I ate breakfast on a table by myself the next morning and narrowly missed being joined by the tour guide – attractive in a the-only-other-one-here-under-60 sort of way. The apricot jam was absolutely superb. On the road after checking out I was picked up immediately by a minibus heading for Chtaura, my only fellow passengers for the entire journey were young women. In Chtaura I transferred almost immediately into a service taxi bound for the Syrian border. The driver was very helpful and through a soldier-translator told me not to pay any more than $2 for the ride from the border to Damascus. Crossing the border out of Lebanon took ages but I was through eventually and into a giant yellow yank-tank Syrian taxi. It all seemed a little too easy and sure enough, I realised my mistake when we arrived at the Syrian border 5km further on. Formalities there took even longer but once finished, we continued the journey on a curving mountain road at 150km/h whilst the driver dialled on his mobile phone (which he very sensibly held on his lap whilst dialling, taking his eyes off the road for alarmingly long periods of time). He dropped me at a crowded market area in Damascus and I walked from there to the hotel I had booked in about 10 minutes (by dead reckoning – I didn’t have any sort of map).
I left the hotel and headed into the old city. Damascus is overwhelmingly dusty, quite grimy, peppered with rubbish and generally looking a bit run down. It looks like it would benefit greatly from a quick flood! The walk in was through a covered souq – reminiscent of the great old train stations of Europe. I arrived at the Umayyad Mosque, which dwarfs everything around it. I continued on, eager to explore as much of this oldest of cities as quickly as I could. Undoubtedly like many before me, I got completely lost in the labyrinth of alleyways before stumbling unexpectedly onto Via Recta, the Street called Straight. I soon came upon a church with only Arabic inscriptions but a colourful statue looking suspiciously like the Apostle to the Gentiles. As I’d finished looking at the façade, I turned to go and was approached by an elderly man who asked me if I’d like to see inside the church. I’d love to, I replied, so in we went. Inside, he showed me a bible in Aramaic in a script that looked a little like Arabic, just a bit "rounder" (I have since discovered that it was the Syriac script). He showed me around the different shrines within this church of St. Paul, telling the various stories of the apostle’s life. As he started the Damascus road story he noticed that I knew it but I said please continue, it’s nice to hear it again. Two saints converted the king of "Asyr" as this region was then known after they miraculously healed his sister's skin condition. Another painting showed St. Moses of Ethiopia killing a dragon. As we parted "God bless you", "and you too" in reply. He was born and grew up in Damascus, a warm, gentle son of old Ananias.
Ananias’ and Paul’s chapels were both closed so I walked back to the great Umayyad Mosque (formerly the church of St. John but was taken over by the Moslems when they conquered Damascus, on the condition that the Christian residents were allowed to retain a number of the other churches in the city). I sat eating a falafel at the southeast corner of the mosque and was approached after a few minutes by a young man and his video camera-wielding friend. Hossein, from Baghdad, and his friend were on holiday just for 3 days. He runs a shop in his home city he said. He asked where I was from and knew where New Zealand was, "south of Australia". He said his family had emigrated all over – Australia, Lebanon. Only he was left in Iraq, and his mother. He paused and said rather sadly that it wasn’t good for New Zealanders or Australians or Americans or any other foreigners in his country at present. Don’t come, he finally said, obviously disappointed and wishing that things were different and that he could have invited me to his homeland.
Hossein and his friend continued on, filming every step of their holiday. I had finished my falafel so I walked around to the other side of the mosque and entered. I found Saladin’s mausoleum, removed my shoes and walked in and slowly around his sarcophagus with the many other pilgrims. The place smelt rather strongly of sweaty socks, no doubt from the many travellers from distant lands who have come here to pay homage to this great man over the centuries. I was happy to add my own unique aroma to such an illustrious collection. Before I entered, however, and as I was looking up at a chronology of Saladin’s life in Arabic, a man standing next to me asked me if I would like to know what was written there. Yes! I replied with some enthusiasm. Saladin was born in Tikrit, the same place as Saddam Hussein! the man exclaimed, in the year 533 (approx. 1150 C.E.). He died at the age of 57 here in Damascus. We continued talking, New Zealand? he looked pleased. We are also visiting, from Palestine. Really, I said, from Palestine, that’s wonderful! I wished I knew how to say God bless you in Arabic, it would have been very appropriate. His wife spoke too and said it was their first time here too. As we chatted, she clapped her (cupped) hands together as she smiled, I think as a greeting or sign of respect. New Zealand? her husband said again. New Zealand has no soldiers in Iraq. Australia yes, New Zealand no. No, I said, vigorously shaking my head, no. That’s good he said, that’s good. We parted, I thanked them again. In such a brief exchange of words, there was such warmth between us – I’m sure they felt how touched I was to have met them.
