Looking towards Israeli border post in Golan Heights

200m away, I can just about make out a Blue Star and the words ‘WELCOME TO ISRAEL,’ painted in bold, capital letters across the roof of what appears to be a gas-station type construction, here out in the middle of nowhere. A tarmac road runs from where I stand right up to it and continuing, I guess, all the way to Tel Aviv eventually. Physically, there’s no reason why I can’t just duck under the horizontal bar and walk across. Politically, it’s lethal.

I can faintly hear grasshoppers chirping across the waves of fields ahead of me. “It is ok to use my camera? I ask, employing the ancient art of comic pantomime to reinforce the message. My Syrian police escort nods his head disinterestedly. I have interrupted his conversation with the army-uniformed border guard. From the looks of things, they’re old pals who only get to chat when tourists such as myself stray into these parts. Everyone knows their neighbor down here.

The camera is aimed deliberately, poised to capture the scene from all angles. I must record it as I said I would- capture it so that I remember it exactly and can describe it to you accurately. I am, after all, standing amongst living history.

And so I will chronicle all angles of this anonymous place- except for the border post behind me. My chaperone has made it pretty clear that photographing Syrian military installations isn’t allowed, and I’m not about to find out what the penalty might be.

The enemy encampment and UN and Red Cross installations in between however, are fair game. Still, I try to be discrete as the last thing I want is to be spotted and subsequently hunted by Mossad as a Syrian spy.

The final border Syrian border checkpoint in the Golan- Al Jolan, is a strange place, but curiously, doesn’t feel like the flashpoint of modern history that it is. There isn’t that sense of tension or precariousness I was expecting. There aren’t rows of tanks here, or the thousands of men staring each other down just a few metres away, as there are, apparently on the 39th parallel in divided Korea.

Instead, on the Syrian side at least, a bored 19 year old in fatigues and a Kalashnikov sits on a stool in a shed trying to make his last cigarette last. The WELCOME TO ISRAEL sign, of course is just propaganda- either a taunt or wishful thinking, depending on your point of view. Nobody has crossed this border in at least 40 years, save a few dozen Druze brides whose people, split between the two countries, are prohibited from marrying outside of their community and thus were allowed to exchange Syrian passports for Israeli ones several years back.

The overwhelming emotion here isn’t of fear, tension or (perhaps as part of me hoped) the thrill of standing in the epicentre of a major geopolitical quake zone. Rather, it’s one of sadness. This is sodding ridiculous I find myself muttering under my breath.

We’re not in a war zone- this is the countryside. By all rights, tractors and pickup trucks with farm kids piled in the back should be working their way back and forth along this road right now, with nobody in the next town, let alone anywhere else in the World, taking the slightest bit of notice. Instead, 40 years of deadlock and political posturing give us barbed wire and bored sentries, and if I were to walk 100m further down the road, I’d probably be covering the last 50 in a body bag, courtesy of the Syrian Army and/or the IDF.

This strip of land has had so much invested in it, given so much value, that it’s easy to forget that, at the end of the day, it’s just a tragic waste with very little in it.

For most Israelis, this scrub land is just a buffer zone, although for some this is just the beginning of a larger, all-encompassing ‘Greater Israel’ across the Middle East. It represents security, a check against neighbours with whom it has never come to terms, a water supply, and, at the most mercenary, a bargaining chip for when the time eventually comes- at American urging- to make a deal.

For the Syrians I have spoken to, Al Golan is their nation’s pride, embodying a self confidence so rudely lost in 1967 and never fully recovered. The years since have offered little but economic difficulties, political isolation and further military humiliation by way of consolation.

For decades therefore, regaining the Golan Heights has been the cause célèbre of Syria’s political classes, and held as a precondition of any deal with Israel. Grandiose speeches and even threats are still sometimes delivered too. With the USSR gone though, the days when Syrian tank columns and flocks of fighter jets might threaten to rumble across the border are long past, and however ruefully, every Syrian knows it. Besides, president Al Assad has other priorities- economic development above all. He’s no fool- foreign investors are scared off by too much sabre rattling.

