A House in Damascus - Before the Fall

by Brian Stoddart

  The rising number of Damascene cafes and restaurants with "free wireless" was an excellent demonstration of this process. On any day in these modern (or modem) times a young, scarfed Damascene woman might sit in a café drinking Turkish coffee, smoking the nargileh, and surfing the net. At the Brokar, one striking young couple could be seen almost every night, passing two or three hours in this fashion.

  In part, too, the appearance of these films reflected the views displayed by people like the antique seller down the steps, a sort of irrational admiration for America, its films and its culture. Of course, toleration for the films could also have been a deeply cunning way of showing how much disdain there is in America for the Arab and Islamic world, thereby reifying resistance. That was possible, yes, but seemed far too intricate a reading.

  Running through all this, and through all the broader issues was the theme of perception and depiction. In Jarhead, the only time "Swoff" gets close to a kill is looking at a control tower through his telescopic sight, lining up two Iraqi officers arguing with and gesticulating at each other. Now, viewed in a cultural context where that sight is viewed every day, as in discussions with the landlord, for example, then it seems natural enough. But viewed in the context of a Western cinema, this depicts "Arabs": all wild drama, hotheadedness and a lack of discipline. We know it is only the movies, but these images have resonance. Think back to all the British war movies in which determined officers were neatly turned out, calm, reserved, confident and instilling confidence, heroic, great leaders in the face of overwhelming odds. This was the making of popular belief, and it is a rare film that goes beneath this to see the complexities and the inanities either from both sides or neutrally.

  Even the mavericks have heroic and leadership qualities in the English movies, like Lawrence of Arabia. That film portrayal takes on even greater symbolic moment when watched in the house in Damascus. David Lean's interpretation shows Lawrence so clearly having all those qualities and great insights that even sceptical fellow officers came to appreciate him. In that film, essentially, Lawrence sets out to save Arabs from themselves, but fails. Near the beginning, Alec Guiness' marvellous Prince Feisal is seen magnificently dressed and mounted on an equally magnificent Arabian horse, riding up and down in a pre-modern, futile attempt to see off Turkish aircraft. Lawrence has to lead Feisal and the Arabs into the new world. He does all that, only to be betrayed by two things. The first was the secret 1916 Sykes-Picot Agreement that effectively carved up the Arabian components of the Ottoman Empire between France and Great Britain. The Arabs would never get their united nation and, worse, under the associated Balfour Agreement ,they would endure the establishment of the Jewish state.

  But the second betrayal in the Lean representation is even more interesting: Lawrence is let down by the Arabs themselves. After their entrance to Damascus in 1918, just ahead of the British and Allied forces, they establish the Arab league "parliament". It is depicted in the Lean film as a total free-for-all in which clan antagonises clan, personalities bicker petulantly, order and procedure is completely absent, strategy and vision non-existent, and purpose on permanent leave. That inability to impose order and process is symbolised in Lawrence's shocked discovery that his colleagues have made no attempt to run the hospitals, where prisoner of war patients suffer dreadfully as a consequence. In short, the Arabs cannot rule themselves and even Lawrence, the revered "Al Awrens" realises that, so leaves Arabia physically as well as symbolically. This is a central part of Said's Orientalism, of course, the way in which an entire culture is characterised by another, and it has had a powerfully enduring effect.

  The description of the "Arab" by modern media is, in many respects, a necessary shorthand in an age when subtlety, nuance and detail are expendable, but at least in part it can be arguably rooted in this Orientalist tradition. Despite all the variations depicted by the truly knowledgeable, like Freya Stark, Gertrude Bell, Richard Burton, Lawrence himself, Wilfred Thesiger and, more recently, Timothy Mackinolty-Smith, a blurred and generalised image of "Arabs" remains to stalk the popular world. It might be argued that does not matter, because policy-makers are informed, know the nuance, and can be relied upon to make the right moves. Unfortunately, Desert Shield, Desert Storm and Operation Iraqi Freedom—remember "Mission Accomplished"?—suggest otherwise. Two remarkable books underscore this sense of doubt.

