10 May 2011

The art of Syrian conversation

“You know,” my girlfriend says to me, “I think you’re cousin is paranoid and a bit racist.”
I’m startled; neither of those traits are things that I would ever use to characterize Raghad. So I ask her what she means …

“At dinner, all that talk of Zionists are everywhere, listening, watching. I mean, really, does she think that the Israeli government cares about what TV show she watches?”

And I start laughing. My girlfriend has just stumbled on to the first rule of conversation in a dictatorship; never speak directly.

We had been dating for six glorious months and I had a vacation coming up from work; Anna is self-employed (she’s an artist) so she can vacation whenever she wants. And since we’d met I had been talking ceaselessly about how beautiful Syria is, how Damascus is the greatest city on earth and how I longed to see her. So, we’d decided to go together …

And we applied for a visa for Anna (I wouldn’t need one), bought tickets and set off. I’d thought I’d been pretty thorough in giving Anna all the details of what to say and do; my main worry was that I was going to be travelling with my girlfriend, and she’s been out (and extremely out) since she was in high school. We’d share rooms and pretend that we were just friends and not make out in front of anyone and on and on … I’d drilled her on which relatives it was OK to be out with, and which ones not, repacked her clothes so that they were less problematic, given her a haircut and made her take out her piercings so she looked a little less punk.

But I had forgotten to explain the rules of conversational euphemism. I had made sure to explain in excruciating detail that it was a bad idea to ever say anything critical about the government or even something that might be so construed, a bad idea to ever discuss religion (or even ask someone what there’s was), and, if asked, about family life by strangers, she was to say “I am still waiting for the right man.”

And that night I had realized what I’d forgotten to tell her.

We’d arrived in Damascus and been met at arrival by my cousin Raghad – and Raghad knew about me. So she was delightfully friendly; “Oh, we’ve been hearing about you, Anna! Amina and Rania have been saying such great things about you and you’re even prettier than they said.” And so on.
We stay in Damascus in my room; I’m so excited to actually have the woman I love here with me … and the first night, Raghad has insisted that we go and have dinner with her and Muhannad at this wonderful new restaurant …

I prepped Anna thoroughly; Raghad is a bit older than me and is Rania’s older sister and probably the most publicly liberal of the women in the family. Like me, she came by it by accident. She’d also moved back to the US (though a first time for her) when I did but her household was much more Arab and Islamic; her father was working endless hours to provide for them and starting up a mosque in the Atlanta suburbs and her mother was also always busy …

So, she’d had to grow up fast on her own in a totally alien environment, taking care of her younger brothers and sisters … trying to steer through crazy environments. And, along the way, she’d met a guy … an ajnabi, an American, a blond, a Christian, a redneck cracker, take your pick … and they’d secretly started dating. And she’d lost her virginity to him; they planned to get married and have a normal life (he even learned Arabic and converted!) but her mom found out and landed on her like a ton of bricks … the day we were leaving for Damascus. So, they’d married her off quickly enough. 18 years old, married to a guy who wasn’t the one she was madly in love with, stuck in Syria forever … but she made the best of it and really lucked out with Muhannad (he was a distant cousin with his own disgrace but, as she had told me, he was the only person that summer who didn’t treat her like filth). And life gets better; they have an easy companionship and wonderful children. She eventually got her university degree and a career and so on … but, anyhow, all this I’d told Anna by way of explanation for how Raghad came to be so ‘progressive’ …

But over dinner – which was as fabulous as promised – Raghad had started talking about how she worried that the Zionists were keeping track of her movements; she was certain that they listened in on her phonecalls and opened her mail. And the Israelis had spies all over the place here, so we should remember to be very careful, she’d warned.

Anna asked her why. Raghad explained that after what they’d done in Gaza and Sabra and Shatila, no one should be surprised. Of course they were always watching. They probably thought her father was tied in to the resistance in Gaza. And better safe than sorry.

Anna pushed a little; I could tell at dinner she was concerned.

