Archive for the ‘Syria’ Category

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posted on November 21st, 2010

When it comes to talking politics, Syria’s not the easiest place to be a reporter. Trying to engage Syrians in a political discussion is a little like going on a first date: it’s awkward, punctuated by uncomfortable silences, and notable more for innuendo than any truly satisfying outcome.

Sure, it’s not terribly tough to get the intellectual elite in Damascus to open up over a coffee or an Almaza (Syrians tend to prefer Lebanese beer to their own), but I set off on this expedition more interested in the corn farmers than the engineering majors.

You can probably surmise the reasons that Syrians are reluctant to talk about their own politics. For one, president, strongman, and retired ophthalmologist Bashar al-Assad runs the place with an iron grip. I attended a controversial play in Damascus back in the spring that was less surprising for the Hitler moustaches worn by the actors depicting the Syrian secret police than by the fact that the government and censors allowed the play to run in the first place. This is a country that blocks Facebook, YouTube, Israeli websites, and a handful of blogs, including this one.

Fear aside, there’s just not a lot to talk about, politically. There is no notable opposition movement in the country, and the president seems anything but reform-minded. Domestic politics, therefore, don’t seem all that interesting to the average Syrian. Even in places like Egypt and Gaza—neither of which are known for being politically pluralistic—I chatted about politics frankly and frequently with government boosters and detractors alike. Not so in Syria.

Still, I pushed a bit, trying to get at political issues with anyone I could corner.

In Homs, said to be Syria’s third largest city, I chatted one evening with a nuts vendor. Sitting in front of his manicured mounds of pistachios and almonds, Ahmed admitted to me that the economy in Homs had gone sour.

“In Damascus, Aleppo and even Hama,” he said to me, “there is business. Here, there isn’t any money.”

Seeing an opportunity, I pressed Ahmed on whether the government was to blame for the poor economy.

He sighed and then gave the sort of vague answer I’d come to know well.

“In Syria, nothing changes,” he said, adding nothing more.

In a quiet corner of a café in Hama, a mid-sized city on the Orontes River, I struck up a conversation with a young, unemployed man who had a decent grasp of English.

The man talked for some time about the United States, generally echoing the sentiments of many Syrians, saying that he hoped relations between the two countries would improve.

At one point he turned to me and asked, “Are you a Republican or a Democrat?”

“What are your politics?” I asked, employing the artful dodge of a reporter.

“Oh, I’m a Democrat,” he said. “I love Hussein Obama.”

“I meant, what are you in Syrian politics?”

“Ah, I’m, well…” Then he began laughing, gently at first, and then hysterically, either as though he’d never been asked the question or couldn’t believe someone would dare ask it at all.

“This is Syria,” he said, after a while, through the cracks of laughter. And nothing more.

Syrians will open up on a number of subjects: Israel, the U.S., the Iraq war, Islam, family, etc. And while there is an opening to talk domestic politics in Syria, it’s not a very big one.

Written by: Theodore May
Topic: Syria
posted on November 18th, 2010

This week, Muslims celebrated Eid el-Adha, marking one of the most important dates on the Islamic calendar. The holiday marks Abraham/Ibrahim’s almost-sacrifice of his son, Ishmael/Ismail. It’s a day so important to Muslims that many refer to Adha as Eid el-Kabir, meaning “the Great Feast.”

The first Eid el-Adha I spent in the Muslim world came in December, 2008. I was in Cairo, and I woke up particularly early on that weekend day to take in the morning prayer. I went with a friend to the Moustafa Mahmoud Mosque, an impressive structure set just off one of Cairo’s broadest boulevards. The road was closed, though there were only a smattering of people about, making me wonder if friends had overblown their descriptions of Eid el-Adha’s morning prayer.

It didn’t take long, though, before the masses of worshippers started to arrive. And they came by the thousands. At first, my friend and I wandered the streets, weaving throughout the assembled crowd. As more people arrived, though, we found ourselves increasingly hemmed in, until we were relegated to a planter on the mosque’s north end.

