(I know the title sounds like a Country Music Telelvision Countdown Contender, but bear with me.)Black-hooded women, not a speck of face-skin to be seen, scurried toward home, in groups of three along the littered streets. On the main avenue, smoke rose from a schwarma stand, hovering above the gingham, picnic-table-patterned heads of moustached, Muslim men. While CNN had always painted those Arab-symbolizing scarves flowing freely in the sun, tonight they were wound tightly, more like turbans, to battle the winter wind. The whining violins of an Arabic tune were never quite out of earshot. The few palm trees now made claw-like shadows on the street and the racks of pashminas were put away for the night.It was 10:57 PM on Christmas Eve and we were on our way to “midnight mass” at the Latin Church of Aleppo, Syria. We were well-acclimated by now, and although we didn’t dare hold hands in public, there was no real threat in the air. Earlier that day we’d found the Christian Quarter, a maze of alleys with the black Braille-looking doors of a dungeon and multiple churches–one for Orthodox Greeks, one for Latin Catholics, one for Armenian Orthodox, one for Maronites, even others. A whole quarter for us?

I was prepared for a calm, reflective visit–with Christians only 11% of the population, how many could be at midnight mass? But peaceful was not what the universe had in mind. The cathedral was so packed we could barely make it in the door and having been misinformed, we arrived just in time for communion. But we took our place in the mobbed line, gazing at the creamy walls, ballroom chandeliers, understated crucifix, soft paintings and positively beautiful people. All obviously arriving straight from the salon, Christian Syrian women, no matter their age, were highlighted, styled, eyelinered, manicured and pocketbooked to near perfection, wearing an odd, but beautiful mix of class and bling–obviously without a headscarf in sight. The men, as we’d come to expect, were quaffed.

Not until this moment on our trip had we been so conspicuously so out of place and so clearly underdressed. But we couldn’t dwell. I simply vowed never to look down on a casually dressed church-goer ever again and swallowed the body of Christ, facing the stares with a soft smile on my way to the back of the church.The service was in Arabic, but we could sense the rhythms and syllables of a familiar verse here and there. We sang Go Tell It On the Mountain in our own words and Oh Come All Ye Faithful, too, before sinking into a pew for some prayer.Here we were. In Syria. With a whole cathedral full of familiarity to bring us back home.I’ve always believed that no matter which higher power I end up worshipping, Catholicism has provided a wonderful platform from which to leap. Or stand on. Or take a rest upon. When I speak with someone who grew up without religion–with nothing to. . .come back to, to, I am instantly grateful.It’s been foreshadowed, in one way or another, that I might someday return to Catholicism. While I’m not yet certain of that, tonight, I had a greater appreciation than ever before of what I’d been given as a child. Something very concrete, or perhaps sometimes more like marble or stone, to hold on to.

We are now in Syria.Although there were stories or interrogations and bright overhead lights, none of that happened. But we had our own initiation–we were taken “hostage” by an overly hospitable border family for 36 hours in what we’ve come to call the Will of the Collective.It all started when “the girls” put us on a dolmush (a minibus) headed for Reyhanle, a Syrian-Turkey border town, with instructions that the family of their friend, Guler, would help us get on a bus to Syria. In Reyhanle, we were intercepted by a guy who we could only assume was the right one. Hussein led us away from the bus stop to his home, where we were served breakfast of bread, olives, jam, cheese and tea in a carpet picnic with the rest of his family staring in awe. It was 9:00 AM. Two hours later we learned that we would be sleeping there and tomorrow we’d go to Syria.

Mmmmhmmmm.

But this kindness killing was nothing new. And these days we were choosing the shabby, often neglected door marked “Time” over the hundreds of fancy French double doors marked “Money”. So it was okay.

Sort of.

The rest of the day, we were treated like a mix of celebrity, toddler and Christmas toy–never left alone. We were explained how to wash our hands, taught to dip our bread in our cheese and told that we definitely wanted another cup of tea. Hussein repeated to us in VERY minimal English, roughly every seven minutes (I say roughly because it felt like every four seconds), these three messages: 1) that we were all one–that Hussein’s father was our father, his sisters were our sisters, his brother our brother 2) that we would go tomorrow to Syria and 3) that all of us would chat via Windows Instant Messenger so we could continue these fulfilling conversations beyond today.

