Damascus 4

Monday 25 Dec, 2006 – 15:28 Damascus, Syria

Wallah! Where to begin? I’m in the airport awaiting my flight to Yemen, en route to Rwanda, with a layover in Ethiopia sandwiched in the middle. At last some still time, opportunity to jot down my closing thoughts on life in Syria. There’s much to share about what I’ve done, what I’ve learned, what I’ll miss, and what I’m looking forward to discovering on my next leg.

Thus far my entries have come from Damascus, because without the ability to communicate – or for that matter, recognize anything as familiar – I was confined to alleys and neighborhoods close to home. I worked hard to learn a bit of the language, though, and slowly my confidence grew. Wherever my travels lead, I always try to learn a variety of phrases – simple ones to survive (asking for directions, counting, et cetera), and longer, more complex ones to surprise native-speakers, not so much to bring attention to my intellect, but rather to make them smile. It can be difficult to make jokes in a language I don’t speak, but when I do it right, well, it’s the most wonderful experience and opens the doors to incredible friendships.

I did not recognize how confident and comfortable I was until a couple of days into the trip when a friend commented so. And it struck me – damn, if a native-speaker thinks this, it must be true. That night I whipped out the Lonely Planet guide book and within a few hours decided to spend the next day in a town called Maalula, an hour’s drive Northeast of Damascus.

Getting there wasn’t easy. It took an hour and a half to walk the streets before finally finding the correct bus station – and a little more time to figure out how to use the public transportation. However, by 12 I was standing on the roadside watching the microbus pull away, leaving me and tiny Maalula in its dust. Blamo – middle of nowhere: beating sun bearing down on this dust bowl, and rocky niches, former homes, carved into cliffs. Also, back up 2000 years because Maalula is an Arameic-speaking village… Jesus language. In front of me was the church of and memorial to St. Takla – story as follows.

There’s a narrow canyon, more like a crack in the mountain, which cuts from one side of the village to the other. According to legend, St. Takla (student of the Apostle Paul) long ago traveled to Maalula as a missionary, bringing the teachings and good news of Jesus Christ. When the King, not himself a Christian, got wind of Takla’s story, he sent the army to end what he perceived to be nonsensical, provocative teachings. Trapped between the steady mountain and encroaching army, Takla fell to her knees and prayed for the rocks to part so she could escape safely. Jesus taught that we can move mountains if we have faith even as small as a mustard seed, and appropriately enough the mountain is said to have split before her. The canyon, which I walked through, is similar to Jordan’s Petra – an impressively narrow passageway.

This story all comes from a very kind, English-speaking nun who lives at the base of the mountain just outside the canyon’s entrance. Inside the church hang words of a prayer I enjoyed which read: “O Christ, our God, we all are pledged to serve thee with our whole being. Help us to continue to work for thee through our church without seeking praise… without seeking personal gain… without judging others… without a feeling that we have worked hard enough and now must allow ourselves rest. Give us strength to do what is right and help us to go on striving and to remember that activities are not the main thing in life. The most important thing is to have our hearts directed and attuned to Thee. Amen”. It seemed appropriate as my touristy-trip in Syria was ending and my internship in Rwanda soon on the verge of beginning.

The following day I traveled to Quneitro, a UN-monitored town in the Golan Heights – formerly a population of 73,000. In 1973 the Israeli army bombed and bulldozed the city, and today only 4 families remain. The Syrian government keeps the rubble untouched to serve as a propaganda tool, reminding people to despise its enemy. The destruction was difficult and exhausting to witness because it doesn’t seem to have an end. The first couple of buildings were gut-wrenching and stirred awe – not pleasant, but something that could at least be felt. But after that, everything was numbing. Every house crumpled, every building riddled with bullets. Churches, mosques, hospitals desecrated. (At left is a picture of the road to Israel, impassable due to remnant landmines)

There was also a Japanese tourist with me, a girl about my age. We walked through the ghost-town together, sharing our shock and horror. And although in this instance we were both on the same side of the window, looking through a shattered pane at humanity’s capability of destroying itself, I couldn’t help but think back to my dad’s generation, and Hiroshima. Historically our countries have looked not in the same direction but at each other through this busted window – and historically I was the Israeli army. This made seeing Quneitro all the more difficult.

