubai, then taking it easy with more family in Kenya for the rest of the summer till school starts. He was wealthy and calm, and his face was so chiseled and without marks, and hair so salon-style, that it was almost funny, for he looked like the type I’d see in a Calvin Klein ad, much too delicate for the dirty streets of this town. He was friendly though, and I was glad to know another out-of-towner here.
A wide, nearly-albino fella was laying on his bed with headphones on, watching a movie on his laptop, totally oblivious to us… That is, until at some point in our conversation Naadir said loudly, “In’t dat right, Mats?” and the big Swede unplugged his head and turned our way to begin talking to us. His kind, peach fuzz-covered face was super smart, like a scientist, and I learned that, in a way, he is one, for he studies Islamic Science back in Stockholm. Mats is spending the summer in Damascus, translating excerpts of the Holy Qor’an into Swedish. He told us of his desire to enlighten his countrymen about Arabs, as well as Muslims, and to combat racism faced by the large Muslim immigrant communities of Somalis, Syrians, and Iraqis in his country, and his hope to break down what he says are xenophobic government policies in Sweden. Real nice guy, and as I spoke more with him and the male-model Naadir about life in Damascus and Syria generally, Arabic studies at the University, and cultural do’s and don’t’s, I felt my first toe push into the soil of this land, this culture, this history, my first connection with something about Damascus, and I began to wonder if it might be possible for me to survive and maybe make a life here.
Later that night, after I washed the grime off my face, I met some suuuper easygoing Portuguese guys that have been traveling the world since September 2009, who had seen the depths of places like China, Iran, Chile, Uruguay, Japan, and on and on. They guided me out into the night and we ate some terribly cheap salad and chicken at a little restaurant with an owner/cook who was quite nervous and shouted a lot. One of the Portuguese guys spoke English with an Aussi accent. Strange. Then we went up into a smoky bar filled with music and subtle prostitutes, and they recounted to me the true things they have seen around the globe on their travels. I slept very deeply that night.


Well, that was three weeks ago. It’s been a very slow, up-and-down process getting into the rhythm of Damascus life, but it’s an ongoing process I suppose, and I’m much farther advanced in my integration than I was that night with the Portuguese travelers and the nervous cook.
Since then, I’ve made friends with other travelers and students, met and befriended the Dutch man, Anton, who is now my roommate, perused the endless covered suuqs (markets) with Seliim at my side, had deep conversations about racism with a visiting Somali woman and her thin, intense brother, begun studying Syrian Arabic with a tutor, taken an AIDS test for University registration, looked for and found an apartment in a timeless alleyway by the largest mosque in Syria, battled heat and cockroaches in said apartment, gone to a party where everybody clapped and yelped and danced traditional Dibka with gusto, gotten the flu and a sinus infection, begun Standard Arabic classes at the modern-yet-ancient public University of Damascus, gone repeatedly to a Somali immigrant community center and spoken curiously with its director, started a language exchange with a hopeful young green-eyed Syrian medicine student from the University, run into my former Arabic teacher from the United States on the street, and have studied hard and laughed and discussed and understood new words and cooked great simple meals with my roommate. It is much too much to tell here, and for those of you who ask yourself why I painted such an overly-detailed picture of my arrival to the country and did not spend more time coloring in the events since then, I say that one must know where one has come from to know what progress one has made and to understand fully where one is in the present, if that’s not tooooooo vague-sounding. I also think that, as I begin to chart the course of my life here more regularly through writing, the blank spaces of this experience will begin to fill themselves in, should anyone care to read them.

Damn I have been here for three weeks and not yet left the borders of this crazy capital, but life’s been rich thus far.

beħki me3akun ‘ariiben? (Talk to you all soon?)