The kitchen floor is covered by a dirty old so that some signs will not go away ever, as they are tattooed in the tile. The decor is poor: low and threadbare sofa, kitchenette equipped with electric oven, fridge noisy, small sink for washing dishes and teeth, topped by a shelf full of containers with spices of all kinds. At first, a narrow wooden staircase leading to second floor with two bedrooms. In the common area can be entered through a door on the ground floor, past a marble steps. When it rains, water drips into the house from the two openings on the sides of the roof, sometimes there is a bird careless slips. Fortunately it does not rain often in Damascus. During this period, but it's cold, we are in January. In the small room with the door closed there is a space heater electricity which is struggling to heat the room. Tuncay, turkish Hantakya of Arabic origin with, slowly turns his Çay with the natural charm it has. It is perhaps the fifth tea within an hour that I sipped, accompanied by another cigarette. Yusuf, also of Hantakya, curled up on the sofa reads poems by Lorca. Rasha, the host of the house, is sitting in front of me and I will pay Çay dark in a small glass. She lived alone until recently, now Yusuf Tuncay and live here, both to study Arabic. Hantakya, what remains of the ancient and splendid Antioch, mentioned in the Bible, is a village between green mountains teeming with life, not far from the Syrian border. The inhabitants are often bilingual, ethnicity difficult to classify. The territory is Turkey, the culture of a gradient transition between the Arabs and Turks. Since the two boys children speak Arabic at home, but have never studied, taught in Turkish schools. Now I'm in Damascus to learn the grammar and writing, studying at the local university. It gives them a way to discover, strengthen, a cultural heritage that the turkish border, administrative division and existential, wanted to bury. In Damascus they found Rasha, which started a life together, sharing the rent and teach their languages. Among the three of them speak Arabic, I speak turkish boys, and me and Rasha English. We are immersed in an intersection, a small town in the heat created by this girl in his house, just steps from Baghdad street, near the old city gates. I met through couchsurfing, a website that connects jobseekers and offers hospitality. One way to cut travel expenses, and that is going directly into the places that you lived through it, without mediation. In Syria it is illegal, Rasha go there by using proxy servers that circumvent the limits imposed by the government. Facebook and Youtube are also prohibited. But, insensitive to the prohibitions, Rasha has turned his home into a place of passage is open, he sees travelers of all nationalities to stop, start, and share with her discussion, information and moments of life. It takes some courage, since it is a lonely woman in a conservative district, in a fascist state. The people murmured, but she does not care. His time, when not working or studying, the dedication to share all he knows about his country with travelers. It is an inexhaustible source, aware of the state of things, witty and ironic, rebellious, wise, and with a background of melancholy, however, where lies an unbeatable optimism. His eyes are deep and dug by sleepless nights talking and reading, an agile body, the soft voice and to me mysterious and beautiful Arab woman. The mother is Christian, his father an atheist communist, as she is called, moreover, that the name given to her daughter Rasha in honor of Soviet Russia. He comes from a very small Christian village on the border with Iraq, which has moved here to the university, English Literature. The father had a great influence on her, when she was little was a bust of Lenin in the house she looked curious, the father then said it was a statue of his grandfather, who died some time ago, and could talk to him whenever he wished. You have established an intimate relationship with the figure of confidence that accompanied her throughout her childhood. Years later, he found the school books that maybe this man, Lenin, was not his grandfather, and although at first it was saddened today laughs and sometimes still refers to him as the beloved "Grandpa Lenin." Escape routes granted to the imagination, here in Syria, where the imagination has been linked to a ball and chain. Other
Cay, another cigarette. We spend the afternoon so, Rasha has never tired of my questions, and I'm too busy with his stories. "Bashar is a dictator and politics in Syria is a farce," he says, almost expressionless. Bashar al-Assad is the Syrian president, son of the late Hafiz al-Asad from 1994 and probably until his death. "When Hafiz died, he made sure that the president went to the eldest son, Basil, who died the same year in a car accident ... Yani, the party in power is the same for forty years, the Baath, they are Alawite, and Hafiz has just turned the presidency into a hereditary office. Bashar then studied ophthalmology in London and did not know anything about politics. Found himself president from day to day.. " "There are elections," he laughs, "but as I told you have no value. Voting age, people without ID card and there is no control. In my village there were