DamaSCENE

Noun Ya played their mix of flute & oud at the Centre Culturel Français one cold, December evening in Damascus. The mix of traditional Arabic sounds and French-influences made for an interesting night, and the current trend of recording a rhythm and playing over the top of it worked well with the oud.

A week later, I went to a concert at the Damascus Opera House, where an orchestra was complemented by some Middle Eastern instruments, and where Arabic poetry was put into song.

Amid the car-horns, the hawkers, the bustle and shouting of the streets, it’s nice to step out of it all…

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.

The Golan Heights

The Golan Heights were lost to Israel in 1967 in the Six Day War. Syria tried to recuperate them in the 1973 Yom Kippur War, but Israel proved to strong, and in an armistice agreement in 1974, they regained only a third of them. Since 1981, the Heights have been unilaterally annexed by Israel.

Quneitra was destroyed by the Israelis in 1973 as they withdrew from the town. It still lies in ruins today: either as a memorial, and reminder, to the events that passed there, or as anti-Israeli propaganda, depending on which side of the fence you stand.

I headed south-west of Damascus to visit it with some friends from the University. To go there, one requires a special permit from the Syrian Interior Ministry. We knew we’d arrived at the right building when we saw stood outside it, a guy in plain clothes, touting a machine-gun. Getting the permit is easy enough, requiring only a little patience as you stand outside the building whilst your passports are taken and god-knows-what happens inside. Whilst it may sound a little complicated, a trip to Quneitra is more of a macabre Disneyland, wrapped up in notional bureaucracy, than anything else.

The ride there in the servees bus skirts past some beautiful mountains, although these are now off-limits as they fall on the Israeli side of the border. Once we got to the “new” Quneitra, we switched from the micro-bus into a taxi, which would cross from “regular” Syria and into the UN-administered demilitarised zone.

The buildings that still stand in Quneitra are all pock-marked with bullet holes, but the majority were just collapsed rubble, either having been destroyed by demolition explosives, or bull-dozed. Apparently, anything that could be sold (windows, light-fittings, even screws) was removed before this systematic destruction & sold to Israeli contractors.

The UN still has a strong presence in the town, and at the edge of town lies the border with Israel. We could get right up to the border, which was overlooked by Israeli observation posts on the hills above, and it felt strange seeing the Israeli border checkpost, bearing the sign “Welcome to Israel”, in the distance; these two armies so close to each other. I can’t imagine the people crossing the 100m stretch between the two posts, the land flanking the road littered by landmines, feel particularly welcomed by either side.

I did feel that this visit was wrapped in a large cloak of Syrian propaganda, but at the same time, seeing the destruction here did make me feel quite angry and frustrated about Israel’s actions. This type of destruction continues today, and just seems like such a waste of resources in an area that is in desperate need of them.

The problem now in Golan is that the region is a major source of water for whichever side controls them, and so neither side will want to cede a centimetre in negotiating.

What I’ve Lost

The German Cultural Centre, the Goethe-Institut, hosted an Iraqi Film Festival here in Damascus. I heard about it because an Iraqi friend here featured in one of the films — Red Zone Citizens (Mounef Shaker, Iraq 2009) — about their theatre group in Baghdad’s “Red Zone”, the most dangerous part of the city. What they had to overcome just to rehearse, really puts things in perspective. I feel like I have no excuse not to do what I want. (My problem being rather to decide what I want…)

These guys were forced to cross military checkpoints, face roadblocks, were disturbed by killings and bombings on their route, just to be in the same place at the same time. That is all before they actually had to stage their work, and collect props, find a place to perform & build the set.

And all this without speaking of the personal, emotional challenges they faced in being part of the group. At one point or other, every member seemed to have faltered, leaving. Yet these absences all ended-up being temporary. Whether it was caused by the loss of family members due to kidnappings, or they felt the risk they were taking in being there was too great, or simply that they did not have enough money, they all ended up in returning. This group was a part of them.

The film I felt was the most compelling was the beautifully produced short-film entitled What I’ve Lost (Duraid Munajim, Canada/Iraq 2008) — I highly recommend watching the trailer. Iraqi refugees, filmed in Jordan, spoke of what they had lost since the war. They spoke of dead fathers & mothers, brothers & sisters, husbands & wives. They spoke of the jobs they had lost, their houses that had been destroyed, the car that they had to leave behind. Lost friends, lost customs. But what they felt most moved about seemed to be the loss of their nation. “Above all, we have lost our country.”

It seemed odd to hear when I had left my family, my friends, my job, my country, all voluntarily. Yet I the difference is that I have the choice of returning. Even if these people can go back to Iraq, it won’t be the same country that they knew, that they loved.

The festival really was stimulating, seeing the image that these people have of their country, and the events that have happened there. Previously, my ideas of Iraq were based solely on what I had read in the news, which focuses on the violence and military operations there, the IEDs, the bombings. These films gave a really human touch to it all. Seeing how people actually lead their lives there, living day-to-day, and what they have to overcome, was inspiring. Amid all the violence, the kidnappings, the killings, people still managed to live; there were parties for New Year, religious festivals, birthdays. They still harbour dreams of what they want to do with their lives, struggling to have an education. Yet at the same time, it is incredibly sad to see how a whole generation — or at least those who survive — will be denied these dreams.

We, as privileged, educated, relatively well-off westerners, have no excuses.

Shebab, the last song!

At around 1am, the Arab poets left the stage and the occidental musicians took their place. First off was Mitchell, an extrovert from Tennessee who seemed to be a regular here, and whose covers of Bob Dylan & Bob Marley incited the crowd to a bastardised accompaniment.

The night then end with Rebecca & Sam, two faces that I had seen around the University, playing good ol’ English folk. The night ended with the Syrians present requesting Dolly Parton’s Jolene, before hijacking the lyrics in Kurdish.

Yalla, Rebecca & Sam! were the final shouts.