The morning had the feeling of one part prayer meeting, one part festival. Vendors worked the crowds, selling popcorn and inflatable toys. Others handed out cellophane prayer rugs for those who hadn’t brought their own. Worshippers milled about, greeting friends with the familiar two kiss (or very familiar three kiss) hellos.

When the muezzin signaled it was time, though, the many thousands clogging the streets in front of the mosque drew silent and prayed together in striking unison.

One friend warned me that after the prayer, the streets would “literally run with blood.” It turns out he wasn’t far off. In keeping with tradition, many Muslims slaughter an animal on the morning of Eid el-Adha in celebration of the sheep Abraham killed after God spared his son.

As I walked home that morning after watching the prayer, I saw livestock in various states of butchery throughout the streets. Some had just been killed, others were being hacked apart by butchers, while some had already been turned into neat cuts of meat. The meat from many of these animals would be divided up into portions, some for the owners and the rest to feed the poor.

The slaughter aspect of the holiday seems to consume the whole city. At one point, several days after the Eid, I stopped on the street to wrap up a phone conversation. My nose quickly picked up an unbearable stench, at which point I realized I was standing next to two discarded sheep heads, leftovers from the slaughter a few days before.

This week, I took in the Eid in the quiet, conservative, central Syrian city of Hama. I didn’t get up for the dawn prayer, as I did in 2008, but I strolled the quiet streets shortly thereafter. The city was quiet. People had returned home after praying, and Hama felt like a ghost town. As I passed one covered alley, I saw an elderly butcher, his galabaya stained with blood, hacking away at a pair of sheep carcasses with a cleaver. Down the way, a few kids played in the street, begging me to take their picture as I passed.

Of course, by late afternoon, home time was finished and the crowds emerged, taking to the streets in celebration of the long weekend. The religious side of the day had given way to the universal tradition of celebrating time off from work or school. The streets throughout Syria’s urban centers were, and remain, jammed with revelers. Corn vendors seem to occupy every corner, competing only with sweets-sellers and knock-off watch merchants.

I’ll conclude with the two rules I’ve learned from Eid el-Adha:

  1. Don’t wear sandals out on the day of the holiday unless you like the feeling of sheep slaughter in between your toes.
  2. Don’t be in a hurry in the evenings. When it seems that an entire city has poured onto the streets, the “going” is much of the fun.
Written by: Theodore May
Topic: Syria
posted on November 14th, 2010

It’s been some time since I’ve taken the opportunity to update you, my loyal readers, on where this ragtag effort of mine to hike across the Middle East stands. And on the eve of my 7-month anniversary on the trail, I thought this might be a good time.

To date, I have walked my way across 6 countries and territories, two of them twice! I’ve begged my way across borders, navigated Egyptian deserts in the height of summer, talked my way past more militaries and militias than I ought to admit, and drunk more tea than an average person would (or should) in a lifetime. I’ve got holes in every sock (yes, literally) I own, hiking boots with no treads, a backpack with broken zippers and jury rigged straps, and all this warm weather gear that’s beginning to seem useless in November! Straight razor shaves have become a regular part of life, kilometers have replaced miles in my lexicon, and I’m looking forward to the day that I don’t get any more emails from friends asking: Where are you?

As I traipsed down the trail today, I began laughing to myself, realizing that I’m enjoying every part of this expedition—the hiking, the writing, the photography, etc.—more today than I did in southern Turkey on April 15, when I set off. All you have to do is admire the photo above to understand why.  These waterwheels in Hama represented just another Saturday in the Middle East.

Despite the many pleasures of life on the trail, the end of the road is lurking on the horizon.

So here’s where we stand.

I’m in central Syria now, making tracks for the Turkish border because my 15-day visa expired 8 days ago. And I can tell you from personal experience, you don’t want to mess with the Syrian military.

