Seven Hills I love cities built on hills. Amman’s Jebel Hussein appears as a mass of haphazard grey or ochre, concrete buildings, each piled upon another. I can’t help but compare it to the ordered rows of red-bricked terrace houses of Sheffield’s industrial-revolution period, working class houses. A similar demographic, but a very different aesthetic. Yet rather than being attracted to the city with the promise of work in the factory, the people here were forced from their land in what-was-then Palestine. Push-, rather than pull-, migration, I suppose.

Seven Hills

I love cities built on hills. Amman’s Jebel Hussein appears as a mass of haphazard grey or ochre, concrete buildings, each piled upon another. I can’t help but compare it to the ordered rows of red-bricked terrace houses of Sheffield’s industrial-revolution period, working class houses. A similar demographic, but a very different aesthetic.

Yet rather than being attracted to the city with the promise of work in the factory, the people here were forced from their land in what-was-then Palestine. Push-, rather than pull-, migration, I suppose.

The New Downtown of Amman Crossing any border involving Syria seems to also involve smuggling. The driver of the shared taxi I took handed me several packets of duty-free cigarettes to stuff into my jacket as we were waved through into the Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan. Maybe he felt I owed him one for the wait that was incurred once the staff issuing the visas saw the Iranian stamps in my passport. It promptly disappeared out back for half an hour before they granted me leave to enter the country. Arriving into Amman from Damascus initially came as quite a culture shock. The place is undergoing a huge amount of construction. The skeletons of buildings take form, cranes dominate the skyline, and everything seems all very new. I had grown used to the absence of occidental chains in Syria. McDonalds, Starbucks, Toni & Guy; Amman has it all, so to speak. The military also reflect the Western dollars in the country. The army & guards in Syria are usually quite a scruffy affair, brandishing tattered old machine guns, and often in an equally tattered old leather jacket. Not so in Jordan. The army here keep their boots shined and their fire-power reflects the $464 million of US economic assistance they receive. (2006 figure.) The machine guns were of the M-16 variety (as opposed to that of a Kalashnikov), and it wasn’t unusual to see a jeep with an oh-my-god-look-at-the-size-of-that gun bolted to the roof. No messing here. The place is full of contrasts, and there is still a lot of poverty. These new developments I speak of sit on one side of the hill, and the other side houses the pre-fab buildings of the refugees and the poor. Somewhere in the middle sits Downtown, where its older buildings house (fake) DVD shops, jewellers galore and some pleasant little humus joints & narghile cafés, along-side the odd Roman ruin.

The New Downtown of Amman

Crossing any border involving Syria seems to also involve smuggling. The driver of the shared taxi I took handed me several packets of duty-free cigarettes to stuff into my jacket as we were waved through into the Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan. Maybe he felt I owed him one for the wait that was incurred once the staff issuing the visas saw the Iranian stamps in my passport. It promptly disappeared out back for half an hour before they granted me leave to enter the country.

Arriving into Amman from Damascus initially came as quite a culture shock. The place is undergoing a huge amount of construction. The skeletons of buildings take form, cranes dominate the skyline, and everything seems all very new. I had grown used to the absence of occidental chains in Syria. McDonalds, Starbucks, Toni & Guy; Amman has it all, so to speak.

The military also reflect the Western dollars in the country. The army & guards in Syria are usually quite a scruffy affair, brandishing tattered old machine guns, and often in an equally tattered old leather jacket. Not so in Jordan. The army here keep their boots shined and their fire-power reflects the $464 million of US economic assistance they receive. (2006 figure.) The machine guns were of the M-16 variety (as opposed to that of a Kalashnikov), and it wasn’t unusual to see a jeep with an oh-my-god-look-at-the-size-of-that gun bolted to the roof. No messing here.

The place is full of contrasts, and there is still a lot of poverty. These new developments I speak of sit on one side of the hill, and the other side houses the pre-fab buildings of the refugees and the poor. Somewhere in the middle sits Downtown, where its older buildings house (fake) DVD shops, jewellers galore and some pleasant little humus joints & narghile cafés, along-side the odd Roman ruin.