  David Finkel's The Good Soldiers follows an army unit through its terrible trials on the outskirts of Baghdad, clinically recording their tragic losses and accompanying trauma. The overwhelming image that emerges is of a mission out of control, not because of the soldiers but because of the "thinkers" in Washington and up the chain of command supposedly directing them.59 It is a sobering readjustment of any view about just where knowledge and authority might lie.

  Vijay Chandrasekeran' s book on the shambles that was Baghdad in the immediate aftermath of American "victory", and under the control of Paul Kramer in what can only be described as a post-imperial "Viceroy" regime, confirms those doubts about the existence of a clear-minded, informed and sophisticated post-conflict view on how to reframe Iraq and, with it, Arab-West relations.60 That would swing back into view when the Americans announced in mid-2012 they were taking the lead in planning for a post-Assad transition of power in Syria. Their track record in Iraq and Afghanistan did not stimulate optimism. Worse, in some ways, was the image of the "insurgent" that emerged from all this: the unpredictable, unfathomable and almost if not totally maniacal "Arab" who passed up an opportunity for change and opted for a return to the past, urged on by the twenty first century versions of those nineteenth century villains, "mad mullahs" like Moqtadr Al Sadah and Hassan Nasrallah. Interestingly, even in a film like Paradise Now, there is an unnerving sense in which the martyrs are led on by calculating leaders with no sense of humanity or decency, so driven are they by the pressures of politics and deprivation.

  Yet it all seemed so different and so much more complex on the ground. Even in Syria people talked in subdued ways about the need for change, and there was strong debate about the regime under which they existed. They loved Syria and would defend her. Some Westerners in Syria under-estimated this powerful pull of the nation, arguing that a Syrian was loyal to country only after family and clan and town, and even then would support Syria in a perfunctory way. That view was remarkably close to the one conveyed by British intelligence around the time of World War I:

  Syria is a land geographically distinct which has never achieved national or political unity.61

  The spies put that under-achievement down to the pull of tribes and cities overwhelmed by self-interest.

  But that denied the fervour with which even casual and new acquaintances would ask how you liked "Suria", or promoted their country with obvious pride. It denied the devotion accorded the leadership in the form of the al-Assad family, even if some of that was manufactured. It denied the very real pride in Damascus, or in Homs or in Aleppo or in Lattakia that was then eventually subdued in the interests of "Suria" which had a prominent regional leadership role.

  And there were very real differences in local perception about the rest of the Arab world, denying the "Arab" stereotyping that flows through the popular films and media. Many Syrians, we know, consider that Lebanon should be part of Syria. Relationships with Saudi Arabia are perennially fraught. Relationships with Iran and Turkey have long been complex. Syria has a sense of itself being far more important in the Arab world than it is sometimes reckoned by its neighbours, let alone the rest of the world. Syrians wanted to be recognised, and to be accepted.

  From early 2011, all those questions about identity and ascription came under further scrutiny and pressure, as an atomising media divided the country essentially into two camps: those zealots for Bashar, and those freedom fighters with "the revolution". As in ages past, those typologies were and remain inadequate, and bedevil helpful popular analysis of what is really happening in Syria.

  Books and Music

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  Down Port Said Street from Hijaz Station, that splendid reminder of times past even if the trains no longer leave from there, sit several bookshops on the street itself and up side alleys, spreading through the Shukri Al Qwatli underpass on the way towards Shalaan. They are a reminder of the learning culture that Damascus has always been, their shelves piled high with great bindings and wonderful calligraphy, a throng of people constantly looking for this or that book. Right next to the project office, there was another well stocked shop, but mainly with university texts, especially in "professional" areas like medicine, dentistry and law.

  To begin with, the presence of these shops is an excellent reminder of the Arab world's long standing commitment to learning and culture, and that starts with the part played by education and the madrasa. The term madrasa in the West now, unfortunately, is taken automatically to mean "school for terrorists". Report after report depicts such places in Pakistan, Afghanistan, Indonesia and elsewhere as centres for the blandly labelled "fundamentalism" held to be at the centre of global instability. This powerful shift in the symbolism of meaning blurs the distinguished history that the madrasa has had and continues to have in Islamic life, especially in Damascus.

