"the road to damascus." new england review 31.3

8/3/2019 "The Road to Damascus." New England Review 31.3

1/8

16 8 n e w e n g l a n d r e v i e w

Eric Calderwood_ _ _ _ _

The Road to Damascus

Ater a long wait outside the barracks o the Syrian immigration service, at theborder between Syria and Lebanon, our taxi approaches a nal checkpoint: an open-

ended hangar whose high ceilings dwar the olding chairs where the customs ocers

sit and inspect luggage. As we pull up, the only thing I can think is: Please dont

look at my books. Please, just ignore the books. Our driver greets the Syrian soldier

manning the customs station. Apparently they know each other. The soldier sticks his

head into the cab to get a better look at the passengers. I eign a dopey smile, trying

to appear harmless. I show him my American passport, and he doesnt say anything.

He walks around the car and examines the trunk. Behind me, I hear the aint rumble

o luggage being moved around. The soldier asks the driver to get out o the car and

come around to the trunk. I hear their mufed voices, but cant make out what theyre

saying. Then, I hear a loud knock on the window next to me. Through the thick coat

o dirt, I can only make out the tip o a nger, pointing at me. I open the window,

and the driver asks: Is that your cardboard box in the trunk?

*

Earlier this morning, I picked up the shared taxi in Beiruts Charles Helou bus

station. I had arrived at Charles Helou in a rush and with a hangover. Yesterday, my

riend Bassel, a Syrian Christian rom Aleppo, joined me or a night out in Beirut,

which started with pizzas in Gemmayzeh and ended with cocktails in the chic bars on

nearby Rue Gouraud. Our night out gave me some insight into why wealthy Syrians

like to spend their money in Lebanon: its surreal to raise an apple martini to a Beiruti

transvestite with the knowledge that Damascuss Umayyad Mosque is a mere 127kilometers away.

Today is Sunday: a good day to sleep o a hangover in secular Beirut but also

the rst day o the Syrian work week. I have class in Damascus at 3p.m., and i Im

going to make it on time, I need to get a move on. Bassel rushes me to Charles

Helou in a taxi, pushes me past the aggressive vendorsselling bus tickets in Arabic,

English, and Armenianand waves down a cabbie who is yelling, Leaving or

Damascus . . . Damascus right now . . .

r e p o r t s f r o m a b r o a d

NER 31-3.indd 168 10/11/10 2:38 PM


2/8

16 9

Eric Calderwood

This guy is good, Bassel grunts.

Are you sure? I ask, but I hardly have time to examine the driver or the dented

exterior o his red Chevrolet because Bassel has already opened the door to the back

seat and pushed me in. Im too tired to resist, so I settle down next to a large Iraqi

man. He has the worn ace and red-checkered kefyehthat identiy the many Iraqireugees living in Damascus. He eyes me suspiciously, clearly annoyed that he has

been pushed abruptly into the middle seat. As he shits his weight, I notice that the

passenger on the other side o him, a young Lebanese man dressed in a tight-tting

black Armani T-shirt, looks up rom the screen o his cell phone and glowers in my

direction. Through the grime o my window, I see Bassel speaking with the driver and

then shoving my belongings into the trunk: a small rolling suitcase and a cumbersome

cardboard box, haphazardly taped together in our hotel room this morning. The

driver jumps into the ront seat, puts his key in the ignition, and starts the car in one

smooth motion. We pull out o the bus station and merge onto the crowded streets

o downtown Beirut.

The Anti-Lebanon Mountains largely dene the SyrianLebanese border, and they

shield Damascus, like a partition screen, rom her more raucous sister, Beirut, to

the northwest. The highway that connects Damascus to Beirut snakes and curves

along these mountains, but the taxi drivers who ply this route take it like a straight

shot, careening rom hairpin to hairpin without touching the brake. This morning,

I sit white-knuckled in the back seat while I watch my driver do his best Michael

Schumacher. He is carrying on a lively conversation with the Lebanese kid in the ront

seat. He oten takes his eyes o the road and his hands o the steering wheel so that

he can emphasize a point to his interlocutor, gesticulating wildly over the impassive

lap o the Iraqi man seated between them. From time to time, another car, headed

in the opposite direction, comes fying around a blind corner, orcing us to veer oviolently toward the right shoulder o the road.

