Syrian Memory Collective

Covering Syrian Culture, History, Literature, Art & Cinema from Syrian experiences in the motherland and Diaspora ما هو الوطن؟ أن تحتفظ بذاكرتك .. هذا هو الوطن محمود درويش - يوميات الحزن العادي

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As the Syrian Memory Collective emerges from a hiatus, we are deeply saddened over the utter desolation of Syria. Despite the horror and heartache, we believe there is still much to be hopeful about. This latest contribution is a personal essay from Naila Bozo, editor of Kurdish Rights, reflecting on the poetry of Cigerxwîn and every day life in Qamişlo.  “Who Am I?  Kurdistan’s Resistance in Art” My summers in Syria were hazy but not just due to the heat and the dust swirled up by cars moving fast through the streets. The people of Qamişlo (Al-Kamishli), a city in northeastern Syria lying at the feet of the Taurus Mountains, seemed hesitant and careful. The days and weeks passed by slowly as if to fit the pace of the city's inhabitants. It was as though they were living life based on the principle of insha'Allah - 'if Allah wills'. The people were waiting for something but no one knew what it was they were waiting for. They simply lingered in life. Sometimes the tanned delivery boy stood outside our door at 5 o'clock in the morning, pressing the doorbell for twenty minutes to let us know he had brought the newly baked bread. He had time; he was busy, sure, but in Qamişlo no one seemed to be in a hurry. As a teenager, I was not able to grasp the extent of human adaptation to a life marred by a repressive regime targeting millions of people because of their ethnic background. I have since come to learn that my Kurdish family in Qamişlo willingly succumbed to a quiet life as it was their best means of survival. It was essential not to attract the attention of Syrian officials and if you were a compliant Kurd who did not insist too hard on your Kurdish identity, you would be left alone.   Yet today's armed resistance movements in all four parts of Kurdistan - in Syria, Turkey, Iraq and Iran - are testaments to the fact that you cannot suppress your identity. You cannot live without being.   I remember a summer when boys and young men on every street corner, in front of barber shops and schools were listening to a sentimental song by Kurdish singer Şeyda on their phones: You don't know / how empty you've left me / you don't know / how I ask about you to friends.   Listening to Kurdish songs and reading Kurdish poems, one would think that we were a lovesick people; that Kurds are tormented by a consuming passion for the alluring dark-haired beauty briefly descried in a window bathed in moonlight.  But not every Kurdish song or poem lingering on the beauty of a white, heaving bosom is about women. Poets and singers would in order to circumvent bans on the use of the word Kurdistan and the ensuing punishment replace it with the name of a woman, thereby personifying their love for the homeland and making it less threatening to the territorial integrity of the oppressive nations keeping Kurds prisoners. Banning the Kurdish language was just one method out of many employed by the regimes to prevent Kurds from forming and expanding social, political and armed resistance movements.  Despite being subjected to ethnic cleansing, genocide, chemical attacks, forced disappearances, banning of language, restrictions on cultural and social practices, displacements, demolition of homes and entire villages, the Kurds have remained steadfast in their resistance; not just in arms but in arts, too.   The late Mihemed Şêxo, a Kurdish musician born in Qamişlo, was a luminary in Kurdish music and a rebel with a tembûr (a string instrument). Saad Farsu, a friend of Şêxo, told me one summer evening in 2012 that Mihemed Şêxo "was the only one who kept singing about his beloved Kurdistan even though it was not allowed in Syria. He was beaten by the police and imprisoned many times. He was not scared."  In the preface to a collection of Mihemed Şêxo's songs, Qado Şêrîn noted that Şêxo was once beaten so severely that his socks were sticking to the flesh of his feet for days. "He was beaten for his love for his people yet refused to stop expressing this love for Kurdistan through music," Şêrîn wrote. "Artists like him never die".  But the Syrian police closed his music shop that had been a sanctuary for the people of Qamişlo after having harassed him for years. "They even took my broom,"  Mihemed Şêxo told my mother with bitterness in his voice one day as they were driving to Hasakeh.   Every story of a Kurd being beaten or imprisoned for his activism for Kurdistan inspired renewed urgency among Kurds to preserve, protect and promote their heritage and identity. Yet with greater awareness came more beatings, more imprisonments, more harassment. Kurds were locked in a battle against authorities and the rules of the low intensity war were unclear: The discrimination against Kurds was legal as Arabization measures implemented in the 1970s were based on the notion that Kurds were a cancer in the Arab body but Syrian officials targeted Kurds in an arbitrary manner, causing uncertainty within the Kurdish community.   It led to a universal conflict: Do I stay silent and alive or do I speak up and risk my life?  To the people who chose the first, literature and music could no longer serve as a means of resistance, only as a modest comfort. When art becomes fearful, it becomes vague and the urgency of the cause it used to serve is lost and the resistance comes to a halt. The famous Kurdish poet Cigerxwîn chose the latter; he wrote poems that were anything but vague. "Kîme Ez?" (Who am I?), he asks in his most notable poem. I am an uprising, a volcano, it continues. It was a poem designed to make Kurds confront their identity which they had so long kept hidden and obscure in order to survive under the rule of the Syrian regime.   Cigerxwîn was born Şêxmus Hesen in 1903 in Batman, Northern Kurdistan (Turkey) but moved with his family to Amudê near Qamişlo. He began writing poems in the early 1920s, assuming the pen name Cigerxwîn which means "bleeding liver" in Kurdish. He got involved in politics and like many before and after him, he was eventually imprisoned in Damascus for his Kurdish activism.  He was one of many voices defying those who were silencing the Kurds. He reminded Kurds, plainly, unadorned, who they were.  