  Within a one kilometre radius of the house there were at least a dozen former or current madrasa, testament to the central role they have long played in Islamic life. Just around in Kamel Passage, a walk to the taxi on a week morning usually saw me accompanied by a stream of kids heading for school as anywhere else in the world: sneakers, schoolbags, expressions ranging from bored to expectant. A young girl might stand at the door, all smiles, farewelling the mother who had accompanied her on the short walk through the nearby lanes and alleys. Another would look far less amused. Taxis would arrive in the sweet souk to debouche more students, while a microbus unloaded what looked like a regiment of them. This school has been running since the mid- eighteenth century. Nearby was the now-abandoned Azem school, given over to an art gallery stocking paintings for tourists—it dates from the eighteenth century. Salah ah-Din's tomb lies in a former madrasa to the side of the Umayyad Mosque. His brother lies nearby in the Al Edilye madrasa that dates from the 13th century. The list goes on.

  Learning and culture lie at the heart of the Muslim experience, and the reverence for learning has driven growth of the rich Arabic literature conveyed in prose, poetry and song. The cross-generational reverence for the singer Fairuz, for example, is one simple reflection of this deep-seated love of learning and the power of expression.

  From the beginning, the madrasa were simply places where learning was promoted within the context of Islam. In Damascus, this became particularly important under the long stay of the Ottomans who made little if no concession to the need for education, at least until very near the end of their rule. Into the breach stepped great families like the Azem, philanthropists who founded or maintained schools so that the power of learning might continue. This was important work, and allowed for the spread of literacy and knowledge where it might not have occurred otherwise.

  This lies demonstrated in areas like medicine. The current Medical Museum, located just beside the Hamidiyeh souk, dates from 1154 when it was founded as a hospital by Nur Ad Din. It remained a hospital for over 700 years, and was always regarded as one of the great centres of medical science. Its work challenged much of the conventional wisdom then in vogue in the West and controlled by the clergy medicos.62

  In all these present bookshops, however, there were few works in English, German or French or anything other than Arabic. Up in the Abu Roumaneh diplomatic enclave one shop sold more European materials, mostly novels. Just near the Cham Palace Hotel in Shalaan another carried works in European languages, but with an odd range: great books on cake design and shop fittings, for example, or how to craft a patio, or the history of automobile design. One shop had the great find, though: The Secret Meaning of Pink Floyd Lyrics.

  There was no reason why there should be any works there in languages other than Arabic. But it was paradoxical to then encounter on the project such marvellous English language translators like the Affable and other colleagues. The universities did a wonderful job turning out all these people, yet there was very little available for them to read in English, it seemed. The further paradox was that in order to learn more about Syria, the search had to be outside the country, and Amazon.com was not available via the web.

  Therein lay part of the answer, of course. Syria was in transition and had taken enthusiastically to the web, modernisation and the market economy, but with limitations. That stemmed largely from transitional politics, too. It was fascinating to read on the web all the references to excellent works on Syria and Damascus, but then not automatically be able to find them in-country, unless they were of the coffee table variety about the "Big Three As": art, archaeology and architecture. There had yet to develop a culture of critical tolerance that allowed free flow to works that questioned and critically analysed. One guide book, for example, carried a nice story about a book on Hafez al-Assad written by a foreigner.63 That book appeared in the UK, but because there were concerns over alleged inaccuracies by the author "on some points not connected to his subject", it never appeared in Syria.

