Ahlan (Welcome)!

Landing at the airport in Damascus was a surreal experience. At 3 AM I put my feet on Syrian land, all in all quite disoriented, tired after a long journey (first to London, then Istanbul to have lunch with Helen, to Cairo for some long hours at the airport and then finally Damascus) and extremely excited about what was awaiting me. I got in line for immigration, then I was sent to another line to get a visa. The visa office was a small glass room with a hand-written note on which it was written ‘Bank Visa’ in English and Arabic. Or, I can only guess what it was written in Arabic because I cannot read Arabic. Nor speak it, apart from basic words like ‘hello’ and ‘thank you’ In fact, I didn’t know much about Syria, its people or its culture, all I knew after travelling through the country a few months earlier was that I had to come back. And here I was.

So back to the ‘Bank Visa’. In broken English the man sitting behind the counter asked me where I was from, and in return of US$ 30 (which he put into a plastic cup, apparently his cash register) I got my visa papers and the greeting ‘Welcome to Syria’ I returned to the immigration line and as another man stamped my papers and passport I once again was meet with a big smile and a ‘Welcome to Syria’ Both this time and last time I was here that is probably the phrase I have heard the most times. Wherever I go I’m met with smiles and welcome greetings. Syrians are proud to see foreigners come to their country, of which they are very proud, and they do their best to make them feel at ease.

After a few hours in the airport café drinking too much coffee with some Canadian oil workers, the sun was about to rise and I was ready to make my way into central Damascus. Sitting in the taxi I saw the sunrise and the beautiful lighting that often comes with early mornings. The landscape is dry, almost desert like, and the brown, yellow and white colours blend into a beautiful greyish tone. Who said grey cannot be beautiful?

I arrived in what was to become my first home in Syria, al-Rabie Hotel. Situated in a small quarter of old Damascus, surrounded by busy highways, modern architecture and a myriad of people and cars; it really is an oasis in the middle of the city. The hotel is an old Damascene house with a beautiful courtyard with small coffee tables perfect for smoking nargileh (waterpipe) and drinking chai until the early morning. I quickly became friends with the people working at the hotel, and they proved to be extremely friendly and helpful when it came to making photocopies, helping me get a Syrian number, finding a place to stay and correcting my, at time being, rather pathetic Arabic. You really have to be patient to smile and politely correct my terribly pronounced good morning ‘ sabah al-khayr’ every single morning, but every time they were just as enthusiastic about my ‘progress’ and encouraging as the day before. I would often sit with them to drink tea in the courtyard, they would help me learning the Arabic alphabet (I have now learnt 23 out of 28 letters!) and they often shared the iftar meal (breaking the fast at sunset during Ramadan) with me.

Yes, it’s Ramadan; the month where Prophet Mohammed received the Quran from Allah, and where Muslims neither drink nor eat from sunrise till sunset. Or at least most Muslims, I do suspect some of them do cheat from time to time, but I don’t blame them. Not taking in any food or drinks for 14 hours in a country where the temperature often reaches 35 - 40 degrees at midday seems to me quite an inhuman task, even though it’s in the spirit of solidarity with the poor. I would collapse within hours… Even though I don’t fast I try not to eat or drink on the street out of respect for the people fasting and just that can be somewhat a challenge when stressing around in the busy streets of Damascus trying to get organized before I start school on Sunday.

I moved into a new house today, also in an old quarter of the city. There are five others living in the house; two Italians, one Turkish girl and two Syrians. They are really friendly and most of them speak Arabic which will be very helpful. The area is like taken out a fairytale; narrow, small streets forming what to me seems various labyrinth patterns (it’s impossible not to get lost) with charming Damascene houses, small shops, exotic restaurants and old men sitting on stairs drinking chai. So for now, I cannot say anything but what I tell the taxi drivers when I don’t understand what they say and I have run out of Arabic words: “Syria, very good!”