We stop at the Lebanese police station in Masnaa, the border town on the Beirut

Damascus highway. The driver stays in the car while the ve o us wait in line to get

our exit stamps. There are our lines: one or Lebanese, one or Syrians, one or Arabs,

and one or non-Arabs. The non-Arab line, where Im waiting, is the slowest and

has the most insolent service. Ive been keeping my exit visa application in the ront

pocket o my jeans, and by the time I reach the ront o the line, it is quite wrinkled.

The customs ocer daintily picks up the orm between his two ngers, as i holding

a piece o dirty underwear, and tells me that my orm is not acceptable. He demands

that I ll out another orm, but neither o us has a pen. By the time I locate a pen and

ll out an appropriately pristine exit orm, the other our passengers have returned toour shared taxi and the driver has started pounding on the horn. As I shimmy back

into my seat, hal occupied now by the at Iraqi in the middle, I ace the renewed

scowls o my ellow passengers.

We then exit Lebanon and enter the ve-kilometer stretch o no-mans-land that

separates it rom Syria. The only signs o civilization are red SyriaTel billboards and

the occasional sniper, whose head you see pop up over a ridge rom time to time. The

last thing you pass beore entering Syria is a new duty-ree shopping center. A sign or

NER 31-3.indd 169 10/11/10 2:38 PM


3/8

170 n e w e n g l a n d r e v i e w

an unopened Dunkin Donuts adorns the centers aade. Inside, there is a duty-ree

store where expats and wealthy Syrians can stock up on French wine, Smirno Ice, and

Captain Morgan rum. The driver makes a stop at the duty-ree, and the rest o us wait

in the car. Just a hundred meters down the road, we see a sign welcoming us to Syria,

and behind it, the long barracks o Hijra wa Jawazat, the Syrian immigration service.The inside o the immigration center is barren and dimly lit. The lines ollow the

same categories we ound on the Lebanese side, except that, ortunately, the only

empty line is the one or non-Arabs. As I approach the desk, my heart starts to beat

quickly in my chest. In recent weeks, many American students have been detained at

the borderand oten denied reentry to Syriaand I ear the same ate or mysel.

Instead, the ocer takes a cursory glance at my orms, stamps my passport, and waves

me away. I go outside to await the other passengers.

An hour passes, and the Iraqis still havent returned rom the immigration center.

I lean against the taxi and watch the trac go by: buses, mini-buses, taxis, and private

cars. Most o the private cars have Lebanese license plates and are BMWs or Jeeps.

The Syrian private cars tend to be Kias. Our taxi driver paces back and orth, smoking

and looking at his cell phone clock impatiently. His livelihood depends on rapid transit

between Beirut and Damascus. The longer he waits here, the less chance hell have o

making multiple trips between the two countries today.

When the Iraqis nally storm out o the immigration center, their rage is visible on

their aces. Ater waiting in the interminable lines or non-Syrian, non-Lebanese Arabs,

the Iraqis had nally had their entrance interview with a Syrian policeman, who told

them, simply, that they had never let Lebanon. What he meant was that the Lebanese

police had orgottenor reusedto put exit stamps in their passports. You are still

in Lebanon, the Syrian had said, in spite o their physical presence in ront o him.

