The Old City of Damascus is basically a huge bazaar, the center under a canopy like dome, dead by day, hopping at night. Walking around the area, one cannot help but feel a sense of antiquity, as if life might not have been all that different centuries ago.
I guess it's a rare place where Caucasians (both sentient and insentient) are not the standard of beauty.
The Grand Mosque of Damascus
We arrive at the Grand Mosque of Damascus. It’s impossible to miss; in the Old City, all paths lead to this proverbial Rome. Originally constructed as a Christian Cathedral dedicated to John the Baptist, its origins are still reflected in the décor, a beautiful blend of Christian and Muslim sensibilities.
Inside Syria's most famous Mosque
Outside Damscus's grand mosque
To gain entry we rent robes to cover our bare legs, as most of us were wearing shorts. The courtyard is beautiful and spacious. Iranian Shiite Pilgrims line-up at the tomb of Husayn, grandson of the prophet Mohammed, all extremely eager to place their hands on this holy shrine. We stay there, admiring the beauty of the place, watching worshipers stream in and out of the Mosque for forty minutes, before resuming our exploration of the Old City.
The Trodden Israeli Flag
Amidst the crowded street, we happen upon a metal Israeli flag prominently displayed on the ground. In fairness to the Syrian people, other than some aggressive shopkeepers trying to sell their wares, tourists rarely get hassled. The exception would be if you try to avoid stepping on the Israeli flag.
Mohammed: “What, you like Israel?!”
Me: “Umm—“
Mohammed: “If you don’t step on that flag, we’re going to shoot you.”
Me: “Ummm—“
Mohammed: “NOW!”
metal Israeli flag on ground in Damsus (well worn)
While I believe symbols only have the power people give them, I take issue with the energy behind the flag's placement, and the thought process of those choosing to step on it; both are hateful and divisive.
On the other hand … if I were to step on the flag and post the picture ... I went through a quick pros and con list —
Pro—I gain a billion new fans through the Arab world
Con—I really piss off about 10 million people.
"I said NOW!"
Pro-- I don't get shot.
People often perceive disrespect towards chosen symbols in the same manner they might a direct physical assault, and react as such. That's the challenge with the limited identity most human beings ascribe to themselves.
One act of hatred met in kind amplifies dissonance, making it easier to respond with violence, leading to war.
The counterpoint of this is compassion which directly counters the waves of negativity. Hatred cannot long exist in the presence of love.
I chose to walk around the flag; thankfully the bullet missed.
The Christian Quarter
We continued to the Christian Quarter, where we were promised Western style nightclubs which turned out in reality to deserted bars, albeit selling alcohol, a hard to find commodity in most Muslim countries. We purchased some beers, sipping on our cans atop mushroom shaped stools in a park, exchanging our travel stories, as we watched the ebb and flow of Syrian life carry on around us.
mushroom stools in the park
We arrive back to hostel in the wee hours of the morning. as I silently ascend the stairs to my cot on the roof, my first incredibly busy twenty fours in Syria now complete. I lay down and quickly begin to dream of a world where hatred is met by compassion and love.
I slept like a baby.
Damascus, Syria
Upon waking, I discovered that Annie had already gone her merry way, and not wishing to interfere with any day’s plans that my gracious hosts might have, I thought I would take off myself, but as I was walking out the door, I was called back to partake in a breakfast consisting of hummus and pita-bread.
Tim, and his roommate Adrian, both having been in Damascus for about a year studying Arabic, I began inquiring as to the ins and outs of the country.
A family of five children is considered small in Syria, with most parents having seven or eight.
The most important thing in any young Syrian’s life is to land themselves a good spouse. Neither Adrian or Tim has, or is likely to have, a Syrian girlfriend, nor would any male foreigner ever be likely to successfully court a Syrian girl because the mere rumor of her impropriety would greatly affect her chances of landing the best mate.
A young Syrian girl would never even bring a boy over to her house or apartment who is merely a friend, because of the potential damage to both her own, and her family’s reputation, such an action might cause.
The same does not hold true for Syrian men, as I met several who had Western girlfriends.
minaret of Syria's most famous Mosque
When I spoke of my planned trip and mentioned that I was planning to also visit Lebanon, Jordan, and Israel— they let out a collective gasp.
“What?” I asked, slightly startled.
“Never say that word.”
“Israel?”
Immediately they made the zip-it sign, sliding their index finger horizontally across their closed lips. “You can call it a code name, we call it Disneyland. You never mention that word here unless you have something negative to say about it.” … A word with one approved context. For the duration of my Syrian adventure, I employed the term ‘Disneyland.’
