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.