(Stanza 1 and 14 of the poem "Kîme Ez" by Cigerxwîn)

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“Light Horizon” (2012) by artist Randa Maddah is a short video project, which features an actress meticulously tidying up the room of a ruined house in Ain Fit, a village in the occupied Syrian Golan Heights which was destroyed by Israeli forces in 1967.

The aim of this video was to create familiarity in the midst of tragedy and destruction. While watching actress complete the quotidian task of sweeping and then setting the table, the idea of hope and normalcy is also brought to mind; that among the destruction and occupation, people in the occupied Golan Heights  live as if there is a future beyond this ruination, both physical (the destruction of their villages, livelihoods) and national (the separation from the homeland, occupation).  The Golan Heights feature heavily in Syrian collective memory, as it signifies one of the biggest losses to Israel. Following the 1967 war, many Syrian intellectuals turned to mourning and self-criticism as a way to frame the discussion.

Despite the 1973 October War Victory Panorama in Damascus, the reality is that the Golan Heights is still occupied and many parts of Quneitra remained destroyed.

Mohammad Malas features the destruction of Quneitra in one of his films, Night, as a stand in for the desolation of Hama. 

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The city of Aleppo in Syria is known for many things: its food, its architecture, its pistachios, its music, and its soap.  The soap is referred to as either Aleppan Soap (صابون حلبي ) or Ghar Soap (صابون الغار) and is a Castile soap made from olive oil, lye, and laurel oil. The arduous process of making these soaps pre-dates that of Queen Zenobia, the 3rd-century Queen of the Palmyrene Empire. It is said that she valued the soap due its medicinal properties. Each bar of soap takes about a year to make. The laurel oil was originally brought in from the villages directly outside of Aleppo, but as demand increase, producers had to travel further, to Lattakia and Antakya in Turkey, to obtain the quantities needed. However, olive groves were bountiful in Aleppo, and the winter months were spent collective the oil from local trees.  Production, when the oils were boiled and mixed, usually took place in the winter months.The mixture was then poured on to a flat surface, like a shallow swimming pool, and then cooled. The resulting block of green, roughly-cut fresh soap was cut and branded with the maker's stamp. After it's cut, it was allowed to dry for almost seven months, during which time it yellowed. The soap, which has parallels in the soap produced in Nablus, Palestine, is also said to have been the first soap to be introduced to Europe; during the crusades in the 11th century, the crusaders were introduced to the soap by the local populations who then brought it back with them to Europe, and began producing their own, most notably the Marseille soap.  Scholars noted that in 1903, the trade between Aleppo and Baghdad consisted mostly of Aleppo soap and cotton.  Please consider purchasing an Aleppo soap, made by a small business owned by women in Aleppo and Damascus from the Karam Foundation.

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This video highlights a man whose family establishment has been a focal point of Damascus for decades: Abu Shaker. 

This may not seem like the most important cultural institution, or a feature that is historically significant. But it is a part of Damascus; it is Damascus. Abu Shaker and his juice are part of what makes Damascus what it is. In existence since 1953, one can hardly remember the city without remembering the elaborate fruit drinks coming to mind, almost immediately. 

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The above is a short documentary about the Cretan community of Syria -- that is, the small ethnically Greek Muslim community located in the coastal province of Tartous. 

The community, though living away from Crete (and Greece) for over a century, still speaks a Cretan dialect and has held on to Greek customs. They keep up with Greek politics, current events, and entertainment by catching the Cyprus TV signal on their satellites. Here, two travel bloggers recounts their travel experiences in Al-Hamidiyah. They write:

 When you hear Cretan songs being sung from the heart, from a man who has never been to the island, you realise how strong the Cretan presence is felt in Al Hamidiyah. These songs spoke of Crete in a different age, they were beautiful to listen to.

I was told that the dialect they speak was learnt in the home as it is not taught at school. The Hamidiyans love Crete and this family is a clear example of that. You can see it in the spark of their eyes when they speak of Crete. It came as no surprise that they, like the rest of the village, appreciate the Cretan customs and language.

All attribute the name of the town, Al-Hamidiyah, to Sultan Abdel Hamid, the last Sultan of the Ottoman Empire. However, some claim that they named the town after him as a way of remembering that he is the reason for their pain and exile; others claim he set aside the land in Al-Hamidiya for them to protect them from retribution following Greco-Turkish war. 

While the community in Syria calls itself Greek-Cretan, it is important to note that amongst other spaces they are known as Cretan Turks, due to being Muslim. Efsevia Lasithiotaki has written about this, claiming that modern Greek identity formation is continent upon language (Greek) and religion (Orthodox Christianity); therefore, someone cannot be Muslim and Greek. However, she writes that for the Cretan population of Syria, their identity formation process is similar to that of the Cretan population in Lebanon: based on language and culture and customs. In fact, in the documentary above the narrator notes that the wedding rituals of the community resemble that of present-day Cretans.

