Zed's Not Dead: Gettin' to know the locals, Syrian styles.

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.

'Great, glorious, dignified': Women by the Pool of Sacred Fish, Sanliurfa.

‘That which unites the believers is not so much a common faith as the ritual actions they perform in common.’

Amin Maalouf in Leo the African

Ramadan was an interesting, if not frustrating time to be travelling in Syria. Because of the strict Islamic laws that prohibit eating and drinking after sunrise and before sunset, the majority of cafes and restaurants in Aleppo were closed during the day. At night, the streets were deserted as families gathered at home to break the fast and be with one another.

Me – I was on my own and fucking hungry.

But I could appreciate Ramadan for what it meant to believers. While in the southern Turkish of Sanliurfa, families gathered together in the streets at night to celebrate iftar, the breaking of the fast. There was live music and traditional plays, and children were encouraged to sing. The restaurants were open and I had the opportunity to sit and eat at communal tables.

Sanliurfa was also the supposed birthplace of Abraham, a cave to the south of the city. I’d met a young guy on the street called Usul Yusuf who told me he could take me there. He asked me many questions – where was I from, how old was I, what did I think of Turkey? Usul Yusuf explained how he’d learnt English watching porno films (I’m not kidding) and I asked him why he didn’t have a European accent (he didn’t get the joke).

Usul Yusuf took me to see the cave, where we found pilgrims bowing and praying. I asked who the pilgrims were, and was told they were of both Muslim and Christian faiths. It seemed sad that one of the only things that could unite the two religions in this part of the world was a grubby hole in the side of a rock.

Personally, I felt closer to Islam when eating with the Turkish people than in a supposed holy cave. I guess that was because I was involved in their customs, and invited to eat at their table. I’d felt this as well when sharing dinner with the students at Aziz’s house when I’d first arrived in Aleppo.

It wasn’t even that I felt close to Islam. I just felt close. Close to the people I was with. Close to their culture. Close to their friendship.

I like the quote by Amin Malouf, but if it were mine I’d change it slightly:

‘That which unites humanity should be not so much a common faith as the ritual actions we perform in common.’

Eat. Drink. And be merry.

'A flame that will not be extinguished': Hezbollah has it's own television station, Al Manar.

T-shirts, key rings, cassettes, flags… but no stubby holders. Damn!

I was rummaging through the range of Hezbollah merchandise available in a sidewalk stall in Aleppo. The support Syrians had for Hezbollah surprised me, but it made sense. Being a Shiite anti-Zionist party, the Syrian government were sympathetic to their cause and funneled both weapons and funds into Southern Lebanon.

There were all sorts of trinkets for sale, the type you’d associate more with the Sydney Olympics than a so-called ‘terrorist’ organization. And the Olympics comparison didn’t stop there. The colours of Hezbollah – the ‘Party of God’ – were the same green and gold of Australian sports teams. Hezbollah flags flew around parts of Aleppo, but instead of the boxing kangaroo they sported a victorious fist clenching an AK-47.

Only recently had Hezbollah finished fighting Israel in an intense 34 day conflict. The IDF had been taken by surprise with the militant group’s sophisticated weaponry and modern battle techniques. Personally, I was taken by surprise by Hezbollah’s slick marketing campaign. They could sure teach their Iraqi neighbours a thing or two – a brightly coloured key ring was a far less demented way to promote your point of view than online beheadings.

The stall owner tells me business is booming and that it has been the fashion lately for young Syrians to wear a Hezbollah t-shirt and support ‘the team’. I wonder which Chinese company has the contract for manufacturing Hezbollah gear – they must be sitting on a gold mine. Middle Eastern conflicts don’t tend to resolve themselves too quickly.

I’m still rummaging around for that stubby holder when I realize the Party of God probably aren’t flogging beer coolers as part of their branding. I’m still keen to buy a souvenir, though, and consider a t-shirt. But I’m a bit hesitant of being ‘that’ white guy wearing a Hezbollah shirt in public. Not only is it embarrassing, but in a part of the world so volatile, I didn’t want to be caught out inadvertently wearing the wrong colours.

I’d been there before.

I was at a party and happened to be wearing an All Blacks jersey. Some tattooed Kiwi guy came over and asked me who I thought would win the upcoming Bledisloe Cup.

- I don’t really care, just as long as it’s a good game I guess.

That seemed to stir the Kiwi up.

- What do you mean! How can you wear that jersey and not care who wins? That’s sacrilege!

- Mate, this jersey was a birthday present from my Dad… and it’s cold, so I thought I’d put it on.

- Jesus! I should punch you in the head!

The Kiwi wasn’t fucking around so I quickly backed away.

Regretfully I put the t-shirt down. Hezbollah seemed even more fanatical about their war than Kiwis were about their rugby.

And these fullas had AK 47s.

