Palmyra, Syria: But…My Name Is Muhammed
By Anne E. Campisi, 2005
Published version online at Pology.com: http://www.pology.com/article/051011.html
Palmyra, Syria: But…My Name Is Muhammed
By Anne E. Campisi
Outside the fallen Temple of Bel—claimed over the centuries by Persians, Romans, Queen Zanubia, Hadrian, Saladin, and the Syrian Ministry of Tourism, by half a dozen faiths and nations, each pillaging the statuary and hammering paintings of their predecessors from the walls, surviving ideology and earthquakes but not eternity—I bought a pack of postcards from a seven-year-old Bedouin boy called Mohammed.
Palmyra is a desert. Not graceful hips of sand but horizons of dirt, erosion and scrub: the rubble of empires strewn out over miles of wasteland. Once, this was the center of a great kingdom, the city itself home to 85,000 people. The valley, they say, was green. That was before the major water sources gave out, or were accidentally destroyed by hotels digging too deeply. Now, the economy of Palmyra is in date palms and in showing its ruins to an unsteady stream of tourists, piping its water in from other towns. Now, this greatest of cities is one of the world's greatest playgrounds.
"Where are you from?" asks the boy at my elbow. He is also called Mohammed. He’s in dusty jeans, a navy blue jacket and plastic sandals. His teeth are straight and white.
"America," I say.
He breaks into a candid smile, because he doesn't expect this answer—American tourists are rare fish these days. He hauls up his own collar to show me the ‘Los Angeles’ label:
"My jacket is from America!"
There are no signs here. Nothing tells you to Beware, to Keep Off, no Do Not Touch, no Do Not Take. There are scarcely signs telling you what things are, just a “WELCOME” at the end of the road. Bedouin boys of all ages, most of them trying to sell you postcard packs at triple price, camel rides, necklaces, scarves, play soccer amongst the rubble or heave each other up broken columns to stand on the ledges where statues of Great Persons once presided before the Danes and French stole them, ruling barefoot for a moment and then shimmying down, one after the other.
"You buy from me," confides the boy at my elbow. He acts the leader, a rounded kid in a green sweatshirt and a salesman’s charm. "Yes. You will buy from me." He is confident. I tell him no. But I say it nicely. I have half an inch of postcards in my pocket already. We both know I am going to buy from him.
"You buy from the little boy before, why not me? He is my cousin."I tell him no, cousinage notwithstanding. Halas, Mohammed. You have to stop asking me now.
“You will," he counters, certain. He can wait. “You will buy."
I cannot chase them off because, well, in addition to being a complete weenie, I kind of like them. They aren't trying to pick my pockets (the uniformed guy occasionally looping through the rocks on a motorcycle would arrest them). They aren't begging for free handouts. They're kids—articulate, quick-witted, nimble kids, too—and they aren't always trying to sell me something.
It’s early 2005. While Iraqis queue for the first post-Saddam vote, my husband, Evan, and I are here in Syria on an academic grant to research an Arab comedy for production in the U.S. Palmyra is a side journey from the arts scene of Damascus. But even here, hours north of the poets’ smoky coffee houses and the palatial Dar al-Assad Opera house, the theater speaks.
Evan sits at the center of the beautifully preserved, ancient theatre. Until 1950, the whole thing was buried in sand. Now, once again, it seats 1000 on an arc of raked stone steps that rise nearly three stories. The stage has three openings, with columns all the way across, built for the address of queens and caravan leaders, priests, senators and traveling actors. Under the center of the stadium is an entrance for animals and gladiators. Evan is almost alone here, taking notes, meditating on his play, writing. I ward the walkway at the top of the stadium, keeping the boys from pestering him.
It’s off season. There aren't many tourists here, not of any nationality. Over the course of three days, I met a Saudi family with little girls, a single Japanese man, a group of five Germans, who seemed to find the presence of American tourists in the Arab world slightly distasteful, certain we would be harassed or worse. It’s a big place, though, and so minutes can go by without seeing anyone else besides the omnipresent boys. After a long silence in the theatre, a child goes traipsing over the top of the stage colonnade’s peaked parapet, then disappears down a wall. A moment later, after a complete silence, a baby camel will run all the way across the stage, in through one side arch and out the other. Minutes later, the bored motorcycle cop will streak across.
Over the top ledge of the stadium, I see beyond the main colonnade a serious face off between a camel rider and his mount. The man has been talking with friends and let go of the lead. Free, the camel moseys off down the line of columns. When he finally realizes his mistake, the guy goes off on a zig-zagging dance while his friends laugh, trying to catch his camel again, who manages to evade him by slowly walking off in different directions. Finally, they face off: the man crouched down, tensed arms out and ready, the camel's head lowered in a menacing way. The man makes a mad lunge and catches the lead. The camel, defeated in a way all too familiar, consents to be led off again.
"You buy from me now," says the boy at my elbow. He wears a yellow wool sweater, jeans and blue sneakers. He has a good smile and knows it, and right now he’s all business.
"Yes. You will buy. I came to you first."
This is very important: who got to a customer first.
"No, you didn't. Muhammed did. I bought from him already."
"But not this one!" he insists. He holds up a second accordioned pack. "You only have this one. You need this one, too! It’s good," and he throws it out like a streamer. “Look how beautiful.”
Sixteen postcards flutter down in a long, unfolding line.
Palmyra, Syria: But…My Name Is Muhammed (cont.)
