A House in Damascus - Before the Fall

by Brian Stoddart

  From there up towards the Roman Arch and the up-market Naranj restaurant, there was more residential accommodation, along with a few local craft suppliers mixed in with provisions shops, more Orientals, and a marvellously kitsch souvenir shop purveying all the Bashar al-Assad key rings and fridge magnets anyone would ever need. Pharmacies were strewn through this, with all the modern drugs and no need for a prescription. The chemists were surrounded by bakers, the odd pizza outlet, coffee shops, a few bars, and many liquor shops. From Amin Street up to Souk Medhat Pasha there were all the nut shops, metal and wood workers, nargileh sellers, general provisions merchants, and the first of the sweets and soaps sellers who marked the beginning of the spice market that led down to the Hamidiyeh.

  It was in that section up near Souk Medhat Pasha that I found the rug man. He was extremely chatty from the first time I met him, and very fluent in English. While educated in Damascus, he had gone off to the Gulf to make a living as a small time business executive. It had not really worked out for him. First, he did not like Dubai—the Gulf Arabs were different, he thought, and he never felt at home there. This, once more, was a timely reminder of the dangers in stereotyping people just because it seemed they had the same background. Arabs they were, certainly, but with different traditions and ideas. Second, he discovered he was not, as he described it, a "company man". So he returned to Damascus, and tallied his skills: he had good English, liked people, loved to talk, had energy and enthusiasm. That all added up to becoming a shopkeeper, but not a run of the mill one in the souk, because he had higher goals.

  The carpets came about because he had developed some networks while in Dubai, and because he spotted a gap in the market in Straight Street. His logic was that if there were that many tourists now flocking to Via Recta, then at least a few of them would have an idealised view of the "Orient" and be inclined to replicate Aladdin. He was right. Never mind that Damascus had never really had a great rug tradition, if it was there and sourced from Iran, it was an attraction. In truth, most of his stock was from central Asia or Pakistan, but he kept a good range, and he knew how to sell. His shop was one of the most attractive on the street, and he had put much time and effort into achieving that, figuring that an attractive shop was more likely to attract customers cowed somewhat by the appearance and nature of the other outlets nearby. He was making a fortune.

  He had a plan, though—to retire at forty. At this point he might have been thirty, just. Already, he had bought a ten acre property outside Damascus. The house was yet to be built, but the "farm" was already being laid out to gardens, orchards, shrubs, and stock yards. When he decided the time was right to marry, he would then build the house. In the meanwhile, he went to work the property every weekend, investing some of his takings from the rugs. As capital accumulated, he would also buy some properties in the Old Cities because he saw rental rates rising and demand not slowing. Within ten years, he thought, he would be able to retire, enjoy the farm and the family he would have by then, and live on the rental from the Damascus properties as well as the shop sales that would be overseen by a trusted manager.

  This was as disciplined an approach to career development as might be found anywhere, and somehow that made him just the latest of a long line of Damascene traders who had thought this way for several generations over hundreds of years. So long as young people like him could flourish, so would the Old City, and Syria. It is to be hoped that his plans have not been dashed too much.

  A Genuine Kilim

  ~

  He had terrible emphysema, the result of a lifetime's smoking in the Arab tradition.

  People in Damascus would offer a cigarette in the expectation that most Europeans would say "no," then would seek permission to smoke themselves. Some would not bother, like the taxi driver late one afternoon who must have been smoking something homemade, because its acridity made Gauloise seem like mild Virginia. It was the evil of two lesser that day: open the window and risk pneumonia, or close it and risk lung cancer by association.

  This man, though, smoked on gamely while plying his daily trade in the Hamidiyeh. The shop was narrow fronted like the rest, with a mezzanine reached by a narrow winding set of stairs that required a significant bend at the waist to avoid head-butting the roof. He had the range of goods shared by his neighbouring competitors: silver, pashmina, swords, stones, scarves, damask, Damascene boxes, brass and copper, some Roman coins and, naturally, "special rare" pieces. He also had rare rugs, he said.

  So-called Persian rugs have long held a fascination for the West and were really one of the mainstays of the caravan trade towards the end of its most triumphant period. Into the twentieth century, the "silk road" was still really the rug road and Ian Catanach, who inspired my study of Asia at the University of Canterbury, early on recounted a visit to Isfahan and the buying of a rug. By the late twentieth century every major town in the West, it seemed, had a string of "rug special" shops, where "export sales" and "receivers auctions" promised treasures from Iran and elsewhere at ridiculous prices. It was really the "elsewhere" that sourced most of this rather than the genuine centres of Tabriz, Isfahan , Qum and Shiraz, but the mystique remained. The rug became totemic in the West from at least the eighteenth century onwards, if not earlier, perhaps "the " most common signifier of the "Oriental."

  The 1979 Iranian revolution put a big dent in the trade, and from then on places like Pakistan, Turkmenistan and similar places in the region began flooding the world with carpets, perfectly good products but nowhere near the handmade masterpieces produced before for hundreds of years. Yet the markets in Damascus continued to be full of shops selling rugs, specialist ones as well as the generalists like my man in the souk.

