By telling us your country of residence we are able to provide you with the most relevant travel insurance information.
Please note that not all content is translated or available to residents of all countries. Contact us for full details.
Shares
I drove into Syria without a passport. I had expected border guards to quickly usher me away, but instead I was welcomed in, being shown a level of hospitality I hadn't expected while illegally entering a war-torn country. Wholly unplanned and thankfully uneventful, this detour to Syria was one that changed me during a trip in which I was already being changed. In the blazing heat of June I travelled to the country of Jordan; a safe haven in the cradle of civilization, also known as the turbulent Middle East. I was given the opportunity to travel here two hours before the deadline closed. With no time to process what I was about to endure, I figured what the hell, and signed the form. I had no idea what to expect, nor did I know how it would affect me. I was itching for a new experience and the vast Kingdom of Jordan—rich in culture, smiles, and warmth—gravitated me to booking my ticket. Before going towards the northern border with Syria, our group entered into the capital city of Amman. Clogged with people, Amman was like navigating a layered cake, shops and homes piled on top of each other, the narrow roads covered in decorative street vendors. Amman was the creative side to Jordan. Leaving the city however, was a transport into an entirely new way of life. Whilst our group inched closer to the Syrian border, passing a handful of Military checkpoints, I was nauseated. After years of traveling and jumping into the unknown, I was scared to step into the deep end. We drove into the border town of Mafraq, getting off at the last exit before Syria, and the animosity I had expected to see was nowhere to be found. Just a few kilometers from the town of Mafraq lay an entire refugee camp turned city. The refugees that had fought their way across the border were greeted with dirty, overcrowded facilities, not fit for an entire people group. Those that had been lucky enough to make it into a home were forced to beg and sell their items for just a few dinars. Syrian lawyers and doctors had turned into painters and woodworkers, and the begging of their young children tore my heart out. Each night during my time in Mafraq, I watched the sun set across the horizon, melting into the mountains of Syria, while the sweet melodic sound of the Prayer call rang out over the city. The soft glow of the sunlight illuminated the mosque floors, producing a glossy shimmer that warmed the air around me. On one night, there was a fire burning in the distance blazing orange, as bright as the sands in the South. I was surrounded by men that smelled of smoke, and kids that jumped over me in their bare feet, cracked and containing the smallest bits of embers. Their laughs were contagious, and I couldn’t help but grin as I lie in the dusty sidewalk right outside of the local juice shop. Smells of bread and meat cooking are dancing through my head. Kunafa is being prepared right under my nose, the sweet cheese and taste of its honey enough to melt the senses. The hospitality of my new Arab friends enticed my soul, and the wrappings of garment around my heart have left me aching for more. Crossing that border into Syria challenged the idea of what is possible. It made me want to push myself past my limits, try everything I could, and never stop learning about what makes the cultures of the world so unique yet so connected to each other.