Syria: Improvisation and the Kindness of Strangers (cont.)
From the doorway, I notice the brothers are identical twins, sitting in white plastic chairs, heads bent over thick medical texts. Their father, I imagine, is probably launching into a tale about the hitchhiker he picked up this morning but I preface his introduction with a strident “hello.”
The brothers lift their heads and set their books down. His wife motions me into the living room and the twins follow a minute later. A TV set chatters from the corner of the room but the otherwise quiet house is suddenly buzzing with activity. Whatever the family’s plans for the morning are, they’ve been abandoned to show me their special brand of Syrian hospitality.
The twins, Nael and Shazel, seem a little shy at first, probably because they haven’t spoken English with a native in a long time. But their reticence evaporates once their mother sets tea, a sure-fire social lubricant, on the table and I begin to bombard them with questions about their lives.
The twins are medical students studying for a series of exams that will eventually bring them to the U.S. in September. A half hour passes in pleasant conversation about language and travel before we pause for a noontime snack.
After a short deliberation in Arabic, Shazel announces, “If you’re interested, we’d be happy to spend the afternoon showing you around the area.” I smile graciously and, again, accept the invitation without hesitation.
In the back seat of the family’s second car—a brand new black Fiat four-door—the brothers ask me to select a CD from a blue carrying case. We roll through the picturesque countryside toward the Al-Hosn Castle with U2’s 1980 album, Boy, as our soundtrack.
In the next four hours, we visit Al-Hosn Castle, St. George Cathedral in the valley below and various small towns nestled in the plant-covered hills. Everything is beautiful but seeing it all through the eyes of two men who grew up here makes the day special.
At around 5 p.m., we return to the family’s home.
Their mother invites me in for another cup of tea. But I decline as I’m planning to take a 7 p.m. bus north to meet a friend in Aleppo. She heads to the kitchen and returns with a clear plastic bag of fatayer, meat and cheese-filled pastries, in case I get hungry on the two-hour trip north to Aleppo.
Feeling like one of her sons, I’m touched by the gesture, by the welcome mat of kindness the whole family has extended to me the entire day. We exchange email addresses and I promise to send them a few rock CDs once I return to Damascus. We stroll back to the main road to wait for a service to carry me back to the Pullman Bus Station in Homs. Saturday is a holiday in this part of the country and traffic is light on the two-lane highway, leaving us with time to talk.
“I’m nervous to ask you this question,” Shazel begins and, after a pause, decides to proceed with what’s obviously been on his mind since I walked into his house that morning. “Are you Christian?”
I redirect my attention from the passing vehicles on the road and answer somewhat evasively, “That’s how I was raised,” which seems to satisfy him, and I complete the sentence in my head.
Finally, a service pulls to the side of the road and Nael engages in a brief negotiation with the driver. “He’ll bring you to Homs but you’ll need to take a taxi to the bus station,” he informs me.
I thank Nael and Shazel warmly, for their kindness, for their hospitality, for instantly treating me like an old friend. And if all proceeds according to plan, which it probably won’t, our paths may cross again in October.
If not, my life will be forever altered just for having had the opportunity to share a few hours in their polite company. A man sitting in the front seat next to the driver moves over and I fill the last available space on the bus. As we pull onto the highway and speed toward Homs in the dying light, I discover this man also speaks English and feels like practicing. “Where are you from?” he asks me, “England—Germany?”
“America,” I answer quietly, knowing the word is like a slap in the face for most people in the Middle East. But fortunately almost all Syrian people can differentiate between their hatred of the American government and their general love of the American people. Nevertheless, Habib, a name I promise to remember this time, is somewhat surprised that I’ve chosen this moment of increased political tension between our countries to visit Syria. “Welcome,” he replies. “Where are you going?”
“Aleppo.”
“Me, too,” he responds and smiles. I smile, too, at the coincidence, at the kindness of strangers, and my unbelievable luck. Whatever good fortune has befallen me today, I now realize that it’s going to last for at least another few hours.
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