Posts tagged: people

An Enterprising Folk

I am amazed at how much stuff people dabble in here in Syria. This country — which gets such a bad-wrap in the international news, and is marred by a repressive autocracy — seems to foster a very free-thinking, enterprising youth.

I feel that back home, we complain that we never have time to do all the things we want, and we face much fewer barriers to whatever it is we want to do. But here — taking the example of one friend alone — is someone who at the age of twenty-five, is completing a degree, has worked as a journalist, is involved in a film-project as an assistant-director, is organising a massive cultural project, all whilst applying for international universities. Along with that, writing, drawing and painting feature as pass-times. Oh, and she’s female, in a country where it is true to say that women do not face the same freedoms as their male counterparts, and are up against social pressures based on their sex.

Males, however, do have to contend with the looming threat of military service. One Syrian friend has been advised not to follow through on his proposed subject for his film & photography studies final-piece due to the content, which is based-upon just this. And regarding his own military service, he lists his two options, once he reaches 25, as leaving the country (indefinitely), or suicide. Rather worryingly, it is the latter that he is currently contemplating.

Riddles & Recorders

The approach to Petra’s “Monastery” is a long, winding route of stone steps, made even more arduous by the constant hounding from folk lining the route proposing donkeys and trinkets and that most dubious of all offers, free shay. But arriving at the top, the sound of a flute came emanating from the huge, carved out hall within. As we got closer, this sound was mixed with the smell of hash. Inside were a couple of guys, stoned out of their mind.

The next half an hour was spent sat with them as they smoked, posed riddles and repeated the same tune — over & over — on the flute, to us and the two Israelis who rolled up. My mind had already been tuned-into Middle Eastern logic by a taxi driver’s riddles between Kahta & Mt. Nemrut in Turkey, so I earned myself some brownie points solving a couple.

All I need now is the kohl.

La grotte est à nous

This is Arwhen. He is born of bedouin stock, and his family have been living in the caves of Petra for generations. Indeed, he was born in one of them. Thirty years ago, as more and more visitors came, the government constructed a village a few kilometres away, a place where all the bedouins could move to rather than inhabiting the caves. Except that these people didn’t want to live in houses in a town. They like the troglodytic life.

So despite having a house in town, Arwhen spends most of his time living out here. “It’s more peaceful” he says. In the town, there are too many people, too much noise. The traffic. Here there is nature, the stars at night. A warming fire.

For the time being, this habitation of the caves is tolerated by the government, although tourists are not permitted to stay and camp in the area, and technically, they are not allowed to stay with these people. But Arwhen will continue to seek refuge here from the hubbub of the town, once we, the tourists, have left the place for the night.

Scarred by Tourism

After having got used to taking offers of tea at face-value and happily stepping into peoples’ homes, the town of Wadi Musa came as a bit of a culture shock. The whole of the town seems to be geared-up to do one thing, and that is to provide rooms, food and souvenirs to the hundreds of thousands of tourists who visit Jordan’s premier attraction: Petra.

The hotels are keen to remind you that Petra’s famous Treasury featured in Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade, playing the film every evening. But emerging from the siq, it is indeed an awesome spectacle, and indeed worthy of its fame.

Petra is an immense site, and whilst the Treasury is perhaps the largest and most ornate of the sights, the sheer number of these façades and tombs, as well as the huge effort that must have been employed to carve them out of the rock, is what I found the most amazing.

It is, however, an attraction you will pay dearly to visit. A single-day pass costs 31 JD (1 JD is roughly the same as one Euro), and this summer the price will be rising to 58 JD. Some of the guys working there (who, incidentally, invited us into their office and did offer tea without any ulterior motives), told of how the price next year will be upwards of 90 JD for a single-day pass. This is going to put it beyond the budget of most backpackers… And if you really want to discover the charm of Petra, a day is not enough. I found two days a little short.

The site itself is therefore a huge money-spinner for the country, and the people working inside will do their best to extract more money from visitors. Lining all of the main sights are a mass of faux-bedouins, plying their wares. The steps to the Monastery are lined with carts selling souvenirs, and everywhere you walk, persistent offers of a donkey/horse/camel to ride will follow.