The day after Lizz completed her final exam, we traveled four hours by bus north to Aleppo. Although it’s a densely populated area, rich in religious and political history, I was surprised how harmonious people of the three monotheistic religions lived.

In addition to walking around the Citadel and crawling through underground caves that lead to the safe haven, we visited 5th c. AD and 9th c. BC archeological excavation sites. If you’re interested, google St. Simeon citadel, The temple of Ishtar, and the Dead Cities. As for Aleppo itself, it’s a densely populated area, rich in religious and political history.

On Christmas eve, Lizz asked me to read her a story that means a lot, the gospel of Luke. Although by virtue of being raised American she knew parts of the Christmas story, it had been years since she’d actually read a bible. Like a good poem or a bit of dark chocolate, it was fun to share together.

Later that night a friend and I went to a midnight service inside the walls of the Old City. We were in the middle of a ritualistic and somewhat boring catholic mass when a rolling thunder of drums picked up next door – and it kept escalating to the point that the priest’s words were completely droned out. Neither of us being catholic, and thus immune from pew-binding guilt, we abruptly left and went to join the lively celebration. Trumpets chipped in their part as well, and although even my tone-deaf ears could tell they were out of tune, hearing familiar carols in a foreign land caused me to realize that Christmas is not just an American holiday, but a celebration of the birth of the savior to all people.

The next morning was bittersweet. We made chocolate chip pancakes and opened presents, but then soon left for the airport. I cried, as I always do when I have to say goodbye to my sister. I’ll miss her and the two weeks we spent together in Damascus – the street food and the people, but I’m excited to discover Rwanda, its people and its health care system.



My overall impression of Syria was resoundingly positive. To be fair, I should note that men are harassed much less than women – and if ill was spoken, I could not understand the language to interpret it as so. But throughout the country, both Muslims and Christians were welcoming and helpful. They opened their homes and offered their services, knowing I had nothing to offer but friendship in return. My wallet is now full of addresses and phone numbers written on scrap pieces of paper and handed to me on public transportation, should I ever need help. I respect Islam more than before, and admire Muslim discipline and reverence toward God. It should go without saying, but they are not all terrorists. When talking with one Muslim man about Osama bin Laden, Islam, and his thoughts about the US, he said “bin Laden is a Muslim and that’s why I like him, not because he’s a terrorist. I do not agree with the things your government does, but that does not mean its people are bad. I appreciate Muslims because I’m Muslim, Arabs because I’m Arab, and Americans because I’m human”. Certainly most allegiances lay in the Muslim Arab world (and in that order), but peace and reconciliation toward Westerners among the common people was much more prevalent than I expected it to be.

Now I’m off from Syria to Yemen to Ethiopia to Kenya and finally (hopefully) to Rwanda, where I’ll make my home for the next ten weeks.

Damascus 3

Tuesday 19 Dec, 2006 – 14:41 Damascus

This morning I intentionally walked far from my apartment so as to get lost and find my way back. While sidestepping trash heaps and hopping over dilapidated street curbs, it dawned on me that I have not yet adequately described why I find Damascus to be such a lovely place. Truthfully, it’s quite a dumpy city – and yet paradoxically, somehow in its dirt it is beautiful. This town is ancient; some claim it to be the oldest continuously inhabited city in the world – and with that, obviously there are incredibly run down structures. Additionally, almost every building, landscape, and outfit is a shade of black, brown, or gray, and skuzzy streets only add to the effect. But then I walk past a fruit stand and an orange by contrast has never looked so orange – or a banana so yellow. Color, when it’s here, is really here and I feel warm just looking at it. And then the people, so friendly as I’ve described, when juxtaposed to the all the grime, also stand out as bright and welcoming.

Last night I was up until 2 talking with my friend Owais about Islam. Obviously there were differences between his beliefs and mine, but there were also a remarkable number of similarities. I was surprised to learn that he claimed Jesus as Messiah. I also discovered that John the Baptist is buried down the street in the Omayad mosque, and is well-respected by Muslims as one of the great prophets. In hearing Owais speak, I was just as fascinated to learn his perspectives as I was appalled by my own ignorance. How could it be that I knew so little about Muslim beliefs and yet was so confident that whatever they were, they must have been threatening to personal and national security? I guess I am more prone to the press’s persuasion than I realized.