  "Do you like rugs?" he coughed.

  Yes, I do.

  "Well, then, I have very special rugs."

  I am sure you do.

  "You will see some very special items."

  I am sure I will.

  By now he was pulling at a pile of rugs in the top attic, amidst the chess sets, coffee tables, boxes, jewellery and crusader helmets.

  I will not be buying.

  "But you will when you see this particular one, a chance in a lifetime," he spluttered, sipping coffee and drawing on a cigarette simultaneously, a wondrous feat for a man in his condition.

  "I will show you some others first."

  Out came a ragged-backed monstrosity, clearly knocked up yesterday in some nearby factory.

  "This is very good. Iranian."

  Oh yes.

  "You like it, very good deal."

  No, don't like the colour.

  "Never mind, I have more, and a very special one."

  Over the next few minutes several "Iranian" and "special" carpets appeared, all obviously machine-made recently, with little pile, and self-evidently woollen rather than the silk being claimed.

  The "very special" one then appeared.

  "You will need to buy this one today."

  Why?

  "Very rare. I only bought it myself yesterday off a man from Iran."

  What is it?

  "It is a genuine Kilim, at least sixty years old and there are no more of them. It will not be in the shop long. You are the first to see it, special price for you because it is Friday."

  This rarity looked suspiciously younger than sixty. In fact, its seller looked older. It also looked machine-made, the trim finish a giveaway. It colours were nondescript and, again, it had an unfinished back.

  How much do you want for this treasure?

  "For you, I have a very special price, 34,000 Syrian pounds [then about $750].

  You know, I do not like it that much, and I do not think it worth that money.

  "It is a genuine Kilim!"

  Even so.

  "OK, for you, 24,000."

  That's interesting. But I am not buying today, I will go away and think about it.

  "It will not last."

  That will be my loss.

  "18,000."


  By departure time, the rug's price was at 12,000 and falling, rather undercutting the veracity of the genuine Kilim claim, and that was where it was left.

  A couple of days later, he loomed up out of the souk throng again.

  "Fortunately for you, the carpet is still here, come and have a look."

  How much?

  "10,000, quickly, come and see."

  There was time to do that, curiosity overpowering logic.

  Up the winding stairs again, banging the head.

  Out came the carpet—a different one!

  That is not the Kilim.

  "Oh yes sir, it is, for you just 9,000, you are very lucky it is still here."

  I certainly am.

  Over the lengthy course of my subsequent experiment, the Kilim changed guise three more times, and the price bottomed at 5,000.

  When I finally left Damascus, the "genuine Kilim" was still in the shop, awaiting anyone interested.

  Living With/out Language

  ~

  He was Palestinian, he said, and had lived in Damascus for twenty six years. Damascus was fine, but "Palestina" was great.

  It was late in the day, with winter darkening everything early just before Xmas when he came to a stop in his taxi. "Ah,"he said, on discovering the Australian connection, "you are from Sydney."

  Melbourne.

  "Sydney. Do you speak Arabiye?"

  Now that was an unusual question from a taxi driver.

  "You should always speak Arabic. Arabic, Arabic, Arabic."

  Unpredictably, he then commenced delivering lessons in Arabic.

  We were swinging along past the new and imminent mall monster on Shukri Al Quatli, before hiving off over Port Said Street and through Marjeh Square before moving up onto Al Beit and Hariqa. The traffic was congested and driving difficult, but the lessons kept coming, along with his excellent rendition of Australia's "thet's noice," and the difference between Australian "yiss" and American "yah."

  Where do you get all this?

  "I have a lot of people ride in my taxi."

  Yes, but you must have an excellent ear.

  Along the way, the Arabic lessons transmuted for a period into a discussion about the United Nations—you had to be there to understand how and why. We worked out he thought Kofi Annan had been good enough, but Ban Ki Moon did not rate, mainly because of the apparently frenzied inaction on Palestine. I wonder what he thought of Kofi Annan not all that much later?

  As elsewhere in the Arab world, the Palestinian running sore is felt keenly in Syria. All through Medhat Pasha, in particular, but in all the other markets as well, the PLO scarves were ubiquitous, along with Palestinian key rings, fridge magnets, bumper stickers, mugs, plates, clocks and flags. The scarves had evolved: in earlier years they were simple, usually the black and white checked ones with the Palestine colours of black, red, white and green, as worn by Yasser Arafat, in the tassels at the ends. Now, there were a variety of main colours for the checks, and an illustration of the Dome on the Rock, with the words "We Will Return", appearing just above the coloured tassels.

