On the banks of the Euphrates before the war

It was when peace was almost at the tip of their fingers. It was when the gates of hell were about to open. Perhaps it was the beginning of time, or maybe the end. And it may even have been nothing more than the eye of the storm, that joke that follows some lurches before the next. In any case, it was during that summer when, despite the heat, it seemed as if the very air was intoxicating. And perhaps it wasn't even that, but rather that, with more than five thousand years behind them, they had learned not to take things too seriously and that history, with a little kindness, passes more smoothly.

Be that as it may, in Deir ez-Zor I was greeted with smiles, greetings, and a shabby room at the Damas Hotel overlooking the river. I studied that waterway and didn't think it deserved all the hype. Cradle of civilization? Come on, even the Ter River seems more important on a good day.

Meanwhile, in the market, vendors hawked their wares: pears, sandals, figs, melons, tomatoes, cookies. Cars honked, bicycles squeezed through every gap. Bedouin women passed by in long, colorful capes and headscarves, and Shiite women covered in their black chadors. The men, wearing white djellabas and rosaries in hand, studied the market or lounged in cafes.

I asked directions to the archaeological site of Mari, and also to Aleppo, and with each question, they took my hand, guided me, and a debate broke out with diverse opinions. I passed and revisited different bus stations. This distraction kept me entertained all morning. And finally, I replenished my energy with a shish kebab , accompanied by salad, grilled tomatoes and peppers, and a glass full of ayran , the liquid yogurt.

From my siesta, I woke up with a doubt. How could that puny little stream be the famous Euphrates that had been sold to me with so much flattery and superlatives? I crossed its bed and left it behind. I headed further, to the north. There were some trees in the distance. And I saw, between the trees, a suspension bridge, for cyclists and pedestrians only. And the water flowed underneath. That one, indeed, imposing, with the vigor and width that befitted it. And on the banks there were restaurants where you could enjoy the flow and the life.

I stayed until dusk, when the chill brought everyone outside. A man called me from the terrace of a café. “Sit down for a while, we'll practice English.” He told me his dream: “To spend a month up north, among clouds, fog, cold, rain, and greenery.” Ignoring my blue eyes and milky skin, he declared that I could pass for an Arab. “And you probably have it in your blood,” he added.

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In the morning, I reached the ruins of Mari and, beside their adobe walls, was invited to tea. I returned by hopping from transport to transport, first to the Dora Europos site, then in the back of a pickup truck, which caught a minibus and stopped it so I could reach my destination. They arranged me among sacks of vegetables, which I was allowed to taste, and we debated their quality and price.

I could attribute the bulging eyes of the statues in Mari to their amazement at what was about to happen. How easy it is to write after the fact. But that night, as I dined by the river, nothing suggested that Deir ez-Zor would be one of the first towns to rise up against the murderous Assad dictatorship, which would suffer months of siege by ISIS troops. Even its suspension bridge would be blown to bits… If I took anything away from dinner by the river, and from the days I spent in Syria, it was that I would rank its people among the friendliest in the world. Let's say they would occupy one of the top three places. And I wouldn't know whether to rank them above or below the Iranians.