We’d come back to Damascus and were trying to go about some semblance of normal life.
It’s strange here now how one can walk down one street and life seems almost ‘normal’; businesses open even with almost no customers, pictures of the President still displayed … almost as though nothing had changed at all (as long as one didn’t look too hard at the increased wariness.) I suspect some of these streets are the places where the regime tries to insure that ‘friendly’ observers go, to get the data that ‘there is no popular opposition to Assad, just foreign spies’. Maybe. Certainly, there are some disctricts here where the people of the regime themselves live and others where the grip on power is still strong.
But then one turns a corner. And the rest of the city is seething, either openly or just below the surface.
We, my dad and I, had agreed to meet some other people in the opposition and the time and place had been arranged; at one of the older mosques, at prayer time, we’d meet them, he with some men, I with some women. And we’d then work out our next steps.
The mosques have become the meeting houses of this revolution in many places, but not because it is an Islamic revolution. Certainly, many Sunnis are involved – and I would venture the vast majority of the Sunnis are at least supportive – but the Islamic parties are not even in the leading role, even if they are all for the democratizing of society. I have sat in mosques here on Fridays and noticed that the woman to my right wears a cross while the one to my left has a star pendant. Even among the ‘muslims’, I’ve noticed these past ten weeks that many seem to barely know how to pray, following the actions of those who do but a beat behind.
We meet here not because we are Islamists but because we are revolutionists. The mosques have become the only places where one can assemble a crowd with ease, where the regime can’t simply scatter us …
But I digress …
My dad and I were on the way into a particular mosque and we’d dressed as though we were just going as simple worshippers. He was wearing one of those man dresses that one sees here and he’s been growing out his beard these past days of travel. So he looked like an old religious guy … perhaps a returned expat from the Gulf.
Me? I had gone full ninja; black robe, gloves, and hijab and veil covering all but my eyes (and contacts rather than glasses). As we walked, we made sure to act as though, rather than father and daughter, we were old man and much younger wife … just in case, as you can imagine.
When we neared the mosque, there were some police in the way. Heavily armed and checking anyone who went in, they were an obstacle. Well, we needed to be inside and they were in the way, so we plowed ahead.
They asked my dad for our id’s; he explained (using just a hint of a khaliji accent, as one might expect from someone who’d spent years there) that we’d left them in our hotel, we just needed to pray here; he wanted to show his wife all the famous places of Damascus … and so on.
And they were arguing with him with their thick Qardahan accents …
Meanwhile, I was standing a bit back and to the side. Another one of the soldiers, I’d guess barely in his twenties and smelling strongly of cigarettes and cheap cologne, says to me in a low voice,
“You look too sweet to be with that old man. Come on, I bet you need a real man to really stretch you out.”
And I felt his hand on my ass, groping me.
I did the natural thing: I squawked, let out a shriek, an oath, and a string of Quran:
“Istaq fur allah al azim! ‘Wa la y’adrib nabi’r julihina liu’Alama ma yukhfina min zinar ihina wa tubu ela Allahi jami’aan ayuhalmu, minuna la’alaykum tuflihun!”
Roman Hands jumps back, my dad turns with a look of sheer rage and I can see him holding himself back …
The head of them, the one who was arguing with my dad, glares at the other, waves a hand; we just go into the mosque and leave them be …
We meet our people and afterwards … I think about this incident. This is something new. In days of yore – ten weeks ago – the best practical argument for wearing hijab or even the full ninja kit was that this sort of thing never would happen. Maybe, if one were dressed ‘western’ and wearing revealing clothes, you might get a comment or two or an ‘accidental’ touch on the bus … but nothing like this!
This is new. This is a new mindset on their part; they no longer care about making us hate them, they no longer care about consequences.
5 comments:
What does the Arabic mean?
The first thing that came to mind as I read this is the similarity to the stories coming out of Libya as it relates to Qaddafi's police and militia.
you and your dad make quite the team. keep the posts coming ;)
Thanks. As previously keep the posts coming.
Wow, no respect at all! You're right, the usual argument is that the more you cover, the more respect and personal space you command. Wrong: Pigs don't understand what respect or personal space is, regardless of dress. I'm glad you let that pig have it.
Btw I got the "astaghfirulahulatheem" part, but not the rest. Translation please?
-KKS
Post a Comment