Issue #1 Winter 2002
Notes From Syria:
The Lattakia Wives' Club
by Gretchen McCullough
During Hafez Assad's last
referendum, in the spring of 1999, I almost
believed it was Christmas in Lattakia. Blinking colored lights were strung
across the streets. Bright banners hung from buildings, shops, and streetcorners.
Merry messages in swirled calligraphy proclaimed: N'am,
or yes. Yes to Assad.
Karim
and I were together that afternoon on one of Lattakia's main streets that went
to the Port. Palm trees rose along the boulevards. Grand archways, twined with
fresh basil leaves, spanned the street. Pinned on the arches were gargantuan
valentines of Assad and his two sons, blue-eyed Bashar and the handsome, bearded
Basil, who was killed in a car accident in 1994. If I hadn't heard so many murky
tales, I might have believed in the love affair between the Assads and Syria.
Soon we would see blue swatches of the Mediterranean—mostly obscured by a wall
separating the corniche from the port, stacks of lumber, loading areas, and a
few stalled ships. Because of Syrian red tape, few ships actually dock in
Lattakia. On the other side of the port, the Assad family has built two seaside
restaurants, but there, you only see an astonishingly bright ocean, not this
cluttered vista. In Arabic, the Mediterranean is el-Bahar el-Abyad el-Mutawasat. The Middle White Sea.
"What
do all those banners say?" I asked Karim.
My
Arabic had been honed for the necessities of daily life: greeting neighbors or
people who rang my doorbell, buying bananas, or begging my landlady, Miriam,
"Can you please kill the
rat under my sink?" The sophisticated, mellifluous Arabic of politics and
culture, I did not know.
"Why
do you want to know?" Karim replied, canny from a lifetime of mistrust.
Curiosity
was dangerous. Knowledge would always
be used against you.
I
sighed. "Maybe I just want to
know."
"You're
not going to write about this, are you?"
"Well…"
How
could I promise I would never tell?
Writers collected stories, and eventually told them. Besides, what was the big
secret?
"Forget
it. They probably just say, ‘Yes, to Assad’ over and over again," I
said.
If
I married Karim, I would have to stash my notebook under the mattress.
"They
do say, yes. That one says: Yes, from the sincere son of the people." He
pointed to another, "Yes, to
the hero of the October War. Yes, to the one who established the dignity and
honor of Syria."
I
dreaded telling Karim, "No."
I did not see how our relationship could translate into marriage. We had been
together almost two years. I had
met him the first month of my Fulbright at Tishreen University. After six years
of living in England and Ireland, he felt estranged from his country.
Marriage
in Syria did not seem so different than arrangements in South Texas, where I was
raised: playing second fiddle, suppressing your own ambitions and desires,
talking about recipes and children and the maid, wearing frilly clothes and
espadrilles, and writing thank you notes. I
had not found this option appetizing. Instead,
I roamed: Providence, Rhode Island, Amherst, Massachusetts, Cairo, Istanbul,
Tokyo, Japan, Graduate school, Tuscaloosa, Alabama.
My
mother had campaigned hard for marriage: all through my twenties she sent me
bridal clippings from the Valley Morning Star and talked about even the remotest acquaintance.
In my thirties, she sent me photographs of her friends' children's toddlers.
Karim
had also been talking about children, which made me edgy.
When I was not enthusiastic, he told me I was selfish
and unnatural. We had quarrelled. He had stormed out.
Even
though I was thirty-seven, I did not crave a baby, as I was constantly being
reminded I should, both in the United States and in Syria. Obvious refusals to
have children did not make you popular anywhere. Women without children were
somehow upsetting, and should also be upset. I was supposed to be apologetic and
regretful about the choices I had made in my life, and wail about my biological
clock. My mistake was that I
did not pretend.
I
was a half-member in the Lattakia Wives' Club (Americans, English and an
Australian). I was an English-speaking expatriate woman in Syria, but a single
professional woman, not a wife. The group met informally in the evening once a
month to discuss their problems and tell stories.
For example, a husband who spent the money he earned in Saudi Arabia in
the village for his father's tazea, or
wake: no wallpaper or improvements on the immediate family flat.
A husband who acted like a brat: he slept late, acted annoyed when asked
to help with the four children he had fathered, or worse, disappeared to his
sister's house in Tartous on Christmas day.
I
had ventured out to Syria of my own free will, and was not obliged to stay. The
price I paid for my independence was recurring ostracism and a feeling of
exclusion. "It must be nice to have so much free time." "Of
course, you can do whatever you want since you don't have any children."
"What a free, easy life you have, travelling around the world."
Had
I not felt so isolated in Lattakia, I might not have gone to Wives' Club at all.
For me, the group was not a refuge, as I hoped it would be. Conversations
circled mercilessly around family, gender, and domestic chores. I always felt
depressed after I returned from their meetings. A few women would try to make me
feel unworthy because I didn't have a husband and children. In their eyes, my
life was only fun, adventure, and free time.
Occasionally,
I skipped a meeting, after one of those hurtful comments. Better to stay home
and read George Orwell. However, provincial Lattakia, four hours from Damascus,
was like the frontier in the wild, wild West: make
friends or die. Culturally, I felt even farther removed from the single
Syrian women professors who had tried to befriend me. Many of them had been
educated in the Soviet Union and France. English was their third language so
conversation was a strain. They, too, were jealous of my freedom. I could not be
frank about my feelings.
