DUBIOUS ENCOUNTERS OF A FORTUITOUS KIND
The last week or two the weather has been very hot with temperatures well into the 40s C. and night-time temperatures always in the high twenties or low thirties. This meant that our dog walking schedule had to be modified and the evening walk was postponed until almost nightfall to make sure that poor Simon’s feet were not scalded on the blistering pavements.
Last Friday, we had barely turned out of our street than we were greeted by a man exclaiming how beautiful Simon was and asking his name. When I told him, he said “In English that is a woman’s name.” “No”.
“Yes”.
“Sorry, you must be making a mistake. Simone is a French name for a woman but in English Simon is a man’s name”.
“You are from Scotland?”, he asked Robert.
“No, I’m from Spain.”
“Then she is from Scotland”
“That’s right.” How he knew that I don’t know, but he did.
“Scottish people are very kind and gentle”.
“Kind and hospitable, yes, but not so gentle. They had to be tough to survive.”
“Scotland used to rule England, you know”, he proclaimed proudly. A potted history lesson ensued to explain how the Scottish and English crowns were united.
“Please come into my house for a chat.”
“Sorry, we have to take our dog for a walk.”
“Just for a minute,” he pleaded. ” We can sit in the garden.” So as not to appear rude and ungrateful we followed him into a nearby house which turned out to be where a white West Highland terrier, which had thrived on barking at us every evening, had lived until a few weeks ago.
When we commented on the previous “owner” - or rather his dog - our host regaled us with stories of how the German husband, but particularly his Yugoslav wife, had dearly loved Syria. The conversation then turned to culturally mixed marriages and there were many tales of true love among his friends who had undertaken such marriages. Robert asked him if he was intending to rent his house which was well maintained and had a nice garden with fruit trees (we were eating pears from one of the trees) and a large swimming-pool.
“Well, maybe. Are you looking for a house?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact we are. How much would you want for it?”
“Oh, I don’t want anything.”
“Well, you won’t let anyone live in it for free, so how much rent would you be asking - if you are going to rent it that is?”
“You are both very kindly and I would not want to take anything from you. Look around it. I think we should talk friendship first and then maybe we can come around to money.”
“We would like to have an idea of how much the rent would be”, said I, “because the project fixes a budget for rents and, if your house is outside the budget, then there’s no point in us even looking at it.”
“Oh, please look around”
At this point Robert got up and went to have a look around and I stayed outside with Simon. The conversation continued along the same lines as before.
“I was married.”
“So you’re divorced now?”
“Yes, I have a daughter - 18 years old.”
“Really!”
“You didn’t think I could have a daughter that age?”
“Not really.”
“She is beautiful.”
“Do you see her often?”
“No, my brother goes to see her. She lives with her mother.”
“Where?”
“In California. My wife was American, but of foreign descent a long time back.”
“Well, in America they’re all of foreign descent except the native Indians.”
”We are good friends my wife and I.”
“Oh, that’s nice.”
“I give my daughter everything she wants. It’s very important because daughters are always close to their fathers. I see that everywhere. Daughters are always close to their fathers”. After a pause he said,
“You are a very good wife.”
That’s right, she is”, said Robert who had just reappeared in the nick of time.
“He’s divorced.” I hastened to shed some light on the newly emerged circumstances.
“We are very lucky. A man can have four wives. It’s a very good idea. Why not? If God gives a man the gift of being rich and he can make four women happy, then why not?”
“Well, it depends a lot on how the wives feel about it and if they get on well together”, said I, trying not to get too deeply involved in this potential quagmire. Robert, however, who had no such scruples said,
“Frankly, I think it’s the height of selfishness. Does anyone think to ask the first wife what she thinks about having to share with another one, two or three wives? Why should it only be your desires as a man which dictate the situation? In any case, to make a marriage work it has to be like a partnership and, if you are divorced, then you obviously failed in making that partnership work with one wife so how can you hope to make it work with three or four?”.
“Oh no, not failed. We are very good friends”
“Well, you may be very good friends but as a marriage it failed. Take this plate of pears and let’s imagine its a company. You and I are very good friends and decide to set up a company selling pears - fresh, tinned, glacéd - any way you like. Sales turn out to be bad and the company makes no money so we decide to wind it up. We’re still great friends, but as a company we failed. It’s the same thing.”
“Well, companies are more than just sales. You know Amway? In that company everyone is a friend and when you call up with your order there’s always a word of encouragement. It’s like a family.”
“So you work with Amway? “
“I used to”
“Do you bring Amway products into Syria? How do you do it?”
“The same way Kentucky Fried Chicken came into ......”
At this point a wheezy, hysterical laugh began and the tubby little man with his short legs began to clutch his chest at heart level. “Kentucky Fried Chicken .... ha, ha ha .....”
This was far enough. “Thank you so much for inviting us, but I think we should leave now and take the dog for a walk.” We stood up. He did too.
“Please stay a little longer.”
“Sorry, we can’t.”
“You have a wonderful wife!”
You’re right”, said Robert, as I turned tail and climbed the steps as fast as dignity and seemliness would allow.
* * *
The following morning as I took Simon out on his midday walk, we had just reached the top of the road when once again we bumped into our little crazy neighbour.
