In Aleppo

In one of our sessions, Claire, Jennifer, and Matthew handed out examples of their own writing and conducted a workshop on these texts with small groups of Syrian students.
I chose an inappropriate writing sample. Being literal when [Dr. B] said "chose an unfinished piece," I chose a piece about Northern Ireland that I desperately wanted to be good. But when there's the whole personal essay problem I had. Then I chose a piece which not only brings up politics but also includes a lot of swearing. I read my essay out loud and feel incredibly self-conscious about saying the word "fuck." I generally don't swear like a sailor but usually don't feel all that self conscious when I do.

The students latch on to the politics a little bit, fascinated by fighting in Northern Ireland. "But are they really different?" "What do they look like?" But mostly they are bothered by the way I've written my essay, in my violation of writing rules like:

• never begin an essay with a quote
• spell everything correctly
• have a thesis statement
• don't begin sentences with but or because

I fear that my flagrant disregard of writing rules (which really isn't flagrant at all) might cause civil unrest. But everyone is very friendly and interested in the paper. A few men start off dominating the conversation but then one woman starts interjecting with incredibly helpful comments, pointing out places where she is confused, descriptions she likes, ones she doesn't like and asks about the ending, which I hate. None of the students have ever worked together on a paper like this before. Several students say that since their fellow students have English which is "just as bad as theirs" it would probably be self defeating. I try to disagree but they say that, ultimately, only the opinion of their professor matters and they would rather not waste time working with fellow students. I am not persuasive. What exactly gives me the authority that they listen to me.

Three women, all very well hidden in mounds of clothing, ask me to read one student's paper so they can all listen in. The woman who gives me her paper is very shy and self conscious about her writing. She gives it to me with an apology and lots of qualifiers--it's a first draft, her English is poor, she's not very smart. . .

Her paper is stellar and about as good as most of the things I've read in a conference at Coe in terms of the complexity of ideas and the sophistication of the argument. And better than a lot. She is writing about heroines in Ibsen plays. We talk about the plays and her ideas about what Ibsen is trying to say about women which leads to a broader discussion about women living for themselves or living for the families or living for society. She notes a contradiction between expectations of men and expectations of women in terms of who they are allowed to live for. I am impressed when the other two students join in the conversation and they discuss the ideas in the paper. Then they ask me if I am a feminist. I am never quite sure how to respond when people ask me that. Hell yes, I want to say but I never know how it is interpreted--depends what you call a feminist. I generally say before getting a bit didactic about my own beliefs--and in this context I am a bit blown away. How do you tell three veiled women "yes, I believe in the liberation of women and I think you're oppressed in this society by being forced to conform to different clothing and behavior standards than men." I give a hesitant "yes?" They are delighted. "We are too!"

I remember how intimidated I was by veiled women, it reminds me of the Battle of Algiers, when the women would smuggle bombs and/or weapons into French areas. I have read several articles about how politicized women who agree to take on the veil tend to be. I have also read how veiling can be a liberating act for women. Freeing the female form in history has not always been a liberatory act, and women in America probably are less safe and less respected in some ways. Veiling frees women from a lot of the beauty standards which are unhealthy, if not deadly, to women in the West. So how trapped am I by my notion of "woman"? I look at my tattoos and wonder whose standards I am conforming to.

Several students express in lectures and in personal conversation their frustration with some of what we're saying. "OK that's great for your system but what about us? We're learning in a different language and for different reasons and in a different system?" They have to write for grammar and spelling and I'd like to think that better ideas always make better sentences. They do for me. But I wish I knew I was giving the right advice.

We have little contact with faculty at Aleppo but I get the feeling they are a bit wary of our presence. I feel strange getting tea in people's offices and the formality of greetings. Stand up, shake hands, cross legs, etc. I am awkward within my own cultural codes. New ones are baffling. Sometimes I feel like people are overly formally nice. I have a hard time reading people. As people always say to us, sometimes I just want to ask "Please be frank," I can't gauge which is politeness and which is genuine feeling, or if there is a line between them.

