Round three from Sham, the Local name for my city, the Oldest city known to man that has always been dwelt in-a few things that might be interesting from the American perspective : ).
I have recently started tutoring an Iraqi student who is applying to universities in the States. He is basically conversationally fluent, but he needs quite a bit of work to study in the States to be a genetic engineer (his goal). I get to hang around a lot of his Iraqi friends this way as well, and hear some interesting stories. My conversation partner, Hasan, relayed to me that he left Iraq "to survive," the same reason anyone with money left. They tend to stick to the more light-hearted stories right now, understandably, like how one guy's uncle had given him a really sweet shotgun for hunting, but that when the American soldiers came, they took it. There are a few glimpses about life in Baghdad under the former regime, however, such as the streets you never walked on because, I quote, "VERY bad men are there."
On top of that, my now good friend, Mike Al-Toma, a 15 year old boy here at the school I tutor at, recently invited me to his place in "Haran," which is basically a cluster of small rural villages close to the border of Jordan. I had a vague idea about what to expect, after living with a Bedouin family for a few days last year in Jordan. Some things a youth can expect to get on almost every visit are:
1. Arranged wedding attempts from the Grandmas. I have adjusted now to the point that I can smell them coming with the first questions from the eldest woman such as, "Do you want to live in Syria in the future?" "Did you go to College? What did you study?" (Usually translated for me as the country dialect can sometimes sound kind of like someone talking underwater to me, especially from the eldest folk.) The two piercing attempts by the resident Grandma to set me up, accompanied by ridiculous over-hospitality, were actually quite entertaining. We laughed as she realized I wasn't going to bite and looked rather sullen.
2. The Dubka-- Circle dancing that is really fun and I am getting mediocre at. Are we too cool for this in the States? Not at my next party there!
3. Ridiculous over-hospitality. They want to pay for everything, from taxi rides to
Falafel, and violently defend their right to do so. I mean, I have felt literally threatened when I have tried to pay. So much for phrase, "I'll get the next one."
4. "Killer Ninja Mosquitoes." This is the scientific name for this species. Or maybe my friend James from Jersey coined it in Jordan. In any case there is no more apt name for them.
After being treated to a mini-bus ride by Mike to his village (part of the way Mike was forced to stand half hunched over because he refused to sit on my bag and there were no seats left), I hopped out into the cool night air and was escorted to Mike's Grandma's house, where I sat with his large family, including five Aunts and an Uncle, and shot the breeze. Though I felt like part of the fam almost immediately, nothing screams "STUDY ARABIC HARD THIS WEEK" like trying to carry on conversation for an hour or so in a new language and not being able to express a lot of things very well. To say the least I didn't sound very intelligent.
After 3 or so cups of sludge-like coffee, some great food, and six more cups of tea it seemed like (don't even try to refuse it), I was escorted to my room, and looked up to see seven Killer Ninja Mosquitoes waiting for me. Great. Mike's little brother Marjuan walked in as I was preparing for a night of war. He saw them too. "Namoosa?" He asked. "eh." Actually brother Marjuan pulled out this perfume like stuff that he plugged into the wall that seemed to soothe them pretty well.
The next day when I awoke and looked out the window at 7 AM, it felt like a dream. The soft sun was shining over grassy hills, with jagged rocks slanting up through the earth. I took it in for a moment. Later that day I was escorted through the resident Roman ruins in the village, walking under aches, and into old churches and into caves underground; shadows of attempts at a glorious existence from men in the past. I liked it, but to be honest, I'm more looking forward than back- towards a day when there will be cities paved with gold and built of gems with light shining through them, and trees with leaves that heal the nations, and a ruler of love. (from the last book of the Bible, after God changes everything with a bloody judgment against evil and gives power to live righteously to anyone who authentically tries to turn to good and calls to him, something he's actually offering now also.)
Sunday, 29 November 2009
Tuesday, 27 October 2009
Three blips of life . . .
. . . This country is an interesting place. In every day life, you don’t ever really openly see anything in regards to the government law enforcement except for some traffic cops with whistles (unless you go by a police station or government complex, in which they carry high caliber machine guns and there is usually multiple guards). It’s a little bit eerie because you know there is a lot going on, you just don’t see any of it . . . they're after bigger stuff than traffic violations. Then when you have all but forgotten about them, certain events, like three milit. helicopters dodging diagonally right next each other at incredibly high speed about 40 meters (I'm being generous) above your window in the Old City (the part that still has a wall around it) make you say, “huh…” (I actually found out later they weren’t Syri7an copters, but belonged to some neighbors to the South of us here)
. . . Today a glorious thing happened. First of all, let me just say that my Arabic accent (if the sounds coming out of my mouth have the dignity of being labeled as having an accent) can be atrocious. There are six or maybe seven letters in the Arabic language that that we don’t ever make in English- ever. If you’ve ever done one of the following:
-started choking or gagging in a significantly serious way
-tried to spit something very small out of your mouth while your mouth was still totally numb from the dentist
you have probably pronounced some of these sounds quite well completely unaware of it. Sometimes I actually have gagged trying to say these sounds—especially one sound, labeled with the letter ‘ayn,’ which sounds nothing like A-Y-N. Today however, something clicked. I was able to pronounce it without using any part of my mouth, which is the way it is supposed to be. My throat was doing acrobatics that probably wouldn’t be legal in most US States and/or territories besides Guam.
