The official and the bruise

On my waist is a 20 year-old bruise that I once brought back with me from Paris. That bruise nearly brought about a divorce between my wife and I because she thought, as some of you may have, that it was the result of extreme violence in some affair in Paris. I committed no treachery during that visit to France, and even if I had, I would have made sure to erase any “signs of aggression” before returning home.

Here is the story of the bruise. I queued in a long line at one of the fast food restaurants in Paris, waiting for my Big Mac. Usually while waiting I keep myself busy by watching the line ahead of me to see how long it will take to purchase my meal, or look behind to see those who still have to wait even longer. Standing in front of me was a huge man, obstructing my vision, and behind me was a beautiful Parisian blonde; she must have been France’s reigning beauty queen. I started glancing back rather than forward, hoping to seduce her with a smile. She did not even notice me although I tried to be very attractive. Suddenly someone came and stood at the end of the line. I immediately recognized him as a middle rank official from back home. I ran up to him and said, “my respects, sir!”

He replied, “Ahlan, Abu Thaer!” I urged, “sir, please move up and take my turn!”

“No, thank you,” he replied.

But I insisted, “it is not right for someone of your prestige to wait at the end of the line. Please take my turn.”

He curtly refused. “Impossible! I love discipline and order—you know me!”

Smiling, I said, “indeed I do, sir, indeed I do. When did you come to Paris?”

“Two days ago, and I will be returning tomorrow.”

“Me too.”

“Great,” he replied, “then we will meet in our beloved homeland.”

I tried to draw people’s attention to the Syrian official who was clearly very pleased by his own democratic behavior. The French, however, did not notice him.

They simply don’t care, even if the man standing at the end of the line was Nicolas Sarkozy himself!

The next day I went to Charles De Gaulle Airport with boarding pass in hand, waited at a small cafeteria to board the plane. Seated next to me was the official. He invited me to join him, and I immediately accepted. It is always nice to be friends with officials, as you never know when they might come in handy in times of crisis.

I asked, “sir, why don’t you wait at the Senator’s Lounge?”

“God forbid…I hate the Senator’s Lounge and all other VIP Lounges.”

“Why, may I ask?”

“I like to remain close to the people, and VIP lounges prevent me from doing so!” “But sir” I gently explained, “you are still in Paris! What use is it to mingle with the French?”

“So I don’t change my democratic behavior when I return home.”

Beaming, I remarked, “God bless you, sir. God bless you.”

We reached Damascus Airport. At the airplane gate I invited the official to descend before me. He did not hesitate to do so. I rushed down the staircase to bid him farewell but was prevented from coming close to him again by the hands, and elbows, of his security. They painfully hit me in the waist as they rushed to surround him from all four sides to distance him from the “dust” of “envious” commoners. He marched off to the VIP Lounge without saying goodbye. He was gone, but the pain in my waist was still there.

How I wish that some of our officials go more frequently—or permanently—to Paris. They are nicer and prettier over there, and we promise to visit them in France whenever we miss them.