On the television screen here in my hotel room in Damascus, the BBC and Al Jazeera news outlets carry jittery images by unsteady hand-held mobile phone cameras of police. I am witness to clouds of tear gas, bloodied protesters and still bodies sprawled on the street. It is this — the human toll of months of escalating unrest in Syria which has claimed upwards of 4,000 lives. The images of casualties occurring only miles from my hotel room is a bit unnerving, to say the least.
But outside my hotel room the streets are surprisingly calm and the troubles of Syria seem invisible. Damascus remains what it was some 5,000 years ago when our first wandering nomad ancestors began to settle here — an oasis. At the moment, it is an oasis of tranquility in the midst of the continuing violence which bedevils much of the rest of this country.
As I walk through the narrow alleyways and enchanting shops of the Old City, the violence of the rest of the country seems very far away. The streets of the Old City and downtown Damascus are, at first glance, much the same as I remember from my previous visits. There is certainly no general sense of heightened security. The streets are crowded throughout the city and here in Bab Touma square, the Christian quarter, I hear an Arabic language version of “Silent Night” on public loudspeakers.
But the troubles in the rest of Syria have nevertheless had their effect on Damascus. The tourist industry has almost completely disappeared, taking with them an important part of Syria’s economy. And, along with the tourists, much of the international community has left as well, some of them for diplomatic symbolism, others out of concern for their safety.
But even though the tourists have almost all gone, the streets of Old and downtown Damascus are far from empty. The locals seem to have taken advantage of the tourists’ absence to reclaim their ancient hometown. The streets are thronged with the Old City’s notoriously nerve-wracking intermingling of pedestrians and cars. People here seem to be enjoying life. Or is it perhaps some forced merriment? I can’t tell.
* * *
I’m staying in what is surely by far the most beautiful hotel room I’ve ever been in. The ceiling of my room is entirely painted with charming rural scenes; every piece of furniture, from the tiles of the shower to the soap dish– everything is a work of art. I feel like I’m staying overnight in a museum. If Caravaggio had created hotel rooms for extra income, this is undoubtedly what he would have done.
My room had been, many years ago, an archbishop’s residence and used to rent for $300 Euros a night which in the Syrian economy has a purchasing power of perhaps three or times what it that would be in New York. But because of the almost total absence of tourists, it’s been offered to me for a miniscule $60 a night, the same rate I’m used to paying for the modest hotel where I usually stay. I feel a twinge of guilt for getting the room and the services of the staff and delicious breakfast buffet so cheaply, but if I weren’t here, the hotel would be empty.
Later, sitting in my room alone with my TV and the flickering images of the BBC and Al Jazeera, the TV and the lights suddenly go dark. In a heartbeat, the entire hotel is dark except for a few pale rays of light filtering through the windows from the full moon above.
My heart skips a beat. Could the troubles of the rest of Syria have reached Damascus at last? A dark corner of my imagination immediately springs into action: could insurgents have bombed a power station outside the city? Or here in Damascus? Or what?
For several minutes I sit in complete darkness. I had heard that blackouts had occasionally been happening in Damascus but having heard that fact hadn’t prepared me for the unnerving effect a blackout has. It is eerily reminiscent of blackouts I experienced in pre-war Baghdad a decade ago during the sanctions.
Then, just as suddenly, the lights come back on and the television resumes its solemn narration of the world’s woes. I breathe a sigh of relief. So, I tell myself, I have nothing to worry about after all. Besides, I am due to catch a plane back to New York early the next morning. I really need to catch a few hours of sleep.
Finally, after enough television news, I turn off the TV and the lights. But even though I’m tired, I lay awake for a long while longer before finally drifting off into an uneasy sleep. Just before I do I say a prayer for the people of Syria. My guess is that for them, the troubles and blackouts are far from over.
Mel Lehman is the director of the non-profit organization Common Humanity which works to build understanding, respect and compassion with the Arab and Muslim world, through the power of art and beauty.
