On Turkish soap operas and the vocabulary of being buried alive

A new phenomenon has swept through this part of the world: the muselsel turki. These are Turkish soap operas dubbed into Arabic and played every weeknight for weeks on end. The fact that they're dubbed into Syrian colloquial Arabic (ameeya) - the Arabic that people actually speak, not the formal language (fosHa) reserved for newspapers, speeches, and most television - makes them much more accessible to people, and wildly popular. I think the whole phenomenon began last year with Noor, the first import. The current sensation is called Al tamdi al ayam ("As Days Go By"), but is usually referred to as Usmar, after the main character. Usmar is a Turkish mafioso (but really a spy for the good guys, though how being a 'good guy' squares with regularly killing people, I have yet to figure out) in love with the surgeon Nadine, who was once the little orphan girl Ghazal, until she was adopted and her name was changed, leaving little Usmar (except he had a different name, then, too) to run after the car in which the weeping Ghazal was taken away, until he stumbled and fell, an eternally symbolic moment played over and over and over again.

These are the things that happen on Usmar: people swoon. People fall into dead faints. Usmar stares bleakly ahead of him, the pain of the world written across his face. Usmar does not smile. Nadine smiles, but only sadly. She also stares soulfully into the distance, or toward the man she loves. Except when she laughs with Ali, who is also in love with her, and who was also raised at the orphanage but doesn't know that Usmar and Nadine are the old friends with whom he used to play marbles. Ali stares too. (He is a pro at producing a tortured expression, to go with his slickly gelled hair.) Husbands are unfaithful. Wedding parties are shot up by mafiosos. Nobody can get through a family dinner without crying or shouting or storming away. Babies never get to the point of being born because, usually, their mothers are shot. Every character takes at least one turn lying in a hospital bed while the multiple people who are in love with them swoon over them and stare angrily at one another. There are threats and recriminations. Adopted children are stolen away by angry ex-husbands. People take a really long time to walk down hallways, while sombre, soulful music plays. Nadine faints, and Usmar catches her just in time. Nadine is shot, and Usmar arrives just in time to take her to the hospital. Nadine is kidnapped, and Usmar follows along behind in his black car. Will he be in time? Yes, because the show has already ended in Turkey, though it is still playing here, and we've all seen the picture of Nadine in a white wedding dress, holding Usmar's hand. Usmar, of course, is not smiling. But we are sure that he is happy, deep inside.

The writing on Usmar, I have realized, is reminiscent of the submissions I used to receive when I helped to edit our literary magazine in high school. Common themes: planes falling from the sky while being consumed by fireballs. Suicide. Unrequited love (specifically, of the sort that makes you want to pull down your curtains and sit in your room in the dark, moaning softly to yourself). Angst! Usmar is teenage angst writ large, just heavier on the staring.

I try to watch Usmar pretty regularly because it helps my Arabic, as well as providing me with lots of handy topics for Arabic conversation, such as: the lack of expression on Usmar's face. Recently, Usmar and Nadine were buried alive. I know this because, though I missed this particular episode, I got a very detailed play-by-play from my neighbor the next day. What makes this cause for rejoicing is that her play-by-play was the first conversation I have had here in which I have understood every last word. (Victory!!! ...of a sort) Apparently my vocabulary is finely attuned to accommodate discussions of burial of the living. Dirt, under, he climbed out, she couldn't, tractor, guys, dug. Mish mushkile! (No problem!) However, slightly disconcerting.

Camels

My Arab friends would like me to inform you, America, that people here do not ride to work on camels. They have cars. I am sort of stunned to hear that anyone would think otherwise, but they insist that they get a lot of questions about camels when they meet Americans or visit the U.S. When I ask people what they think is important to share with my friends in America via this rarely-updated-blog, they often ask me to report on the cars vs. camels situation. So, there you have it. (I am told that they also get questions about tents. There are, in fact, many Bedouin who still pitch their tents on the hillsides of this country. But most people, at least from what I can tell from looking out my window, live in tan apartment buildings.)

If you meet someone from the Arab world, therefore, please do not ask them about camels or tents. I will give you the benefit of the doubt and assume that you will also refrain from asking them if they are terrorists.

In spite of this camel issue, however, I would like to contend that my Arab friends bring up camels in conversation more often than I do! Case in point is a conversation I overheard in the passport line at the airport here, notable primarily for its repetition of the word ‘camels,’ and secondarily for the joy that it gave me while I waited in line:

Jordanian man welcoming American diplomat’s family to the country (oozing sincere hospitality of course!): You can go to Wadi Rum, to Petra. You can see camels there. At Petra there are many camels.
Diplomat’s wife: Camels! Are there a lot of camels in Jordan?
Jordanian man: Oh yes, there are many camels. Would you like to see camels?
Diplomat’s son: Yeah, sure.
Jordanian man: We have many camels here. You don’t have camels in America. But here we have many camels.
Second Jordanian man: There are camels in America.
First man: There are camels in America?! Where are there camels in America?
Second man: At the zoo.
Diplomat’s wife: Yes, at the zoo there are camels.
First man: We have camels here, but you don’t have camels in America! Where are their camels in America?
Second man: At the zoo.
First man: The zoo? But they are not wild camels.
Diplomat’s wife: No, they are not wild camels.
First man: You don’t have wild camels in America. Here, we have many camels.

