Damascus, Syria.

Up 'till now, I've barely traveled in parts of the underdeveloped parts of the world, and seeing directly the economic despair so many are in has been startling and disturbing. Although I believe the U.S. and the rest of the wealthy nations should do much more, domestically and internationally, to help strengthen economies throughout the world, and while I have felt some sadness at seeing this impoverishment, I haven't felt personal guilt.

Until I met this man.

On my second day in Damascus, I had just passed the city's great mosque and was headed for the Christian quarter, as it is supposed to be the most beautiful and colorful in the city, when this man fell into stride with me and asked me how I was doing. Such things happened all the time: a friendly welcome, where are you from, come have a cup of tea, it's hospitality, and, by the way, maybe you would like to see my carpets which are the best you can find in Syria.

So I thought I knew what was coming. And I had learned to be friendly and courteous to the touts, but then refuse the offer for tea.

He asked me my name. I told him. He asked me if I was touring in Syria. I said yes. He asked me what my nationality was, and when I told him, he laughed quietly, ironic, and said he was from Iraq.

That's when the guilt hit.

Not many Americans visit Syria, so, struggling for the right word to express it, he called me a pioneer. We walked on. I mumbled some sort of apology. I guess not really a mumble. I think I was clear. I was sorry. I am sorry. But I didn't say more along that line since the words were so easy and hollow to a man who has seen his life destroyed, collateral damage. So what if I'm sorry. He asked if I wanted a tour of the old city, and I couldn't say no, though I did not want the tour. I asked how much? He said name a price. I said 5 lira, he said 10. In the end, I gave him 15.

He was only a fair guide, but this was all he could do as the Syrians allowed Iraqi refugees into the country, but not to work legally. He scrapped by. Before the war, he had been a merchant marine and had a particular affection for the Genoese, spoke fluent Italian, and felt a certain sympatico between the Italians and Arabs. If he'd lost family, he didn't tell me, though I did learn his wife and children were living some 10 kilometers outside of Damascus, where it was much cheaper (and Damascus is cheap).

I did not feel bitterness nor hatred from him. I think he saw the war for what it was, a foolish and murderous catastrophe wrought by one government upon a worse one, with the ordinary people paying the price. I did not feel bitterness or hatred from him, but fatigue, sorrow, and a despair beyond hope.