Sean McAllister » Page 13

Author: Sean McAllister

Documentary Filmmaker from Hull, England, specialises in giving the voiceless a voice

My Arabic wedding

I couldn’t face going out tonight. I was dying for a shit but couldn’t go. I needed time to contemplate on a proper sitting-up toilet not a hole in ground. You can’t read the newspaper squatting… and it is easy (or it is for me) to miss, making things real messy. Plus, as my hummus belly grows I am finding it more and more painful to squat for long periods. So I haven’t “been” today and would rather stay in but Nizam’s uncle has invited us to a rather special wedding party kicking off at midnight!

We enter the flamboyant affair to see a dance floor filled with grown men dancing together. Holding hands kissing hugging, it was a real camp event in the Syrian city of Aleppo.

We’d left Damascus behind. Nizam’s uncle had invited us to a rich man’s wedding. Set around a swimming pool filmed by a multi-camera crew it was a bizarre scene. A child aged 12 was operating the crane over a dance floor where men, and I mean only men, were dancing. “Where are the women?” I asked Nizam’s uncle, “Next door, they party separate to men”. “Why?” I ask, “Isn’t it boring without women?” “No. Men enjoy their own company”. I’ve only just got used to socialising without drink and now I’m not allowed to see women either! This is the ultimate male dominant society.

I looked around the vast room. Men were holding hands hugging kissing, dancing, eating fruit, drinking coke, smoking water-pipes – they seem to be having fun. I was having fun but couldn’t help thinking a few women and a bottle of scotch would spice things up a bit. Nizam confides later that many of the men enjoy each other company in a more intimate way but it must be kept under wraps here. He also mentions that others are probably nipping round the back to drink alcohol. “Let’s join them!” I plead. Nizam adds that his dad used to keep a glass of whiskey or arak under the table at parties until his uncle caught him. He told him he would never sit with him if he ever drank in his presence again. As we are with his uncle tonight we decide that we had better behave.

I watch Nizam’s uncle dance with his son, I think of his wife and daughters doing the same next door. It’s a funny family event when the family is separated based on their sex. It’s strange that homosexuality isn’t tolerated here yet it feels like such a gay society. I watch a butch man take to the centre of the dance floor shaking his worry beads above his head and wriggling his ass as those around him cheer in excitement.

Later, a man walks on to the stage interrupting the band, he greets the guests by name and they in turn push handfuls of cash into his hands. I ask Nizam what is going on,“The money is for him, he keeps it as he is hosting the party”, Nizam says. A water-pipe boy comes running past, “Hey there’s a fight on the dance floor”, I look over and see the groom fighting someone. Nizam’s uncle quickly gets his son out of the way and I see the 12 year old crane operator making a run for it. Nizam is also in the thick of the action trying to pull the groom away, then I see a silver gun swing in the air, I follow Nizam’s gaze and see another gun pushed into the side of someone, is the groom going to kill someone on his wedding night I wonder to myself?

But I’m not hanging round to find out. I make a run for it grabbing Nizam as I go. “Surely having a few women here would prevent this aggression” I say. “No it would make it worse” Nizam jokes as we run for cover.

Not long after I find myself squatting in the toilet, sweating but selfishly relieved, someone could have died tonight but at least the excitement has cured my constipation.

The Damascus conversion

High up on the mountainside we are charmed by the panoramic view of Damascus city by night. This is the most popular tourist stop for bus-loads of tourists and for those Syrians wealthy enough to afford the prices. I’m getting some great landscape shots when a SMS arrives on my phone, it is from Nizam’s wife, she can’t contact him directly since he lost his own phone so she is texting me. It is in Norwegian, I tell him to read it to me, the message says “Let us talk tonight on Skype at 11pm”.

