All over Salalah, posters for a long distance phone company cover the sides of pay phone booths. They boast of 25 cent per minute rates to the Philippines, Pakistan, Bangladesh, Sri Lanka, and India. The promotion clearly caters to the guest worker population hailing from these respective countries, featuring versions of the ad in what seems to be Urdu, Bengali, Tamil, Hindi, and, of course, English.
It goes without saying that no matter what faraway place is called or what language is used to call that faraway place, this good looking man will answer and smile while holding his hand up to his ear mimicking a telephone.
Although marketing to the migrant population as consumers takes place in several languages, the labor market depends largely on English. Nearly all high-end jobs require English and it functions as something of a lingua franca in transactions between Arabic-speaking Omanis and Hindi/Urdu/Bengali/Tamil speaking migrant workers.
It also seems to be the language for labor recruitment. I found this advertisement on the corner of my hotel. It is clearly aimed at migrant workers; despite the government's Omanization program, in which all workers of a certain sector must be Omani (all taxi cab drivers, for example, are Omani), the construction workers that are building the roads, the office buildings, the banks, and the gigantic new Sultan Qaboos Mosque in downtown Salalah are South Asian. And for those of you who are wondering, 5 Riyals a day equals about $12, more than the maintenance people in the university at which I'm studying make.
Another interesting dimension to labor and migration in Oman is that as South Asians are traveling to Oman to work as unskilled laborers, some Omanis are traveling to the Gulf to work as unskilled laborers. They usually spend a few years there saving money for marriage before returning to Oman.
I wonder how migrant labor influences culture. The South Asian influence in Oman is clear. Every restaurant carries biryani and the cinemas in town only screen Bollywood movies. Do migrants bring Oman back to Kerala or Peshawar or Dhaka?
Barack Obama’s election as president, many American commentators argue, would immediately improve America's image abroad. My friend Theo wrote about street level support for Obama in Cairo. In decidedly unscientific polling during my time in Salalah, people seem to like the idea of Obama winning too.
I think this might be changing after his recent trip to Israel. Thursday’s edition of Al-Shabibacarried this image on the front page with a headline of “Obama in Sderot: Jerusalem is the Capital of Israel!” The picture with the article has Obama holding up the Sderot version of the “I Heart NY” shirts, which reads "I heart Sderot" with a Qassam rocket piercing the heart.
The continuation of the story inside the paper features a picture of Obama smiling with right-wing Likud Party leader Bibi Netanyahu. The headline reads, “Obama promises to support Israel if elected President!” Yes, both headlines end with exclamation points and, just a hint, it’s not out of joy. Obama’s comments about Israel fly in the face of Palestinian hopes to establish the capital of a future state in a part of Jerusalem. And even Barack’s million dollar smile probably can’t compensate for an appearance with Netanyahu whose Likud Party advocates continued illegal settlements in the West Bank, especially when the caption of the photo reads "Obama and Netanyahu: a smile of contentment and agreement."
For many in the Middle East, Obama’s actions don’t seem to reflect a change (we can believe in) in U.S. involvement in Israeli-Palestine. Even some Americans are growing anxious that Barack might actually mean what he's saying. But one thing we can be sure of: McCain’s absurd allegation that Obama was endorsed by Hamas – malicious and spurious in the first place – is most certainly not true now.
And maybe that’s the point. Like Hillary, who had to out-men the men in order to prove her fitness for duty, Barack might have to out-hawk the hawks, at least in the case of Israel.
Some excerpts from the 17 July issue of Al-Shabiba, one of Oman’s daily newspapers (brought to you by KFC and Hardee’s): Front page headlines include stories on the results of end-of-year school exams; a meeting between Omani and Iranian officials seeking to “establish joint cooperation;” increasing numbers of foreign fighters in Afghanistan; the King of Saudi Arabia's speech at a religious dialogue conference in Spain; and the Sultan sending congratulations to Iraqi President Jalal Talabani on the occasion of his country's national holiday.
In the “Government Officials Shaking Hands and Sitting in Oversized Chairs” section of today’s paper, Al-Shabiba covers the Iranian Foreign Minister’s visit to Oman. Almost every newspaper has a section devoted to this, but I feel like it’s especially pronounced in the Middle East, where the appearance of government hospitality is an important marker of legitimacy because of its cultural significance. The officials no doubt went a lot farther than posing for pictures; Oman shares control of the Strait of Hormuz with Iran and a potential U.S. attack on Iran would have huge (and catastrophic effects) on both countries.
In the “Rising from Humble Beginnings to Pop Music Superstardom” section, a story on Egyptian heartthrob Tamer Hosni, who admits, “I lived a hard childhood and borrowed from the doorman.”
“Announcements of Flight.” The main Omani newspapers all carry notices like this, which amount to wanted posters for migrant laborers (mostly from south Asia) who have fled their jobs.
“The Curse of California: After the Fires Come Mud Slides.” Looks rather like the end of days. Luckily, California has a man for the job.
Luckier still, I can keep up with other happenings in that cursed state despite the fires and the mudslides. There is, for example, a blurb on the tribulations of Lindsay Lohan, whom the article describes as a “young lady of American society.”