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Khan Al-Harir (the Silk Market) was a Ramadan television serial broadcast over two seasons, in 1996 and 1998. Focusing on domestic Syrian politics leading up to the unity of Syria and Egypt to become the United Arab Republic between 1958-1961 and the subsequent dissolution of the union.

Yearly, during Ramadan, month-long serials are broadcast around the Arabic-speaking world. Many Syrian producers and writers have created some of the best serials. Khan al-Harir is one such show. 

First broadcast in 1996, it ran for 23 episodes. Two years later, in 1998 it ran for 25 episodes. The story revolves around shopkeepers, merchants, and traders in a neighborhood, Khan al-Harir (the Silk Bazaar). However, as with many of the popular Ramadan serials, it focuses on a specific point in history. In this case, the focus is on the months preceding the formation of the United Arab Republic, the union between Syria and Egypt and its subsequent dissolution. 

The show gives an accurate representation of neighborhood life in Aleppo in the 1950s during the United Arab Republic and an insightful glimpse into the political debates of the time. It also gives a look at the socio-economic differences in this Alepppan neighborhood and how their politics differed, and how they interacted with one another.

Furthermore, it also parses masculinity and representations of manhood in contemporary Syrian understanding. Rebecca Joubin, writes about this extensively in her 2013 book, 'The Politics of Love: Sexuality, Gender, and Marriage in Syria Television Drama.' She writes about two of the characters, at opposition to each other political in the show, and also in how they understand their masculinity and how its viewed by society.

Nihad Sirees and the other writers of the show used the debates present in 1950s Syria, between camps who supported the Baghdad Pact powers and those who were in favor of the USSR as allegory for the political debates present in the 1990s, which featured state socialism versus capitalism partisans. In this way, the past was used to critique the present and Gamal Abdel Nassar’s increased authoritarianism in Syria is a metaphor for Hafez al-Assad’s Ba’ath party dictatorship.   The story-line follows the families, and their drama, and eventually forces friendships and families apart and creates unlikely alliances; the last episode of the serial features two groups, one marching for the union and one marching for independence, showing how the UAR and the political suppression that had been carried out had caused the ideologies to polarize the community until they could no longer debate and could only march. 

Watch the first episode in the video above and the rest of the serial on YouTube.

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"وطن واحد ما بده جواز" -- "One Nation doesn't need a passport" so declares Abdel Wadud upon losing his and Sutfeh's passports. 

The film, الحدود (The Border) follows a man who lost his passport while attempting a road-trip. In between two of the countries, he loses his and a traveler he picked up, Sutfeh’s passport. He tries many times to get through the border and gives up before deciding to settle. 

With no other options, he builds a life in the hinterlands and opens up a cafe that soon becomes extremely popular and frequented regularly by those passing through the border. While building his little house and cafe, Abdel Wadud has a run in with soldiers from the countries; while threatening him they say that the border is meaningless and that, if they chose to, could cross over and capture him. Abdel Wadud, in his desperation, asks why he wasn’t allowed to pass to go home if the border is in fact that meaningless?

Abdel Wadud ends up befriending the border soldiers of both countries, who seem to like him well enough; they even attend his wedding to Sutfeh, each on one side of the border. 

Soon, word gets out about the man and his wife stuck between the border when a journalist write an expose about their conditions. Following the report, his case is deemed to be the ‘humanitarian case’ of the region; discussions are held about what needs to be done to help Abdel Wadud. Women unite and say “any of us could be Sutfeh” and men on the street say that “Abdel Wadud’s tragedy is everyone’s tragedy, as any one of us could be Abdel Wadud.” 

This public outcry causes ministers to meet and stage a huge press conference to help Abdel Wadud and Sutfeh get home. At the press conference, minsters are seen talking about the oneness of the nations, and how their shared identities tie their fates together. 

The film, though largely comedic, ends on a heartbreaking note: with a huge cavalcade to see their way home, Sutfeh and Abdel Wadud are stopped at the border crossing and told that, without a passport or identification papers, they’re not allowed to pass through, proving that nothing that was done for them — the charade of care — was beneficial. Adel Wadud and Sutfeh then hold hands and walk away from the guards with their guns up, threatening to shoot if they breached the buffer zone.  

The film, like most of the collaborations between Durayd Lahham and Muhammed al-Maghout, is a scathing satire political realities  as it highlights the discrepancies between official discourse and the political reality experienced by most citizens. Assad’s Syria, as the fictional nations in the movie, espouses a pan-Arabist rhetoric however, this does not translate well in reality when one thinks of the plight of the Palestinians, the enmity between Assad’s Syria and Hussein’s Iraq, the statelessness of the Kurds and the various political barriers placed on citizens forbidding them from travel to certain countries. The film draws attention to the struggles faced by the stateless and the absolute inefficacy of the countries who claim to help, and who claim to be concerned with the plight of those affected.

Furthemore, the film comments on the bureaucracy that ties the hands of most institutions. Abdel Wadud goes back and forth between the two countries’ border checkpoints, each time being told that he needs a permit, or written statement, from a superior at the other checkpoint in order to be able to pass. He is given no real answer as to what he needs, or how he is to obtain it; rather, the officials make it his duty to figure out what is needed. 