In case you were wondering, I read recently that the camel population here has decreased from thousands roaming the desert at the time of Jordan's founding (1920s) to merely dozens currently. I'm not sure if any of them are actually wild, but maybe my friend above simply meant that they are not in cages. Though there are more in the south, I usually see camels only along the road to the Dead Sea, where they are decked out in brightly patterned saddles and harnesses and stand chewing their cud and looking profound while their owners take naps or smoke arghile nearby, hoping that a tourist will come along soon in search of a ride. I guess you could make the argument that those guys probably ride camels to work, but I only ever see them leading their camels along by a rope, not riding them. Either way, I concede that camels on the road to the Dead Sea are cooler than camels in the zoo.

A fight? No, good manners

A lighter post before I get back to politicking. :)

As I was trying to open the door to leave a friend's house a few minutes ago, some workmen came out also (successfully getting the door to open), followed by my friend's husband. I was coming up to the gate behind them when one of the workmen began to push violently against my friend's husband, flailing his arms and shouting. For a moment I was afraid that my friend's husband was being attacked! Then, as he turned toward the other workman, who also immediately began to flail around and shout, I saw something in his hand - no, not a magic wand that makes people flail and shout, but a tip. Both men adamantly refused to accept it, and my friend's husband adamantly refused their refusal. All these excellent manners, though - here you are supposed to refuse something multiple times before accepting it - looked an awful lot like the scuffles that used to break out in the hallways in my high school. I knew before now that here one is supposed to refuse gifts for a while before accepting them, but this was a good lesson for me in the actual lengths to which one is supposed to go! And a reminder that my little straightforward northeastern self falls far short of success in this activity. To me, it feels insincere to refuse something that I have every intention of accepting eventually. But maybe the point is that in this case, the workmen didn't have every intention of accepting the money - I mean, judging by the length they went to in practically attacking a respectable man, it seems like they really did mean to refuse it. In any case, they honored him by making the value of his gift, and their respect for him, clear. I don't think that I will start flailing my arms at people, no matter how polite I wish to be, but I have a lot to learn.

In other news: Gaza is on everyone's mind, no question about it, but on the whole the city still feels so peaceful. And I still feel welcomed here, in spite of whatever positions my government might take on the conflict. But I do feel sad.

Except that I feel a palpable sorrow in everyone around me, it's almost impossible to believe that so many children are dying so close by. Pray for peace.

Another article on Gaza

Click here for an op-ed piece offering a calmer analysis of the ins and outs than I feel capable of providing.

Gaza

I have a lot I want to say about what is happening in Gaza right now. For now, here's an article you might want to check out.

I recommend reading widely so as to gain a broader perspective on what is going on in Gaza than what the American media often provides. For starters, Thomas Friedman's "From Beirut to Jerusalem" includes an excellent account of Israel's invasion of Lebanon in 1982, in which its forces essentially stood guard outside the refugee camps while Palestinians were massacred. Al-Jazeera offers excellent coverage with detailed interviews of everybody; you could access their website if you don't have super-strength-TV. From what I just saw on the news, Dennis Kucinich's testimony before the House of Representatives today is worth the bother of hunting down the transcript.

I've been writing letters to American politicians for the last hour, responding to the U.S. House of Representatives resolution in support of Israel's actions these last two weeks. Maybe I'll post some of them later for your reading pleasure. A key thing I'm reminded of today is that it seems like in the U.S. at least, the recognition of Israel's right to exist is often seen to necessitate a tacit (subconscious?) denial of the basic humanity of Palestinians. Why? But this is a trap Americans do fall into. For example, if we look carefully enough at ourselves, most Americans should be able to admit that we have more than once personally feared not terrorists, but Arabs. But how could an entire people group possibly be evil? We should be able to agree without too much philosophizing that that idea is: stupid. We certainly oppose such contentions when they're leveled at us.


And then there are the children.

How Arafat Saved my Life

Well, okay… there’s not actually a story here. My ‘life’ was saved while playing a game of Mafia (except it was the German version, which apparently involves villagers, wolves, a witch, a wizard, and a little girl – too many characters if you ask me!), and the Arafat in question was not Yasser, or in any way related to said former president of the Palestinian National Authority. He was, in fact, a friendly university student with a serious skill for accents – California surfer dude, Texas drawl, etc. But in his role of the witch he did bring me back to life one dark and stormy night when I was temporarily killed by a pack of wolves. Which was a friendly thing to do. When I told him that I would always remember him as the guy who saved my life, he was appropriately pleased. But when I told him that I was going to tell my mother that Arafat saved my life, and that she would think I meant Yasser, he looked a little perturbed and informed me in no uncertain terms that his name had nothing at all to do with the other Arafat. But I can’t help myself – I wanted that heading at the top of a post. The End.

Sad and happy

Recently we learned the words for ‘sad’ and ‘happy’ in my Arabic class. A few days later we learned words for nationalities and ethnicities. This prompted my teacher to ask one morning, pointing to the array of faces in black and white on our worksheets, “Who are a sad people?” As a postmodern American happily schooled never to perpetuate stereotypes about any one people group – and having no idea what the answer was supposed to be – I could not answer this question. My teacher looked at me like it would be really great if I were a bit smarter and said, “The Arabs.” “Oh,” I said. “Oh.” Then she asked, “And who is a happy people?” Again, I was lost for an answer, although I thought that under the circumstances “Americans” might be a worthwhile, if inexact, guess. She smiled. “Annabel,” she said.

Annabel Raebeck, laughing proudly and possessed of her own people group.