More
satisfying than the group meetings of the Wives Club, which often became gripe
sessions, were my individual friendships with some of the women. I was closest
to Muriel, a British woman from Liverpool I had met at a concert at the Meridian
Hotel at the Shaati al-Azraq, or Blue
Beach. Pierre, who worked at Tishreen University and as a liaison for the French
Cultural Center, had introduced me to Muriel at intermission. She was a tall
woman, with a pleasant smile and short, frosted hair. Her husband was short with
a chubby face. He was bald. Physically, they made an odd pair.
After
the concert, Pierre loaded all his friends in his jeep and waved goodbye.
Muriel
must have seen the surprised look on my face as I watched the jeep rumble off
into the night. I had been in Lattakia a week.
"We
could give you a lift home. Can't we, Nihad?" Muriel said.
"Of
course."
"I
thought I would get a taxi home, but I don't see any," I said. The Meridian Hotel was on the edge of Lattakia—not a taxi
in sight.
"Nonsense.
There's plenty of room in our car. It's so rare to meet anyone new, isn't it,
Nihad? Where do you live?"
"Across
from the tobacco factory."
"That's
very close to us. Within walking distance," Muriel said, delighted.
"Are you working here?"
"At
the university."
"How
do you like it so far?"
"Well,
I've been drinking tea this week. We haven't started teaching yet. But the
campus is a little depressing," I said. This was a wild understatement—I
imagined this was what Soviet prisons looked like.
"The
conditions are appalling," Muriel said.
"I
wouldn't say that," Nihad objected.
"Why
not? Everyone says the conditions are appalling. Thousands of students in
lecture halls. Students cheating. Professors who don't turn up to teach. How can
they run a university like that?"
"The
system is not perfect in Britain, either," Nihad said.
"Our
universities have standards," Muriel said.
Was
this an old quarrel?
"This
is the gate to my house," I said.
"It
was so nice to meet you. You must come round for a Nescafe sometime. I'll ring
you," Muriel said as I got out of the car.
She
waved as they drove off. The car was a strange shape—a sedan in front, but the
tail was open like a pickup, a Skoda.
In
the two years I lived in Lattakia, I had many Nescafes with Muriel in her
television room, just off the kitchen. Her
honesty and humor were an antidote in the gloom and hypocrisy of Syria.
And her stories served as thin warnings against my romance with Karim: Watch
out!
In
the television room, the couches were worn, but comfortable. In the bookcase
were birthday and Christmas cards from England. There was one formal picture of
the entire family: Muriel and Nihad were seated, the children behind them. In
the picture, she appeared happy. The selection of books was an odd assortment:
old medical texts, Agatha Christie, Rosemary Pilcher, Maeve Binchy,
Not Without My Daughter, English language books with titles like, English
Made Easy, a simplified copy of A Tale
of Two Cities.
From
the balcony off her television room, she had a clear view of Jameel Assad's
Aleppo-style mansion. Expensive SUV's and Mercedes lined the road in front. Men
stood guard with pistols tucked casually in the back of their belts. There was a
jungle gym in the yard, but never any children. Whenever Karim and I were
strolling by, he went silent until we were past.
Usually,
Muriel was doing something else when she was talking to me: hollowing out squash
for stuffed vegetables, mahshee, making
makdus, eggplants with walnuts and chilis for the winter, or rolling
grape leaves for lunch the next day. Preparing Middle-Eastern food took hours.
Sometimes her daughters helped.
"Be
a lamb, and finish that," she said to Annie, her youngest, who was twelve.
She had difficulty making the roll.
Her
older sister hooted. "Annie, yours looks like a fat cigar. Who will eat
that?"
"No
sweetheart, it should be like this," Muriel said, tucking the ends tight.
"I
can't. Mummy, should I play something for Gretchen?" Annie said, jumping
up. Her braids swung, and she had braces. She had the cute, round face of her
father.
"Go
ahead," Muriel said, proud. "I have got to pick out the material for
her dress for the concert next week. Why don't you come? It's at the Meridian.
When I am going to do that, I don't know. It really helps getting dinner ready
beforehand. Then after my morning lessons, all I have to do is pop it in the
oven."
To
supplement her husband's small government income, she gave private lessons in
English. When she met Nihad she was working as a radiographer in England, but
she had not worked professionally since arriving in Syria.
"Should
I do some?" I asked. I didn't really want
to roll grape leaves. Better not to know. Besides, since Karim knew how to
cook, it was not important to our relationship. He did not demand grape leaves.
"We
are almost finished, aren't we, Magda?"
Magda
held up the flat, pressed leaves. "Three more, in fact."
"Good
girl," Muriel said.
Annie
was playing Mozart in the living room. I wasn't a musician, but she sounded
accomplished.
"She's
very good," I said.
"Yes,
she is. Last year she placed in the national competition in Aleppo.
Unfortunately, I couldn't go because Nihad didn't want me to ride the bus alone
to Aleppo. 'What will people say?' he said. That's all anyone cares about here,
what people say," Muriel said.
"I
ride the bus by myself, from here to Damascus all the time," I said.