An aside: When I was first planning this trip, the two biggest logistical considerations were sketching a rough timetable for the trip and figuring out what gear to bring. It continues to amaze me how I could get the timetable so right and the gear so wrong. I’ve stayed very loyal to the timeframe I spelled out (even though I had no prior hiking experience that would inform my planning), and at the same time brought loads of useless gear that did nothing but slow me down.

So, with confidence in my timetable, I can tell you that I aim to hit the Turkish border by the end of this coming week. From there, I’ll be brushing back up on my Turkish language skills (at this moment, I only remember the word for “water”) and hiking for 10-12 days along Turkey’s southern border with Syria.

I should reach the Turkey-Iraq border in early December. At that point, I’ll wrap up my hike and tackle the last couple of weeks by car/plane/helicopter/etc.

First, I’ll drive into Kurdish Iraq and report from there for a few days. Following my visit to the north, I’ll head to Baghdad (by plane) and then drive south for a visit to Babylon. When I was working on a name for this project, the GlobalPost editorial team warned me that if I put Babylon in the title, I’d actually have to make it there. To me, that sounded like good incentive. At last, Babylon seems almost within reach.

I’ll wrap up my trip to Iraq with a several-day embed with U.S. troops in the country, reporting and blogging from our newest forgotten warzone.

And with any luck, I’ll make it home just in time for Christmas.

Written by: Theodore May
Topic: Syria
posted on November 11th, 2010

I bounded up the steps of the Convent of St. Thecla in Maaloula, clad in my khaki hiking pants and blue t-shirt, sweaty from a day of hiking. There was a crowd in the courtyard of the mountainside convent, and I greeted people as I passed through the throngs, smiling and saying hello in my best, over-amplified Syrian accent.

This was a mistake.

I had wandered into a funeral, and the sight of a jovial glad-handing foreigner probably didn’t go over well. It wasn’t until I tracked down Sister Favroulia and gave her a loud, cheery hello that I was told to keep it down.

Having accidentally stumbled into a faux pas, I stood in the corner like an unruly student, waiting for Sister Mary to escort me to my sleeping quarters for the night.

While I waited, the Sister Superior, who ran the convent, made an appearance. Congregants, rushed towards her, grabbing her hand to kiss it and fumbling to touch the gold cross that hung around her neck. There was no question she was the woman in charge.

When Sister Mary (Maryam, in Arabic) surfaced, she showed me to my room, a drafty, dark dorm-style lair, lined with beds and spare blankets.

It’s turned cold in Syria, and I was desperate for a hot shower, the sweat on my shirt having already turned cold. For my second convent-stay in a row, though, the water was bone-cold. Talk about austerity!

I shivered and yelped my way through a cold shower, rushing to throw my clothes and coat on afterwards. I sat in my room for a while, trying to do some work, but I was too cold to concentrate.

It had gotten dark at this point, and I decided to take a walk and warm up.

I hung a sharp right out of the convent and wandered into St. Thecla’s Gap, a stunning canyon that runs for several hundred yards. According to Christianity, God created the gorge as an escape route when St. Thecla found herself cornered by would-be killers.

The haphazard Syrian lighting job lent a wonderful eeriness to my walk through the canyon. Only portions of the wall were illuminated, rendering this unique geographic feature otherworldly. Best of all, I had the site all to myself.

The town of Maaloula is set dramatically into the face of a mountain, which seems to surround the town and cut it off from the world. Perhaps most importantly, Maaloula is one of the few remaining towns in the world where Aramaic, the language of Christ, is still spoken. One of the odder scenes I’ve witnessed in the Middle East involved sitting in a Maaloula church, surrounded by Iranian tourists, listening to the Lord’s Prayer in Aramaic.

When I returned to the room from my walk through St. Thecla’s Gap, I felt little warmer. I should note that the suffering that accompanied days of 115-degree heat in my hike through Egypt’s Sinai desert paled in comparison to struggling through these chilly Syrian nights. It was time to look for more drastic solutions.