The paper carries a number of syndicated columns from Oman, other Arab countries, and the rest of the world, one of which is a translated New York Times Op-Ed from Paul Krugman, entitled “Ted Kennedy's Big Day.” Between everyone’s favorite bearded economist (take that, Bernanke), the Governator, and Lindsay Lohan, I could mistake this paper for an American one. But I probably won’t due to a number of reasons, one of them being the fact that the picture accompanying the article isn’t Krugman; it’s Nicholas Kristof. Another reason is that in Arabic Paul is transliterated as bool, which means urine. I wonder if Krugman is pissed.
Imagine for a second what kind of image of America this creates. And now remember the fact that on most days the image of America consists not just of the damnation of California, the tribulations of party girl socialites, and the opinions of Urine Krugman, but also military occupation in Iraq, movies filled with a sex and violence, not to mention a President whom most of the world would not trust to successfully execute the Shriner’s mini-car section of a 4th of July parade. America is a strange place. But the way it seems from the far side of the world is even stranger.
Along with Paris, London, Rome and New York, it's one of those legendary global cities that everyone should visit at least once in their lifetime.
To most people, it's a cauldron of political instability that dominates the news headlines with alarming regularity, but it's always held a special allure for me. That's something about this city, the Paris of the East, that conjures up romantic images of adventure from a forgotten, sepia-tinged era and the impossible joie de vivre that is the very essence of Beirut's soul.
It's a city I worked and lived in for the larger part of a summer two years ago. Now, I was going back to visit for a few days and hang out with some fellow backpackers I had met in Syria.
The last time I caught a glimpse of her was still etched in my memory, gazing wistfully from the deck of the Orient Queen, an ocean liner chartered to ferry refugees to the safety of Cyprus, as Israeli jets rained down steel and death on Beirut's hapless inhabitants below. I remember having a MacArthur-esque moment, silently vowing to return one day, as the skyline I had become so intimate with slowly melted into the horizon.
Now, l felt anticipation welling up within me, as the taxi sped along the Damascus-Beirut highway to an eagerly awaited reunion with a long-lost lover.
As her familiar skyline gradually materialized in the valley below, I impatiently willed the taxi to go faster in my mind, despite the breakneck speed at which it was already hurtling down the narrow mountain roads.
I found my friends at the Al Nazih Pension which, along with the adjacent Talal Hotel, seemed to be sheltering just about all of the handful of intrepid backpackers in town. The hostel itself was an unremarkable hole-in -the-wall, but merits a mention here though, just for the sheer bizarreness of the staff there. It was run by a wizened old man, who we quickly nicknamed Grandpa. There were another two staff members that were creepy, both in different ways. Eddie, a young former male nurse, sported a unibrow and had this disconcerting habit of feeling up the male backpackers at the hostel, while hitting on just about anything in a skirt. The other employee, whose name I never caught, had considerably less personality than a mortician.
Meeting back up with the troops was great, and I played the role of tour guide and showed them all of my old haunts, such as the expensive-looking downtown restaurant, Al-Balad, which serves one of Beirut's best-kept secrets in its cheap, affordable Ouzi (a lamb dish).
And Bliss Street, that popular, traffic-choked drag outside the American University, with its second hand bookshops and cheap food vendors.
Some of the old zest of Beirut's cafe culture has returned. We watched a couple of the Euro '08 games on huge screens amidst the al fresco cafes that were teeming with locals and tourists. There was even a smattering of Western tourists around, all of this just mere weeks after the heart of the city had been paralyzed for 18 months by opposition protesters living in a tent city. For the briefest of moments in my mind, I was almost taken back in time to 2006, when I watched the World Cup games with a special someone in that very location.
Almost.
Then, like the trailing end of a gentle summer breeze on my cheek, the feeling passed.
Something felt different. Sure, it was great to return to the place that had been my home for a summer, but there were all the little things that had inevitably changed since then. Many familiar sights greeted me like long lost friends, such as the Starbucks café where I spent so many scorching Sunday afternoons nursing a frappuccino, but like unseen ghosts from the past, I mourned what I had lost. Nothing big,just the little things.
A cafe run by a friend had closed permanently, according to the staff at the adjacent Starbucks. I tried to get in touch with him, but attempts to reach him at the phone numbers I had were futile.
Being haunted by inexplicable feelings of loss and emptiness at being in the city without that former significant other, as if I didn't quite belong there without her.
Then, there was the city's legendary nightlife.
Eddie, a college buddy who now lives and works in Beirut, was gracious enough to take us for a night on the town. Here again, though, I was disappointed by the high expectations borne of my previous experiences. For one, it's almost impossible to get in most places with 7 boys in tow, as we soon found out. For another, Rue Monot, once heaving with fashionably-dressed young Beirutis and a cornucopia of clubs and bars, was a mere shell of its former self. Eddie explained that the partying scene in Beirut has since moved on to the adjacent Gemmayze district and other areas of the city, instead of being centered around Monot, as it used to be.
Allow me the vanity of quoting from an article I once wrote in a school magazine: Nostalgia's a bitch, and man, did I feel her teeth gnawing at me constantly throughout my sojourn in Beirut.
We also ventured into the southern suburbs of Beirut, the stronghold of Hezbollah, in search of a certain restaurant that had been featured on the BBC news, and also because the other lads were curious to see this "infamous terrorist neighborhood". The details of our misadventures there and our brush with members of the "Party of God," however, merit an email in themselves, which will follow sometime in the next week, when I get the chance to put it together.
