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Category: Syria

Park life

So here I am, it has finally happened, I am sitting on a park bench on my own drinking Arak, ‘Down and out in Damascus’. Actually it is very beautiful, the park is off the tourist souk and Straight Street which runs through the heart of the old city and lies between the Christian quarter (hence the ease and openness with drinking alcohol in public) and the astonishing Jewish quarter which lies just behind us.

These days most of the properties in the Jewish quarter are empty – empty, deserted, and abandoned by Jews fleeing to Israel I assume but a local tells me not… “They went to seek their fortune in New York” he says.

Since the ‘smoking ban’ came in the park has become even more popular, here people are free to smoke and drink in public. I watch a mix of young lovers cuddling, some old ladies chatting and looking up at the stars, and a gang of youngsters getting drunk on the super strong 14% beer sold in the local store… I’ve taken to drinking ‘Arak’ – the local booze, a mind blowing 55% proof – it makes you see the world in a different way! The Arak makes me not want to move (unlike most other alcohol which generally has quite the opposite effect), but I must, because tonight I have been invited to an Iraqi wedding.

I am very curious to see the district of Damascus which is home to up to 2 million Iraqi’s who fled their new found ‘freedom and democracy’ in Iraq for safety in Assad’s Syrian ‘dictatorship’. How funny the world really is. But the Arak has taken hold of me and I simply cannot move.

By chance I meet an Iraqi who is also drinking in the park, a well dressed and dignified man who had left Kirkuk in the north of Iraq after the fall of Saddam, “They not only killed our leader but they killed our country” he says, “We had everything under Saddam; as long as you didn’t threaten him you could be free!”

Here this man survives on rent sent from property he still owns in Kirkuk. Fleeing the destruction that followed the fall of Saddam he managed to get his wife and 3 kids to Canada but failed somehow to get there himself. He recounts a bizarre story in which he spent 15,000 dollars on a round-the-world-trip that was supposed to take him from Syria, to Cuba, from Cuba to Mexico, from Mexico over the border to America and from America over the border to Canada.

But, he only got as far as Cuba; he didn’t speak Spanish or English and found himself stranded there for a week unable to move on. Defeated, he returned and now drinks beer and eats nuts in the park waiting for his wife to make the application through a lawyer in Canada. “It is only a matter of time” he says, “but my main aim was to get them there and give them a chance in life”. I sit and watch this man and think to myself that it is indeed a man’s world. There is so much negativity written about the role of men in the Middle East but here is one shining example of a man prepared to sacrifice his lot for the women in his life.

Alas, I do not have his strength, and for now the Iraqi district must wait, I cannot make it to the wedding, the Arak has me completely under its spell and I am unable to move away from this beautiful Damascus park… so I continue to sit with this stranger, listening to his stories, and wondering.

Back to Arabia

It’s the Arab world again; I’m almost there but not quite, I’ve booked a dangerously cheap ticket on an unknown airline, Syrian Arab Airways… I love an adventure and a bargain so what the heck.

I call to pay for the ticket but they don’t accept credit cards ‘cash only’ comes the reply and I fly tomorrow. They will accept a bank-transfer but require the paying-in slip faxed as proof of payment, but I don’t have a fax, I ask if I can scan and email them the paying-in slip but they say they can’t receive emails. I begin to wonder if they have any computers.

This is a slow step back to the Arab world. Fortunately my bank is very understanding, not only did they include my request for a veggie meal but they also faxed the paying-in slip for me. Finally, my ticket is secured, but what about my flight?

Bizarrely… the airline that could not receive any emails – email me my ‘e-ticket’.

The recorded announcement on Syrian Arab Airways says that all flights (just 2 a week) leave from Terminal 2 at Heathrow but, when I arrive I discover that they actually leave from Terminal 4. “That is an old message” I am told by a member of staff.

At check-in I watch a fat Syrian man who is 8 kilos over on his luggage; the airline is trying to make him pay. He is dancing around stroking the face of the manager, he kisses his hand and head, strokes his face and manages to have his fine reduced by 5 kilos. My observations are preparing me for my step-back into Arabia.

At check-in I am told there is no veggie meal, “It takes 4 days to order”. Before booking I’d checked twice to make sure that they served vegetarian food and had a complimentary bar with booze, this was confirmed twice, now I face a flight without any food. Well at least I can have a drink I think to myself… so I go and get a sandwich to take on board.

As I enter the aircraft I ask again, just in case, about the veggie meals, “No worries sir, we have plenty” – I am both confused and delighted by the reply. I make myself comfortable in my broken seat with no front table and a broken foot rest. The plane has a musty old smell to it, with décor to suit. No bright Virgin colours here, or the tight restrictive leather seats, these ones are twice as big and twice as dirty and feel real and comfy.

