A year ago today, we were doing this:
You know, exploring ruins in southern Syria like nobody's business. We spent 10 days in Syria last summer, enjoying the ruins in the south, the Old City in Damascus, the castle near Homs, another castle in the middle of nowhere, the beaches in Lattakia, and the fantastic food in Aleppo.
It hurts to think about what is going on in those places now, so much so that I try not to do it. What's more, Syrians are very possessive of opinions on their country, especially at times like these. So I hold on to the shred of opinion that I feel like I'm allowed to have, having lived in Syria for a year and visited it three times since, and loving that place with all my heart, beyond all reason.
It's hard to know that friends and former students are still there, and be afraid to ask them how they are doing lest they say something they shouldn't in response. It's hard to see the dream of a progressive Bashar al-Assad fall messily and oh-so-disappointingly by the wayside. It's hard to see the Syrians I follow on Twitter descend into bitter debate and divisions over and over and over again.
It's hard to not know when we'll go to Syria again, or what Syria will be like when we do.
So I tuck Syria away in a corner of my mind where Hessfeld still lurks in the basement of City Mall with his "surprise in the ball." There are local nuggles on offer at Siwar as-Sham, as usual. Charlie is still hanging out at Baramkeh, calling the American girls "blondie." Dima hasn't stopped crying. A ride in a shared minivan taxi costs 5 lira (10 cents). If you know to ask, you can get a cheap room in the unremodeled wing of the Cham Palace Hotel in Lattakia, right on the Mediterranean. The strawberry ice cream at The Barfait is still divine, and a trip to Beirut is as simple as buying up a seat in a creaky yellow land yacht of a taxi and heading over the mountains. And after any length of time spent in My Syria, you will be hard-pressed to decide what you love more: the people, the ruins, the dialect, or the food.
I hope Syria can continue to hang on. I know I'll be holding on to My Syria.
It hurts to think about what is going on in those places now, so much so that I try not to do it. What's more, Syrians are very possessive of opinions on their country, especially at times like these. So I hold on to the shred of opinion that I feel like I'm allowed to have, having lived in Syria for a year and visited it three times since, and loving that place with all my heart, beyond all reason.
It's hard to know that friends and former students are still there, and be afraid to ask them how they are doing lest they say something they shouldn't in response. It's hard to see the dream of a progressive Bashar al-Assad fall messily and oh-so-disappointingly by the wayside. It's hard to see the Syrians I follow on Twitter descend into bitter debate and divisions over and over and over again.
It's hard to not know when we'll go to Syria again, or what Syria will be like when we do.
So I tuck Syria away in a corner of my mind where Hessfeld still lurks in the basement of City Mall with his "surprise in the ball." There are local nuggles on offer at Siwar as-Sham, as usual. Charlie is still hanging out at Baramkeh, calling the American girls "blondie." Dima hasn't stopped crying. A ride in a shared minivan taxi costs 5 lira (10 cents). If you know to ask, you can get a cheap room in the unremodeled wing of the Cham Palace Hotel in Lattakia, right on the Mediterranean. The strawberry ice cream at The Barfait is still divine, and a trip to Beirut is as simple as buying up a seat in a creaky yellow land yacht of a taxi and heading over the mountains. And after any length of time spent in My Syria, you will be hard-pressed to decide what you love more: the people, the ruins, the dialect, or the food.
I hope Syria can continue to hang on. I know I'll be holding on to My Syria.