“I’ve found a perfect house for you. You must remain in the neighbourhood. I have friends in Shell and there is a house opposite theirs which would be perfect for you. It doesn’t have a pool but it is beautiful. Maybe it’s a little bit expensive but ...”
“That’s very kind of you. I’ll tell my husband when he comes home.”
“You will remember to keep my commission for me?!”
“Your commission?”
“Yes, my commission is that you find me a wife...”
Some months later as we were out walking the dog in the evening, our neighbour approached in the company of a male friend. We exchanged the usual commonplace greetings and Robert pointed to my sister Eileen who had come to spend a holiday and said, “Please meet my second wife.” The poor man’s eyes opened so wide they stood out on stalks as he stared at us in amazement! Did he feel he had won a new convert to Islam?
August 16 1998
Tuesday, February 28, 2006
Saturday, February 25, 2006
AN INVITATION?
AN INVITATION ... OR IS IT?
What can I wear?
I don’t know, but they’re all “cover ladies” there. Cover ladies is the short-hand term used to translate the Arabic “moojahaba”, or “moojahabay” as it is pronounced in Syria, which means a female person who observes the “hijab” or dress code which, in practical terms, means leaving no piece of flesh uncovered except the hands (although some even wear gloves too!) and the face, though some women also cover the face completely with a black veil. Outside the home, the most visible expression is the ubiquitous long, shapeless raincoat (yes, even in the height of summer!) and a headscarf tied around the head. So a “cover lady” is a far cry from the “cover girls” of Western society.
I can’t wear this fuschia dress because it’s sleeveless and the neck is a bit too low. This blue two-piece has a higher neck - but it’s no use because it has no sleeves either. I’ll have to wear this blue skirt and white blouse. But the blouse has got embroidery and cutwork on the front. Maybe you can see through it. Well, I don’t have anything more suitable so it will just have to do. Maybe if I put on a full length underskirt ...
We set off a bit earlier than necessary to have time to find the place where we were to be met by the daughter of the family - the second bridge over the Jordan highway. Of course, we couldn’t just stop on the bridge itself so we found a place where we could pull in off the road and put on the hazard warning lights both as a sign to the zooming traffic and to the person who was coming to meet us. Eight o’clock came and went and nobody appeared.
Strange, said Robert, I think they’re very punctual.
Quarter past eight. What should we do?
Wait till half past and then if nobody comes, we’ll go home.
Twenty past eight. Maybe I made a mistake.
What do you mean “a mistake”?
Well, maybe it wasn’t eight o’clock or maybe I got the day wrong.
What!
I’ve got it written down in my diary, so maybe we should go back and have a look.
Why didn’t you check it before?
I was sure it was today, but ....
Get ready, because if you got the day or the time wrong and you had it written down all along, watch out!
We drove back home. Simon gave us a warm welcome and a big row for going off and leaving him.
Sorry. It’s tomorrow.
Silence. We took the dog out for a walk.
Right. I’m starving so I’m going to sit down on this sofa and wait for something to appear. I don’t care how you do it but ...
How can you make such a mistake? Quite simple really. The difference between the European and Islamic concepts of the weekend can easily lead to confusion. Come on Saturday. The European mind unconsciously equates Saturday with the first day of the weekend which is Friday. The reverse can also occur. The invitation may be for Friday and the person makes the opposite equation and turns up on Saturday. This is a more serious error because it makes you miss the appointment.
* * *
Saturday evening came and the obligation to keep the appointment ran into a snag. This was the last time trial of the Tour de France and RaiTre was doing a special programme on Pantani who was winning the Tour. In the end, the social graces prevailed and we headed off once more for the second bridge over the Jordan highway. This time, just as we came off the bridge, the daughter of the family was coming in the opposite direction to meet us. Although she was driving, she was accompanied by one of the guards, as it is unseemly for a young woman to be out on her own after dark. We drove through fertile, cultivated land and eventually turned into the grounds.
The family manufacture underwear and we were to spend the evening in the grounds of the factory. The land, which is in the “gharb” or traditional orchard belt of Damascus, belonged to their grandfather. It has a fruit orchard where they grow plums, apricots and other fruits and a large kitchen garden which supplies all the family’s requirements. An agronomist is employed to take care of that side of thing. A large area has been turned into a garden and a landscape gardener designed the layout which includes plenty of trees, a waterfall with papyrus and other aquatic plants growing in the “stream” which then meanders around, a swimming pool and a variety of pagodas where guests can sit during the various stages of their visit. At first we sat near the watercourse while the staff set out the food for a buffet in another clearing beside the swimming-pool off to the left. After the meal everyone sat in a covered pagoda with music playing while tea was served.
The food was delicious. There were most of the typical mezze dishes and the lady had also prepared certain Iraqi specialities such as stuffed onions and a variety of vegetarian food. With her kitchen staff she had spent four hours each on two consecutive days preparing the special dishes. The kitchen staff took care of the ordinary dishes.
The other guests included a couple made up of a girl from the Swedish embassy and her Catalan husband who is doing his PhD in Arabic literature at the French post-graduate institute in Damascus. The topic of his thesis is “The laments of Pre-Islamic literature”. There was a retired civil engineer who had lived for over twenty years in Germany and his wife, a heart surgeon who studied in Spain and specialized in Spain, the US, London and South Africa with Dr. Christian Barnard accompanied by his wife and two children, another doctor with his family as well as the second daughter of the El-Taji family with her husband and two children.