And so the routine continues. The Golan may be an open sore in Syria’s side and a generation of its residents removed by Israeli soldiers may still reminisce of homes and memories lost, carrying their old house keys with them in the hope of one day returning, but nonetheless, the routine will continue:

Some rhetoric but not too much, Israel and the World’s attention diverted from this quiet place to fires in Gaza and the West Bank, and quiet and creeping acceptance of the status quo.

And when the time finally comes to make peace, the Golan, and the people tied to it, will become mere symbols- trophies to be bargained with, prioritized against other demands and concessions, traded and dealt.

The battle for this place, whether played out with tanks or around tables of negotiators, is about lots of things- pride, security, economics and perhaps, if some have their way, even arcane matters of religion and history. The argument over this place is about just about everything- except the land itself, and least of all the people who have fallen through this tarmac crack across it.

The view from my table on the alleyway outside Hussein's Restaurant

“Ahhmaaayyzing”, Hussein exclaimed, with the unmistakably deep, throaty voice of a well-practised smoker. As he said it, the said smoke bellowing from his nostrils as if they were the windows of a house on fire.

Having only taken up the art of shisha a few days before, I was amazed how he managed it, my own efforts being limited to sporadic puffs of the apple & melon flavoured smoke. Sitting on the alleyway watching the world go past, we both laughed heartily at his imitation of an extremely attractive Canadian woman who, several nights before had enthusiastically endorsed his cooking.

‘Probably the Best Restaurant in the World’ read a dog-eared computer printout sellotaped to the shutter of the restaurant, and I was inclined to agree. Bashar, in his various guises of president and war hero looked down on us from a pair of portraits hung over the door, along a further printout declaring that “No milk rocks like our milk shakes”. This place was a positive well of Earthly wisdom, and with the shisha (or perhaps lack of oxygen to the brain) kicking in, an ideal vantage point from which to contemplate the day.

The first time I’d eaten at Hussein’s a few days before, I was sure I was going to get hepatitis. A group of us had been guided there by the recommendation of a guy at our hotel, and once lured in by Hussein’s considerable charm and irresistible personality (both crucial skills for any Syrian businessman), none of us could walk away. Come what may, we would deal with the hepatitis. We all sat there, around a table looking nervously at one another, as the food began.

I hesitate to call Husseins’ joint a restaurant, because to do so takes a fair bit of imagination. The whole place consists of a small room of about 10 x 15 metres, perched on a side street in a part of Damascus that specialises in computer repairs. At one end of the room is the kitchen, consisting of a cooker, oven, and mountains of jars and various fruits and vegetables. At the other end, a table which seven or eight people can squeeze around if they’re reasonably friendly with one another and prepared to be eye balled by the goldfish tank which adds gravitas to the corner of the room. Across two-thirds of the doorway is a giant window chiller that may or may not work in all manner of concoctions, sauces, marinades and coatings can be found that Hussein has prepared earlier. There is an upstairs, with enough seating for six more people, but you have to climb a ladder to reach it.

It looks like the kind of place where people catch horrible diseases, but, stopping short of unthinkable scenarios involving chocolate, it’s about as intimate as dining experiences come.

Hussein, as it turns out, is a proper chef. For many years he worked at what sounds like a pretty nice hotel in Switzerland, training under the instruction of a French chef who habitually burned him with hot oil if a anything short of perfection was achieved in the kitchen. And, abuse in the kitchen aside, he had been trained well- damn that man can cook. Aside from a small whiteboard announcing ‘Hussein Specials’, indicating what he fancies cooking that night, Hussein can rustle you up just about anything you ask, while you watch from within the corner of the restaurant.

And on this particular evening, 4 courses in, he was in a particular mood to entertain myself and the guys from the hostel. Sitting down opposite us as we ate, periodically complimenting him on his genuinely good food, he would periodically pause for a second. His eyes would light up: “How does stuffed aubergines sound?” he would suggest, followed by Mexican chicken, Turkish kebab, pasta, milkshakes, watermelon and plates of fresh fruit along with anything else we might be able to manage. As we made suggestions, he came up with ideas and tested new dishes. It was less like a restaurant, and more like having your own personal chef.

As he cooked, we talked. In the Middle East, he maintained, it was impossible to do anything without being born into money. Hard work could get you so far, he argued, but never enough to rule the roost. More important than money though, were women- without them, he said, money was worthless, and happiness unobtainable. I listened to the chef attentively.

