My trip to Syria

So many people told me that going to Syria was dangerous. After all it is a country that supports terrorists.

Well they were right. There is real danger – but not from terrorists. Crossing the street is taking your life in your hands. Imagine cars from the last five decades transformed into yellow taxis, two horse drawn carts, cars of all vintage and trucks. Eliminate traffic lights. Picture standing on the sidewalk of a multi-lane highway, looking for a break then hurtle yourself in between rushing cars to reach the other side. Now that’s danger.

The second danger is Saladin’s revenge. All those little microbes that are strange to a Western body set up housekeeping with results leaving the carrier an expert on any toilet within a 50-mile radius. Fortunately traveling with a doctor reduced my downtime this trip. Last trip I collapsed on the stairs of the Tomb of the Three Roman Brothers and also thought it might be the tomb of One American along with the brothers.

As last time I only found wonderful people and sights. Because I was researching my next novel, I was put in touch with those that could help. Their generosity in time and spirit touched me. As for the family I stayed with, their warmth is too big to be measured.

Being in Syria is a little like living in many centuries at the same time. A woman in the latest style might be next to a veiled Moslem woman sitting on a sidewalk selling thyme from a burlap bag. Old Damascus has an internet café but the store next to it will make pita bread as they have for centuries, and bakers walk down the street with ten or more pitas draped across their arms.

Although there is some international business, I did not miss the huge stores and the pressure to buy, buy, buy. I was told that the many merchants in the tiny stores and souks earned enough to live. Enough is a wonderful world. The Syrians in general also have enough time to spend time with friends and family. Visiting friends at the drop of a doorbell is different to the Swiss habit of planning weeks in advance. In Syria when someone comes, the matei, coffee, nuts and biscuits are produced and news is shared. Scarcely a day goes by without at least one visit, often more.

American TV has come to Syria and although I was thrilled to see West Wing, I am not sure Judge Judy is needed. Watching BBC news and some Arab news I saw far more in depth coverage of what is happening in the world than I did from watching the US morning shows which seemed more concerned about the Runaway Bride than the devastation in Iraq.

One Sunni talked to me about museum tourists. Although I was busy exploring sites for my novel and have visited Syrian museums (including a psychiatric hospital dating back to the Middle Ages that was as advanced in its treatment then some of ours today) the Sunni expressed his approval of my type of tourism which is to know people. The image of this country given by the papers is so different from the on-the-ground reality. At the same time there is no forgetting that people have been living here from before measured time, making Syria a living museum. To see the window where St. Paul is thought to have escaped from, to walk on the same Straight Street that is mentioned in the Bible, to see buildings centuries old where people lived, laughed, loved and died, is an experience that I have been lucky enough (there’s that word enough again) to have lived not once, but twice. I am so glad I trusted the Syrians and not the worrywarts, although I do appreciate that they cared.