. . . last night here at the Catholic boarding school type place that I am staying that looks like something out of a history film, the fifteen boys here were sitting in the, uh, sitting room, and their supervisor, Father Mayyas, came in and quieted them down. He proceeded to give them a speech about the need for a goal in life, for the short term and the long term.
What are we doing? Where are we going here in this life? “Whoa!” right? Kind of like the biggest question ever. For me, the answer is that I am here to be loved by, and love, a Being more beautiful than men could dream when looking into the night sky, who also reveals Himself as a Dad who holds me safe--and changes me into a person who wants to help others instead of play Nintendo all day every day (or something along those glorious lines). He makes me want to be person who wants to get understanding of how people can be whole, and loved, and forgiven in Him, and was willing to sacrifice Himself and invade His rebellious creation (myself included) to grant me power to live right. For some of you it might be different.
I looked around as the poor bewildered Jr. High boys tried to somehow search for the answer to how they figured out where they wanted to go, and what the right thing to choose, or aim for in life was (haha- dealing with this in jr high-that is really funny). Anyway, big question that I thought was worth getting a little philosophical for a second about, since it has to do with building our lives on it.
Ok well I am really enjoying listening to two Italian girls talking on skype at the internet café here (the amount of expression and emotion is out of control-and I can understand a little), but I know Faraz is laughing at how much he is going to charge me already. Next time I’ll have some better stories, haha I’ve been studying a lot. Peace,
Steven
. . . Today a glorious thing happened. First of all, let me just say that my Arabic accent (if the sounds coming out of my mouth have the dignity of being labeled as having an accent) can be atrocious. There are six or maybe seven letters in the Arabic language that that we don’t ever make in English- ever. If you’ve ever done one of the following:
-started choking or gagging in a significantly serious way
-tried to spit something very small out of your mouth while your mouth was still totally numb from the dentist
you have probably pronounced some of these sounds quite well completely unaware of it. Sometimes I actually have gagged trying to say these sounds—especially one sound, labeled with the letter ‘ayn,’ which sounds nothing like A-Y-N. Today however, something clicked. I was able to pronounce it without using any part of my mouth, which is the way it is supposed to be. My throat was doing acrobatics that probably wouldn’t be legal in most US States and/or territories besides Guam.
. . . last night here at the Catholic boarding school type place that I am staying that looks like something out of a history film, the fifteen boys here were sitting in the, uh, sitting room, and their supervisor, Father Mayyas, came in and quieted them down. He proceeded to give them a speech about the need for a goal in life, for the short term and the long term.
What are we doing? Where are we going here in this life? “Whoa!” right? Kind of like the biggest question ever. For me, the answer is that I am here to be loved by, and love, a Being more beautiful than men could dream when looking into the night sky, who also reveals Himself as a Dad who holds me safe--and changes me into a person who wants to help others instead of play Nintendo all day every day (or something along those glorious lines). He makes me want to be person who wants to get understanding of how people can be whole, and loved, and forgiven in Him, and was willing to sacrifice Himself and invade His rebellious creation (myself included) to grant me power to live right. For some of you it might be different.
I looked around as the poor bewildered Jr. High boys tried to somehow search for the answer to how they figured out where they wanted to go, and what the right thing to choose, or aim for in life was (haha- dealing with this in jr high-that is really funny). Anyway, big question that I thought was worth getting a little philosophical for a second about, since it has to do with building our lives on it.
Ok well I am really enjoying listening to two Italian girls talking on skype at the internet café here (the amount of expression and emotion is out of control-and I can understand a little), but I know Faraz is laughing at how much he is going to charge me already. Next time I’ll have some better stories, haha I’ve been studying a lot. Peace,
Steven
Saturday, 26 September 2009
Into the Mountains
Ok so I sent a little letter out about my most recent Birthday I had while living in Damascus (if you haven’t heard, sorry-- it happened fast. I’m the old city in Dama7scus tutoring a bunch of boys in English, living in an Ancient wonder of a Greek Catholic Church premises where they study, studying Arabic, and bonding with some locals.) Yes I know James and Robb if you are reading this that I am already dead for not telling you, but let’s just move past that point for now.
The afternoon before, I packed my backpack and walked through the old city of Damas7cus and on to the Abbasseen Garage—Which is a hub of the ridiculously cheap extended Minivan Transportation system that Syria boasts. I am convinced if we did this in the states we could really boost the “family community feel” father than everyone sittin gin their cars half dazed. Something about fitting 14 people in their new Prius Hybrid might throw a few Sprint Executives off the bandwagon—but its actually a good time (Priuses have a lot of trunk space, which we would never waste over here).
