I Walked into Damascus! And My Sister Ripped My Heart Out!

Mike

About two weeks back, on a spur of the moment decision, after a four hour delay in which our group had to leave Marium at the Syrian border, and almost getting cheated by the shadiest chauffer in the Middle East, I walked into Damascus!

For me, this was the first time I’ve felt international adventure. Amongst this group of globe trekkers and international posters, I feel pretty juvenile. But slowly I’m learning the ropes that I have to learn in order to travel this part of the world and reconnect with my identity.

As the sook (market) opened up, I caught my first glimpse of the Great Mosque of Damascus. I had studied this building in an Islamic Architecture course in Hanes Art Center, ironically, the same building where Nasser taught me the little Arabic that is helping sustain me here. We walked into the front of the courtyard:

My sister, cousin, and friend must have thought I was crazy because I just stopped, looked around and kept turning the full 360 degrees not saying a word. Maybe it was because I knew this buildings significance or maybe it’s because I tend to over think things, but to stand there in that 1300 yr old building brought all these new thoughts to the surface.

I realized this building was built at a time when Arabs and Muslims were at the forefront of intellectual thought: math, philosophy, politics, medicine, arts, sociology. A time when the so called “West” was defining itself in relation to the Middle East. A time when Europeans would have been proud to study at Arab universities! A time when Arabs/Muslims were united! A time when Arabs/Muslims were tolerant! A time when the people I descended from were the model! Where have we come and how did we get to today? At what point did we lose ourselves? Now in Amman, I can’t get away from Starbucks, McDonalds, Burger King, Hardees, and designer jeans! Now in Amman, a degree from an American university is worth more and pays more than a degree from Amman itself. What happened to my dishdash and kefeeyah? What happened to debkah?

I consider myself fortunate to have been able to stand in front to the tomb of Salahuddin and realize that we have our own heroes! I’ll never take anything away from the great accomplishments of Abraham Lincoln or George Washington, but it’s refreshing to know that I have my own heroes, my own history, my own identity. Why are all the Arabs asleep here? I’m very happy for David Beckham, but seriously! Wake UP!

As we walked back to the hotel room from the historical site, it was getting pretty dark. Over a busy street in Damascus that we had to cross, there is a bridge that allows you to cross after first ascending about 25 steps on either side. The overcrowding of this city makes climbing these steps quite a task, even on foot. As we got to the top and began to cross, I passed by this old man in dirty, tattered clothes sitting next to the concrete rail. His face was grimy and had probably not seen a razor blade in months. He was missing the bottom portion of his left leg and he had metal rods bracing both sides of the remaining section of thigh. He was sitting there, head on the concrete, not saying a word. One hand open on his lap, as hundreds of people, including myself, passed him by emotionless. My sister grabbed my shirt as I passed him and asked me for my wallet. I said her name in a kind of way that brothers do when they are trying to be condescending. Softly but sternly she said “give me your wallet!” I took out all the money I had in my pockets (saving my wallet because I knew we needed it) and gave it to her. She went over to the old man and put the money in his hand, gave him a pat on the shoulder, and said “God Bless You” in Arabic. After we descended the steps, I was reflecting on what had just happened and felt bad that I didn’t feel for him. I’m an American: pampered, shelter, spoiled, and free. I looked over at my sister and tears were streaming down her cheeks but she was trying not to cry. I put my hand on shoulder and again said her name in a way to imply “Come on? Are you serious?” I was just trying to make her feel better. Without looking at me she said, “It must have been so hard for him to make it up those steps” I can honestly say with those words she ripped my heart out and fed it to me. I looked away and kept my eyes open so the tears would run into my nose and no one would notice me cry. I couldn’t help but ask myself where is Islam? I came here, the Middle East, knowing I would be surrounded by Muslims and the site of the faith’s inception. This can’t be Islam! What have we forgotten?

In a single day, from a 1300 yr old building built at a time when Arabs pioneered thought, to a homeless Syrian man that seems to have been passed by everyone except my sister, I started to realize that Arabs have forgotten almost everything.

It was the first time, I walked in Damascus!

منحبك يا بشار

sam

Last Friday, I made something of an impulsive decision to go to Damascus. You can do it quite easily here, as it's only 3 hours away. I woke up early and after brief negotiations with a white-bearded driver, I was on my way to the Sham, as they say, in an aging piece of Detroit muscle (Japanese cars just aren't strong enough, my driver explained).

