It was fun to stroll with the crowds. They invariably swept you along in their tireless tide and you found yourself moving with the current. This current was taking us towards the central spine of the Souq al-Hamideyeh, a snaky passageway with a corrugated iron roof, tightly packed with shuttered shops and the invisible echoes of tourist touts that would clamor for our attention during open hours. A faint glow of florescent tube lights suggested a restaurant ahead.

'Ahlan wa sahlan, ahlan,' welcome welcome, a pomade coated smooth shaven waiter beckoned us to a table and immediately brought a plate of humus, olives and thin pita halves.
We sat on magenta hand embroidered cushions and surveyed the place, nearly empty save for a trio of college age girls giggling over some private joke and urging us to join them. They were not wearing hijabs and regarded our modest head scarves with an undisguised amusement inscribed in their twinkling eyes. It was a novelty to interact with women in the public sphere; that unexpected burst of estrogen had much the same effect as that of a monk suddenly coming into contact with Madonna.

'From where you are?' asked one girl with neatly plucked eyebrows that looked like half moons framing sapphire colored eyes.

'Australia,' Bea said with an exaggerated long a sound and beamed her trademark smile capable of quickening pulses and thawing frozen hearts.

'Pakistan,' I chimed in expecting to see heads wagging at this unlikely combination of cultural affiliations.

'Ah, now I understand,' said a willowy blonde with a face Boticelli might have doted on.

'Your hijab, you wear it Pakistani way,' she scrutinized my shawl like scarf loosely draped on my head.

'At first I think you look like Turkish girl. But you confuse me with your shoes,' she points to my comfortable Birkenstock sandals that no self respecting fashonista from Istanbul would be caught dead in.

'Actually I live in America,' I complicated the puzzle for good measure.

'So you are American?' confused brows all around.

'Well not quite. Maybe technically if you go by citizenship. I was born in Pakistan. But I grew up in the U.S.'

'And why you come to Syria?'

'Oh you know just to look around, have a bit of fun. We got tired of Jordan so we came here before going off to Lebanon.' Bea was dazzling as usual.

'But we are not tourists!' I emphasized, my mind flash backing to Freya on her donkey living with the Druze in the mountains. 'We are traveling and exploring the culture.'

'But are you not afraid? You must be careful here. It is not right in our culture for girls to travel alone. And you both look like Arab girls with the hijab. You must be prepared for er...problems,' she proclaimed with a knowing look.

I knew from my incident in the Cairo subway the drawbacks of blending in as a local, yet the headscarf had become a coat of armor that I was unwilling to shed. It was not a sense of religious obligation but a sign of respect for the culture that was the primary motive in wearing one. Bea was in love with her veil. But I suspect she took to it so willingly because it made her good looking features even more pronounced and caused men and women on the streets to treat her with unflinching attention that was probably not the norm in Sydney. When we had both worn our glasses and donned black abas and scarves, a woman at a busy intersection asked us about our specialties as MD's. She had assumed we were touring Damascus from the Gulf.

Faith in Action

Damascus, Syria - Feb 01

Winter Perch

Damascus, Syria - Feb 01

Aspring Stars

Palmyra, Syria - March 01

Spring Blossoms

Old City, Damascus, Syria - April 01