Sayyida Zeinab [i] (سيدة زينب ١) After having visited Iran last year, my first trip to a Muslim country, I had a rather skewed idea of what most mosques resemble. The mosques there are incredibly ornate affairs, with highly decorated interiors, and the exterior decorated with turquoise blue tiles and adorned in intricate Arabic calligraphy. This is not the norm in the majority of mosques I have seen since. The district of Sayyida Zeinab, to the south of Damascus, attracts bus-loads of Iranian pilgrims to visit the large Shi’ite mosque there, which houses the shrine of Sayyida Zeinab — granddaughter of Mohammed — from whom the district takes its name. I was therefore interested to see what this Iranian-built mosque resembled. The district was also the site of a recent incident here in the Syrian capital. I was at university on the morning of the 3rd December, when fellow classmates began receiving concerned text messages: “Are you ok? There has been a bomb-blast in Damascus.” Western news reported this explosion, citing the name of the area, but to friends & family back home, the only name that registered was Damascus, where their loved ones were currently residing. I immediately checked the news when I got out of class, where the BBC & the Guardian were reporting that there was an explosion on a bus carrying Iranian pilgrims to Sayyida Zeinab, but that reporters were not allowed near the site. As the day progressed, the information was revised; the Syrian officials initially reporting that no-one had died, but the last I heard, it was 6 dead. The official line was that a tyre on the bus exploded whilst being inflated. Word on the street here in Damascus was that foul play was at work. The event also coincided with the visit of Iran’s chief nuclear negotiator. Conspiracy theories abound. When I first considered coming to Syria, some people close to me reacted with “are you out of your mind?” and to a certain extent, I can see why. The only articles mentioning Syria in the news recently relate to things like Damascus being where senior figures met to plan recent explosions in Iraq, that the Palestinian leaders of Hamas reside here, and then this, the first explosion since September 2008. Yet being here, this sort of thing never crosses my mind. The place feels incredibly safe, and the people very warm and friendly. Frankly, I feel more threatened walking through parts of London or Paris than I ever do here.

Sayyida Zeinab [i] (سيدة زينب ١)

After having visited Iran last year, my first trip to a Muslim country, I had a rather skewed idea of what most mosques resemble. The mosques there are incredibly ornate affairs, with highly decorated interiors, and the exterior decorated with turquoise blue tiles and adorned in intricate Arabic calligraphy. This is not the norm in the majority of mosques I have seen since.

The district of Sayyida Zeinab, to the south of Damascus, attracts bus-loads of Iranian pilgrims to visit the large Shi’ite mosque there, which houses the shrine of Sayyida Zeinab — granddaughter of Mohammed — from whom the district takes its name. I was therefore interested to see what this Iranian-built mosque resembled.

The district was also the site of a recent incident here in the Syrian capital. I was at university on the morning of the 3rd December, when fellow classmates began receiving concerned text messages: “Are you ok? There has been a bomb-blast in Damascus.”

Western news reported this explosion, citing the name of the area, but to friends & family back home, the only name that registered was Damascus, where their loved ones were currently residing.

I immediately checked the news when I got out of class, where the BBC & the Guardian were reporting that there was an explosion on a bus carrying Iranian pilgrims to Sayyida Zeinab, but that reporters were not allowed near the site.

As the day progressed, the information was revised; the Syrian officials initially reporting that no-one had died, but the last I heard, it was 6 dead. The official line was that a tyre on the bus exploded whilst being inflated. Word on the street here in Damascus was that foul play was at work. The event also coincided with the visit of Iran’s chief nuclear negotiator. Conspiracy theories abound.

When I first considered coming to Syria, some people close to me reacted with “are you out of your mind?” and to a certain extent, I can see why. The only articles mentioning Syria in the news recently relate to things like Damascus being where senior figures met to plan recent explosions in Iraq, that the Palestinian leaders of Hamas reside here, and then this, the first explosion since September 2008. Yet being here, this sort of thing never crosses my mind. The place feels incredibly safe, and the people very warm and friendly. Frankly, I feel more threatened walking through parts of London or Paris than I ever do here.

DamaSCENE Noun Ya played their mix of flute & oud at the Centre Culturel Français one cold, December evening in Damascus. The mix of traditional Arabic sounds and French-influences made for an interesting night, and the current trend of recording a rhythm and playing over the top of it worked well with the oud. A week later, I went to a concert at the Damascus Opera House, where an orchestra was complemented by some Middle Eastern instruments, and where Arabic poetry was put into song. Amid the car-horns, the hawkers, the bustle and shouting of the streets, it’s nice to step out of it all…

DamaSCENE

Noun Ya played their mix of flute & oud at the Centre Culturel Français one cold, December evening in Damascus. The mix of traditional Arabic sounds and French-influences made for an interesting night, and the current trend of recording a rhythm and playing over the top of it worked well with the oud.

A week later, I went to a concert at the Damascus Opera House, where an orchestra was complemented by some Middle Eastern instruments, and where Arabic poetry was put into song.