However, the film can also be read as tracking the disillusionment of a citizen with the rhetoric espoused by the nation; Abdel Wadud, on his journey, stops along various countries in a fictional region. In each one, he is robbed, but allowed to pass through. When he loses his passport, he does not despair at first. Rather, he tells Sutfeh that “one nation doesn’t require a passport” thinking he will be allowed to pass through given his truthful demeanor. However, he is passed back and forth by the two countries checkpoints and is not allowed to pass. From that moment, on, he grows disillusioned with the one nation - we are all brothers rhetoric, and even asks the soldiers in an exasperated manner, that if the borders are meaningless, why wasn’t he allowed to pass through? This disillusionment continues; during the ceremony, where ministers from the various countries are giving speeches lauding their unity Abdel Wadud and Sutfeh seem content and happy, clapping along to what they have to say. However, between each speech, the scene cuts from showing a minister talking to showing a bleating sheep, or a child playing with empty bottles giving the viewer the sense that the speeches being given are meaningless. In the end, it is proven that the speeches are meaningless when Abdel Wadud and Sutfeh are not allowed to pass through the border, since they once again, are prevented by their lack of passports.  To watch the full movie in Arabic, click here. 

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The following is a guest contribution by someone who has loved, laughed, cried and grown up in the shadows of the tree. This is her tribute. 

Shajart Alkarasi, Atmeh, Syria At the foot of a hillock above many hills in the Syrian village, Atmeh, was a tree living alone, for more than three hundred years. It witnessed many generations and under its shade buried the memories and secrets of the village. The tree was never worshipped. It was merely its size, age and the precious memories embedded within its roots that gave it its great significance in the village.  For generations, the tree was used by children who would tie ropes to it and swing on its branches… As they grew older, it would offer its shade to couples on romantic strolls, shade teens from the sun as they smoked shisha and cigarettes. For families, it provided beautiful shelter as they gathered for picnics and barbecues. The farmers and shepherds of the village would drink their morning coffee, matteh, or tea gazing out at the fields from underneath it and villagers often rested in its shade after a long day of work.  The tree also happened to stand by a shrine, a shrine that had been there for years. Out of respect to the person buried in the tomb, prayers would be read before and after the gatherings.  The tree, which withstood time and occupation and disaster, housed people passing by and people on the run for years. So much so, that the older villagers would tell the young ones: “cut one twig of the tree and heaven will curse you for the rest of your life! Or you could suffer from painful diarrhea” When the Syrian revolution began, people swore they saw the tree singing the songs of freedom and dignity as sung by Qashoush and the tree became a haven for those running from security forces during the early days of protest.  Because of all this, because of this history, on November 20, 2013 the tree was declared a kafir by the counter-revolutionary ISIS and was condemned to death — they claimed the tree, which had withstood the elements and history to stand as it did, was being worshipped by the villagers. These men, who came in from the outside desecrated the tree and the village for their false perceptions of religiosity. 

But, as the tree withstood all this, so did the villagers. On March 4th, 2014, a group of young villagers decided to bring the tree back to life: they replanted it.  Because to them, shajart alkarasi was never ‘just a tree’. It carried the villager’s memories and just like it chose to come back, and over the years will grow just as big and beautiful, Syria too will return to life.

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One of the most striking aspects of the Syrian uprising, not sufficiently commented on, let alone documented, is its profuse eruption of cultural creativity and other forms of humanistic expression that, on the popular, rural, and suburban levels at least, had largely remained dormant under a severely repressive political, economic, and social climate lasting over 40 years. These cultural avenues and their expressionistic features constitute some of the most enduring, idiosyncratic, and downright unique features of an uprising triggering a cataclysmic effusion in Syrian society that remains absolutely unparalleled, manifesting as it does in the form of graffiti, song, banners, lyricisms, journalistic / literary projects, slogans, online video series, theatrical forms of direct action and civil disobedience, and myriad, seemingly innumerable forms of art.  In particular, these socially transmitted expressions of art, identity, and all manner of collaborative projects are authentic, spontaneous, and deeply intertwined within the nation’s revolutionary zeitgeist and simultaneously emanate forth from it. They are attributes of a Syrian society that had not overtly articulated its voice – until now, that is. As a result, one gets the sense that the rich character of Syria’s rural and working class communities prior to the uprising was largely unknown or relegated purely to the subterranean spheres of social life. However, it is precisely these seminal components of the current waves that make for such exciting discovery for anyone fascinated by the post-revolutionary cultural renewal of Syria.

Originally released in 2004 onSublime Frequencies, a record label based in Seattle, Washington (they are most notable for having helped propel Syrian dabke vocalist Omar Souleyman to worldwide exposure) devoted to releasing pop/folk musics, visual material, field recordings, radio fragments, theatrical expressions and other forms of left-field sound art from marginalised communities across South-East Asia, and what is commonly parsed as the MENA (Middle East and North Africa) region,I Remember Syriais a double-album anthology of sounds recorded in Syria over two trips made across the country in the late 90s and again at the turn of the millennium. This collection is startling in that it gives global listeners an extremely rare, perhaps unprecedented, chance to hear an eclectic, sprawling, and multifaceted first-hand representation of the daily lives, activities, and unique artistic creations of ordinary Syrians prior to the revolution.