Another thing you absolutely DO NOT do is to criticize the government. In fact, Tim told me that he once tried to pay Bashir Assad (Syria’s current dictator who inherited rule when his father died) a sort of compliment, stating, “Assad has done a decent job opening the country up.” The group he was conversing with suddenly became very uncomfortable, as the statement implied that Assad’s father had not done an exemplary job keeping the country open.
Why would such a seemingly innocuous statement make other Syrians uncomfortable? One word, the Mukhabarat- the Syrian secret police. In an effort to stay in power, (and avoid decapitation) most dictatorial regimes have massive spy networks, and Syrian sets the modern day bar. Its citizens have no idea who might be keeping tabs on them, so the topic of government is strictly off-limits, especially since, if they bring you in for questioning, it isn’t usually pleasant.
Here is a joke the Syrians have about the Mukhabarat that goes something like this:
“One day, the three greatest intelligence services in the world got together to see who was the best of the best. They released three foxes into the wilderness, and whoever was first to catch one, would earn the trophy.
So the Americans using their spy satellites and infrared technology catch their fox in twenty minutes.
The Russians, using a network of informants they set-up through the forest, catch their fox shortly after.
Both intelligence services, proud of their times, are waiting in the middle of the forest exchanging pleasantries. An hour passes, and they finally ask, “Where the hell are the Syrians?” So they go searching, and a few minutes later find a rabbit, tied to a tree, and the Mukhabarat are whipping it, yelling, “Admit you’re a fox! Admit you’re a fox!”
Tim and Adrian say hi to the folks back home. See, I don't make everything up! :)
Downtown Damascus on an unusually clear day
Thanking my hosts for their hospitality, I gathered my luggage and began my walk down the steep hill. I happened upon a cabbie washing his car, a doting father taking pleasure in sprinkling his young daughter with cool water on this hot day. A smile on my face, I asked him if I could get a ride to Egypt Air where I was told I would find a tour guide, and a cheap hotel nearby.
Finding nothing but travel agents, I went outside, and ran into three Belgian guys, Kristof, Simon, and Deiter who were on an adventure of their own. They too were looking for a hotel, and I asked if they mind me tagging along.
Eventually we came upon a hostel which had beds on the roof for $4 a night. Though certainly not as comfortable as the hotel I had booked, it was way cheaper, plus these guys seemed super cool. With the ability to cancel my $75 a night reservation, I decided to opt for the hostel. Fantastic decision. In the past, frankly, I was making too much money to try something like this, but recently, my income has dried up faster than a Middle Eastern riverbed.
The truth is, staying in hostels is really the way to go if you are willing to put up with the lack of comfort, as you are going to meet like-minded adventurers traveling for the experience, not just to see the immediate attractions/lay on the beach as most tourists do.
I have to give these guys props. You think I travel a lot; they purchased a car, and are driving from Belgium, through the Europe, through the Middle East, then to Egypt, and will complete their seven month journey at Cape Horn in South Africa, having driven a treacherous journey through all of Eastern Africa, including areas where, for safety reasons, if someone stands in front of your car trying to get you to stop, you blare your horn and if he doesn’t move you run him over. (otherwise your car will be jacked, and you likely will meet Reaper, Grim)
The Damascus crew: from left to right-- Rich, Dieter, Kristof, Lars, Annie, and Simon
Sitting in the hostel chatting with them, who do you think walks in? Lo and behold, Smokestack Annie. It turns out that most foreigners frequent this area of Damascus, so running into her again wasn’t totally random. Introducing Annie to my new friends, and adding a fellow American, a twenty-three year old from Portland named Lars to our group, we set out to explore the Old City of Damascus …
Have you ever felt like the powers that be: the media, the political elite, the big corporations, are trying to blind you from the truth. You can’t see it, or really intellectualize it, but it’s there- like an itch in your mind that won’t go away. And that feeling, that itch, finally pulls you somewhere so you can rip off those rose colored glasses they have you looking through, and see what lies beyond the collective world view of your culture …
sunrise over the Syrian desert
I decided to go to Syria for two reasons.
1. My travel agent (Basel, who is Syrian), urged me to go.
2. I’m game
Many of you who knew of my plans also added “Crazy.”
At first I paid no heed to your numerous warnings, but shortly before I was set to leave, an idiot preacher in Florida threatened a Koran burning ceremony, in what was no doubt an effort to fill the cultural divide left by the events of 9/11 with peace, love, and understanding. The State Department subsequently cautioned against any unnecessary travel to the Middle East, my Mom begged me to cancel, assuring me of Mother’s intuition, my adopted brother, Chad, told me to be careful because I would surely be a target, and a Jewish friend assured me I would be killed if I went.
It is not common feeling for me, but I have to admit, I felt a twinge of anxiety boarding my aircraft, but that was probably more a function of the tiny propeller plane being seemingly constructed out of balsa wood.