more of the total voting population in the last election ... so. The newspapers write that we are a democracy, we compare it to prove to the United States where they have two parties, but here we have seven, and for this we should be more democratic! There are also two Communist parties ... "his eyes hold the spoon. The cult of President Bashar is pervasive, just take a walk to notice. His picture stands out in every place, in all sizes, offices and shops. With outstretched arm, while drinking tea, with sunglasses and military uniform. He's ridiculous, his face is trivial, gray, idiotic expression seems to confirm that he has to feel out of place. Yet it is revered, at least in public, and openly criticizing him take risks. I once asked a guy in the souk what he thought of Bashar and he smiled making me excited sign with his thumb up. So I insisted on asking him what was the difference between the current president and his father. Showing a clenched fist saying "this was Hafiz," then opens the hand as if to give, "that is Bashar, still smiling. Rasha in the story: "Sure, people think that because Bashar has given homes to the poor is more good ... ... is just populism pfu, keeps the people ignorant and in the hospital, relies on them to consolidate his power, see it as a quasi-religious leader, above the error, because it is wrong to assume that considered treason. These are the two pillars of his power: mass enclosed in the mental cage of religion, and fear that feeds the government towards foreigners, the West and Israel, creating a permanent state of war ... then it's official, we are at war since 1948, with Israel, there is martial law and emergency powers for the president. "civil society, this mirage in the Syrian desert, where is it? "He struggles to survive, people do three jobs because prices are high and the pay poor, has no time for politics. Manifest? Need government permission. Usually allow critical events with the policy only to bring together all in one place and stop them. But the government sometimes organizes events ... oh yes, calls the people to the streets to support the Palestinians, Iraqis, Somalis, but for us Yani Syrians do not show that?! That's what we really need. "
"The problem is cultural. We agree to be subject to laws against human dignity and freedom of expression. For example, a husband may divorce his wife without having to guarantee anything, so leave it as they please, and maybe has two or three wives. Who is surprised to jerk goes to jail, and there is a widespread denunciation, even without evidence. Even the honor killing is permissible, not make you some, but a father who kills the daughter who lost her virginity before marriage does not go to jail .... I mean that women themselves are to allow this, there is an underground schizophrenia, stagnation sets and consumption, ways to enhance the creative minds and the speeches are all self critical blocked. And what is worse, even from ourselves. "Rasha speaks freely about sexuality, we both know that all power in history has ever exercised its power in this area more subtle and unobtrusive: if you come to regulate the bodies in their intimacy, in their emotional reactions, can be reached in order to stifle the imagination of alternatives to the facts of power. In Syria, sexuality and individual conduct are subject to patriarchal control of religious morality, a set of permissions and prohibitions that are structured in coercion whose foundation is supposed sacred. It becomes like a closed circle: the religious interpretation that makes instrumental use of power. The truth is all there, past, present and future, all resolved in the text, in the interpretation of the text. It is not necessary to go further, it makes no sense to experiment with other approaches and other roads, since perfection has been achieved in the sources and you should not do anything but imitate. Identity becomes dominated by memory, her reflection, and provides the tools for understanding the real are poor and granite. Of course, the conditions of this closure and cultural stasis is maintained, pursued by institutions, cultural and political: they use the text as legitimation of power, and its truth as the truth of power. Religion, politics, tradition, mingle and reduce until it becomes limited to the change and stress in an open eclectic. This is what Rasha see how the current problem of the Arabs, Christians and Muslims. The difficulty of creating culture mixing different contributions, expressing themselves in new languages, producing knowledge. The power of knowledge is concerned, the individual is not interested in creative, it aspires to the mass, the number in which the individual disappears, to eliminate the risk of contradiction to the principles on which it rests. Ignorance and fear of change are the true blessings of power. "My brother, who grew up with me is very conservative. Some time ago I brought a man to marry, because he says the time has come, now I have put off suitors and I can not ... I told him to mind his own business, which the body is mine and I have to decide ... I do not want to get married, especially not with someone you do not even know. But the issue is that certain topics are not openly challenge. I have no friend to talk