Amid the car-horns, the hawkers, the bustle and shouting of the streets, it’s nice to step out of it all…

What I’ve Lost The German Cultural Centre, the Goethe-Institut, hosted an Iraqi Film Festival here in Damascus. I heard about it because an Iraqi friend here featured in one of the films — Red Zone Citizens (Mounef Shaker, Iraq 2009) — about their theatre group in Baghdad’s “Red Zone”, the most dangerous part of the city. What they had to overcome just to rehearse, really puts things in perspective. I feel like I have no excuse not to do what I want. (My problem being rather to decide what I want…) These guys were forced to cross military checkpoints, face roadblocks, were disturbed by killings and bombings on their route, just to be in the same place at the same time. That is all before they actually had to stage their work, and collect props, find a place to perform & build the set. And all this without speaking of the personal, emotional challenges they faced in being part of the group. At one point or other, every member seemed to have faltered, leaving. Yet these absences all ended-up being temporary. Whether it was caused by the loss of family members due to kidnappings, or they felt the risk they were taking in being there was too great, or simply that they did not have enough money, they all ended up in returning. This group was a part of them. The film I felt was the most compelling was the beautifully produced short-film entitled What I’ve Lost (Duraid Munajim, Canada/Iraq 2008) — I highly recommend watching the trailer. Iraqi refugees, filmed in Jordan, spoke of what they had lost since the war. They spoke of dead fathers & mothers, brothers & sisters, husbands & wives. They spoke of the jobs they had lost, their houses that had been destroyed, the car that they had to leave behind. Lost friends, lost customs. But what they felt most moved about seemed to be the loss of their nation. “Above all, we have lost our country.” It seemed odd to hear when I had left my family, my friends, my job, my country, all voluntarily. Yet I the difference is that I have the choice of returning. Even if these people can go back to Iraq, it won’t be the same country that they knew, that they loved. The festival really was stimulating, seeing the image that these people have of their country, and the events that have happened there. Previously, my ideas of Iraq were based solely on what I had read in the news, which focuses on the violence and military operations there, the IEDs, the bombings. These films gave a really human touch to it all. Seeing how people actually lead their lives there, living day-to-day, and what they have to overcome, was inspiring. Amid all the violence, the kidnappings, the killings, people still managed to live; there were parties for New Year, religious festivals, birthdays. They still harbour dreams of what they want to do with their lives, struggling to have an education. Yet at the same time, it is incredibly sad to see how a whole generation — or at least those who survive — will be denied these dreams. We, as privileged, educated, relatively well-off westerners, have no excuses.

What I’ve Lost

The German Cultural Centre, the Goethe-Institut, hosted an Iraqi Film Festival here in Damascus. I heard about it because an Iraqi friend here featured in one of the films — Red Zone Citizens (Mounef Shaker, Iraq 2009) — about their theatre group in Baghdad’s “Red Zone”, the most dangerous part of the city. What they had to overcome just to rehearse, really puts things in perspective. I feel like I have no excuse not to do what I want. (My problem being rather to decide what I want…)

These guys were forced to cross military checkpoints, face roadblocks, were disturbed by killings and bombings on their route, just to be in the same place at the same time. That is all before they actually had to stage their work, and collect props, find a place to perform & build the set.

And all this without speaking of the personal, emotional challenges they faced in being part of the group. At one point or other, every member seemed to have faltered, leaving. Yet these absences all ended-up being temporary. Whether it was caused by the loss of family members due to kidnappings, or they felt the risk they were taking in being there was too great, or simply that they did not have enough money, they all ended up in returning. This group was a part of them.

The film I felt was the most compelling was the beautifully produced short-film entitled What I’ve Lost (Duraid Munajim, Canada/Iraq 2008) — I highly recommend watching the trailer. Iraqi refugees, filmed in Jordan, spoke of what they had lost since the war. They spoke of dead fathers & mothers, brothers & sisters, husbands & wives. They spoke of the jobs they had lost, their houses that had been destroyed, the car that they had to leave behind. Lost friends, lost customs. But what they felt most moved about seemed to be the loss of their nation. “Above all, we have lost our country.”

It seemed odd to hear when I had left my family, my friends, my job, my country, all voluntarily. Yet I the difference is that I have the choice of returning. Even if these people can go back to Iraq, it won’t be the same country that they knew, that they loved.

The festival really was stimulating, seeing the image that these people have of their country, and the events that have happened there. Previously, my ideas of Iraq were based solely on what I had read in the news, which focuses on the violence and military operations there, the IEDs, the bombings. These films gave a really human touch to it all. Seeing how people actually lead their lives there, living day-to-day, and what they have to overcome, was inspiring. Amid all the violence, the kidnappings, the killings, people still managed to live; there were parties for New Year, religious festivals, birthdays. They still harbour dreams of what they want to do with their lives, struggling to have an education. Yet at the same time, it is incredibly sad to see how a whole generation — or at least those who survive — will be denied these dreams.

We, as privileged, educated, relatively well-off westerners, have no excuses.