In Lattakia

Amil [Claire's host for her week in Lattakia] seems incredibly shy and at first I am unsure whether or not George, her brother, speaks any English as I do not hear him say a single word. His English is fine, good even. Amil has one older sister, both of her siblings are studying law by arrangement with the University of Damascus. Neither of their parents speak any English but they do say "Hello," "Bon Jour," and "Cheers" and "Bill Clinton." Their uncle and aunt come over for an enormous dinner and bring their three children who are fascinated by me, the strange new creature who doesn't appear to talk, at least not in any understandable form. I am fortunate that the family is fasting for Easter. I am not going to have to kill a lamb with my bare hands here, either. After dinner they make me dance with George but I am saved when the electricity goes out and I have to stand in the middle of the room in pitch black, afraid of stepping on a child or knocking over the numerous tables, pianos and knick knacks. I notice that her aunt appears to be about half the age of her uncle. The next day, when I meet their other uncle I notice the wife looks even younger. Her uncles are in their early 50s while their wives, still having children, appear to be in the late 20 or early 30s. We have a discussion about how strange it is that Americans hire babysitters. They can't imagine leaving their children with another person. They all live within about three blocks of each other, they say, and if the need arises, they can leave their children somewhere else. But generally, they note, the mother is always around anyway.

Their family is Orthodox Christian and Amil appears to be very devout. One of the first questions she asks me is "What religion are you?" a question I have a problem with in the best of times. I tell her the truth, I don't know. She tells me later that she assumed I was Jewish and just didn't tell her. She asks about my parents and I tell her they are Methodist, I think. She doesn't know what this is and tells me later she assumed it was some form of Judaism. She is very proud of her family's collection of icons, most of which she keeps in her room. She is particularly fond of the very bloody ones, one who was chopped to pieces, forty boiled and frozen, one trampled. She also keeps pictures of monks she has met. They look exotic to me, long black robes and thick, long white beards, dark eyes. She offers me a bible in English to keep next to my bed.

Tishreen University is underwhelming. The buildings are incredibly dirty, the lighting is poor and everything is very loud. . . . The students, however, are no less enthusiastic. It is nice working with students one on one but they seem even more disillusioned about their situation. I am told numerous times about how they did not choose to study English, how they will be unable to secure good paying jobs, how they are not taught well, how they have poor English skills. They also frequently ask how they compare with students at Aleppo. In general they do not seem as strong but since we did not work individually with as many students the comparison is difficult.

I have to teach a class on James Joyce. The instructor asks me to talk, mostly so the students can hear an American accent. I talk a bit about Joyce's life and his works. I feel uncomfortable being a resident Joyce expert. Students have a lot of questions for me, mostly about America, how we find Syria, what kind of writing I do, how I know about Joyce if I'm not a literature major. One man stands up and asks about Henry Kissinger. What am I supposed to say to THAT? Fortunately, the instructor cuts him off and moves on to the next question. Disaster averted. Afterwards, about 20 students swarm around me to talk. Several students insist they will take me out to tea the next day.

The group sessions with students in which we do small writer's workshops yield mixed results. I feel pretty ineffectual. We start with a paper on women's rights in Syria. The one man in the group dominates the conversation which he doesn't seem to have a problem with. Only one other group member will talk voluntarily though I can occasionally squeeze a word or two out of the others. We discuss whether or not letting women work will liberate them. We talk about getting married and whether or not it is the woman's duty to care for the children. The man says yes, the women disagree. We talk about a lot of ideas, including writing argumentative essays with a thesis statement and supporting ideas as well as expanding on some of her ideas. We talk about what she would do differently if she were to write this paper again. "Nothing," she says.

Included in my group is the woman who wrote seven short essays but, for all of her verbosity on paper she says almost nothing, even when we are talking about her paper. I have everyone comment on her conclusion, which is virtually non-existent. She is writing about clothing differences between older and younger generations, particularly in their attitudes towards consumerism. She has a lot of good ideas, well hidden. Most students ask how she chose her topic or why she chose to start it that way. Many students get criticisms in their questions, which are not entirely productive. We expand on her arguments, talk about introductions and conclusions. We have brilliant ideas about articulating her argument, which the questions reveal is a bit confusing. I ask her what she would like change about her paper. "Nothing."