They ask our taxi driver to drive them back to the Lebanese border to get theirexit visa stamps. The driver tosses his hal-consumed cigarette to the ground, snubs

it out with his eet, and squints up at the sky, as i looking or an answer there. No,

we dont have time, he says. The Iraqis argue with him, calling him a bastard and a

thie, and demand a reund o the cab are that we all paid when we boarded the taxi

in Beirut. Finally, more defated than urious, the Iraqis grab their dufe bags rom

the taxis trunk and stomp o in the direction o Lebanon. Then the taxi driver starts

up his engine, and I must get back into the car beore he leaves me behind as well.

The back seat o the Chevrolet eels much more spacious without the at Iraqi. My

legs appreciate the extra stretching room, but I eel guilty that Ive earned this room

at the expense o the two Iraqis who were let behind. Nevertheless, I eel powerless

to do anything, so I keep silentmy deault policy in Syria. The driver turns up thevolume o his radio and resumes his chatter with the kid in ront. They complain about

all the Iraqis living in Damascus.

We are now, ocially, in Syria, but we still have to clear customs. Syria has a closed,

state-run economy. The constant fow o taxis, buses, and private cars between Beirut

and Damascus makes this highway a popular route or smugglers o electronics, drugs,

and other goods. Each vehicle that passes through the border is subject to a random

customs inspection. These inspections ollow the same rules adopted by TSA and

NER 31-3.indd 170 10/11/10 2:38 PM


4/8

17 1

Eric Calderwood

Homeland Security in the United States: some days, you will pass through with a bored

wave rom the customs ocer; some days, you will have all o your luggage turned

upside down. Luck o the draw. Today Im carrying books, and my luck is not good.

*

Books have long been politically sensitive in Syria: they are inspected upon entry

into the country, and oreigners are banned rom shipping them out. This sensitivity

dates back at least to 1970, when the Assad amily assumed rule o the country. Their

secular but totalitarian regime has held onto power, in part, by monitoring books and

newspapers or antigovernment propaganda, and, more recently, by blocking access

to blogs and social networking sites like Facebook.

One would think that Islamic literaturesuch as Koranic exegesis or Islamic law

would be sae rom these political sensitivities, but it actually provokes more suspicion

than almost anything else. The Syrian governments increased surveillance o Islamic

texts coincides with a broader crackdown on Islamists in Syria, ollowing a series o

terrorist attacks on Syrian soil rom 2004 to 2008. According to a 2009 Human Rights

Watch study, the majority o cases brought beore Syrias Supreme State Security Court

between January2007 and June 2008 involved alleged Islamists or members o the

outlawed Muslim Brotherhood. Moreover, the Human Rights Watch study observes

that many o these alleged Islamists were brought to court simply or possessing

undamentalist books or pamphlets.

But terrorist attacks on Syrian soil are not the only thing driving Syrias crackdown

on Islamists. Since 2003, the United States has been exerting intense pressure on Syria

to prevent Islamic militants rom traveling across its border to Iraq. In response, Syriahas tried to limit the infux o oreign-born Islamists by banning oreign students rom

enrolling in Damascuss Abu Nour Institute, a amous religious school whose graduates

have been accused o terrorist activity in Turkey and Iraq. Whether or not you are

a Muslim (I am not), possession o Islamic books makes you suspect in the eyes o

the Syrian police. In a long history o miscommunication between the United States

and Syria, this is one o the richest ironies: while the U.S. sends Fulbright scholars to

Syria to learn about Islamic culture and history, Syria cracks down on these scholars

to appease the United Statess concerns about radicalized Muslims.

I went to Damascus on a Fulbright grant to do research on Muslim texts about the

all o Islamic Spain in 1492. My grant placed me under the tutelage o the Public

Diplomacy Section o the U.S. Embassy. I put this departments name in quotationmarks because, or all intents and purposes, there is no public diplomacy between

Syria and the United States. The Bush administration withdrew its ambassador to

Syria in February2005 to protest the assassination o Lebanese Prime Minister Raq

al-Hariri, allegedly at the hands o Syrian intelligence agents. (On February16 o this

year, Obama nominated Robert Ford, a career diplomat, to be the U.S. ambassador to

Damascus, but his nomination still awaits Senate conrmation.) Since the withdrawal

o its ambassador, the U.S. Embassy in Damascus has lost all remnant o infuence. It

NER 31-3.indd 171 10/11/10 2:38 PM


5/8

17 2 n e w e n g l a n d r e v i e w

has virtually no high-level contact with the Syrian government and is increasingly an

island onto itsel. As one high-ranking Embassy political ocer put it at our Fulbright

orientation, I dont really associate with Syrians.

