A Child in Damascus

Accompanied by a middle-aged governess I barely knew, I had been travelling by cargo ship on a rough sea for five days from England to the Lebanon, followed by a hot dusty drive over the mountains into Syria. I was only seven years old. Tired, thirsty and bewildered, I clutched my rag doll Alice and a tiny bear called Little Mut. At last, in the valley below, we saw Damascus, where I knew I would be reunited with my mother, who had arrived earlier by a Pan American Airways Constellation, often called the lion of the sky. From the mountains above, the ancient city looked like an illustration for a fairy story; encircled by the desert hills, its domes and minarets nestled in an oasis of poplars and fruit orchards, irrigated by sparkling streams fed by a shimmering river, the Barada.