The gathering was an interesting one and, curiously enough, at least half the people present could speak Spanish. The host family could nearly all speak Spanish because their factory manufactures garments for Spanish makes and they do a fair amount of business in Spanish-speaking countries.
The predominance of doctors was due to the fact that the lady was a doctor herself and had only stopped practising two years ago after working for thirty years. She had stopped for two reasons: firstly, she found that for the first time she was finding her work stressful and, secondly, she wanted to be able to retire while still in good health and young enough to enjoy it. One of the unfortunate results of her professional life was that during her first pregnancy she caught some kind of infection from a patient and her eldest child, a boy called Omar, was born mentally retarded and with muscular debility in the left side. She had taken him to specialists in London, Germany and Sweden but nothing could be done. Finally, she took a course on how best to cope with educating him and they manage very well, although at the age of 26 he is unable to speak at all.
Both daughters hold positions of responsibilty in the family business.The youngest daughter, who is a graduate in economics, is the production manager and a very bright young woman. She had been engaged to be married but, after eighteen months (an unusually long engagement for Syria), she had decided not to proceed because, although her fiancé accepted that she had a career, he demanded that she should be at home whenever he was there and that his needs should come first at all times. So, since she was not prepared to accept that degree of control, as emergencies could always arise which would make this impossible, she preferred to break off the engagement. Maybe someone else will come along who will accept that I have rights too. Like my sister’s husband. This is one “cover lady” with firm views. Her sister is responsible for CAD/CAM and design at the factory and her husband is in business for himself and they have two small children.
The factory is a model. All the installations are pristine and comply with the highest European standards in every area. The workforce is mostly female so crèche facilities are provided free. The crèche is run on very dynamic and stimulating modern educational lines. However, there are conditions. Each worker can only have one child in the crèche at any one time which means that, if they want to keep their jobs (which they nearly all do), they must space out their children. Medical care is also provided free including family planning advice. The canteen service is also free or near enough as makes no difference.
The wife of the heart surgeon who studied in Spain had an interesting story to tell, though I am sure it is not the least unusual in the region. When she finished school, her parents received a call from the parents of her husband who, at that time, was specializing abroad. Their son, who had been living with a German girl, had decided that, as he would one day be returning to Syria, he ought to take a Syrian wife and had contacted them asking them to make a selection for him. His parents visited her parents to explain the virtues and prospects of their son and showed his photograph. Her parents did their “market research” to find out as much as they could about the family (an old, established Damascene family) and, after three months, she went to Jordan with her parents and her grandmother to meet the prospective husband. The meeting was arranged in Amman because her husband had been called up for military service and had not returned to do “his patriotic duty”, so he was unable to set foot on Syrian soil. He stayed with a sister in Jordan. During the meeting, her parents questioned the young man who seemed self-assured and relaxed from the very start. Then he asked if he could speak to the girl alone. Her parents complied and he told her everything about himself, including his relationship with the German girl. The family met again the following day and Zaki, for that is his name, produced an engagement ring. Nobody specifically asked Rasha if she wanted to marry but silence is regarded as consent. The engagement document was drawn up in the court that very afternoon,
The following day, which was a Saturday, she returned with her family to Damascus and they set about buying all the things needed for a wedding. The following Friday the wedding took place in Amman and the next day the couple set off for England where they spent their honeymoon.
After that they lived for a year in Madrid before going to the US and later to Cape Town. “We had the chance to buy a house there, but I was young and missed my family and wanted to come back to Syria, so we didn’t. Now I wish we had. It was fine here at first, but now I find that my life is not my own. Everything has to be done to keep our families happy. I have no choice and no freedom for myself. The first year of marriage was hard. I wasn’t used to saying what I wanted so I just kept quiet. My husband would just say if he didn’t like something, and he had to get used to having me to look after. It was a good thing that we spent that early time of our marriage away from the influence of our families. Otherwise it might not have worked, but it has, mainly I think because there has been a policy of honesty right from the start”.
But had she really learned to say what she wanted? “We live in Dumar. We used to live in Mezze. We have a duplex there and we used to spend part of the time there and part of the time at our house in Dumar. But my family is big and so is my husband’s, so I was exhausted catering for all these people between the two houses. One day I told my husband he should choose which house we were going to live in and stay there all the time. He chose Dumar. We have a beautiful house there and a nice garden. The neighbours are very kind too. He loves it there because when he comes home from the hospital he can relax completely away from the city. I’m not happy there though, because I stopped driving after we had two accidents and I have to depend on taxis to go anywhere and half the time they don’t turn up on time. I can’t say that though because my husband and the children are happy there”.
Rasha was wearing a peach suit with a head-hugging hat and a muslin veil of the same colour. “I started to cover just nine years ago. I am the only woman in my family who covers. My grandmother on my father’s side lived most of her life in America and she never veiled. She lived to be over a hundred. When I was alone so much I started to read and I came to the conclusion that it was wrong for me not to cover. At first I didn’t say anything because I knew my husband wouldn’t like it. Then I asked his permission and he said no. For four years I asked and he kept saying no, he didn’t like the idea. Then, after four years, he asked me if this was something I really wanted to do and, when I told him it was, he said he didn’t want to stand in my way and cause me to do something I felt was wrong. So, ever since then I have covered. When I travel, I don’t wear this veil. I just wear a blouse with a high neck and cover my hair”.