I wandered into the nearly abandoned streets of Maaloula and found that the only place still seemingly open was a bar near the convent. Apart from the owner’s father, who sat at a table playing chess with a friend, I was the only one there. The heavily tattooed barman, Nicolas, assured me he’d stay open as late as I wanted to stick around. After learning that I was off the hook from blogging for the night because no internet cafes were still open, I sat down with a good book (I’m just finishing up The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo) and enjoyed the warmth of the bar.

Nicolas insisted on serving me his homemade red wine that, while fairly putrid, added to my whole Maaloula experience. Once I’d been served, Nicolas switched the music on his stereo from Arabic pop to Gregorian chant. “This is the music of my God!” he yelled from across the room.

A couple hours later, having fully enjoyed an evening ensconced in Maaloula’s Christian culture, I made my way back to the convent, entering through a side door that Sister Mary assured me she’d leave open late, as if anticipating that I’d find my way to Nicolas’ bar.

Back in my high-ceilinged room, nestled under layers of blankets, I drifted quickly into a heavy sleep.

(Photos: The town of Maaloula; The St. Thecla Gap; The Convent of St. Thecla).

Written by: Theodore May
Topic: Syria
posted on November 9th, 2010

The other night, I stood behind a couple in Damascus as they withdrew cash from an ATM. Or rather, they tried to withdraw cash.

I stood patiently as the man inserted his card for three separate transactions, and the couple discussed every step of each one. Only on the third try did the machine dispense money. The couple lingered for more than a minute afterwards, chatting in front of the machine. I, now well accustomed to how scenes like this play out, began coughing loudly and inching forward as soon as they received their money. By the time the couple noticed me, I was only a foot or so away and pretending to hack up a lung. The couple, needless to say, quickly disappeared.

This was just another chapter in the amusing and frustrating world of withdrawing money in the Middle East.

While the Syrian couple set the bar high, I’m convinced that no group of people deal with ATMs more slowly than the Egyptians. In one of the most surreal scenes I can remember, I watched a month ago as two men worked their respective ATMs on an Alexandria street corner. The machines’ volumes were on high, announcing every move the men made. And they made lots of moves. The minutes ticked past, and I edged closer to see if the men were actually playing video games or something on the screen. Moments later, a plastic cup filled with what looked like a smoothie flew down from a second or third floor window, striking a cat that was perched on a nearby dumpster. Cat and smoothie flew everywhere. And I, somewhat bewildered and just as cash poor as I was 10 minutes earlier, went in search of a different bank.

When I first moved to Cairo to study in 2006, I quickly ran up against my daily withdrawal limit when I tried to pay school tuition and rent on my apartment all in the same day. No matter, I thought, I’m a Citibank customer, and there are Citi branches all over this town. I walked into a downtown branch and asked a smartly dressed man behind a desk to change my daily limits. After pounding away at his computer for a few moments, he looked up at me and said, “Sorry Mr. May. You’re with Citi U.S. This is Citi Egypt. I can’t get access to your account.” So much for global banking.

My first lesson in the cultural power of tea in the Middle East came shortly after my “Citi Egypt” incident, when a local ATM ate my card. I stormed over to the bank branch a couple blocks away and began hollering about my lost card. I worked myself into a lather, terrified that I’d never see my card again. At a certain point, the bank manager, ignoring my yelling, asked me if I wanted tea. Determined not to be sidetracked by such acts of hospitality, I continued my tirade. In return, the manager asked me how much sugar I wanted in my tea. When I continued ignoring him, he picked up the phone and said into the receiver, “One tea, please. Very sweet.” My rant quickly lost its momentum.