Transferring in Romania, I ran into a platoon of US Marines on their way to Afghanistan for a tour of duty. I’m struck by the thought that not all these eighteen and nineteen year olds will return, and their steadfast belief that in sacrificing themselves, their minds, and their bodies, they are protecting their fellow citizens. I yearn for public figures to serve with as much honor as these brave soldiers.
I wished them God’s speed, and made a vow that I would do my best to bring some understanding between the US of A, and our implacable enemies of the Middle East (or so most Americans believe) with the goal that my son will never have to protect his country by handling a rifle, but rather by further cultivating the bonds of mutual understanding between peoples that helps make acts of violence and warfare nearly impossible.
The only other person transferring with me to Syria from my tiny plane was another American, who was currently living in Damascus studying Arabic, named Tim, and after a pleasant conversation through the flight, as our plane began its descent at 2 AM local time, I explained to him that my hotel reservation was for the next day, and I wasn’t exactly sure where I would spend the night, and if he was game and had room, I wouldn’t mind spending a few hours of sleep in his apartment. He readily agreed, and I now had a place to stay in big bad Syria. Maybe I travel too much by the seat of my pants, who knows.
Getting through immigration in the Middle East is another story though. I passed (or tried to pass) through five borders, and none of them went exactly smoothly. (Massive understatement as you will find out when I get to Israel) Waiting in line, I couldn’t comprehend why in the world it was taking so long. There were only five people ahead of me, but they were spending twenty minutes a person. The thought came, “And I’m American …”
Well, my turn finally arrived, and I walked calmly to the counter, and handed the immigration official my passport. My visa, (which by the way, costs Americans $141, a big FU from the Syrian government to the US of A, as they only charge the European Union $35) was immediately located by Agent Smith. He gazed at it for a minute, attempting to determine whether I had counterfeited it, then dubiously looked up at me, and asks, “You’re American?”
'That’s what my passport says,' I wanted to reply. Instead came an obedient, “Yes sir.”
He then proceeded to examine my passport with a magnifying glass for a full twenty minutes. He would start in the front, look through every page, turn it back over, and sift through it again and again, spending a good minute pouring over each page.
My suspicion that he was looking for anything to do with Israel was confirmed when, finally finished to what was his current satisfaction, he questioned, “Have you ever been to Israel?”
Not yet … “No sir, I have never been there.”
“Are you Israeli?”
“No. I am American.” (That’s what my passport fucking says!) Tim told me later that if you have an Israeli stamp on your passport, God himself could not get you into Syria, and they’re not helping you with your plane ticket home.
Metal Israeli flag on ground in Damascus. If you step around it, you might be hassled
Then he proceeds to ask me my address in Syria, to which I was exceedingly grateful that I had booked a hotel for the next day, because I think he might have been in the mood to send me back to America if I hadn’t. After casting me dubious looks on every follow-up answer I gave him, like when he asked why I came to Syria; “To assassinate Bashir Ashad,” he finally stamped my passport and let me through.
one of the ubiquitous photos of Bashir Asad, Syria's dictator
It was now 4 AM, and all foreigners were escorted to another room to wait for customs to search our bags. (In case we were smuggling any Israeli flags into the country and didn’t have a burn permit yet I guess.) I saw a European girl smoking a cigarette, and asked her whether she got the fifth degree as well. She was from Germany, her name Annie, and this smokestack would become a companion for the rest of my trip through Syria.
Tim had waited for me to clear customs, and since he was letting me stay with him, I offered to pay for the cab ride into the city of Damascus. I asked Annie if she wanted join us, she wasn’t sure, she had planned to find a hostel. Look, I just met Tim on the plane, it’s 4 AM, ride with us to Damascus. She cocked her head from side to side, and finally agreed. Tim, as if on cue, being a gracious host, offered to let Annie crash at his pad. She took some convincing (believe it or not) but finally agreed, and we were off.
Unfortunately, a fan belt was broken, and to combat his overheating engine, our cabbie would pull over every single kilometer, trying to reset the fan/let the motor cool. Every kilometer. I suppose if we had further to go, it wouldn’t have been nearly as amusing. Then again, I doubt he was laughing at all.
Finally, we reached Tim’s apartment, where I quickly fell into a deep, four hour slumber.
Waking up the next morning, gazing out the balcony window from atop a steep hill, overlooking smoggy Damascus below, I felt a bit like Alice, having just tumbled down the rabbit hole of Syriana.
Now it’s your turn. You take the blue pill, you forget you ever read this, you wake up in your bed, and you believe whatever you want to believe about the Middle East. You take the red pill, you follow this blog over the next week, and I show you just how deep the rabbit hole goes. Remember, all I’m offering is the truth.
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I guess it's a rare place where Caucasians (both sentient and insentient) are not the standard of beauty.
