February 28th 2016
Still
Human
There are certain hours the electricity
goes out. Sometime around 8:00 a.m. Approximately at 2:00 p.m. Then again at
8:00 p.m. How long it goes out for and whether or not this schedule has any
addendums remains a mystery to us all.
I learned these details today, when my
expectations to finally take a hot shower after three days were not met. The
power went out before the water was heated. Beneath shards of icy cold painful
droplets of water, I cautioned myself against uttering a single complaint in
between squeals. After all, was it not running water and an opportunity to have
a clean shower in a home?
As I savored the blessing of cleanliness—which
is something immensely significant for someone with OCD—I momentarily forgot
the era I was in. I was transported to the Syria I used to know with the sounds
of passing cars and horns and men loudly speaking Arabic out in the streets
beneath my window. Syria was days of cold showers on horrendously hot
afternoons. Syria was the place where my mother and I once finished from a
wedding at 1:00 a.m. and walked a few blocks to the best falafel sandwich place
in peace. Safety was one of Syria’s many legendary characteristics that could
be found nowhere else.
Syria used to be a place where everyone
got along and everyone felt welcome. Everyone was mellow and kind. No one was
ever questioned about his/her religious backgrounds or ideologies. That was
something that never really crossed our minds. We watched Syrian actors, loved
our neighbors, valued blood above bloodshed, and now suspicion is the fastest
spreading disease in the country.
This war has turned neighbors into
strangers and families into enemies. Coffee table conversations have almost
morphed entirely from petty gossip on traditional gender roles to political
opinions. I say “almost” because it wouldn’t be Syria without the occasional
sprinkled in questions of, “Still don’t cook, huh? How will you secure a man
now that….”
Though a great deal has changed, there
is a great deal that hasn’t and that is somewhat a relief. Less than 72 hours
on this soil and I have once again renewed my loyalty to it with the desire to
stay. Suddenly six weeks seems like not enough time.
Reports of ceasefire violations
surfaced on the news. No one was surprised. I watched a clip by CNN’s Hala
Gorani on the transformation of Aleppo—the once shining economic power of
Syria, now nothing but rubble. I think of all my visits to Syria, and only two
of them included a four-hour road trip to Aleppo. That’s where my grandmother
is from and I have heard magnificent stories of its food and commerce. I’m told
now it would take a total of 15 hours to reach Aleppo, though it’s highly not
recommended to go.
After lunch, which is sharply at 2:00
p.m. per my grandparents’ age-old tradition, my mother’s friend accompanied us
on a walk through the local neighborhood. It seemed too surreal. Many shops
were closed and I wasn’t sure if it was eternal or because it was close to 5:00
p.m. One of the many lovable things about Syria for a night owl like myself is
that many places stayed open late. There was a nightlife. There was the spirit
of life. That spirit has blurred.
The two neighborhood market streets are
still side by side and crowded as ever—As-Salhiyeh and Al-Hamra. I wanted to
stop, freeze time and hit rewind. So many familiar spaces and alleyways brought
back memories that hurt to remember. It was such an interesting dichotomy to
view as well. Life in Damascus had moved on pretty well in comparison to its
outskirts and fellow cities.
My mother’s friend began telling me how
time had passed over the last five years. “At first, for about one year, the
atmosphere had heavily changed here in Damascus. By 5:00 p.m. the streets were
bare. No one dared set foot out the door without sunlight.” I recall when the
chaos first started, I had heard about something so uncanny for Syrians, or
Arabs for that matter. Weddings—which typically used to start somewhere around
7:00 or 8:00 p.m.—were suddenly being hosted during the day and ending before
the sun set.
“After about a year to a year and a
half, many of the people here started to revert back to life.” It’s a coping
mechanism. I have heard about it in many other places of war. Sometimes that
NIMBS (Not In My Backyard Syndrome) has a silver lining to be able to maintain
sanity and humanitarian efforts.
I’m not denying witnessing the few here
(and back in California) that have kind of taken a blasé attitude to the
matter, but many others are clinging to the elements of life that keep them
going in order to help.
I look at the women who support and
oversee my grandmother’s programs. They host get togethers and coffee clutches
to upkeep their spirits, which is especially significant in their age. These
are the individuals who grew up and savored the magic of Syria. To do what they
can to keep it strong, they have to find the means to keep themselves strong.
Back when I was going through my
divorce, someone had taken me aside and said, “People are dying in your own
country [Syria] of starvation and war, yet here you are moping about the
greatest man you’ll ever get. Stop being so ungrateful.” It was one of the
sickest things I had ever heard and I realized the dementedness behind it.
Feeling your own pain and finding your own methods to handle them does not make
you ungrateful nor does it mean you have belittled the pain of others, it just
means you’re human. This includes the Syrians who have been blessed with safety
thus far. We are all human and I pray the greater majority of us are on the
same path of seeking a better world for each and every living thing upon it.
