©2006 The Chestnut Hill Local

During war, Hiller reports on life in Damascus
by BETSY O’NEIL

Chestnut Hill native Betsy O’Neil now feels right at home in Damascus, Syria, where she has observed many refugees fleeing from the war in Lebanon.

Ed. Note: Betsy O’Neil is a Chestnut Hill native and former teacher at the William Penn Charter School who has been living and teaching English in Damascus, Syria, for more than a year. She filed this report with the Local after war began recently between Israel and the Hezbollah terrorist organization in southern Lebanon.

Obviously people think I am in a danger zone. I do not feel it. Perhaps in my naiveté I think Israel won’t bomb Syria. But I cannot imagine it. Then again, people in Beirut probably couldn’t imagine it either a week ago.

The hysteria has died down a bit. Life goes on.

There was a demonstration on Tuesday, so my school was closed. But the demonstration seemed pretty lame. And demonstrations here are just students taking a morning off and workers taking a morning off, all from a suggestion by the government. The only time I saw people here create their own demonstration with jazz and verve and passion was during the Muhammad cartoon mess. That had some oomph behind it. That actually scared me a little.

Families are pouring into Damascus. Lebanese and foreigners too. Nobody can plan anything. One of the teachers at my school is stuck in Lebanon. We do not know if and when he will return. His classes will be given to someone else. Hotels are filled. Restaurants are packed. The streets are busier. More ladies in mini skirts and also other ladies with full black robes and head coverings. Also, I feel like I have noticed some skanky single roaming guys a bit more (not so typical of Syria). Maybe they are from the Gulf (via Lebanon, their summer plans re-routed). See, everyone in the region takes vacations in Lebanon. They feel free there. They shop there. They go to clubs there, and to the beaches. And everyone was totally taken off guard by this outbreak of massive violence.

Back here, those creepy guys slow down their fancy cars as they drive by and leer at you. Like I am a hooker, which I am not. And I wear very conservative clothes and I am OLD-ish. I still cannot curse in Arabic. Shame on me. So, I just let out some good vulgar English lines. Under my breath, of course. Sort of. I have been coming up with curses that I have not said in decades. It is like I have Tourette’s syndrome.

But the show must go on!

We are performing our play, The English Patient, again. On the 27th, 28th and 29th of July. I leave the 31st, right after the play. The acting troupe is 100 percent Syrian, except for me, of course. The director, whose name is Hussam, wanted me to play Katherine, the tragic character who was played by Kristen Scott Thomas in the movie. Not exactly what you would call a perfect match for me, but hey, it’s a play, and I am excited.

From the first moment, it felt like all the play rehearsals I was in many, many moons ago. The tables in a circle. Scripts out. Fun people making funny comments and also feeling excited to get started. Random things becoming important props, like the pink sandbucket that became almost everything that had to be carried.

During the rehearsal, one man goes over to another man and pops a big kiss on his cheek. Whoa! These characters are not Arabs, although the actors are. We don’t want to confuse the audience. In Syria men always kiss each other; it’s like a slap on the back or a high-five in the U.S., but we all decided that it would not be believable between two cool Englishmen.

I and Al-Mashy, the name of the man who plays “the English patient” in the play, have many romantic scenes. I can be very modest about this, and being in the Middle East, this quality does NOT make me a prude. If I were in downtown Manhattan, they’d fire me for preferring some aptly directed handholding to make-out sessions. But as far as I’m concerned, that’s one big point for Syria!

One of the actors comes barrelling in and yelling “Lieutenant, Lieutenant,” and he did it perfectly phoenetically. It was adorable … The director is in my English class. He is warm and funny, and he is thrilled to have a solid English speaker (me) in the show, although I have not acted on stage in a long time. I am very happy. I did not even have to audition. I got the part based purely on my accent, and it’s not even English!

We went to see the Russian Cultural Center yesterday to look at the lighting and sound system. It is big. I am excited. Yet it is dusty and smoky, sort of reminiscent of the USSR. But we all must admit that nobody does plays like the Russians. I am fantasizing that some famous Stanislavskian-trained actors romped on these boards. Maybe…

The Americans do not have a stage here in Damascus. Just a room with a screen for movies. That is the big cultural donation of America here in Damascus. Movie night.

I like movies, but where are the real live people? Where are the lecturers, the historians and analysts being invited to town? The musicians giving concerts?? Where is Lionel Ritchie?

Visits from real people would help our relationship with the Middle East. Another sad thing about Lebanon … Beirut is where the academics would visit and speak. They went to the American University of Beirut and gave talks. This is cultural exchange with real live breathing human beings. And this matters.

Not in Syria. There is no exchange. Just some Fulbrighters or some rag-tag wanderers like me. No plan. No formal communication.

And believe me, we all have the time for it here. We have nothing but time. In fact, it is super-boring at times here. We are starved for some academic forums. Some Alvin Ailey dance performance or a debate on the Da Vinci Code.

But there’s nothing here culturally. No visiting artists. No visiting writers. And no ambassador!

So, no wonder things are a catastrophe. Who is trying? Once the subtle ties of art and hospitality are gone, then anything can fill the vacuum.

Syria has been good to many of us lonesome visitors. Yeah, we do often get the runaround, but at least they let us stay. And I talk about what I feel. And I take photos in the street. And I give dirty looks to the bad drivers. And I am rude to taxi drivers who want to rip me off. And nobody stops me.

You see, many people here are doing things in their own small ways. They are little heroes on their own. Renegades. Observing and being a part of the life here.

My friend Sally trains teachers. She sees how the education system works and how corrupt it is. Miranda makes an English language magazine. She finds stories and proofreads endless articles. They are here just because they want to be. Communicating. Relating.

Even though my Arabic is still pretty bad, I hope this experience has made me a little different in my perspectives and ideas. As my sister said, “At least you speak better Arabic than Dick Cheney!” That is for damn sure!! And that says it all!