I wonder, though, just how great a role social pressure played in that decision, because the pressure to wear the veil has been growing over the last fifteen years.
August 2 1998
What can I wear?
I don’t know, but they’re all “cover ladies” there. Cover ladies is the short-hand term used to translate the Arabic “moojahaba”, or “moojahabay” as it is pronounced in Syria, which means a female person who observes the “hijab” or dress code which, in practical terms, means leaving no piece of flesh uncovered except the hands (although some even wear gloves too!) and the face, though some women also cover the face completely with a black veil. Outside the home, the most visible expression is the ubiquitous long, shapeless raincoat (yes, even in the height of summer!) and a headscarf tied around the head. So a “cover lady” is a far cry from the “cover girls” of Western society.
I can’t wear this fuschia dress because it’s sleeveless and the neck is a bit too low. This blue two-piece has a higher neck - but it’s no use because it has no sleeves either. I’ll have to wear this blue skirt and white blouse. But the blouse has got embroidery and cutwork on the front. Maybe you can see through it. Well, I don’t have anything more suitable so it will just have to do. Maybe if I put on a full length underskirt ...
We set off a bit earlier than necessary to have time to find the place where we were to be met by the daughter of the family - the second bridge over the Jordan highway. Of course, we couldn’t just stop on the bridge itself so we found a place where we could pull in off the road and put on the hazard warning lights both as a sign to the zooming traffic and to the person who was coming to meet us. Eight o’clock came and went and nobody appeared.
Strange, said Robert, I think they’re very punctual.
Quarter past eight. What should we do?
Wait till half past and then if nobody comes, we’ll go home.
Twenty past eight. Maybe I made a mistake.
What do you mean “a mistake”?
Well, maybe it wasn’t eight o’clock or maybe I got the day wrong.
What!
I’ve got it written down in my diary, so maybe we should go back and have a look.
Why didn’t you check it before?
I was sure it was today, but ....
Get ready, because if you got the day or the time wrong and you had it written down all along, watch out!
We drove back home. Simon gave us a warm welcome and a big row for going off and leaving him.
Sorry. It’s tomorrow.
Silence. We took the dog out for a walk.
Right. I’m starving so I’m going to sit down on this sofa and wait for something to appear. I don’t care how you do it but ...
How can you make such a mistake? Quite simple really. The difference between the European and Islamic concepts of the weekend can easily lead to confusion. Come on Saturday. The European mind unconsciously equates Saturday with the first day of the weekend which is Friday. The reverse can also occur. The invitation may be for Friday and the person makes the opposite equation and turns up on Saturday. This is a more serious error because it makes you miss the appointment.
* * *
Saturday evening came and the obligation to keep the appointment ran into a snag. This was the last time trial of the Tour de France and RaiTre was doing a special programme on Pantani who was winning the Tour. In the end, the social graces prevailed and we headed off once more for the second bridge over the Jordan highway. This time, just as we came off the bridge, the daughter of the family was coming in the opposite direction to meet us. Although she was driving, she was accompanied by one of the guards, as it is unseemly for a young woman to be out on her own after dark. We drove through fertile, cultivated land and eventually turned into the grounds.
The family manufacture underwear and we were to spend the evening in the grounds of the factory. The land, which is in the “gharb” or traditional orchard belt of Damascus, belonged to their grandfather. It has a fruit orchard where they grow plums, apricots and other fruits and a large kitchen garden which supplies all the family’s requirements. An agronomist is employed to take care of that side of thing. A large area has been turned into a garden and a landscape gardener designed the layout which includes plenty of trees, a waterfall with papyrus and other aquatic plants growing in the “stream” which then meanders around, a swimming pool and a variety of pagodas where guests can sit during the various stages of their visit. At first we sat near the watercourse while the staff set out the food for a buffet in another clearing beside the swimming-pool off to the left. After the meal everyone sat in a covered pagoda with music playing while tea was served.
The food was delicious. There were most of the typical mezze dishes and the lady had also prepared certain Iraqi specialities such as stuffed onions and a variety of vegetarian food. With her kitchen staff she had spent four hours each on two consecutive days preparing the special dishes. The kitchen staff took care of the ordinary dishes.
The other guests included a couple made up of a girl from the Swedish embassy and her Catalan husband who is doing his PhD in Arabic literature at the French post-graduate institute in Damascus. The topic of his thesis is “The laments of Pre-Islamic literature”. There was a retired civil engineer who had lived for over twenty years in Germany and his wife, a heart surgeon who studied in Spain and specialized in Spain, the US, London and South Africa with Dr. Christian Barnard accompanied by his wife and two children, another doctor with his family as well as the second daughter of the El-Taji family with her husband and two children.
The gathering was an interesting one and, curiously enough, at least half the people present could speak Spanish. The host family could nearly all speak Spanish because their factory manufactures garments for Spanish makes and they do a fair amount of business in Spanish-speaking countries.
