Syria » Page 9

Category: Syria

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.

St Sean, on the road to Damascus

Bollocks. The BBC just cancelled the ‘North’ season that had brought me back to Hull looking for ideas. Actually I’m relieved… I am now in Sofia waiting for a Syrian visa so I can take my own ‘road to Damascus’.

I am looking for the conversion that changed St Paul on his road. I want to find a film there and the strength to persuade the BBC to accept an idea which they rejected back in December 2008.

I’d opted for their (dual) offer of two films, one in Hull, and one in Libya but now I really doubt whether I can get the access I would need to make a film there (Libya, not Hull).

Furthermore I’ve no real idea why I want to make a film in Syria I just see a fantastic colourful film set in Damascus full of fun fear and freedom. A place where contradictions play themselves out in widescreen. Stupid things like democracy versus dictatorship. A place where thousands of Iraqis apparently have fled their new found freedom for the ‘safety’ of a dictatorship, where partying hard at the weekend is seemingly as important as the Friday call for prayer.

Sounds amazing to me but sadly not the BBC. Not yet anyway. So on the road I go.