I Remember Syriais essentially composed of two parts; the first contains recordings derived from Damascus, the second peregrinates further afield and comprises pieces from various places all across the country, most notably Lattakia, Aleppo, and Hama. This heterodox compilation chiefly documents street sounds of daily activity, radio broadcasts, impromptu musical performances, the researcher’s interviews of locals in market places, restaurants, stalls, hotels, and places of labour as well as various outdoor recordings of rural life, chatter, and mechanical / human ambience in the interiors of mosques, factories, workshops, and other frequented locales. This list is far from comprehensive, however;I Remember Syriatranscends the travelogue blueprint in order toportray aspects of Syrian culture so interstitial and interwoven into the underground Syrian cultural milieu that even frequent visitors to Syria would have failed to apprehend, for instance, the tendency of competing cassette kiosk owners in marketplaces to blast music at one another, the country’s theatrical-musical folk traditions, and even Aleppo’s underground queer community.

The content in Sublime Frequencies’I Remember Syriacollection determinedly opens up a no-holds-barred representation to unfiltered textures of Syrian life as it is lived in its many spaces, both literal and figurative. It is dotted with many exceptional, unorthodox, and illustrative moments of the personalities of all the people captured in these recordings. Across this odyssey, one is treated to the sounds of a wedding in the one of the narrowharas(alleys) of the Old City, inaugurated in a flurry ofzalghoutas(celebratory ululations for festive occasions such as the announcement of an engagement): the cheers and yelping of young Bedouin children as they boisterously sing folkloric tunes, perceptibly thrilled at the prospect of another day revealing its petals in full blossom; dense sounds of bustling evening traffic as a petrol salesman cries out‘Mahzot! Mahzot!’ (diesel); and the insouciant, banshee-wailing from a woman singing a scathing song about Saddam Hussein, US Imperialism, and Arabism, giggling diffidently as her interviewer goads her on to sing some more.

In terms of the audio-transmitted arts, we are treated here to a consummate goldmine of gems which, when they are not utterly captivating musically and aurally, are at least overtly instructive of the stultifying nature of a national state that brooked nothing less than total prostration to the odious cult of the Al-Assad dynasty. This is particularly glaring in a radio presentation in English entitled ‘Arab Women In Focus’, which propagandistically features a female newscaster describing in sordid detail how the purportedly gracious, cosmopolitan minded Hafez Al-Assad single-handedly paved the way for women’s liberation in society’s public spheres, opening up opportunities for women in all areas of life, from occupational spaces to the military. Its duplicitous narrative brings to mind the more contemporary phenomenon ofpinkwashing, a tactic used by Israel to promote the ‘Jewish state’ as a liberal, open-minded haven that is accepting of people with deviant, commonly marginalised lifestyles, pulling the wool over the eyes of naive outside observers as to the state’s systematic economic, sectarian, and social oppression of the Palestinians who live there. Excerpts such as the aforementioned portray how Syria under Hafez Al-Assad exhibited much of the same traits. Musically, we are treated to styles that run the gamut from an independent, jaunty pop-folk outfit from Aleppo (the Gomidas Band), an utterly invaluable ditty from an Assyrian singer known as Jermain Tamraz, crooning a song here entitled ‘Moumita’ and sung in that language, as well as myriad cuts from radio children’s musicals, commemorative Ramadan-themed songs, and synth-laden, incidental soundtracks to talk-show segments. It is difficult to sufficiently emphasise how beguiling and immersive these sounds are and virtually impossible to overstate!

Beyond all this, however, and as remarkable and exhilarating as this entire package is, there are two pieces inI Remember Syriathat give us such phenomenal albeit fleeting insights through a penetrating cultural lens from this pre-Arab Spring era which one would be hard-pressed to find depicted anywhere else. One of these is a record of a dialogue calledKazib City, which features a staged theatrical in-joke in the form of a dialogue between the staff of a Syrian hotel and cheekily presented to the revolving door of hapless tourists passing through there. Together they concoct an (apparently) fictitious Arab state called ‘Kazib City’, which is cryptically presented as a sovereign state that lies beneath the desert somewhere between Oman and Yemen, and for which only two-day visas are available for visitors, who for some inexplicable reason have to go through the immigration offices in Oman in order to obtain them. At one point in the exchange between Syrian hotel staff members and one of the American researchers, a Sudanese clerk who works at the reception desk indignantly intervenes, complaining about how the government of Kazib (incidentally derived from the Arabic term for ‘lie’) City favours handing out visas to the ‘bullshit Americans’ at the expense of the Sudanese people. Without giving too much else away, this deadpan comedic performance taking place with such verve, extempore, and witty imagination and in such a mundane locus as a hotel in broken Syrian English is one of the most revealing paragons of this entire collection. The second is the harrowing closer of this marvellous volume, ‘The Norias of Hama (Blood Irrigation on the Orontes)’ clocks in at 8 minutes and consists of the droning, rhythmic noise of the water-wheels as they turn slowly in the stately river and with all the weight of their dissonant splendour; they are harsh and abrasive in their sonic density, and fill the air with an ambient sense of haunting (and very physical) nostalgia of a city that was the first to experience mass martyrdom after an unspeakable genocidal bloodbath in 1982 that served as a precursor to the sort of state-sanctioned behaviour Syrians have been experiencing daily after March 2011. It is a fitting end to a piece that closes one chapter in the modern Syrian story and that portentously lays the ground for the next.