The predominance of doctors was due to the fact that the lady was a doctor herself and had only stopped practising two years ago after working for thirty years. She had stopped for two reasons: firstly, she found that for the first time she was finding her work stressful and, secondly, she wanted to be able to retire while still in good health and young enough to enjoy it. One of the unfortunate results of her professional life was that during her first pregnancy she caught some kind of infection from a patient and her eldest child, a boy called Omar, was born mentally retarded and with muscular debility in the left side. She had taken him to specialists in London, Germany and Sweden but nothing could be done. Finally, she took a course on how best to cope with educating him and they manage very well, although at the age of 26 he is unable to speak at all.
Both daughters hold positions of responsibilty in the family business.The youngest daughter, who is a graduate in economics, is the production manager and a very bright young woman. She had been engaged to be married but, after eighteen months (an unusually long engagement for Syria), she had decided not to proceed because, although her fiancé accepted that she had a career, he demanded that she should be at home whenever he was there and that his needs should come first at all times. So, since she was not prepared to accept that degree of control, as emergencies could always arise which would make this impossible, she preferred to break off the engagement. Maybe someone else will come along who will accept that I have rights too. Like my sister’s husband. This is one “cover lady” with firm views. Her sister is responsible for CAD/CAM and design at the factory and her husband is in business for himself and they have two small children.
The factory is a model. All the installations are pristine and comply with the highest European standards in every area. The workforce is mostly female so crèche facilities are provided free. The crèche is run on very dynamic and stimulating modern educational lines. However, there are conditions. Each worker can only have one child in the crèche at any one time which means that, if they want to keep their jobs (which they nearly all do), they must space out their children. Medical care is also provided free including family planning advice. The canteen service is also free or near enough as makes no difference.
The wife of the heart surgeon who studied in Spain had an interesting story to tell, though I am sure it is not the least unusual in the region. When she finished school, her parents received a call from the parents of her husband who, at that time, was specializing abroad. Their son, who had been living with a German girl, had decided that, as he would one day be returning to Syria, he ought to take a Syrian wife and had contacted them asking them to make a selection for him. His parents visited her parents to explain the virtues and prospects of their son and showed his photograph. Her parents did their “market research” to find out as much as they could about the family (an old, established Damascene family) and, after three months, she went to Jordan with her parents and her grandmother to meet the prospective husband. The meeting was arranged in Amman because her husband had been called up for military service and had not returned to do “his patriotic duty”, so he was unable to set foot on Syrian soil. He stayed with a sister in Jordan. During the meeting, her parents questioned the young man who seemed self-assured and relaxed from the very start. Then he asked if he could speak to the girl alone. Her parents complied and he told her everything about himself, including his relationship with the German girl. The family met again the following day and Zaki, for that is his name, produced an engagement ring. Nobody specifically asked Rasha if she wanted to marry but silence is regarded as consent. The engagement document was drawn up in the court that very afternoon,
The following day, which was a Saturday, she returned with her family to Damascus and they set about buying all the things needed for a wedding. The following Friday the wedding took place in Amman and the next day the couple set off for England where they spent their honeymoon.
After that they lived for a year in Madrid before going to the US and later to Cape Town. “We had the chance to buy a house there, but I was young and missed my family and wanted to come back to Syria, so we didn’t. Now I wish we had. It was fine here at first, but now I find that my life is not my own. Everything has to be done to keep our families happy. I have no choice and no freedom for myself. The first year of marriage was hard. I wasn’t used to saying what I wanted so I just kept quiet. My husband would just say if he didn’t like something, and he had to get used to having me to look after. It was a good thing that we spent that early time of our marriage away from the influence of our families. Otherwise it might not have worked, but it has, mainly I think because there has been a policy of honesty right from the start”.
But had she really learned to say what she wanted? “We live in Dumar. We used to live in Mezze. We have a duplex there and we used to spend part of the time there and part of the time at our house in Dumar. But my family is big and so is my husband’s, so I was exhausted catering for all these people between the two houses. One day I told my husband he should choose which house we were going to live in and stay there all the time. He chose Dumar. We have a beautiful house there and a nice garden. The neighbours are very kind too. He loves it there because when he comes home from the hospital he can relax completely away from the city. I’m not happy there though, because I stopped driving after we had two accidents and I have to depend on taxis to go anywhere and half the time they don’t turn up on time. I can’t say that though because my husband and the children are happy there”.
Rasha was wearing a peach suit with a head-hugging hat and a muslin veil of the same colour. “I started to cover just nine years ago. I am the only woman in my family who covers. My grandmother on my father’s side lived most of her life in America and she never veiled. She lived to be over a hundred. When I was alone so much I started to read and I came to the conclusion that it was wrong for me not to cover. At first I didn’t say anything because I knew my husband wouldn’t like it. Then I asked his permission and he said no. For four years I asked and he kept saying no, he didn’t like the idea. Then, after four years, he asked me if this was something I really wanted to do and, when I told him it was, he said he didn’t want to stand in my way and cause me to do something I felt was wrong. So, ever since then I have covered. When I travel, I don’t wear this veil. I just wear a blouse with a high neck and cover my hair”.
I wonder, though, just how great a role social pressure played in that decision, because the pressure to wear the veil has been growing over the last fifteen years.
