Paradise Divided by Alex Klaushofer

Paradise Divided by Alex Klaushofer

Author:Alex Klaushofer
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: lebanon, middle east, religious, conflict, hezbollah, israel, muslim, jew
ISBN: 9781904955894
Publisher: Andrews UK Limited 2010
Published: 2010-11-01T00:00:00+00:00


Unfreedom

Damascus is a shock. The bus abruptly terminates on a street which looks exactly the same as the miles of others we’ve driven through and suddenly I’m on the pavement with my luggage. My phone doesn’t work, as Syria has a different telecommunications system and its closed economy has prevented me from getting any more than the tiny amount of currency that my Syrian friend snuck me in London. What’s more, I’m now illiterate: there’s not a word of English anywhere, with every street and shop sign displaying the looping script of Arabic.

I beg the use of a local’s phone in exchange for a coin and call my host. Then I wait anxiously outside a nearby hotel. Finally, a hirsute young man hurries towards me, mopping his brow and apologizing for the delay. Internally, I sigh with relief. I can tell from his face that he’s all right.

At twenty-three, Gabi had more independence than most young Syrians, who were still living at home with their families. Thanks to the loan of a rent-free flat from a relative, he could live the life of a western student, keeping his own hours and inviting what guests he pleased. His flat was in Jaramana, a suburb populated by students and middle-class families and known for its relaxed, open atmosphere. Druze and Christians strolled down its wide, dusty streets, While the main shopping area buzzed with people looking at high-fashion clothes and gold jewellery.

It wasn’t chic by western standards. Patches of scrubland interspersed the buildings and piles of dust and litter collected on street corners. On a wall above one heap of rubbish a vexed resident had written: ‘whoever left this here is the son of a donkey.’

The flat’s balcony, several floors up, looked onto other apartment blocks stretching into the distance. It was a grey-and-beige scene, lifted only by the odd dash of red from an awning or a roof-top water tank. On a clear day you could see Mount Kassioun rising in sandy magnificence on the city’s edges a few miles away, but too often a yellow haze of pollution hung over the horizon, obscuring the view. A variety of noises floated up from the street below: roaring diesel engines, beeping horns and the putt-putting of scooters mingled with the nasal cries of the water-seller calling over his tannoy and the clip-clop of the melon-seller’s horse.

My host immediately made me welcome, giving up his bedroom so that I could have some privacy. We sat at the kitchen table, eating take-out chicken and getting to know each other. ‘You know that Jack Nicholson character who is always saying, “I am tired”?’ he asked. ‘Well, I am like him. Sometimes I say that I was born at the age of twenty, and now I am fifty.’

In the days that followed I realized that this self-characterization as a young-old man was spot-on. Gabi liked to take life slowly, and began each morning with a prolonged session drinking coffee and reading the papers on the balcony.



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