Far from being an exotic, romanticised, and fetish-filled archive artificially constructed for outside consumption,I Remember Syria’s web of audio-fragments is as raw as it gets, and boasts little editing and mastering beyond perhaps some basic production arrangements of the wide array of radio and television excerpts. It was captured on very basic equipment and it shows; its presentation is totally decentralised, choppy, and unpredictable, as radio white noise erratically intervenes in vying receptions from different sources of audio. It is absolutely essential listening, and if pre-revolutionary Syria was this much of an intricate vortex of creative webs, one can but anticipate with sheer awe just how prospective compilations of Syrian society’s revolutionary creations will appear before us. Suffice it to say, a few two-hour audio compilations of eclectic mash-ups will scarcely be enough in capturing them!

I Remember Syria, originally released on Sublime Frequencies in 2004, was re-issued digitally in April 2013 as a purchasable download, available here (where you can also stream full tracks) and here, all proceeds of which go to the Syrian Arab Red Crescent to directly aid the humanitarian crisis facing those living in Syria under the constant threat of violence, starvation, and homelessness.  Guest post by Sarjouah Sakran who tweets here.

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The clip above shows parts of Joude Gorani’s 2005 thesis, “Before Vanishing”قبل الاختفاء. Gorani’s thesis, a short documentary, explores the current state of the Barada river, and Damascus. The filmmaker travels the lengths of the Barada river that surrounds the city of Damascus. Her journey, though seemingly simple, shows the state the river is in: on the verge of drying out, exploited polluted, no longer the sanctuary mentioned in religious texts, while providing a commentary on the changing face of the city. Her film not only highlights the water shortages, pollution, and the effects unplanned urbanization have had on the river and surrounding areas but the changing demographics and societal cleaves in Damascus.

Though the Barada river, or Abana river as it is known in the Bible, had long been touted as perhaps the most important defining feature of Damascus; Nizar Qabbani wrote of it, and Fairouz sang about it. The river creates the Ghouta Basin, an oasis and collection of farms in Rif Dimashq, which has historically supplied the city’s agricultural and water needs, and it is frequently cited as the reason that Damascus exists and was able to flourish as a capital city throughout the ages. 

However, the ongoing droughts in the region have affected the river greatly, leaving it to be no more than a trickle in parts of the city and completely dry in others. The drought has not been the only thing to ravage the waterway; the unplanned urbanization of the Ghouta, and Damascus has also taken its toll. As thousands moved from the areas affected by drought into the big city for opportunities, they were pushed to find new areas for housing. Though plans in the 1960s stated that the population expansion needed to be controlled, municipal authorities did not follow the plans and instead led the construction happen at random.  Rather, due to nepotism and bureaucracy, as well the sheer need drove the expansion to spread over the Ghouta water basin, exerting stress on water supplies. As a result, there has been little government intervention in preventing the decimation of the river; as early as 1986, locals of Ghouta had complained that “the water has been murdered” (Batatu 1999, 75). The river has been ravaged so much that various branches are completely dry. 

The river also suffers from pollution, with garbage and waste redirected to its banks. In the early 2000s, residents living near the river began complaining that the water had almost entirely been contaminated by sanitation waste; as the city expanded with no planning, the only place to direct sewage and waste was to the river, with no treatment. Furthermore, many factories operate around the river in the Basin area, and direct their waste to the river without any treatment. General apathy by the residents surrounding the area also led to the river’s pollution: while picnicking on the banks, people would throw their garbage away from there and it was not unusual to spot people throwing waste into the river when in the city aw well.

While several clean-up campaigns were initiated by civilians, they were often viewed with great suspicion by the government. 

As Gorani highlights in her documentary, the changing demographics of Damascus over time have also altered how people interact with it. Previously, with the Ghouta sitting by the banks of the Barada, came a Damascene tradition known as al-Seran (السيران). The idea of al-Seran dates back to the Ummayed dynasty, and is a short trip taken to maybe the outskirts of the city, to the orchards and farms of the Ghouta for recreation and relaxation, often accompanied with story-telling, argileh, and mashawe (barabeque). However, while this may have been a practice of all social classes, following the infitah and the inpouring of the displaced into the Ghouta has altered things: while families do still go on Serans, it is a practice left to those considered lower-middle and lower-class, while the societal elites will frequent luxury cafes on the banks (one of which is called al-Seran, a nod to the past) and picnicking is unheard of for them.  This is just one manifestion of the transition Damascus was in, along with the growing class disparities, before March 2011. Looking back and watching the documentary in 2014 shows how deep the cleaves in society were in Damascus, and Syria as a whole. 

[syrianmemorycollective]

“War” is an excerpt from “not a matter of if but a matter when: brief records of a time in which expectations were repeatedly raised and lowered and people grew exhausted from never knowing if the moment if the moment was at hand or still to come,” an art projected developed in 2005 - 2006 in Damascus, Syria. 

Between 2005 and 2006 Rami Farah was asked record short sequences in which he responded to a prompt or a written text. Through a combination of direct address and fantastical narrative, Rami’s improvisations speak to living in a condition of uncertainty, chaos and stasis.

Through asking him to record his reactions to mundane words like “dawn” “village” “house” and “bird” as well as more provocative ones such as “freedom” “war” and “resignation”, the artists attempt to find meaning in a time and place where the official vocabulary has been abused by the government and no words exist to describe them beyond this scope. Rami’s seemingly mundane improvisations reveal the reality of the Syrian political condition, managing to articulate a rhetoric of fear and pending doom, while simultaneously expressing cautious hope. Though the close-up and portrait framing seems deceivingly simple, it emphasizes how the actor’s body flips roles from body politic to citizen body, and eventually shows that boundaries are blurry, unfixed and capricious. 

