The Sword

I envision my death when I walk to the theatre.

Dar al Assad, the National Theatre, sits on Sahat el Oumayeen, a giant roundabout a la Paris's Place de l'Etoile. Instead of the Arc de Triomphe, there is a wide fountain with dozens of jets that glimmer neon blue at night. It's far from majestic, but you can't help but giggle when you see that much water shooting into the desert air.

A concrete monolith accented by a sliver of windows, the Assad library and Syria's equivalent of the Pentagon hold the fort on the Eastern flank of the Sahat. To the West lies another concrete monolith, the Sheraton Hotel...although it's more of a modernist ruin than anything else.

One of the few memories I have from my trip to Damascus fifteen years ago is indulging in a banana split at the Sheraton pool. It still hosts a chic crowd during the summer (the prostitutes go to Le Meridien). The 80s glam of the sunbathers juxtaposes with the heinous architecture reminiscent of ammunition igloos at Fort Dix. Southwest, you've got a nondescript Ministry barricaded by a colonnade, and due South is Dar al Assad which is a perfectly shaven, concrete rectangular prism. Literally.

Charming as the fountains may be, the real axis of this space is the towering seven-story sword (probably the Assad Sword), whose pseudo-stained glass facade lights up at night. Rooted off-center in a concrete island near the Dar al Assad, it reminds all cars and pedestrians that--make no mistake--this phallus lays down the law of the land.

Approaching the Sahat is like stepping into a vortex of nationalism, totalitarian authoritarianism, and patriarchy...and concrete. Time after time, I'm floored by how boldly the architecture and geometry of this cityspace embody a politics of monism. And, time after time, I pass a row of kalishnikovs aimed at my liver as I stroll past the Ministry of Defense. There's an exasperated soldier hanging out every twenty meters or so. He's got his gun draped perpendicular to his torso and directed right at the passers-by.

I know these guns are probably not even loaded. And I doubt that these guys are even conscious of where their guns are pointed. And even though kalashnikovs and tanks were ubiquitous in Cairo and Beirut, I can't quite get used to walking past a barrel aimed straight at my body. Without fail, as I'm approaching the target range of these guns, I think to myself, "This is it. It's going to shoot accidentally. Something's going to happen, and it's going to shoot. This is it. I'm going to be shot. I'm going to be killed. And I'm going to collapse dead at the feet of a towering polychromatic phallus in Damascus, Syria."