For me, Damascus represented a respite from the newness of Amman, a trip to a city fabled due to its history, alluring due to its rather stringent visa requirements, and apparently dangerous given it's status as a John Bolton (who, unbeknownst to most of the world, received a shout out in Kanye West's Diamonds from Sierra Leone - I'll give you a hint: it rhymed with "international masshole") characterized rogue state (though right now it's probably the safest place one could go in the Middle East).

Plus, as the legions of loyal THT readers are well aware, I'm interested in public representations of autocratic leaders. In the wake of the recent election (more information available from Maryam here and from Joshua Landis here), ubiquitous posters of Bashar al-Assad provided numerous opportunities for visual analysis and poking fun. I was so enthralled with the possibilities (or perhaps just bored at the border) that I took this picture of Bashar al Assad and his father, Hafez.

When I explained my obsession to the Syrians with whom I shared the car, they laughed, both because they thought that I was another mildly insane American (not to be confused with Dr. Evil-ish insane Brits) and because they knew that if I were excited by such a small example of nationalist shirk, I might briefly lose consciousness given the persistence of Bashar's face throughout Damascus.

Indeed, Bashar seemed to follow me everywhere in Damascus, a constant reminder of significant differences between the Jordanian and Syrian political climate.
For example, at this fast food stand, in addition to high cholestorol you get a taste of resistance. From left, Iranian president Mahmoud Ahmadinejad (who, by the way, has an occasionally updated blog), Syrian president al-Assad, and Hezbollah leader Hassan Nasrallah. It is interesting to note that though you might find some pictures of Ahmadinejad or Nasrallah if you looked very hard in Amman, you will never ever ever see King Abdullah in the same picture. Before we see Ahmadinejad and Abdullah smiling arm and arm above the local falafel stand, I'd expect a subpar major league baseball owner to become president of the United States - no, that happened. Ah, here it is - I would expect to see Abdullah renounce his love for Star Trek before I'd expect to see him sharing a picture with Nasrallah.

And this isn't just about using every possible opportunity to publicize Abdullah's love for Star Trek. It's reflective of the larger regional political dynamics, part of what Vali Nasr calls the Shia Revival, what King Abdullah himself called the Shia Crescent, the emerging Shia power bloc extending through Iran, Iraq, Syria, and Lebanon.

The religious appellation is perhaps misleading. As an outspoken Arab many of us know and love pointed out to me, the placement of Ahmadinejad and Nasrallah (both Shia) with Bashar al-Assad (who is Alawite, a Shia minority group) is more a political phenomenon than a religious one. Though their faiths correspond, it is more about placing Bashar al-Assad on the "resisting Western hegemony and aggression" plane than anything else. The long standing secularism of Bashar's Ba'ath party - founded by a Christian and a Sunni Muslim in Damascus - further underscores this point.

Nevertheless, as the respective resistance of Western hegemony has increased the popularity of men like Nasrallah and Ahmadinejad in the region, the separation has corresponded to religious fault lines, worrying secular Sunni autocrats like Jordan's King Abdullah, like Egypt's Hosni Mubarak. Witness their initial reluctance to condemn the hostilities in the Lebanon War last summer, witness American acquiescence over Egyptian efforts to develop nuclear technology.

Indeed, the icons on this fast food stall reveal a widening philosophical gap among regional leaders. To collaborate with Western governments (while being careful to avoid alienating the populace) or resist them (at least rhetorically)?

And, more importantly, behind the rhetoric, behind the summits, behind the furious editorials, what of the people? If the election posters told the whole story, Syrians are pretty content.