The Abtouqs of King Hussein Camp

Walking into the dingy corridor of a small house nestled amongst the steep, narrow alleys that criss-cross the Palestinian refugee camp on Amman’s Jebal King Hussein, I’m not quite sure if I feel comfortable or not. I had met 47 year-old Kamal minutes before, chain-smoking through yellowed teeth, as he stood on the steps outside his house. Upon learning I was British he told me how he once loved a British lady he had met in Lebanon, but that was a long time ago, and nothing had come of his affection.

He invited me in to take a tea and to meet his family. Through the doorway from the hallway came the sound of the Qur’an being read on television, a channel that I had seen many times before in the restaurants and cafés of Syria. In this room his father sat on a chair at the foot of his wife’s bed; she was recovering from a broken leg and so her life passed in this room. I initially hesitated as I entered; the father moaned & beat his chest, and I wasn’t sure that I was very welcome here. My fears, however, turned out to be totally unfounded. His “moans” were actually expressing “very nice to meet you”; seven years ago he had suffered a stroke which left him paralysed down one side, and with problems speaking.

This man had trained as an accountant in Lebanon, and had had a successful job, traveling all over the world thanks to his knowledge of business and his English skills. He comes from Jaffa, near Tel-Aviv, but was forced to leave in 1948 with the creation of Israel. He has since lived in this refugee camp with his family, and what was once a good standard of living has given away to relative dilapidation.

Kamal’s brother, Mahmoud, joined us and acted as a translator for his father. His father evidently understood everything I said, but his mind had trouble finding the words he wanted, and his body prevented them from expressing them. Both Kamal & Mahmoud had inherited some of their father’s English, and when they successfully explained his slurred Arabic to me, they were followed by emphatic cries of Aywa! Aywa! (“yes” in Arabic). When he couldn’t express himself, he tried to incite his words to come-out by slapping his forehead.

On the side-table next to his chair lay a photograph of the family at a hotel in downtown Amman when his now middle-aged offspring were still children, Kamal beaming at the camera. The hotel is now out of business, and Kamal, in particular, shows little hope for his life. He is evidently depressed at having reached his age without having raised a family; he asks me “who is more beautiful? Me or Brad Pitt?”. Did I think he would have a chance with Angelina Jolie, or Katie Holmes? Hollywood hasn’t passed him by, whilst he feels his life has.

Jordan offered citizenship to the Palestinians who arrived in 1948 & 1967, as Mahmoud testifies as he shows me his Jordanian passport. But whilst he is classed as a Jordanian citizen, his family still lives in the UN Refugee camp that was created here as a result of the huge waves of immigrants who fled Palestine during the wars there, and the quality of life is fairly minimal.

The Abtouqs are still suffering from the double-dealing that the British undertook following the Balfour Treaty, from the repercussions of the failed British mandate in Palestine. But the welcome they afforded me in their little house in Amman didn’t show any rancour of my nationality. The most important thing I could do, Mahmoud told me, is to tell people I know that “We Palestinians don’t hate Jews, like the media says. Our problem is with the Zionists. Jews & Arabs have lived together for many years.” They just need to get back a quality of life, one that cannot exist whilst they are still living as refugees.

Community Service

The monastery at Deir Mar Musa dates back about fifteen-hundred years, to 586 AD. In the 19th century, the place was abandoned, and it stayed this way until its refoundation in 1982 by Fr. Paolo.

The monastery receives so many visitors now that a new monastery is under construction, the other side of the river gorge. Parts of it are already inhabited by the community there, but there is still work to be done.

Due to its location, several hundred metres up from the road, the materials are transferred up to the monastery by a sort of téléphérique. During my time there, I spent a morning with one of the workers, shifting a couple of tons of rocks to be transported up to the new monastery. A bit of manual labour felt good.

Sayyida Ruqayya (جامع السيدة الرقية)

Visiting another Iranian mosque, this time in Damascus’ Old Town, housing the mausoleum of Ruqayya bint al-Hussein ash-Shaheed bi-Kerbala, a Shi’ite Saint that attracts many pilgrims.