Gaza has always proved interesting in matters of money withdrawal. At one point last year, shortly after the end of the war with Israel, I went to a bank in central Gaza City, desperate for a cash infusion. When I inserted my card, I heard a clank. My card had simply fallen to the bottom of the machine. Desperate, I began banging on the door of the seemingly closed bank. No answer. Broke, in Gaza, during a time of political upheaval. This wasn’t good. After making a bit of a scene on the street, a man informed me that the bank was keeping its front door locked to discourage a (literal) run on the branch since all banks had been closed for the month-long conflict and Gazans were, at this point, cash strapped. He suggested I go around back. Sure enough, I gained admittance through a small alley, though the teller asked me incredulously why I would put my card in a broken machine.

Later that day, I found a working cash machine in the central Gaza town of Deir el Belah. When I got out of the car, though, I saw twin lines of Palestinians, each 30 people long. Before I could take my place at the back of the line, though, my driver jumped into action, announcing that everyone should move aside for the American. Needless to say, I was embarrassed. To my surprise, however, people jumped aside, and I shook hands and received pats on the back all the way to the machine. The withdrawal process was no less friendly, with several Palestinians looking over my shoulder, giving me financial advice as I contemplated how much to withdraw. Call it communal banking.

In Kabul, Afghanistan, I stood at an ATM in the center of town, working my way through a withdrawal. My driver stood with his back to mine, scanning the passersby to anticipate any trouble. Quite a few things made me nervous about traveling to Afghanistan. Losing a few bucks at an ATM was not among them.

In Syria, I’ve all but given up on the hope that any bank with the words “Syria” or “Islamic” in the name will give me cash. In the coastal Syrian city of Latakia this past April, I hired a taxi to take me on a bank tour of town, suffering rejection upon rejection at every bank. It was only when I reach Bank Audi (a Lebanese bank) that I was successful in taking out a few bucks. As I result, I’ve learned only to bank through the Lebanese in Syria.

Written by: Theodore May
Topic: Syria
posted on November 7th, 2010

Damascus, in spots, has a tendency to end abruptly. I learned this today as I edged around the periphery of the city—its sprawl to my right, barren mountains to my left, and no suburbia to speak of. Once I had left the city, I turned off the highway that leads to Aleppo, my target for the next 12-15 days. Instead, eager to avoid the highway, I opted for a smaller country road that runs through the mountains on the country’s western edge.

The road cut through mountain passes, their steep embankments blotting out the sun for much of the day. I walked through town after town until the people disappeared and the mountains became modest hills. This isn’t Syria’s most fertile area—it’s brown and scrubby, though not quite desert—but goats grazed throughout the hills and trees were frequent enough to provide me with shady water breaks.

The day’s walk wasn’t particularly tough. The road surface was good, the distance wasn’t bad, and my legs are fresh after some time off the trail. So it was only around 3:30 that I made it to the town of Seidnayya, my stopping point for the day.

At the base of town, I climbed up the road to my lodgings for the night: the Convent of Our Lady. It might just be the most interesting place I’ve stayed in nearly 7 months of hiking.

In the convent’s driveway, I met a young man who welcomed me to Seidnayya and ushered me up flight upon flight of stairs as we ascended to the entrance. The door itself was no more that 4 feet tall, a relic from the building’s earlier incarnations. Inside, I caught a glimpse of the labyrinth of passages, stairs, gardens, and courtyards that make up the convent. My host took me into a room and sat me down on a sofa.

Five minutes later, 3 wonderfully energetic nuns hurried into the room. With broad smiles, they asked who I was and what I was doing in Syria. They made fun of my Egyptian Arabic accent and each almost fell over trying to lift my bag, chastising me for carrying something so heavy. They forced tea on me, and I barely avoided making them cook me a whole meal.

Their energy and rapid fire conversation made me smile, even as I struggled to use the feminine form in Arabic whenever referring to them (I talk to men so much more frequently than women on the trail, that my feminine forms had gotten rusty) and furiously attempted to scrub my sentences of any Islamic idioms, which are commonplace in the ebb and flow of conversation in Egypt.

