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| Does this car look like it was just in a fender bender 24 hours ago? |
March 31st
2016
Third World Productions
Howling
winds have been the soul mates of our dark nights these past few days, meshing
with the loud booms and shakes of cannon fires. No one really complains
(although it’s tempting sometimes when you’re trying to keep warm). We had a
family recently visit us from Aleppo and they told us—after eight hours of
driving through rubble and checkpoints—that they get two hours of electricity
every ten days. The same goes for their running water. So we sat in silence
tonight then decided sleep was the best solution.
I
can’t sleep though, because both my mind and my ears are on overload. The
extreme dichotomy that exists here is about to send me into some type of shock.
Outside my window right now, at midnight every café on the rooftop of the
swanky hotel is blasting music loudly, as it has for three hours already, like
it does every night since we arrived. My grandmother, mother and I looked out
the balcony in amazement at the sights and sounds. Balloons and birthday songs
(five times), old Arabic songs from my childhood, wedding songs, classic Arabic
songs, people howling and clapping, and much more. I realized nothing has
changed and nothing will ever change as long as Arabs stay this way.
Life
goes on, I know, it needs to in order to rebuild and find stability, but why
aren’t Syrians capitalizing on what they have?
Our
car was in a fender bender last week that left our bumper out of place, badly
chipped and the tail light smashed. No one was hurt and the poor girl that hit
the car still apologizes to me every time I see her. Here’s the kicker. I got
into a car accident almost two years ago that left my baby Kia Optima in the
same exact predicament. The lovely gents at the body shop informed me that I
would not have a car for six weeks and no one but little old me would have to
pay for a rental. Six weeks of renting a car is no walk in the park, but thanks
to work and 100 miles of daily driving, I had no choice. Exactly six weeks
later, my car was back and in pristine condition. No matter how much I had
asked for the possibility of expediting the process, I got shot down.
Guess
how long it took our car to be repaired here? Come on, take a guess. No more
than three hours. Guess what else? They did not, I repeat, did not, charge us
to replace the entire bumper (as every single other manipulative car body shop
does) because they actually repaired the bumper itself, reassembled it to its
proper position, gave it a nice paint touch up, and then replaced the cap on
the tail light. That’s it. My mom and I had to pick up our jaws from the floor
as we stared at the car that less than 24 hours earlier was wrecked.
We
have legitimate talents and resourcefulness here in Syria. Syrians find garbage
and make it useful treasure, I kid you not. The tarps from aid organizations
are turned into blankets, tents and umbrellas that provide shade for pickle
kiosks. A little girl at the shelter turned the large crate that carried the
food, into her own clothes rack. Syria was that one place that decided to
create something itself instead of succumbing to corporate foreign ownership.
It
breaks my heart to know that such raw talent and wisdom exists among the land with
streets and streets of free flowing trash. Since I was a child I hated this the
most about Syria; the never ending trash all over because littering isn’t
technically illegal. Everyone’s excuse about why they don’t care when tossing
their tissue or soda bottle in the middle of street? I’m just one person; my refrained
trash isn’t going to make a difference.
Yes,
yes it is. You are one person and therefore one current of change. You don’t
know who may see you and learn to do the same. You don’t know how your child
will perceive your action to patiently hold your empty cup of hot chocolate in
your hands despite the long trip until you find a bin. You don’t know how you
can empower a group of your friends who care so much about their country to
start a weekly clean up organization that does the dirty work and raises
awareness.
Daily
I am hearing, “There are no jobs,” but I visibly see numerous jobs around every
corner. Not just picking up trash, but almost every store I pass has an Arabic
HELP WANTED sign on their door. The problem is this pride that a job at a
sandwich-making job is beneath me so I would rather starve and let my family
suffer. Cleaning homes is low class work and I’m not going to even think about
it.
Jobs
exist here right and left, people need to just open their eyes. I don’t think
Arabs are trained to have a social radar, as in that altruistic focus of what
does the world need from me today. Syria’s needs are throbbing each second and
yet nothing really happens.
I’m
not saying the good has run out—I mean just the other day a man saw us stopped
in our car by our entrance and knocked on our window to let us know he’s parked
a few cars down and is leaving if we want his spot. We all “awwwwwed” in the
car because if you’ve seen Syria on a regular non-crisis year, driving and
parking is a nightmare, so just imagine what it’s turned into now—I’m only
saying there needs to be a greater effort of physical change. Simply cupping
your hands and uttering a few words to God nonchalantly aren’t going to bring
about change. And this change is for those Syrians here in Syria and those
outside. I know a woman who has personally cut down her meals into more modest
portions to save up funds and donate to refugees. I know another woman who has
vowed to not attend weddings/parties and I tagged along with that effort as
well. I couldn’t get myself to dress up, doll up and then dance the night away
while other Arab girls were getting married in shelters and underground
basements beneath missiles and gunshots. I have quite a few friends who got
utterly offended but I really didn’t care. I found it offensive that they got
offended.
This
was the key reason behind my refusal to host a wedding. I didn’t want the
ballroom, the DJ, the music, the three course meals, the dance floor. All I
really wanted was jeans and a t-shirt on stage saying our vows at the same spot
our “love” initiated the year prior. I did, with the inclusion of a dress. I
did face a lot of heat though, by everyone. “You’re not going to have a cake? A
private ballroom so you can have your hair done? It’s going to be outdoors at
some festival? What the heck!?! You’re not going to feed people?”
Nah
bro, I wanted to feed starving Palestinian and Syrian children. I wanted to
start my ever after on the right foot, not the debt foot. I’m not saying we
should be miserable, I am saying we should be MOVED! There are so many steps
towards change that can be done, so many talents and dreams that could be
manifested in volunteerism to better help this nation. The problem is
Arabs—especially Syrians as I have seen all my life—find it beneath them to
volunteer. It’s a shame or something. Me?
Do something for free? Why waste my time?
Then
on top of that, they laugh off significant jobs that need to done because it’s
not up to par with their supposed class. Me
clean the streets and the parks? Me help someone clean their homes? That’s not
my status.
Fine,
if it’s beneath you to do the tangible work yourself, how about learning to
minimize the extravagance? Does every woman need to do her hair at the salon?
Does everyone need to celebrate their birthday in an utterly obnoxious and loud
party for 30 people at a café till midnight with hookah and a live musician and
food for miles that is getting thrown away every time? Do people need to throw
over the top weddings where so much more is wasted? I mean is it really hard to
empathize just a little bit with your brothers and sisters in Aleppo or Homs or
Hama and maybe have a modest ceremony in your homes with your close loved ones?
I just can’t wrap my head around it.
To
be honest my fellow peeps, here and abroad, until hard labor becomes your
status and you put your ego and pride behind you, you will never find peace and
success. You will only water the faulty seeds planted in you and the many
generations before you.