I couldn't imagine not being able to go somewhere if I wanted to.
"He
thinks it's not respectable for a married woman," she said.
Would
Karim feel it was his right, as a husband, to forbid me in such a way?
The
music suddenly stopped. The door slid open. "Mummy, I am going to read
now."
"That
was lovely. Be a lamb, and finish your homework."
"Finished,"
Magda announced, placing the last three rolls in the deep pan. "I'll put
these in the fridge for you, Mummy."
"Thank
you, sweetheart. What about your homework?"
"Done,"
Magda said.
"Eee,
did I ever tell you how I came to this dreadful place?" she asked, the
moment we were alone.
"No."
"Would
you like some more coffee?"
"No,
I think I've had enough," I said.
She
laughed. "I thought I had it made. I was marrying a doctor. I was so naïve.
Of course, we both had good jobs in England. As you know, the salaries
are low here, so Nihad hardly makes any money. He gets some extra from his
clinic. But we still need the money from the lessons. I have to do it, even if I
am working my fingers to the bone."
Her
responsibilities were Herculean. Besides the teaching, she cared for three
children, entertained relatives, shopped, made time-consuming meals, did
laundry, ironed shirts, and beat carpets. Occasionally, her husband took her out
for a meal.
"Shortly
after we were married, the phone calls started. Nihad's father was on his
death-bed, we were told. It was a trick to get Nihad home. The sly, old dodger
is still kicking," she said.
Fourteen
years before, she had gone to Lattakia on vacation with her husband and two
children. It was then that Nihad told her that they would not return to England.
Without his permission, she could not take her children out of Syria. That was the
law. If she wanted to leave him, she would have to give up her children.
"I
was washing the babies' nappies in big tubs of boiling water in the village. The
tears just fell into the water. Nihad's parents had tiled one room in their
house for me. They thought it was wonderful," she said.
Nihad's
geniality was a front.
The
insistent, false cheerfulness of Assad's last election campaign was also a
front. Many people were shrewd enough to understand that the celebrations were a
trick. Still, the election seemed like
a party. Most evenings, I heard the thumping drums from depke,
or the slow Syrian circle dance in my neighborhood. Sometimes, there were
flamboyant performers who brandished shiny swords for the crowds, near the
immense tents erected near the Assad family residences. Inside the tents were
rows of chairs arranged for dignitaries. A large photograph of a
benevolent-looking Assad hung against the tent wall. For weeks, there had been
parades: the honking of enormous trucks, the sirens of police on motorcycles,
the chanting from the teachers' march, the doctors' march, the professors'
march. To punctuate the
festivities, Assad's hoods drove around in expensive jeeps and fired machine
guns into the air. Not reported on state news were the rumors about children
killed from ricocheting bullets.
One
day on my way to the post office at Tishreen University I noticed the photograph
of Assad at the Information office.
The picture was framed by red tinsel and reminded me of cheap Christmas
decorations in malls. Here was the Real
Information, never explicit in Syria: Syrians who didn't march in their
appointed parade were reported to the Mukhabarat,
or Secret Police. If Syrians didn't vote yes for their
only candidate, they were reported. If they avoided the charade of voting
altogether, their meager salaries were docked.
Did
living in such a dishonest environment promote dishonesty?
Maybe
Nihad had been dishonest all along, but had hidden it easily from Muriel in
England. I did not believe marriage should be based on tricks. How would I feel
if Karim entrapped me, the way Nihad had with Muriel? Would I resign myself to
imprisonment, as she had, because of the
children?
It was strange to have doubts about Karim, who had been my best, most loyal friend in Syria. He had helped me with most everything: negotiating through the bureaucratic maze of Tishreen University, getting exit visas, entertaining and making curry dinners for visitors, buying curtains—even washing clothes. Was his solicitousness partly driven by a desire for opportunity outside of Syria? On the other hand, if this were true, who could blame him? He was bright and ambitious, and, rightly, did not look forward to a lifetime of servitude at Tishreen University, where there was no library, no facilities, and no salary to speak of. The Syrian government had paid for his British education and expected him to teach at the university for the rest of his life, or pay the enormous mortgage on himself if he left the country.
There
were things that I did not tell Karim, too. As a Fulbright Lecturer, I made ten
times the Syrian salary as a university professor, which was two hundred
American dollars monthly. Many Syrians asked with a monotonous tenacity about my
salary, but I did not give in.
Karim
probably guessed. His six-year stint as a graduate student in England and
Ireland had made him savvy. Because the Syrian government was six months late in
paying his fees, he decided he would have to support himself as a curry cook in
a Pakistani take-away. I admired his resourcefulness, but had been sworn to
secrecy. "Doctors" didn't work in restaurants even if they were
starving.
I
did not tell Karim, either, that I was shocked that his mother could not read
and write. His mother's name was Noor,
which meant light in Arabic, and her face was luminous with intelligence. The
wages Karim earned were not from selling chickens, like his father, but from
teaching large lecture-halls of students about the delight of words and the
power of language—English was his passion. He was a linguist.
As
a university student, before he going to England, he set up a blackboard in one
of the family's empty flats downstairs, and wrote down crisp words with powdery
chalk, a world beyond. Other students
dropped by for informal study sessions: Karim was one of the top students in the
class.