August 2 1998
Sunday, February 12, 2006
MISTAKEN VENUE
MISTAKEN VENUE
Last Friday we set off in the hope of being able to visit the museum. Some time ago the European Union had a reception at the Damascus Historical Museum which we did not attend, but I had kept the map of how to get there which came with the invitation. We followed the instructions, but from the main road nowhere was there a sign indicating that any of the buildings was the museum. We turned around and tried again. This time we saw two young boys sitting on a wall swinging their legs in a state of utter nonchalance. We stopped and I asked them if they knew where the museum was. Museum? Oh no, we’re from Aleppo and we’ve only just arrived. Typical. Isn’t it always the case that when you are in a strange place people always seem to choose you to ask for direction to this place or that. I had just done the same. As they babbled on, suddenly we caught sight of a minute sign on a nearby wall just behind a military guardpost indicating that the museum was somewhere around the corner. We drove around and into a makeshift carpark in the middle of ruinous buildings and remains of Roman columns which were being pressed into service as gateposts with metal rings embedded in the stones which served to hook red and white painted chains into as a means of keeping unwanted cars out of the area. We parked and picked our way among the debris to the door of the large building with the guardpost in front. No, this was not the museum but some official building. The museum is there - a small low building just next to where we had parked the car. But it is closed. It will be open tomorrow. Then we went back to the medina as there were several other places we still have to visit, but these too were closed. So home again.
The next day we went back to the museum. The virtually empty carpark of the day before was now full to capacity and over-flowing. A major traffic jam had developed, but we managed to find a space and gave the guard something which would ensure that he would take care of things while we were away.
The historical museum turned out to be a different place from the museum we thought we were visiting. This is a small nineteenth century building built by the same Turkish family which built the Azem palace, but the scale is smaller. The gates open on to a fairly ample patio with a fountain in the middle and flower-beds either side with plants trained over a trellis. A group of men were sitting on plastic chairs in the shade of a tree playing a board game and drinking tea. Straight ahead of the gate is the iwan or covered reception area with cushions lining the walls for guests to sit on. The walls and ceiling of the iwan are of richly decorated wood. On either side, just below ceiling level, are two trellised windows through which the women of the house could observe and listen to what was going on below without being seen.
One of the men indicated that the entrance to the museum was behind where they were sitting, so we went there to pay the entrance fee. As usual they wanted to charge us the tourist rate but Robert produced our residence permits which, in theory, entitle us to pay the same price as Syrians. Ahlan, ahlan - Welcome, but no. You must pay the foreigners’ price. No, what have we got these cards for? We pay the same as Syrians here and in hotels throughout the country. Welcome but no. Repeat performance. At last, the young man decided to give up and called on someone hidden in an upstairs office. Permission was given and we paid the Syrian fee. Then another man appeared with a key and proceeded to guide us around the museum.
The basic structure of this museum is the same as the Azem Palace. It is divided into two distint areas, the salamlek where public life was conducted and the haremlek or centre of family life. In practice, this meant male and female domains, because the men were charged with conducting all affairs ouside the home - just as they are today - and the women reigned supreme within the home. However, only one section, the salamlek, is incorporated into the museum and the upstairs quarters are used as offices. Once again, the decoration is based on richly painted wall and ceiling panels depicting flowers and geometric patterns. One item which attracted our attention was the fountain in one of the rooms which resembled a kind of maze. This type of fountain was designed for racing small boats or other floating objects from one end to the other. It is quite an ingenious invention and must have filled the long hours of tedium spent within the four walls of the home.
As we went around, we were joined by a young man on holiday in Damascus. Although he was German, he could speak good Spanish so we had a chat with him. He was most impressed with my command of Arabic, which just goes to show that in the land of the blind the one-eyed man is king! It is indeed a pity that I do not have much opportunity to speak because, if I did, I would be quite good by now.
When we came out again, we set about asking where we could find the main Damascus Museum, but the guards at the building below did not seem to know that such a place existed and kept sending us back to the small museum we had just visited. There were two women chatting at the gate so I decided to ask them. It turned out that one of them was the director of the historical museum and she had an appointment with the director of the general museum, so we gave her a lift in the car and she directed us to the elusive place, once we had managed to negotiate our way out of the carpark where gridlock was the order of the day.
At the main mumseum, once again the girl at the ticket office wanted to charge us the tourist fee, and once again Robert refused. However, on this occasion the girl in question would not even look at our residence permits and, as it says in the bible, “closed her face”. Robert asked to see the director. He isn’t here. A manifest lie as we had just brought the director of the other museum to have a meeting with him. Anyway, as she was such a tough cookie, we decided not to insist but Robert refused to pay the tourist fee insisting what was the point of having paid all that money for the residence permit if it was not worth the paper it was written on. We went for a cup of coffee instead and then went home.
July 26 1998
Last Friday we set off in the hope of being able to visit the museum. Some time ago the European Union had a reception at the Damascus Historical Museum which we did not attend, but I had kept the map of how to get there which came with the invitation. We followed the instructions, but from the main road nowhere was there a sign indicating that any of the buildings was the museum. We turned around and tried again. This time we saw two young boys sitting on a wall swinging their legs in a state of utter nonchalance. We stopped and I asked them if they knew where the museum was. Museum? Oh no, we’re from Aleppo and we’ve only just arrived. Typical. Isn’t it always the case that when you are in a strange place people always seem to choose you to ask for direction to this place or that. I had just done the same. As they babbled on, suddenly we caught sight of a minute sign on a nearby wall just behind a military guardpost indicating that the museum was somewhere around the corner. We drove around and into a makeshift carpark in the middle of ruinous buildings and remains of Roman columns which were being pressed into service as gateposts with metal rings embedded in the stones which served to hook red and white painted chains into as a means of keeping unwanted cars out of the area. We parked and picked our way among the debris to the door of the large building with the guardpost in front. No, this was not the museum but some official building. The museum is there - a small low building just next to where we had parked the car. But it is closed. It will be open tomorrow. Then we went back to the medina as there were several other places we still have to visit, but these too were closed. So home again.