2005 - 2006 marked officially, the end of the “Damascus Spring” when following the death of Hafez al-Assad a period of intense political and social debate began in hopes of pushing reform. Many activists, writers, intellectuals, and important figures met at salons held at homes to debate various issues that had previously been considered taboo. During that period, several statements were released by different figures in Syrian society, intellectuals, activists, authors, filmmakers, civil society leaders, and religious figures calling for the end of the state of emergency, abolition of martial law and special courts, the release of all political prisoners, the return without fear for all political exiles, the right to form political parties and civil organizations, and the political demand that Article 8 of the Syrian constitution, which provides that the Arab Socialist Ba’ath Party leads the state and society, be repealed (x and x) and a call to ending the Syrian occupation of Lebanon. The initial optimism and energy for social reform slowly diminished after some overtures towards reform by the government were made, with eight activists and participants of the salons were arrested and sentenced to jail time between 2 - 10 years. 

However, after the assassination of Lebanese Prime Minister, Rafiq Hariri, the Syrian government was pressured to withdraw from Lebanon, ending the 30-year occupation. After that, the “Cedar Revolution” happened, Hezbollah fought with Israel, Iraq held elections and began a descent into civil war, leaving the region a little bit more shaky that it had been previously. For Syrians, with a relatively new president, this sparked anxiety and anticipation, wondering when it would be ‘their’ turn, so to speak. Each of these events had a significant impact on Syrians and how they viewed themselves, their government, and their past.

Although on the surface, Syria seemed stable many including intellectual Sadiq Jalal al-Azem, noted that widespread anxiety was bubbling beneath the surface and many thought that change was upon them, and would show itself in an explosion. 

Though recorded 6 years prior to the start of the Syrian uprising, Rami Farah’s 3:49 video discussing his associations with “War” seem to predict the explosion in March 2011 and aftermath that followed. Using the body as metaphor, he imagines a violent social change that has for all intents and purposes become reality.

For a recent interview with Rami Farah, see here.

To see more videos in the “not a matter of if but a matter of when” series, seehere. 

[syrianmemorycollective]

Ya Leil Ya Ein (يا ليل يا عين), is filmmaker Nidal al-Debs’s exploration of erotica and isolation in daily life. Released in 1999, the short film is simple, containing no dialogue. Rather, it focuses on two characters: a man and a woman and the parallelism in their lives. Both alone, seemingly single and lonely, who toil at physical labour and come back to empty homes.

The parallelism of their lives is drawn by their hands: the film is rife with close-ups of their hands, they both injure their hands, she applies lotion to smooth the skin and he applies arak before going to bed. 

Just before they sleep, as they both lie in bed, they begin playing with the shadows of their hand. In what is one of the most erotic scenes in Syrian cinema, the shadow from his hand seems to reach into her room and begins to caress her, and her shadow does the same to him. Finally, their two shadows meet and hold each other in what seems to be a climax. However, the camera shifts down and each is shown as playing with their own hands in the light, with both characters shiftedand the film ends with a sequence similar to the start of the film, with both characters working but this time with their bare hands, both plunging their hands into a bucket of paint or water, in what seems to be a fulfillment of carnal desires. Despite the characters sitting across from one another at the start of the film, and sitting besides each other at the end, the only human contact that occurs is when the scene implies that the shadows of their hands are intertwined and dancing, showing they both crave a break from the alienation and isolation they both suffer from.  The silent film is highly evocative, each emotion laid bare and clear. The monotony of daily life, and their physical labour; each time a character caresses their own face or hand, it leaves the viewer understanding the longing the characters portray. Each mise en scene is deliberate, filled with detail and people in the background that is easily ignored as one’s focus is easily drawn to either character. However, the film can also be read as a critique on the alienation of labour. Syria is, and was, heavily socially stratified with upward mobility highly improbable. Looking at both characters as they study their hands, there seems to be a sense of wonder attached to their explorations. Rather than look each other in the eye, they focus on one another’s hands, with which they do their manual labour; they are unable to define their relationship with each other, since having one, even as two people occupying the same space seems impossible. She scrubs the hallways of what seems to be a large office building (those familiar with office buildings in Syria and Lebanon will understand) and he is painting the dome of what appears to be a public building, whose affairs in Syria are run by the state. The next day, following the erotic encounter of the shadows, they seem to crave a deeper connection with their work, both removing their gloves and plunging their bare hands into their buckets perhaps as a way of reclaiming their labour. This short was Nidal al-Debs’s first film, and was highly received by both Arab and foreign film critics. It went on to be screened at several international film festivals.