freely about sex for them is not an experience a family affair individual. It's frustrating. Sometimes I think they are afraid to rebel, and other times that fit, which begin to imagine their lives in this same vision, and become involved in, ready to play it again ... But the contradiction is obvious, they go to buy expensive lingerie that never show up at the wedding, spend their days at the hairdresser and then cover with a veil or shave your whole body and horrified because I do not. They do not know why they do what they do, follow the convention, they realize that their lives are subjected to the gratification of the male. " Rasha doubt appreciates, nurtures a lively curiosity about what is unknown, that Western culture or sexuality. "The best books I've read I have found them by myself ... university teaching methods are based on memorization, there is no criticism or review, you must drink it all. The absurd thing is that students most fans as they leave, allowing scholarships here because their potential is humiliated. " It almost seems that the system pushes the best to leave. After all, the brilliant minds are the first enemy of the established order, especially when the order is a closed system that has in it the whole truth. "The West then ... how many I've seen travelers coming Syria to seek the East, the traditions ... the guilt is too! And their governments. I'm not interested in the state of minority of the Syrian people, human rights are a political affair that put in the field when they have the convenience, look what happens in Palestine. And hell they have done in Iraq? ... To the west we are a market, gives us his inventions and there makes them seem indispensable, but it invites us to have the brain that invented them and helps us to develop one. We are instruments, or enemies on which to launch bombs. They need us to exploit or destroy us. "The hypocrisy of Europe, to see it from here, is obvious. In the intellectual class tends to attributed to the Syrians, like the Arabs in general, an 'ideology of backwardness cloaked in charm. The nature of certain things, on cultural heritage, the origins, tradition, intended to leave the Arab confined to the past, pure and immune from decay or closed back in his world, depending on usage quota dictated by political needs and economic. When you hear talk of dialogue with the Arabs, with whom the European governments are talking to? They have a vague idea of \u200b\u200bthe complexity and diversity of the Arab world? And, even more importantly, are ready to go to the extreme consequences of advocating values \u200b\u200bthat, by agreeing to base the dialogue on the recognition of the right the life of all people? The Palestinians as the Israelis? It seems that Europe is incapable of making political choices and develop a thought independently by the U.S.. Rasha has no such prejudices, he absorbed much from the European culture, books, film, music and ideas. Given its knowledge of English and Arabic can draw on the cultural production of these two worlds with ease. Paradoxically, it has a broader vision of a European student who studied philosophy and limit themselves to Western production, even if you live in the suffocating cultural Syrian aphasia.
the radio are turning Fairouz, the Lebanese singer, a legend throughout the Arab world. It is on the scene for forty years and fans call our ambassador to the stars, for his warm tone and suffering that takes you away. She grew up with more than one generation and the Syrians prefer especially. Rasha sings with his eyes half closed, while warming a thin slice of bread on the stove. Tuncay brings to the table and Hommos muttebel, two Syrian specialties for which they are greedy. Chickpeas and eggplant with yogurt and cumin, crushed until creamy. To accompany the inevitable tea. We eat in silence, Fairouz fills the room, we exchange glances that have no tongues, near and beyond the difficulties that we know well. Out of this leads many of our conversations are unthinkable, and yet we take them on the roads simply continuing to live, during and after. Rasha want to travel and learn about the world, but his heart is linked to Syria, she is the oil that keeps the flame burning. The problem is the visas, borders and money. His first trip will do it in Gaziantep, Turkey, when the host in my house. There is a poem that reminds me of her dreams, injustice, hope. She wrote Mohamad al-Maghout, a Syrian poet who knew the prison and exile, without ever leaving his two passions, laughing and smoking. In poetry there is something universal, all men can understand. "Oh! The dream, the dream! / My strong golden chariot is in need of repair / her wheels are scattered like gypsies everywhere. / One night I dreamed the spring / wake and flowers were scattered on my pillow. / I once dreamed of the sea / and in the morning my bed was full of shells and fins of fish. / But when I dreamed of freedom / sharp spears surrounded my neck to give me a good morning / From now on you will not find me in the ports or between the station / there ... but in public libraries / asleep on the maps of the world / (such as sleeping on the orphan sidewalks) / where my lips touch more than a river / and my tears roll down / from continent to continent. "
