Special pass and cameras in hand, we drove through several UN security checkpoints and into Quneitra. A special guard was assigned to stay with Anna and I, in addition to our driver and his 5-year-old son. Quneitra is the town that borders the Golan Heights. It was almost completely destroyed with bombs and airstrikes during the war with Israel in the 1970's, which is apparent even at first glance. From talking with Syrians about Golan, I know that this is still a major issue for the Syrian people. Syrians feel adamant that Golan was rightfully theirs, and still belongs to them. It is more than a point of lost pride or desire for land; it is about the people who lived there. It is about how families were ripped apart when the Golan Heights became part of Israel instead of Syria. Women had to choose between their families in Golan, and their husbands in Syria, knowing that the choice was permanent. You had to say good-bye to one of them forever; there was no chance that you could ever cross that border again.
We drove straight to the border of the Golan Heights and pulled over near a group of men. Three of them were in the green army uniforms worn by so many men in Damascus, the Syrian soldiers. One of them was in a uniform of pale blue and white... he looked like a walking Israeli flag. The border between Syria and the Golan territory is a patch of road in between two heavily guarded checkpoints. On our side, Syrian and Baath party flags hang from the roadblock. Looking across the brief patch of pavement, there is a star of David and a sign that states, in clear bold letters, “Welcome to Israel.”
Quneitra itself is just a physical memory of the past. The old town is now just remains of bombed-out buildings that with time have become overgrown with weeds. It is startling to see so much destruction on both sides of you as you drive down the road. The main “attraction” of Quneitra is a hospital that was bombed during the war. Above the entrance, a sign reads “Golan Hospital: It was destroyed and changed into a firing, target, and training place by Zionists.” This sign, as read by a third-party, is phrased as such blatant propaganda that you have to laugh. But the inside of the hospital takes your breath away. Bombs have ripped apart entire sections, pillars have been torn down. More than that though, it is clear that at some point the inside walls were used as a make-shift shooting range. A misplaced bomb did not cause the destruction of this hospital alone; people with guns must have purposely. Bullet holes cover even more hospital wall space than the graffiti does.
Our cab driver had brought his son along because the little boy's only alternative was to stay home along. His name was Adain, and of course was more interested in the guard dogs than the ruins of the war-affected town. His father kept trying to explain the surroundings, describing in Arabic how bombs had come from Israel and destroyed the town, how everyone had to leave, how the hospital was filled with explosions. At first I thought that the man was essentially instilling in his son a hatred of Israel. I hate the concept of children on either side of a conflict being fed ideas that perpetuate a circle of violence. But from everything that I understood, the man only stated facts. He did not describe ideals or religion; he only recounted facts from past violence and war.
I will say though, this may have been the only time in Syria where I have felt out of place because of my American passport. It was clear from how many times our military guard said “One of them is American” that my nationality was a point of interest. Even our driver seemed unsure if the scenes around us would evoke emotion in me, and if so, which kind of emotion.
We ended our tour of Quneitra after seeing a church that was practically hollowed out. Before getting in the car, Adain ran full speed screaming at a group of cows crossing the road. We all laughed as the cows began bounding away from him. Next to the church was the single wall of a house, still upright. While graffiti lined almost every surface you could think to write on in Quneitra, on this wall was a detailed drawing. It was a woman who looked like she was wearing a hijab, smiling, and holding her hand up in a peace-sign. In an area where every piece of fallen cement reminds you of a bloody past, it was nice to see a message of peace for the future etched into one still standing.
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