We move on to the man's paper. We do the workshop style, where the writer can't say anything until the end of the discussion. Clever plan on my part, eh? His paper is very unclear and discusses earthquakes without much purpose or direction. We talked about creating some sort of thesis or organizing point in the paper. We talked about expanding on the ideas and about the fairly good descriptive language he used in his paper. When it came around to his turn, the writer became defensive, justifying everything he had done. He did not want to change anything in his paper.

The experience was positive, it was fun discussing papers with students and drawing out the ideas behind the very tentative writing. I don't know, however, what impact I had, what they learned from it. [After their small-group workshops, Claire, Jennifer, Matthew, and I discussed the group dynamics in their sessions. Matthew had the most difficult session because he had two young faculty who were constantly making derogatory comments about the students' papers, picking on any grammatical or spelling error they could find. Jennifer's session was by the far the most positive, perhaps because she had several first-year students who asked to join the workshop and because no faculty were present. Jennifer's group was quite animated and the student writers seemed genuinely interested in finding ways to improve their papers. As for Claire's group, we discussed how it is often the case with American students that they are very defensive about their texts when exposed in a workshop session; the real issue is not whether the students revise this paper--for many students they feel that once the paper has been made public they are done with it--but how they approach the next assignment. The young man may never acknowledge in public any problems with his earthquake paper, but he may file those objections away and keep them in mind when he writes his next paper.]

During an evening conversation, Amil told me she hated grade school because students got beaten, then expressed fears that she would get in trouble for telling me that because she had been told by several people at the University not to share anything negative about Syria.

I had tea with the students from the Joyce class and they took me to a crowded cafeteria with a lot of smoke and posters on the wall--my favorite was Brook Shields from the 1970s. The conversation was dominated by Ali (who later wrote me a love letter) who was a blossoming short story writer and was wildly enthusiastic about sharing his writing. He told me about seven plot lines, most of which sounded like cheesy romance novels which attempted to romanticize the East. Edward Said would have had a field day with this stuff in Orientalism. . . . The other girls were more shy but fairly "Western." Jamila was formerly a student in Lebanon but left after she couldn't finish her degree in some sort of science. The other woman was an electrical engineer who couldn't find work so was going back to get an English degree. "Easier for a woman to find work," she said. Jamila, whose mother was from North Africa, said she understood how I felt out of place. As half-black, she said, she often got harassed, often by men.

Walking to the university our second morning there, we walk on the road that goes past the Zenobia Hotel. An old man is shuffling by, walking towards the sea and carrying an empty bird cage which he stops, holds up, and looks at periodically. When he reaches the edge of the road he throws open the door of the cage and holds it towards the sea but, of course, nothing comes out.

One morning my family lets me go outside and buy their vegetables from a vender who walks the streets with a cart chock full of fresh produce. Their mother comes down with me. Neither she nor the vender speak any English nor do I speak any Arabic. She points at foods and tells me their names which I immediately forget. The vender, incredibly friendly, makes me hold every type of lettuce, spice, vegetable, bean, and nut he has to offer. He tries to make me taste everything and is wildly enthusiastic, his arms waving and laughing frequently He ends up giving me several of everything and I walk back upstairs with arms full of produce. I learn quickly how fortunate I am that my family no longer thinks I am Jewish. In casual conversation, Amil tells me the Jews proliferate the view of Syrians as terrorists in order to ruin the Syrian economy. George tells me the entire American cabinet is Jewish. Amil asks me if I know any Jews. When I tell her yes she asks me if I am worried about "dealing with them," if I've ever had any problems. One night at dinner, Amil's father gets a bit drunk and toasts to Hitler who "took our revenge on the Jews for crucifying Christ." Amil translates cheerfully. What do you say to that? How can I academicize something makes my stomach churn?

I am told that Muslims always build mosques across from churches out of jealousy and to prove their dominance. Amil tells me many Muslims practice polygamy or adultery within their religion. She also explains "they pray in a strange way" that looks like her book on yoga. Amil tells me that George has to take me everywhere because their parents aren't very pleased to have the girls to out with Muslims. My family gives me a Virgin Mary amulet and several post cards of religious sites in Syria.