The next day we went back to the museum. The virtually empty carpark of the day before was now full to capacity and over-flowing. A major traffic jam had developed, but we managed to find a space and gave the guard something which would ensure that he would take care of things while we were away.
The historical museum turned out to be a different place from the museum we thought we were visiting. This is a small nineteenth century building built by the same Turkish family which built the Azem palace, but the scale is smaller. The gates open on to a fairly ample patio with a fountain in the middle and flower-beds either side with plants trained over a trellis. A group of men were sitting on plastic chairs in the shade of a tree playing a board game and drinking tea. Straight ahead of the gate is the iwan or covered reception area with cushions lining the walls for guests to sit on. The walls and ceiling of the iwan are of richly decorated wood. On either side, just below ceiling level, are two trellised windows through which the women of the house could observe and listen to what was going on below without being seen.
One of the men indicated that the entrance to the museum was behind where they were sitting, so we went there to pay the entrance fee. As usual they wanted to charge us the tourist rate but Robert produced our residence permits which, in theory, entitle us to pay the same price as Syrians. Ahlan, ahlan - Welcome, but no. You must pay the foreigners’ price. No, what have we got these cards for? We pay the same as Syrians here and in hotels throughout the country. Welcome but no. Repeat performance. At last, the young man decided to give up and called on someone hidden in an upstairs office. Permission was given and we paid the Syrian fee. Then another man appeared with a key and proceeded to guide us around the museum.
The basic structure of this museum is the same as the Azem Palace. It is divided into two distint areas, the salamlek where public life was conducted and the haremlek or centre of family life. In practice, this meant male and female domains, because the men were charged with conducting all affairs ouside the home - just as they are today - and the women reigned supreme within the home. However, only one section, the salamlek, is incorporated into the museum and the upstairs quarters are used as offices. Once again, the decoration is based on richly painted wall and ceiling panels depicting flowers and geometric patterns. One item which attracted our attention was the fountain in one of the rooms which resembled a kind of maze. This type of fountain was designed for racing small boats or other floating objects from one end to the other. It is quite an ingenious invention and must have filled the long hours of tedium spent within the four walls of the home.
As we went around, we were joined by a young man on holiday in Damascus. Although he was German, he could speak good Spanish so we had a chat with him. He was most impressed with my command of Arabic, which just goes to show that in the land of the blind the one-eyed man is king! It is indeed a pity that I do not have much opportunity to speak because, if I did, I would be quite good by now.
When we came out again, we set about asking where we could find the main Damascus Museum, but the guards at the building below did not seem to know that such a place existed and kept sending us back to the small museum we had just visited. There were two women chatting at the gate so I decided to ask them. It turned out that one of them was the director of the historical museum and she had an appointment with the director of the general museum, so we gave her a lift in the car and she directed us to the elusive place, once we had managed to negotiate our way out of the carpark where gridlock was the order of the day.
At the main mumseum, once again the girl at the ticket office wanted to charge us the tourist fee, and once again Robert refused. However, on this occasion the girl in question would not even look at our residence permits and, as it says in the bible, “closed her face”. Robert asked to see the director. He isn’t here. A manifest lie as we had just brought the director of the other museum to have a meeting with him. Anyway, as she was such a tough cookie, we decided not to insist but Robert refused to pay the tourist fee insisting what was the point of having paid all that money for the residence permit if it was not worth the paper it was written on. We went for a cup of coffee instead and then went home.
July 26 1998
Monday, February 06, 2006
SUMMERTIME
SUMMERTIME
Along with the heat blowing in from the desert, summertime also brings a different desert crop, a large number of visitors from the Gulf, mostly Saudis and Kuwaitis and a few stragglers from Abu Dhabi and other places. The hotel lobbies are crawling with families with numerous, mostly overweight children attended by their Philippino nannies and maids. The men sit about a lot drinking coffee and the women hang about a lot waiting for their husbands. Most of the women cannot even drink a cup of coffee because they are wearing black abayas and veils which cover their faces completely leaving only a slit for the eyes, so eating and drinking anywhere other than in their own hotel rooms is an utter impossibility. Some of the men wear the traditional white thobe but mostly they are decked out in modern designer sports gear.
One day as we sat drinking coffee, two young girls, one veiled and the other not, wandered into the coffee shop. They placed their orders and when the waiter appeared bearing a tray with two glasses of orange juice and two massive wedges of chocolate gateau, our curiosity was aroused as to how the girl covered from head to toe was going to manage the feat of eating this spectacular cake in public without revealing her face. At every forkful she lifted the black veil with her left hand and popped each mouthful dexterously into her mouth with the right!