After five minutes of chatting, the nuns insisted that I rest. A man led me to a dorm room, complete with several beds, heavy blankets, and a bathroom down the hall. It looked as though I was the only one spending the evening.

After settling in, I found my way to the roof of the convent to watch the sunset. The convent is set in rolling hills, which seemed to stretch on forever. I watched as the setting sun turned the landscape from brown to glowing orange in a matter of minutes. The town of Seidnayya lay off to my right, perched on the side of the hill, minarets and crosses defining the skyline. The town wasn’t pretty in the conventional sense, but its setting and place in history give it appeal.

And the area does have history. The town was founded in the 6th century BC, and Emperor Justinian built the convent in the 6th Century AD, though most of the modern structure dates from much later.

Perhaps most importantly, the convent is a major Christian pilgrimage site because it houses a painting of the Virgin Mary, which is said to have been painted by St. Luke and to be responsible for numerous miracles over the years. Good thing I’ll be sleeping about 30 feet away.

It’s only been a couple hours since I arrived. I’ve just come into town to blog and hope to have more on the convent and the nuns next time I post.

Written by: Theodore May
Topic: Syria
posted on November 5th, 2010

A couple of nights ago, I was strolling through the heart of Damascus’ old city. Trendy cafes, lining the streets, were jammed with young people puffing on shisha pipes and typing away at their computers. Even though it was 11 at night, stores were open for business and the alleyways were jammed with Syrians out for an evening stroll.

Hemmed in by people on all sides, I walked at a slow pace, head on a constant swivel, determined to take in all the sights. At one point in my walk, I felt my feet tread on something distinctly aluminum feeling. I looked down to see myself standing squarely on the Star of David. I waited for a break in the crowd and quickly realized that I was walking across an Israeli flag, placed there so that Syrians of all stripes could have the pleasure of stomping on the symbol of their longtime enemy.

In a place like Egypt, the tone towards Israel tends to be more, though hardly universally, conciliatory. I recently read an old New York Times obituary for Egyptian President Anwar Sadat that mentioned how Egyptians celebrated him upon his return from speaking at a session of the Israeli Knesset. Sadat, of course, would go on to help forge a peace agreement between Egypt and Israel, making Egypt the first Arab country to sign such a treaty and plunging it into an era of conflict with other Arab states.

In Syria, and this should come as no surprise, the tone towards Israel is less upbeat. Many Syrians, who I’ve found generally loathe to talk about their own government, are quick to criticize the Jewish state, particularly for its continued occupation of the Golan Heights. I’ve heard more than one Syrian, invoking what seems to be the metaphor of choice around here, ask whether I would tolerate it if someone took over my house and occupied it.

Bill Clinton once said that peace between Israel and Syria could be reached in 35 minutes. That may be a bit of an exaggeration, but his point is right. Unlike talks between Israel and the Palestinians, where negotiators will have to haggle over every Israeli settlement and every block of east Jerusalem, the terms of an Israel-Syria agreement would be much simpler (though not altogether easy). By far the bigger problem, in my opinion, is political willpower. Deep-seeded animosity and mistrust between the two sides likely remains the greatest obstacle.

And an Israeli flag on the ground in the heart of Damascus should leave you with little doubt as to where the Syrian public stands.

Written by: Theodore May
Topic: Syria
posted on November 3rd, 2010

“You live in Egypt?” my taxi driver said to me last night, his eyebrows raised.

“How did you know?” I said with a frown.

“It’s the way you said ‘ashan,’” he said, noting the Arabic word for ‘because.’

I laughed at having been foiled again in my half-hearted efforts to switch from an Egyptian dialect to a Syrian one.

Each Arabic-speaking country boasts a unique dialect, and because I learned Arabic in Egypt and lived there for several years, I speak with a decidedly Egyptian lilt.