This poster says "N'am," yes. Actually, it says "n'am, n'am, n'am...." You get the point. All in the form of the Syrian flag. Though if it were to be completely accurate to the Syrian elections it would include two or three no's in there.
All those yeses, however, surely can't compete with the poster below, which reads "Thalath fee qaloobna: Allah, Soorea, wa Al-Assad," Three in our hearts: God, Syria, and Al-Assad.
And here, perhaps, is the greatest honor Al-Assad can achieve. Again, we see old friend Nasrallah and Daddy Hafez to the right, but this time Egyptian pop sensation Tamer Hosny and international icon David Beckham join him on the left. Given the success of Mr. Hosny's latest single and his recently released film, I think Mr. Al-Assad is the lucky one here.
Despite these apparent displays of affection, I'm not going to lie, I'm a little disappointed with Bashar. Granted, not everyone can have the dress-up wardrobe of King Abdullah, but give me some personality, ya Bashar! All I can gather from most of these is that you like double windsor knots, conservative suits, and stern expressions. At least Nasrallah smiles!
To be fair, he has a tough act to follow. His father, who ruled Syrian from 1970 to 2000 still finds ways to remind Syrians of his rule. Isn't this everyone's dream valentine?
But Bashar does find ways to innovate. In the image below, we see Bashar going post-modern on us. The image of Bashar is superimposed on an image that contains posters of Bashar within it. Very mimetic. Interestingly, the background image - of Damascus University - features a Syrian flag next to a Palestinian flag, a flourish of symbolism that you would never see in Amman. After all, since Palestinians constitute a much larger percentage of the populace in Jordan, they also constitute a larger threat to the creation of a single, inclusive national identity, making the co-opting of Palestinian symbols into the larger Jordanian narrative that much more necessary for the Hashemite regime.
Below, we see Bashar's ray-banned silhouette on a car windshield in the Old City. It would be cool on its own, not the least because it looks very similar to a Borat shirt that I have. Nice. But what makes it ten times cooler is the Batman sign right above it. Seriously, check it out. Naturally, this raised some real possibilities in my head - can we get some sort of Bashar-signal working for when he's really needed, putting the image of Bashar into the night skies whenever justice is threatened, wherever foes need vanquishing, or, at least, when they run out of guava juice at the neighborhood smoothie stand? It could even be called the Baath signal.
For all of this symbolism, pageantry, and nation creation, it is misleading to suggest that Syria is Bashar and Bashar is Syria (which the phrase above Bashar's silhouette - Syria of al-Assad - promotes). Most people I spoke with displayed the images not so much out of devotion as what seemed to be fatalism, resigned to the sometimes absurdist nature of life.

Indeed, the heritage of Damascus boasts a vibrancy and richness that predates the Assad family's rise to prominence. The Umayyad Mosque, where I spent an afternoon lazing about, was the centerpiece of the early 8th century caliphate, whose domain extended from Spain in the West to Afghanistan in the East.
Indeed, for much of history, what is now Syria existed as part of entirely different socio-polities, with trade items from China and India passing through Roman and Greek administered centers of commerce. Borders, national identity, and Bashar al-Assad were entirely foreign concepts.

The boxes of identity that exist now - Muslim, Arab, Syrian, rogue state - either didn't exist or were a little more fluid back then. And they still are - at least more than we give them credit for. For example, the Umayyad Mosque contains a shrine with the head of John the Baptist, venerated in Christianity and Islam. The remains of the great warrior Saladin - who, as a Kurd, would probably be persecuted in Syria today - rest outside.

The evidence of these alternative forms of identity and existence are displayed extensively at the sprawling Syrian National Museum, alongside, well, more modern inventions.
As I sat in an alcove inside, I gazed at a map of various archaeological sites and cities of antiquity. The modern borders of Syria, Lebanon, and Iraq had been superimposed. Sort of like the posters of Bashar are super-imposed onto the lives of regular people. And the absolute novelty of this idea of nation-states struck me.

Far away from these nationalist posters and maps, hospitality filled kitchens and friendly conversations underscored for me the reality of cultural flows and intersections, transcending the simplification and constructed-ness of national identities.

Any Jordanian will tell you that mansaf - a meal of meat, yogurt, and rice eaten with one's hands - is the Jordanian national dish. I even spoke with a virulent Jordanian nationalist at one point who claimed that it was one of the foundational elements of true Jordanian-ness. I couldn't help but laugh as I ate a very similar, very delicious dish in a Damascus apartment.

