Divinity

Another reason for staying at the monastery is the goats’ cheese that the monks produce. It is divine.

A few of us hiked up to the local goat farm one day, and arrived just as a nanny-goat was giving birth to her kid. As well as the chèvre, the milk that these goats produce goes on to make lebneh and some sort of clotted curd, too. All of which goes very well with the local apricot jam.

Looking for God (دير مار موسى)

As we drove through the desert hills, the guy who had picked me up on the road between Al Nebek and the Deir Mar Musa el-Habashi asked me if I was Christian, seeming puzzled when I replied in the negative. “Muslim?” he asked me. “I’m still looking” I replied. Religion is a question one is often asked in the Middle East, and many a time I have replied with the truthful, yet nebulous “I was brought up an Anglican”. Atheism is often not something that people take too kindly too. “So what are you doing here?” he asked, still puzzled. In fact, what exactly was I doing there, coming to this monastery hidden in some arid mountains? It’s not something I had considered whilst casting a religious light on the question.

I had heard that this ecumenical monastery and the community which exists there, is something rather special. Père Paolo Dall’Oglio, the Father of the monastery, was reputed as quite a character. The title of one of his books, “Amoureux de l’Islam, croyant en Jésus” (In love with Islam, believing in Jesus) suggests the peculiar nature of this monastery, where different denominations mix freely, and Islam is revered.

I had come partly to experience this community life — everybody collectively preparing meals, cleaning and maintaining the monastery — and partly to witness the dramatic setting, and rather paradoxically, the solitude. The monastery sits isolated, amongst seem steep cliffs in a river-carved valley, 1320m above sea level, seemingly at the top of as many steps.

I had plenty of things to contemplate during my stay, but the question of my faith (or rather lack of it) largely eclipsed those other preoccupations, particularly during the one-hour long meditations that are held every night in the chapel, and the Mass that follows it. Everybody forming part of this (sometimes ephemeral) community is encouraged to partake in these events.

I had also heard that people get “sucked-in” to the life in the monastery, initially coming for a few days and leaving several weeks later. Tony, my co-traveler for the first month in Syria, was an example of this. Whilst I was there, I met a couple of tourists who had visited for the night, but the majority of people outside the formal community of monks, nuns and novices, had been there for several weeks already, some opting to volunteer for periods of six-months or a year. As I left, in the back of a truck that had picked me up as I walked back towards al-Nebek, I though I would be back to join their ranks^*.

^* Later decisions regarding my progress towards Africa means that this is no longer the case.

Stranger Danger

Damascus can be a strange place. This dead chicken sat atop a dilapidated old Peugeot was a portent to events of the evening to come.

At the end of a rather amusing soirée with some friends in their beautiful, traditional Arabic house, it was time to catch a servees back to Jaramana. I stood at an intersection, rapidly trying to read the Arabic of the passing micro-buses’ destinations before they passed, failing to find one marked “Jaramana”. Even at 2am, I rarely wait longer than a few minutes.

A long, cold twenty minutes later, I was feeling a little dispirited, and then a van reversed back up to me, offering a lift. The “Don’t get into strangers’ vehicles” message that was drummed-in twenty years ago was far from my mind. Here I was, in Syria, climbing into the cab of a strange, unknown man, on the hope of my limited Arabic having understood him to be going back to Jaramana, not thinking twice about it.

This man was indeed strange, and the conversation began with him asking me if I liked Syrian girls. Not the ideal starter for ten, as I wondered if an answer in affirmative might be interpreted as the sign of a womanising Westerner… Things rapidly got worse, with questions about my promiscuity in his country (zero), my experience with prostitutes (zero), and my desire to experience both together, tonight (zero).

I didn’t have the vocabulary to understand his question regarding the size of what was between my legs, and as he gesticulated and eventually reached across to my lap, I feared the price of this ride home might be somewhat more physical than monetary.