There was a village tour, a bread-making demonstration and a lot of Arabic music before it became apparent that I was to hang out in the girl’s bedroom with Fatmah, 25 and Selva, 19, and somehow find conversation even though neither of them spoke any English. Michael’s place was on the couch next to brother Ali, Hussein and their father or in the computer room, using the translation software to have very caveman-like conversations. That night I stayed with the girls and I’m still not sure where Michael slept. The next morning when we hugged in a relieved embrace, the show of affection was a spectacle. Luckily, they all thought it was really funny instead of really disrespecting.We finally made it across the border that day. Although the three men’s presence (there was no bus, we were forced to hire a taxi) helped hurry the border patrol along with their tapping fingers and Arabic jabber, we had no idea what they were explaining about our visit, our visa, anything–and we didn’t like that one bit. How, we thought, could it be possible that getting by in a foreign country could be so much more stressful WITH help than WITHOUT?But mostly, we are puzzled by what seemed, regardless of culture, a complete lack of respect for our own schedule or preferences. We were never asked if we wanted to stay over. We were told. And a few days ago, the hotel clerk, Ahmed, a nice guy who we’d become friends with over the past few nights of wine and conversation, did not invite us to his home to meet his family for dinner, he told us we would be going.Let’s be clear. I am very appreciative of this hospitality. But I’m still curious about its roots.In both Turkey and Syria, the dinner table is one big appetizer platter. Almost all food is communal. One or two water glasses serve a group of seven. Bedrooms, due to energy costs and space, are divided only between sexes. The idea of privacy. . .of the individual. . .is missing. These people assume that because we have no friends or family, we will be grateful for the “comfort” of a group. No matter what.

It is simply the Will of the Collective.

“We have fish. Very nice fish. I can cook for you with corn, wheat corn.”Fish sounds dreamy but is usually way beyond our budget. We exchange concerned glances.”How much?”"I make whole meal for $12 together. We have very nice wine here in Anamure.”"How much?”Ten lira for you”(Alcohol is a big splurge for us. It’s been a long time since we’ve had a beer. We don’t say anything.)”We have breakfast here in morning.”"How much?”"Ummm, 3.5 Lira”(We consider. We just bargained the pension for 20 lira, down from 30, because we skipped breakfast and heat. Now he wants 7 lira for breakfast?)”You are American?”"Evet. Ben Americaleem,” we say in Turkish.”Because usually America my best customers, spend lots of money, (he pantomimes throwing money into the air). Where are you from? Homeless part of America?”"No,” we say, looking at each other and realizing just how cheap we’ve become. “We’re from Denver.”

Do you feel the oppression here in Turkey?I choose not to feel it. We have a word, created in the last few years “Mahalle Baskisi”. It means the pressure a place exerts on its inhabitants.

Where do you feel it? In my wallet. Turkish identification cards require a religion. In my opinion, you might as well put your star sign or your favorite color. Why should your religion define you?There was a survey and most people in this country defined themselves first as Muslim, then as Turkish, then as male.

How would you define yourself? Well, my father was from Albania. He died when I was seven. My mother is from the Caucuses. But I was born here in Turkey. I guess that makes me Turkish, but I prefer to define myself as a member of the universe. A creature of the natural world. A human. I don’t like to define myself with a group, because this creates exclusion. It builds walls and boundaries. It means I’m NOT something else.

Do you feel Turkey’s oppression in other ways? Well, if a woman who is wearing a full birka sees my bare arm, she instantly views me differently. As if I am a stranger. As if I am an alien. Not one of her kind. That sucks.

How old are you, Rana? 22. Just.

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This made me think: I do like defining myself in different ways. But if I had to choose, which comes first? My ethnicity? My religion? My gender? My family name?How do you define yourself? And in what order?

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Here’s what we had for lunch today in the souk (winding market).

It’s called Fuul and it’s a mix of beans, yogurt, oil, chickpeas and fresh coriander with sweet raw onion. Community water glass and pita bread included. Cost:30 Syrian Pounds (65 cents)

Other Syrian costs. . . .

Hotel Room: $10/night

Kikkoman Soy Sauce for Cooking: $1.50

Falafel & Egg Wrap: 50 cents

Small Bottle of Water: 30 cents

Hour of Internet: 95 cents

Syrian Times Newspaper (English): 10 cents

Large, Squeezed While You Watch Grenadine, Banana & Orange Juice: $1

Sheraton Christmas Lunch Buffet with Alcohol: $57 (Thanks Mom and Dad)