A TASTE OF SYRIAN GE

A TASTE OF SYRIAN GENEROSITY AND BUREAUCRACY

On Saturday (March 14th) we decided that, instead of going on a longer trip, it would be worthwhile taking a little time in the morning and rearranging the furniture in the flat a bit, so we moved the dining table into the “guest sitting-room” which would otherwise not be much used and this gave us considerably more space in the other sitting room.

When that had been done, we set off into town where I was to meet Mr. Moseh, the estate agent who dealt with the house we should have had but which Robert thought was too dark and cavernous. Despite the fact that the house he finally took is not on Mr. Moseh’s books, they remained friends and, in fact. Mr. Moseh is most helpful in the somewhat tedious business of acquiring Syrian pounds in a country where there is only one bank, the state bank.

The agency is in the Abou Rummaneh district which, it must be said, is most convenient for the town centre and is where a large part of the local bourgeoisie live (the remainder living in the newer bourgois disctrict of Malki and Mezzeh where our flat is) and where there are also many embassies.  Entering Mr. Moseh’s domain was a lesson in Middle Eastern manners.  “Welcome, welcome” - this are perhaps the most frequently used words. “I am so glad that you are finally here, Madame.  Please be seated, madame. Madame would like some coffee - or some tea perhaps?”  So we took a seat in the inner office while in the outer office people sat and waited to be attended to by the two men working there.  Mr. Moseh supplies accommodation for most of the foreign missions in Damascus so his is a flourishing business. In the inner office were Mr. Moseh himself, his son, and three agents who work showing the clients prospective properties.  The variety of ethnic origins in Syria was also reflected in this little gathering.

Conversation ranged over a variety of subjects and Mr. Moseh, who had once been a tourist guide, provided a wealth of knowledge about Ma’alula and Saydnaya which we had visited the previous day.  When I mentioned that I would like to study Arabic, his advice was that I should take the Koran and follow the words as I listened to it.  He then told us that each morning he went to the mosque at 4.30 a.m. to pray and he also taught a group of boys in the Koranic school there.  For many boys attendance at Koranic school is the only formal education they receive and they learn to read by listening to the Koran and following the writing with their fingers.  He told us how one little boy, who was perhaps not so bright, had been coming to the mosque school each morning at 4:30 for the last two years and a bit.  During that time they had read the Koran through twice and he had never read.  However, this year, when they began again, he asked to be allowed to read and can now read correctly though slowly and haltingly.  Mr. Moseh was delighted at this progress.

The conversation continued and Robert asked where we might buy a copy of the Koran.  Then Mr. Moseh said that the Koran is a holy book and must never be touched when one is unclean either in body or in soul.  After much giving of advice, and just as we were about to leave, Mr. Moseh invited us back into the inner office where he took his copy of the Koran written in beautiful calligraphy and asked if we would accept it as a gift.  I felt it was a privilege to be given something someone prized so highly.

*          *          *

Sunday, and the week-end is over.  Back to work for Robert.  As my temporary visa would soon run out, it was arranged that I should be taken to apply for my residence permit.  The first prerequisite for that is to have an AIDS test.  If you test positive, no residence!

Yahye came to collect me and took me to the AIDS testing centre.  The journey there was quite interesting because it took us past Bab Tuma (or Thomas’s Gate named after Thomas the Apostle) which marks the start of the Christian part of the old town which has traditionally been divided up among the various confessions, Moslims, Christians and Jews.  Whereas most of the town was bustling, this old district was quiet and all the shops were closed.  


The AIDS testing centre was a sea of humanity.  Why, I asked?  Anyone who wants to obtain a passport and permission to travel as well as those who wish to live in Syria must be tested for AIDS.  First step, make a photocopy of my passport, then push through the sea of waiting people to a desk where two young women keep a register of all those being tested.  A photo was pasted in beside my name. How do you spell your name?  A discussion then ensued as to whether long vowels were required or whether short ones would do.  Pay 500 Syrian pounds (about 2 GBP) and then pass on to the young nurse or paramedic wearing her white scarf around her face, who sat me down in a chair with a fold-down front where my arm was placed.  A band was passed round my upper arm to make the veins stand out better and in goes the needle.  Rub with alcohol and off you go.

Next stop the police station.  A tour round town brought us to another teeming office where passports are issued and visas and residence permits processed.  Yahye, who knows everyone there, smoothed  the way with the payment of some baksheesh (tips). First an application form from one counter.  Then into another office where I was accorded a chair to fill in the said form plus another one in triplicate.  Four photos - ah, but I now only had three left.  Never mind.  Tomorrow.  All in all, it was a pretty painless exercise and the system of baksheesh certainly works: no money, maybe one hour, maybe two hour, maybe three hour, according to Yahye.  And who can blame them?  When the basic salary is low, the tips system is a necessary part of living.  It is all a matter of understanding how it works.

March 16th 1998