Barbara Walters chats with Forward Syria
Swaying between art and seduction
Discussing monetary policy with the man in charge
Where the earth screams in horror
12/02/2010 - Issue 46
Falling with style and the urban philosophy
by Josh Barry
Something strange is afoot on the streets of Damascus. While most of us are still asleep in our beds, small cells are assembling at different points throughout the city, lithe figures resolved upon a perilous enterprise. By the time the first shops open their doors, they are gone, leaving no trace but small posters bearing their insignia – a calling card and a summons to those with the courage to join their ranks.
“We move at this time because there is no one on the streets – there is less chance of meeting the police,” said Mahmoud, a leader and trainer of one of the cells.
But this is no gathering of insurgents: “We don’t want to fight,” says Mahmoud. “What we do is an art – a science, but people don’t understand it.”
The art he is talking about is the practice of Parkour, a system of acrobatic movements bound together by its own philosophy, which practitioners use to traverse the urban landscape with speed and in style.
“It’s the newest and most dangerous sport,” says Firas, ex-Syrian kick-boxing champion and one of the founders of Parkour in Syria, “but it is also a culture, an outlook.” And it is a culture that is constantly developing. “Each person brings their own style and skills to the sport; they can develop their own moves.”
Parkour is not a Syrian invention. It first emerged in France in the 1980s when a group of young men combined a system of French military obstacle training with techniques taken from martial arts and a youthful will to interact with the urban environment rather than be sheltered by it.
Parkour has since appeared in numerous films and advertisements, bringing its impressive vaults, twists and improbably large jumps to a global audience. More advanced practitioners have an air of near invincible athleticism, leaping from rooftop to rooftop, through tiny gaps and across gaping voids with an agility and speed that is awesome.
At present, Syrian Parkour is at a more modest level.
“It’s not what you see in the movies and on YouTube,” Mahmoud admits. “You won’t catch people leaping from the rooftops of Damascus.” This is partly because Syrian Parkour is in its infancy, but it is also due to a lack of access: “The way to rooftops of buildings here is usually locked,” Mahmoud told Forward, “and anyone seen climbing up a building is assumed to be a thief, or worse.”
It is four years since Mahmoud’s colleague Firas first became aware of the sport through the Internet and decided to start his own group in Damascus. “We don’t jump off tall buildings,” he confirms. “You have to know your limits. And we don’t want to disturb people, so we mostly play in gyms, parks and schools.”
But this lean young Syrian has suffered numerous wounds pursuing his passion, including a broken shoulder and smashed teeth. But he prefers Parkour to his previous sport of martial arts. “Kick-boxing is just about hitting people. Parkour brings you joy.”
Now Firas and Mahmoud are trainers of a shifting group of young men of varying abilities, and they have a responsibility to both the students and their families to keep them safe. In Mahmoud’s words, “You have to learn to walk before you can fly.”
“I have become quite strict,” he says. “I tell them they can’t go into the street until they’re ready. It’s ‘siyaset al-kundara’ [the politics of the shoe] – if they don’t listen they get it on their heads!”
Mahmoud estimates the number of Syrians involved in Parkour at around 100. Growth is slow. After he stuck 10,000 fliers on the walls of the city Mahmoud received about 3,000 calls, of which only a fraction ever made it to training. Many have the enthusiasm but lack the discipline, nerve, or athleticism to succeed at Parkour. And it is not a sport for the lighthearted.
“If they’re scared they should go home to their mammas,” Mahmoud says with a grin. But he insists that the benefits outweigh the dangers, and students are never pushed beyond their abilities. “Parkour builds strength – strength of mind and strength of body.”
Those at the head of the Syrian Parkour phenomenon are keen for the sport to flourish. They preside over a local website, ParkourSyria.com, and have hopes for a pan-Arab version that would bring the various Parkour groups in the Middle East together. “We petitioned the Sports Union in Syria for recognition,” reveals Mahmoud, “but we didn't get it.” In a country with limited facilities and an underdeveloped sporting culture Parkour presents an exciting way to get youth involved in sport. “You don’t need much to get started. And it is a great way to vent some of the pent-up energy that young Syrians have.”
While it may not require much equipment, the mental and physical resources Parkour demands put it out of the reach of many. Nevertheless enthusiasm remains high, Firas insists.
In fact Firas has already graced Syrian screens with his moves, jumping from a roof in an episode of the series Al-Dabbour. Mahmoud agrees this is a great way to bring Syrian Parkour to a wider audience: “Syrian dramas are watched all over the Arab world.”
One can imagine the scene: the bellicose, mustachioed “rijal al-hara” in Syria’s most famous series suddenly upstaged by a mysterious figure moving nimbly across the roofs of Old Damascus, flipping like some form of Middle Eastern ninja. Then we will know that Syrian Parkour has arrived.