Muhannad jumped in and said that he was fairly certain that the next table was a group of Germans, so maybe we’d better leave this subject and talk about something else. Anna, Amina says that you’re a painter. Have you thought about doing some paintings here?

And the conversation went elsewhere though I could see what was bothering Anna. When we got home and we were in our bedroom, she’d told me.

And I had laughed.

“Silly! She wasn’t talking about Israel!” I said.

“But she was going on and on and on about them watching her. I mean, I know you said her dad was involved with the Muslim … that group … but why would the Israelis care? And why would Gaza matter?”

“That wasn’t what she meant. She was talking about here. Codewords. Understood messages …”
I could see comprehension entering Anna’s face.

“Oh, I see.”

“Yes, she’s not crazy and I don’t know if the real Mossad would know her from a hole in the ground.”

“OK … so why was her husband so worried about foreign tourists? I didn’t even see any. I’m pretty sure we were the only table not speaking in Arabic.”

“We were,” I laughed. “Germans … alemanni … alawi …”

“Wow, I’m confused,” Anna shrugged. “And here I was thinking your cousin was some kind of bigot …”

And that’s how life was not so long ago. Now, a just a few years later, it’s different. People are no longer using euphemisms … and indirection. At least less than ever before. No more significant silences or things left to infer.

“The People want the overthrow of the Regime.”

It doesn’t get less clear than that.

I have no camera skills but …

I once had an idea for a movie to make here. It would be about a brutal military who oppressed the ordinary villagers and, one day, they rise up … and it would end with a long exhortation to, no matter what, rise up … we are many, they are few. They can only imprison our bodies; our minds are already free. They can kill our bodies but they will never kill our dreams. That sort of thing.

And I would set it in the Zionist entity … and it would be watched and understood here by everyone except the government who would see it as a celebration of Arab resistance …

And MEMRI would translate it and I’d be condemned for being an anti-Semite even when the film had really nothing to do with Israel. It would be for Syrians, about Syria, watched in Syria … and just maybe make Syrians think about Syria.

“The People want the overthrow of the Regime.”

1 comments:

Micah said...

As usual, a most engaging- and thoughtful- piece. The MEMRI reference was in an odd way, poignant, almost.

I have one (not so minor) quibble: The atrocities at Sabra and Shatilla were committed by the Phalange Christians and not the Israelis.

Apparently decades of oppression and discrimination (deliberately orchestrated by Arafat. Prior to his involvement in Lebanese affairs, Christians and Muslims managed to live quite peaceably) they decided they had enough.

The camps were not attacked out of love.

I have been to the region, Syria included and I have great sympathy for the Arabs. They live in a world not of their own making or choosing and they have paid the price in many ways.

They have been indoctrinated with failure as acceptable and to accept tyranny and exploitation as their lot.

I recall visiting a town not too far from Aleppo and watching this child, who could not have been older than five or six years of age tolerating his mother's effort to tuck in his spotless white shirt and brush his trouser off. The mother looked at him with such affection and pride and despite his obvious childish discomfort, he returned her loving stare.

I remarked to my host how it was clear this child could grow up and do anything he wanted.

My host looked at me in amazement and told me this child has no hope for a real future whatsoever. The best he and his mother could hope for was that he finished high school.

They were poor, he explained. The child won't attend trade school because the mother had neither the connections or baksheesh to make that happen. Maybe in Damascus, maybe in Aleppo trade school were possible but in these areas only certain families or extended families had those privileges.

The real victims of decades of Syrian oppression are the generations of kids like the one I saw.
The real heroes of Syria are the ones in the street now, dealing with that reality firsdt and foremost.

It will takes years for the existing culture to change, regardless of who sits in the Presidential Palace.

I suspect many of the people who have taken to the streets understand that and understand while they may benefit from a change in regime in the short run, the real legacy of their efforts will take much longer to bear fruit.

Those who want real reform are doing so on behalf of that little boy outside of Aleppo.

And they know it.

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