Yuthir-ing Al-Jadl

This past week of class has been typified mostly by the Arabic phrase “yuthir al-jadl” (to stir up debate). When it was first introduced in a vocabulary lesson, one of the students gave the example, “The differences between Syrians and Lebanese stirs up debate.” Immediately our professor jumped in and argued that there are no differences between the Syrians and Lebanese and thus there is no debate. We then spent the next 15 minutes arguing about if there are differences, what they are, and whether or not Syria entered Lebanon lawfully and orderly in order to protect their neighbor (and their own former citizens) in distress. Henceforth the issue, did indeeed, stir up debate.

In the same way, it seems that there is no issue we can talk about in class, no matter how benign, that doesn’t lead to some animated discussion about Israel/Palestine, Middle East v. West, or the Media. One morning there were only three of us in class, so we spent the first hour talking about the news. I mentioned that I had had a conversation with my private tutor (p.s., I have a private tutor now, more on that later) about how Western news channels will all broadcast the same inane news items about the president or other celebrities/public figures (the example at hand was a bird that was loose in the White House, or from the past, the death of Pres. Bush’s cat), whereas from an Arab perspective (such as that of my tutor’s) it was incredibly stupid and meaningless. I tried to explain that Americans like to feel like the people that they put on a political or social pedestal are sometimes just like the rest of us and that they can relate to them as individuals. My professor in class then turned that discussion into how CNN/BBC may broadcast news about birds in the White House but not footage from the Israeli invasion of Gaza this past winter. Or on the other hand, how Arab stations may not have personal information about their heads of state but they did enter directly into the place of conflict and many correspondents lost their lives capturing the events that took place. So which one is free media?

Or another favorite topic: Racism! Our reading for this unit was about Arab immigrants in European countries and the prejudices they endure, particularly in the job market and particularly when Arab = Muslim = Terrorist in the minds of the local people. Our conversation then turned to our professor’s experiences in Italy and the kind of disrespect that she encountered for wearing a hijab, and the kind of disrespect she has encountered working in language institute from (the few) foreign students who have no interest in the local culture, but only want to learn the language for work reasons, and throughout their stay maintain significant prejudices against Arab culture and Muslims in particular. I was surprised to know that someone would actually choose to live here and study in a local institute in a country that is 90% Muslim and the whole time be walking around with hatred and prejudice for just about every person s/he met. What a torturous way to spend six months.

So although these lessons have been somewhat enlightening, or at the very least, entertaining, it has already gotten a little old and a bit frustrating when you can’t even get through a single lesson without stumbling onto some controversial tangent that you didn’t even know you were bringing up. While its good to learn how to defend yourself in a heated argument, the problem ultimately lies in the fact that our professor always has the upperhand of language, and we are always limited by our ability to articulate our own ideas and are always forced to make blatant generalizations that we would never make in English. Last example: today in class, one student was giving a presentation on the Barbary pirates and he referred to part of Northern Africa as the Barbary States (doul barbary) and our professor immediately called him out on being prejudiced. She thought he was referring to them as Barbarian states, i.e. without a legitimate culture or civilization (and the word ‘barbarian’ is derived from the Berbers). However the problem lay in the translation from English to Arabic and not in his prejudicism, because in English there is a difference between Barbary and Barbarian, but in Arabic apparently they refer to the same thing. Another student pointed out that it is the same problem with the name “Sudan,” which comes from the Arabic word for black and literally means “country of the blacks.” Eventually we moved on but the presenter dug himself into another hole when he said that the pirates found religious justification for their actions in the Q’ran and our prof. demanded to know where it was written that it is justified to kidnap and ransack your non-Muslim neighbors on the basis of religion (and thus you see the same problem with terrorists today, it lies in the varied interpretations of the text).

--

So. I have a tutor now! I found her through a friend from Georgetown who was in Damascus last year and who worked with her studying Arab Media. Since I’m supposed to be doing the same thing for the class that I am missing at Georgetown, I figured that the best way to keep up would also be with a tutor and some sort of structured lessons involving practicing discussion (since I don’t get enough of it in class). My friend warned me that she wasn’t great at grammar (which I have now learned for myself once we had something of a standoff over a simple grammar exercise in my first lesson). So now twice a week in the afternoons I’ll be making my way out to the suburbs of Damascus to meet with Leila at her house.