Nizam is thinking deeply about his life in Norway and his love for the magnificent illuminated city that shimmers below… his distant home. I can see his mind hard at work as he looks down into the streets where he spent his childhood, floods of memories; a life that was lost when his mother took him and her family away. “I like Norway and have no regrets about going there. I learned a lot but now I feel something is missing”. Later that night I leave Nizam locked in an intense dialogue with his wife.

In the morning we drink Arabic coffee under the sun, “I think I had my Damascus conversion” Nizam suddenly announces, “It was your blog that did it St Sean, it opened up a new dialogue with my wife, I talked about her and my daughter moving back here and she was open to the idea. I love this country I really want to make a go for it here with my family. We could spend the winter here and the great summers in Norway”.

The hotel attendant joins us. “What are you filming for?” Nizam tells him of our road to Damascus, explaining how he has been a disciple to St Sean’s journey. The attendant holds up his hands and says “St Sean I want to be one of your disciples too, I will look after Damascus when you are gone”. Thank you I say, you have my blessing. “But what is the message?” he asks. “The message is there is no message”, I tell him. He looks bemused for a moment, smiles and agrees. “Ok” he says, “There is no message”.

How easy it is to get a following in this ancient biblical land I think to myself.

Hamam hell

A scary hairy naked man stood over above my porky semi-naked body, he was pointing to a table. Before I could say anything the man let out a growl and pushed me down onto it, I felt a hard slap on my back, followed by another on my ass. Nizam stands giggling and filming the bizarre scene.

Moments before we’d entered the Hamam, an Arabic hot-bath, It was like symbolically stepping inside this wonderful culture, I was undressed by a man handing me a selection of towels to cover parts of my body and lead into a hot steam room. Wow, I thought I had a pot-belly until I got naked with these guys. A portly guy smiled at me. At such close proximity I couldn’t resist rubbing his tummy. He smiled. Everyone smiled. How lovely it felt. A kind of peaceful tranquillity came over me.

“Do you want to have your arm pits shaved?”, a burly fearsome looking guy asked. “No” I replied, slightly shocked, “Only women do that surely?”, A look of amazement came back from some of the hardest men in town, they all raised their arms to show they had been shaved. It is hygienic they say, Really? So what about down there? I ask, pointing to their groins, did you get shaved there as well? No, no, they replied, now they are all looking very shocked. But surely that is more hygienic I said, at which point Nizam steps in, this conversation is getting out hand. He lead’s me away to another room for my massage.

The bruiser towering above me suddenly flips my body over to face him, soap is poured all over my body, his hands rub up and down me, it tickles and I can’t keep still, I am wobbling and giggling like a kid. The man joins in my laughter but he is far more sinister, his manic laugh is broken with a stern serious stare as the might of his body comes down on me… A myriad of strange sounds erupt from the room and my body, the noises bemuse and amuse the locals, until at last, a slap a squeeze and an elbow, followed by a bucket of cold water, signals the end of my torment.

A wipe-down followed by some flower tea relaxes my body as I chat with Nizam about this great city – he dreams of bringing his family here. He talks about Norway and how this could never happen there. “I don’t connect with Norway” he says, “It is important that my daughter knows something of her Arabic side as well as speaking the language”.

Later we catch up with our emails in a cafe in the Christian quarter which sells real beer, both of us Skyping our families back home. Suddenly the wireless system is cut and we are asked to leave, the cafe has closed, Nizam is looking disturbed. “What is wrong?” I ask, “I was talking to my wife. She’s been reading your blogs on the net and asked who the ‘several females’ were I’d been talking to on the phone. She asked me if something happened in Bulgaria and I couldn’t lie but we were cut off before I could explain properly”.

“Shit I’m sorry, I feel terrible, I am so sorry”, I wonder aloud if I have overstepped the mark with my blog, “No, no it must be the truth, we cannot lie”. We have no time to discuss it further as Nizam leads me to Abu George’s bar and promptly orders Arak, a couple of hours pass and we hit the sack unsure of what this road has in store for us tomorrow.

