My rant from “the Arab street”

Okay, so this is two rants rolled into one feeling of general frustration. The first is with the now ubiquitously trite idea of “the Arab Street” or worse, “the pulse of the Arab street” (since when do streets have pulses?).  Generally I think it’s valuable to try to gauge public opinion whatever one’s goals are: in order to prevent conflict, escalate conflict, sell products, etc. Personally I think it’s important to try to recognize the concerns of common people (*hums Pulp song*), because I think individuals should do what they can to improve the lives of people on the periphery of power and opportunity.  But I’m so irritated by the stated desire of many op-ed columnists and policy wonks to understand the anxieties and aspirations of people “on the Arab street” because often driving that desire is fear, implicit in article titles (even of very good articles like this one) such as “Courting and Containing the Arab Street…” If historical precedent is any guide, even when the opinions and burdens of non-elites are well known very little is done to alleviate them; in fact, more often than not policies with the opposite effect are pursued. Moreover, I’m irritated by the intimation that the beliefs of ordinary people can be divined through parachute reporting or by relaying vignettes and anecdotes (much like this blog, ha! I am not immune to the temptation to jump to conclusions based on conversations with taxi drivers).

Alright. The second installment of the rant is specific to Damascus and only tangentially related to the first. Damascus has recently become an enormously popular place for foreign students to study Arabic, a mecca, if you will, of Arabic language centers, tutors, and institutes. Oft-cited advantages to studying in Damascus include an affordable cost of living and a relative lack of English language penetration in Syria [author's emphasis on all of the power dynamics of the  sexual implication of that language intended].  What this means is that actually students have a wonderful opportunity to meet a lot of other interesting, engaging foreign students and speak a lot of English. Nonetheless, students, study abroad programs, professors, and language fellowships tout the total immersion experience of studying in Syria, in part because, the narrative goes, students have the chance to learn Arabic by interacting with normal people “on the Arab street.” Disdain is reserved for students who go to Jordan or Egypt, the thinking being that one couldn’t possibly learn the language in those places because too many people speak English “on the street” (this isn’t, in my experience, true anyway).

The important thing this conviction fails to recognize is that I don’t want to learn Arabic from people “on the street” because I don’t want to have lengthy conversations with strangers on the street! I don’t do this in English and I don’t have much intention of doing it in Arabic, or any other language (blame my time in the UK for my reserve, I don’t know). Even more importantly, this approach works much better for men than it does for women. Now, I go out of my way to avoid talking to people “on the street” because the conversation, more often than not, degenerates into an uncomfortable or offensive discussion of my supposed beauty or marital status, or else completely degenerates from a conversation into a lewd stare in my direction. I can usually shrug this off because my conception of self-respect is pretty isolated from, well, other people’s perceptions and actions. However, a couple of weeks ago (yes, weeks…I’ve been thinking about this for awhile but am only making time to write anything a few days before I’m leaving the Middle East) I suffered through a particularly infuriating encounter with “the Arab street.”

I was headed home and hopped into the backseat of a taxi by myself (of course the backseat, though men sit in the front), greeted the driver, told him where I wanted to go, and proceeded to have the following conversation.

Me: “Hello, how are you. I’d like to go to Hamra street, please, near the Blue Tower hotel.”

Taxi driver: “Okay. Where are you from?”

Me: “From America.”

Taxi driver: “Really? America? Not Italy? Not Russia?”

Me: “No, from America.”

Taxi driver: “Oh. You are sure, your background is not Italian, Russian, Arab?”

Me. “I’m sure.” It’s odd, I get the impression that there is a strong stereotype in Syria that American women must all be blonde in order to be truly American.

Taxi driver: “What are you doing in Damascus?”

Me: “Studying Arabic, at the University, in Meze.”

Taxi driver: “Oh, that’s good, do you like it? How do you like Syria?”

I told him I liked Syria a lot. I was relieved that the conversation was normal so far. Then…

Taxi driver: “Are you married?”

Me: “No.” Annoyed, I leaned back in my seat, looked intently out the window, and prepared to pretend not to understand the rest of the gentleman’s questions.

Silence. The trees rush by out the window. The taxi flies under a tunnel and the car is filled with a pleasantly noisy, conversation-obscuring wind. A few minutes go by like this.

Taxi driver: “You know, if you want to learn Arabic you have to practice talking to people.”

Me: “I know.”

Taxi driver: “So, have you been up to the top of Jebel al-Qasioun [the mountain overlooking Damascus] yet?”

Me: “No. Not yet.”

Taxi driver: “There is a beautiful view of the city from the top!”

Me: “Yes, I’ve heard that.”

Taxi driver: “Do you want to go up there now?”

Me: “Um, no. I want to go to Hamra street.”

Taxi driver: “No, it’s beautiful! I’ll take you there now!”

Me: “Um, NO. Thank you, but I want to go to Hamra street.”

Taxi driver: “We’ll go, we’ll go now, I’ll take you to the top. It’s a very nice view.”

I am seething, and almost screaming at him now.

Me: “NO. I want to go to Hamra Street!” (asshole)

Silence.

Then he starts chuckling.

Taxi driver: “Okay, okay, I get it. You want to go to Hamra Street.”

He still smiling, me still seething, he turned the car towards Hamra.