Leaving Syria

On the frontier post between Syria and Lebanon I showed my passport to the Syrian Authorities. And I waited. Together with me was a Syrian girl, eighteen years old, smart and beautiful. She was studying in a Lebanese University, and had been visiting her family in Aleppo for a few days. We talked non-stop for the all trip. Then at the border, she came with me to the foreigners’ line. “Huh?” “I have an Iranian Passport”, she explained.” My grandfather became Iranian on the days of the Shah. He didn’t want his sons to serve the army and go to the war in here…”

We gave our passports to the guards and they disappeared with them.
I don’t understand why should it take so long in these places. It might have to do with a show of power: “look, we make you wait until you feel totally frustrated and powerless. We own your time... ahahah”
I don’t think it has anything to do with being in the Middle East, last year on the US border I was waiting for a long time too… Is it a revenge of the people working there? Like trees jealous of passing buy leaves? “I’m stuck, I’ll hold you too!”

While I was waiting, I looked around the room. It was a medium-sized room, something like 50 sqm. I counted on the walls thirteen photos of Bashar al-Assad. Of different sizes and with different degrees of Photoshop, but still… there was almost no wall space left.
It was amusing and creepy. How many photos does one need? Are they afraid they will suddenly forget his face?

We finally got back in the bus and drove away.
On a curve, there was Bashar again. In full colour. Waiving at us, his head tilted in a somewhat vague smile. “Come back soon”, I think I read.

Two minutes later, there was the Lebanese army post. We stopped again. Some guards entered the bus and looked at the passengers. We might have been 10 passengers in total. They looked carefully at us, going up and down the aisle in the middle of the bus. As he passed by, I saw it. A machine gun. Right in front of my nose. I’d never seen a real one, and this one was really close. I felt a chill down my spine.

One of the guards asked for passports. He took a good look at my travelling companion’s. He asked her something, she replied coldly, and then he left. The flashy lady who had been chatting with the drivers exploded in indignation. The drivers mumbled accordingly. Everybody in the bus grunted softly.

“What happened, what did he ask you?” I turned to her. “He asked me why don’t I use my head scarf anymore.” I looked at her great dark curly hair. “Huh?” “On my passport I’m wearing one.” she added. (Of course, how foolish of me, an Iranian passport…)
“What did you say to him?” “ I said I did not like it anymore.” “Why would he ask you this?” “ I don’t know, maybe he is religious…” She sounded cool, but I could see she was a bit nervous.

At the border I got a permit for a one-month visit. I looked at he beautiful cedar tree stamped small on my passport and smiled. Then I put it back safely in my bag. I don’t like it when my precious passport is going from hand to hand like this.

As we drove by, people in the bus resume to their conversations. I can’t understand Arabic, but I had the feeling they fond the Lebanese guards’ behaviour, in general, how can I put it? A bit over zealous…