"Learning
English was a way of escaping," he said.
His
enthusiasm and kindness made him an excellent teacher, but he could not teach
his mother how to read and write.
"My
father would have to teach her," he said.
"But
he hasn't," I pointed out.
Such
cruelty was yet another reminder of Middle-Eastern attitudes. Nihad, the doctor,
decided whether Muriel would leave or stay in the country; Karim's father, who
had a sixth-grade education, decided whether Karim’s mother learned how to
read and write. Syrian men would decide what was good for their wives. The
Syrian father, Hafez Assad, would decide what was good for his citizens,
who were treated like children. The goal of the government was much like the
goal of husbands: the citizens, like women, should be kept infantile. Helpless
people made better, more obedient slaves.
I
had met all of Karim's eleven brothers and sisters, nine of whom lived in the
small four-room flat.
"Once,
I asked my mother, ‘Why did you have so many children?’ She said, ‘Your
father was always threatening to take another wife,’" he said.
Karim's
mother viewed children as insurance against desertion. But had she considered
how they would feed and educate them all?
Many
of the women in the Lattakia Wives' Club had illiterate mothers-in-law, who had
been summarily married off at thirteen or fourteen: Muriel, Aisha, and Luanne.
One
evening, over pastries and tea, Aisha had told the group about her
mother-in-law's wedding night.
Aisha lived in a large, sprawling condominium flat near the Mediterranean. She lived on the ground floor with her six children while the sheik's first wife lived upstairs in another flat with two or three of her grown children. Her reception room was Arabic-style, with ornate gilded chairs, and a heavy sofa.
Obviously,
Aisha's husband, the sheik, had money, although the source seemed dubious. The
sheik had for many years been banned by the secular Ba'ath regime from
living in Syria because of his extreme religious beliefs. Some of the other
women in the group were sure the sheik was an arms dealer, but like much that
you heard in Syria, it could have been rumor. At the same time, there were
stories of the sheik's goodness: he had heard about a local girl who had been
burned badly in a fight with her father. Rather than involve the police, the
family had ignored the third-degree wounds, until a neighbor complained. Sharif,
Aisha's husband, had taken the girl from the house, and paid for her medical
treatment, which involved plastic surgery. Here was another: The sheik had found
a tiny baby, dressed in doll's clothes, which had fit in the palm of his hand,
on the steps of the mosque. He had brought the baby home. At first, Aisha had
fed the baby with a dropper. The baby had grown into a boy of seven, with curly
black hair, who sang. Even though adoption is forbidden in Islam, they had
adopted him. They called him Abdullah, servant of God.
Sharif's
office was just off the Arabic-style reception room.
He seemed busy, meeting with people. Charity, money-lending, or arms
deals? He swirled past with his tan caftan, decorated with braids, draped over
his shoulders. Usually, he slid open his door, and said, "Ahlan wa Sahlan," to
the group before he disappeared. He
was handsome with a salt and pepper beard. I guessed he must be about fifteen
years older than Aisha.
Aisha
was pouring tea.
She
gestured to me. A box of expensive sweets sat on the marble table. "Go on.
Have another."
I
took the chocolate éclair and set it on my plate.
Muriel
was saying, "I would do anything rather than go to the village on Fridays.
There is nothing to do there, but sit around. The conversation is always the
same. Why Nihad is ungenerous because he doesn't give all his money to his
brothers. I would rather stay in Lattakia and scrub the floor."
"You
could have the whole village living across the hall from you," Luanne said,
biting into a cream puff. "My
mother-in-law loves to knock on my door to criticize my cooking. On her way out,
she tells me how fat I've gotten. I suppose she doesn't look in the
mirror."
Aisha
laughed. "Your in-laws could be living with you."
The
other women were suddenly grim.
Muriel
said, "That must be very difficult. Aisha, you are a saint."
"Not
really," Aisha said, putting the tea cozy over the pot. "You hear
their stories and clean up their poo. They drift in and out. Sometimes, their
minds are clear. Most of the time, my mother-in-law tells me I shouldn't steal
her husband! No prize now. He is a sad, old man. But she fears he is running
around on her."
Aisha
had healthy, red cheeks. And she gestured with her hands, like an Italian. She
had a knack for off-the-cuff storytelling.
"But
this one morning, my mother-in-law's mind was clear. I was getting her out of
bed. She said, 'My dear Aisha, I'll tell you about my wedding night.'"
In
Australia, Aisha had been Mattie, the daughter of a German immigrant father and
an aboriginal mother. Raised as a Catholic.
"It
was still in the days when people waited outside for the bloody sheet. She was
thirteen. 'He opened me,' she said, 'with his finger. There was blood
everywhere. Everywhere, my dear. I was so ashamed,’ she said.'"
"The
crowd was waiting outside," Muriel said, finishing the story. "Waiting
for the bloody sheet."
The
group was silent.
"Then
my mother-in-law's mind went blank. She was saying, 'Dear Aisha, I'll tell you a
story.' Suddenly, the lucidity was gone. Like a curtain going down. She started,
shouting, 'Girl, he's mine. Mine! You can't have him.'"
