A day at the Mosque

Khaleel has invited me other places as well.  Last week he told me that there was a Professor from London speaking at his Mosque, something on the topic of “Islam and the West,” and it would be in English to boot.  Always a sucker for such events, I showed up, and was led into a large conference room dominated by a circle of clothed tables.  If you’ve ever watched c-span…. never mind… odds are you haven’t.  I’ll just say that it reminded me of being at a fancy press-conference, as each seat had its own thin-stemmed microphone growing out of the table that you had to lean over to talk into (like a member of congressional committee saying something pointless and boring). 

 

As soon as I walked in the door, Khaleel apologized and informed me that the professor from London couldn’t make it, so someone else would be giving a talk.  What I thought would be just another lecture turned into the latest chapter of a book I like to call “I’ll bet Tyler has never heard of (insert name of religion), and if only Tyler just heard the basic teachings of (insert name of religion) explained to him as if he is a shallow, 13 year old boy, he would see all the benefits it could bring to his life, and thus joyfully convert, worshiping/meditating/shrinking heads in the name of (insert preferred object of reverence) and become one of us.”  The “lecture” was about “how Islam makes you an optimal person,” a topic that has not made my reading list yet.  But hey, when you’re waiting at the dentist office, you don’t complain that their “US Weekly” is a month old, you browse at what’s in front of you god damnit. 

 

So there I was, me and my microphone.  But I was quickly becoming bored with the topic, and annoyed with the slow pace of this Syrian’s English.  After an hour and a half, it was time for questions.  Naturally, there were none from the twenty-some adult male Muslims who had clearly helped organize the event, and were therefore already familiar with the basic, almost superficial explanations provided by the lecture.  That left me and two others who Khaleel had brought (a Brit, and a Japanese kid who turned out to be a Zen Buddhist); in fact, I had a growing feeling that we were the only reason that this event was being put on.

 

I’m guessing almost everyone has been to those terrible speeches where there is that awkward silence when it is apparent that no one is going to ask the speaker a question.  In this case, the silence was broken by Khaleel’s question.  But this was of no relief to the room’s tension.  Because when he—resembling one of those bald congressmen—leaned over to his microphone, I heard, “Tyler, the other day when I asked you, you said that your parents do not practice the same religion.  What religion do you believe?”

 

Shit. As much as I was anticipating this confrontation, I still felt surprised.  I looked around the room to see all of these people waiting intently for my answer.  That’s when I first noticed the cameraman; and he was getting what must have been a good close-up.  Yup, look for me on late-night c-span, or some internet broadcast of boring speeches on Islam, cause they were taping the whole thing. 

 

I clicked my microphone on and spent about four minutes saying the least offensive things I could without lying.  By that, I mean I used my 5 years of philosophy training to say a great deal about nothing.  In other settings I would be happy to tell them exactly what I believed.  However, in Syria, we foreigners skate on very thin ice.  We can very easily lose our invitation to stay in the country, for example, by saying something offensive about religion.  And since I love President al-Ba…shir, and agree with everything he does, and think that his intelligence services are doing a very good job keeping the country safe, I would hate for them to misinterpret something I said on camera (or in a café, or on a blog) as being offensive or in any way contrary to the greatness of Syria. 

 

As for the other two foreigners there, the Zen Buddhist was able to escape his questioning by playing what some of my friends call “the Asian card.”  This is something you would do in order get out of trouble in a foreign country.  (Some of you loyal readers may remember my successful use of such a tactic when I was caught trespassing in the Czech Republic by a couple of cops, and my failure to use such a tactic when I was caught cheating on my rail-pass in Spain and thrown off the train in a small desert town).  In his case, when the questions got uncomfortable, his English all-of-the-sudden became very bad, and he had a hard time understanding what they meant, making further inquiry pointless.  As for the Brit, he politely dismissed himself just as it was his turn. 

I was the only one who was stupid enough to answer.

I’ve got more photos

Go to this website to see my album: http://www.flickr.com/photos/midwestinthemideast/

 Hit the “slideshow” button on the top right from optimal comfort.

“Knock Knock” “Whose there?” “Your second round of dysentery.”

Syria can be exhausting.  4 hours of class per day, then 3-4 hours of studying afterwards.  The relaxing part comes with a fresh fruit juice in the cobble-stone streets, sitting next to a friend on an uneven plastic armchair.  Sometimes I get out for some drinks with classmates in the Christian quarter, but the large dinners and oppressive study schedule leave us all waning at 12:30, only halfway through our second beer.  And it’s hot. 

 

In order to practice my Arabic outside of class, I have two “conversation partners.”  They’re Syrians who are studying English.  I help them, they help me.  Simple enough.  This leads me to one of several stories I will soon post:

 

Conversation partner #1 (Khaleel) is a 30-ish male with a wife and 3 kids.  Last Friday he invited me and two other Anglophones to lunch at his house in a poor neighborhood in the outskirts of Damascus.  His wife had spent over three hours and a third of the family’s monthly budget to prepare what would be my first lavish home-cooked meal in Syria.  It is frustrating how empty saying “thank you” feels when trying to express the gratitude one feels towards these gestures–a common problem for me here.