Of course, switching dialects as I travel from country to country is neither practical nor particularly feasible. Almost everyone I speak with here in Damascus, though, asks about my Egyptian accent, so I’ve taken up the challenge of trying to mask it, just to see if I can. Getting busted on the word ‘because’ means I’ve gotten pretty close.

As a disclaimer, I should note that my Arabic isn’t so great that people mistake me for a local, but I’ve enjoyed the challenge of trying to adopt some Syrian while I’m here. If I can walk like an Egyptian, I ought to be able to speak like a Syrian.

Arabic’s plethora of dialects make it a tough language to study. Learning the language in one country doesn’t guarantee you’ll be understood from Morocco to Iraq. Among students who study in the Middle East, there’s long been a debate over which dialect is most universally useful. Foreigners who do their studies in Morocco, for example, learn a language that is so cross-pollinated with French and so different from the rest of the region’s dialects that it’s not particularly useful outside of the country (and perhaps Algeria).

The argument for learning Egyptian is that the Arab world’s television and film industries were based there for so long that people in the region grew up listening to the Egyptian dialect on television. The reasoning goes, therefore, that Egyptian is the most universally understood.

Loyalists of countries like Syria and Jordan, on the other hand, argue that their dialects more closely mimic classical Arabic (called “fus-ha”) and that studying in Damascus gives the student a more immersive experience than living in a more international capital like Cairo.

U.S. universities, for the most part, don’t even teach in dialect. They teach the classical version of the language that is important for reading and writing but virtually useless for speaking. You’ll often hear the spoken form of classical Arabic compared to speaking Shakespearean English. Put another way, when an Arab hears you speaking classical Arabic (as I did when I first arrived in Egypt with a year of U.S. university study under my belt), they think it’s totally weird.

Fortunately, the central Arab dialects—which include Egyptian, Syria, Lebanese, Jordanian, Palestinian, and Saudi—are all similar enough to allow an Egypt-trained foreigner like me to get by. While I struggle a bit with the Lebanese, I’ve never had a problem getting by as I’ve hiked through places like Syria and Gaza.

The differences lie mostly in the simple words and in pronunciation. “How are you?” in Egyptian, for example, is “Izzayak?” In Syrian it’s “Keefak?” In Iraqi it’s “Shlonak?” On the pronunciation side, for example, Egyptians pronounce their Js as Gs.

Even within a country like Egypt, different regions boast different dialects. In Cairo, I had a doorman from the Nile Delta, who, much to my consternation, said all of his Ks as Gs.

I tell you all of this in an effort to explain the challenges of learning Arabic, not the least of which is getting a grip on the basics of the language itself, dialects aside.

Many Arabs, I’ve learned, look down at the Egyptian dialect. It’s simpler and coarser. To my ear, it has a rougher, more manly bent.

In a taxi tonight, my driver immediately caught on to my Egyptian dialect when I used the word “shisha” instead of “nargileh.”

“The Egyptians don’t speak real Arabic like we do,” he said to me.

“Egyptians speak Arabic like Americans speak English,” he added.

Then, as if to illustrate, he switched to English: “Yo, yo, wassup?” Apparently that’s how he thinks Americans speak.

“That’s what Egyptians sound like. Syrians speak proper Arabic, like the British speak English.”

For me, making a limited switch to Syrian helps cut through some of the inevitable language confusion. I’ve had more than one Syrian look at me cross-eyed, wondering how some American guy ended up in Syria speaking Egyptian Arabic.

So while you all puzzle through the confusing world of Arabic dialects, I’ll continue pursuing my casual aim of convincing just one Syrian that I wasn’t educated in Egypt. Though it’s a challenge I’m reasonably confident I’ll never overcome.

Written by: Theodore May
Topic: Syria
posted on November 1st, 2010

When I made my first trip to Damascus in 2007, I was shocked by the sheer number of tourists plowing the alleys of the old city. There were hundreds! Only, very few of them were American.

