Border blues.
May 3rd 2007 I’ve been sitting at the Syrian border for just over an hour, in a long, gleaming hall of well-scrubbed floors and well-polished bureaucracy. Behind a window that stretches half-way to Homs, men in crisp green military fatigues are shuffling papers and stamping passports and working the phones like some sort of telethon for underprivileged kids in Aleppo. I’ve handed my passport to a haughty,
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