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.