Being American in the Arab World

Being an American has become, especially of late, a politically sensitive matter. I suppose this has been to a certain extent true for a while–any hegemon, by its ability to influence the course of events, is likely to have fans and detractors, and America has wielded superpower authority since at least World War II. Similarly, being European in the colonial age must have had its complications as well as conveniences, and the same for other ruling powers and their citizens in the span of time. But being American right now is particularly tricky; there is something of a global consensus that the U.S. government has abused its moral and military power, to embark on a series of misguided adventures that has endangered the world. These issues are at their most acute in the Arab world, which sees itself (and rightly so) as one of the principal targets of American militancy.

Fortunately, goodwill toward the U.S. has not totally worn, and people in Syria (and most other places we’ve been) are smart (or forgiving) enough to know that not all Americans support Bush and his policies. The response here to our stating that we’re American is universally “You are welcome,” with a heartfelt stress on “wel-come” as is the Syrian style. I may be imagining it, but I perceive that the locals want to make especially sure that we, as Americans, feel welcome, despite it all. People here (and around the world) still like and not dislike Americans (and infectious American culture). As one man put it, “Syrians love Americans. Everyone loves Americans.”

About two thirds of the time, our being American merits no special comment. But American tourists are relatively rare here, and sometimes there are some questions or comments. Often, people express, in one way or another, that while we are personally welcome, they disapprove of Bush and his policies. This gives us a chance to explain that we are in agreement with them, and look forward to the end of his presidency (this is actually fairly fun to gesticulate if the person we’re speaking to doesn’t speak English). If we have time, we explain how Bush is not only bad for Syria and the Arab world, but also for America, citing his environmental and tax policies, as well as Hurricane Katrina. Some people are also curious to hear what we think the prospects are for the next President. They want to know whether things will improve, under Hillary or Obama or McCain (when asked, they seem to prefer Hillary). U.S. policy affects the lives of people around the world, and Syrians are eager to have an insight into the U.S. domestic political process.

A fair number of times, people have asked us to tell Bush and other Americans what Syria is really like, that it is a safe place with good people. They have a sense of what our perception of the country is (mullahs and terrorists, or, perhaps as bad, complete ignorance), and want us to act as a witness to the truth (related post on “the real Syria” to come). Not even once yet in Syria have we faced hostility for being American.

[I should note that opinion in the Islamic Middle East is not totally uniform–one Kurd we met explained how he felt Bush to a liberator, a defender of freedom and a “brilliant and beautiful man.” He had similar feelings for Rumsfeld, Powell and Rice. I suppose I can see why some Kurds might have this perspective–but other Kurds we have met are of the same mind as the Syrian Arabs and us.]

One anecdote. We took a daytrip from Damascus to visit the convent at Sednaya (famous for an icon of the Virgin Mary that is revered by Christians and Muslims alike as a fertility shrine, but really is not very interesting). Having seen the church and icon, we were sitting outside a small bakery on the main road in town eating snacks (mini pizzas and small pies with meat–cheap, delicious and ubiquitous here), when a rather sturdily built man in his late thirties came out of a nearby store to greet us. He had the usual questions (where are we from, etc.) and asked us whether we had visited the church of St. Peter in town. When we said that we had not, he told us in his limited English to wait one minute, for he would take us. The minute stretched into ten, but we waited since we didn’t want to reject his kindness and I had read that the church was an interesting one, having been converted in Byzantine times from a Roman pagan building (a tomb?). Finally, he walked out of the store with a bicycle pump, which as the three of us strolled down the street he delivered at his modest home to his young son. Reaching the gate of the church, which was not far, he produced his ring of keys–it turned out that he was the custodian of several of the Greek Catholic churches in town (and without him we couldn’t have entered the church at all).

St. Peter’s of Sednaya is a functioning small church (10 meters square, 8 meters high), cubelike and austere. The doorway is partially blocked to require that worshippers bow as they enter.

We walked through the small church and went up to its roof via a set of narrow stairs. When we returned to the nave and rested in the pews, the custodian explained to us that he was from Iraq. He took out his UNHCR identification papers showing him to be a refugee in Syria, and explained that some of his other siblings were now in the U.S. Earlier, he had joked that my shoes resembled U.S. military shoes, but I had thought nothing of it–as it turns out, he was speaking from personal experience. With his limited English, he explained to us that he was an Iraqi Christian who fled Iraq after his young daughter was killed in the violence. It wasn’t clear from our conversation who was directly responsible, but it was clear that he blamed the U.S.–he couldn’t understand why the U.S. was there: Iraq was safe and secure under Saddam, including for religious minorities such as Christians, and then the U.S. came and destroyed it, causing death and chaos. From his point of view, the U.S. attack on Iraq didn’t make any sense at all, even as a religious war, which it seemed to us he thought it in part. He rolled up his sleeve to reveal a large tattoo of a cross on his forearm, and demonstrated how he showed it to the American soldiers who had mistreated him and his family, saying “I am a Christian–Why are you doing this to me?” Halfway into our conversation, he broke into tears.

I had been afraid of meeting my first Iraqi. I know, I may very well have unknowingly met Iraqis while living in New York, but somehow the consolation of living in the U.S. would seem to provide some compensation for the horrors that they must have faced from the war of our causing. Like so many immigrants before them, coming to America would provide a new start with fresh hope and opportunity. But here I was faced with a sobbing man who had lost a child, and was living not in his home in Baghdad but in a small Syrian village, feeding his family on what must be a meager income from the church and no doubt feeling in limbo, his life completely turned on its head. This is the freedom we brought to many hundreds of thousands, perhaps millions of Iraqis, and no doubt, he and his family were luckier than many others that were forced to flee or chose to stay.

In our shame, we didn’t know how to respond. We suggested that things could improve with a new president in the U.S. But, as he pointed out, it would make no difference to him–it was far too late. And perhaps it is too late for Iraq as well–the U.S. broke something that it cannot put back together again. We offered consolation and sympathy, and in the end left no doubt of our regret on a personal level for the faults of our nation. As much as Syrians may disassociate individual Americans from the Bush administration’s policies, we knew that living in a free democracy, the American people were largely to blame.