The Embassys bunker mentality is not just political or cultural, but architectural as

well. The Embassy is on al-Mansour Street, just up rom the busy Rawda Square. It sitsat a triangular intersection, approachable rom three sides. The buildings vulnerability

makes the Embassy sta anxiousparticularly since a oiled attempt to drive a car

bomb into the Embassy compound in 2006. Since this attack, the Embassy has begun

to expand its borders, swallowing up the sidewalk in ront o it. Syrian day-workers

build ad hoc orticationsmade o scrap metal and plywood and trash cansaround

the outside o the compound, which has started to creep into the street itsel, turning

a busy two-lane road into a one-lane bottleneck. Just across the street is the Embassy

o Iraq, which many Damascenes suspect to be a mere puppet or U.S. interests. Each

morning, hundreds o the one million Iraqi reugees in Syria travel rom squalid reugee

camps on the outskirts o Damascus to the posh Rawda neighborhood to visit their

nominal embassy. While they wait in linehoping or asylum, humanitarian aid, a

job, or just a ace-to-ace interaction with the Iraqi bureaucracythey have hours to

contemplate the haphazard advance o the Embassy o their countrys recent invader.

Currently, there are no Fulbright programs or Algeria, Libya, Palestine, Lebanon,

Yemen, Saudi Arabia, Iraq, or Iran. Not surprisingly, this list closely mirrors the areas

in which the U.S. diplomatic corps has the least political and linguistic traction. Since

the Syrian dialect o Arabic is very similar to that spoken in Palestine and Lebanon, it

makes sense that the United States would do its best to hold on to its tenuous academic

presence there, despite the headaches o administering an exchange program in Syria.

The U.S. government can hardly aord to send its students home rom Syria, the one

country where they stand a chance o learning a diplomatically useul version o Arabic.Since the Fulbright program is not ocially recognized by the Syrian Ministry o

Higher Education, its scholars do not qualiy or year-long student visas to stay in Syria.

They go to Syria on twenty-eight-day tourist visas, which they renew by traveling to

Lebanon every our weeks. Theoretically, the options or leaving Syria are not limited

to Lebanon. Syria, ater all, also shares borders with Israels Golan Heights, Jordan,

Iraq, and Turkey. Nevertheless, Lebanon is the only practical option or a quick visa-

renewal trip rom Syria or a number o reasons.

The application or a tourist visa to Syria asks you whether youve ever been in

occupied Palestine. This means Israel, which expats in Syria reer to as Dixie or

Disneyland to avoid drawing attention to themselves when talking in public. The

Syrian rules are clear: no tourist with an Israeli stamp in his passport will be able to enterSyria under any circumstances. For American tourists, this prohibition oten extends

to Jordan as well. Unlike the SyrianIsraeli border, the border between Jordan and

Israel is open. Since many Syrian border guards are predisposed to regard the average

American tourist as a covert Zionist agent, travel between Syria and Jordan always puts

you under suspicion. Unless you have a detailed justication or your trip to Jordan, it

is likely that you will be turned away at the Syrian border due to suspected entry into

Israel. In act, the year beore I arrived to Damascus, three Fulbright scholars were

NER 31-3.indd 172 10/11/10 2:38 PM


6/8

17 3

Eric Calderwood

detained at the SyriaJordan border and denied reentry to Syria. The Iraqi border

until recently an active war zoneisnt any more attractive than the Jordanian border;

and the Turkish border is simply too ar away rom Damascusand the cost o the

entry visa is too highto make Turkey a convenient place to renew your tourist visa

every our weeks. Thus, by process o elimination, you are let with Beirut, a convenienttaxi or bus ride away rom Damascus. But the trip rom Damascus to Beirut is only

convenient i you are able to make it successully rom one city to the other.

