I Lived in Syria and All I Got Was This Stupid Trenchcoat
I loved Syria from the moment I set foot in the cool fall of 2008, years before Arab Spring. The ancient land, the history, the women in impossibly matching coats, men with their hair slicked back and smoking like death wasn’t real, the exposed wires, cats living in dumpsters, dusty domes of mosques, French numbers on buildings, the smell of wet dirt after the rain even in the heart of the city, the call to prayer cacophony echoing five times a day, the pictures of Bashar with his eerie gaze at every turn. I was sure I wanted to live there forever.
I grew up in a suburb of San Francisco, in a sleeper town. I had a life because I had a car and a license. No one did any living in my town. I was the only recreational walker and I was bored of the gnawing similarity in our mass produced houses. Strip malls made me sick, everything was so perfectly composed for consumption. Nothing felt real; everything was surreal, designed to look organic. A simulation, a simulacrum.
Syria was organic. It was vivid, putrid, authentic. A concrete building, ugly but practical, would be blessed with the serious but friendly image of their president, and thus be endowed with some magical quality I couldn’t place. In some ways, even public space felt blessed, condoned, like even your morning stroll was watched by the President. It probably was, as I learned later that panhandlers make extra cash by spying on people for the security department. Buildings had been made at different periods, some were of the French era, some before. One part of town was medieval, dating back from the earliest days of Islam. You could almost hear the sounds of wars long past in the distance. The most recent were stark, concrete, hideous, and entirely pragmatic. I was in love.
Shopping in Syria typically happened in the Souq (pronounced “sook”), a street demarcated for shopping. You could call it an open air market, except that businesses were operating from storefronts. You could call it a mall, but it was tragically unorganized. Produce could be sold next to lingerie next to meat next to housewares. I hated the sheep heads on display, tongues extended. I loved shopping at night, it was so full of people, so alive, while the night seemed endless. Everyone went, men, women, families. Cars, even, sometimes, albeit very slowly. My friend got bumped by a car on multiple occasions, it was so annoying, she would say. Us foreigners didn’t know how to be fearless and cautious simultaneously.
I stayed with three other young Muslim women: a woman from LA of Moroccan descent, an Iranian, and a German convert. I felt close to all of them. Being American is something, being a convert is something, but my Iranian friend shared my sect, and that was really something. Being Shia in a Sunni dominated world is like being in a secret club. She was out, as she was visibly Iranian in her traditional chador, but her government’s ties to Syria immunized her from too much criticism. Teachers might comment on how Shia Islam is fake, or a bunch of lies, but it never went far. I was not out, and I was not about to come out any time soon.
Shortly after my arrival in Syria came the Hajj season. Banners went up to congratulate the pilgrims, holiday sales were announced, extra prayers were called. It was interesting to witness, for sure, but I wasn’t totally invested as I knew no one going to the pilgrimage that year apart from the husband of our neighbor who actually lived in Saudi Arabia and rarely came home.
After Hajj comes the Islamic new year. It’s not celebrated like our New Year, it’s not a holiday with particular traditions. Unless, of course, you follow Shia Islam. The beginning of the Islamic year is a time of intense mourning, (the first ten days are called Ashura), for the massacre of the Prophet’s grandson and his friends and relatives. Shia gather at their mosques and Islamic centers and grieve. It starts with a sermon, then follows with a graphic account of the slaughter. Men cry. Women wail. Children play in the corner and pretend like nothing is happening. They follow with a lamentation, a sort of song, the beat to which everyone symbolically hits themselves. Culture dictates how all this goes down, but this is the general gist of every mourning gathering, called an Aza, that I have attended.
It was December, and I didn’t have a warm black coat. I had started wearing trenchcoats like the natives since my arrival, in order to blend in, and my light coat was black, but it was too cold out for that. My Iranian friend offered to come with me to shop, and the Californian did as well. We scoured our local Souq but came up with nothing, so we kept walking. There was a nicer part of town at the end of the Souq, and plenty more shopping. Now, the businesses were on tree lined streets, with traffic going down the street. Prices were higher, but we were on a mission. I couldn’t do Ashura in anything but black. No no no.
I tried on countless coats before spotting the perfect one. I knew it was perfect because it looked like it came out of The Matrix. I tried it on — not too tight. Perfect. We haggled with the storekeeper, but my haggling skills are pathetic. I don’t remember how much it cost, maybe $25, which was more than I ever spent on a coat, but it was made in Turkey and thus superior quality.
That coat kept me warm as I went to the Azas at night. It kept me warm while I cried although I didn’t understand a word. It kept me warm while I touch Hussein’s daughter’s shrine, with tears in my eyes, remembering her struggle and tragic end.
Ten years later, I still have the coat. It’s in a box, with the other things I have left from that life. I loved feeling so sure of myself. I loved feeling like I knew the secrets of the universe. I loved feeling right all the time.
Now, I think I can only use the coat for Halloween. Maybe I’ll go as someone from The Matrix.
