Damascus

THE CABARET GIRLS ARE RUSSIAN, but the singer is pure Syrian–and also, says my friend Ibrahim embarrassedly, very gay. We are in one of Damascus’s dozen or so super night-clubs, where wealthy Arabs come to lose money to blue-eyed blondes. Most of the men are Syrians, says Ibrahim, a Syrian himself, but there are others as well, including Gulf Arabs, the region’s most profligate spenders. The singer calls out to the audience, acknowledging the members of the larger Arab nation by their particular state. “To the Jordanians,” he sings out, and a man across from us tips his beer in response and smiles. It seems that Ibrahim is the only one here uncomfortable about the singer’s sexual identity. Next he calls out, “To the people of Iraq–especially the heroic figures of Falluja.” The man sitting next to us, with a mustache characteristic of the Arab officer-class and a full bottle of Absolut before him nods his head, smiles and shakes the singer’s hand warmly.

Now I am uncomfortable, and though Ibrahim laughs, he agrees that we should go. Who knows how many friendly rivers of vodka might course between us and the increasingly drunken and happy man from Falluja, but we are somewhat out of place here since I’m American and Ibrahim, whose name is really Abraham, is a Jew.