When asked what I thought of sleeping with men, he laudably told me that it was great; this in a country where the public position is that homosexuality “doesn’t exist”, and is indeed prohibited, and where prosecution can lead to imprisonment.

As we approached my district, he became more insistent that we get “ithnayn binat” (two girls), an experience I was adamant I was not going to engage in. I managed to descend with my Syrian virginity still intact, and as I walked home reflected on how stupid I had been, but at the same time, chuckling to myself about the ridicule of the situation.

Sayyida Ruqayya (جامع السيدة الرقية)

Visiting another Iranian mosque, this time in Damascus’ Old Town, housing the mausoleum of Ruqayya bint al-Hussein ash-Shaheed bi-Kerbala, a Shi’ite Saint that attracts many pilgrims.

One Year Older

A year ago today, I was running around a forest just outside of Paris, trying to escape from the problems to which I had awoken, feeling rather confused and unsure of where the day would lead.

For my twenty-eighth birthday, I was stood on top of Jebel Qassioun at 1200m, the mountain that overlooks Syria’s capital. This time, I didn’t question where the day would lead, but I did pose myself several questions on where this coming year would lead, as well as questioning the decisions I had made in the twelve months leading up to this point.

We had planned on hiking up the Damascus side of the mountain to go and explore what was on the other side, which turned out to be some wonderful looking mountains in the distance. As we left the barren, stony landscape to rejoin a road, we saw a sign indicating that where we had just come from was a military zone, and that there was strictly “No Entry. No Cameras”. Both rules broken then. I forget how much freedom to just roam we have back in England, and in France.

With no way to reach these mountains, we wandered back through the steep, windy streets of Damascus’ charming Salihiyya district. After meeting with other friends in the Old Town over shay and narghile, the evening was spent with a bottle of arak, followed by an Iraqi restaurant in Jaramana.

Here’s to an interesting year…

Maalula (معلول)

2010 began in Maalula, a small village that is butted-up against cliff-faces bearing crosses and housing little caves and tombs. This village of 5000 people is the last bastion of Aramaic, the ancient language of Jesus Christ, a language which is dying.

I met a Syrian teacher of Aramaic who told me of a well-equipped centre that was built here. The government backed a plan to promote the language, but like so many things in Syria, the project has stalled. The similarities between the alphabet and that of Hebrew was an influencing factor.

Other circumstances threaten the village, like the lack of secondary school, which means that families often move to Damascus in search of a better education & therefore future for their children. Desertification is threatening much of the arable land. Several years ago, vines grew on the slopes of these foothills of Jebel Libnan ash-Sharqiyya.

Nevertheless, a French-based NGO is working here and in the process of developing the region. With funding sourced, and much of the red-tape having been cut through, it will be interesting to see how they progress. In addition to the convents, monasteries & churches for which the village attracts some guide-book acclaim, the landscape around Maalula has much to offer, too.

A time for resolution

Around a dinner table on the 30th of December, some French friends and I were trying (with little success) to decide what to do for the New Year. They left at 1am, and ten minutes later I received a call saying “shall we go to Maalula?” - I immediately replied in the affirmative. Rendez-vous at 9:30am.

Having rented an apartment from a friend of David’s, a party was had to see in the New Year. Some Syrian friends came up from Damascus for the night, bringing arak, a narghile and with fireworks being produced at midnight. Childhood memories of televised Bonfire Night safety campaigns came to mind as rockets were fired from hands and we threw small petards at each other on the balcony.

New Year’s Day was spent hiking in the wonderful hills surrounding Maalula towards the snow-capped mountains in the distance. Our walk saw us scrambling up little cliff-faces, crossing arid plains, and descending into lush, valleyed oases. It took the moonlight to see us back into Maalula, having underestimated the 30km (or so) loop we ended up taking, the illuminated crosses on the cliff-face guiding us home. What was initially to be New Year’s Eve in Maalula turned into a three day break, hiking and climbing with some great people.