(Below is a picture of Straight Street)

Damascus 2

Monday 18 Dec, 2006 – 17:28 Damascus

This afternoon Lizz and I went with her friends for a three-hour long quest for cheap soccer jerseys. The store was filled floor to ceiling with jerseys representing countries around the world – and for knock-off apparel it was pretty good quality. Somehow I got to the counter thinking I was going to buy a German jersey, but realized on two accounts that this isn’t really what I wanted. For one, I only picked up because I always wanted to steal my college roommate’s. Secondly, and probably more heavily weighted, it dawned on me that I was only purchasing it because I could – as an American I could afford to buy anything I wanted. It wasn’t that I needed the jersey – in fact, the shirt probably would just end up sitting in my closet, presenting itself for me to look at and pass over. I was looking forward to leaving America – to leaving behind the consumerism plague - and yet there I was in the streets of Damascus being consumed with the same selfish tendency. That I hated in me.

On the way home we all split ways - Lizz showed me the US embassy and her friends went back to their respective homes (google the US Syria Embassy for events in the month of September to read about the attack – she was inside when all that took place… pretty crazy). We caught a microbus for the remainder of the ride (think van-taxi that makes frequent stops to let people on and off at will) (and by ‘stops’ I mean it slows down wherever there’s potential business so anyone can open the door and hop in – doesn’t matter if you’re driving down a highway). Once you enter the sliding side door of one of these vehicles, you leave behind craziness of the busy streets and ironically move into an instant family of fellow passengers - strangers, but a congealed, close-knit group. You pay as you drive – ten cents for any length of ride, and your first course of action once sitting down is to pass forward money for yourself and your dependents (in Lizz’s case, she pays for both of us since her Arabic is significantly better than mine). Somewhat akin to an “all hands on deck” call, word of how many you’re paying for accompanies your payment as it permeates forward to the driver (who then passes back the correct change). When you need to get out, just say “Al yemin lo sumat” (on the right if you don’t mind) and the driver will pull aside. Again, this can take place on the interstate if you wish (and frighteningly enough, some do wish).

It seems to me that inside the microbus is one of the few environments where I’ve noticed equality is achieved. In the mosque women are separated from men, and certainly they have their own unique roles in society as well. But inside the van all voices are equal; it makes no difference if you’re a soft-spoken woman who keeps to herself – just say something, even a whisper, and if the driver doesn’t hear all the people, men included, will pipe up, “Here, here! She needs to get off here!”. The inside of the microbus is very much like a family in that respect, all looking out for the wellbeing of each member.

Before coming here I kind of feared violence because my expectations of Syria were the pictures I’ve seen of Baghdad. Even though I listen to NPR and try to read the NY Times when I can, I’ve never understood the intricacies behind this region’s tension. To be absolutely naked and vulnerable, I more or less thought of the Middle East as a single place where all countries counted as equivalent entities. It was easier to package the whole area into the same memory allocation than to actually try and understand this mysterious Middle East. Because of my naïve understanding of regional politics, I imagined Syrians might act on their frustration toward American intervention in the region, and thus have been claiming myself a Canadian. But today I divulged my American citizenship to people I met on the streets, and to my surprise most were sincerely interested in learning where I was from. Even without my counter-steering, conversation never shifted to politics. I feel safe in Damascus – never encountering the atmospheric chill that might foreshadow becoming a target for political demonstration (the way the sky turns green before a Tornado rips through town). That’s not to say I gallivant care-free through the streets, boldly displaying my Americanism, but just that potential danger does not seem ominous as I expected a post-embassy attacked city to feel.