The reports we had heard from other backpackers before we arrived of "tanks being everywhere on the streets" also proved to be somewhat of an exaggeration. While there were some armored personal carriers and the odd tank or two, they were usually situated near strategic positions, such as the homes of important government members. The only inkling that normal service hasn't quite resumed in Beirut yet was the presence of scores of soldiers cradling M-16s on just about every street corner.
Which brings me to my next observation.
Despite the large number of troops on the streets, Beirut, on the surface at least, seems to be recovering its hedonistic culture of the good old days. It's hard to think of any other country in the world where the people could go on living and partying so nonchalantly surrounded by such a heavy military presence, as if totally oblivious to the political crisisparalyzing the country.
Maybe it's a form of mental escapism, a way for Beirutis to forget their problems and where they are and simply lose themselves in the pursuit of mindless pleasure.
Or perhaps this is normalcy for Beirutis. A warped sense of normalcy, in the sense of the word as we know it, yes, but if conflict and political crises are all that you know, then any chance to celebrate is to be seized and savored, such as the temporary lull in tensions that Beirut is enjoying. Remember, this is a country that was gripped by civil war from 1975-1990, and after a false dawn of a few years of peace, was plunged right back into the horror of war just two years ago.
Looks like ol' Einstein's Theory of Relativity is still alive and kickin'.
My time in Beirut passed all too quickly. Over one last hearty lunch at Al-Balad, it was with a heavy heart that I said farewell to A. and K., my traveling companions for almost two weeks now , for the second time in a few days, this time for good. Email addresses were exchanged and promises to stay in touch were made, but deep down, I think we all knew that this could very well be the last time we saw each other. Passing ships in the night, perhaps.
That's the thing about the nomadic lifestyle. No matter how many wonderful people you meet on the road, or how great the times you share, there's always the inevitable painful good-bye, with nothing left to hold on to but those precious memories and photographs.
And so it was with Beirut. I'll be back again soon enough, I'm sure, but the experience will be different once again, with new faces and new places. It's a city that you never experience the same way twice. The one thing that won't change is I'll always be powerless to resist its Siren call.
Writer's note: This post was actually an email I sent out to my listserv of friends on June 25, so the time references are slightly off, but other than that, I thought it'd make a good first post.
The freedom of the road.
It's that sense of absolute liberty to go wherever your heart prompts you, without any regard for time or place, unburdened by responsibilities, timetables or irate parents. The only limits are those imposed by one's imagination and purse strings.
It's been a while since I've had that feeling. Two years to be exact. It's been so long that I had almost forgotten how great it feels to be able to indulge my wanderlusts at a whim. This past week, I rediscovered that feeling.
It's been about ten days since I've made it back to the Sandbox. While at a hostel in Damascus, I made friends with a couple of backpackers. A.'s a Briton who has been on the road for a couple of years now, traveling twice up and down the coasts of South America and on to Australia, Asia and now the Middle East. K.'s a tall, blonde Icelander who's in the midst of a trek from Cairo through the Middle East, Iran, Pakistan, possibly Afghanistan, and on to India. He's been traveling for five months now, and has no idea when he'll go home as he has no return ticket yet. Both of them had met on the ferry from Egypt to Jordan and are now traveling together till the inevitable separation of paths comes sometime down the road. Despite their differing backgrounds (A. is 26, worked formerly in the finance sector; K. is 21 and has not yet been to university), they both share that same insatiable wanderlust and sense of that adventure that's all too rare nowadays.
In a way, they've rejuvenated me. For a while, I'd been brooding about where my life is headed and what I'm going to do with it. This trip, in many ways, seemed like the finale on what's been a great 27 years of globe trotting. I envisioned myself coming back and finding a job to pay the bills, settling down and all the rest of that jazz. It's been really refreshing to meet kindred spirits that have shown me that no, I'm not weird for wanting to see the world and actually going ahead and following those dreams, that there is another way to live life.
So, when they asked me if I would like them to travel with them to the desert city of Palmyra, I hesitated only for the briefest of seconds. The room I had arranged to rent in Damascus was not yet ready to move into as it was still occupied, and instead of hanging around in the city for a few days, here was the chance to see more of Syria with a couple of rather laid-back, interesting travel companions.
The past week's been a blast. At first I was just going to Palmyra with them, but I had such a great time that I ended up traveling on to Homs, Hama and the really cool village of Hosn, which is perched on a mountain. Along the way, we picked up several more companions, including a amiable Korean lady, a pair of Lithuanian and German law students who had just spent a semester in Turkey, and finally another Korean girl who was taking a one year break from university to travel. And so we were six, spending our last night on a rooftop of a hostel, with nothing but a mat to sleep on. Yet the wonderful conversation, the beautiful setting andsleeping under the stars will forever be etched in my memory.
After parting ways in Homs, I made it back to Damascus yesterday and finally moved into my room in the Old City. I'll be living above a goldsmith's workshop. The goldsmith, Haitham, owns the place and rents out the rooms upstairs to foreigners studying Arabic in Damascus like me. To be honest, it was a little disappointing, as I had been hoping to rent a room where I would actually live with the family. However, things have been working out so far, so I guess I'll give it a go for a month at least. I'll be rooming with an American student (who I haven't actually met yet, as I think he's traveling), and a couple of Swiss guys and two Italian girls round up the rest of the contingent. They've all been really friendly so far, and Michael, one of the Swiss guys, actually showed me how to get to the university and register for classes this morning. The other Swiss and the two girls will be moving out soon though, so I should have some new room mates pretty soon.
