A fitting end “Over there we’ve got some fuckin’ Yankees, and you’re a fuckin’ Brit” an old guy at Damascus’ Karajat Samariyeh said as I queued to buy my ticket for Beirut. He has one leg, fewer teeth, and talks in a broad Arabic-Brooklyn accent, having learned all his English from American sailors that were posted over here. “Fucking Al Capone style” he says, when I comment on his brogue. Talking of the British and American troops he had met during their time in his country, he says “you Brits are so cool”, referring to the “cool & calm” nature in which we deal with things. “That’s smart”. According to him, “[the] Yanks are all fast money and fast cars”. Fuckin’ ay.

A fitting end

“Over there we’ve got some fuckin’ Yankees, and you’re a fuckin’ Brit” an old guy at Damascus’ Karajat Samariyeh said as I queued to buy my ticket for Beirut. He has one leg, fewer teeth, and talks in a broad Arabic-Brooklyn accent, having learned all his English from American sailors that were posted over here. “Fucking Al Capone style” he says, when I comment on his brogue.

Talking of the British and American troops he had met during their time in his country, he says “you Brits are so cool”, referring to the “cool & calm” nature in which we deal with things. “That’s smart”. According to him, “[the] Yanks are all fast money and fast cars”.

Fuckin’ ay.

Autoportrait — Leaving Damascus I spent three months in Syria. A month traveling, a month studying, and a further month doing a bit of both. During that time I met many fascinating people, some of whom I now count amongst my friends, friendships that I really value. Arriving back into the city from Jordan, the familiar site of Jebel Qassioun appeared before driving back down the Mezzeh highway, past the university where I spent eighty gruelling hours between November and December, and then the Old City popped up. It dawned on me how much I was going to miss the place, and the people in it. So thank you to you Damascenes, and inshall’ah, we will meet again soon. Once again, I don a keffiyeh, strap-on my backpack, and climb in the back of a servees bound for the bus-station. The long route to Africa will wait a little while longer; next stop, Beirut.

Autoportrait — Leaving Damascus

I spent three months in Syria. A month traveling, a month studying, and a further month doing a bit of both. During that time I met many fascinating people, some of whom I now count amongst my friends, friendships that I really value.

Arriving back into the city from Jordan, the familiar site of Jebel Qassioun appeared before driving back down the Mezzeh highway, past the university where I spent eighty gruelling hours between November and December, and then the Old City popped up. It dawned on me how much I was going to miss the place, and the people in it.

So thank you to you Damascenes, and inshall’ah, we will meet again soon.

Once again, I don a keffiyeh, strap-on my backpack, and climb in the back of a servees bound for the bus-station. The long route to Africa will wait a little while longer; next stop, Beirut.

An Enterprising Folk I am amazed at how much stuff people dabble in here in Syria. This country — which gets such a bad-wrap in the international news, and is marred by a repressive autocracy — seems to foster a very free-thinking, enterprising youth. I feel that back home, we complain that we never have time to do all the things we want, and we face much fewer barriers to whatever it is we want to do. But here — taking the example of one friend alone — is someone who at the age of twenty-five, is completing a degree, has worked as a journalist, is involved in a film-project as an assistant-director, is organising a massive cultural project, all whilst applying for international universities. Along with that, writing, drawing and painting feature as pass-times. Oh, and she’s female, in a country where it is true to say that women do not face the same freedoms as their male counterparts, and are up against social pressures based on their sex. Males, however, do have to contend with the looming threat of military service. One Syrian friend has been advised not to follow through on his proposed subject for his film & photography studies final-piece due to the content, which is based-upon just this. And regarding his own military service, he lists his two options, once he reaches 25, as leaving the country (indefinitely), or suicide. Rather worryingly, it is the latter that he is currently contemplating.

An Enterprising Folk

I am amazed at how much stuff people dabble in here in Syria. This country — which gets such a bad-wrap in the international news, and is marred by a repressive autocracy — seems to foster a very free-thinking, enterprising youth.