On the issue of the US, his views were clear. Syria’s own president had changed since since the last American president of any merit. Bashar al Assad, who, we were told, hardly ever sleeps, had spent the past 8 years working hard to open the country up and move it forward, and with America, he would be no different.

Bush was crazy, he told me, in a matter of fact tone, making shooting gestures all over the room. All he wanted was war, and so it was impossible to deal with him. Did Syrian people want war? Did American people? He was sure not.

“Obama or McCain?” I asked, expecting (I admit) to hear an Obama endorsement. According to Hussein, though, it didn’t matter. “Once this Bush is gone, America’s new president and our new President agree, Syria and America can be friends again and everything will be good”, he pronounced confidently. I haven’t yet met a Syrian who wants anything other than a close relationship with the US, and Hussein was no different.

Following my mammoth meal, and with people in the alleyway starting to settle down to beers and Shisha, Hussein invited me to join him. Sitting there, eating slices of apple and passing the shisha back and forth every so often, I felt genuinely relaxed for the first time since leaving England.

Europe and the Middle East, he concluded, were basically the same place. Unlike the Far East, Africa and the Americas, which had only entered into our histories relatively recently, Europe and the Middle East had been intertwined since the beginning of civilization. Our armies had swept across each other’s lands since before the Romans, with trade and knowledge exchanged over the centuries since then. Every cathedral in Europe, he reminded me, owed its existence to events here in Damascus. Enthusiastically, he remarked that monuments built by Italian Romans could be found in the centre of Syria, and Arab ruins in Southern France and Spain.

A couple of hours later, the red coals on the shisha had started to die down. I got up, thanked Hussein, and asked how much I owed him. He paused for a second, tallying it all up. My wallet was open, andwould have gone home quite happy having paid whatever he had asked. “450, I think”, he replied. I gave him a 500 Syrian note, about GBP 5.50. Shaking his hand, promising to come again, I departed for my hotel, thinking that this guy was just about right.

By us, I mean me, my backpack, Yuri, his Adidas holdall and tarpaulin shopping bag. Despite us having only met 15 minutes before, Yuri was my new best friend. Yuri is Ukrainian and speaks both Arabic and English, being a little shaky in the latter. His reasons for being in Syria were unclear, but on the plus side, he was heading for Aleppo too, and so we were in it together, and, unless he happened to pull out a knife, I didn’t intend to leave his sight until we were safely in Aleppo.

“They are bad men”, he assured me, pointing over to the three guys with their Mazdas. Al Qaeda, most likely, I murmured to myself, glibly.

“They want 1000 pounds for each of us to take us to Aleppo”.

By my calculations, they didn’t have seatbelts either. And 10 UK pounds for a 40km drive that, according to my Lonely Planet should cost 2? They were having a laugh. I wasn’t being tight- it was the principle of it.

“So we wait?”, I enquired.

He nodded.

From the looks of things, so would the Mazda men, quite happy to wait in the shade until we gave in. In this part of the world, brinkmanship is taught in schools, and with over an hour since the bus had dumped the pair of us there, they were winning.

Every ten minutes or so, another white Mazda or a yellow taxi would come into view, various limbs hanging out the doors and windows. Every so often, it would slow down for us, and my Ukranian friend would shout an unfathomable Arabic phrase, and the driver would keep driving. After the first couple of occasions, I caught on, with each taking a different branch of the intersection and trying to flag down any vehicle that would listen, before it then sped off.

We were going to die there, I was sure of it.

Yuri was in luck- a yellow taxi had pulled over, and they were talking in Arabic, with negotiations appearing to go positively. “He wants 200″, Yuri finally announced. Dollars? I scoffed- so far we had received offers of $10, $20 and one for $70 from a farmer in a pickup truck- which, in a country which you can travel across for $2, is basically a rude way of saying fuck off.

“No, you are familiar with Syrian Lira?”, “Of course”, I replied….200 Syrian pounds? We were in business, and piled in before he had the chance to drive away.

I took the back seat, with my Ukrainian friend in the front, discussing the ‘bad men’ with our honest savior taxi driver, the two of them passing his mobile phone back and forth, presumably to let the authorities know. The Mazda men were taking an interest. Yuri glanced over at them, furrowed his brow and closed his door. Following his lead, I did the same.

