*November 2010*
I played in ruins in Balad Ash-Sham and traced my fingers along the cracks of history while my tongue was infused with ancient modern phonetics. While Said and I stood, huddling above a ridge of green rocks at the convergence of Lake Tiberias and the borders of Jordan, Syria and Israel, as goats sped past in herds and stopped along the olive orchards to stand on hind legs and graze at low branches, Amira and I wandered through black stone in Bosra and lounged on the steep steps of the amphitheater watching dead stages crawl with life once again. We sat in the back of a Syrian taxi cursing in two Arabic dialects. We refused to be suckers. We wouldn't budge, it was all we were prepared to pay for a 10 minute ride from the bus station to the ruins. I knew the fares. And I knew the onslaught of guilt soaked language that followed. God protect us for cheating him, and his family for not being provided for. Taxi drivers in Syria were vehicles not only of transport and of impatience with the crowded and less stealthy microbuses, but of social mores and social monitoring. As cabs would always be needed so would their drivers' comments about society and religion and sexuality, though not always solicited, ring in passengers ears long after the fare was calculated with the old 'adad and the government regulated increases due to the rising price of mayzot. I had quick journeys by cab in which I hardly acknowledged the chauffeur's chatter and dreamt out the window through long gazes at the squares we passed and swaths of government propaganda lining the city like government commissioned seran wrap preserving its essence and its flavor from the West. And then there were poignant conversations about life...about lives. The multiplicity of lives lived on the same planet but with such differing conditions and differing opportunities that even though these taxis represented freedom of movement for others, represented an alternative route, the excitement of reaching destination, these same taxis to the drivers themselves meant erasure of their humanity, meant imprisonment to the fate of embodying freedom and mobility for others yet ironically, monotony and repetition for them.
We talked about Fairuz, the beloved, the most loved icon and the most cherished, whose songs could unite all in a moment of joint nostalgia in a moment of joint hope for an altered landscape where justice and the materialized beauty of her lyrics reigned. We talked about George Bush. About government. About loving people but always detesting the governments that exploit the power to represent them. We talked about family. Ages of children, ages of nephews. Youth. Childhood. We talked about it with joy dripping from our fond descriptions. We talked about India. About Bollywood. Of the fantasy that painted the screen in turmeric and red and floated images of coordinated dances laced with the jingle of anklets spicing footwork. We talked of travel. Travel. To escape. To see the world as I have and was doing in that very moment. To sit in strange taxis in strange countries and speak a strange language and hear about a strange culture. To exchange views. To embrace these views. We spoke of fantasy I was living. We spoke of me.
I played in ruins in Balad Ash-Sham and traced my fingers along the cracks of history while my tongue was infused with ancient modern phonetics. While Said and I stood, huddling above a ridge of green rocks at the convergence of Lake Tiberias and the borders of Jordan, Syria and Israel, as goats sped past in herds and stopped along the olive orchards to stand on hind legs and graze at low branches, Amira and I wandered through black stone in Bosra and lounged on the steep steps of the amphitheater watching dead stages crawl with life once again. We sat in the back of a Syrian taxi cursing in two Arabic dialects. We refused to be suckers. We wouldn't budge, it was all we were prepared to pay for a 10 minute ride from the bus station to the ruins. I knew the fares. And I knew the onslaught of guilt soaked language that followed. God protect us for cheating him, and his family for not being provided for. Taxi drivers in Syria were vehicles not only of transport and of impatience with the crowded and less stealthy microbuses, but of social mores and social monitoring. As cabs would always be needed so would their drivers' comments about society and religion and sexuality, though not always solicited, ring in passengers ears long after the fare was calculated with the old 'adad and the government regulated increases due to the rising price of mayzot. I had quick journeys by cab in which I hardly acknowledged the chauffeur's chatter and dreamt out the window through long gazes at the squares we passed and swaths of government propaganda lining the city like government commissioned seran wrap preserving its essence and its flavor from the West. And then there were poignant conversations about life...about lives. The multiplicity of lives lived on the same planet but with such differing conditions and differing opportunities that even though these taxis represented freedom of movement for others, represented an alternative route, the excitement of reaching destination, these same taxis to the drivers themselves meant erasure of their humanity, meant imprisonment to the fate of embodying freedom and mobility for others yet ironically, monotony and repetition for them.
We talked about Fairuz, the beloved, the most loved icon and the most cherished, whose songs could unite all in a moment of joint nostalgia in a moment of joint hope for an altered landscape where justice and the materialized beauty of her lyrics reigned. We talked about George Bush. About government. About loving people but always detesting the governments that exploit the power to represent them. We talked about family. Ages of children, ages of nephews. Youth. Childhood. We talked about it with joy dripping from our fond descriptions. We talked about India. About Bollywood. Of the fantasy that painted the screen in turmeric and red and floated images of coordinated dances laced with the jingle of anklets spicing footwork. We talked of travel. Travel. To escape. To see the world as I have and was doing in that very moment. To sit in strange taxis in strange countries and speak a strange language and hear about a strange culture. To exchange views. To embrace these views. We spoke of fantasy I was living. We spoke of me.
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