Getting out of the city was refreshing, and during the time in the hills I spent a lot of time mulling things over. The trip really gave me back the taste of traveling, and put in question my Damascene intermission. We’ll see what these next few weeks bring as 2010 begins in the heart of the Middle East.

Sayyida Zeinab [ii] (سيدة زينب ٢)

As well as welcoming many Iranian tourists, Sayyida Zeinab is also where the majority of Iraqi refugees live. I have talked about the massive influx of Iraqis into Jaramana, but the people living there live in rather more affluent situations then their compatriots in Sayyida Zeinab.

Whilst walking around, I met an Iraqi woman and her nineteen year-old son who had fled here because of the sectarian violence in Iraq. Her family had all been killed, the only thing she had left was her son. He had been kidnapped and a ransom demanded for his return. Whilst he was held captive he was beaten, the scars he bore will remain engrained on his cheeks for the rest of his life.

They had somewhere to live here, but no means to support themselves, she said there were no jobs for people like them. Upon learning that I was English, she expressed her hope to go to the UK, although she held little hope of arriving. I felt incredibly guilty of the actions of our government, and the lack of support that these people now had from the mess that we had created. I didn’t know what I could say, or do. She asked if I knew how she could go, but my experience of these matters is virtually non-existent. I suggested the UNHCR, having recently read that they plan to support 167,840 people here in 2010, although she said she had tried to little avail.

The Iraqi government is trying to entice people back to the country, advertising cash incentives to help people rebuild their lives. The Syrians, who have been incredibly welcoming to the large numbers of people crossing their border, are starting to close-up. People I have spoken to have said that they would prefer to stay in a tent at the border than return to the situation that currently exists in the country.

The photo above is from a little, one-room “youth-centre” in the back-streets of Sayyida Zeinab as dusk was turning to night. In this room, children played Sonic the Hedgehog on old computer console, and the portrait of Syria’s President, Bashar al-Assad, watches over the ten or so people huddled around a fußbal table.

Sayyida Zeinab [i] (سيدة زينب ١)

After having visited Iran last year, my first trip to a Muslim country, I had a rather skewed idea of what most mosques resemble. The mosques there are incredibly ornate affairs, with highly decorated interiors, and the exterior decorated with turquoise blue tiles and adorned in intricate Arabic calligraphy. This is not the norm in the majority of mosques I have seen since.

The district of Sayyida Zeinab, to the south of Damascus, attracts bus-loads of Iranian pilgrims to visit the large Shi’ite mosque there, which houses the shrine of Sayyida Zeinab — granddaughter of Mohammed — from whom the district takes its name. I was therefore interested to see what this Iranian-built mosque resembled.

The district was also the site of a recent incident here in the Syrian capital. I was at university on the morning of the 3rd December, when fellow classmates began receiving concerned text messages: “Are you ok? There has been a bomb-blast in Damascus.”

Western news reported this explosion, citing the name of the area, but to friends & family back home, the only name that registered was Damascus, where their loved ones were currently residing.

I immediately checked the news when I got out of class, where the BBC & the Guardian were reporting that there was an explosion on a bus carrying Iranian pilgrims to Sayyida Zeinab, but that reporters were not allowed near the site.

As the day progressed, the information was revised; the Syrian officials initially reporting that no-one had died, but the last I heard, it was 6 dead. The official line was that a tyre on the bus exploded whilst being inflated. Word on the street here in Damascus was that foul play was at work. The event also coincided with the visit of Iran’s chief nuclear negotiator. Conspiracy theories abound.

When I first considered coming to Syria, some people close to me reacted with “are you out of your mind?” and to a certain extent, I can see why. The only articles mentioning Syria in the news recently relate to things like Damascus being where senior figures met to plan recent explosions in Iraq, that the Palestinian leaders of Hamas reside here, and then this, the first explosion since September 2008. Yet being here, this sort of thing never crosses my mind. The place feels incredibly safe, and the people very warm and friendly. Frankly, I feel more threatened walking through parts of London or Paris than I ever do here.