This article is from the source 'nytimes' and was first published or seen on . It last changed over 40 days ago and won't be checked again for changes.
You can find the current article at its original source at http://www.nytimes.com/2017/01/30/travel/syria-travel-border-crossing.html
The article has changed 3 times. There is an RSS feed of changes available.
| Version 0 | Version 1 |
|---|---|
| Postcard From My Past: Crossing Into Syria | Postcard From My Past: Crossing Into Syria |
| (about 5 hours later) | |
| Seventeen years ago, the Middle East was a more hopeful place. Newspapers were filled with accounts of peace negotiations. Israel was in the midst of withdrawing its troops from southern Lebanon, in advance of an Israeli-Palestinian summit at Camp David. It was Bill Clinton’s last year as president, and expectations were rising that he would broker the comprehensive peace agreement that had eluded his predecessors. | Seventeen years ago, the Middle East was a more hopeful place. Newspapers were filled with accounts of peace negotiations. Israel was in the midst of withdrawing its troops from southern Lebanon, in advance of an Israeli-Palestinian summit at Camp David. It was Bill Clinton’s last year as president, and expectations were rising that he would broker the comprehensive peace agreement that had eluded his predecessors. |
| I lived in Israel, my first assignment as an American diplomat. During my time there, I eagerly traveled across the region, taking advantage of what I realize now was a period of exceptional openness. As I neared the end of my assignment, there was only one neighboring country I had not visited: Syria, a dictatorship frozen in time and overflowing with archaeological sites. With the prospect of peace on the horizon, I was determined to visit before it became a major tourist destination. | I lived in Israel, my first assignment as an American diplomat. During my time there, I eagerly traveled across the region, taking advantage of what I realize now was a period of exceptional openness. As I neared the end of my assignment, there was only one neighboring country I had not visited: Syria, a dictatorship frozen in time and overflowing with archaeological sites. With the prospect of peace on the horizon, I was determined to visit before it became a major tourist destination. |
| So back in April 2000, after some nimble arranging, I traveled across Syria for a week and returned to Israel satisfied with my journey. And then as I was stationed in other countries and on other continents, the trip to Syria faded into background. Years would go by without my remembering it. | So back in April 2000, after some nimble arranging, I traveled across Syria for a week and returned to Israel satisfied with my journey. And then as I was stationed in other countries and on other continents, the trip to Syria faded into background. Years would go by without my remembering it. |
| Then in 2016, the trip flooded back as the Syrian civil war unleashed its fury on Aleppo, my favorite of the cities I visited. I was seized with a fever to remember more. From my current vantage point — 42 years old, the father of three young children — the trip seemed ludicrous. Did I really backpack through Syria while hiding my status as an American diplomat? Of course then, it would have seemed just as ludicrous to imagine that events in Syria would become a horrific tragedy and that borders would clang shut around the world, starting with our own. | Then in 2016, the trip flooded back as the Syrian civil war unleashed its fury on Aleppo, my favorite of the cities I visited. I was seized with a fever to remember more. From my current vantage point — 42 years old, the father of three young children — the trip seemed ludicrous. Did I really backpack through Syria while hiding my status as an American diplomat? Of course then, it would have seemed just as ludicrous to imagine that events in Syria would become a horrific tragedy and that borders would clang shut around the world, starting with our own. |
| As news reports about Aleppo grew worse last summer, my daily life in Chicago bumped along. It was humid, rainy and hot. Tomatoes grew like weeds and vines dangled from every bush, trying to stretch into new territory. But my mind kept returning to that trip long ago. At first I found little evidence of it in boxes of my past: no pictures or journal entries. To help jog my memory, I ordered a copy of the 1999 Lonely Planet Syria guide I had used. When it arrived in the mail, I opened to the introduction and read a passage that is now cruelly out of date: “Along with Jordan,” Syria is “probably the single most safe country for travelers in the whole of the region. The closest you’ll come to being hijacked is to be dragged off by a friendly local to drink tea and chat.” | As news reports about Aleppo grew worse last summer, my daily life in Chicago bumped along. It was humid, rainy and hot. Tomatoes grew like weeds and vines dangled from every bush, trying to stretch into new territory. But my mind kept returning to that trip long ago. At first I found little evidence of it in boxes of my past: no pictures or journal entries. To help jog my memory, I ordered a copy of the 1999 Lonely Planet Syria guide I had used. When it arrived in the mail, I opened to the introduction and read a passage that is now cruelly out of date: “Along with Jordan,” Syria is “probably the single most safe country for travelers in the whole of the region. The closest you’ll come to being hijacked is to be dragged off by a friendly local to drink tea and chat.” |