The other place where many visitors from the Gulf are to be found is up in the hill stations of Bloudan and Zabadani. There the roads are full of GMCs large enough to accommodate their large families, and the hotel terraces are peopled with men drinking coffee and chatting to one another. Presumably the women are at home. I ask myself what is the point of coming on holiday if all you can do is stay at home and maybe go out shopping. Undoubtedly the type of of Saudi and Kuwaiti who comes here is quite different from the people who holiday in Marbella. They are not poorer however, because, in fact, apartments in Bloudan are as expensive than they would be in Marbella. When value for money and the quality of construction are taken into account, they are more expensive without the slightest shadow of a doubt.
The other spate of events ushered in with the arrival of summer is weddings. Summertime is the wedding season and every weekend the Sheraton is booked out with wedding parties, each one vying with the previous weddings to put on a more splendiferous show. A couple of weeks ago a wedding was held where the cost of the banquet was US$250,000. Immensely expensive serving platters were flown in specially from Austria for the occasion and donated to the Sheraton after the banquet. The bridegroom, who is extremely rich, lives in Switzerland and has businesses all over Europe, and a large number of rooms was reserved at the hotel for guests invited from outside Syria. From all accounts it was totally impossible to move around the swimming-pool area due to the masses of flower arrangements sent in by friends and well-wishers, each trying to outdo the other by sending a larger arrangement than the previous one. Two musical groups were engaged, one from Lebanon and another Syrian one and the cost for each forty-five minute performance was US$30,000. However, this was already outdone by the wedding party booked for the next week which brought in an entertainer from the US. In this case the fee for a forty-five minute performance was US$80,000.
Of course, not everyone can afford such extravaganzas to mark the marriage of their offspring. Once or twice a week wedding parties are to be heard taking place in the houses all around the neighbourhood with the typical trilling of the women’s tongues carrying out over the warm night air. Groups of young men often spill out on to the streets beating a large drum much to the chagrin of Simon who hates the sound of beating drums.
Summer madness does seem to have taken hold. Winter, we are told, is the divorce season! I doubt whether that will be as costly – for the men at least!
July 30th 1998
Along with the heat blowing in from the desert, summertime also brings a different desert crop, a large number of visitors from the Gulf, mostly Saudis and Kuwaitis and a few stragglers from Abu Dhabi and other places. The hotel lobbies are crawling with families with numerous, mostly overweight children attended by their Philippino nannies and maids. The men sit about a lot drinking coffee and the women hang about a lot waiting for their husbands. Most of the women cannot even drink a cup of coffee because they are wearing black abayas and veils which cover their faces completely leaving only a slit for the eyes, so eating and drinking anywhere other than in their own hotel rooms is an utter impossibility. Some of the men wear the traditional white thobe but mostly they are decked out in modern designer sports gear.
One day as we sat drinking coffee, two young girls, one veiled and the other not, wandered into the coffee shop. They placed their orders and when the waiter appeared bearing a tray with two glasses of orange juice and two massive wedges of chocolate gateau, our curiosity was aroused as to how the girl covered from head to toe was going to manage the feat of eating this spectacular cake in public without revealing her face. At every forkful she lifted the black veil with her left hand and popped each mouthful dexterously into her mouth with the right!
The other place where many visitors from the Gulf are to be found is up in the hill stations of Bloudan and Zabadani. There the roads are full of GMCs large enough to accommodate their large families, and the hotel terraces are peopled with men drinking coffee and chatting to one another. Presumably the women are at home. I ask myself what is the point of coming on holiday if all you can do is stay at home and maybe go out shopping. Undoubtedly the type of of Saudi and Kuwaiti who comes here is quite different from the people who holiday in Marbella. They are not poorer however, because, in fact, apartments in Bloudan are as expensive than they would be in Marbella. When value for money and the quality of construction are taken into account, they are more expensive without the slightest shadow of a doubt.
The other spate of events ushered in with the arrival of summer is weddings. Summertime is the wedding season and every weekend the Sheraton is booked out with wedding parties, each one vying with the previous weddings to put on a more splendiferous show. A couple of weeks ago a wedding was held where the cost of the banquet was US$250,000. Immensely expensive serving platters were flown in specially from Austria for the occasion and donated to the Sheraton after the banquet. The bridegroom, who is extremely rich, lives in Switzerland and has businesses all over Europe, and a large number of rooms was reserved at the hotel for guests invited from outside Syria. From all accounts it was totally impossible to move around the swimming-pool area due to the masses of flower arrangements sent in by friends and well-wishers, each trying to outdo the other by sending a larger arrangement than the previous one. Two musical groups were engaged, one from Lebanon and another Syrian one and the cost for each forty-five minute performance was US$30,000. However, this was already outdone by the wedding party booked for the next week which brought in an entertainer from the US. In this case the fee for a forty-five minute performance was US$80,000.
Of course, not everyone can afford such extravaganzas to mark the marriage of their offspring. Once or twice a week wedding parties are to be heard taking place in the houses all around the neighbourhood with the typical trilling of the women’s tongues carrying out over the warm night air. Groups of young men often spill out on to the streets beating a large drum much to the chagrin of Simon who hates the sound of beating drums.
Summer madness does seem to have taken hold. Winter, we are told, is the divorce season! I doubt whether that will be as costly – for the men at least!
July 30th 1998
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