Aisha/Mattie
had run off with a Spaniard and had a child at a young age. The father had left
her and taken her son to Spain. She had not seen him since. In her twenties, she
had converted to Islam and taken the veil. She had met Sharif at a mosque in
Sydney. Now, she was the mother of an Arab tribe, the second wife of a sheik,
and the caretaker of her elderly in-laws.
She
wanted to write.
At
another meeting she said, "I sent a letter to Australia to find out about
creative writing courses. They're too expensive. Sometimes, they have contests
on the BBC. And I wrote to every ad I've seen about correspondence courses in
writing for magazines. But they never wrote back. We're in Syria," she
said, sighing.
One
evening I had gone over for a visit to look at one of her stories. Pandemonium
reigned at her apartment. Children ran through the rooms.
Aisha
led me into the Arabic coffee room, with thin, foam mattresses on the floor. She
was wearing leggings and a long tee shirt, not the usual raincoat and the scarf.
Her hair was long brown with streaks and patches of gray. Her torso was
pear-shaped.
The
moment I sat down, her ancient mother-in-law plopped herself into a nearby
chair.
She
demanded to know: "Men
inti? Zouaj? Andik
awlad?" Who are you? Are you married? Do you have
children?
"Refeti," Aisha shouted. My companion.
"Eh?" the lady old said.
"Refeti," Aisha repeated. Turning to me, she said, "She
doesn't hear well."
There
was a loud crash somewhere in the flat. "Excuse me," Aisha, said,
closing the door to the Arabic coffee room.
I
heard Aisha, shouting, "Go to your room. I don't care who started it."
The
old lady asked again, "Men inti?
Zouaj? Andik
awlad?"
I
lied grandly: ten boys. But the irony was lost on her mother-in-law, who
suffered from dementia. She asked, "Zouaj?
Andik
awlad?"
A
small child, who looked like an elf with her cap of black hair, entered the
room. She tickled the old lady's swollen legs.
The
old lady roared. The child giggled.
I
longed to escape this madhouse, but had promised Aisha I would read her story.
The
child danced a jig around the room, and then ran toward the old lady again for
another assault.
"Shoo. Go play somewhere else," Aisha said.
The
child answered in Arabic, "Ma biddi."
Aisha
picked up a magazine and swatted the child. She squealed and ran out of the
room.
The
old lady suddenly nodded off. Her
head bobbed.
Aisha
nodded toward her, "She's got eight children, but I'm the one taking care
of her. They don't come to see her very often. Poor sod."
Handing
me the tattered spiral notebook, she said, "I hope you can read my
handwriting."
"We'll see," I said, squinting at the loops and scribbles. "Don't you have a typewriter?"
Aisha
shouted, "Faten! Faten!"
A
young girl with mischievous brown eyes, about twelve, appeared. She bowed.
"Would
you bring us some tea?" Aisha asked.
"Mummy,
what about pastries for your guest?" she asked, smiling.
"Fatima
will go for those," Aisha said.
I
read the scrawled handwriting: If only Mohammed would pass by the shop again.
The girl heard her heart beating. His eyes were as sweet as bee's honey.
Was
this Aisha's escape into Harlequin Romance? Or was she trying to imitate the
infatuation of a Syrian girl?
I
read on. It was less facile than I had first thought. She felt nauseous. She
was repulsed by the idea of pregnancy. It made her sick.
Aisha's
feeling about her fifth pregnancy?
I
had a few comments: "This seems less sentimental than the first part. Maybe
your story begins here—her desperation to get rid of the child. The voice is
more honest. Maybe she can't marry the person, either. The social stigma. Why
don't you write another draft?"
"I'll
try, but I have no time. I have been trying to get a typewriter for over a
year."
I
tried to encourage her, but she didn't seem to understand a writer's life:
discipline, commitment, solitude, rejection, and patience. Oral storytelling was
a different skill from written, which required the daily pruning of words and
ideas, much like tending a garden. Writing was not spontaneous or random.
She
had too many children. Too many domestic responsibilities. Too many meals to
make. There was too much chaos. Too much shouting.
"Maybe
you can carve out some time in the morning. Or when they are at school," I
suggested.
She
shrugged. "I have two children who don't go to school yet."
Why
did she have six kids? Had she given up the choice about whether or not to have
children by marrying the sheik?
In
Arab society, where the divisions between men and women were more obviously
emphasized, there was no escape from the stranglehold of gender.
I
didn't blink when Karim told me how his father beat his mother, when he was a
small child. Shortly after I learned this savage fact, though, I did not shake
his father's hand on a visit.
I
was alarmed and saddened by these stories of wife beating, but didn't tell Karim.
I only listened. I didn't know about such things, first-hand. My father was
loving and kind to my mother.
When
Karim and I were together in his snug living room with the cheerful, billowy
yellow curtains, I nursed a small, secret hope that we could continue this
companionship: arguing over a word or an idea, joking and laughing over strong,
scented coffee with cardamom, translating films together, strolling by the
Mediterranean. On the day his father took me up to the roof to show me his ten
squawking chickens in cages, I thought of my own father negotiating complicated
real estate contracts or reading histories by Paul Johnson or Karen Armstrong. I
was forced to admit it: the gap was just too wide. If Karim's parents met my
parents, neither of whom speaks the others' language, it might make for
hilarious pantomime. On second thought, my parents, especially my mother, would
be frowning (this was not the suitable
or well-to-do Jane Austen match she
had in mind). Karim's parents would
beam—a better life for the whole tribe in America, piggybacking on me out of
barren Syria.
