Expatriate Expatriate

I went to the Ministry of Expatriates a couple days ago to obtain travel clearance. In addition to being an American expatriate, I discovered that I am also a Syrian expatriate even though I live in Damascus. Working through this conundrum, I found the Ministry at the end of a shiny tree-lined road in Dumar, a booming and vapid suburb of Damascus. The Ministry is an anomaly relative to the other bureaucratic structures: the interior is spacious; there is a Welcome Desk with a guard (shockingly not asleep!); there are COPY MACHINES (!) and PRINTERS (!!) and post-1992 computers.

Because I'm a Syrian male national, I'm required to serve in the military. In an attempt to squander money from its subjects, the government provides an alternate route: in lieu of service, you can pay a fee. Once you pay this fee, you get what's called daftar el khadmeh (Service Notebook), which allows you to enter and exit the country, no problem.

I am pursuing this route, or rather my father is pursuing this route while I observe from the sidelines. We've spent roughly five months plodding through the bog that is Syrian bureaucracy. Still no daftar.

On the plus side, I discovered that I don't need my daftar to go to Lebanon! This is of course because Lebanon isn't really another nation-state from Syria's perspective. This is also evidenced by the marked absence of a Syrian Embassy in Beirut.

The drive to Beirut took longer than usual. It was Friday and the last day of Ramadan, so the streets in Syria were absolutely empty. The woman in thick glasses spent about forty-five minutes at the Duty Free store near the border, and then, after we crossed the border, it took her about twenty minutes to buy labneh in Chtoura. We sat stewing in the car, honking occasionally with the hopes that she might hurry the hell up.

Although it wasn't Eid in Syria, it was Eid in Lebanon. As we drove into the city, dudes on motorcycles peeked into our taxi three times and asked, "Ta3aeedo el Soureyeen?" (Did the Syrian's celebrate Eid [yet]?)

Mama Hiam's bangs were curled with flare. We ate lunch just after I arrived and then passed out for a couple hours. I woke up to a symphony of fireworks, which twenty-seven hours later, is still going strong.

We made the pilgrimage to the airport to pick up D, my uncle's wife, who flew in from Dubai. It was packed and noisy. Whereas picking up friends and family from the airport in the states works kind of like a drive-by shooting or a hit and run accident, in Beirut (and Cairo and Damascus) it is a major social event featuring all generations of the family, at least 4 kids per adult running around and falling flat on their faces, and metallic balloons.

Earlier this afternoon, there was a flock of birds migrating south, reshaping their V every so often. I took a last sip of my Turkish coffee, and the conversation on the balcony froze in deference.

My uncle stood up and leaned against the balustrade.

"They're headed South, they'll follow the breeze down to Gaza, follow the Nile down into Africa. The hunting in Egypt is great, but these birds, these ducks, their meat stinks, tastes like fish. Better to shoot them when they return."