My veggie meal arrives – it is great. An Asian curry of lentils and salad. Then shock, horror, no booze on the drinks trolley. I ask the Arabic air-hostess for “wine with the meal?” She looks to her boss on the other end of the trolley, he says “Sorry no wine”, but his answer didn’t feel absolute; it was as though he couldn’t quite be bothered…

Then I notice a couple of men chatting whilst another member of crew brings them what looks to me like whisky on the rocks. I stop the man, “Can I get a whisky?” “Sure sir”. A whisky on the rocks arrives covered in a paper towel. Later I make my way into Business class, an area just as tatty as economy class apart from the dirty curtains that divide us. “Is there any wine?” I ask? “Wine… I will need to ask…” the hostess says I need to ask at the back, I tell her the man has already refused me, she takes the phone and makes what looks like a concerted effort to fix this problem and I go back to my seat. A few moments pass and the trolley arrives full of cheap nasty fake soft drinks, I feel a hand coming over my shoulder with a bottle of wine wrapped in paper towel from the man who’d refused me originally. “Would you like ice with it sir?” “Why not” I reply.

This is the Arab world, a place that seems full of rules, but in reality everything is negotiable, you have to navigate your way through it whilst never accepting anything at face value. You will always get to where you’re going but not always in the way you intended. If you are prepared for this then you are ready to hit the Arab world.

The landing of this shabby plane was one of the smoothest I’ve ever experienced. On-time we all disembark leaving London and the ‘free west’ behind us and walking excitedly into Syria, a closed dictatorship and part of George W Bush’s infamous Axis of Evil. My cab takes me to Straight Street, the Christian quarter of old Damascus, where I meet Karen an American woman living and working here and whom I will be staying with. She is with hundreds of others who are all outside and who are all drinking openly in the park, beer, wine, Arak, you name it… Music thumps out from a nearby disco. “Welcome back to Syria” Karen says, offering me a choice of beers from her carry-out bag.

My final night

A cousin enters into the ‘goodbye’ party laid on for Nizam. “Hey gran” he says in Arabic, “Why you wearing your veil, Sean is part of our family now? You don’t need to wear the veil for him”. “I do I do…” his gran insists, “Since visiting Mecca I feel I must follow a strict religious code”.

Another aunt had turned-up at the party without a veil, Nizam was shocked. “Whenever my family meets strangers they always wear the veil, my aunt must feel very easy with you Sean”.

This family gathering begins around 1am and will go on till 5 or 6am, I’ve got used to the nocturnal existence here. We sit and talk and play with the kids whilst eating fresh juicy watermelon, handmade biscuits, and drinking thick black Arabic coffee served regularly to keep everyone going. And of course plenty of smoking; In these religious families there is no alcohol, but lots of cigarettes, it seems their only vice.

I talk with another of Nizam’s aunts. She is a fun lively woman who lost her husband a few years ago and now works hard to bring her 5 kids up alone. It isn’t easy she said, “The rent is around $200 a month and we have to survive on the same amount of money for the month”. Despite her struggle she has the most wonderful family, full of life and funny, they all speak good English too.

Arbady is in his late 20’s, as the eldest son he must now be the man of the house, he has just lost his job and now struggles to supplement his income. “He isn’t lucky in life” his mother laments. Arbady looks confused as Nizam shares his dilemmas about bringing himself and his family back here to live. For them the dream is to leave for the West like Nizam did 10 years ago, and the best way for them to do this is to study abroad. Travel is a great thing I say, I love it. But nothing can replace home and I sense this is Nizam’s quest now. He is finding it more and more difficult to see the West as his home.

It all feels confusing to me too. Here I see a simple uncomplicated life, but an affordable one, the dreams in the West are so out of reach at times. I wonder if Arbady realises this. Later, I’m talking with his sisters aged 16 and 18. They complain that their mother won’t let them go jogging in the park “We dream of doing simple things like running in the park but here it is difficult for women, and my mother is afraid”.

By their very nature dictatorships have streets which are generally safe and secure, and Syria is no different. “I can’t believe you don’t let your daughters” out I say… “After my husband died there is only me to look after them so I feel very protective towards them both. When they marry then they are free to go out because they will have a husband to protect them.” “Free, after marriage!?” I question, “Surely their husband will stop them jogging alone as soon they are married?”. “Yes, yes” the sisters say. “I can’t imagine this happening in England” I say, and our parks and streets are far more dangerous then yours.

I am constantly fascinated by the notion of freedom when I travel, what it is that we call freedom, and how it differs from that of other societies and cultures, but here, on my last night in Syria, as a visitor in the warm embrace of a loving family, I feel free and I feel safe.

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.