I Love Saddam

“I love Saddam!” Nizam’s grandmother announces when she discovers I’ve made film in Iraq. She is pouring us a thick sweet Arabic coffee – I had to wait outside the apartment while she put her veil on – Her short stocky appearance matches her beautiful characterful face, her smile radiates and we immediately hit it off.

“Why has Sean come to Syria?” She asks. “He loves the hummus” Nizam tells her. Nizam’s grandmother scuttles off to the kitchen and before long I am lost in the dream I’ve driven 4 days to find; the best hummus in the world. It is matched with a fabulous Fattoush salad, amazing pickles and gorgeous bread. My mind drifts, lost into the taste of the Middle East as Nizam and his grandmother chat away in Arabic.

It was 1987 when I first came to the Middle East and I fell in love with it immediately. Since then I can’t keep away, it feels like home. My last film in Japan took 2 years to make, during that time I would dream of the dusty dirty streets where the flavours ooze out of the fresh fruits and vegetables, where life passes you by in real time. This is my hearts home, I can sit on the side of the road here and be back in Baghdad, Amman, Cairo or Beirut, I find myself at peace in this troubled land ravaged by war and conflict.

“Saddam was hero for the Arabs”, Nizam’s grandmother continues. “When the American’s killed him they made all the Arab world love him”. Guests start to arrive to greet Nizam. His aunt and uncle join us. “This is Sean, like Sean Connery” his grandmother says. “I love James Bond films” she adds. She’d been up till 3am watching one last night! She turns to an older friend in a veil and gossips in Arabic, a little of which I manage to understand. “He’s a vegetarian you know. Oh really how strange. It must be his religion”. They both shake their heads. I fear to tell them I have no religion.

Nizam’s bubbly aunt is full of life and enjoys the advantage that speaking excellent English has over her husband who understands very well but doesn’t speak. She takes centre stage, making jokes about him. “He dropped out of university in his first year, I continued to become a teacher. But I didn’t like that job.” “Why?” I ask. “I don’t like children. Well not teaching them”. She stopped working as soon as she had her kids. Then her humour turns on me. “Hey we have a British man here. Are you not scared? This is Syria, we are bad people aren’t we? How much money can we make if we kidnap him?” “None” I say. “I was in Iraq and saw many Brits die because our Government never pays ransoms, two were killed last month”. The grandmother and friend shake their heads in disbelief, “How could their Governments let them die?”

Later we are on the roof terrace enjoying another alcohol free evening. Nizam’s aunt is talking about Nizam’s father who lives in Libya but visits every two months. He breaks all the rules and always has, even drinking alcohol in the presence of her religious husband. “He is sooo Muslim” she says, I stopped drinking when I married him because I love him. They are enjoying each others company holding hands and laughing, it seems like a simple uncomplicated kind of love.

I watch this simple gathering sitting below beautiful grape vines, kids playing hop scotch with their father, it feels like a proper family setting, something we may have lost in England. The family still matters in this part of the world. “Do you enjoy this evening?” Nizam’s aunt asks. “Yes it is very beautiful” I say, clenching a glass of cold water and dreaming of a pint of beer. I can see she doesn’t quite believe me.

As we head to bed at 2am Nizam is thoughtful after his first night back home in Arabic culture. Torn between Europe and the Middle East I sense that his search for answers from his father is also a search for a place to call his home.

I discover that his bubbly aunt and his father are no longer talking, she stood up to him and is now paying the price. She said a lot of negative things about his absent father this evening, that he lost everything ‘in pursuit of women’s ass’. I suggest to Nizam that when we go to Libya to look for this BBC film I could help him get close to his father. He looks up and tells me I have more chance of meeting Gaddafi in Libya than of him getting close to his father. Now that sounds like a good idea for a film I think to myself.