*

I step out o the taxi and stare at the driver, who, glancing back at the Syrian soldier,

repeats his question: Is that your cardboard box in the trunk? The cardboard box

that I had stored in the taxis trunk was lled with books. Thirteen books, to be exact:

the thirteen volumes o Ahmad bin Yahya al-Wansharisis Kitab al-Miyar. These were

a set o teenth-century Islamic legal texts that I needed or my dissertation research

in Damascus. The ame o al-Wansharisis book is mostly due to a longatwa(ormal

legal opinion) calledAsna al-Matajir, which is ound in the chapter aboutjihad. In this

atwa, al-Wansharisi responds to a letter rom a ellow legal scholar, who asks him what

to do about the recent Muslim immigrants rom Spain, who arrived to North Arica

en masse ater the all o Muslim Granada in 1492. Many o these Spanish immigrants

claimed that they had had better lives back in Spain and were considering moving back

there, even i it meant living under Christian rule. Al-Wansharisis legal argumentation

on this point is long and complicated, but his conclusion is clear: Emigration rom

the land o indelity to the land o Islam is a duty until the Day o Reckoning.

As I stand outside the taxis open door, it strikes me that a customs station is a neplace to start studying al-Wansharisi. The soldier looks rom me to the box o books

and then back again, as i trying to discover how the two could be connected. He asks

me to ollow him, and the cab driver tags along behind us, carrying my box o books.

As the soldier walks, his Kalashnikov bangs against his back. He takes us around a

corner and into an oce, where the desk, the le cabinet, and the bare walls are in a

drab shade o light green that matches the soldiers atigues. The ocer rips open the

box and starts to pull out books and place them on the desk. The books are bound

in dark green, the color o Islam.

Whose books are these? the soldier asks in Syrian dialect.

Theyre mine, I reply in Modern Standard Arabic, which is easier or me than

dialectespecially when Im nervous.Who told you to buy them?

No one told me to buy them. I bought them or mysel . . .

Yes, the soldier interrupts impatiently, but who toldyou that you hadto read

these books? Did your government ask you to read these books?

No, I say. I bought them because I need them or my studies.

Are you studying in Damascus?

Yes.

NER 31-3.indd 173 10/11/10 2:38 PM


7/8

174 n e w e n g l a n d r e v i e w

Where? At the University o Damascus?

No, I have a private teacher, but he also teaches at the University o Damascus.

Whats his name? the soldier demands.

Ahmad al-Kawakabi, I blurt out, immediately realizing that I have just put my

teacher in an awkward position. I envision the police interview that awaits Ahmad(whose name Ive changed or this article) back in Damascus. The soldier misspells

Ahmads surname in his notebook, and I dont say anything.

What is Mr. Kawakabis phone number and address?

I dont know his address, I stutter while umbling in my pocket or my cell phone.

Im too nervous to read out the number, so I just place my cell phone on the soldiers

desk with the number on the screen.

Was Mr. Kawakabi the one who asked you to bring the books to him?

No, I insist. It was my idea to buy the books. I need them or my research. I

wanted to buy them in Damascus, but I couldnt nd them there.

So, the soldier concludes, you went to Beirut expresslyto nd and buy these

books.

No, no, I hurry to clariy, I went to Beirut to visit my riend, who is a journalist . . .

The moment thej-word leaves my mouth, I know that I have just picked the worst

possible occupation or my riend.

The soldiers eyebrows are raised, You went to visit a journalist in Beirut?