 

We had to stay in a special room that was reserved for hosting guests and packed with ultra-fancy furniture.  The ornate room made us forget the streets of dust and garbage just outside the door.  It never hinted at the absence of running water, nor the casual arrival and departure of electricity three times during the course of our stay.  In fact, if our sanity wasn’t dependent upon the circulation of air brought by the ceiling fan, I’m certain we would’ve never noticed. 

The food was amazing, and perhaps even worth the dysentery (if that was what caused it).  I would’ve loved to thank the cook, but we were not allowed to see her.  She was kept separate, and when I by-chance caught a glimpse of her when she peaked out to call Khaleel, I saw that she was fully veiled.  When the British student asked to use the bathroom, and thus leave the guest room, Khaleel had to go into the house to warn his wife so that she could close the door to the kitchen in order to stay out of sight.  

Click “view all images” for a slower view.

Ooops

I may have screwed myself.  I just got my placement test scores back, and they’ve put me in a level 3 Arabic class (out of 8).  From everything I’ve heard, this is far beyond my understanding of the language. 

I don’t know how it happened.  It certainly wasn’t a triumph of my own abilities, nor a result of cramming old lessons or vocab words the night before.  I can say with confidence that I didn’t understand a single question on the test, nor the directions of what we were supposed to be doing in each section, cause, you know, it was all in Arabic.  In fact, once the test started, I had no idea what to do.  So, I looked around the room for a while, trying to guess where the other test-takers were from.  I noticed fifteen of the students were working vigorously, and eight others looking around with what was no doubt the same stupid look I wore.  We were all new to the language, and had no idea what was going on.  Meanwhile the kids who had been studying Arabic for 3 or 4 years were filling in the scantron like it was their job (we all got the same test).

One of the students (from Georgia) had been studying for 5 years and is nearly fluent.  During the break he goes, “man that test is hard.  How’d you do?”  I just laughed.  He didn’t get it.  So then I said, “good.”

Seeing how I had no idea what bubbles to fill in on the answer sheet, I decided to give an equal selection of circles ا  ب  and ج. 

We did get verbal instructions (in English) for the writing section.  The last page was blank and we were to write (in Arabic) what we liked to do in our free time and why.  I was able to come up with one sentence.  “I love to run with dog.” (And I may have spelt dog wrong.) Level 3, here I come.

 

New Home

            I’ve found a place to live.  I’m renting a room from a Muslim family in the Old City.  It’s a one-minute walk from the Umayyad Mosque (wikipedia it).  During the day I can hear a man sing over its loud speakers.

            The family is very nice, but we can’t talk much since my Arabic is pitiful, and their English isn’t so good.  A big excitement for this new move is the bathroom.  There isn’t a flush toilet; instead, they’ve got a pit toilet.  Now I’ve never used, nor seen someone else use such a thing.  It’s just a hole in the floor; inside of it, there is what looks like a small urinal on its side.  There is no toilet paper—just a hose.  Not wanting to be the foreigner who poops in the urinal, or whatever the cultural equivalent is over here, I’ve spent several minutes staring at this thing, trying to figure out its secrets.  After much reflection, I think I’ve got it.  Wish me luck.

First few days….

The last thing I did before coming to this internet café was eat some type of taffy-ice-cream hybrid coated in crushed pistachio nuts.   I’d recommend it. 

I’ve already made friends (albeit a very odd relationship I can’t put my finger on) with a 38 year-old Syrian.  Yesterday, after spending many hours lounging around on the alley chairs, he helped me run some errands around town.   After this, he took me to his favorite tea house on a roof where a bunch of old men sit around and play backgammon all night.  We played a few games of chess over some heavily-sweetened tea and a hookah. My favorite part was when we walked arm-and-arm down the street together—something common for men to do here.   That’s right, not only is Syria a hot-bed for terrorism, but gays too.  Look out America!

Today I went out for a second try at finding the university.  Upon my success, I met an Australian guy who is applying for the same program.  We ended up spending the day walking around together since we both needed to  go and get our blood tested for AIDs before being admitted (interesting fact: according to the government, “there is no AIDs in Syria;” so if the test goes bad, at least I can make my claim as the first).  After this we walked around the old city of Damascus, stopping at juice bars and a very beautiful Mosque.  I’ll upload pictures ASAP, but for now, google image “bab toma.”  It is the Christian section of the old city—absolutely incredible.  It’s just a maze of thin streets/alleys with vines growing across the gaps, creating a green filter of sunlight/shade onto the winding streets.  The little kids run around “bop”ing each other on the heads with empty 2-liter water bottles.  Me and my Australian friend also fell victim at one point.  Just like the movies, they screamed “ALLAH AKBAR!! “ as they hit us (just kidding).  We were stopped several times by people in the streets wondering where we were from.  All of them told us how welcome we were in Syria and invited us to sit down with them.  At one point a girl yelled down from her window that we could live with her and her family (they had two rooms for rent).  I’m calling her mother later today to discuss a price.