  That experience has not been unique to Syria, of course, over the past fifty years. Singapore during the Lee Kuan Yew years, for example, saw critical analysis controlled strictly, and people not "conforming" asked to modify their behaviour or even leave the country. Syria was by now past that stage, but still evolving, with the options still for either greater or lesser openness. The current conditions of control had, however, had created the circumstance where Rafik Schami wrote A Taste of Damascus from Germany via telephone conversations with his sister in Damascus, where he himself had not been able to live for many years.64 His memories of Damascus are powerful, though, as his great detective novel based in the city illustrates.65

  As with many things Syrian or Damascene, however, the situation was not straightforward. In mid-2010, foreign news outlets began reporting the raging success of a new play then appearing in Damascus. It was said to lampoon the overtly corrupt aspects of public life and the manipulations of bureaucrats, even taking a swing at President Bashar al-Assad. The play survived, a clear indication that blanket assumptions about Syria being unrelievedly oppressive could be misleading. That is not to say it was as fully open as might be found in London, Paris or elsewhere, but neither was it as closed as, say, Beijing.

  The literary culture of any society or polity is a marker of its intellectual and social climate and Syria, as part of the Arab world, has a very long history in this. The storyteller, who now survives more as tourist attraction than social necessity, was the earliest example, replaced in time by the poets. The subtleties and nuances of Arabic mean that the skilled use of words by poets became one of the main vehicles for social and political expression, as would again be discovered in 2011-12. Nizzar Qabbani, the Damascene poet whose 1998 death was lamented throughout the Arab world, was then just the latest to have had a profound effect on thinking and outlooks in Syria and elsewhere.

  It is to be anticipated, then, that the poets and writers of the next generation will be just as influential as those of the past, and the same goes for music.

  Fairuz, the Lebanese diva who is the icon of the Arab world and who can sing anything, returned to Syria in 2008 for the first time in many, many years, and in 2010 released another album of jazz standards that pitched her at world level, again. One of the best places to buy her music, and much more besides, was a tiny music shop next to another music shop about half way along Quemariye. It was easily found—its small window was full of CDs featuring jazz greats like Ella Fitzgerald and Nina Simone along with contemporary Arab-inspired jazz musos, like the Azerbaijani-born pianist, Aziza Mustafa Zadeh, who has recorded with international stars like guitarist Al Di Meola. For the cognoscenti , however, the real giveaway was the presence in that little window of a Stephane Grappelli album, he of the legendar
y Hot Club of Paris and magical association with the stupendous gypsy jazz (manouche) guitarist, Django Reinhardt. The French presence in Syria, as elsewhere, is bitter/sweet, with cultural benefits ranged against still-strong memories of the violent end to colonial rule.

  The young man in charge of this shop was magnificently informed about all this music, saying he had learned from his father who was a jazz aficionado. Stephane and Django were great musicians before they were French, that is, so the music was universal in the father's mind, and the son concurred. Our discussions about gypsy jazz, from that era and the present, were intense and enjoyable. In turn, he introduced me to the skills of a truly talented Syrian musician, the classical pianist and composer, Malek Jandali. The opening bars of Jandali's 2008 album "Echoes of Ugarit" are breathtaking, as is the 2011 "Watani Ana (I am My Homeland)" that he performed in America as his stand against the Assad regime. Having Homs connections, in 2012 he released "Emessa (Homs)" in solidarity with those who suffered there, as did his parents who were beaten up by the regime. All that was still a long way off as I stood, mesmerised by the sound, in the jazz seller's shop.

  On that visit, the first of many, the jazz man was chatting with a friend carrying an oud case. In a crass sense, the oud is the distinctive Arab version of the guitar. Baedeker remarked that it was a "kind of guitar", used mainly to accompany the "shrill falsetto" Arabic singing he thought "very unpleasing" to European ears.66 He was echoing Eli Smith from half a century earlier, who had said that "we find the singing of the Arabs no music to us."67 Neither description really did the music or the oud great justice because it has a long history and wonderful music. Smith, however, did go on to produce a detailed account of what made Arab music sound so different, and to provide a better explanation of the oud. It was suggested to have five strings at that stage, an advance of the four in earlier periods, but it was not clear whether or not they were double strings. While there is a fair degree of variation, most Syrian ouds would now have five pairs of strings along with a single string, making a total of eleven. Another major difference from the guitar is that the oud has never really had frets.