Foregone Conclusion

Paulina has cancer.  She wrote me and said she believed she was cursed, certain she would lose her hair and die, and asked how my father dealt with it and how I dealt with him having it.

“I don’t know, “ I said. “Denial, I guess.  I just believed he would live.  I suppose he did the same.”

Though, the tests weren’t back, Paulina was certain things were at their worst and my advice was to counter delusion with delusion.

We imagine the future often with such certainty, even when we have such little information about it.  When the future comes, at least in my experience, it rarely resembles anything I imagine.  Still, despite my errors, over and over, I keep constructing would-be futures in my mind’s eye.

It was in Othello where the term “foregone conclusion” first appeared.  Iago introduced the idea that Desdemona was unfaithful to Othello and Othello, in turn, dreamed about it.  It was just a dream, something based on the past.  But like so many have throughout history, Othello took it as a foretelling of the future.  The foregone conclusion, the supposedly certainly future, was anything but.

The foregone conclusion is as paradoxical as dreaming itself.  Dreams - fuzzy memories interpreted as certain prophecies.  We even use the term “to dream” as thinking grandly of the future when the action itself is more of an insular exploration of the past.

In the end, my father neither died nor was fine.  A third future I didn’t expect unfolded instead.

And again, I have a foregone conclusion that Paulina will be perfectly fine.  I still need to cling to my delusions.

But, deep down, I know nothing is ever certain and that’s what makes life so wonderful and painful, richly.

Syria

I caught a shared taxi to Sham (Damascus). The border went fairly smoothly, although my driver did threaten to leave me because my stamp was taking too long. Luckily, it was an empty threat and after a half hour, I was on my way. I was preparing for the worst since my Jordanian entry stamp was just some chicken scratch written in with a pen. "Ahamduleela" (praise be to God), funny looks from the border agents was all I got.

Unlike Amman, everything in Damascus is old, and with that ancientness comes its benefits and drawbacks. Grittier and prettier, Syria is. The buildings of both the old and new city are falling apart and the streets are a wreck. The city smells and is polluted, but there is a paradoxical majestic quaintness to everything Sham is.

A quick history lesson. First, Damascus was founded and then the Earth cooled. It was subsequently invaded and conquered roughly one billion times. It changed hands practically every day and sometimes twice on Wednesday. It was the center of all commerce, trade and basic human existence. This is a slight exaggeration, but only slight.

Before there were Shia and Sunnis, there were the rival clans of the Umayyads and the Hashimites. Mohammad was a Hashimite, but it was the Umayyad caliphate that controlled Islam after Mohammed's passing. From Spain to India, they spread their religious teaching from Damascus. Long story short, Damascus is considered very holy to Shia and is littered with Iranian pilgrims. The Umayyad mosque, converted from a cathedral and, before that, the Temple of Jupiter, is enormous, but meticulously decorated. Children run around playing oblivious to piety among burqaed women and Western tourists. And, in case you're making plans for the reckoning, the Minaret of Jesus is where JC will return on Judgement Day.

I wandered the sooqs along with the Jewish and Christian quarters. Calm, dumpy and beautiful, I was amazed that the old city had not become a hectic harassment like Moroccan and Egyptian sooqs or a comercial Epcotesque village. Much like the Jordanians, Syrians are cool and little lazy. They don't seem to have the energy or desire to spoil Damascus.

I headed north to Malula, where I ventured through a small Petra-like canyon to a Christian monastery. The monastery was hosting a baptism ceremony, which they happily let me attend. Sadly, I was the only person not allowed to take pictures of it. I then headed to Hama, home of moaning water wheels and the friendliest locals on the planet. I used Hama as a base to see far too many crusader castles and ruins. As awesome as these sites are, there are only so many ruins one can look at before they all begin to run together. The structures and the views were simply amazing, but there can be too much of a good thing.

Alepo and Lattakia closed out my trip. Alepo is known for being the most conservative of Syria's cities and Lattakia the most liberal. Just three hours from each other, most women in Alepo don a hajab while most in Lattakia wear tight jeans and a skimpy tank top. At night, the cars and crowds of Alepo disappear while in Lattakia, they come out and stay out all night on a weekday.


An incredible week and I am exhausted. On to America today. Will I ever really see Amman?