Wondering Wanders

Panting, we weave through the barrels of olive soap and bruised pistachios, trying to keep an eye on Ziad’s massive head of hair as he bobs in and out of the tiny shops in the souk. His pace is unrelenting until he finally turns down an alley and ducks into a friend’s brother’s cousin’s shop, where the walls are alive with tapestries. Outside, the Sufis, eyes closed and arms open towards the sky, whirl in the courtyard. For a second, I’m transfixed too, but then I catch sight of the tourists with their video cameras, the stage manager asking for donations, and silently admonish myself for falling for that which is not genuine, not true.

A flurry of Arabic bursts from the corner of the room. Ziad has turned his back to us and is barking into his cell phone. After two months of learning the alphabet, the syllables swoop and stumble in a way that is almost familiar – but the only word I catch is “China”. That can’t be right. Emily, my Texan companion, shoots me a wary glance; I turn my gaze back to the Sufis.

“Sorry,” Ziad says. “Secret police wanted to know why I was with an American. “ He looks at me sheepishly. “I told them I only know the Chinese one.”

How could they have known, we wonder, but as soon as we suggest leaving, he blinks and assures us, no, our presence isn’t an inconvenience. As if to convince us, he buys us falafel and we all go back to his apartment, which is crammed with more guests he’s insisted on hosting.

I think back to the friendly, mustachioed hostel manager. The one who had photocopied our passports, whose phone I’d borrowed earlier to reach Ziad and figure out where to meet him. It’s not that much of a stretch.

That must be why he always walked so much faster than we did, why he kept a distance as he chatted with his friend several feet ahead. We lingered in the back, separated by the crowd, the only visible beacon his wild ringlets.

I had blindly wanted a genuine experience, one free from fake Sufis who dance for clapping tourists as post-dinner entertainment. And here it was: a man, putting himself on the line, risking phone taps from the dreaded mukhabarat whose long list of skills include making people disappear. “No country will give me a visa, so I get to know the world through the people who visit,” Ziad says. And there he remains, as his country topples into revolution and gunfire rips through the streets we walked through together.

Here, in Aleppo, is real life.