(MINNEAPOLIS) – When I first arrived in Damascus I had strict instructions from Louis Fares, the Syrian bureau chief for the news agency that I was working for, not to cover anything other than the release of western hostages held in Lebanon “and under no circumstances to wander the streets with a camera.” Not only was I not allowed to take photographs, but Louis also made it very clear that I was not allowed to leave the hotel compound where the news agency was located during daylight hours. His final introductory words to me were, “they never release hostages at night, and so you are free to go out then.”
Louis looked far more European than Arab. He had red hair, fair skin and a protruding stomach, like a typical middle-aged, Speedo wearing German tourist on the Spanish Riviera, Costa del Sol. His suits were oversized and he wore his collar shirts halfway open to reveal a thick gold chain around his neck. Whenever Louis stepped out of his office, he sported a big Cuban cigar that bellowed smoke like a factory chimney. He never went anywhere without his chauffeur slash bodyguard, who drove him around the city in an immaculate white Cadillac.
At first glance, Louis did not fit the profile of a typical journalist. However, that didn’t matter much in a place like Syria where local reporters’ assets were their connections, and Louis happened to be sitting on a gold mine. It was rumored that he was a close confidant of President Hafez al Assad himself. Besides being a correspondent, Louis was the Honorary Consul of a southeast Asian country that didn’t have representation in Syria. However, Louis’s true calling was as a nightclub and bar owner. He ran clubs in both Damascus and Cyprus, where he entertained the news agency’s upper brass when they visited from headquarters.
The bureau was located on one of the upper floors of the hotel. Outside the door was a plaque with the news agency’s logo alongside the flag of the country that Louis represented. Inside in the reception area, there were a number of desks where several young attractive Syrian women worked diligently behind keyboards, translating everything from press releases to official communiqués. Off to the side was a small room with a coffee machine where Louis’s chauffeur and some other sketchy types sat and smoked cigarettes all day long. At the far end of the room, was a locked door leading to Louis’s private quarters. This was no ordinary office. It was bomb proof with reinforced metal walls and a bullet proof door that could only be opened with a security code. One of the few people who had the privilege of entering this fortress on a regular basis was a strikingly attractive young Romanian lady who acted (at least in public) as Louis’s personal assistant.
Below, in the basement of the hotel, was another office for Abdu, Louis’s Lebanese news assistant and sidekick. Abdu was an entrepreneur of his own right. Besides helping Louis, Abdu had a thriving side business as a fixer setting up everything from interviews to appointments for visiting foreign TV crews and journalists.
In the summer of 1990, I spent three months on hostage watch in Damascus. During those long hot months I spent my daylight hours lounging by the pool, eating at the hotel restaurant, or sitting in one of the two offices making small talk with Louis’s staff. Never once did I go out to take photographs.
During my stay, Louis traveled abroad, and left the security code to his office with Abdu. The 1990 World Cup was in full swing, so Abdu and I decided to watch the games in Louis’s office rather than going out to a cafe. Louis had a number of television sets strategically placed on the walls. With a click of his remote he could switch from watching local programing to monitoring what was happening outside his door, in the hallway, in lobby and in the hotel basement parking lot where the Cadillac was parked. So, Abdu and I spent our time closed off from the world, indulging on Louis’s fine cigars and expensive brandy, while watching the Mondial.
Nightlife in Damascus was another world that Abdu and some of Louis’s other male staff more than willingly introduced me to during my stay. In the bustling center of Damascus, some doors remained shuttered during the day, but at night when everything else was closed, these cabarets opened their doors and came to life with flashing disco lights and posters advertising the latest imported floor shows. Stepping into one of these clubs was like a trip into another world. Russian was the language of choice, with Ukrainian and Romanian a distant third and fourth. Arabic was almost non-existent. In the crowded, smoke filled rooms, alcohol flowed and men stream in and out to ogle the skimpily clad showgirls as they performed their risqué dances.
Our entourage was always seated upfront, close to the action. As soon as we sat down, a barrage of mezzes and expensive bottles of liquor were placed on our table. Fortunately, I never saw the tab and rarely saw any money handed out for the extravaganza. When we got up to leave, there was always an exchange of hugs and kisses with the manager. Afterwards we usually went out for a late night, or rather early morning meal to a local restaurant in or near the old city. Then as the sky began to lighten in the east we would head back to the hotel.
That was my introduction to Syria and it wasn’t until years later that I would get a real authentic look at the country. As fascinating as the real Syria was, it definitely was not as entertaining as Louis’s Syria.
Over the years, I became well acquainted with different parts of Syria and different aspects of its society. I learned more about culture and tradition and, with that knowledge, came more discoveries of the country’s less proper cultural undercurrents. Syria’s second largest city Aleppo, located in the north near the Turkish border, was always more liberal than the capital. This can partly be attributed to geographical location. While Damascus is far more Arab in nature, Aleppo is culturally closer to Turkey.
One of the most famous landmarks in Aleppo is the Baron Hotel, located near the center of the city. As soon as it opened in the late 19th century, it became a favorite among the rich and powerful. There are rooms dedicated to Agatha Christie, Laurence of Arabia, Charles de Gaulle and even Hafez el Assad. The hotel, like much the rest of Syria, still has a rare authenticity. From the façade to the rooms, the bar, and the restaurant, the Baron hasn’t changed much in a century which explains why to this day it has a cult following among travelers. Unfortunately, the street outside the establishment has become a major thoroughfare choked with traffic. Any visitor with romantic notions of sitting on the patio to enjoy the view and thumb through the pages of Murder on the Orient Express is bound to be greatly disappointed.
At the end of each business day, the atmosphere in the area around the hotel is transformed. It is tainted by movie theaters playing low budget Turkish and American films, sometimes bordering on soft porn, as well as nightclubs featuring Eastern European exotic dance ensembles. As it grows darker, the streets take on an entirely new demeanor, one more associated with a port town than a historical site. It’s not unusual to run into someone passed out on a bench, groups of intoxicated and rowdy young men stumbling from one nightclub to the next, or scantily dressed women standing in the shadows.
Ironically, the Syrian port town of Latakia does not conform to the reputation of most port cities, at least not on the surface. In the late 1990s, I was invited with a group of journalists to visit Latakia to tour some Roman sites and have dinner with the governor. Since we arrived early, I decided to go out and explore the city. During my walk, I found a quaint café in a relatively pleasant part of town where I decided to sit and enjoy a cup of tea.
Later that evening, after a long and exhausting dinner, I returned to the small café for a nightcap. When I got there, I thought that I was in the wrong place. The open area, where I had sat earlier in the day, was now completely covered by a huge canvas tent. Inside, a band played the latest Arabic hits, while a dozens or so attractive girls danced.
The atmosphere at this event was far more subdued than in the clubs of Damascus or the streets of Aleppo, partly due to the absence of the “Russian influence.” Here, the girls were either from North Africa or Egypt and they just danced to the music, oblivious of the men staring at them. A colleague of mine got up to dance with the women thinking that other men would join in, but after a few dances he remained the only man on the floor until I got up to join him. When we left the place, things were back to “normal” with the women dancing alone, and the men staring at them.
Louis’s Syria has gone through a major transformation since my first visit, and I’m sure that with the present conflict, all the clubs and dance halls have long closed their doors. Louis died from a massive heart attack in 1991, alone in is sealed office. By the time his staff realized that something was wrong, it was too late. According to rumors, his employees were too afraid to force the door open for fear that it may have been booby-trapped.