[syrianmemorycollective]

Perhaps the most recognized part of Hama are the water wheels, also known as Noria (نواعير), or “wheels of pots.” Around 17 have withstood history and remain standing, mostly as ornamentation in the city, along the Assi (Orontes) river. Though built in the Roman era, it was during the Mamluk Sultanate that the Noriat reached there peak, when there were about 30 dotting the river, always working. (1) The most famous, and largest surviving, Noria is نواعير المحمدية (Noria al-Mohammadiyye). Built in 1361 CE, it is still in use carrying water through the remainders of the aqueduct system to the Grand Mosque of Hama. (2)  In February 1982, several Noriat were razed to the ground when Rifat al-Assad’s paramilitaries (سرايا الدفاع), under Hafez al-Assad’s command, razed many parts of the old town that were sympathetic to the groups associated with the Muslim Brotherhood. As such, Noriat remain an important symbol in Syria, not just one depicting its heritage but also serve as context when discussing past events in Syrian history; the Noriat, a metonym of Hama, have become a symbol for the Hama 1982 massacre. The Syrian Vergangenheitsbewältigung as it relates to Hama was heavily restricted by unspoken rules about what was considered, by the regime, to be acceptable narratives surrounding the events in the country. Therefore, the tragedies were blotted out from official memory. The events were simply not referred to in any way, save for the whispers in the confines of people’s homes. Syrian-American poet and literary critic Mohja Kahf in 2001 wrote that Syrian literature “contains no account of the Hama massacre… The silence on Hama is notable, given the sophisticated levels of political consciousness among Syrian writers. An episode of this magnitude in a country’s third largest city does not just pass unnoticed by the country’s major poets and novelists, no matter what their ideological leanings.”(3) While writers kept silent, one director didn’t. Mohammad al-Malas touched on the taboo subject of the Hama massacre in his movie, الليل (The Night) which was released in 1992. Though الليل is primarily about another taboo subject, the 1967 war against ‘Israel’ and the heavy loss associated with it, along with the destruction of Quneitra he frequently draws parallels to what happened to Quneitra, with what was done in Hama. الليل references the destruction of the old city, and the massacre in visually and symbolically explicit ways through the representation of the Noriat.In the movie, a collage of water wheels links Hama with Quneitra, each a site in the collective memory of Syria steeps with the memories of state violence against its people. Beyond that, the a protagonist in the film is a native of Hama, and the town’s name comes up often in the dialogue, or voice overs, very casually, leaving the the viewer to draw the equivalence of destruction. 

Unsurprisingly, the politics of the film along with the bureaucratic machines of the state, landed Mohammad Malas in trouble with the regime, and a warrant was put out for his arrest.   Though these events happened long ago, they are by no means forgotten. Since March 2011, small attempts at remembering the lives lost in 1982 have been made by various groups within Hama, and the country. More than that, the Noriat have been recognized as a symbol of defiance and resistance by other groups, most notably the experimental music collective known asCheckpoint 303; on their EP ‘Sidi Bouzeid Syndrome,’ atrack called لن تقف نواعير حماة 2012 - 1982(Hama’s Waterwheels Will Not Be Stopped 1982 - 2012) features the sound of the Noria gradually mixing with various ambient field recordings from Hama. Eventually, the voice of Ibrahim Qashoush, famed poet and singer, murdered brutally in 2011 is heard through the audioscapes, singing of resistance. For more information on the events leading up to the Hama massacre, see this,this,this, and this. For more information about the space that Hama occupies in Syrian memory see here, here, and here. As mention of the events leading up to, surrounding, and the aftermath of the massacre was verboten by government authorities, there exist very few accounts of what occurred.  

[syrianmemorycollective]

"Friends, the visit is 1/2 an hour"

So read the doorbell of artist Youssef Abdelke’s studio… Youssef Abdelke was born in Qamishly in 1951 and studied the fine arts in Damascus and at various prestigious institutions in Paris.  A well-known and loved artist, his work explores the struggles of the Syrian people living under a brutal government, while also portraying his pains of living in diaspora for many years after having been arrested for the first time by the government in the early 1970s; he has been a long-standing critic of the Ba’ath government in Syria. His art in simple in its components, yet very dense in the messages it tries to deliver. He has also worked on several children’s book covers, politically themed caricature, posters for Palestine, and various etchings. (x)

For more of Youssef Abdelke’s work, please visit isqineeha's Youssef Abdelke tag, an amazingly curated collection. 

[syrianmemorycollective]

Hani al-Rahib (1939-2000), a Syrian author from Lattakia, was infamous for writing about problems in the Middle East and North Africa. In his eight novels and three collections of short stories, he focused on themes of protest, rebellion, social injustice, and corruption. Rahib suffered for his dissent both at home and overseas: he was beaten by Syrian state police, forced into exile, expelled from the Union of Arab Writers, and fired from teaching positions for rousing students to rebel. 

His novel, The Epidemic (الوباء), openly criticizes the Assad regime, depicting the social and political conflicts in the state. The piece focuses on characters who are unable to confront political powers that have quelled the freedom of expression and the creativity of the masses. It is regarded as a holy doctrine to former prisoners of conscience and one of the best Arabic books of the 20th century.

Read a translated excerpt from the novel here. Download the novel (in Arabic) here. 

[syrianmemorycollective]

A sketch of a prison wing from Sednaya, one of the most infamous prisons in Syria. 'Shubatis' refers to supporters of Salah Jadid, who rose to power in February 1966. Shbat in Arabic means February. 

[syrianmemorycollective]

Nihad Sirees’s ‘A State of Passion’ (حالة شغف) is about a nearly forgotten aspect of Aleppo’s musical history, the banat ‘ishreh — women who formed intense, at times sexual, relationships with each other, who would meet in groups to sing and dance and socialize, most known for their songs of lament. In a New York Times op-ed entitled 'A Song of Lament for Syria' Sirees details his research of the banat 'ishreh in Aleppo, and his memories of them.

For an english translation of the first chapter, click here.