Luanne
had given me this friendly advice: "Let me tell you, honey, if you marry
him, some brother or sister or uncle or cousin or nephew or niece, will be in
your spare guest room for the rest of your life."
Despite
the Islamic dress and her fluent colloquial Syrian Arabic, she still spoke like
a South Carolina native. Raised a
Southern Baptist, Luanne had converted to Islam at the University of Alabama at
Birmingham, where she had met her husband, Omar.
Like Aisha, she wore a severe, black raincoat with heavy buttons, and
wound a tight black scarf around her head. Her rich, long, red hair was tucked
tight underneath a cap.
Had
she and Aisha merely exchanged one traditional religion, Southern Baptist and
Catholicism, for another? Was the appeal of prescriptive religions that you
didn't have to make any decisions about your life?
I
was bewildered by their conversion, but realized that both Aisha and Luanne were
intelligent women, who had found security in the circumscribed roles for women,
dictated by a strict interpretation of Islam. Designations for men and women
were absolutely clear: no doubt or
ambiguity. In South Texas, the rules were clear, too, although not so
extreme. I had spent most of my life, trying to escape from stultifying gender
roles, yet Aisha and Luanne had found solace in tradition.
Often,
when I was writing in the morning, I would answer the phone and a female
American voice would announce, "It's me."
"Who
is me?" I answered, annoyed partly by the interruption, and also because I
didn't recognize the voice, which assumed familiarity. Her voice was flat. Was
she depressed?
When I first came to Lattakia this habit struck me as strange
until I realized how lonely Luanne was. I was someone from home; I spoke
English; I'd lived in Alabama; I was informal. I must know the American "me,"
of Luanne. The other "me" of
Luanne was confined: by children, by cooking, by her husband, by dress—by the
restrictive version of Islam that she had chosen.
However,
the security did not always make
Luanne happy. Incredibly enough, Luanne's husband, who was Western-educated, was
more controlling than Sharif, the Sunni sheik. Omar refused to let Luanne go shopping so she had even
been deprived of that pleasure. She was not allowed to go anywhere alone,
without an escort, even if she were visiting other women. I did not envy her
caged life. She was a sharp, funny, and lively person. Except for the joy that
her children gave her, she must have been constantly bored and frustrated.
Too
much family did not make for harmony. Omar worked long hours at the shop for
household supplies, which his father had given him. Luanne said he was depressed
and hated Syria but was afraid to defy his parents and move back to the United
States. Her in-laws had also provided their flat, which was across the hall from
them.
"Too much togetherness," she joked.
Family
problems were not always a joke, however. Luanne had confided to me that there
were often ugly scenes across the hall. Omar's brothers had been shamelessly
spoiled. One of his brothers threw dishes when he was having tantrums.
Lest
I became too enchanted by Karim's attentiveness, which was like a drug, there
were frequent reminders about the choking expectations of his family.
One
day, I joked and laughed with Karim's brother, Hany, who owned a hummus
shop downstairs from the family flat. He asked me about opportunities in
America. I stood next to the giant cauldron of boiled hummus peas while he
stirred. This for me was the romance of Syria, the old world.
He
turned to chop up tomatoes, and spooned a generous helping of mashed hummus onto
a plate. A picture of Hafez Assad in military uniform was pasted on the
white-tiled wall behind him.
Karim
had gone upstairs to the family flat so I had to rely on my own Arabic.
"Fi
shugl bi America?" There is work in America?
Even
though Hany had a prosperous hummus shop (which Karim had helped finance from
his hard-won savings from Britain), he believed the streets in America were
paved with figs.
Hany
was pleasant now, but would he be as demanding as Nihad's brother if I married
Karim?
Muriel
told me many stories about her brother-in-law's demands for money. Khaleel
expected Nihad to build a house for him. He had a low salary as an English
teacher, but kept having children because he was determined to have a boy. He
had four daughters already. This was not uncommon in Syria. He nagged and nagged
and nagged, until Nihad gave him the money that Muriel had saved from giving
English lessons for an air-conditioner for their flat.
Would
I be expected to surrender my tiny savings for the in-laws? Would my writing
take a back seat to the voracious demands of so many people?
Hany
was saying, "Americans are rich." His brown eyes shone, and he had an
impish grin with dimples in his cheeks. He had the conventional good looks of an
Arab with his brown eyes, brown hair, and moustache. Karim's attractiveness was
not so obvious; he had an odd-shaped head and bushy eyebrows, but he had
perceptive, green eyes and an infectious smile. His hair had started to thin.
And he had a prominent scar on the side of his temple, which disappeared into an
eyebrow, the result of an injury from a car accident.
One
of Karim's sisters, Hana, also dreamed of America.
"I
would like to go to art school," she announced one day when I was visiting
Karim's parents' flat. We were sitting in the family room. Three used couches
had been pushed against the walls. Near the door were piles of shoes, all shapes
and sizes. A small black and white television crowned the bureau, which was
pushed against another wall. I didn't sit in the formal living room with the
uncomfortable high-backed chairs anymore. A single poster of a Labrador
retriever, a red ribbon around her neck, hung on the wall.
