No Explanation Allowed

On Turkish soap operas and the vocabulary of being buried alive

2009-03-16T06:44:00.004-04:00

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

2009-02-07T15:55:00.004-05:00

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

2009-01-11T08:01:00.009-05:00

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

2009-01-10T03:15:00.002-05:00

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

Gaza

2009-01-09T14:29:00.007-05:00

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

2008-11-21T14:56:00.002-05:00

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

2008-11-15T07:29:00.002-05:00

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.

Laughter

2008-11-15T07:28:00.001-05:00

I’ve heard that for Jordanians, smiling in public is, em, frowned upon, and that to laugh aloud outside your home is the consummate sin. This is a big problem for me. In fact, it might be my biggest hindrance to living successfully in this country. I have never seemed to be able to hold in my laughter – which is, in a word, loud. In another word, however, it’s infectious – so I’m thinking I just might be able to get this whole city laughing in the streets, if I’m here long enough. My current approach to this societal stricture is to try to reign myself in a little (no point attracting too much attention) while also recognizing that to shut down my laughter all the way might cause bigger problems down the road. (Such as, for example, a rampage. No matter what your feelings on public laughter, nobody likes a rampage.)

The call to prayer

2008-11-15T07:24:00.002-05:00

What I want to say about the call to prayer is that I love it and that sometimes the midday call at the mosque near my friends’ house sounds remarkably like In Excelsis Deo. I know this because after I hear it I spend the rest of the day singing “Glo-o-o-o-o-o-ria” over and over again in my head.

Also…it’s just beautiful. It wafts across the buildings into our open windows, and if we’re out and about when it sounds, we come across men standing with hands raised at windows, or kneeling on their rugs in the corner of a parking garage or on the side of a mountain. I am awestruck by this reverence, which seems so natural, like second nature, and easy, peaceful. From the outside looking in, it seems unstudied and real. I’m inclined to believe it often is, because these men aren’t forced to pray and kneel if they don’t want to. And though if feelings of self-important holiness are running through their heads I’d have no way of knowing it, when I look at them I see beautiful humility in their willingness to prostrate themselves in public in acknowledgment of Someone greater than themselves.

In taxis around 12:30pm, if the drivers are suitably reverent, we listen to the repeated praises over and over again. Women don't go to the mosque that often here so I don't know if I will have a chance to visit, but I am enjoying learning the prayers by taxi ride.

When I first arrived here the morning call to prayer would wake me up occasionally. Nothing wakes me up, but with the minaret covered in so many loudspeakers it was like the singer was just outside my window. The other morning I was still awake at 4:30 watching election returns come in; hearing the call loud and clear in the dark was really incredible. Especially when my mind had been fixed on temporal things such as, how are they already calling Pennsylvania for Obama when 0% of returns have come in? One of my only regrets in living in my lovely apartment is that the sound of the neighborhood mosque is muffled, perhaps by the hill behind our house or by the loud road below us. I only hear the call rarely here and I regret the loss of its marking of the hours and the constancy of In Excelsis Deo playing in my head.

A lovely tale involving a flock of sheep, a laptop, and the safara al-amerkaniyya

2008-11-15T07:21:00.001-05:00

A couple weeks ago I paid a visit to the American Embassy, a massive imperial building that sprawls over a huge plot of land in the ritziest part of town, Abdoun. It was surrounded by soldiers with machine guns but not very well marked by signs, and it took my friends and me a very long time and lots of awkward conversations with Arab men in fatigues to figure out where one might go to actually get inside the building. By the time we had determined the location of the entrance and parked the car in an empty field across the street, we were a little flustered and only had about 30 minutes until the American Citizens Services section of the embassy closed. Just as we were getting out of the car, a big flock of shaggy brown sheep walked by, crossing the street near Starbucks and following their shepherd past us into a residential neighborhood. (In Abdoun, this means opulent villas set among lush gardens behind tall walls. So where were the sheep going? I do not know.) My friend Cate was excited to see the sheep in this strange setting and went quickly to the back seat to wake up her sleeping toddler so that he could see them, too. In the rush of sheep and fatigues and being late, she forgot to shut her car door.

Half an hour or so later, after lots of metal detectors, some paperwork frustrations, and running into three people we knew between us out of maybe 20 people in the office, we left the embassy and walked back toward the car. As we got closer to it, Cate and I realized that the driver’s door was wide open, flung out perpendicular to the car. “Shoot! Michael’s laptop!” Cate’s husband’s laptop had been left in plain view on the back seat. Cate started running toward the car and I followed, visions of a ransacked car playing through my mind. When we got to the car, we noticed two men in another car on the other side of the small road going past the field. “Your door is open!” they said in Arabic. “Yes, we know,” we said in English, wondering what their deal was and if they had seen anything.

