Syria: Serious Hospitality

In late November 1983, I crossed into Syria from Turkey on foot. I was 19 years old, in the first year of what would become a five-year backpacking journey around the planet. The two countries had been fighting on and off for years, and by then had pushed their border posts several kilometres back from the actual frontier, leaving a stretch of no-man’s land between them. When I showed up on the Turkish side with a group of truck drivers I’d hitched a ride with, the exit officials looked genuinely puzzled.

“Syria?” one of them asked.

“Yes, Syria.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

Once through Turkish customs, I walked three kilometres across no-man’s land toward the Syrian post. On the other side, the questions came again.

“Are you sure you want to come to Syria?”

“Yes.”

That seemed to settle it. After my passport was stamped, a guy who changed money offered me a ride to the bus station. From there, I boarded a bus bound for Aleppo.

I was the only Westerner on board, and my presence caused something close to disbelief. One of the passengers, Mohamet, struck up a conversation and, after a while, invited me to get off the bus with him at his village along the way.

The town of Al Atarib, taken in Feb 2020 by Ahmad Saber. Retrieved from Google Images.

“Why not?” I thought.

The village was Al Atārib, about 25 kilometres west of Aleppo, a small community of around 5,000 people (In the 2004 census, the town of Atarib had a population of 10,657). We jumped off the bus together—me with my backpack—and walked to his family’s house. His father welcomed us in and served a simple but generous dinner: cauliflower, eggs, potatoes, soup, and rebezz, a kind of fried bread. That evening, about a dozen of Mohamet’s friends dropped by, mostly to stare at me and practice the few words of English they knew.

I’m able to recall the details of this adventure 42 years later because I wrote long letters home—mostly to my grandparents, mother and sisters—which they later gave back to me. I also kept copious journals.

Once we’d exhausted everyone’s English vocabulary, we turned to theatre as a teaching tool. Mohamet and his friends sent me outside and told me to knock on the door.

“Ahlan wa sahlan,” they’d say—welcome.

I’d reply, “Asalaam alaykum”—peace be upon you.

“Wa-alaikum salaam,” they answered—and unto you, God’s peace.

“Kayfa ḥālukum?”—How are you?“

Alhamdulillah!”—Thanks be to God.

We repeated this little ritual over and over during the next few days. Each morning, Mohamet took me around the village and introduced me to everyone. One woman insisted on washing all my clothes. In return, I took photos of her children and later mailed them back.

People constantly invited me into their homes for tea and conversation. Occasionally, minor tensions flared when different families competed to host Mohamet’s guest.

A picture I took of a woman's children, in exchange for her washing my clothes.

My friend Mohamet in the village of Al Atārib.

After four days in Al Atārib, eating a meal in the homes of nearly all of Mohamet's neighbors, I hitchhiked south to Homs, about a three-hour drive. Hitchhiking in Syria was easy—almost always the first car stopped. One thing I learned quickly was not to stick my thumb out, as you would in Europe. In Syria, that gesture is considered rude, closer to showing the middle finger. Instead, you hold your hand out, palm down, and gently wave it up and down, as if asking the driver to slow down.

Drinking tea with Mohamet and his brother in Al Atārib, Syria. These first few days of generous hospitality foreshadowed the welcomes I would later get throughout the Middle East.

Happily in Homs

In Homs, I checked into the regional headquarters of the Syrian Boy Scouts Association. They rented out beds in a dormitory that fit my shoestring budget. It was simple but comfortable—cozy, even—though evenings could be noisy when the place filled up with local kids practicing musical instruments. Trumpets, drums, and the occasional off-key clarinet echoed through the halls.

A day after arriving, on December 4, 1983, I took a day trip to Krak des Chevaliers, the massive Crusader castle perched in rugged countryside near the Syrian–Lebanese border. Even then, before restoration and before war scarred it, Krak was breathtaking—one of the best-preserved medieval castles anywhere. Standing on its walls, it was easy to imagine armored knights and sieges, the whole improbable weight of history stacked in stone.

In Krak des Chevaliers, an ancient Crusader Castle in Syria, near the border with Lebanon.

What I didn’t know—what I hadn’t thought to know—was how tense the region was at that moment. Not far away, in Lebanon, two months earlier, 241 Americans were killed in the suicide bombing of the U.S. Marine barracks. The shockwaves were still rippling through the region.

I also had no idea that while I was wandering around Krak that very day, a U.S. Air Force plane—flown by Navy navigator-bombardier Robert O. Goodman—was shot down over Syrian positions in Lebanon.

I learned all of this later.

That evening, I returned to the Boy Scouts office later than usual. As I walked up, I saw three police cars parked outside. There was no confusion about who they were waiting for.

Following instructions, I was put in the back of a jeep. An AK-47 was pressed so firmly against my chest that it left a bruise.

Over the next few hours, I was taken to four or five different places before finally being brought before a commanding officer at a nearby military base. He asked what I was doing in Syria and where I planned to travel next. He kept circling back to one question: did I intend to visit Israel?

"Of course not," was my response.

I described myself as a young traveler moving steadily east, curious and open, learning as I went. My itinerary included Jordan and Egypt—but I made a point of saying I had no plans to go to Israel.

That explanation held until they found a note tucked into my journal. It was harmless enough: a scribbled message from an Argentine friend I’d met in Athens, asking me to look him up when I reached Jerusalem. To the Syrians, it was anything but harmless.

From that moment on, the mood shifted completely.

They searched everything—my backpack, my notebooks, every scrap of paper I owned. They confiscated all my exposed film and told me they would develop it to check whether I had photographed military installations. The officer said the situation was now beyond his control.

