Look how brave I am, not a whimper.
Whilst dentist Rima was checking my teeth I was quizzing her about the recent news that the Syrian government had banned the veil at Damascus University. “Is it an attempt to appeal to the West?” I ask her provocatively knowing she is religious and partly veiled herself. “If it is to appeal to the West, it is wrong. Obama is as bad as Bush as far as we are concerned. What has he said or done about Gaza?”
I watch nervously and wince bravely as dentist Rima roughly plucks out a temporary filling from my problem tooth and pokes a large needle deep into the canal of the broken tooth.
It amuses me that this British boy had decided to have this necessary root canal work done in a country labelled by the West as ‘Beyond the Axis of Evil’, a rogue state and a state sponsor of terrorism.
Before I know it Rime is coming at me with a needle for my gum. She jabs hard into the abscess itself, straight through my gum. As she pushes the medicine in a crippling pain freezes the side of my face. I cannot hide the tears in my eyes (however much I try) I’d heard that dentists were good and cheap here but I’m now wondering if this was the right move.
I try to distract myself by looking at the pictures of the Koran on her wall, and other religious items on her desk, but now, more veiled women enter the room and sit watching, entertained by my childlike performance. They murmur in Arabic to each other… I imagine them asking themselves if I am crying for real or not. This is suddenly a woman’s world, a veiled world, and I feel very out of place.
This grown man from the north of England, the hardened warrior nation that invaded Iraq in the name of freedom, is now squirming like a child in the dentist’s chair to the amusement of a gaggle of women in veils. “It really hurts” I say pathetically, “Don’t worry it will pass soon” dentist Rima says picking up on my question.
“The veil is the woman’s right. In the Koran we can choose to show our face or not. It is up to us”. “Will this patient remove her veil for treatment?” I ask looking at a woman in black. “Of course” dentist Rima says laughing, “Just as soon as you leave the room”.
As the pain subsides my tears dry and I push my luck continuing our conversation suggesting that in this male dominated society it must be the man who decides what the woman does and what she wears. “Not in Syria” dentist Rima insists. “Here it up to the women. Our personal choice, In the West you are misled by your understanding of the veil. We are not at all like Saudi Arabia. Syria is a far more tolerant society and not an Islamic state, here it is secular”. “A lot of what you read in the west is wrong. Here women are respected. We don’t need shelters for beaten women” she says, “Like you do in England and America”.
The women I’ve met here in Syria like dentist Rima are indeed feisty and intelligent. “We are like Iraqi’s – we are a well educated nation with culture and history. Saddam provided all this to his nation but the Americans don’t like educated Arabs so they got rid of him”. “But they will never remove our president he has the complete backing of his people and after the war in Iraq he is stronger than ever”.
Sitting in this dentists chair in downtown Damascus I think to myself how funny it is, the strange, muddled, ideas we have of each other’s societies, how we misunderstand each other, sometimes deliberately, often at our peril, whilst firmly, and without fuss, dentist Rima seals the root canal with yet another temporary filling.
The Heavy Price Of Freedom And Whiskey
So just what is it that makes us feel so free I think to myself as we race through the desert. I am leaving Damascus to renew my visa in Beirut. “It is the Paris of The Middle East, famous for all kinds of things” Roula says with a naughty smile.
As we cross the border Roula removes her long-sleeved top to reveal her shoulders, a small freedom not allowed in Syria, a secular but predominantly Muslim country; and now it is also Ramadan which makes such things even more restrictive. “It’s great to be free” Roula jokes as we cross the border.
Before long I am bathing in the beautiful blue sea ogling scantily clad women in ‘The Paris of The Middle East. Is it the free talk or the lack of veils that make me feel more free here? I admire the streets filled with bars cafes and restaurants; it feels so modern after a month living in Damascus.
I miss the sea a lot when I’m in hot dusty Damascus, and I wonder if a part of me also misses the familiarity of the big American chains such as Starbucks, Pizza Hut, KFC that I am so used to seeing as the landscape of The West. In a way I hate them as much as I miss them, but love them or loathe them Beirut has them all.
Here people are not on-guard about what to say to you about politics or the war. You can be and say as you like. But such freedoms come with a price as Roula points out. “Watch your bag on beach” she reminds me. I’ve got used to leaving my bag open, my phone and wallet around for all to see.
Suddenly I feel the need to be aware of this again and it feels like a pressure, a pressure we get used to in The West; it is so liberating not to have to worry about such things when in Syria – possibly one of the safest places in the world. Is it a ‘freedom’ brought about by having a strong ruler – one who rules through fear, or is there more to it than that?
As night falls we hit the glitzy Beirut streets to enjoy Western ‘freedoms’ such as cocktails in the endless bars that are open until the early hours – though it is only when we get the bill that I realise all this freedom comes with such a heavy price. 12 dollars a drink. Wow, I don’t pay that for one nights’ hotel accommodation in Damascus!
Next morning I wake with a whiskey hangover in the humid heat dripping of sweat having spent more money than I care to think about. “Quick” I say to Roula “Let’s get the hell out of this so-called westernised ‘democracy’ – freedom is very expensive! Let’s get back to that safe cheap ‘dictatorship’”.
We can drink and eat for a month in Damascus with what we spent last night in Beirut!
As we cross the border back into Syria Roula pulls on her long-sleeve shirt, once more concealing her shoulders. Such freedoms are not permitted during Ramadan, but we do have the safety and security of knowing we won’t be robbed or mugged while we are here. And I can enjoy a meal at a top restaurant with a bottle of the best Lebanese wine for the price of one whiskey in Beirut!