| As I paged through the guidebook, details started to return. At the time, Syria refused entry to those with Israeli stamps in their passports, but I had both tourist and diplomatic passports, which helped circumvent this problem. I flew from Tel Aviv to Amman and prepared to enter Syria with my tourist passport. My diplomatic passport, filled with Israeli border stamps and residency permits, lay hidden at the bottom of my duffel bag. | |
| In Amman, I went straight to a bus depot, where I found a taxi about to leave for Damascus. It was not really a taxi — just a driver and his car, a pre-internet version of UberPool. But the driver spoke a little English and confirmed that he was leaving for Damascus right away. That was enough for me. I crammed inside with three other men, and we left Amman. | In Amman, I went straight to a bus depot, where I found a taxi about to leave for Damascus. It was not really a taxi — just a driver and his car, a pre-internet version of UberPool. But the driver spoke a little English and confirmed that he was leaving for Damascus right away. That was enough for me. I crammed inside with three other men, and we left Amman. |
| I started to worry about a half-hour later when we made an unscheduled stop in a deserted village. The driver and the other passengers, who seemed to know each other, loaded the trunk with boxes. It looked suspicious. | I started to worry about a half-hour later when we made an unscheduled stop in a deserted village. The driver and the other passengers, who seemed to know each other, loaded the trunk with boxes. It looked suspicious. |
| We started up again, heading for the border. Evening turned to night. Wedged between silent men in the back of the car, my thoughts kept returning to those boxes in the trunk. Had I somehow chosen a smuggler’s car for my crossing into Syria? Not good, especially with an American diplomatic passport hidden in my bag. | We started up again, heading for the border. Evening turned to night. Wedged between silent men in the back of the car, my thoughts kept returning to those boxes in the trunk. Had I somehow chosen a smuggler’s car for my crossing into Syria? Not good, especially with an American diplomatic passport hidden in my bag. |
| The Jordanian countryside grew desolate, nothing but empty land as far as the eye could see. I panicked, and wondered whether I should open the car door and fling myself out. Luckily, I did not. Instead, I took out a package of Fig Newtons, bought at the American Embassy commissary in Tel Aviv. | The Jordanian countryside grew desolate, nothing but empty land as far as the eye could see. I panicked, and wondered whether I should open the car door and fling myself out. Luckily, I did not. Instead, I took out a package of Fig Newtons, bought at the American Embassy commissary in Tel Aviv. |
| I opened the package theatrically and offered biscuits to everyone in the car. The effect was immediate. | I opened the package theatrically and offered biscuits to everyone in the car. The effect was immediate. |
| Perhaps they just needed sugar. Or maybe they had never tasted Fig Newtons. Whatever the reason, the mood changed in a heartbeat. Smiles flashed in the darkness, the radio was turned up, and rapid-fire Arabic filled the car, interspersed with the words “Fig Newton.” | Perhaps they just needed sugar. Or maybe they had never tasted Fig Newtons. Whatever the reason, the mood changed in a heartbeat. Smiles flashed in the darkness, the radio was turned up, and rapid-fire Arabic filled the car, interspersed with the words “Fig Newton.” |
| A few minutes later, we passed through Jordanian border control and approached the Syrian crossing, a large, well-lit building in the distance. We parked nearby, and everyone climbed out with the air of people who had done this type of thing before. I got out too, but trailed behind, unsure of what to do. | A few minutes later, we passed through Jordanian border control and approached the Syrian crossing, a large, well-lit building in the distance. We parked nearby, and everyone climbed out with the air of people who had done this type of thing before. I got out too, but trailed behind, unsure of what to do. |
| But then the young man who had been sitting to my right turned around and looked at me. Possibly sensing my unease, he waited for me to catch up, smiled and said “Fig Newton!” I nodded eagerly. He reached for my hand, held it tight, and we walked together like that to the Syrian border. | But then the young man who had been sitting to my right turned around and looked at me. Possibly sensing my unease, he waited for me to catch up, smiled and said “Fig Newton!” I nodded eagerly. He reached for my hand, held it tight, and we walked together like that to the Syrian border. |