I've finally registered for classes and taken the mandatory AIDS test. On Monday, I will have to take the placement test to discover which level I will be placed in. I have been trying to catch up on my grammar terms and revising my vocabulary, but at this point, it's pretty much all in God's hands.
This weekend though, I travel to Beirut to meet up and party with A., K. and possibly the rest of the gang. Despite the clashes and unrest in Tripoli this past week, it should be good times! I can't wait to revisit Beirut and see what it's like now. In a sense, it feels like I have unfinished business there, since I was forced to leave by the outbreak of the '06 Israeli-Hezbollah war. This trip should provide some closure. I'll be sure to provide details in the next email. Till then,
The name's Ian, and I'm the latest addition to this little community of Tar Heel bloggers. I thought it'd be best to give a little introductory post just so you know a little bit about myself before I actually start posting.
As some of you might already know, I'm a UNC alumnus from the class of '07 who's currently living and studying Arabic at the University of Damascus in Syria. I 'll be here till the end of September, and then I'll be traveling for a month or so to Yemen (or Iran, if things in Yemen are still dicey), Lebanon, Jordan, Palestine and Israel.
I'm new to this, but I've been a regular reader since last summer, so I'm really excited to officially be part of this community. I must confess to feelings of both envy and admiration when I first started reading the blog last year, given that so many of my fellow Tar Heels were off having adventures in the Middle East, while I was stuck behind a desk in Washington DC. Now, after squirreling away money for several months, I'm finally back in a part of the world that really has become quite dear to my heart.
Thanks to Matt's kindness, I'll be posting thoughts and observations from my little corner of the Sandbox during the next few months. I can't wait to get started!
Some parts of Salalah remind me of West Amman. Both consist of dusty open areas interrupted by 1) recently constructed white buildings that are so bright that they make you squint at noon and 2) soon to be constructed buildings covered in scaffolding. Neither place is particularly pedestrian friendly. But I, undaunted in my cheapness, continue to walk. And one of walks last week brought me into contact with some cultural heritage I most definitely would not see in West Amman.
As I walked west on 23rd of July Street (in my professional opinion, streets named after dates are wicked), I noticed a group of men gathering on a street corner. I continued to walk but couldn’t help but notice the steady stream of men and boys headed to the street corner. Looking regal in their white dishdashas and colorful muzzar, nearly all of them wore ornate khanajir (the traditional dagger common in Yemen and Oman) around their waists. Some even balanced rifles on their shoulders.
I decided to figure out what was going on so I walked to the side of the street opposite the corner where all the men were gathering and I loitered, not sure if what I was witnessing was an Omani street theater production of West Side story or just a lazy Friday in Salalah. An Egyptian teacher named Mahmood, who probably was not wondering if the Sharks and the Jets were about to break into painstakingly choreographed musical combat, informed me that this was a traditional Omani wedding, or ‘urs. In his eight years in Salalah he had never seen anything like this.
When over a hundred men had gathered, the group began to walk down the middle of the road. The group – all men – sang and danced their way to a nearby wedding hall. And lest you fear, dear reader, that I’d forgotten words of wisdom about rifles and the bullets that come out of them, a week ago I luckily visited the Bayt Zubair museum on Omani culture in Muscat, where I learned this great bit of information as part of an exhibit on rifles:
Although no one fired their arms in the air, I can attest to the fact that their presence certainly added excitement to the proceedings. As Mahmood and I trailed the procession, he encouraged me to take pictures, lamenting the fact that he’d forgotten his camera phone at home. The wedding party had hired musicians, dancers, and marchers for the occasion. Notice the women carrying incense - an Omani specialty - on their heads.
As they neared the wedding hall the men began making laps around the front of the building. Thinking they were finished and ready for sitting down time, Mahmood and I moved to get a better angle. All of the sudden the wedding party made another lap around the wedding hall and Mahmood and I found ourselves facing this:
Notice the groom in the black garment, known as a bisht, with a look of Kevin Garnett-like focus on his face. He maintained this level throughout the proceedings. I imagine he acted something like this later in the night.
After nearly bringing Mahmood and me into the wedding party, the men sat down in plastic chairs around the outside of the wedding hall. The musicians played and small groups of men danced. I had trouble understanding the Omani dialect in the songs, but judging from the actions of the dancers the words were probably “put your khanajir in the air and wave them like you just don’t care.” Or something like that. Although it should be noted that waving of said khanajir was done with ample care because, as everyone knows, putting a khanjar in someone’s face is just bad manners. My other favorite dance was when the dancers threw money in the air and men close to the dance area quickly picked it up.
All of the women were inside the wedding hall and they watched the events from windows and the roof, asserting their presence with frequent ululations. You can see a few women in black here. (more on gender in Oman to come…which is not to say that this piece shouldn’t be read as an examination of gender)
Mahmood informed me that this ceremony cost some thousands of dollars. And that leads me to an important point. These men were not uneducated peasants but rather the business elite of Salalah. They closed the doors of their Toyota Land Cruisers and Chevy Suburbans and engaged in some of the traditions that have stayed the same even as much has changed. But this is not to suggest a stark dichotomy between tradition and modernity. Like people everywhere, Omanis blend tradition and modernity into a synchronized whole, with men carrying a khanjar in one hand and a cell phone in the other.
