Palmyra, Syria: But…My Name Is Muhammed (cont.)

Within an hour of our arrival to the ruins, every boy here knows us. They know what we bought, from whom, how much we paid. They also know where we’re from and at which hotel we’re staying. As an American standing 90 miles from the Iraqi border, I wonder if I should be nervous, but there’s no point in evading questions now. They’d know we were lying. Through this grapevine, I also know that there is another American couple here, and that the man has a goatee. I know what they're wearing and even which parts of the ruins they're visiting at a given half hour. The boys, fascinated with Evan’s long vigil in the theatre, keep me up to date. I have not seen this couple myself. They would be the first American tourists we've encountered here.

"Where are you from?" Everyone asks this first.

"America," we say.

"America! Welcome! Welcome to Palmyra."

This is everyone's answer, too—adults and kids alike. It's so standard that it's clearly coached. Naively, at first, I take it personally. I’m operating under the theory that it’s a loaded question, even from children, charged with an awareness of national and religious identities, Bush policies, and Tariq Ali’s Clash of Fundamentalisms. In Palmyra’s tourist economy, though, I suspect the question is only meant to answer the commonly anticipated American Fear (‘Welcome them!’ the minister of Palmyran tourism must drill. ‘You will make them feel welcome’).

Then, on a hunch, I think to ask one of them, "What would you say if I said I was from Japan?"
The boys immediately chorus, in Japanese, “Japan? Welcome! Welcome to Palmyra!”
And Spain? Germany? France? They can say this line in about seven languages. My theory collapses. We have not yet learned that all this question usually means here is, ‘How much can I charge you?’

Our (adult) guide told us, "You are Americans, yes?"

"Yes."

"You said you were English."

"I said we spoke English."

"You should not be afraid."

"We're not afraid."

"This is good. Americans, I think, are afraid to come to Syria. I don't understand why."

"Don't you?"

He shrugged. "—This is not Iraq."

Our guide told us about a group of five Americans who'd come last month. He'd asked them, per usual, "Where are you from?"

They'd openly panicked, said, "Uhhhh—" Deer in the headlights.

"You are from America!" he prompted them, no doubt heartily.

"No! No, we're not from America."

"Yes, you are!" This, to him and all the other guides, who’d discussed it, was beyond argument.

"Why not you say you are from America?" He seemed to take their reluctance to admit it a little personally, accused of being dangerous only by proximity to Iraq, a slight against his country and his care. There was no U.S. consular warning against travel in Syria and no history of crime directed against western tourists.

But the five insisted, "No, no. No, we're not Americans. We speak English, but we're from—another country."

"But everyone know they are from America," our guide told us. "They are just afraid. I do not understand."

At least part of the reason tourists feel safe in Syria is because of its lingering dictatorship. Between the motorcycle guard, the Ministry of Tourism in Palmyra and the many police on the streets of Damascus, there is virtually no street crime. My open purse and pockets pass through crowds unpicked. Still, it was not that long ago that informants were everywhere, and many Syrians of our guide’s generation were imprisoned and tortured by their own government. The dictator has changed, many feel for the better; but no one is really sure by how much or for how long. Our voluble, enthusiastic guide wouldn’t speak for the microphone or allow me to use his name. He didn’t mind personally and he’s done it before; I later found him quoted in the New York Times, from years ago. Once though, a Japanese tourist thought he meant that some people weren’t welcome in Palmyra when he commented that some (American) tourists were afraid of Syria. The tourist complained to the Ministry of Tourism and he lost his tour guide license for three months.

"You will buy from me," says the boy at my elbow. "Yes. You will."

I don't need or want any more postcards. He requests a 'souvenir’ from America. This throws me. I should have brought toys with me, I always meet kids. When I ask, "Like what?" he asks for a pen.

"A pen? You want a pen?"

"Yes, a pen."

"You want my pen."

"Yes."

I give him my pen. It’s blue. He tries it out on a postcard. We stand together in silence for awhile. Soon, I sense that he has something important to tell me.

"That other boy, the little boy you buy from, he said his name is Muhammed."

"Yes."

"But it is not. His name is not really Muhammed."

"No?"

"No, because—my name is Muhammed, really. It means, ‘Like God’," and he makes a small gesture at his chest, pointing upwards toward the prophet.

"That is a good name then, I think. Muhammed."

But he isn’t finished. "The other boys. They all say they are Muhammed."

"I’ve noticed that,” I say. “Why do you think they do that?"

"Because they all also want to have name ‘Like God’."

He is genuinely bothered by this, even a little melancholy at his name being so freely stolen. And there’s nothing he can do to stop them.

I wonder if some of the boys don’t simply take it on as a kind of stage name for the tourists, something that leaves them effectively anonymous in the event of an inquiry. Hard to determine a culprit if everyone is named Muhammed. But I’m being cynical, and this boy has already given me a lovely, human reason: they aspire to this name.

"But I," he insists sadly. "My name is Muhammed really. It is my name. Muhammed. Like God."

We stand for awhile more. He tries to sell me postcards again, this time with the automatic voice of evangelical children trained to ask all strangers "Have you accepted Jesus Christ as your personal savior?" not really caring what you say in response. Then Muhammed gives up for the moment and springs up onto the outer ledge of the theatre wall.

This is about three stories above the ground, with a straight fall to his left. I hold my tongue as he catwalks along it towards a modern lamppost that lights the stone stage for present day productions. If any other child had done this, I think I might have grabbed him, but I know this kid has been doing this since he could walk and he is not going to fall. He faces the lamppost, grins at me, then tips outwards and throws his arms around it.

"What are you doing?" I ask.

He smiles, elated at my concern, then wraps his legs around it, too, and hangs there for effect.

"You're crazy!" I suggest, but he's done this, like, a million times, and slides ZIP! all the way to the ground like a fireman on a pole.

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