For about a month now, I have been living with a Syrian family in Old Damascus. The main reason for this move was a desire to live in an environment where I could effortlessly practise my Arabic. My family don’t speak English so that has been a success; the family span three generations, but I only really talk to the oldies, as they are very friendly and warm. It’s nice, I get to eat the family’s AMAZING food and am regularly in the vicinity of hyperactive children and doting old women.
I’ve also just finished up my second level at the university, which was at a rather brisker pace than Level 1. Arabic. It’s quite a language. The level of complexity in the grammatical structure borders on the ridiculous. Really. For example, personal pronouns. For our “you” there are no less than five second-person personal pronouns, each of which require a different verb conjugation (in the past, present and imperative form…). In the third person (He, She, They), there are six of them, with a differentiation between a dual female and dual male form that I, for one, can’t imagine anyone using. Ever. In any event there seems to be no room for the kind of Neanderthal indifference to grammar that is cultivated by the British public education system. Words literally change depending on where they are and what they are doing in the sentence. Although it’s quite enjoyable studying the stuff in many ways – grammar is very logical and there is a wonderfully satisfying sense of making out the broader picture of the language.
Also another very important point about Arabic is that, in order to be able to read, write and speak Arabic, I actually have to learn two languages. This is because written (and sometimes very formal spoken) communication takes place in the standard Arabic (foos-ha in Arabic) while oral communication is in the local dialect (or ami’a). And when I say dialect, I don’t mean a charmingly different pronunciation of vowel sounds but, you know, different vocabulary, a different way of conjugating verbs, dropped sounds… Part of the challenge is how to approach this.
My life continues to be full of change. I am not returning to the university (far too expensive, full of English-speaking people who remind me of the people I wasn’t friends with at university…) and it’s highly likely that, despite the charms of my family home, I will be moving yet again in the near future (my flat is insanely loud and very expensive; I am making enough Syrian friends that the benefit of speaking Arabic at home is less important; also the Old City is nauseatingly chock-a-block with tourists and foreign students). Although I now feel quite settled in Damascus, it’s tricky getting myself to something approaching an equilibrium because I don’t know what exactly I want; it’s more a case of sniffing out what you want more of, what you want less of. Part of the problem was that I hadn’t envisaged exactly what kind of life I was to be leading out here. Not necessarily a huge problem apart from the fact that human nature/the allure of convenience mean that you’re likely to end up following the herd. Which in many ways is exactly what I have done so far, studying at the very popular UoD and living in the Old City, where all the foreign students live. Yuck. Anyway, more change soon come. Don’t know what exactly, but the next few months should be rather different from the previous few… Other than that I’ll still be in Damascus… probably….
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When I was in London at the end of last year, someone asked me if I was having fun; because, they said, adventures always sound fun when you describe them, but that’s not to say that they’re necessarily as fun as they sound when you’re doing them. It’s a great point which touches on so many things; part of it is about the difficulties that arise when you’re trying to create a life that fulfils a certain goal (in my case, learning Arabic and about Syria) without a clearly defined programme of action. There are also the romantic ideas (in the philosophical rather than amorous sense) associated with 'travelling'. I think that even me, with my stereotypically-Generation-X-esque cynicism about things that, you know, other people have done before, couldn’t help but be infected by the temptations of the idea that something magical happens when you cross borders.
Part of the draw of this idea is that, particularly when you are going from your normal, established life to do something completely different, is that, by cutting yourself off from so much that defines you – your friends, family, work, routine, whatever it might be – you are, in a sense, subjecting yourself to a “Who am I exactly?” test. Surely something dramatic could happen then? I suppose it’s possible you could find out that you’re actually a raving sociopath or that you no longer love your wife and kids (etc). I don’t know. When I first came here, I felt a bit nervous. Now I don’t. I’m starting to recognise the re-emergence of characteristically “Admas” patterns of behaviour. Lots of pyjama time. The absence of guilt when turning down social invitations. Taking pleasure in impromptu conversations with strangers. I even got told off for being a copy of the Economist to a nightclub. I’m rather happy about it all.
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At home I dream that at Naples, at Rome, I can be intoxicated with beauty, and lose my sadness. I pack my trunk, embrace my friends, embark on the sea, and at last wake up in Naples, and there beside me is the stern fact, the sad self, unrelenting, identical, that I fled from. I seek the Vatican, and the palaces. I affect to be intoxicated with sights and suggestions, but I am not intoxicated. My giant goes with me wherever I go.
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