As a quick note, yesterday Lizz pointed out a license plate from Baghdad. She says it’s been interesting to hear how differently frustration toward the war is manifested here than it is back home, and used the car as an example. As you may have read in the papers, many Iraqis are fleeing their country – maybe even a thousand cross into neighboring Syria each day, and many more into Jordan and other surrounding countries. The catch is that typically only wealthy Iraqi families can afford this relocation. In brining their money into Syria, prices have now risen dramatically. This makes life much more difficult for the average Syrian family, whose salaries do not adjust to the influx of Iraqi wealth and subsequent increase in cost of living. I have not heard this dynamic presented before and wonder if the US, in all of its head scratching, face-saving planning, has considered how it might address these sorts of secondary disruptions its choices have caused. In my mind’s eye, I picture a kid yanking his hand out of the candy jar, shattering the glass and spilling the sweets. Although he schleps the candies more or less back into a pile, he walks out the door having done nothing about the glass shards that remain on the floor.

Damascus

Thursday 14 Dec, 2006 – 17:18 Chicago

Well, I suppose this is it, the start of what is sure to be a long and fascinating journey. Here I am in Chicago’s O’hare International airport awaiting my boarding call. At the moment I feel surprisingly at peace, and what a beautiful destination this is. In general, I am prone to great fluctuations in emotional states of being, and the last 24 hours have been no different. The turmoil was far from enjoyable, although I suspect that internal angst is a necessary element of every great passage. It’s hard to believe that two days ago I was in Vedic City, Iowa – the self-proclaimed international capitol of the global country of peace, and two days from now I’ll be in Syria, representing the Middle East – the presidentially-proclaimed international capitol of terror and unease. Speculating on what I must be feeling, my father likened it to crossing the Gulf: the water moving north and the wind pushing south, hence the choppy waves. I feel excitement for what’s ahead but a degree of sadness in leaving what is behind – friends, family, and the comfort of familiarity. No matter how many times I leave and how many trips I take, departing from home never gets any easier. Surely this is a common experience for the thousands of sojourners who have gone before me. I take comfort in that and in words out of Acts: “From one man he made every nation of men, that they should inhabit the whole earth; and he determined the times set for them and the exact places where they should live. God did this so that men would seek him and perhaps reach out for him and find him, though he is not far from each one of us. For in him we live and work and have our being.”

Sunday 17 Dec, 2006 – 21:10 Damascus, 13:10 Iowa City

How do I put in words the thousands of perceptions I’ve acquired, or ten thousand ways they’ve developed throughout the day? I’m about to tell you that the people are friendly, but what does that mean? I’ll give some stories that hopefully paint an accurate picture, but even then a representation cannot come close to the real thing. With that preface…

The forty hours I’ve spent in Damascus thus far have surpassed my expectations. I cannot speak to the macro level threats posed by geo-political differences between here and home, but on an individual level the people of Damascus are the friendliest of any I’ve met. Homeland Security’s constant color changing, coupled with my American understanding of the Middle East (a big desert inhabited with angry Muslims), braced me for hostility, but instead I’ve found nothing but hospitality. Before touching down in Syria, for example, I had already made two friends.

When the plane finally landed, we were all excited to get off and greet our families (‘we’ meaning a plane-full of Arabs and myself, the lone Westerner). I gave the old atmosphere a sniff or two on the way to Customs and acknowledged the scent of fresh Syrian air: cigarette smoke and burnt fuel. They’re not so concerned about the health hazards of smoking inside – even my Customs agent had a cig dangling out his mouth like a salty Doonesbury character. Unfortunately he didn’t speak English (neither did the guy next to him… nor any other agent for that matter). Nina, my flight companion, helped translate, and I got the sense that in being there she was not just tolerating my need but genuinely pleased to assist me, a foreigner, in her country.

Twenty minutes after all the other passengers left the airport, the two of us finally emerged from Baggage Claim. I gave Lizz a big hug and swung her around a bit before hearing her reminder that public displays of affection operate differently in Syrian culture. After saying goodbye to Nina for the time being, Lizz and I made our way to the taxi and back to the heart of the city.

Day one, two goals: stay awake, beat jet lag. And that I did. I walked all around Old Damascus with Lizz’s friends while she was in class. The streets were bustling with buyers and sellers of all kinds of goods: fresh fruit, beautiful spices, Arabic bumper stickers, colorful belly-dancing attire, jewelry, toys, propane tanks, and shirts with amazing English-mistranslations naively emblazoned on their chests. After one of the girls bought a scarf from a hole-in-the-wall business, the owner set up chairs and a table, and brought out a pot of tea. He sat down with us for conversation, and most intriguingly enough he seemed to be truly interested in talking.