What followed was a long, grinding stretch of accusations and threats, surreal and terrifying in equal measure. I was accused of being a spy—for Mossad, for the CIA, for anyone who fit the story they were constructing. I tried to explain I was not a fan of nor supportive of any government.

At one point, grasping for anything that might humanize me, I tried a different approach. I explained that my interest in Jerusalem was religious—that it was a Haj almasihiyeen, a Christian pilgrimage. I spoke of Jesus as the Messiah, hoping that shared reverence might offer some common ground, some small protection.

It didn’t help much.

The questioning went on for hours, circling darker territory. They described torture methods in graphic detail, clearly meant to frighten me into confessing to something—anything. One description stayed with me: being strapped naked to a chair, its seat hollowed out like a toilet, while a red-hot iron rebar rod was pushed upward inside me.

I held my ground. I repeated the same story over and over. I was a traveler. I meant no harm. I had come to experience Syria, its history, its people, its hospitality.

Sometime around midnight, they led me down into the basement and opened the door to a small cell. The door closed behind me with a heavy, final sound. As my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I made out a pile of threadbare blankets, a bucket of water that smelled stale, and a piece of hard bread.

The Prison Cell

Once the door closed, I took stock. A few thin blankets. A bucket of water that smelled faintly of metal. Some hard, dry, unleavened bread. Not much else.

I decided, quickly, to make the place feel as normal as possible. I spread the blankets neatly on the cold floor, lined my shoes up by the door, and sat down in the far corner. With the bread and the bucket beside me, I felt vaguely biblical—John the Baptist, minus the locusts.

Not long after, the door opened again.

A guard stepped in, sweating, heavy boots first, his face tight with purpose. Before he could take another step, I raised my hand.

“Stop,” I said.

He froze.

“This is my home now,” I continued, surprising myself with how steady my voice sounded. “And in my home, we take our shoes off at the door.”

The words hung there, absurd and serious at the same time.

For a moment, he just stared at me. I could see confusion flicker across his face—like I’d knocked him slightly off balance. The script had changed, and he hadn’t been given new lines.

We stood there like that for a second or two. Then, without saying a word, he turned around, walked out, and slammed the door shut behind him. The lock clicked. The cell was silent again.

I don’t know what I expected to happen next, but I remember feeling something shift. It wasn’t freedom. But it wasn’t helplessness either. And in that place, that small distinction mattered.

Freedom

Just after dawn, I was called out of my cell and led back upstairs. I remember noticing the light coming through the windows, how ordinary it looked compared to the night I’d just had. I was brought back into the commanding officer’s office. The questions resumed, much the same as before. Was I Mossad? CIA? Was I lying?

I answered calmly, the same way I had all night. Eventually they grew frustrated and told me I would be sent to Damascus, where they said they had more effective ways of extracting the truth. I was led back down to the cell. The word Damascus echoed in my head.

About an hour later, they came for me again.

This time, something was different. The edge was gone. Someone handed me a cigarette—a fake Marlboro, the logo slightly off. I’d never been a smoker, but refusing didn’t feel like an option. Along with it came a small glass of tea, mostly sugar.

The commanding officer cleared his throat. “You must understand,” he said, “we are at war with Israel. We had to take precautions.” Then he added, “We believe you. We are sorry for the inconvenience. You are no longer a detainee. You are our guest.”

Just like that.

Then, unexpectedly, he started telling me about himself. He had studied at a university in Ontario. He’d hitchhiked across North America one summer, all the way to California and back. “I’m a traveler too,” he said. And just as suddenly as the night had turned dark, it turned human again.

They returned my belongings and drove me back to the Boy Scouts headquarters. Inside, the place was silent. Everyone was glued to the television. On screen, Syrian troops stood in formation. Fighter jets roared overhead. Tanks rolled past the camera. Anti-aircraft guns pointed skyward. Then the image cut to the smoking wreckage of a downed American jet. Twisted metal. Blackened earth. And then, another shot: a lone parachute drifting down against a blue sky.

Only then did it all click.

They hadn’t detained me just because I was American. They were reacting to events unfolding in real time. In their eyes, my passport connected me directly to the conflict they were watching on television. And then—without warning—the broadcast switched.

The theme music of Dallas filled the room.

J.R. Ewing appeared on screen, cowboy hat and all, speaking flawless Arabic. The oil fields, the ranch, the scheming—all of it dubbed and delivered as if it were local drama. The room came alive. The Boy Scouts leaned forward. The tension evaporated.

Minutes earlier, they’d been watching war. Now they were absorbed in Texas melodrama.

The contrast was dizzying—and oddly comforting. Whatever divides us, stories still land where they land.

Both the pilot and I eventually walked away from our ordeals. He was released after 30 days, escorted out by Jesse Jackson. I was free after one night, with a deeper appreciation for how quickly innocence can look suspicious, depending on where you stand.

The next morning, I packed up, planning to hitchhike east to Palmyra. While loading my bag, I realized my Swiss Army knife was missing. It wasn’t just a knife—it was a lifeline.

So I did something I never would have imagined doing 24 hours earlier. I walked back to the military base.

The guards froze when they saw me. Phones rang. Within minutes, I was back in the commander’s office, explaining that I was missing my knife. I reminded him—carefully—of his offer to help.

He picked up the phone and barked a few sharp commands. Less than a minute later, a guard rushed in, holding my Swiss Army knife. The commander unleashed another volley of Arabic, pointed at me, and the knife was handed over.

“Shukran,” I said.

And that was that.

The next day, I left for Palmyra—an ancient oasis rising from the Syrian desert, where the ruins of a once-great city still whispered stories older than empires. My journey continued, now shaped by a deeper understanding of how thin the line can be between welcome and suspicion—and how quickly it can disappear again.