I watched the celebration from the outside of the seating area. But I wasn’t the only curious observer. Oman is a diverse place and it has been said that Salalah resembles Mombassa more than any Middle Eastern city. Alongside me, Pakistani and Indian guest workers watched the proceedings. The South Asian men handing out Pepsis to the wedding attendees even brought a few boxes to our group of onlookers. The relationship between Omanis and migrant workers will be explored in future posts, as well, and it’s not always a rosy one. But for now this image of a curious coexistence will suffice.
I’m back, friends. And by back, I mean away. Between now and August I’ll periodically post on my thoughts and experiences in Oman this summer. I’ve been fortunate to spend some time in Egypt and the Sham so I’d especially like to use this place to apply the comparative lens to Oman.
I’ve been here about a week now, having spent a few days in the capital of Muscat and since moved on to Salalah. One of the first things I noticed about Oman is the cultural diversity. From the mango lassies to the samosas, the South Asian influence is particularly pronounced. As I walked around Muscat, I found my Arabic was no use in many cases, whether with a Kashmiri shop owner, a Baluchi internet café attendant, or a Tamil waiter. According to reliable sources, the population numbers 3,311,640 with 577,293 non-nationals included. I've heard much higher estimates of the number of non-nationals on the street.
These disparate flows of culture and people are nothing new for Oman. The Sultanate’s power once stretched from Zanzibar in East Africa to Sri Lanka and the cosmopolitan nature of Oman has been preserved under the leadership of Sultan Qaboos bin Taimur, the man who has ruled the country since taking over for his father in a bloodless 1970 coup. Subdued portraits of the Sultan hang high on the walls of most stores and homes. My favorite so far was at the Muscat airport departures terminal, where Qaboos’s leonine visage looked on, one hand raised in a solemn farewell. His pictures certainly lack the dress-up quality of, say, King Abdullah of Jordan. Instead, they reflect a stately man who, in the eyes of many, has been fundamental in navigating Oman toward development while maintaining traditional culture. (If you don’t believe me, you can check out his facebook page. I’m not a fan…yet.)
But, as I mentioned earlier and as the Sultan Qaboos Grand Mosque demonstrates, Oman’s traditional culture is anything but exclusivist. Completed in 2001 after six years of construction, the structure features a Khurasani carpet that was at one time the largest carpet in the world (maybe Qaboos would have more facebook fans if he boasted about that in his “about me” section); tiles from Esfahan; and design themes from different geographic areas for each wing.
You don’t see much like this in Egypt or Jordan, partly due to money and partly due to geography.
Just as the mosque underscores the pluralist heritage of Oman (as well as Islam, for that matter), the location also belies Oman’s developmental status. The minaret of the mosque mingles with cranes in the somewhat hazy skyline. Parking lots surround the complex in a location removed from the center of Muscat.
With a sprawling layout and mediocre public transportation, a car culture definitely exists, with Muscatis clogging the car dealership lined highways. All of this is to say that Muscat is Los Angeles, except without medical marijuana, Vincent Chase, or the Reverend Keegan de Lancie.
That might be an overstatement. For one, our German tour guide described the relatively short buildings of Oman’s skyline as such (in a wicked German accent): “This is not like Manhattan. It is more like Lilliput.” All Jonathan Swift references aside, what is clear is that the coming years will be interesting for Oman. Lacking vast oil resources to sink into large-scale infrastructure / weather control projects like in Saudi or the Emirates, the Sultanate must spend its money wisely so as to ensure that the mango lassies continue to flow even after the oil dries up.
perhaps we need to change the images we have of a feminist. i do not pretend to know how to best define a feminist and i’m too smart to even fall into that trap, or too obsessed with deconstructing labels. either way, i have learned that just like how i hate being defined, i hate defining others.
in my mind (which is a very dangerous place to be), a feminist is like a snowflake, unique and intricate.
the women i am meeting are so incredibly different and none of them are easy to dismiss. one woman i met, who is a private english teacher, described the woman of syria so beautifully: we are simple, yet clever women.
these women are sick of the colonial powers’ desires still limiting their lives. as one woman was driving me home, she told me that the first Arabic fashion designer rose about ten years ago. great, i thought. she paused before the clincher: “who then has been designing syrian clothes for the past 50, 100 years? the clothes we are wearing, both male and female, are what the french colonizers want us to wear.”
the word ‘moda’ (fashion) follows me everywhere. walking down al-hamra street or the white bridge, i see stores like “raghda’s mode” copying after designer stores like “vera moda.” if you speak to some of the revivalist women i have been talking to, you will hear woman after woman complain how ‘moda’ has limited their movements, oppressed their creativity and destroyed their sense of identity.
tomorrow i will be trying to hunt down some women artists. we’ll see how far these thoughts reach across the rest of syria.
i suspect that same fed-up-of-the-west-telling-them-what-to-do sentiments will not be hard to find.
as for me, well, i think this poem says enough:
let me put on my scarf
she gathered herself for an odd, normal ritual,
ducking under twisted teal drapes, or perhaps, raising green’s careful spread,
she intricately pins covered freedom -exactly three feet squared-
reaching in delicate tucks wrapped by whirling, she sighs in the day’s face that will tan her liberty into a shield.
originally planned as a self test of her control, forcing the world along her eye-line, she would fold and arrange their vision in rainbows.