One Year Older

A year ago today, I was running around a forest just outside of Paris, trying to escape from the problems to which I had awoken, feeling rather confused and unsure of where the day would lead.

For my twenty-eighth birthday, I was stood on top of Jebel Qassioun at 1200m, the mountain that overlooks Syria’s capital. This time, I didn’t question where the day would lead, but I did pose myself several questions on where this coming year would lead, as well as questioning the decisions I had made in the twelve months leading up to this point.

We had planned on hiking up the Damascus side of the mountain to go and explore what was on the other side, which turned out to be some wonderful looking mountains in the distance. As we left the barren, stony landscape to rejoin a road, we saw a sign indicating that where we had just come from was a military zone, and that there was strictly “No Entry. No Cameras”. Both rules broken then. I forget how much freedom to just roam we have back in England, and in France.

With no way to reach these mountains, we wandered back through the steep, windy streets of Damascus’ charming Salihiyya district. After meeting with other friends in the Old Town over shay and narghile, the evening was spent with a bottle of arak, followed by an Iraqi restaurant in Jaramana.

Here’s to an interesting year…

Sayyida Zeinab [ii] (سيدة زينب ٢)

As well as welcoming many Iranian tourists, Sayyida Zeinab is also where the majority of Iraqi refugees live. I have talked about the massive influx of Iraqis into Jaramana, but the people living there live in rather more affluent situations then their compatriots in Sayyida Zeinab.

Whilst walking around, I met an Iraqi woman and her nineteen year-old son who had fled here because of the sectarian violence in Iraq. Her family had all been killed, the only thing she had left was her son. He had been kidnapped and a ransom demanded for his return. Whilst he was held captive he was beaten, the scars he bore will remain engrained on his cheeks for the rest of his life.

They had somewhere to live here, but no means to support themselves, she said there were no jobs for people like them. Upon learning that I was English, she expressed her hope to go to the UK, although she held little hope of arriving. I felt incredibly guilty of the actions of our government, and the lack of support that these people now had from the mess that we had created. I didn’t know what I could say, or do. She asked if I knew how she could go, but my experience of these matters is virtually non-existent. I suggested the UNHCR, having recently read that they plan to support 167,840 people here in 2010, although she said she had tried to little avail.

The Iraqi government is trying to entice people back to the country, advertising cash incentives to help people rebuild their lives. The Syrians, who have been incredibly welcoming to the large numbers of people crossing their border, are starting to close-up. People I have spoken to have said that they would prefer to stay in a tent at the border than return to the situation that currently exists in the country.

The photo above is from a little, one-room “youth-centre” in the back-streets of Sayyida Zeinab as dusk was turning to night. In this room, children played Sonic the Hedgehog on old computer console, and the portrait of Syria’s President, Bashar al-Assad, watches over the ten or so people huddled around a fußbal table.

An Occidental Syria

The combination of studying Arabic at the University of Damascus, and living in Bab Touma, means that one is exposed to a lot of Westerners here in Damascus. The shops sell items catered to Western tastes, and speaking Arabic requires an effort when the shop-keepers English is vastly better than the foreigners’ Arabic.

In my class every continent was represented: from Sweden to South Korea, Canada to Colombia, Senegal to Australia via Russia. We were a very odd bunch. I spent four hours a day in a classroom with these people, as well as more time socially with some.

Outside of university, I have also got to know quite a few Syrians, as well as people from Iraq & some Palestinians.

I have been to parties resembling those of European Erasmus soirées, with beer & spirits flowing, couples hooking up in the corner, and La Bamba played on a guitar.

At the other end of the scale, parties held in small apartments in the Palestinian Yarmouk “Camp”, where alcohol still presides (but in the form of arak), where the table contains tabouleh, houmous & pickles, and where the guitar is playing oud rhythms accompanied in Arabic.

Even the mix of Arabs within the country is great. As well as the predominant Muslims, Damascus has a large Christian community, Iranian Shi’ites flock here to visit holy shrines, there are around 1.3 million Iraqi refugees and half a million Palestinians.

“Ahlan we shaman” — welcome — is the most common word on the street.