Cune Magazine
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Cune Magazine |
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Scott C. Davis Riding with the Mukhabarat Saad Shalabi, a congenial man, was born in Damascus and took engineering degrees
at colleges in California before returning home to practice his profession and raise a family. I arrived in Damascus with only the weakest of introductions, yet he welcomed me and gave me a place to stay at his
farm on the outskirts of Damascus. The farm had two Eritrean students in the caretaker's house and no one living in the stone farmhouse, since Saad and his family lived in town. I thanked Saad. "This is
nothing," he said. "And only one thing I ask." "What's that?" "Do not give my name. Not to the police, not to anyone." Five weeks later I was returning to the farm after a day in Damascus. It was
dark, and I was walking the last mile from the bus stop, carrying my day pack at my side to be a little less obvious, when a jeep drove past, then stopped. A man in uniform motioned me over and offered in
Arabic to give me a ride. Wonderful. I loved to ride at night with the mukhabarat. So I climbed in, we started moving, and he asked in Arabic where I happened to be going so late at night. It was only
seven o'clock, but it was dark. I told him that I was staying with the Eritrean students--anything to keep from breaking my vow not to mention Saad's name. When we got to the farm, my driver kept going and then
pulled off at a place with no lights. I got out and saw another jeep and four men with AK-47s. I wondered whether they had death squads here like in El Salvador. When my driver gave a hacking motion, I handed
over my passport. "Amerikee," my driver said. Then he muttered to one of the
other men. Why would an American be walking along the road at night, twenty miles from Damascus? Had he come to see the Africans? Later, I learned that I had managed to say exactly the wrong thing. They knew
Saad and his association with the United States. If I was Saad's guest from America, no problem. My explanation, however, was something dangerous: two kinds of foreigners, meeting secretly far from town. While my driver talked, another man took my day pack, emptied it, and held up my
tourist map for the others to see. Only a spy, he seemed to be saying, would have such a document. I explained in my best Arabic that I had been given this map by the minister of tourism in Damascus. The men
talked more rapidly, and I realized that my few poor words had only set the hook. Everyone in Syria knew that Americans were disdainful and ignorant. So how was it that this American could speak the language? The map was proof that I worked for the CIA. My meager facility with the
language only made the evidence more damning. But it was worse than that. CIA agents were a dime a dozen in Syria and, according to scuttlebutt, were considered clumsy and stupid by the government, which
tolerated them out of pity and as the price of maintaining relations with the United States. Only a CIA agent, for example, would have been stupid enough to be caught with a map on the outskirts of Damascus
after dark, not far from the hilltop missile batteries that protected Damascus from Israeli bombers. My captors did not seem unduly upset with the idea that I, like most American
"tourists," was CIA. Their real suspicions seemed to lie deeper. Iraq deployed spies and saboteurs as did Israel's Mossad. Iraq was a grudge match. Embittered Baath Party cadres fled Damascus for
Baghdad and then, from exile, sent agents to hurl grenades at the Syrian president and to explode bombs on buses. Israel was worse. Israel was officially at war, and Mossad agents were anathema--put to death
instantly once caught, hung in the public square. My captors looked at me in the darkness and seemed to consider who, besides CIA, I really was. After a few minutes I sensed that they were coming to a verdict.
Iraqis were good, but not that good. Only a Mossad agent would have been clever enough to pose as a clumsy CIA man posing as a tourist. By now another policeman had returned from the farm with Umar the Eritrean who
translated the head man's questions into English. He wanted to know about my movements in this country. I replied in Arabic. Then he asked if I knew Saad. "Aewa," I said. "Let him go," the policeman replied. In a moment’s time my status changed from public enemy to honored guest. My
captors offered fresh tomatoes along with their apologies. On the way back to the farm I was nauseated and shaking a little. Umar was OK and, as we entered the farm compound, he consoled me. "Your
Arabic very good," he said, "very perfect." I had learned some things in traveling on the coast but not nearly enough. To mention or not to mention the name of Saad Shalabi—I was still too
green to judge. I had thought I was ready to launch forth to Aleppo and the Roman Bridge. Now I wondered. "What will I do when this scene replays itself," I thought, "when I am hundreds of miles
from here, near the Roman Bridge, when I do not have Umar to intercede for me?" The following day I felt weak and spent most of my time in bed. I was
devastated, totally in pieces, and could not understand why, amidst the carnage, I felt a warm glow of accomplishment. "I remembered my Arabic," I thought. I saw Umar again at dinner. "I went back and talked to the police this
afternoon," he said. "They asked, ‘How is the American after last night.’ They were worried that they frightened you too badly. "‘He sleeps all day,’ I told them, ‘sleeps in the bed.’ "‘Yes, yes,’ they said." The next day I saw Saad Shalabi in his office. "The police
apologized," he said. "That’s their way of saying that they will not report the incident to higher authority. I asked you not to use my name, but these police know me. In this case it was OK." From Saad’s office I left Damascus heading north. Author's Bio If you like this article, post it on your favorite website or e-mail it to your friends.
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