Damascus, Syria
May 8th, 2010
Dear Friends,
I wish I could transport you to be here with me. It has turned hot, but this morning is still blissfully pleasant. But it is still early morning, 6:30am, and in two hours the sun will be beating down. I have a third floor room in an old rather tumbling down house in the old city on Straight Street. Yes, it is the same street that is mentioned in our scriptures where Paul was healed from his blindness after an encounter with God on the road to Damascus. As I write you, I am thinking about how poor my own vision has become. The glaring unforgiving sun here doesn’t help the cataract in my right eye at all. I am cautious as I descend the steep cement stairs to the one bathroom in the courtyard below.
There is a large orange-type tree in the middle of the courtyard. Two other women are staying here on the ground floor, one is Syrian and one is from Ireland. But I don’t see them much. The Syrian family speaks no English, and so our contact has been minimal. Except for the elderly woman owner who must be 80 yrs old if she’s a day. By and by, I must ask if I can take her picture. She has been wearing black since her husband died almost 40 years ago. Her face is a story in itself. She will look right at me and speak rapidly and softly in an almost indistinguishable voice. Most of the time I am in the dark as to what she is saying. I just smile and nod, or look at her with a puzzled expression. The owner’s son, who lives just 20 meters across the open courtyard from my room, doesn’t work. He has a booming voice and lives with his wife and their little son, about 2-½ year old, I would guess. The little boy laughs a lot, but cries a lot too. With the doors and windows open, we can hear every word. I am always trying to catch words and phrases, but I can’t say that I’ve had that Aha! Experience yet.
Living here makes me realize how paltry my Arabic is, and this can be very frustrating and discouraging. But we have made some headway. I have understood which spigot is to the water tank on the roof (therefore not potable) and which tap is from the street and drinkable. And I have managed to borrow clothespins so I can hang up my laundry, and a paring knife and some plastic bowls for the little kitchen area, which has one hotplate, which runs on a gas tank. In that sense I have nestled in here and am happy that I can cook for myself.
I am trying to see the cup half full instead of always half empty, which is, unfortunately, my nature. I am trying to be grateful for the small things, like getting around on public transportation and shopping for food and such. When I was in Amman I asked a young woman for directions to catch the bus to the United Nations High Commission for Refugees. I knew the name of the neighborhood in Arabic and also how to say UNHCR. I kept repeating my request. She looked disdainfully at me and said “Speak English!” Then she said to me in English “When you come to an Arab speaking country you should speak Arabic.” Laughing in spite of myself, I replied in English “I have been trying for seven years to learn Arabic!”
I gave some time to Arabic study yesterday. I was encouraged the other day when I visited a young Iraqi mother. She helped me with simple phrases, and I was reviewing them on my own. At least two times I went downstairs with my book in hand looking for someone, anyone, who could help me with a word I was struggling over. No one was around. This has been a stark change from the lively household I was part of in Amman. Quite often I find it a bit lonely. It is only mid-May and I am already having to lay low during the hot afternoon hours. It is just too hot to move much. At around 3 or 4pm I will make a strong Turkish coffee to help me get a second wind. Life begins here after 8pm.
The old city is crawling with tourists, sometimes middle-aged or older folks in groups of 10 or 15, all donned with sun hats and carrying cameras. But there are a lot of young people too. This afternoon I have been invited to lunch by Iraqi friends I’ve recently met. I will go by bus to their neighborhood, a far cry from the quaint cobble-stoned narrow roads of the old city. Afterwards I hope to visit the young Iraqi woman and her two small children for an Arabic lesson. They live in the same neighborhood. Then maybe I will hook-up with my translator friend to visit some other families. I will try and get to internet to try and arrange more official meetings with IOM, UNHCR, etc…
On the table in my room are flowers, which a dear Iraqi friend of Voices gave me last night. We know each other from 2002 in Baghdad. We bought a juice and sat in a crowded park to visit, to catch up on friends and events. I had pictures of Kathy Kelly and Cynthia Banas and Ed Kinane in my camera to show him. To see them again made him very happy. His family situation is quite grim and desperate, and I have never seen him so downcast and despondent.
For the most part I just listened. I felt helpless to comfort or encourage him. He is in a no-win situation with no light at the end of the tunnel. I spoke of my youngest brother’s courageous battle with cancer. He has lost 100 lbs. and is in his 7th month of chemotherapy. He has been a mentor to me these last months. “Cathy” he says (and I am paraphrasing) “We are not in charge…be free…what will be is already written…let us see what we can learn today…God knows I’d like to have more time with my kids…but I am not in charge.” This concept…it is already written…is very central to Islamic teaching. My Moslem friend seemed to draw hope from my brother Rob’s words. His tension eased and his face lit up, remembering what he already knows to be true.
None of us is in charge. None of us know if we will be granted another day. Please God, may we live today as if it were our last. “Love and laugh” my brother says. A mantra which I hung above the door of my room before I left New York City.
I greet you all with much love, Cathy