In Nebk, a small country town, I got off the bus where immediately a dude wanted to offer to take me places for astronomical prices. I told him “you know you’re ripping me off, that’s a crazy price,” to which he countered that gas was expensive. I had already gotten in his car to take the short trip into town, and after I asked him to let me out, he nearly had a heart attack until I gave him a buck for a ride that should have cost a quarter. As I shook my head and kept walking, a new Kia SUV pulled up and a young Arab man said in English, “Can I help you with anything?”
I said, “um . . . well yeah, I’m looking for a ride to Mar Musa.” He told me, no problem, hop in. I nervously hesitated, wondering what the catch was. “Listen--I’ll give you 150 Leera.” “I’m no Taxi.” He responded. “Just tell me a little about your culture.” He was true to his word! Nice guy.
I looked up at my destination; A winding 2 Kilometer Stair in the cleft between two Mountains led up to a bazillion year old Monastery called Mar Musa. Guests can come for free, and stay as long as they want, but are encouraged to help out with meals and other work. I walked into the thousand yr. old Church there an hour later, and under rocky Murals and candle light, sat in silence with a few priests and a lot of travelers. We sat and listened for an hour in the quiet after reciting some Arabic Acapella stuff. What a novel idea—let God speak a little. I kinda feel like our culture is doing everything they can to make sure he doesn’t get a, “’How are you doing down there?’ or ‘I know you can’t change on your heart your own, but with me anything’s possible’” in to us.
We all ate dinner afterwards together, a hodgepodge of Europeans, Syrians, and me. I got up to watch the sun rise the next morning. I sneakily snuck out to go up the Mountain at 5 AM, but accidentally set off the Big White Dog alarm. Sorry everybody. Up on the Mountain, I think there were more stars than night sky. Brisk wind was all that cut into the total silence as I stood on a high rocky crag. After a brilliant sunrise, the sun came up like the intro the Lion King.
So I got some good down time, good Arabic lessons from the 37 guys there that want to have me talk English with them, and GREAT fellowship with people, and nature. One guy who claims to be an Arab rapper and me almost got in a fight after he stole my shoes for the third time, but we ended up having some great talks. Afterwards. You know fights are like bonding time for twenty-thr . . . four yr old guys if they’re in good fun.
The afternoon before, I packed my backpack and walked through the old city of Damas7cus and on to the Abbasseen Garage—Which is a hub of the ridiculously cheap extended Minivan Transportation system that Syria boasts. I am convinced if we did this in the states we could really boost the “family community feel” father than everyone sittin gin their cars half dazed. Something about fitting 14 people in their new Prius Hybrid might throw a few Sprint Executives off the bandwagon—but its actually a good time (Priuses have a lot of trunk space, which we would never waste over here).
In Nebk, a small country town, I got off the bus where immediately a dude wanted to offer to take me places for astronomical prices. I told him “you know you’re ripping me off, that’s a crazy price,” to which he countered that gas was expensive. I had already gotten in his car to take the short trip into town, and after I asked him to let me out, he nearly had a heart attack until I gave him a buck for a ride that should have cost a quarter. As I shook my head and kept walking, a new Kia SUV pulled up and a young Arab man said in English, “Can I help you with anything?”
I said, “um . . . well yeah, I’m looking for a ride to Mar Musa.” He told me, no problem, hop in. I nervously hesitated, wondering what the catch was. “Listen--I’ll give you 150 Leera.” “I’m no Taxi.” He responded. “Just tell me a little about your culture.” He was true to his word! Nice guy.
I looked up at my destination; A winding 2 Kilometer Stair in the cleft between two Mountains led up to a bazillion year old Monastery called Mar Musa. Guests can come for free, and stay as long as they want, but are encouraged to help out with meals and other work. I walked into the thousand yr. old Church there an hour later, and under rocky Murals and candle light, sat in silence with a few priests and a lot of travelers. We sat and listened for an hour in the quiet after reciting some Arabic Acapella stuff. What a novel idea—let God speak a little. I kinda feel like our culture is doing everything they can to make sure he doesn’t get a, “’How are you doing down there?’ or ‘I know you can’t change on your heart your own, but with me anything’s possible’” in to us.
We all ate dinner afterwards together, a hodgepodge of Europeans, Syrians, and me. I got up to watch the sun rise the next morning. I sneakily snuck out to go up the Mountain at 5 AM, but accidentally set off the Big White Dog alarm. Sorry everybody. Up on the Mountain, I think there were more stars than night sky. Brisk wind was all that cut into the total silence as I stood on a high rocky crag. After a brilliant sunrise, the sun came up like the intro the Lion King.
So I got some good down time, good Arabic lessons from the 37 guys there that want to have me talk English with them, and GREAT fellowship with people, and nature. One guy who claims to be an Arab rapper and me almost got in a fight after he stole my shoes for the third time, but we ended up having some great talks. Afterwards. You know fights are like bonding time for twenty-thr . . . four yr old guys if they’re in good fun.
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