my life in print

ana baheb dimashq

The ONLY excuse I have for my blogging behavior (or lack of) is that it’s a cultural norm here to put things off. So, SORRY. It’s been about a month since I last blogged, wherein I’ve learned a smidgen more Arabic, celebrated Eid Al-Adha, and traveled to Damascus!

I actually only arrived back from Damascus a couple of days ago. It was a great trip, just very brief. I went with a few language students from MEET, the language office where I work in the afternoons. And I have to say, Syria is quite the trip. Though Damascus and Amman are only about 2.5 hours apart by car, two of three days of our trip were dedicated to simply crossing the border. That’s right. Please prepare to be entertained.

As some of you might know, the relationship between Israel and Syria is a bit…strained. Consequently, the U.S. and Syria are also at odds. Traveling as an American in the Middle East, you quickly learn to prioritize and order your traveling. For example, Syria will NOT accept anyone through their borders who might have an Israeli stamp in their passport. Nothing doing. There are ways around this of course, but they’re a bit tricky and in most cases don’t work. My little group and I, after struggling a bit at the Jordanian border, successfully made our way to the Syrian border. Immediately upon arrival at the “entry” desk, one of our travel companians was greeted with a curt and simple “mamnu’a.” Banned. As in, there’s no way you’re getting in, buddy. The reason? His temporary passport had a Jordanian entry stamp, but without the name of the departure border. Meaning, there was a chance he  could have visited Israel. That’s how hardcore these guys are.

And though my Arabic isn’t awesome, I’ve been studying the longest out of our small group. My feeble attempt to argue with the border guard in frenzied and broken Arabic went something like this:

Me:  He banned? Why?

Border Guard (BG): This stamp.

Me: This stamp no say Israel! You think Israel?!

BG: Doesn’t matter what I think. He can’t come in.

Me: WHERE THE WELCOME IS?!?!?! WHERE THE WELCOME? He no have been Israel. No Israel. Israel no written here.

BG: No. He must return to Jordan.

So much for my skills of persuasion. So the poor guy heads home, taking one of our taxis with him. The rest of us, our  spirits a little dampened, trudge on through the process. And here’s the other thing; even though we’re granted a visa, we’re American. Which means that while nice little Canadian tourists and German travelers are sent right on through with a minimum of delay, we wait. And wait. And wait. About five hours, total. Which we consider lucky; the running rate for American travelers to Syria is about 7-9. Why? Because they feel like it. Gotta love the Middle East. At least they have the balls enough to follow through with their very obvious disdain for the West. And in some ways I respect it. Syria is the only country I’ve visited that has zero Starbucks, McDonalds, or Burger Kings. They’re protective of their culture, and I regard that only as a right.

Once in though, Damascus was completely worth it. The oldest continuously inhabited city in the world, you feel like you could see anything happen here. Walking down Straight Street (note: definitely NOT straight), I pictured Paul staggering, looking for the house of Ananias. The city walls, the citadel, the Umayyad Mosque, King Faisal’s palace…you feel as if you could walk through Souq Hamadiyya and come out on the other end into the 15th century. Or the 14th.Or the 13th. You get the  picture…