Syria: An Innocent Abroad (Part I)

Epilogue

This dialogue is not an ambitious search for a solution to the rift between Arabs and Americans, nor is it plagued with disdain--or even incomprehension-- for the general Midwestern misunderstanding of Arab life. My 'agenda,' such as it is, is to tell a true story of sensory observation and authentic experience from my time as an oblivious white American, living in the heart of Damascus.

My guide through my two weeks in the Middle East was Miriam, a Lebanese-American born in Indiana--a 23 year old IU graduate who now speaks Arabic fluently, and has lived in Damascus for a year; studying the language, befriending the locals, and waging war on sexual harassment and inconsistent cab fares-- all while coping with the pros and cons of a dictatorship, and falling in love with a different world, regardless.

The stereotypes and misconceptions I want to rectify through thorough and unbiased speculation were stubbornly camped in my own heart until two weeks of unfiltered Arab life ripped them from my chest with unprejudiced ferocity. I studied the fundamentals of the language and lived among the people, acknowledging American misgivings and defending American intentions-- and shitting the same bacteria-ridden food as the local Damascenes. And among the rubble of Schawarma and toilet paper I inevitably found truths that contradict the general American angst and generalization of this vastly diverse region; an understanding that is tantamount to embracing the warmth of Arabs, instead of fearing them.


Part I: "The Guest is a Guest of God"

I awkwardly lumbered down the steps of the A340 Airbus into a chilly April evening in Amman, Jordan, greeted by the blank apathy of an armed guard, leaning against a run-down Toyota truck and smoking a Lucky Strike. His mission is to ensure that none of the bitterly jet-lagged travelers, after a 12 hour plane ride from O'hare International, make a suicide run for Jordan off the plane, scale the barbed wire fence, traverse the hundreds of yards of brownish grass, and penetrate the armored barricades manned by Jordanian soldiers in Humvees (with their 40 caliber machine guns fixed patiently on any civilian bus, Hyundai, or pedestrian that approaches). The lonely soldier's objective, it would seem, is attainable.

Royal Jordanian Airlines staffing showed similar competence to the lonely soldier, undoubtedly deployed on his trivial quest because he is an idiot. My connecting flight into Damascus (Esh-Sham, to the locals) was overbooked, and I was coerced into a $75 buyout with a night's stay in Amman. Amid the muck of confusion and a pissed international congress of RJ passengers who had been snubbed from the flight, I had no idea what was going on-- and was wholly terrified of being handed my bribe and a hotel voucher, then discarded to my demise without direction or sympathy.

My savior was Arab hospitality. A Syrian named Wahim, while seeing me cursing under my breath, with sleep-deprived eyes and a dizzy expression of fatigue and anxiety, asked me in perfect English where I was headed. Wahim, too, had been sidelined from the 45 minute connecting flight to Sham, after spending seven months in Saint Louis studying for his MCAT, and dreaming of his now-delayed reunion with his fiance in Lattakia.

As the manager argued in broken Italian with a handful of elderly tourists, and I stood blankly by my lonesome, Wahim explained everything that was happening, everything that was going to happen, and stuck with me throughout the mess to make sure I was informed and welcomed into the circle of us five men (four Arabs and a white guy...sitcom?). Meanwhile the Amman Airport staff and armed soldiers sat apathetically, smoking and directing us around with general waves of the hand, as the message periodically addressed the 12 civilians left in the terminal; "There is no smoking allowed in common areas, thank you."

By the time I stepped onto Syrian asphalt at 8 am the following morning, I (a notoriously awkward conversationalist and social invert) made four Arab friends-- each of them providing me specific contact details and warm invitations into their homes for tea, dinner, and a local tour of their home town. The four Syrians were my guardians, and I felt warmth in their care, however broken their English.
These are the men who trigger our threat level orange, who after 9/11 became suspects and angry Al-Qaeda sympathizers in the fearful angst of misinformed America and Fox News. In my broken Spanish, never in my life would I see a distressed Latino and invite him into my home for a tour of suburban Indianapolis.

They did not want to simply give half-assed directions or "do the right thing," then send me on my way with their daily good-deed satisfied. Hundreds of years of culture and hospitality endeavored them to the most basic acts of kindness, lost in America behind years of media pretension toward fear and mistrust. We should not fear them; the looming Arab Weapon of Mass Destruction is mint tea.