| Men holding hands in a demonstration of friendship was common during my time in the Middle East, but it was new to me. For a second I was uncertain, but then, as we walked toward the border in the dark, I felt grateful and hoped my hand was not too sweaty. My friend joked with the border guards and looked at me with a certain amount of affection. I heard “Fig Newton” in the middle of a stream of Arabic. They stamped our passports, and we were through. | Men holding hands in a demonstration of friendship was common during my time in the Middle East, but it was new to me. For a second I was uncertain, but then, as we walked toward the border in the dark, I felt grateful and hoped my hand was not too sweaty. My friend joked with the border guards and looked at me with a certain amount of affection. I heard “Fig Newton” in the middle of a stream of Arabic. They stamped our passports, and we were through. |
| It was after midnight when we arrived in Damascus. The city was quiet, as was the car — we had all become sleepy. We waved silent goodbyes. I left them the package of cookies, walked to a small cinder-block hotel and passed out on the thin mattress. | It was after midnight when we arrived in Damascus. The city was quiet, as was the car — we had all become sleepy. We waved silent goodbyes. I left them the package of cookies, walked to a small cinder-block hotel and passed out on the thin mattress. |
| For the next few days, I explored the old cities of Damascus and Aleppo. I bought souvenirs. I ate frozen ice and watched the groaning water wheels in the city of Hama. I visited ancient houses where the walls were being used as cattle pens. There was so much more to see, and I vowed to return. On the way back to Jordan, I took an air-conditioned bus and avoided the drama of my entry. | |
| Upon my return to Tel Aviv, I put my souvenirs in boxes and started preparing for my next diplomatic assignment, to Haiti. Years passed and my memories of the trip to Syria faded away, replaced by the steady accretion of other life experiences. | Upon my return to Tel Aviv, I put my souvenirs in boxes and started preparing for my next diplomatic assignment, to Haiti. Years passed and my memories of the trip to Syria faded away, replaced by the steady accretion of other life experiences. |
| In recent months, I finally found the box containing mementos and letters from that era, and discovered a brass door knocker bought in a Damascus antique shop. It is in the shape of a hand with long, elegant fingers clenching what appears to be a pomegranate. I promptly installed it on the door of my study. | In recent months, I finally found the box containing mementos and letters from that era, and discovered a brass door knocker bought in a Damascus antique shop. It is in the shape of a hand with long, elegant fingers clenching what appears to be a pomegranate. I promptly installed it on the door of my study. |
| Amid holiday cards, letters from my long-deceased grandmother, and an inexplicably saved candy wrapper, I found a blank postcard depicting the dictator Hafez al-Assad and his two sons, their heads floating in a murky green background. I also found my diplomatic passport — the one filled with Israeli stamps that had been hidden at the bottom of my duffel bag. | Amid holiday cards, letters from my long-deceased grandmother, and an inexplicably saved candy wrapper, I found a blank postcard depicting the dictator Hafez al-Assad and his two sons, their heads floating in a murky green background. I also found my diplomatic passport — the one filled with Israeli stamps that had been hidden at the bottom of my duffel bag. |
| Other memories appeared in vivid bursts. A rug merchant’s store, tucked into one of the Aleppo souk’s narrow passageways. Rugs in piles tens of feet high, covering every available space. They even covered his desk. In his sales pitch, the merchant said that the rug I had chosen could function as a “passe-partout,” framing any room to enhance its appeal. It sounded convincing, though I still do not really understand what it means. | Other memories appeared in vivid bursts. A rug merchant’s store, tucked into one of the Aleppo souk’s narrow passageways. Rugs in piles tens of feet high, covering every available space. They even covered his desk. In his sales pitch, the merchant said that the rug I had chosen could function as a “passe-partout,” framing any room to enhance its appeal. It sounded convincing, though I still do not really understand what it means. |
| Then I remembered the oud. | Then I remembered the oud. |