Even the trappings of nationalism that I so adore - which are often the basis for divisiveness - evince a certain degree of similarity. Several weeks ago I noted the picture of King Abdullah on the Ministry of Agriculture. In full military regalia, he dutifully waters a sapling.
As I wandered around Damascus University at one point, I noticed an eerily similar image at the Syrian Ministry of Agriculture, featuring Bashar, hoe in hand, participating in the national agricultural effort. He's even got his sleeves rolled up.
The Arabic reads "All of us are with you." And in this case, it rings true, not in the sense that we should all grab our farm implements. Moreso that for better or worse, we are all living in a world of nationalism, nation-states, and their inherent absurdities.

a rose by any other name

maryam

For those who are lucky enough to have been to Syria know the feelings that cause me to declare, oh Damascus is Syria and Syria is Damascus. She is a city I have visited many occasions over the years. As I come back to her in the different stages of mental development I cannot help but fall in love with her over and over again for different reasons every time. And yes, I cannot refer to Damascus but in the pronoun she, because in Arabic it is a feminine word. But also, I think the affection refers to that of a captain to his ship. The affection between us is one that has existed through the ages, for Damascus is the oldest continuously inhabited city.

The first time I remember falling in love with Damascus was the summer of 8th grade. I fell in love with her beauty, her romantic charm and her incredible etiquette. My cousins used to take me on walks through the city at nights during that summer. At first the proximity of the ancient city with the modern additions took my breath away. The mixture of the two seemed to be a perfectly balanced blend of the two worlds that I was living in. The image that I fell most deeply in love with is the rise of the ancient Mt. Qasoon at the edge of the old city, littered with tiny old-fashioned cement block houses. The mountain as a part of the city, a mountain that paraded the feeling of eternity with its very presence, a mountain that lessened the division between the heavens of the almighty and the poor mortals of the ancient earth; well, that mountain proved to me the special place that Damascus has in God’s heart.

At that age all I could concentrate on was her unique beauty. I did not notice the intense poverty in the areas surrounding Damascus. The result of rapid modernization without a thought to city planning and the people’s welfare was lost to me. Looking at Damascus now I cannot help but be reminded of the favalas of Rio in Brazil (for those who haven’t experienced seeing such images, you must watch Favala Rising immediately). Walking through Damascus now, I cannot help but wonder how this incredible city used to be a beautiful oasis in the middle of the Syrian Desert. I sigh for the cut down beautiful forests that was said to be a literal paradise on Earth. When I remember that all this destruction happened in the last 50 years, I feel like collapsing in a fit of tears. My insane, incredible and persistent hope for a better future though helps me accept the torture that has been done to my lovely city as I look for ways to restore her health.

The last time I was in Damascus was last year. I graduated early from high school and a semester and a summer here before I started college. As I awaited the beauty and charm that drew me to Damascus, I knew that I could no longer look at her the same. I didn’t love her less, for it is impossible to fall out of love with her, but her faults were thrown constantly in my face. The pollution, poverty and political insanity followed me wherever I went. While I was in Damascus, the Danish cartoon incident happened. For those who didn’t hear, a parade of young, angry Prophet Muhammad loving men stormed through Damascus and burned the Danish embassy along with its neighbors just for fun. Easy to believe that a group of angry Arabs could do something as crazy as burn an embassy, but here is the catch: the embassy caught fire before the crowd was even close to it. When I realized this, it opened the bag of worms for me about Arab political affairs. Everything turned into a Kennedy assassination conspiracy. From wondering why the electricity always goes out for an hour a day (some people say that companies pay off the electric company so that appliances will break with the electric surges and people will have to buy new ones) I started to give everything I had taken for granted in Syria a deeper observation.
Despite the betrayal and hypocrisy of the country, I could not dismiss my love Damascus from my mind. She had become a part of who I was and by throwing her away; I would be throwing away a significant part of myself. The result of which caused a race for a cure for my sanity. I felt like two souls were vying for control of one body. I was Maryam, an American citizen, or Maryam, an Arab Syrian. I could not be both for each wanted to live in a different part of the world. I will save you the details of this struggle but only recently have I come to terms with this tug of war.

Coming to terms with all of her faults, and discovering my own identity, I have fallen in love with Damascus all over again. This trip has turned out to be one of healing as once again I can walk through the cobbled streets of old Damascus during the day and tour through the malls of new Damascus at night. I love the sound of the Mosques calling to prayer and I also love the shake-your-hip belly dancing music that blares from stores and passing cars.

I love watching Hummers try to navigate the narrow ancient haras or neighborhood streets.

I love hitting the cafés with my cousins then running home to catch Isha’a prayer.

I love watching the ancient etiquettes of Arabs played out in high-tech scenarios of Internet cafés and Four Season hotels.

I simply love Damascus.

I’ve never known a person who has seen her breathtaking face without falling head over feet for her.