Hana
was even fairer than Karim and had long, blondish-brown hair. She had trouble
with acne, and suffered, I suspected, from comparison to her older sister,
Leila, who had sleek skin and the confidence of beauty. Even though I didn't
understand all that Hana said, she laughed and joked with me and could even
mimic my American-sounding Arabic perfectly.
"Kar-im
maaahjuuuud," she said. Is Karim
there? It was a family joke, my Arabic.
I
laughed at her imitation (it did sound like me), but still felt a twinge since I
had toiled long and shed a few tears over Arabic. Not being able to express
myself as freely as I did in English had been debilitating.
I
never made fun of Hana's attempts to speak English. "Me speak English
good?"
Hana
was training to be an art teacher for primary school. Sometimes, she showed me
her art projects. I remembered one, a slender glittery princess drawn on a
mirror, idealized like her vision of America.
She
believed I would finance art school. And Hany believed I would provide the seed
money to start a restaurant for him in America. There was also Mahmoud, the
dentist. And Kemal, the engineer. Eight sons and four daughters.
The others were less transparent about their desires. But did they, too,
believe they were going to America?
Aisha
had commented: "Syrians don't immigrate well. Even if they say they hate
Syria, they always come back. Family ties are too strong."
Was
this why she and her husband kept going back and forth between Australia and
Syria?
I
had taken Karim home with me for the summer after my first year in Syria.
After
many hassles, a rejected visa application, a great deal of trauma, and a
humiliating encounter at the American Embassy, Karim had gotten a visa to go to
the United States. I had asked the Cultural Attache, Leesa and the Public
Affairs Officer, Dr. Jones, to support his visa application, because he had
helped me entertain many visitors for the American Cultural Center. They agreed
to help.
Leesa
growled: "My word is on the
line. I swear, if he doesn't come back, I'll pull your grant."
Karim
was triumphant, and showed friends and family in Lattakia the large eagle stamp
in his passport. The Consul had given him a two-year tourist visa. He told the
story a little too often around Lattakia about my persistence and generosity.
On
the day of departure, every member of his family (even Amira, the eldest who had
just had a baby) turned up to offer tearful, choked goodbyes. Despite my
assurances, they believed Karim was leaving for good.
The
trip I had lobbied so hard for, though, turned out to be a disappointment. Karim
threw temper tantrums when things didn't go well, became sullen, and told me I
was controlling when I tried to plan trips or introduce him to my friends. He
resented being dependent on me. He withdrew to the small air-conditioned
efficiency apartment and watched the CNN coverage of the U.S. bombing of Sudan
over and over again. Outside the heat was thick and miserable; inside, the air
was so smoky from cigarettes that my eyes burned. I had rented the only
available temporary housing in Tuscaloosa, the "Rustic Inn," a motel which had been vastly misnamed. I
nicknamed it The Rusty Nail.
Unfortunately, my humor did not defuse the danger—nefarious characters often
knocked at our door at three in the morning. It was difficult to sleep when you
felt under attack. We were also without a car or phone. We quarreled when Karim
insisted on withdrawing his three thousand dollars (which he had transferred
from England to my account) from the bank.
"That's
crazy. You can't have that much cash on you. Where will you put the money? I
promise you I won't spend your money."
He
was unmoved. "I want my money now,"
he said.
I
wrote the check out for him on the street, and he marched to the bank.
Later,
I realized he had stuffed all the money into a thin, black belt, which he was
wearing.
Was
this behavior the result of his brain injury? Or was he slipping back into that
crippling Syrian habit of paranoia and distrust?
How
would we behave if we had more serious problems?
Karim
told me he had never felt this unsafe or unhappy in England and Ireland. He'd
forgotten that he once told me he had witnessed a murder late one night when he
was working at a curry restaurant in Ireland. "America is a horrible
place," he said.
This
was not the relaxing vacation from Syria that I had envisioned: Karim was
standing at a flimsy wooden door with a butcher knife in hand.
When
we returned, Karim told everyone what a wonderful time he had in America. I was
surprised by this effusive fib, but supposed he didn't want to lose face.
Everyone in Lattakia knew about the visa saga. As if nothing had happened, he
resumed his role as solicitous suitor.
Luanne
reported: "Iris is spreading the rumor around the group that you got
married this summer."
Iris
was a plump, jolly woman from California. She liked Oprah, People
Magazine, salacious gossip, romance novels, sewing. I didn't really share
many interests with her. Her husband was building
high-rises in Lattakia.
"Hardly.
I had to face the fact that it's not going to work," I said.
Was
there so little happening in Iris' life, that she had to spin tales about other
people's lives?
"Don't
tell Iris anything. She'll stab you in the back," Luanne said.
"Really?"
I said, amazed.
Because
Iris was jolly, I had concluded she was harmless. I was not very good at sizing
up people. And Iris was someone from my own country! I was always too trusting,
too earnest, too sincere: all weak qualities in Syria.
I
was duly punished for helping Karim get a visa. The visa story had fuelled local
rumors of my largesse and influence. The second year, I was hotly pursued by
clerks from the University, professors, and by one of Karim's neighbors. Local
grapevine had it that Karim was in "the hip-pocket of the Americans"
and could "get whatever he liked."