The first time I went, I thought it would be easier to take a taxi directly there, rather than deal with the service (minibus) and having to figure out when to get out. But unfortunately my taxi managed to get into a (minor) car accident and had to pull over to sort it out with the other driver, so I gave up and decided to take a service anyway (it only costs 7 lira compared to the usual 10 and it’s the first time I’ve ever seen a 1 lira coin). I told the driver the name of the stop and that I didn’t know where I was going, so he told me where to get off and Leila’s son came out to meet me and show me the way to her house.

The next time that I went, aka yesterday, I thought I had perhaps seen enough of the way to her house to figure it out on my own, so I tried to keep a lookout and figure out when to get out. However the first time the drive seemed much longer, so I was completely disoriented and it was only when we crossed a highway and I saw the driver giving me funny looks that I looked up and realized that we were already on our way back to Abbasiyin Square, where I live. He let me down and I took a taxi. But even then I couldn’t find the house and I walked in and out of little alleyways trying to recognize something, until I finally called her and realized that I was looking on the wrong side of the street. Her son came out again to get me and eventually I made it up to her house on the third floor where she greeted me warmly in her pajamas (it was about 5 pm, but my host family does the same thing where as soon as they get home from work they put on their pjs).

Our first lesson was disrupted by a disagreement in a simple grammar exercise where unfortunately I was right and she was mistaken, and then I decided (mentally) that perhaps it would be better to focus on media and leave my grammar studies for home. After the lesson we turned our attention to the television, which was covering demonstrations in Lebanon celebrating the release of four wrongly-jailed suspects in the assassination of Lebanese PM Rafiq Hariri over four years ago.

Back to the present

And today, finally we arrive to the present moment. Today (Thursday) I wanted to find the British Council, where there should be a good library with the ever-elusive English books. It was, according to LP, unfortunately close to the US embassy and American cultural center, which is now, in my opinion, a black hole for directions and finding one’s way. The area is filled with embassies and cultural centers, though today not one of them was the one I was looking for. I walked mostly in circles for almost 2 ½ hours—first it was my fault for taking the wrong road and then misreading the map, then it was LP’s fault for being outdated and sending me to the wrong building, now owned by the Turkish embassy, then it was up to fate to put me back on the right track. A man stopped to offer me help, though he sent me on as much of a goose-chase as anyone else, and seemed to have short-term memory problems, repeating himself several times in one sentence and telling me how the BC closed, is owned by another embassy, how this is where the US embassy and where did I want to go again? And where was it on the map? And this is the way to the UK embassy. And maybe it is here. And where did I want to go? And what did the map say? And here is the US embassy. And this is the way to the UK Embassy. And so on…

So I walked to the UK embassy, where the BC most certainly was not, and they sent me back in the other direction, where I asked for more directions, walked in more circles, and eventually found my destination, uncomfortably close to where I had been just hours before. I hadn’t thought the trek would be so lengthy, so I had opted to wait for lunch until I returned home, and my blood sugar was running low. The BC was just as nice as the FCC, similarly putting the Americans to shame, though with less working space and still inconvenient to the house. For now, I think I am done exploring that part of town.


[side note: when this post was written it was in the present, though now it's Friday morning and alas. plans for today? studies, lunch, trying to figure out where I can find yoga in dimashq. it does exist! there was an ad posted, and there is a 2 hour class this evening (also a 1 hour class this morning at 8am that I slept through). I've never done yoga for 2 hours, but we shall see. the bad news is its back in Abu Romana, the black hole from whence I came, yesterday.]

The blind leading the blind

Lo and behold, miracle of all miracles, my uncle arrived at the house. I had spent the morning getting ready nervously, thinking of all the ways he could get lost, forget where he is going, forget we were going anywhere at all... I called the Patriarchy at 10:40 to confirm our plans and he had already left. Ten minutes later, the phone was ringing and it was the taxi driver, looking for directions. My aunt was getting ready for her day out, she was on her way to the club, where she will "play alll day," aka gamble and play cards. As she opened the door to the elevator, dressed in her furs, she was met face to face by my uncle, dressed in his black robes. The three of us rode the elevator down together and I wondered when was the last time they would have seen each other-- my grandparent's wedding?

