Hiller in Syria: Taxis, Iraqis and a Christian Muhammad

By BETSY O’NEIL

Betsy O’Neil is a lifetime Chestnut Hill resident and teacher at Penn Charter Middle School who is currently living in Damascus Syria. She has been sending back reports to the Local periodically about living as a Western woman in the Middle East. Here is her latest report.

Taxis figure prominently in my life. I have just about mastered the standard Arabic taxi lingo and am both amazed and very proud when I give directions, arrive, pay and get out without speaking any English. A small yet powerful linguistic victory.

I was trying to catch a taxi the other night outside the main part of Damascus, in Jeramana. It was about 9 p.m., when the city comes alive (that blazing sun has set). People stay awake much later, and even children's bedtimes seem non-existent. Often I see kids of all ages out to dinner with their families at midnight and beyond. This may change as the school year sets in, although I doubt it.

Thank God I was not in a hurry, because there were no free taxis to be had. And I was not the only person waiting for one. We were all flagging down the little yellow cars in the distance only to find them filled with passengers as they approached. I am still insecure about my Syrian "taxi wave.” I have gathered from my daily observations that it consists of a quick and small "come here" gesture with the hand; however, when I get desperate and feel invisible, I throw my arm up like I was on Fifth Avenue. In this street, on this night, I did not want appear so competitive. I made a new plan and opted to take a bus, the 10-seater micro-bus. Alas, they zipped by us because they were all full. Unlike many countries, they do not cram people in like sardines. It must be a law  because they truly never fill up beyond capacity. 

On to my next plan, I started waving down taxis already filled with passengers. In Syria, this is not a strange occurrence. When a man first got into the front seat of my taxi, I assumed it was the driver's friend. When it kept happening I thought that Damascus was a really small city and that many people knew each other. Then, a couple of weeks into my trip, I realized they were customers, just like me. I liked this system. What the heck? If you want a ride, who cares who is in the taxi? Some of the unspoken rules: Men must stay in the front if there is a woman passenger in the car. The original passenger gets dropped off first.

I flagged down a taxi with women in the back. He stopped and I did my best, "Iza Betreed, Bidi roo carib min asafara fransea?"

"Tafadlee," my approval.

I got in the front seat, which was new for me. I did not care at this point because I wanted to get back to the city, and I had been actively trying to get a ride for close to 30 minutes. I noticed the driver had on his seat belt, which is a very rare sighting in these parts. I put mine on too. It felt so strange and binding, because I had adjusted so easily again to "going beltless,” like the 1970s, when we all flew around inside giant station wagons on our way anywhere, near or far. I have yet to see a baby seat; children are often up front on their mothers' laps. This is the case in much of the world, but at first it takes your breath away. And, cars are dangerous here. Pedestrians get hit, and there are frequent collisions. I have already seen both. Of my new Syrian friends, several have lost family members in automobile accidents.

After about 15 minutes of driving back into the heart of the city, I decided to turn around and give the silent nod to the women in the back. They accepted my greeting, and immediately we all started chatting. The regular questions.

"America," my answer.”

"Oh, I knew it, by your accent," everyone agreed, including the driver.

"We are Iraqi." The daughter, who was around my age, had been living in Syria for three years, and her mom was just visiting. Her mom was from Baghdad.

"Kayf (How is) Baghdad?" Her eyes turned sad, but she knew I meant well.

"Humdillilah (Thanks be to God). Peace," she replied while looking up to the sky and giving the international hand circling that I took to mean "peace on earth".

We all four, ladies and driver, muttered "Yes, peace, peace for the world, Inshallah." Everyone had siblings in the USA. The Iraqi ladies had family in New Jersey.

I was not surprised the women were Iraqi because Jeramana has an Iraqi refugee population which has been growing recently. In fact, that was why I was there. Through a Syrian ( and Assyrian) friend, I circulated the idea that I wanted to volunteer for their community and it turned out they had just started classes in English, computers and Syriac (the language still spoken by many Assyrian Christians) at a Catholic Church in their neighborhood. They were thrilled to have a native speaker teach. They were managing at this point with some teenaged Iraqi girls whose English was about as good as an average American High School sophomore's Spanish. Okay for getting around but abysmal for teaching/transmitting any language literacy.

The refugee situation in Jeramana is a sad story. This community is predominantly Christian. Assyrian Christian. Their community became Christian soon after the time of Jesus (known as Issa here). They have lived (since way before Issa's teachings) in the Iraq, Syrian, Lebanon area for thousands of years (think Mesopotamia). Over time their numbers have dwindled. This is a history I know little about, so I will stop my summary here.

In the last three months, about 70 families came to Syria following attacks on their families and communities by fundamentalists in  Iraq. There have been numerous kidnappings accompanied by ransoms that have, in a day, wiped out families’ savings. The women have been harassed (I heard of a young girl being forced to strip in front of these men at gunpoint) because as a community they do not wear the veil. Christians live as a minority among Muslims in Syria and also Iraq. Under Saddam these divisions were carefully managed. Since the U. S. involvement, many Christians surmise they are being persecuted because of their religious link with the “American occupiers.” The man organizing the classes, Malki, told me this aggression is new for his generation and tragic. It is impossible for me to understand their choice: staying in their country as continuous targets  of a militant ferocity or leaving their homeland, most likely forever. Another community that has persisted for millennia is thinned out and sprinkled throughout the globe. Australia has offered immigration to many families. That is why the English is so crucial.

I have noticed in Syria that the Christians as a whole socialize more in co-ed settings. The celebrations are mixed; boys and girls are not secluded from one another in casual or religious (church) situations. Women do not wear veils. Drinking alcohol is not forbidden. Of course there are numerous agnostic and Muslim families who are also coed in their social settings, yet, I am merely pointing out the differences as I see them in general terms. A typical middle-class Christian family living in Syria has a life that differs somewhat distinctly from their Muslim counterparts. These groups often tend to live within their own religious communities as well.

An Assyrian Syrian friend of mine, who is devoted to the plight of this community, took me to visit Malki to discuss possible teaching arrangements. Inside his home I was greeted warmly by everyone. Much to my amazement, I met Vivian, Suzanne, Angela and Thomas. These names are not the Muslim names I had become accustomed to over the last two months. I was especially touched because my grandmother was named Vivian; my dad is Thomas, and my Mom and sister-in-law are both Suzannes. For a moment my worlds superimposed themselves onto one another. It was hearing the name of my grandmother Vivian that gave this visit its most surreal attribute.

In Iraq, they told me, in Saddam's later years, it was forbidden to use non-Muslim names for your children. Their friends would go to get a birth certificate only to be told that John or David was not acceptable. So, they had to pick something else. At times the official, annoyed or in haste, would say, "Muhammad,” and that would be that. Their Christian baby boy was now officially Muhammad.

I feel honored to be able to spend time here in Jeramana. Their lives do not resemble mine and yet, as is always the case with human beings, we find empathy, laughter, and generosity in our present moment together. I began teaching a few weeks ago, and their exuberance manages to mask what must, no doubt, be deep sadness about leaving the land of their ancestors.