  That ambition of return is a brave hope long sustained, particularly in the refugee camps. There are almost a dozen of those all over Syria, springing up first in the immediate aftermath of Israel's creation in 1948, then after each of the successive conflicts. Well over one hundred thousand people live in those official camps, that number matched by the "unofficial" Yarmouk camp alone. It lies in the south-western suburbs of Damascus and has its own hospital, clinic and educational services assisted by the UN. It is very close to the Al Tadamun district, and both figured prominently when the 2011-12 unrest spread into Damascus. By mid-2012 there was fierce fighting through there and both areas, along with the Midan, sustained substantial damage and loss of life. In sympathy with all the inhabitants of all those camps in Syria and elsewhere throughout the Levant, regional news reports had long continued to refer to "Occupied Jerusalem". Ban Ki Moon has his work cut out, and a host of watching critics, like my taxi driver.

  "Ride in my taxi more, and you will learn Arabic."

  If only it was that easy.

  Before 2011-12, Damascus hosted hundreds if not thousands of foreign students learning Arabic, an encouraging sign for the future, because with language comes far better cultural understanding, obviously. That was not always immediately the case, however. One young English student explained to me at length how he and his pals had defended the honour of a female friend, whose honour was besmirched when a local pinched her bum. They chased him through the streets, apprehended him, then frog-marched him to a police station, only to be dismayed by the constabulary's apparent lack of interest in doing anything. The students' social incomprehension on that score was matched only by their blissful ignorance of the high risk factors involved that keep university managers awake at night.

  There was an obvious oddity in this rising popularity: the taste for Damascus, as a site for exchange programs and intensive short courses, had developed over roughly the same stage as Syria's evolution into a pariah state, especially in the case of the United States, even though the change from Bush to Obama had allowed for a little more hope of improved interaction. Nevertheless, Damascus and Syria were paradoxes again: the "outside " was still deeply suspicious, yet sent its best and brightest there to learn Arabic. Similar students had been there much earlier. The present boss of the England and Wales Cricket Board took a degree in Arabic studies, then spent a year in Damascus during the 1970s, learning the language in the immediate aftermath of Hafez al-Assad's power grab. This was very close to the Damascus as described by Colin Thubron, and the then-student recalled much later he had few if any foreign colleagues. He did remember that the beer was good, though.

  Whatever the inner contradictions here, however, the Antipodean view has to be positive. Being in Damascus yet again reaffirmed the national weaknesses inherent in the continued breeding of essentially monocultural generations, at the very time language skills are increasingly needed. Language teaching in Australia and New Zealand has always struggled, but even more than normal in recent years as a result of cost cutting and budget restraint. Teaching languages is cost intensive, too much so for the new university funding orders. The net result is that Australians increasingly find themselves meeting Europeans who speak three or four languages easily, including English, and in Syria, locals who might speak French, English, Italian, German or anything else. In the face of this, Australia's Department of Foreign Affairs would shortly after say it did not think it important to have a Hindi-speaking High Commissioner in New Delhi. The easy "out" for Australians is to argue that the Syrians have always been on the trade routes and keen to trade, so language was a necessity. Yes, but those Syrians are also in a region and a context where language skill is imperative, so they commit. The general Australian answer is that more and more people speak English, so why bother learning anything else?

  It was possible to survive in Damascus and Syria without knowing Arabic, but any small attempt to use the language was met with delight and encouragement. Many locals were also keen to exercise their English—the friend met in the Sarouja barber shop was a case in point.

  "My English does not get used, so I am trying to find conversation."

  The young man in the bookshop next to the office had exactly the same outlook. Every time I went in there, he would come up and we would spend half an hour in English conversation so that he might practice a little more, and the Arabic-English dictionary was always at hand to clarify a precise meaning.

  But in not knowing Arabic there is always the sense of missing out on things, especially when a long slab of Arabic is translated back as just a couple of words. A friend in a shop said:

  "we should speak in English more around you, but we need Arabic to say things more fully."

  Therein lies a powerful and potent point, demonstrated almost every day in office debates over the precise meaning of a bland English word, because in Arabic there might be, say,
five nuanced variations that could be used for that word in question. The richness of Arabic is surely the key to outsiders understanding more clearly how the place works.

  "Lost in translation" became more of an international shorthand in wake of the Bill Murray film, and it did so because of an inherent appreciation of just how important this issue is in resolving differences, and that was precisely the point made by the Palestinian taxi driver: "always speak Arabic, Arabic, Arabic."

  Hammam Bakri Spectacle

  ~

  Anywhere in the world, selecting the right spectacle frames is serious business, especially when buying for someone else, namely spouse, even if the model and serial numbers are recorded. The same was true in this shop, in crowded Hammam Bakri Street in the Christian Quarter, just down from the bath house that gives its name to the street but which seemed to have been closed permanently for repairs. While one shop assistant hunted my specified numbers, another assisted a woman there with her daughter, and struggling to choose.

  Three models were shortlisted, all narrow-framed and oblong in the latest style, but in different colours. The mirror was consulted frequently, and there was great discussion between salesman and customer before the latter cast out a question.

  "What do you think? Nice?"

  Me?

  She had the typically interesting local face, high cheekbones, etched features, dark haired, in her late forties perhaps, slim, well dressed. The daughter was early twenties, tiny, attractive, and bemused by this turn of events.