At some point in the afternoon we stopped for fresh-squeezed pomegranate juice, and walked through the Omayad mosque, where Muslims in the area believe Jesus will return. Perhaps this exposes my ignorance, but I had always thought of the mosque as some sort of cultish-building where only Islamic people were allowed to enter. There were very strict rules – no shoes allowed, and all women must wear robes – but I also encountered things I’d never expect to be permitted in a mosque: children playing, people talking, and flash-photography. In many respects it functions as much as a community center as it does a religious institution. I was told that sometimes people even come to study for their University classes, lounging on the soft, carpeted floor.

I did pull one brilliant move that you might get a kick out of. In the process of getting out my camera, I instinctively dropped my shoes to the floor of the Holy place. Yeah… don’t try that one in the Omayad mosque. Actually, it wasn’t a big deal – my sister’s friends were far more concerned than anyone else. Again overturning my preconceived notions of religious rigidity, when I dropped my dirty shoes people recognized it as a mistake, knowing I meant no disrespect, and didn’t give me grief. I do think there is a lot to be said for the reverence which they hold for holy places, but prefer the Christian view that the church, and hence God, is in the people and not the building.

I shouldn’t say I haven’t found any hostility, though… there is a bit of anger engineered into the concept of transportation in Dimahshk (local pronunciation). If I were to draw a free body diagram of confusion, arrows would be coming into and leaving out of every point at every time period, everywhere you look. It’s not so much that they don’t have a concept of ‘right of way’, but rather that everyone owns it. Adding to the confusion is there are neither lanes nor the concept of lanes, and both people and cars occupy the same space. I have not yet found this to be a good design.

After lots of walking down many streets (including the street called Straight, of Saul-conversion-story fame), and happily giving in to many a street vendor’s food-cart sales pitch (mmm… fresh falafel… probably part of the solution for world peace - think tranquilizing goodness with every bite), Lizz and I finally met up again. She took me to her favorite restaurant, home to the world’s best beef shwarma, and afterwards we videoed home on Skype. Before falling asleep at 9, I arranged via cell phone to meet up with Nina the following day to hang out and see the part of the city her family lives in.

At five after eleven one of my housemates (due to cultural custom, I’m not allowed to stay with Lizz, so I live with her male friends) gently woke me up. Crap! Already I was 5 minutes late and 45 minutes away from the place I was supposed to meet my friend from the airplane, so I caught a taxi. Another interesting experience. Crossing a street is a lot like playing extreme Frogger – dodging cars (sometimes not well enough) while trying to get to the other side; the key is to walk confident and, no matter how scared you are, never flinch. If you can do this, you’ll never get run over – the worst that can happen is a love tap applied to one’s knees (occasionally you might get the love-roll-over your foot). I finally got to where I was supposed to be and walked around with Nina, her sister, and their four-year-old niece. We went back to their house for tea and, after she got out of class, Lizz joined us for a 4 o’clock lunch. My first full day in Syria and already a wonderful family meal – and such good food! It’s kind of nice to be so far away from home and still have a mom cooking for me (gotta’ love the transient property of motherly love). On a more serious note, a family invited me – a stranger – over for lunch, and invited my sister as well. How beautiful. That alone shatters my expectation of Middle Eastern diplomacy.

Alright, some other things, real quick, before I go to bed. Damascus has mountains and is cold – probably 35 degrees at night, 55 during the day. Not all Arabic-speaking individuals wear turbans; in fact, few in Damascus do. My roommates from Chad are sweet, even though we don’t speak the same language. Twice now I’ve been able to communicate with non-English speaking new acquaintances because, oddly enough, they also spoke Spanish. Tomorrow Lizz’s friend group and I are getting Syrian soccer jerseys with our names embroidered on the back in Arabic for the equivalent of 7 USD. “Al hum du lelah” means “praise God” and can safely be used to answer any question or remark on any comment.

