Student Perspective:
Adventures in Syria, Lebanon and Jordan
by Jerilyn Hansen

Exhausted to the core, I staggered out of the bright whiteness of the empty, tiled arrival hall of the Damascus International Airport. As I rounded the corner at the end of the hallway, the sight I was confronted with made my stomach sink to my shoes. Bleary eyed, I stared out into a sea of serious, dark Arabic faces. The air was hot and heavy with the acrid smell of cigarette smoke and I just knew underneath every black leather coat there hid a gun. After spending the past nine months feverishly seeking out every article I could find on Syria, Lebanon and Jordan, that was the impression I carried in my mind across the ocean.

The more articles I read, the more I was bombarded with images and tales of hatred, guns and bloodshed. But, being a liberal arts graduate, I was also curious. Would the cities really be dark, dirty and dangerous? And surrounded by sand, camels and military installations in the countryside? What about the people? Was it possible they were as unhappy and full of anger as it seemed in the media? Despite my reservations, I was determined to find out for myself.

With 19 fellow adventurers (aged 21-81) from across the United States, I joined a tour to Syria, Lebanon and Jordan led by anthropology professor David Lancy for USU's Travel Study program.

Now I was standing on Syrian ground in the hot, smoky reception hall of the airport, waiting for the rest of my tour group to appear. As I waited, I watched the people around me. The previously stern faces of the men and women began to break into big smiles as they greeted arriving family and friends. The men in those threatening black leather coats cheerfully embraced other men and kissed on the cheek. I had imagined a country full of dirty, teeming cities inhabited by unhappy and poor individuals. I had pictured a flat and barren countryside, supporting only the most meager of existences. What I found were vibrant cities full of hospitable people and a remarkably green and fertile countryside.

There were the colorful, aromatic and maddening mazes of the covered souks (markets) in Damascus and Aleppo. "No charge for looking," the shop merchants would say with a wry smile in broken English as I passed by shops full of huge wicker baskets overflowing with spices and jewelry shops packed with glimmering necklaces, bracelets, earrings and charms. You could find anything in the souks - from soup pots to nuts, wedding dresses to raw meat hanging from a hook, all with a warm welcome to come in for a cup of tea while you looked.

Our day in Damascus coincided with a school holiday due to the ending of Ramadan (the holy month-long Islamic holiday during which Muslims do not eat, drink or smoke from sunrise until sunset). The streets were filled with families taking their children for a day out in the city. A little girl in a bright red coat with cow-print fur trim caught my attention as I sat in the courtyard of the Azem Palace in the heart of Damascus. She was immaculate, as were her siblings and parents, whose pride in being Syrian showed right down to their polished black shoes.

The Syrian countryside was the epitome of extremes - part dry, rocky desert and part lush green belt. The ever-resourceful, nomadic Bedouins and their sheep and goats inhabited the desert of the south and east. Amid the nothingness of sand and rock, tents covered in dark, winter blankets of goatskins dotted the horizon. Progressing out of the desert into the green belt to the north and west, we passed field after field of expertly cultivated orchards of almond, olive and pistachio trees among the rolling, rocky but fertile hills of northern Syria. Leafless though they were, the orchards were astonishingly vast. And for miles along the roadside, evergreen trees had been planted as part of a government reforestation project to keep the green belt green and the soil from eroding in the rain.

As we entered Lebanon, I expected to see machine gun-toting Hezbollah guerillas and bombed-out cities. The day began with rain and heavy, low-lying clouds that enveloped the majority of the countryside. As I stared out the bus window at the roadside, first I saw mangled railroad tracks, which obviously had been bombed. Then out of the mist and clouds appeared a larger-than-life billboard of the Ayatollah Khomeini. Suddenly the clouds began to lift, the sun began to shine and the sky turned the most vibrant blue. Beaming children scampered out of their houses to the side of the road to wave as the bus passed by.

Then there was Jordan. Would it be a stark country full of ambitious individuals heavily influenced by the West? As the bus rolled into Amman our first evening in Jordan, there before us glowed the neon lights of Kentucky Fried Chicken, Dunkin' Donuts, McDonalds and Burger King amid the spotless façades of smooth, white stone buildings. On the streets were perfectly dressed young Jordanians in the latest western apparel. Amman seemed almost too western with its tall, glass skyscrapers and massive, shiny new hotels.

The road into Petra dropped several hundred feet into a deep depression in the earth containing the famous rose-red rock and extensive network of narrow siqs (slot canyons). Built by the Nabateans, the city is still inhabited by their rugged, ashy, dark-skinned descendants living among the intricately carved rock façades for which Petra is legendary. "Would you like a ride in my nice air-conditioned taxi?" the children would say as they rode their camels and donkeys past groups of tourists laboring along the sandy trails deep within the canyons.

Starting this journey perhaps expecting the worst, I ended it humbled and determined to pursue a second bachelor's degree in anthropology. This trip awakened a desire to be part of the world and all its beauty, not just a casual visitor.