Imaging Aleppo – a city through someone else’s eyes

by Eden Jarvis

In a country where traditions, rituals, and chivalry have all but died out, we often view foreign customs as either quaint or absurd, but rarely practical. Few people take the time to learn the local customs of the land they are visiting, though we all expect travellers to learn our own. Even less frequently do we step outside of our own comfort zone to make friends with those strangers surrounding us. My parents, while travelling abroad, take the time to do exactly those things most of us overlook.

Canadian born and raised, I’d never so much as set foot in the Middle East. I had no heritage even remotely related to that corner of the globe. However, with my dad’s recent retirement from teaching in the Ottawa area, my parents decided to follow their dream of teaching overseas and they eagerly signed up for a two-year contract landing them in Aleppo, Syria. My father teaches at the ICARDA International School and up until recently my mother spent her days exploring the city and getting to know the locals. It was their stories – sent home in frequent emails – that painted for me an elaborate picture of the friendliness, warmth, and hospitality of the region.

Without much thought, my mother handed him her car keys and jumped in the passenger seat, putting hserself completely at the mercy of this stranger in a foreign country.

My parents are born travellers. Prior to the birth of my brother and me, they spent their years travelling the globe and experiencing new things. Now, they have picked up exactly where they left off twenty-four years ago. They aren’t just living and working in Aleppo; they’re travelling the Mediterranean and visiting Rome, Petra, France, Egypt, Spain, Turkey, and anywhere they can think of. They don’t sit in an authentic Syrian bistro expecting to find pizza and poutine, and the customs they’re so used to here at home; they try everything. They are the kind of people who get to know the local customs.

Instead of socializing solely with the other teachers from the school, as so many people who favour the familiarity of a shared homeland would do, they got to know all their neighbours. They became friends with their Syrian landlord and attended dinner parties with all his family and friends.  They brought the customary chocolates, sweets, or wine as a way of thanks. They weren’t seen as ‘outsiders’. They’re just regular, friendly people who make an effort to get along equally with everyone they meet.

My parents write home of the city as a rich mixture of differing cultural and religious practices. My mother does not have to cover herself in any sort of traditional dress; they are very tolerant of different customs. Maybe it’s the proximity of the international school – which sees teachers and students from all over the world pass through its doors – that has given the city its acceptance of global diversity. There is no division there; the Muslim buys groceries at the same store as the Jew, which happens to be the same store where my parents shop. Their descriptions of the physical city are breathtaking, not “dirty and depressing.”

Built upon a hill, the city seems to gently slope away from its apex, providing an astounding view of the Syrian countryside from over the rooftops. There is poverty, but poverty exists all over the globe, and while it is saddening, it is not “depressing.” There is no pervading sense of gloom hanging over the generally pleasant city and its upbeat inhabitants. A young boy, only a child, stands on the street corner selling breath mints and knick knacks to passers-by, this is how he makes a living.  An old man rides an old and dying donkey past a BMW parked at the side of the road. These are the images that really strike my parents.

One day my mother was out driving around the city sight-seeing by herself. She had been driving for several hours when she became hopelessly lost. She stepped into a shop to buy a map or ask for directions. Unfortunately the shop-keeper did not understand much English and was at a loss to help. A gentleman in the shop looked at my mother and told her in broken English that he’d take her back home.

Without much thought, my mother handed him her car keys and jumped in the passenger seat, putting herself completely at the mercy of this stranger in a foreign country.

While I do not recommend this kind of behaviour no matter where you are, abroad or here at home, the story ends well. The gentleman drove her home, chatting about the rich history of the city in his broken English the entire way. She had a thoroughly pleasant time. Upon arriving home, she thanked him profusely and asked what she could do to repay him. He would accept nothing, not even her offer to pay for his taxi ride home. He flagged down a cab, climbed in, and my mother never saw him again. Situations like these are what  really make my parents feel as though they are at home among strangers.

I think that anyone travelling abroad could take a lesson from my parents – if you travel to a foreign land expecting to meet with adversity, hostility, and racial or religious differences that is exactly what you will get. Kindness begets kindness, and friendliness is a globally recognized language, no matter which dialect you speak.

Eden Jarvis is a second-year humanities student at Carleton.