| Walking into my wife’s office, I found the curved instrument that looks like a pear cut in half. As I held it in my arms I suddenly could picture the store in Aleppo where I bought it. The merchant was an older man, instantly wary when he saw me push open the door. We spoke in halting French. I pointed to an oud that I liked and asked him about it. He described it in basic, nonflowery terms. The gist was — it is an oud; it was made in Aleppo. I bargained to get the price down. He looked crestfallen, so I quickly agreed to the original price. Then I left. The encounter took maybe five minutes. Afterward, I walked along Aleppo’s boulevards and admired the tall apartment buildings that seemed like the very heart of the city. | Walking into my wife’s office, I found the curved instrument that looks like a pear cut in half. As I held it in my arms I suddenly could picture the store in Aleppo where I bought it. The merchant was an older man, instantly wary when he saw me push open the door. We spoke in halting French. I pointed to an oud that I liked and asked him about it. He described it in basic, nonflowery terms. The gist was — it is an oud; it was made in Aleppo. I bargained to get the price down. He looked crestfallen, so I quickly agreed to the original price. Then I left. The encounter took maybe five minutes. Afterward, I walked along Aleppo’s boulevards and admired the tall apartment buildings that seemed like the very heart of the city. |
| Like the door knocker and the postcard showing the Syrian dictators, this oud had traveled with us to every diplomatic assignment — to Haiti, to Paris, to New York, to Canada. Now it sits in our apartment in Chicago. It has left its case several times, and has never been played properly. | Like the door knocker and the postcard showing the Syrian dictators, this oud had traveled with us to every diplomatic assignment — to Haiti, to Paris, to New York, to Canada. Now it sits in our apartment in Chicago. It has left its case several times, and has never been played properly. |
| I thought of the old man who sold it to me, and wondered whether he might have made it. It was like the completion of a thought that began 17 years ago. Again and again, I see him standing up in the dust-filled store as the bell chimes, ready to meet whoever walks through the door. The memory is so vivid that it could have happened hours ago. | I thought of the old man who sold it to me, and wondered whether he might have made it. It was like the completion of a thought that began 17 years ago. Again and again, I see him standing up in the dust-filled store as the bell chimes, ready to meet whoever walks through the door. The memory is so vivid that it could have happened hours ago. |
| Something like this happened once to my father. One evening we were watching the rain pour down thick and straight. He leaned back in his chair and sank into himself for a minute. Then he looked at me and said, “The smell reminds me of Africa.” He was talking about the rain splattering into the soil, humus lifting up in waves from the ground. I could tell from his expression that he was swimming in memories. Thirty-five years had melted away and he was back in Ivory Coast as a young Peace Corps volunteer, if only for an instant. | Something like this happened once to my father. One evening we were watching the rain pour down thick and straight. He leaned back in his chair and sank into himself for a minute. Then he looked at me and said, “The smell reminds me of Africa.” He was talking about the rain splattering into the soil, humus lifting up in waves from the ground. I could tell from his expression that he was swimming in memories. Thirty-five years had melted away and he was back in Ivory Coast as a young Peace Corps volunteer, if only for an instant. |
| Both of us had experienced the lifelong impact of travel, the way that it can echo for decades. My trip to Syria lasted only a few days, and yet it has apparently attached to my life like a barnacle. It clings to me, mostly forgotten, but once in a while it asserts its presence. The result is an upswelling of memory so strong that it feels like time travel. It is the umami of life, infusing ordinary days with unexpected flavor. | Both of us had experienced the lifelong impact of travel, the way that it can echo for decades. My trip to Syria lasted only a few days, and yet it has apparently attached to my life like a barnacle. It clings to me, mostly forgotten, but once in a while it asserts its presence. The result is an upswelling of memory so strong that it feels like time travel. It is the umami of life, infusing ordinary days with unexpected flavor. |
| Memories of travel can linger for a lifetime. But it gets even better. Memories bestow the same benefits as the original trip: They build empathy, broaden perspectives, and remind us, again and again, of our common humanity. They help rattle the cage of assumptions we build through the years. Most of all, they are a gift we give to ourselves — a transfer of spirit from our younger, fresh-eyed versions to the people we are right now. | Memories of travel can linger for a lifetime. But it gets even better. Memories bestow the same benefits as the original trip: They build empathy, broaden perspectives, and remind us, again and again, of our common humanity. They help rattle the cage of assumptions we build through the years. Most of all, they are a gift we give to ourselves — a transfer of spirit from our younger, fresh-eyed versions to the people we are right now. |