I backtrack: No, my riend is a student o Arabic in Beirut. She studied journalism

in Denmark, but she is in Beirut to study Arabic. The soldier grills me with questions

about my riend, many o which I cant answer, since Ive only known her or a ew

days. Exasperated with my vague answers, he stomps out o the room and locks the

door behind him. When he comes back, he sits down at his desk and picks up one

o the books, looking at it rom several dierent angles. He squints at the title, asi deciphering hieroglyphics. What are these books? he asks, breaking the silence.

They are a collection oatwaliterature rom North Arica and Islamic Spain.

How do you know that is what they are? he asks.

I point to the books cover and read aloud its subtitle: Fatwas rom the People

o Iriqiya, al-Andalus, and Morocco. The soldier peers at the subtitle skeptically.

So, he says, you know how to read these books.

Yes, o course. I use them or my work.

The soldier starts thumbing through the book while making little grunting sounds.

He places the book in ront o me and demands: Tell me what this says.

The soldier points to the beginning o a paragraph on a random page. This moment

is like the nightmare in which you wake up at the Torah stand with the rabbi next toyou, using theyadto point to a passage. Youve orgotten your Torah portion, and

when you start to read, your thirteen-year-old voice squeaks and honks, sounding

like a goose.

I look at the page blankly. I have no idea what Im about to read; it could be about

anythingprayer, inheritance, marriage, contracts. I bought the book less than twenty-

our hours ago, and I certainly havent had time to read up to volume eleven, which is

what I have between my hands. I start to read aloud. The author is reuting someones

NER 31-3.indd 174 10/11/10 2:38 PM


8/8

17 5

Eric Calderwood

claim with a Prophetic saying. I know this because the Prophets words are preceded

by the invocation only used or Muhammad: May God pray over him and keep him

sae! I get to the end o the paragraph and look up.

What does that mean? the soldier asks.

I dont know, I coness meekly. I havent read this part yet.Hmm, he grunts. I look at him, and I suddenly realize that he also has no idea

o what Ive just read. Islamic legal texts are written in Classical Arabic and peppered

with technical terminology and Koranic reerences. The soldier, while certainly literate,

probably hasnt even seen a text like this beore. He suspects me o being a radicalized

Muslim or perhaps o being a book mule or Islamic militants in Damascus, but his

inability to read my book puts him at a disadvantage. He is on the rontlines o a war

he is hardly trained to ghta war o books.

He jumps to his eet and tells me that we need to talk to his boss. I shufe behind

him to another room, where his boss sits in a wreath o cigarette smoke. The boss

barks orders at the soldier, who gestures or me to go back to the rst room. On the

way back, I pass an open door and think about making an escape. When I see two

young soldiers with machine guns cross the threshold, I think better o it.

The soldier returns and tells me that my books have not been approved by the Syrian

Ministry o Inormation. Every book in Syria, he explains, must have an ocial stamp

rom the Ministry. He inorms me that his boss is on the phone with his superiors in

Damascus. I wont be able to leave with my books until he hears back rom them. I

tell the soldier that Ill be happy to leave the books, as long as I can just go, but he

simply shakes his head and says that I have to wait.

While we wait, a ellow soldier enters with a Turkish coeepot and pours some

coee or my interviewer, who has visibly relaxed now that his boss has taken over

the case. He is youngthe age I was when I went to collegeand is probably justas unhappy to be here as I am. In a year or two, his obligatory military service will

end, and then he will enter the Syrian work orce, with more hope than prospects.

For now, he comes in and out o the oce, ignoring me but making occasional small

talk with my taxi driver in the hallway. I sit at the desk, trying to think out my next

moves. Finally, the soldier returns and says, You can go now. I thank him and start

or the door. The soldier stops me with a gentle motion o his hand. Take your books

with you, he says.

NER 31-3.indd 175 10/11/10 2:38 PM

"the road to damascus." new england review 31.3

Documents