When we walked outside, my aunt climbed into Ramez's car and my uncle looked ready to join her. "No Uncle Paul, where is the taxi?" "She is not coming with us?" "No she is going somewhere else." Apparently his taxi had left, so we found another. "Where are you going?" "Jel El-Dib." "No, Uncle Paul, we are in Jel El-Dib, we are going to Harissa." "Ah, yes Harissa." And he gave the driver the address of the convent.

On the ride up there, about a 40 minute drive, he asked me more questions about the family. Work, marriage, school, health. "I think Teddy had a problem with somebody. He resolved it?" Ummmm. "The man paid him?" Ummmm... "I think somebody had an accident and the man died?" No no I don't think that is true. I never heard anything about that.

I asked him a little bit about Damascus, where he worked for 12 years. He promised to visit me there, but reminded me that Beirut was better, a recurring theme in my trip, I have noticed. "When I retired, they asked me where I want to live. Aleppo, Damascus, Baghdad-- no no, I want to live in Beirut. I have been here for five years, I am very happy." He also checked up on my religious duties-- "Do you go to the Holy Mass every Sunday?" ummm sometimes (i.e. 3 years ago on Christmas)... "Do you pray every night?" ummmm sometimes... "The Hail Mary and the My Father and what else?" You know, a personal prayer. "You find time to go to the confession?" Not always... "You must make time! But the most important thing is the holy mass. Do your parents go every Sunday?" And so on and so forth. My guilt about lying through my teeth to an archbishop was eased by the thought of what he would have said if I had told the truth, declared myself as an athiest, renounced the religion of my family. No thank you, I prefer a few white lies and the scar on my conscience.

We reached Harissa and were dropped off at the convent. One of the nuns met us at the car, and showed us into the waiting room to wait for Sr Augustine. I asked him how often he sees his sisters and he said at least once a month, which I found to be pretty impressive.

"Abusu ana! Abusu ana!" My aunt came into the room, her round face bursting with joy to see us sitting there. Or rather, she hobbled, wheezing a little, as she had hurt her back several years ago while visiting us in CT. I gave her copies of the photos I had given to Uncle Paul the day before, and as she asked me the usual round of questions I was surprised when my uncle jumped in with answers for her. So our circuitous conversations have gone somewhere!

After a little while, a nun came in to tell us lunch was ready. With my aunt squeezing my arm tightly, we walked to the dining hall and sat down to the food awaiting us. Beef and potatoes, kibbe, spinach pies, mini pizza-like round things, fool (beans), fresh greens and radishes cut into the shape of a flower, a steaming cake composed of wa'ra a'nab (rolled grape leaves stuffed with meat and rice), lubneh (yogurt), olives, fresh bread and beer. Over lunch, my aunt quizzed me in Arabic-- numbers, days of the week, names of the months, basic phrases-- the whole time with a big smile on her face.

For dessert, it was a platter of fresh fruit and a huge "cake," though I don't remember the name of the dessert in Arabic. It reminded me of knaafeh but they had another name for it-- white sweet cheese and pistachios between layers of crispy vermicelli noodles, with a healthy dollop of Middle Eastern syrup on top. I couldn't finish my portion, though my uncle devoured his, the size of his plate.

My uncle returned to the waiting room while my aunt took me to see her room and the chapel. In her room, she pressed upon me a bag of chocolates and slipped a tissue into my bag. I could see through the paper a bill wrapped inside and I gave it back to her. She forced it upon me and I didn't know what to say. Taking money from a nun? Lying to a priest is one thing, but.





Returning to my uncle, we sat and a nun brought us coffee and soon enough, we were off to visit Sr Julienne in Bzommar, 10 minutes away. The mother superior, a younger woman, drove us there since taxis were scarce. As she drove back to Harissa I couldn't help but wonder how we would get home again.