I’d forgotten that while the U.S. government has made efforts to marginalize the Syrian regime, the country remains open for business, and Europeans are taking serious advantage.

On this, my fourth trip to the country, I set out to discover whether American tourists have begun to show up in any meaningful numbers. To do this, I engaged taxi drivers, waiters, hotel clerks, etc. And the answers weren’t very encouraging.

While some Syrians told me they had seen a modest uptick in American visitors, many viewed me (an American) as an anomaly. One taxi driver, astonished at driving an American around town, exclaimed, “I never see Americans! God willing, the next couple of years will be better.”

Essam, a waiter at a Chinese restaurant (conveniently called Chinese Restaurant) in the old city, told me that the Americans he does meet are typically Arabic students, not tourists. “I work 15 hours a day,” he said, noting that his day job is as a desk clerk at an electric company in town, “and I would love to see more Americans to make the economy better.”

It was in this context that I took to the streets of the old city.

Despite the number of tourists who visit Damascus’ old city every day, the area doesn’t feel like put-on for tourists. Indeed, the famous Souq Hamidiya, a covered portion of market that leads to the iconic Ummayad Mosque, sells mostly bed linens and down-market clothing.

The old city is a walled enclave, surrounded on all sides by modern Damascus. And the best way to tour it is to put away your camera, strap on a bib, and get ready to eat. I spent yesterday evening doing just that.

In the middle of Souq Hamidiya is the famous Bakdash ice cream shop. Thanks to a report earlier this year in GlobalPost, I knew I had to stop by. Eschewing popular flavors like pistachio (it seemed to be the favorite among Syrians), I went with a simple cup of vanilla. The man behind the counter, wearing a pair of rubber gloves, reached into a seemingly endless pit of ice cream and pulled out a sticky handful of the sweet stuff, delivering it to me in a plastic cup.

Next, I trolled the aisles of the spice market, accepting offerings of cashew nuts, Turkish Delight, and local Syrian candies.

Then it was time for my main course, and what I consider to be the best food item in the Middle East: Syrian shawerma. I found a shawerma stall in the old town’s Christian quarter and ordered up one chicken sandwich. The shawerma guy, standing next to a three-foot tall rotating loaf of chicken, took a piece of pita bread and carefully smeared it with chicken grease. He coated the bread in garlic sauce (which looks like mayonnaise), threw in a few pickles, and dumped a healthy helping of chicken on top. He rolled the sandwich, dipped it again in grease, and tossed it on the grill. Minutes later, I was eating the most delicious, artery clogging sandwich you could imagine.

From here, my eating tour took an unexpected turn. I’ve visited the old city numerous times and was convinced that I’d explored every nook and cranny. Wrong. Finished with my tour, and in an effort to find a shortcut back to my hostel, I cut down some back alleys only to find myself in the hub of young Damascus. Hip cafes with flat screen TVs lined the streets. Round top Saj grills prepared Middle East style pizzas. Towers of Middle Eastern desserts crowded the windows of sweet shops. I even found a Chinese restaurant (mentioned above) and a doughnut shop, which, while no Krispy Kreme, put out a pretty decent imitation.

I ended up stopping at many of these shops on my way home, eating and smoking far more than I care to admit.

Whenever Americans do decide to start populating the stalls in old town Damascus, food options galore (and a few extra pounds of body fat) await them!

(Photos, from top: Ice cream at Bakdash; A store in the old city selling shisha parts; Inside the Ummayad Mosque; A spice stall; A nuts shop; Souq Hamidiyya; A view of the Ummayad Mosque and the old city; A café in the old city.)

Written by: Theodore May
Topic: Syria
posted on May 10th, 2010

Please see my latest article from the road, up on the GlobalPost website now!

Classical Music, with a Syrian Twist

By Theodore May

http://www.globalpost.com/dispatch/middle-east/100508/syria-orchestra-damascus-assad

Written by: Theodore May
Topic: Syria
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