I have decided that dancing on the beach after dark is very good exercise for the thighs and soul so last night I danced to Somewhere Over The Rainbow/ Wonderful World by Israel Kamakawiwo'ole. It was very dark - just me and the stars and that beautiful song.
Then I went inside and read the news only to find my beloved Hama was all over the headlines for all the wrong reasons. I began thinking about how I had been dancing on the beach just moments before as my lovely Hama burned and I wondered how two such opposing human experiences (amongst the countless others) are able to exist at the same time on the same earth. I felt guilty and sad. Guilty that I had danced when Hama was suffering and sad that this was how the world was. Then I thought some more and wondered what I could have done (could do) instead of dancing on a beach and I remembered the times the Syrians had danced for me when I was in their country. The family in Homs who did a spontaneous, hip wiggling 'we are not terrorists' dance in their living room before feeding me on corncobs;my wonderful family in Damascus who had all danced together when the uud man came to play; the women in the Hama hammam who had turned their buckets into drums to dance; or perhaps my dear friend I met in Hama who used to suddenly throw his arms in the air and dance whenever he felt joyful. The same friend who was sent into military service two years ago to drive tanks. The same friend who should have left the army this January. The same friend I have not heard from for a few months now
In the end I decided that I should keep dancing each night and so last night I danced to Marco Polo and I remembered Hama.
Then I went inside and read the news only to find my beloved Hama was all over the headlines for all the wrong reasons. I began thinking about how I had been dancing on the beach just moments before as my lovely Hama burned and I wondered how two such opposing human experiences (amongst the countless others) are able to exist at the same time on the same earth. I felt guilty and sad. Guilty that I had danced when Hama was suffering and sad that this was how the world was. Then I thought some more and wondered what I could have done (could do) instead of dancing on a beach and I remembered the times the Syrians had danced for me when I was in their country. The family in Homs who did a spontaneous, hip wiggling 'we are not terrorists' dance in their living room before feeding me on corncobs;my wonderful family in Damascus who had all danced together when the uud man came to play; the women in the Hama hammam who had turned their buckets into drums to dance; or perhaps my dear friend I met in Hama who used to suddenly throw his arms in the air and dance whenever he felt joyful. The same friend who was sent into military service two years ago to drive tanks. The same friend who should have left the army this January. The same friend I have not heard from for a few months now
***
In the end I decided that I should keep dancing each night and so last night I danced to Marco Polo and I remembered Hama.
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