Whilst sitting earlier eating my falafel, children had come up to me and asked me for the time, just to speak to me and practise their English. One young man, Zida, sat next to me and chatted for a while. He was still at school and said he would like to become a teacher. Another family came and sat next to me on the other side. American? the father asked, smiling at me hopefully. No I said, New Zealand, but I almost wished I was American, just for the chance to SAY SORRY!
George Bush and co, you fools, you damned fools. The people of Damascus are full of openness, love, gentleness. They would love you too if you came as a humble traveller, to look and learn, instead of as an ignorant, misguided neo-crusader. "Salabi" we call them, said the man from Palestine – because of the cross. But George, the cross is a symbol of sacrificial love – you are just making stronger the blasphemous link between the cross and violence and power. These people ARE already free, they don’t need your stupid McDonalds, your rapacious free market, your trans-national slavery. Don’t you dare come here and commit the murder and rape you are perpetrating on Hossein’s fellow countrymen. These people are more free than you will ever be. And they are more cultured, educated, gentle, open and tolerant than your poor, misguided supporters in the "land of the free".
After paying homage to Saladin, I continued on into the mosque. A mass of people jostled jovially through the narrow entrance and I literally bumped into Hossein again. "Welcome to Islam" he beamed at me, euphoric, as I was, to be here in this most important of mosques in all Islam. Once inside I was approached by more adults and children, and we chatted about New Zealand and Europe and America. Two pretty and cheeky little girls asked me to take their photo and when I showed them the result on the screen of my digital camera they could hardly believe it and laughed uproariously. Soon a crowd of kids all wanted their photos taken and I duly obliged. There was such a beautiful atmosphere in the grand courtyard – families enjoying time together and happy to include me.
One of the little girls got a bit too excited with the camera and tried pulling it away from me but this was soon stopped by a nearby adult and she let go, looking a bit sheepish and thanked me, "shukran", politely.
In the end I found myself "talking" to Mosu – he in Arabic, me in English. We left the mosque together and he guided me back to the Ananias chapel (I had mentioned I wished to visit it). Before he left me, he raced off for a minute and came back with a note written in shaky Latin letters and numerals – his name and phone number. I swore to myself that if I ever learn Arabic, I’ll give him a call!
I sat in the little underground chapel of Ananias, hewn out of the rock 600 years after he had lived and died in this place. And I imagined what it would be like to come and live here for a few months and learn Arabic. It was hard to imagine anything more amazing or rewarding. I wondered what "Damascus" meant and thought it should surely be called the city of peace because it is filled with it. I was deeply, deeply touched by this city.
And, I thought, tomorrow I’m off to Palmyra to talk to some old stones instead. Wonderful but not to be compared to today. God bless them all, all these lovely people, so full of Christ-like peace and goodwill. Everyone of them an angel sent to smile upon me and warm my sad old traveller’s heart.
The old man at St. Paul's church reminded me strongly of the priest who had showed me around the catacombs in Rome a couple of months earlier. And both of these men reminded me of my father - small, vigorous men, alight with living faith.
Is it possible that love can be communicated even when nothing is said or understood? I sincerely hope so.
And running through my head all the while, were the words to a song about the road to Jericho, the Good Samaritan: "his name I did not know, just a kind man on the road to Jericho".
10 years after Rwanda, all the demons that had possessed the people there with a murderous madness have now gone to Iraq and possessed not only too many mad insurgents but also more than a few American soldiers. May Hossein and every other dear soul like him be protected in that God-forsaken place.
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