If
I suffered over the American visa, Karim suffered far more. People harassed him
continually to speak to me about their
cases.
His upstairs neighbor was stalking him. As a precautionary measure, Karim peeped through the hole in his door before he opened it. He screened all his phone calls.
"Why
don't we pretend it's an interview so he'll stop nagging me? He refuses to
believe that you don't work for the Embassy," Karim said.
When
I arrived at Karim's flat, Hassan had already been there for an hour and a half.
Hassan was comfortably seated in one of Karim's living room chairs, which had
the feeling of beach furniture—wooden swaybacks with floral yellow cushions.
Karim had opted for taste and comfort over stiff formality in his reception
room.
Karim's
brother, Hany, had placed plastic flowers on pedestals in corners of the
reception room. The only other Syrian touch: Karim had hung his M.A. and Ph.d
diplomas from Great Britain on the wall behind the couch.
After
greeting Hassan, I settled on the couch. Karim stood with his tray, a small
metallic flask for Turkish coffee, balanced on top.
"Biddak
qahwa?" Karim said, a
cigarette, dangling from his lips. Sometimes, he reminded me a little of
Humphrey Bogart.
He
didn't wait for the answer, but poured the strong coffee into Hassan's thimble
cup.
Hassan
didn't know a single word of English so the interview was conducted in Arabic.
"Andak awlad?" I asked. Children were always a good way to start
a conversation.
"Andi sabi wa binten," he said, smiling. Two daughters and a
son. Sons came first.
Hassan
wasn't bad looking. He was tall and athletic. He kept crossing his legs, one way
and then the other.
I
had already told him I didn't work for the Embassy, but he didn't believe me.
"Ma fi forsa hun," he said. There is no opportunity here.
Family
in America? He shook his head. Did he speak English? He shook his head. What was
his training? Butcher.
Without
language, work, and family, it would be difficult to get a visa from the
Embassy, I explained.
"He
wants to go to America without his wife and children," Karim commented,
after he left.
"Just
flat out abandon them," I said.
A
few weeks later, Hassan, the butcher, asked Karim if I would marry him so he
could get to the States. Surely, he wasn't serious?
Karim
was not amused. Neither was I.
Although I had not forgotten how he behaved in Tuscaloosa, I felt guilty leaving Karim behind in the darkness of Syria. But why should I marry the butcher, a man I didn't know, who was already married with children, so he could emigrate to the United States? The half-baked plan was outrageous. Syria was maddening. I was angry and exhausted. Why was it my responsibility to save all Syrians?
A
few days before I left Syria, I went shopping with Muriel. Afterwards, we went
up to the Burj to have tea and mamul,
a puffed pastry with soft, white cheese inside. The roof of the tower had a
panoramic view of Lattakia. You could not see the trash on the beach, or the
tenement-style high rises. Just white buildings, the infinite blue sky, and the
shimmering Mediterranean, as if it were Greece.
Muriel
often told me the most awful stories, with great relish. When I was gone, she
might not have anyone to share her horror. I imagined how stories would bottle
up for years, until one day, she exploded in a devouring rage.
"My
husband's sister is your age and has eight children. She is this wide," she
said, gesturing. "The other day when we were in the village, my
brother-in-law gestured to four of his daughters and said, ‘One son is worth
four of you. Imagine your father saying that to you.’"
"I'm
sure my father's happy he has a son. But no, he would never say such a cruel
thing," I said.
Muriel
leaned forward and said conspiratorially, as if she were telling me a tidbit
about the Assads, “You made the
right decision. I know you love Karim and he loves you, but love is not enough.
Look at me. Do you want my life?”
"I'll
miss you," I said.
I
respected her for telling me the truth about her life.
Self-delusion was so much easier, and less painful.
Instead, she could have sold marriage, so that her choice would be
vindicated.
Saying
goodbye to Karim was hard. At the airport, he wept. I had never seen him cry in
the entire two years I had known him. No man had been so devoted to me. I felt
only sadness and remorse.
At
the same time, I could not save Karim. I could not save his enormous family. I
could not save Syria.
I
imagined the world beyond, as Karim
would say. Not a life, where I was ensnared. Suppressed. Suffocated. Reined in.
As
difficult as it was to admit, Muriel was right.
Love was just not enough.
©2002 Gretchen McCullough
Gretchen McCullough was raised in Harlingen, Texas. After graduating from Brown University in 1984, she taught in Egypt, Turkey, and Japan. She earned her M.F.A. from the University of Alabama in 1995, and was awarded a Teaching Fulbright to Syria from 1997-1999. Excerpts of her novel, The Cleopatra School, have been published in The Texas Review and The Alaska Quarterly Review. A radio essay about her experiences in Syria aired in April 2000 on All Things Considered. Other essays about Syria have appeared in the on-line journal, Archipelago: "Syria: Living in Wild and Marvelous Stories," Vol. 5. No. 1., April 2001 and "The Third Party is Always Watching," Vol. 5. No. 4, January 2002. The Sugar House, a fifteen-minute play was performed at the Famous for Fifteen Theatre Festival at the American University in Cairo in April 2001. The same play was chosen for the Play Lab at the Edward Albee Last Frontier Conference in June 2001. She teaches Playwriting and Composition at the American University in Cairo.