Once in Damascus years ago, when I was strolling along the street called Straight -- wondering whether it is truly the most ancient street in the world that has served continuously as a marketplace -- I watched as a man who was riding slowly through the crowd on a bicycle with a basket of oranges precariously balanced on the handlebars was bumped by a porter so bent with a heavy burden that he had not seen him. The burden dropped, the oranges were scattered and a bitter altercation broke out between the two men.

After an angry exchange of shouted insults, as the bicyclist moved toward the porter with a clenched fist, a tattered little man slipped from the crowd, took the raised fist in his hand and kissed it. A murmur of …