Zed’s Not Dead: Gettin’ to know the locals, Syrian style.
Aleppo was becoming a difficult place to travel. Few cafes were open and I kept sneaking down alleyways to smoke cigarettes, the nicotine stifling my appetite. Men dominated the streets, striding down the sidewalk with two, sometimes three black-clad wives following closely behind, and after the students, I didn’t see many young people. It was as if Aleppo was the world’s oldest city inhabited by the world’s oldest people, Florida for Syrians.
I decided to go to the cinema. There I could escape the heat and take my mind off the hunger. I bought myself a ticket and found a seat up the back. I had no idea what the film was about but it made no difference – the theatre was air-conditioned and the seats comfortable.
A swarthy, middle-aged man with a Saddam Hussein moustache and flowing robes sat down next to me. He offered me a cigarette with a grin.
- Are you okay?
I nodded.
- Yeah, I’m okay. Thanks for the smoke.
The lights soon dimmed and we sat in the dark, smoking. Although the film was in Arabic, the plot wasn’t too hard to follow. Waxed stallion wearing gold chains woos incredibly hot, smooth bodied woman who doesn’t wear a burqa. Not sure what fucking country that was, but it certainly wasn’t Syria.
The waxed chest and the smooth body finally got together, making out in the shower (fully clothed), on the hood of a convertible (fully clothed), on the living room sofa (fully clothed) and in the rain (partially clothed – a hint of waxed chest and smooth body).
Suddenly, I felt a vibration on my shoulder as if the air conditioning had just been turned up. At first I took no notice, but slowly realized the air conditioning was creeping down my chest towards my crotch. I looked down – a hairy Syrian hand was gently massaging me, the other under his flowing robes, jerking back and forth. I leapt back in my seat, temporarily stunned.
- Jesus Christ! What the fuck are you doing?
- You are gay?
He’s panting in my ear and I can smell his foul breath.
- What? No, I’m not fucking gay! What the hell is wrong with you?
Other patrons – I realize now, all men – look around to see what the commotion is. It seems I’m interrupting the masturbatory experiences of more than just hairy old Flowing Robes.
- You said you are gay! I give you cigarette and ask if you are gay!
- No, I said I’m okay! Jesus Christ!
I shifted myself noisily to another seat and lit a cigarette. Had I been in Oxford Street I may have just gone along with the experience, but between Kalashnikovs, terrorists and now groin-grabbing old Syrians I was more than a little jumpy. I could also sense a collective wrath slow boiling amongst the other men towards my untimely, premature interruption.
It felt like a good time to leave the theatre.
And Aleppo.