I feel that back home, we complain that we never have time to do all the things we want, and we face much fewer barriers to whatever it is we want to do. But here — taking the example of one friend alone — is someone who at the age of twenty-five, is completing a degree, has worked as a journalist, is involved in a film-project as an assistant-director, is organising a massive cultural project, all whilst applying for international universities. Along with that, writing, drawing and painting feature as pass-times. Oh, and she’s female, in a country where it is true to say that women do not face the same freedoms as their male counterparts, and are up against social pressures based on their sex.

Males, however, do have to contend with the looming threat of military service. One Syrian friend has been advised not to follow through on his proposed subject for his film & photography studies final-piece due to the content, which is based-upon just this. And regarding his own military service, he lists his two options, once he reaches 25, as leaving the country (indefinitely), or suicide. Rather worryingly, it is the latter that he is currently contemplating.

In Search of Solitude Another reason for wanting to spend some time up in the monastery was to retreat from the bustle of the city a little, and to reflect on the coming months. Some people take this as far as taking residence in one of the numerous caves that are carved into the cliffs above the monastery, for meditation & reflection. Me, I ran to the hills. Escaping with my thoughts and deliberation on what I was doing, and what I would do. But at times, it was a physical escape I sought, and so found myself running down the ridges of the mountains, and scrambling up the rocky outcrops. Several times, this involved some fully-fledged climbing, which turned-out to be a little more than I had bargained for, particularly in hiking boots. At one point, around ten metres up, a piece of rock came away in my hand. I tried not to think of what would have happened had I fallen with it. I vowed not to take any more stupid risks like this. An hour later, I reneged on my promise, and found myself bouldering again. This time, a whole slab or rock—from which I was hauling myself up with both hands—came away. I fell along with it, but managed to push myself away from under its path. Had I found religion at Mar Musa, I would have said that He was definitely looking out for me that day. Instead, I put it down to luck.

In Search of Solitude

Another reason for wanting to spend some time up in the monastery was to retreat from the bustle of the city a little, and to reflect on the coming months. Some people take this as far as taking residence in one of the numerous caves that are carved into the cliffs above the monastery, for meditation & reflection.

Me, I ran to the hills. Escaping with my thoughts and deliberation on what I was doing, and what I would do. But at times, it was a physical escape I sought, and so found myself running down the ridges of the mountains, and scrambling up the rocky outcrops. Several times, this involved some fully-fledged climbing, which turned-out to be a little more than I had bargained for, particularly in hiking boots.

At one point, around ten metres up, a piece of rock came away in my hand. I tried not to think of what would have happened had I fallen with it. I vowed not to take any more stupid risks like this.

An hour later, I reneged on my promise, and found myself bouldering again. This time, a whole slab or rock—from which I was hauling myself up with both hands—came away. I fell along with it, but managed to push myself away from under its path.

Had I found religion at Mar Musa, I would have said that He was definitely looking out for me that day. Instead, I put it down to luck.

Community Service The monastery at Deir Mar Musa dates back about fifteen-hundred years, to 586 AD. In the 19th century, the place was abandoned, and it stayed this way until its refoundation in 1982 by Fr. Paolo. The monastery receives so many visitors now that a new monastery is under construction, the other side of the river gorge. Parts of it are already inhabited by the community there, but there is still work to be done. Due to its location, several hundred metres up from the road, the materials are transferred up to the monastery by a sort of téléphérique. During my time there, I spent a morning with one of the workers, shifting a couple of tons of rocks to be transported up to the new monastery. A bit of manual labour felt good.

Community Service

The monastery at Deir Mar Musa dates back about fifteen-hundred years, to 586 AD. In the 19th century, the place was abandoned, and it stayed this way until its refoundation in 1982 by Fr. Paolo.

The monastery receives so many visitors now that a new monastery is under construction, the other side of the river gorge. Parts of it are already inhabited by the community there, but there is still work to be done.

Due to its location, several hundred metres up from the road, the materials are transferred up to the monastery by a sort of téléphérique. During my time there, I spent a morning with one of the workers, shifting a couple of tons of rocks to be transported up to the new monastery. A bit of manual labour felt good.