And I guess, lastly, I’ll share one struggle. I love to meet people, and have already put together a working Arabic vocabulary that makes them smile, but I have difficulty with how to choose to define myself. On one hand I don’t want to take on the international connotations of being American (self-centered, spoiled, wealthy) (it’s much easier to claim Canadian citizenship) – but on the other hand, what an incredible opportunity I have to show that not all Americans behave similarly to those who are portrayed in Middle Eastern media. It’s kind of ironic, isn’t it, that people here have shown me the same thing from the reverse perspective – not being like the media’s portrayal that is.

From Damascus

Yo - I'm in Damascus safe and sound. I've got a bunch of stuff to post, but the computer I'm on doesn't read my jump drive. Hopefully soon I'll be able to get you all some more substantial writing to sort through. But yes, I'm okay - no worries. Damascus is a beautiful old city - the oldest continually inhabited city in the world, so I've heard. Anyway, take care.

bh

Karibu!

Hello and welcome to the first blog I’ve ever created...

In 48 hours I set off on a nearly six-month-long journey, beginning with 9 days in Damascus to visit my sister, and ending with three months of Swahili training in Dar Es Salaam. In between the two stays I’m living with a Rwandanese Christian medical doctor and her family in Kigali, the capital of Rwanda. During this time I’ll intern at a large hospital called the Kigali Health Institute and be involved with community development programs with youth my age in the local church. At least this is how the next few months have been explained to me.

Paradoxically, I know both everything and nothing about what I'm doing. On the one hand I know none of the details surrounding my internship, and yet on the other I know everything about what is taking place – I’m intentionally putting myself in an uncomfortable situation and letting that experience change me.

Before I get going too far, I want to make sure we’re all on the same page. First of all, to whom am I writing? You all, my audience, are a very difficult bunch to consolidate. Mixed in to the group are friends and family, folks with degrees and folks without - homeless, doctors, homeless doctors, engineers, villagers, lawyers, and college students of all shapes, sizes, and educational pursuits. Some have money, some do not. Some have traveled, others have not. Right-leaning, left-leaning, libertarian, KANU, NARC, and Sinn Fein. You span several continents and social classes, and yet find common ground in knowing me one way or another. My guess is that we’ve likely encountered one another through one of three avenues: faith, health care or social justice. I’ll do my best to convey my experiences in a manner that is beneficial to all.

I do want to pause and address one point, as many of you come from the faith community. It’s true that I’m a Christian, and in the past I’ve been a missionary. But this is not a missions trip per say. So then what is it? In short, it’s a multifaceted challenge.

I believe in absolute truth and in a divine being, and that Jesus is the Messiah prophesied in the Old Testament. I also believe that we can encounter God through everyday interactions with one another. And by getting to know others I better understand God’s story of love and compassion, redemption and restoration – for me and for the rest of the world. So part of this journey is to have those sorts of encounters.

Is this trip God’s calling? Well, I don’t know – the same way I don’t know if staying in Iowa City is God’s calling. When I hear his voice, I move in that direction. But His voice isn’t always audible, and sometimes I just take a risk and jump. This is one of those moments. It’s not a total shot in the dark, though. Combining faith and health care moves me in the direction in which I feel I’m supposed to head.

Another motivating factor for this trip is simply to take a year off before medical school and travel. I’m intentionally putting myself in impoverished areas to be marked by experiences that will shape me into the physician I aspire to become. I want to intimately know these stories so that after all the debt of medical school and fatigue of residency, I still remember why I chose this path in the first place – and return to places such as Rwanda to unite my privilege with peoples’ suffering, and somehow heal together.

I look forward to writing from the Middle East, and to sharing these next few months with you all. Thanks for the love and support that make this possible.

And to end it all, a poem that my good friend Nicole Novak recently shared with me:

Like you I
love love, life, the sweet smell
of things, the sky-blue
landscape of January days.

And my blood boils up
and I laugh through eyes
that have known the buds of tears.

I believe the world is beautiful
and that poetry, like bread, is for everyone.

And that my veins don't end in me,
but in the unanimous blood
of those who struggle for life,
love,
little things,
landscape and bread,
the poetry of everyone.

-Roque Dalton
translated by Jack Hirschmann