Within an hour of our arrival to the ruins, every boy here knows us. They know what we bought, from whom, how much we paid. They also know where we’re from and at which hotel we’re staying. As an American standing 90 miles from the Iraqi border, I wonder if I should be nervous, but there’s no point in evading questions now. They’d know we were lying. Through this grapevine, I also know that there is another American couple here, and that the man has a goatee. I know what they're wearing and even which parts of the ruins they're visiting at a given half hour. The boys, fascinated with Evan’s long vigil in the theatre, keep me up to date. I have not seen this couple myself. They would be the first American tourists we've encountered here.
"Where are you from?" Everyone asks this first.
"America," we say.
"America! Welcome! Welcome to Palmyra."
This is everyone's answer, too—adults and kids alike. It's so standard that it's clearly coached. Naively, at first, I take it personally. I’m operating under the theory that it’s a loaded question, even from children, charged with an awareness of national and religious identities, Bush policies, and Tariq Ali’s Clash of Fundamentalisms. In Palmyra’s tourist economy, though, I suspect the question is only meant to answer the commonly anticipated American Fear (‘Welcome them!’ the minister of Palmyran tourism must drill. ‘You will make them feel welcome’).
Then, on a hunch, I think to ask one of them, "What would you say if I said I was from Japan?"
The boys immediately chorus, in Japanese, “Japan? Welcome! Welcome to Palmyra!”
And Spain? Germany? France? They can say this line in about seven languages. My theory collapses. We have not yet learned that all this question usually means here is, ‘How much can I charge you?’
Our (adult) guide told us, "You are Americans, yes?"
"Yes."
"You said you were English."
"I said we spoke English."
"You should not be afraid."
"We're not afraid."
"This is good. Americans, I think, are afraid to come to Syria. I don't understand why."
"Don't you?"
He shrugged. "—This is not Iraq."
Our guide told us about a group of five Americans who'd come last month. He'd asked them, per usual, "Where are you from?"
They'd openly panicked, said, "Uhhhh—" Deer in the headlights.
"You are from America!" he prompted them, no doubt heartily.
"No! No, we're not from America."
"Yes, you are!" This, to him and all the other guides, who’d discussed it, was beyond argument.
"Why not you say you are from America?" He seemed to take their reluctance to admit it a little personally, accused of being dangerous only by proximity to Iraq, a slight against his country and his care. There was no U.S. consular warning against travel in Syria and no history of crime directed against western tourists.
But the five insisted, "No, no. No, we're not Americans. We speak English, but we're from—another country."
"But everyone know they are from America," our guide told us. "They are just afraid. I do not understand."
At least part of the reason tourists feel safe in Syria is because of its lingering dictatorship. Between the motorcycle guard, the Ministry of Tourism in Palmyra and the many police on the streets of Damascus, there is virtually no street crime. My open purse and pockets pass through crowds unpicked. Still, it was not that long ago that informants were everywhere, and many Syrians of our guide’s generation were imprisoned and tortured by their own government. The dictator has changed, many feel for the better; but no one is really sure by how much or for how long. Our voluble, enthusiastic guide wouldn’t speak for the microphone or allow me to use his name. He didn’t mind personally and he’s done it before; I later found him quoted in the New York Times, from years ago. Once though, a Japanese tourist thought he meant that some people weren’t welcome in Palmyra when he commented that some (American) tourists were afraid of Syria. The tourist complained to the Ministry of Tourism and he lost his tour guide license for three months.
"You will buy from me," says the boy at my elbow. "Yes. You will."
I don't need or want any more postcards. He requests a 'souvenir’ from America. This throws me. I should have brought toys with me, I always meet kids. When I ask, "Like what?" he asks for a pen.
"A pen? You want a pen?"
"Yes, a pen."
"You want my pen."
"Yes."
I give him my pen. It’s blue. He tries it out on a postcard. We stand together in silence for awhile. Soon, I sense that he has something important to tell me.
"That other boy, the little boy you buy from, he said his name is Muhammed."
"Yes."
"But it is not. His name is not really Muhammed."
"No?"
"No, because—my name is Muhammed, really. It means, ‘Like God’," and he makes a small gesture at his chest, pointing upwards toward the prophet."
That is a good name then, I think. Muhammed."
But he isn’t finished. "The other boys. They all say they are Muhammed."
"I’ve noticed that,” I say. “Why do you think they do that?"
"Because they all also want to have name ‘Like God’."
He is genuinely bothered by this, even a little melancholy at his name being so freely stolen. And there’s nothing he can do to stop them.
I wonder if some of the boys don’t simply take it on as a kind of stage name for the tourists, something that leaves them effectively anonymous in the event of an inquiry. Hard to determine a culprit if everyone is named Muhammed. But I’m being cynical, and this boy has already given me a lovely, human reason: they aspire to this name.
"But I," he insists sadly. "My name is Muhammed really. It is my name. Muhammed. Like God."
We stand for awhile more. He tries to sell me postcards again, this time with the automatic voice of evangelical children trained to ask all strangers "Have you accepted Jesus Christ as your personal savior?" not really caring what you say in response. Then Muhammed gives up for the moment and springs up onto the outer ledge of the theatre wall.
This is about three stories above the ground, with a straight fall to his left. I hold my tongue as he catwalks along it towards a modern lamppost that lights the stone stage for present day productions. If any other child had done this, I think I might have grabbed him, but I know this kid has been doing this since he could walk and he is not going to fall. He faces the lamppost, grins at me, then tips outwards and throws his arms around it.
"What are you doing?" I ask.
He smiles, elated at my concern, then wraps his legs around it, too, and hangs there for effect.
"You're crazy!" I suggest, but he's done this, like, a million times, and slides ZIP! all the way to the ground like a fireman on a pole.
All contents copyright ©2005 Pology Magazine.