Having just finished Robert Fisk's new tome, The Great War for Civilisation, I decided to see some of what he had written about for myself, nearly always the best way to learn about something. Focusing on his chapter on the Armenian holocaust, I set out at the same time as other Syrians were heading back to their families to celebrate the Eid al-fitr, the formal end of the month of fasting, ramadan, which Muslims undertake. The bus station, as always, was a manic conglomeration of noise and smell. A bus left for Deir ez-Zor, my first engagement, fairly soon, however.

Oil is perhaps the most important aspect of this half-way-house city. Extensive fields were found in 1984, and since then the city has grown in reflection of this new natural wealth. The city boasts a well-organised archaeological museum, an outdoor swimming pool for the sweat-sodden months of summer, and a 1920s suspension bridge built by France when Syria (and Lebanon) were under her mandate. It was for the Armenian Church, as well as to see friends living there, that we had stopped off. Opposite our hotel, on a lettuce-crisp morning, we crossed over to the Church and were greeted by a young boy. He took us round the church and eventually we reached the underground museum, the most interesting part of the church. This detailed, in extracts from speeches, books and large-print photos, the exact details of the 1915 Armenian Holocaust. It was instructive to look at the map detailing the movements of people around the Syrian and Turkish lands. There are also bones in cases on display, bones of those since uncovered from graves.

Deir ez-Zur lacks the essential qualities for a ‘must’ on the tourist ‘trail’. It is a simple town, with only a ramshackle amusement park, an outdoor swimming pool (to assuage the dense summer heat) and an excellent archaeological museum as specific ‘activities’. The nature of Deir ez-Zor, though, works against the specific. As a town, its quality is in-betweenness, the lack of will to be anything specific. It was an attractive place to stop over at, on account of the air – a much needed break from the oppression of Damascus. There was a moment at night, standing on the bridge above the Euphrates, listening to the rustle and whispering of the leaves in the trees around, where you might have found some peace or rest, or whatever you want to call it. Needless to say, there are relatively few foreigners there ‘seeing the sights’. It’s mainly a staging-post on the way to Qamishli, and thus onward to Turkey, or as a crossroads to visiting the ruins at Dura Europos or Mari on the Iraqi border.