but she took this morning to dress, cover, breathe, remembering the private joys of inner peace
every time i walk into a mosque or attend a lecture for my research, i cannot help but feel that i am about to be judged. every woman is wearing the same long rain coat style dress and the same round white scarf. last week i walked into a mosque wearing varying shades of blue and (rather lovely if i may so say myself) light blue wrap-around hijab. and two minutes after sitting down a girl comes by and asks me my name. i tell her and she smiles and asks for my family’s phone number. ‘oh, she’s trying to hook me up,’ i thought. i guess that means she doesn’t disapprove. (i told her my father wan’t in the country so who was she going to ask for my hand?).
yesterday i attended the halaqa of the second oldest sheikha in syria and i was going to interview her afterwards. she is very well respected, wears a black scarf and black abayeh. her voice is so soft i can barely hear her during her talks and she would not let me record our interview. i was intimidated. i thought for sure she would disapprove of me as soon as she saw me. what a mistake. she grabbed my hand, smiled and exclaimed ‘mashAllah, you are very beautiful, visibly beautiful but also beautiful on the inside.’ now, not that i want to brag but she is said to be able to sense other people’s thoughts.
however they are still very suspicious when i ask them personal questions in the interview. so i guess them liking me only gets me so far.
there is this one sheikh, sheikh rajab. he is one of the main sheikhs for the abu nur mosque in damascus, where most of my research is centered. he is an adorable old man probably in his 80s who lives in the rows of apartments that are built into the mosque to house its students. my cousin taghreed, who knows him, and i went to see him when i first got here. we walked in on him eating lunch with his wife and daughters in his apartment. he tells us to sit and join him. the table is lined with dishes small in quantity but varied (they even had grilled goat’s brain which is actually pretty good).
he is a very witty and hilarious man. during lunch he randomly turns to me and declares ‘your husband does not ask about you!’ i stuttered a reply, completely caught off guard because umm i’m not married. he then laughs ‘your pair of socks!’ and for those of you who love puns get this. the word for husband in Arabic (jooz) is the same as ‘pair’ (jooz) in the phrase ‘a pair of socks’ (jooz grabat) because couples are pairs. i came in wearing sandals.
while drinking tea after lunch he randomly turned to me and asked if i wanted this to be my family’s house. again i was completely caught off guard and could barely stammer a reply. he continued saying that i should consider his small apartment in the mosque my family’s house. i was completely touched. in the end i got to know his daughters and he gave me some books about the mosque. but he did tell me to bring my husband next time!
i have been keeping my opinions to myself and hope they will tell me theirs. i have to admit, maybe being outspoken is not helpful all the time. i guess lao tzu was right about some things.
in one of the oldest cities, deep in the piles of my research, my mind can only think of one thing. eve. there has not been a single day where i have not thought of you. every night i dream of your perfectly lined hair, your lighting eyes, god, your smile. this city has seen too much loss, too much destruction and here i am bringing one more loss.
i swear to you eve, none of this is easy. when nights dreaming of you turn into days, i don’t want the morning to come. i wake up alone, clutching a blanket, shaking from my thundering tears. i shudder and think what is there to move on to?
my research. eve, i am wrapping myself in it because every time i do, your joyful smile and quick jump of excitement when i told you about it dance in the shadows of my mind. your hair brushes over my books; it is your eyes that is searching for a glimpse into the minds of these syrian muslim women. your tears mix with mine when i cannot help but fall into the beauty of these mosques and the devotions but into every single inch.
i want your passion and your love but sometimes all i can find are my weary muscles and swollen eyes. these women i am meeting definitely have a passion and deep love for something in this world. i know i will find what lingers in their mind in their waking moments, the image that pushes their thoughts into conscious actions. i will find their eve.
there is too much in this world
struggle to salvage the soul the world shreds with its flailing clutches, shriveled fingertips, worn from grasping the end of thoughts, stories that erode my eternal faith.
i do not want to hear the end. how can the end be good when there is so much pain?
turn aside and lose your mind in nothingness to forget. forget their stories, forget your stories, forget that there is too much in this world.
i grab my pen to record the evidence of my existence, with it, i multiply word archives. difference has been added.
now, open to your control of the journey,
i will connect myself to this earth, rooting my limbs while muscles still inspire, and breaths long enough to shape actions,
so when my part in this tale ends, it will be such an end, as to be worthy of remembrance.
syria never fails to draw me into her lap. i am terrified of her embrace, yet somehow long for her familiar scent. perhaps i took her in when i longed for a mother who never came. perhaps i sought refuge in what should be my home country. but never really knowing a home or a mother, i didn't know how to love her or be loved by her. with every visit i only increased my yearning and naively allowed her to take advantage of me.
yet again, i am returning to syria for the summer but this time, it will be different. i am not going to visit my relatives on my father's side. those visits leave me aimless, eager to find anything that would keep me busy. my restlessness lead me to be easily sucked into their soap opera lives. a family that consisted of more than my brother and father was so alien to me. i wanted the closeness, the affection, anything that hinted of the families i saw others had. but somehow i always left tearfully lost in definitions that never ceased to plague me.
i am syrian. i am american. but there is a part of me that lies before, under, over and after nationality. what will i find if i look under all labels of time and space? i am not hoping for a total de-construction of my being. i want to embrace what has constructed my being. i want to live within my body unafraid of defining skin that encloses my self.
this summer i am on a mission to reclaim my land, my love and my life in this country. life has to be more than the dramatic outbursts of terror and joy that cascade through our lives. I have to find that stream that guides my spirit, to find the river before the rapids.
i approach syria without a suit of armor that deflects everything that is thrown on it. inside this armor my spirit cowers when it thinks of what lies beyond. instead, my soul will protect me. the thundering showers that used to sting when they rained upon me will now roll into raindrops upon reaching my skin. the rain will nourish my body, but i will not let myself be drowned.
and here begins my journey. in the words of a fictional but wise hobbit: "It's a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door. You step onto the road, and if you don't keep your feet, there's no knowing where you might be swept off to."
