Patience, persistence pay off with visit to Syria
By Brinley Bruton
October 2008

Inshallah, which means “if Allah wills it” in Arabic, is a useful expression in an uncertain world. I’ve employed it in versions of the following:

“I’ll finish this article by this afternoon, inshallah.”

“My flight leaves, inshallah, tomorrow at 6:45 a.m.”

“Inshallah, we’ll be together again soon.”

And most recently:
“I’m going to Syria on vacation, inshallah.”

For years I’ve wanted to visit Syria and its capital, Damascus, which is thought to be the world’s oldest, continuously occupied city.

I’d heard about Damascus souks - or markets - where buyers and sellers bustle beneath bullet-hole speckled roofs, the remnants of a nationalist rebellion about 80 years ago. Visitors rave about the Umayyad Mosque, one of the most important religious sites in Islam. Then there’s the cuisine, considered by many to be the best in the region.

Apparently, though, Syria didn’t want me. Not surprisingly, the government is wary of American-passport-wielding journalists. The country is officially at war with Israel, which has held Syria’s Golan Heights since the 1967 Six Day War. Alleged support for militant group Hezbollah in neighboring Lebanon has further soured relations with the West.

So the people in charge probably don’t see me as friendly. Damascus, however, has its share of noisy American college students, many there with the help of the U.S. government, so Syria clearly welcomes some Americans.

‘Syria is not North Korea’
I told an embassy official here in London that I wanted to visit his country purely for pleasure. He assured me that any snags processing the application would be due entirely to bureaucracy. “Syria is not North Korea,” he said.

I didn’t get the visa in London. Still hoping for the best, I flew to Jordan - Syria’s neighbor - and met a friend who was traveling in the region. We decided to wait there to see if visas came through. It was the most expensive wait I’d endured. Prices at Jordan’s largely mediocre restaurants and hotels were ludicrous.

More than a week later and nearly out of hope, word came from a friend of a friend that I should travel to the border at Jaber, where visas would be waiting. In Syria, like so many parts of the world, knowing someone who knows someone helps enormously. But at the risk of sounding Pollyanna-ish, a ready smile is also useful. I smiled a lot on the border with Syria.

The journey began at the hot and dusty Abdalli bus station in Jordan’s capital, Amman, haggling for a taxi to Damascus. Eventually we agreed to pay 50 Jordanian dinar ($70) for a trip that should take just over two hours before factoring in the actual crossing.

We passed signs to Iraq while traveling through the parched landscape, a reminder of how delicate this neighborhood is. Our driver stopped at a small building on the side of the road for an unscheduled - for his passengers at least - coffee break.

We eventually arrived at the border and waited for hours in crowded and dusty rooms. I wasn’t convinced they would admit us, but I relaxed when a Syrian border official looked at me and held up his right hand while drawing together his fingertips, a gesture that means “just a little while.”
Immediately across the border I noticed how green and ordered the countryside was. Olive groves stretched out on either side of the road and tractors dotted the fields.

Damascus, finally!
We arrived on the outskirts of Damascus in about an hour. Initially, Syria’s capital simply reminded me of other sprawling cities in developing countries: Low-rise buildings dominated the landscape, dilapidated cars zipped around and market stalls lined the streets.

We caught a second car on the side of a wide road and set out toward the ancient center of Damascus, known as the Old City. After several cell phone calls to the hotel - beware of roaming charges! - we again stopped on a busy intersection, this time next to a stall laden with melons.