She doesn’t know her Damascus
of its storytellers in cafés
of its Blue Beach and Roman theater
or any of its other features
She hasn’t walked along the banks of the Euphrates
or had tea with the Bedouin women
visited the ruins at Serjilla
or ever smoked a nargileh
She borrowed her knowledge of Syria
from television shows and tittle-tattle
doesn’t fully understand the tradition
simply follows the shepherd’s cane like cattle
One day she will fly from here to there
live among the locals
drink tap water, unpasteurized milk
perhaps wear a veil as she tells a stranger, “Ahlein”
Only then can she know the truth
and honestly compare
be authorized to declare
what’s considered beautiful and ugly over there