Opinion

Azza al-Jundi

It was sizzling hot, a typical summer day in Damascus. I was urging my two daughters (aged 11 and 12) to rest in any possible shady spot, while waving like crazy trying to stop a cab. The elite Damascene neighborhood of Al-malki was almost empty, heavily breathing under the direct, seemingly stagnant sun. Few people were passing by, either getting in or out of their air-conditioned fancy cars. Most people were in their homes enjoying a siesta, or probably watching the updates to the war news on TV. The noise of the gleaming air conditioners protruding from the corner of almost every apartment was the only sound around. Behind the statue of the late Adnan al-Malki, an assassinated general of the 1950s, stood a wide marble wall with some random writings on it. I easily caught the bold scrambled English sprayed letters: “ F_ _ _ USA!” “Ok, at least we are getting better in foreign languages, we curse in English now days!” I said bitterly to my self.