My mom had told me that Sr Julienne had become blind and deaf as she grew old, so I was curious how she would remember me, if I should give her the photos I brought, how we would communicate, etc. Fortunately this was not completely true-- though she has hearing and seeing problems, she is very much active and engaged-- as much as anyone else (photos and video forthcoming). The four of us sat and Sr Julienne went through the family facts, this time both her sister and brother helped to fill her in, and they all asked me questions about Damascus. All of them had lived in Damascus at some time and Sr Augustine and Sr Julienne both remembered Abasseyen Square, where I would be living. They also said they had a sister convent or something there, so if all else fails with the family, there's always that. And though we had already talked several times about the family I would be staying with ("They are good Christians?") my uncle wanted to call the Bishop in Damascus to find a good Christian family for me to live with. Talk later turned to Barack Obama, whom all of them were curious about. "He is good Christian? But his father is Muslim?"

After the visit, we said our goodbyes and Sr Julienne walked us to the roadside. I didn't want to ask the inevitable question-- where is our taxi? My uncle started wandering up the road, presumably to find one, but we stood and we stood and none appeared. Finally my aunt started flagging down passing cars, and I wondered who would pick up this stranded archbishop, nun, atheist. God? The devil? No no, the first to stop was a Lebanese soldier and he gave us a ride back to Harissa. From there we dropped off Sr Augustine and once again my uncle and I stood by the side of the road, til another car slowed and gave us a ride. Of all the circumstances where I would think of hitchhiking, this was not one of them.

This car drove us down to the port city of Jounieh, the nearest city to Beirut, slightly out of the way but at least they had taxis and busses. A bus pulled up where we were dropped off and we boarded, my uncle calling out the name of the neighborhood I lived in though it was not clear the driver heard us. Once I saw the sign "Jel El-Dib" pass by us on the highway and we continued driving, I poked my uncle and asked if we had gone too far. "No, no, I told the driver." At the next stop as we got down from the bus, he asked the driver if we had arrived at Jel El-Dib. Of course he said no, in confusion. We climbed into a taxi and drove back to the correct neighborhood and again none of us had any idea where the apartment was-- a few phone calls by the taxi driver and we arrived at the building. My uncle started to get out of the car and I told him he had to stick with the taxi so that it takes him back to the patriarchy. The driver was confused, asked where he was going, he replied "Beirut." Ay.

--

Home again home again, I made it in time for the inauguration and watched it on TV on CNN. Later, while eating dinner (kibbe), we watched the evening news in Arabic, with footage of Obama's inauguration on one channel and protests in southern Lebanon about Gaza on the other, complete with burning Israeli and American flags, and protesters hitting posters of Obama's and Ban Ki-moon's face with a shoe.

I told the story of the day's adventures to my aunt and she broke into laughter, put her head in her hands and said, "Your story, beautiful."

Trekking in zee Mountains

So my first excursion as a solitary traveler was not all that solitary. On my first night here, Chantal read my mind and suggested that I go 'trekking in the Lebanese mountains' on Sunday. She told me there was a local touristing group that runs trips every weekend and she could book it for me if I had the right shoes and was willing to leave by 730 am. Hurrah my extra bag of hiking clothes and gear was not completely in vain! At first I had my doubts of going with a group and succumbing to my inevitable fate as a foreigner and a tourist, but I was ultimately grateful to have gone out with Liban Trek (the first eco-tourism organization in Lebanon), since I realized I a) have no idea where I am b) have no means of personal transportation c) have no maps, certainly not trail maps d) am alone e) you get the idea. Also, after looking into the group and other groups that run similar hiking, skiing/snowshoeing, educational and cultural trips, they are of course worthy groups to support, as they run eco-friendly excursions, educate natives and foreigners alike about the natural wonders of the country, and support local and rural economies. And its always better than getting lost, alone, in the mountains.