A few moments later, I glanced over to the cabbie. Shit. The Mazda men were at his door, not looking happy and were arguing with him loudly. When the hand gestures begin, you don’t need to know Arabic to know you’re in trouble.

Yuri gingerly edged his passenger side door back open, placing a foot outside onto the curb. I did the same, and prepared to follow him in getting the hell out of here.

The Mazda men were clearly not happy about having their extortion attempt rumbled, and one of them had reached into the driver’s side, and had grabbed hold of the taxi driver’s keys in the ignition. The savior taxi driver wasn’t giving in.

We were going to die.

A lengthy standoff of about 10 seconds ensued, and into the fith second, I knew that had this been the US or UK, we’d be shot or stabbed by now…how long did a hostage-taking take in this part of the world?

The cabbie grabbed Mazda man #1’s hand, pushing it back out the window long enough for him to turn the ignition and jam his foot on the gas. Mazda men leaping away from the speeding car in every direction, we made our getaway. I was Indiana Jones.

“This is honest man”, said Yuri. I nodded eagerly. I pulled out my Arabic phrasebook, looking for the word for thank you. “Shukran”, I attempted. He smiled in reply as Aleppo’s outer suburbs emerged from the dust.

However. Syria deserves better than to be compared unfavorably to Iran- it’s got plenty going for it in it’s own right, as far as I can tell. And from your perspective, it’s probably best that I’m not headed for Iran – I would only have bored you senseless with a load of pretentious claptrap about fallen empires, Shahs and so forth, polemics about how oil made the modern world, and generally spent too long talking, rather than listening.

Syria on the other hand- well, it seems to be more discrete. It’s got the oldest cities on Earth, but doesn’t wear it on its sleeve. More to learn, more reason to listen, more discoveries to be made. But we’ll leave that until another day. We’ve only just arrived at Ebbsfleet, and I’ve got hours of train journeys ahead of me, so no rush.

One thing did strike me in the bath last night though as I relaxed, having packed my bags and took the opportunity to survey the road ahead.

The journey I’m planning to make over the next few weeks would have been impossible for my parents or, for that matter, my Grandparents. The trip I’m making would not have been possible when I was born.

In 1988, the channel tunnel and high speed rail links were still being built. To be in Cologne by the afternoon was just hot-air from the European bureaucrats we love to despise. And for my Grandparents, to be in Cologne by afternoon- well, Cologne wasn’t a real place, it was somewhere in the news- a war zone. A World which, to their parents had been within reach, but which in that time had ceased to be a reality.

Tomorrow, I’ll be spending the night at a hostel in Belgrade, run by an American and his wife. Ten years ago, we watched as Americans cruise missiles rained on Serbian rooftops, and as thousands of Kosovan and Serb refugees were marched onto cattle carriages in scenes that belonged to my Grandparents generation.

For the first year of my life, and for my parents, Poland, Berlin and Ukraine were foreign countries. They were secretive police states in a parallel universe. To visit them was to enter a time warp or, at best, an dystopian alternative future which echoed our own but diverged, revolving around Moscow rather than Washington.

We are all Europe now. When you can reach halfway across the continent in a day, traveling slowly enough to see the land in between and a continous belt of people, how can you call the people you meet there foreigners? A Chelsea supporter can live in Cologne or Croatia, a Real Madrid supporter in Rheims. Like it or not, we’re all putting club before country, to some extent.

And Syria? At this stage, all I can offer is uninformed idealism- and geography. There’s no uninhabited ocean between us. The Middle East is no unbridgable pit of disaster, no problem zone taped off and- despite what some might say, no rival civilization to our own.

Such a narrative is bollocks, and is only good for furthering specific interests. Syria didn’t developing a vacuum for hundreds of years, miraculously emerging one September day to devour own own society and everything we stand for. There are castles in Syria where you half expect to see a National Trust volunteer asking you not to touch, and villages where they speak the language of Jesus. That’s not to ignore our differences- it’s the differences that make the distance worthwhile, but our pasts are very much intertwined.

With the English channel somewhere above my head as I write this, don’t forget: to our parents and Grandparents, Europe seemed every bit as far away as Syria does now.