This video documents an iconic case of human rights violations in Cairo; civilians being tried in military court. This case is in violation of all international conventions regarding legal procedure to which Egypt is a signatory and has called the attention of international legal and human rights activists and organizations including Ramsey Clark, Sir Ivan Lawrence, Amnesty International, Human Rights Watch, and the Arab Commission on Human Rights.
This issue is time-sensitive! Drawing public attention for more than a year, the final court date for sentencing is February 26th.
Please e-mail the following message to:
Egypt's National Council for Human Rights - insan@nchr.org.eg
Egypt's Ministry of Justice Counselor/ Mamdoh Mohie E-din Marie mojeb@idsc.gov.eg
Egypt's Ministry of State for Legal Affairs and Parliamentary Councils Dr. Mufid Mahmoud Mahmoud Shehab parli@idsc.gov.eg
"I have learned about the case of the Muslim Brotherhood #963 in which 40 civilian leaders are being tried in military court. I stand against Egypt’s violations of international legal procedure and voice my opposition to the government’s breach of international human rights conventions. I urge you to stand up for justice and support acquittal of the defendants at the final session of the military tribunal on Tuesday February 16, 2008."
Just a small note. Marium's new blog can be found here: http://karachiitis.blogspot.com/. The link on the right has been changed to reflect this. We wish her all the best in these difficult times.
I’m tired today on my walk home from class.I look down at my shoes to squint out the afternoon glare.A wink in the sidewalk catches my eye.
Flattened bottle caps tell the best stories of summer.
This one could be the token of a hot July afternoon.Maybe its owner sat on the hood of a parked car and ordered the bottle of soda from a street-side vendor.Legs worn from pick-up soccer, perhaps he flinched as he rested against the hot metal body.He probably watched one of countless Hagg Ahmads or Mohammads retrieve the bottle from an ice chest and pop off the metal cap with a quick flick of his wrist.
In the summer heat, a sizzle of bubbles can be heard creeping out of the bottle neck to whisper a promise of cool solace.He savors the crisp, fizzy sweetness, resting lips against cold, heavy glass.The bottle is handed back to the Hagg, sent off on yet another journey through the factories - to be washed, refilled, and returned again to the chest of ice.In his palm, the bottle cap is carried away.He tosses it into the street, kicking it around with the toe of a dusty shoe, and quickly loses interest.He looks up to see the game of street ball resumed, forgets his token and runs off to join the crowd.
The metal top stays behind.It’s flattened over and over by speeding cars and hurried feet, all day and all night, week after week, summer after summer.
I look down to the sidewalk where the bright shiny lid has become a barely discernible label among the other ‘Coca Colas’, ‘Sprites’ and ‘Fantas’ half heartedly glinting in the matte gray asphalt.The reds and blues, greens and oranges fade.But just enough color stays behind so that every now and then a passerby will pause, intrigued by a silver wink.Like me, the passerby stoops down to get a closer look, remembers for a moment childhood summers in crisp intensity, then straightens up and continues walking.
It is so utterly difficult to put this trip into words. Beyond impossible to describe the emotions, the actions, the colors, the light. When you go to Mecca, you don't come back. Not like how you were anyway. There is a light that surrounds Mecca that you yearn and beg to be a part of.
Light. So much Light.
I spent five days in Mecca performing the smaller pilgrimage during Ramadan and then spent 16 days in Madina, the home of the Prophet Muhammad (Peace be upon him). The Prophet (PBUH) said that the person who performs Umrah (the smaller pilgrimage) during Ramadan, it is like he/she has performed the Hajj (the bigger pilgrimage) with him.
It is an honor not bestowed upon many. And I didn't deem myself worthy of it. But it changed my outlook on life. It changed me. It is a mercy that I will never forget.
It was my first time in Mecca.
I was petrified when I entered Mecca. Absolutely petrified. I held onto my father's hand as he took me inside the mosque towards the Holy Ka'aba, the Sacred House of God built by Abraham. It is said that the first time you see the Ka'aba whatever you ask for will be given to you.
The first time I saw the Ka'aba, I was stupefied. Its a feeling that is miles ahead of being scared. You aren't scared but in complete and total awe. There is no way to explain it. Lets just say it is a moment that no one, I can guarantee, no one who has ever experienced it, can ever forget.
I've seen nothing like it. Nothing.
It was surrounded by light. The sky was white, the marble white, the people, white. It stood in the middle covered in a black cloak. Covered with Light. So much Light.
Tears streamed down my face and I barely knew it. I stood awed and begged, absolutely begged, for forgiveness.
There is Majesty. You drop to your knees and put your head to the ground in prayer not because you have to. But because you know it is the right thing to do. Not because it commands you to. But because you feel it in your heart that this, this is the Truth.
