Syrain Titanic

We wound through the covered and open passageways of Damascus’s bazaar and open air markets on coble stone paths dodging the many people, carts, and vehicles on the narrow pathway. As we hurried through we strived to keep sight of one another as we rushed late to our appointment at the Syrian Bathhouse. Finally we arrived at a dark corner under a small yellow and white awning. We lined up against the wall staying out of the traffic as we waited to step back in time and in customs into the women’s bathhouse. Adjusting our lungs to the dense humid air we were greeted by the store owner- a lean and petite women with long black hair loosely thrown up with a clip. Her dark eyes and high cheek bones gave her a beautiful but stern look. As we came down the concrete stairs we saw her leaning with her elbows on the tea serving counter near the cash register in a small clean white tank top. She was obviously a hard working businesswomen. She welcomed us loudly and began her instructions. As we filed in we took in the place. After, passing through the narrow and crowded streets it took a moment to adjust to the space opening up before us: a high domed ceiling with small circular holes the size of bottle cans letting in colorful shafts of natural light that looked like spotlight rays in the steam. They shown down on a concrete fountain with plants with a small pool below. We walked across the tile floor and we were informed to place our belonging in cupboards underneath the bench seating that went around more than half of the square room. We each were given a towel, soap, and a loofa. The local women looked on with amusement seeing 15 young women with such pale skin and hair file through their bathhouse. With the light falling of bare feet we all went through small salon style swinging doors to the sauna room. We each took turns sharing the small space full of dense heat. The store owner was always there directing traffic and telling us all how much time each we had and in which order to do things- sauna rinse-wash --rinse–scrub-rinse. In small groups we filed from the sauna room into the much larger bathing room.

But the best moment was after most of us had had more than our share of water and were waiting for everyone to be finished. A small group of us sat in the Sauna room watching this store owner help customers. In a lull the store owner explained that these high domed ceilings had great acoustics and her and several of the other Syrian women began to demonstrate-singing quite beautifully. We were lost in the music-and probably light headed from the steam when suddenly the music stopped. After a few stares and gesture we began to realize it was our turn to contribute. So we began to sing and humm to the tunes of famous Arab songs we had heard often on the radio in taxis or been taught in Arabic class. When the Syrian women could understand a piece of the famous melody they would join in and provide the words as we mumbled and hummed along. This soon turned into a full on sign along. We were soon asked to share music from our country with these Syrian women. Unsure of what all of us would know-or could feel was appropriate our RA mentioned the love song from Titanic. Now I am no Celine Dion fan, nor a fan of Titanic or really of much cheesy over done on the radio love songs. But I had to agree-this was one song that all of us knew and we had no problem sharing with our Syrian friends. So we boisterously began to sing “Every night in my dreams. . . “ and as we sang the stern face of the store owner who by now had gotten distracted by work began to change. She stopped what she was doing and her eyes lit up as acknowledgment crossed her face. She began to humm the melody mumbling words as we did to the Arab songs until she was lost in the music and memory of the love story. As the song continued and became more dramatic so did our singing and in came hand motions and dramatic poses. Our over-dramatization had an effect on the Syrian store owner who began to smile and as she sang mumbling the words along. Then to our surprise she began to dance-with arms swinging wide like ballet and with large sweeping movements turning and spinning barefoot on the moist floor. The light from the can sized holes in the ceiling suddenly were spotlights shinning down on the small women who glistened with sweat from the moisture the light from the wet floor also reflecting back on her face. We, the audience to this, were shock and surprise by the very sudden change in demeanor of this hardened workingwomen. Yet we still completed the song to the best of our memory of it. We were met by smiles and applause, which we then returned for the interpretive dance. There was laughter and smiles all around.

Music was the connector between cultures. We then dried off and collected our belongings, heading back through the saloon doors where we then sat and had steaming hot sweet tea. We sat relaxed and watched as the store owner went back to her busy work inviting and preparing things for new customers and instructing workers and guests alike. We left and wound back through the same cobble stone path we had hurried down before. The shops had closed and it was almost sunset. As we walked much slower back through the market we caught each other humming along to the voice of Celine Dion alongside our Syrian friends to our own version of the Syrian Titanic love song.