So I boarded the bus at 8 am with the other 19 participants and we drove about 2 hours into the north, to the Koura district, where one of our guides was born (the other guide was a Danish woman, maybe in her 60s). The group was a mix of Lebanese and foreigners, young and old-- I think I was the only real tourist, while everyone else was either native, native-born but living in the US, or foreign but working here. We started our hike around 10 am, splitting into two difficulty levels, the majority going for Level 6. It ended up being more of a challenge than most anticipated, up and down the mountainside, along the River of the Birds, through mud, olive orchards, wildflowers, backyards and small villages, past ruins, with views across valleys and up mountains terraced with orchards. We met up with the other group at a site for a grotto which hosts a shrine to the Prophet Elias, where women come to make their vows for fertility. Apparently he is shown with a sword in his hand as he sought to kill pagan priests for not following Christianity, was punished by God, repented, saved, etc. etc. but I don't know what this has to do with fertility.

The day was long, I had breakfast at 730 and we didn't eat lunch til 2, returned to the bus after 4, was dropped off by the bus in my neighborhood after 530 on their way back to Beirut. This was lucky because Chantal was still working so I would have had to take a taxi back to the house anyway, so she had written out directions for me to arrive back in the neighborhood, then told me to call the house and my aunt would send a taxi to pick me up, since I have no idea how to find the apartment building. The bus dropped me off in the location she wrote down, pointed out a nearby landmark (she had written that the apartment is across from a particular pharmacy) and I stood on the street and called my aunt, telling her I was facing the pharmacy. She sent down Tiigy (sp?), the sweet Ethiopian housekeeper, to bring me up to the apartment, but after 10 minutes I didn't see her. After three attempts for Tiigy to find me (each 10-15 minutes apart) my aunt called me back in frustration (hence the miracle of the cellulaire!) and asked me again where I was. "Near the church! And the statue! And across the street from the pharmacy!" "The church? What church?! Where are you??" And she told me to go to the one open shop on the street and give someone the phone so they could direct this helpless American home.

I walked into the florist and handed the phone to the man there, failing to communicate my situation. He explained to my aunt where I was, she explained where I was supposed to be (mid conversation his own phone rang and he managed to carry on two calls at once) and he called a taxi to bring me home. While I waited, he asked why I was so muddy and what I was doing here. He laughed when I said I was American and said he doesn't like America, or at least not Rice and Bush and the rest of them, thankfully separating the American people from the (former!) administration. He said America was to blame for all the world's problems (as the tv displayed the Gaza conflict on mute) and when I tried to argue the severity of this statement, he began listing them. Ok ok well at least we agreed that good things were to come in the next few days, specifically Tuesday January 20th, approximately 12 noon EST, 7 pm Beiruti time. Also, it turns out he was born in Aleppo, Syria, the city my grandfather was born in, so he was especially excited to hear that I was travelling to Damascus and hoped to learn more about the country, its culture and language.

As I left his shop, he gave me a pink rose, which I promptly gave to Tiigy, who was waiting outside the apartment, across from the pharmacy, wrapped in a jacket, and who showered me with hugs and kisses upon my return.

Finally home again, I showered and joined my aunt for dinner-- we had kibbe (this time pounded into thin layers and filled with ground lamb and nuts) with yogurt sauce and cucumbers, and lentil soup. Over dinner, we practiced her English as she asked me hundreds of questions I didn't know how to answer, about the health, financial well-being, employment, etc. of my relatives on all sides of the family. She told me stories of visiting my family in Boston when it was minus 20 degrees outside (C or F, I don't know) and my dad gathering al-hattab for the fireplace and there being no radiators. She continuously asks me if I "have cold" though it is mid-60s everyday here and the heat is always on.

Later, over tea, once Chantal had returned from work, my aunt Nagibe offered a toast, saying "chin chin," which I guess means you have to drink the entire glass in one sip, an impossible feat while drinking hot tea. She then explained, as Chantal translated, amidst breaks of laughter, that her grandfather was a wealthy man who owned a lot of land, though he was very stingy with his money, in terms of spending it on other people. The villagers who worked his land would bring him crops from the fields, but he didn't want to spend the money to buy the compulsory coffee for the guests, so he would challenge them with a "chin chin," though he wouldn't drink it all himself, and the others would burn their mouths and subsequently not ask for any more coffee.