End of the Silk Road: Aleppo is one of the oldest continuously inhabited cities in the world.

Alaa was getting worked up.

- America is Satan in the flesh!

I took a drag of my cigarette and nodded my head. Although I tended to agree with Alaa’s sentiment, I considered the evil of George W. Bush more akin to a foul smelling fart than the physical manifestation of Lucifer himself. Then again, Iraqi civilians were being bombed indiscriminately in the country next door, so perhaps he had a point.

Alaa might have held extreme views, but he was very friendly, constantly topping up my tea and offering thick Syrian cigarettes. He lived with Aziz, a student I’d met on the bus from the Turkish border to Aleppo. When we’d arrived at the station, Aziz surprisingly paid for my ticket and invited me to his house for dinner, which he shared with seven boys. It was time to break the daily Ramadan fast, so I jumped at the opportunity for food, appreciative of Arabic hospitality.

As we discussed the ongoing conflict in Iraq, Alaa flicked through photos of nude western women on his mobile phone. The boys gathered around and expressed their admiration for the various pairs of breasts, smiling broadly and stating ‘I like’. They ogled the photos with enthusiasm, unsurprising given most women in Aleppo covered themselves head to toe in black burqas. And I have to say, after a few lonely weeks on the road I expressed a few ‘I likes’ of my own.

Alaa was intent on schooling me in the ways of Syrian thought, and continued to pursue his theory of America as the ‘great Satan’. However Wael, one of the other students staying at the house, disagreed with him, siding with my more moderate, foul-smelling-fart theorem. The discussion quickly escalated between the two, and they began to argue hotly in Arabic, voices raised. Given the invasions of Iraq and Afghanistan, the recent war in Lebanon (July 2006), and the United States’ repeated threats towards Syria, this was obviously a very touchy subject. However, the two boys soon resolved the conflict, embracing and saying the word habibi to each other many times.

After they calmed down, I asked about the word habibi. I was told it meant, sorry, I love you, you’re forgiven, we are one and together. The simplicity and deep meaning of habibi struck me, and I admired how in this context it had served to reunite the boys. It led me to lofty thoughts.

Habibi. Even though our governments were against each other, I could sit and share tea and cigarettes with young Syrian men. Habibi. In a post-911 world, the word could help us forgive and to forget. Habibi. The word could wipe away the differences that tear people apart, and cause us to join hands. Habibi. Young men worldwide would lay down their arms and embrace each other, ‘beloved’.

Alaa nudged me with another photo, snapping me out of my reverie. We nodded and smiled at each other, speaking together as one:

- ‘I like’.

It's amazing what you can do with mud: 'beehive' houses in Harran, near the Turkish/ Syrian border

After travelling through southern Turkey I finally reached the Syrian border. At this time (September, 2006) Syria had been supporting Hezbollah in their fight against Israel, and was roundly condemned as being part of the ‘Axis of Evil’. I’d been warned to be careful in Syria, given their hostilities to the West, and figured getting into Syria might prove difficult.

However, it turned out getting out of Turkey was more difficult. I sat on the Turkish side of the border in the blazing hot sun for a few hours waiting for the crossing to open as for some reason, the border was only open between two and three in the afternoon. The Turkish guy I’d hitched a ride with to the border at Akcakale had dropped me off early, so I entertained myself Don Bradman-style, hitting a ball I found against the border fence with a stick.

When the border guard finally arrived he made me wait even longer. He and his superior spent a good forty-five minutes deliberating over my passport. I joked to myself that maybe they were still shitty about Australia’s attempt to invade their country all those years ago, but finally they agreed to let me leave the country, stamping my passport and opening the gate to let me through.

The Syrian border guards waiting on the other side of the fence welcomed me with broad smiles and a slap on the back.

- Welcome to Syria!

– We take you to see the King!

- Who?

- The King! He is King of this border! Noone gets in or out without his permission.

To my surprise, The (Syrian) King even kind of looked like a swarthy version of Elvis – but in his late-seventies Vegas days, fat and sweating, candidly grotesque. I mention this likeness to him, hoping to inspire a bond of common mirth.

- You are the King, right?

- Yes.

The Syrian’s voice welled up from somewhere deep inside his belly and poured forth, slow and deliberate.

- You are the King of the border, right?

- Yes.

- Yeah, that’s cool – you’re like Elvis.

- Who?

- Elvis. Elvis Presley.

- Who?

- Elvis Presley, you know, the singer, the King?

The (Syrian) King stared at me incredulously, slowly shook his head and got back to the job of signing my papers. I quickly realized that Western popular culture hadn’t permeated to this part of the world, but was not surprised. This guy had never heard of Elvis Presley. I’d met people in Ethiopia who’d never heard of the Beatles. But I did meet a guy in Rwanda once who was a huge fan of the Backstreet Boys. Go figure.