When we got to the car, everything was just as we had left it – our cold shwarma & french fries in the front seat, the laptop in the back. And the car door wide open! Turns out the two men had been keeping an eye on the car while they ate their lunch (from what we could understand). Which was a pretty cool thing to do. But even if they hadn’t been there, I don’t think anything would have been taken. When we ran to the car, we were operating from a U.S. (maybe more specifically urban U.S.) paradigm – if given the chance, people will steal from you. Therefore keep a sharp eye on your possessions. But that doesn’t seem to be the operating principle here. Petty crime is almost nonexistent, and people routinely leave their cars unlocked and their purses on park benches (if they can find a park, that is), with no fear of anything being taken. The only time I’ve felt the slightest bit unsafe was when a man was yelling really loudly in Arabic from the car window directly opposite mine – but he wasn’t yelling at me, and it only sounded scary because our movies make Arabic sound like a scary language (when in fact it is incredibly poetic and sounds beautiful). So in short, this adventure would never have happened in New York – whether because a flock of sheep wandered by or because the laptop was still on the seat, you be the judge.

"Explanation Is Not Allowed"

2008-11-15T07:03:00.001-05:00

At the edge of the Roman ruins in the center of our city is a little archaeological museum. When you walk in the door, the first thing you see is this sign.

Maybe they're just telling you not to complain about the no-smoking policy. Maybe they're telling paid guides not to conduct their own tours inside the museum. But I prefer to think that they are banning Explanation.

I don't know what that means, but I've enjoyed thinking about the possibilities.

So even though this blog is kind of about communication, exploring ideas, and dare I say it, explanation... I thought I'd call it "no explanation allowed," in honor of my favorite sign. You can also take the title as a tribute to my own ignorance - a reminder to myself to err on the side of storytelling, and stay away from too much explanation.

The Beginning

2008-11-15T06:47:00.001-05:00

What you will read here is my small, learn-as-I-go attempt toward greater East-West understanding. It’s written with my fellow Westerners in mind. In spite of my passionate views on, um, most things, I’m trying to navigate a middle ground here. No matter what your political perspective or religious views, I’d like you to feel welcome on this page, and maybe even learn something.

I really like the Middle East. Obviously I like it because it’s different and new (compared to New England), and probably in part because of Orientalist ideas that I do not recognize clearly but which may be buried deep down in my psyche. But I’ve traveled to Latin America, Europe, Africa, and I’ve never been welcomed as open-heartedly as I have been here. This is just the simple fact of Arab hospitality – it seems excessive to me but it is the norm here – but I still can’t help being bowled over by it, especially since I come from a country that is fighting a profoundly unpopular war in the country next door. And, on the other side of the street, supporting a nation that was once the ancestral homeland of many of my friends’ parents and grandparents, and where they are now unwelcome. It seems like it’d be easy to see me as a stand-in for the most problematic of our policies in the region, or for the big Western conspiracy to conquer the Middle East that plenty of folks here accept as fact – just as at home we often see any Arab as a potential terrorist. But I’m not getting any of that. Folks just seem happy to know me (which is nice, because I’m pretty excited about knowing them). If I think about this for long enough, it becomes something extraordinary.

This society has problems like any other. Those that contrast most strongly with the ideals of the West are the easiest for us to see clearly -- and then to condemn (you may notice that it works the same way in the opposite direction). But I’ve never been in a place so marked by hospitality, by a delight in the foreigner, by enthusiasm for the mere attempt at speaking a language in which I sound like an inarticulate fool. (No joke, some friends here practically cheer every time an Arabic word comes out of my mouth at the right time and in the right accent. “See!” they say, “I said you would be good at Arabic!”) Couple that with the simple joy of living in a brand new country, where running an errand is exhausting but my brain is constantly on fire with pleasure at something new around every corner…no wonder I like it! At this point, only a few weeks into my time here, I remember people’s incessant instructions to stay safe, and even my own short bouts of nervousness, with bemusement. Huh? From this comfortable couch in the sunlight, with views of blue skies and people wandering peacefully through their daily lives (with a lot less angst than in Boston and New York, as far as I can tell), it all seems kind of silly.