When this particular American returned to New York — via JFK, after more than 11 weeks spent abroad — I made the unfortunate mistake of listing “Syria” as last on my list of countries visited. (In my defence, it was last.) This put Syria on a line all by itself, so the immigration official spent extra time perusing my passport(s) — I was certain he would notice the mysterious absence of Israeli stamps despite my stated visit to that country — and he finally asked me, in a low voice, “You didn’t receive any ‘training’ while you were in Syria, did you? Like, ‘military’ training?”
Obviously not. But then, would I have been thick enough to tell him if I had?
I spent most of my summer in Jordan, studying Arabic through the good grace of the Near Eastern studies department. I would recommend that all Euroskeptics take a trip to the Middle East. The place is one big billboard, advertising the deplorable insanity of passport bureaucracies, multiple currencies and various nations in a permanent state of war with each other (mostly against Israel, but the Lebanese and Syrians aren’t terribly close either). It is unusual, for an American who has never left the Europe/North America circuit, to live in a region where borders have serious consequences. For example, on a tightly packed road trip to Petra, I got landed with a girl on my lap for the duration of the car ride. I can only imagine what would have happened if we took a wrong turn and wound up in Saudi Arabia.
Before I left for the Middle East, I never realized that the stamps I get when landing and traveling in Europe are visas — most of the time, these aren’t a hassle. But try waiting eight hours on the Syrian border (I read all of Ian McEwan’s “Enduring Love” in one sitting), and visas assume an importance that has not seriously bothered Americans since the Victorian Age.
Of course, the Syrians couldn’t know that I had been to Israel (which my traveling companions spoke of in code as “Disneyland”) so I had to travel with two passports and dump the shekels out of my wallet before leaving for Damascus. Americans are allowed two passports when we write a short letter to the State Department explaining that we intend to visit the Middle East.
The Jordanians were curious about this. I had to apply for an extension on my visa and present my passport to the police. I accidentally handed over the wrong passport, which was, at that time, totally blank. The Jordanian police sergeant stared at me as if I were a genie who had just apparated out of the desert. So he asked me about the American policy, which I explained in Arabic. When he asked why we adopted this policy, my limited lexical skills restrained me to replying: “Oh, you know — because of the politics.” He nodded his head sagely and agreed, “Yes, yes … the politics.” Then he signed my form and went back to his football (soccer) match.
My wallet became very colorful. I stopped in England to visit friends on my way to Jordan, so by the time I left from Amman for my first weekend trip, I showed up at the Israeli border with three currencies, two passports and two cell phones on my person. Even I would have regarded myself as suspicious. The Israelis, however, shuttled me into the VIP line on seeing my American passport (where I waited behind a Syrian Franciscan monk — I suppose the ostentatious crucifix on his backpack neutralized his nationality). Everyone else in line was presenting American or West European passports. When we finally got to the girls behind the counter (who spent an hour processing eight or nine of us), they asked me questions out of high school college guidance class. First the standard demographic information, then religion, grandparents’ place of birth and “What do you plan to do with the rest of your life?” (“I don’t know.”)
When asked why I was studying Arabic, I replied blandly, “I have an interest in this region and its history.” “Ah,” she asked, misinterpreting me completely, “But what do you plan to do with your history major?” “Actually,” I said, “I’m a philosophy major.” At that point she just waved me through.
The same question was asked of me by a cashier in Jordan and, doing my bit for the State Department, I told him, “I like this region.” He beamed broadly and declared, “We like you too!”
Hilary Clinton should be paying me to do this.
Brendan Carroll is a philosophy major from New York. He can be reached at btcarrol@princeton.edu.
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