I so wish you all could see it.
I spent five days in utter awe. I sat on marble that remained cool, so cool under the blazing Saudi sun. The smite of Egypt does not compare to the heat of Arabia. It was hot. But the ground remained cool.
I remember the time I prayed near the Ka'aba with my father. A man came and stood next to me to pray. We all prayed together, creating motion at different speeds but all asking for the same thing. It didn't matter who he was, who I was. Men and women, old and young, rich and poor, everyone prayed together. Names, class, nationality, nothing, nothing like that mattered. It didn't even exist.
I remember circumambulating the Ka'aba in prayer (known as the Tawaf) feeling the cool ground underneath my feet as the blazing afternoon sun shone above.
My family and I were always tried to find a time when there would be fewer people performing the Tawaf so we could get closer to the Ka'aba and to the place where a marker marks the footprints of Abraham's feet. There is am imprint of his feet in a glass covered marker covered with gold. Its always difficult to get close to it because there are so many people.
So, so many people. Thousands, thousands.
So we thought of going at 1 AM, 2 AM, 11 PM, anytime when traffic would be slow. I don't think there has ever been a moment when there has not been someone performing the Tawaf. Hundreds.
I've been to the Wailing Wall in Jerusalem, to the churches of Bethlehem and Jerusalem. To the chapels, churches and cathedrals of Italy and the temples of Thailand and Singapore. To the mosques of Jerusalem, Egypt, Jordan, Pakistan.
I've never, never seen anything like this.
People cried, smiled, laughed and prayed. Mecca and Madina, in my opinion, are the two places in the world where you can look at someone next to you and not see them. You are alone in a crowd of thousands. Thousands who all worship the same way and aim for the same thing. You sit next to people breaking your fast with them in the Mosque and do not see then for what they look like, or who they are.
I rarely ever knew who the person was sitting next to me, where they were from, what their name was, what the color of their skin was or what they looked like. You saw them only as Muslims, you see them as family. You break bread with them, you eat dates when them. And then you place your head to the ground together and think:
We believe.
We believe in the Power of God, We believe in his Message. We are awestruck by His Power and We are humbled by his Mercy. I look at his people, their hands raised in prayer, tears streaming down their faces. Tears mixing with my own. I see them shave their heads, kissing each other as they finish their pilgrimage, washed away of their sins.
And your heart is washed. It feels new. I promise you it is a feeling that it unlike any other.
You pray on the streets outside the mosque because there is no space inside. As soon as you hear the call to prayer, you stop in your tracks. Cars stop, shops close and time slows. God is remembered and worshiped. There is silence and there is peace. There is Light.
Mecca is full of Awe. Madina is full of peace. In Madina it is as if you have finally come home. Birds fly around minarets, lazily circiling the minarets of the mosque. You go into the old mosque, where the Prophet Muhammad (PBUH) is buried to give him your greeting. You have come to his home. You have been invited to his home.
Your soul feels light in Madina. You finally realize that you actually have one.
I look back on my trip, my nights at the mosques, my days in the cities. And I feel my heart breathing anew.
I wish you all could see it. I wish you all could be there. I went there, skeptical, at times, of my own beliefs. Asking questions, demanding answers.
Welcome and thanks for visiting. This shared blog is a forum for the stories, photos, and insights of several UNC students traveling throughout the Middle East. For the most part, we are living and studying independent of one another so expect reports from around the region. If you have any questions, feel free to contact me at matthew.garza@gmail.com.
It goes without saying that no matter what faraway place is called or what language is used to call that faraway place, this good looking man will answer and smile while holding his hand up to his ear mimicking a telephone.
Another interesting dimension to labor and migration in Oman is that as South Asians are traveling to Oman to work as unskilled laborers, some Omanis are traveling to the Gulf to work as unskilled laborers. They usually spend a few years there saving money for marriage before returning to Oman. 
In the “Rising from Humble Beginnings to Pop Music Superstardom” section, a story on Egyptian heartthrob Tamer Hosni, who admits, “I lived a hard childhood and borrowed from the doorman.”
“The Curse of California: After the Fires Come Mud Slides.” Looks rather like the end of days. Luckily, California has a 
The paper carries a number of syndicated columns from Oman, other Arab countries, and the rest of the world, one of which is a translated New York Times Op-Ed from 
Although no one fired their arms in the air, I can attest to the fact that their presence certainly added excitement to the proceedings. As Mahmood and I trailed the procession, he encouraged me to take pictures, lamenting the fact that he’d forgotten his camera phone at home. The wedding party had hired musicians, dancers, and marchers for the occasion. Notice the women carrying incense - an Omani specialty - on their heads.
Notice the groom in the black garment, known as a bisht, with a look of Kevin Garnett-like focus on his face. He maintained this level throughout the proceedings. I imagine he acted something like 
Mahmood informed me that this ceremony cost some thousands of dollars. And that leads me to an important point. These men were not uneducated peasants but rather the business elite of Salalah. They closed the doors of their Toyota Land Cruisers and Chevy Suburbans and engaged in some of the traditions that have stayed the same even as much has changed. But this is not to suggest a stark dichotomy between tradition and modernity. Like people everywhere, Omanis blend tradition and modernity into a synchronized whole, with men carrying a khanjar in one hand and a cell phone in the other.