We lay naked in the roasting night heat. A noisy ceiling fan sends me to sleep, I close my eyes, blinded as St Paul was, I turn to Nizam and ask, “Do you respect your father”, there’s a long pregnant pause followed by a decisive Yes. “Your aunt told me you fear him. Are you scared of your father?” “No”, he says solemnly, “I’m not scared of him… I’m scared of losing him”. We turn off the lights and like brothers in love we cuddle up exhausted but eager to discover tomorrow when our journey to Damascus will finally end.

Success

I was woken by the call for prayer from a nearby mosque. A rattling old speaker and croaking voice. Why can’t they turn it down a bit? Still, at least there was no snoring from Nizam last night.

We sit up from our business class flat car seat luxury on yet another dusty Turkish roadside. I look over to the smelly WC, I need a pee. I leave Nizam playing with his Arabic stubble in the mirror.

After a buffet breakfast of cheeses salads and watermelon we hit the road again, our aim is to be in Syria and a long awaited hummus lunch by noon today. Nizam is looking more rugged by the hour. I must get my beard trimmed he remarks as we hurtle down the road past families on horse and carts, and others huddled together on motorbikes and side-cars.

I’d noticed some intense phone calls last night between Nizam and some females. I never inquired further. Today he is talking about his father though and is worrying that he may end up like him.

Much of Nizam’s confusion lies between being raised in Syria and Libya until the age of 20 and then leaving for Norway when his mum left his father. Since then he has married a Norwegian girl and has a child. Today he sees much of the Arabic world through confused Western eyes, “There is very little emphasis on the family any more and I worry I’m following my father into failed marriage”, he laments. “It isn’t so easy to divorce here but it is in Norway. I missed out on knowing key things about my father and that’s why I came to him. But however much I try asking him he always wriggles out of giving any answers. I don’t want to make the same mistakes as him but sometimes I feel that I am.”

We take a step closer to each other today on our personal roads to Damascus. Almost without knowing it we are sharing life’s dilemmas, I wonder if such tender masculinity graced St Paul on his road centuries before. I know very little about Nizam but feel comfortable to share a part of myself with him. Last night I said we were like brothers from different parts of the world on a similar path. He laughed and said people reading your blog will think we’re more like lovers.

Last night I was anxious and Nizam could tell. Being away from my family and the pressure it imposed on them and me sometimes gets too much, I’d had fraught calls from home and become depressed. The mood swings were broken with beer and wine stops. I wondered if St Paul had felt this kind of anxiety.

In these moments I feel far from the St Sean I’d love to be. I feel I am selfish, that my life, well at least this part of my life, is all about me, and nobody else. Nizam is a supportive disciple though, still playing with his beard as we drive along, the hot air gushing through the open windows, he says, “Who are we if we are not happy? There are some things we have to do”.

The border finally approaches, and after 2 nights sleeping rough in Turkey we are almost there. We pass through the Turkish control, and finally we are hearing Arabic sounds. I smile sweetly at the cigarette smoking Syrian inspecting my passport. I can almost smell the hummus waiting for me.

Suddenly he looks up and points to an Israeli baggage sticker on the back of my passport and before I know it we are being escorted out of Syria and back into Turkey. Bastard. I feel so stupid. I never checked my passport for stickers… It’s a 3 day drive back to Istanbul. Does the road to Damascus end here, at the border?

Fortunately Nizam befriends one of the border guards who tells us to take the sticker off and try again at the next crossing. It adds an hour and half to our 4 day trip, but spirits are up and we soldier on. At the next crossing they say they do not issue visas. I am asked to explain the reasons for my visit and my occupation. The mere mention of TV sounds alarm bells and Nizam does some quick and clever talking. The boss here is warming to us and wants to help, he hands Nizam a cigarette and rings his boss. 3 hours later we pass through the checkpoint and celebrate with a non-alcoholic beer from the fist shop we find.

“Welcome back to Syria St Sean we’ve almost made it now”, I smell the air and feel the land and smile at Nizam. Now we are really on the road to Damascus.