Its New Year's Eve and I make my rounds of Jerusalem taking stock of all that I have experienced in the last year. It started with the Mumbai police chasing people from the Gate of India with clubs and whistles. It will end with me overlooking the Temple Mount and thinking to what lies ahead: Africa.
I passed up a potentially wild night in the Tel Aviv party scene to hang back in this holy city amid the domes, crosses, crescents and menorah. I have enjoyed my fair share of parties over the years and think that a quieter experience promises to be more meaningful and memorable. And cheap.
Thinking back to what I have gone through in the last year, I am overwhelmed. I know the world is beautiful and I have only just scratched the surface. There is so much more to see and experience. So many more people to meet. Friends have come and gone and we are now people scattered all over this planet. Some I will never see again, while others will inevitably pop up somewhere on the open road ahead. One thing I know is that we have shared in experiences that we will never forget. I miss them all.
Of the things I took with me when I left Toronto, I have almost nothing left. I have managed to trash two cameras, break one computer, supply two mobile phones to the criminal underworld, surrender my twenty year old Swiss Army knife to Beijing airport security, wear through a dozen pair of sandals (largely on account of my reluctance to wear socks), and fill the better part of two passports. All of that is behind me now.
At present, my clothes are a collected assortment of international fashion statements, each garment representing some triumphant feat of bargaining in some labyrinthine bazaar, souq or local shop. I have somehow acquired an Indian army sweater, a pair of Palestinian boots, a muslim prayer cap, a kafir (which is an Arab style scarf – think Yasser Arafat), some slick Iranian jeans, a Bible, volumes of Russian literature and a short book of Chinese Philosophy that could take a lifetime to read. I don't have much and have few attachments to my possessions. The ones that remain are thus more meaningful.
The greatest thing that I possess is the experience itself. It continues every second of every day. In the old city, the church bells begin to chime out their rhythm as the wail of the Aazan reverberates through the alleyways. There is nothing to take from this but the memory.
The new year is almost upon us and I relish in the thought of what it holds. One thing I know is that it will bring me home, back to friends and family. I feel refreshed in this thought. I am ready to move on toward the edge of the earth with open mind and open heart, in pursuit of my objectives: to experience and understand the human condition.
Shalom. Salaam Al'ayakum. Happy New Year to all.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Rooftops in the Rain
I know a place in Jerusalem where you can climb the rooftops overlooking the temple mount. I stand there alone in the pouring rain looking over that golden dome thinking about the rock underneath and all that it signifies. It is a dark wet night and there is nobody around, the rooftops are deserted and I make my way through the puddles to the edge of the buildings where I looked down into the wet streets in the dim light rising from the alleyways beneath me. I began to feel this place again much more profoundly than before. I have grown so much since I was last here.
I climb down through pathways, walking along ledges and treading carefully to avoid a fatal slip. I move through a network of alleyways that lead through the new buildings of the Jewish Quarter. At the bottom of the path I discover a patio that looks over the western wall and the faithful as they sway in the rain. I think back on the last year. A year of my life spent on the edges of this earth and so far beyond anything I could have imagined. Here I am, blessed, back in the holiest of places with a camera and a bible. I look down at my feet and see rose petals covering the deserted patio before moving on into the dark twisting streets in the night.
This is a far cry from a few hours ago when I made my way through Sheikh Jarra, an East Jerusalem neighbourhood that is a budding flashpoint for Israeli-Palestinian conflict and violence. Settlers have moved into the area, taking advantage of the fact that some of the original Arab residents don't have valid title to their homes in accordance with Israeli law. The Arabs are evicted and the settlers move in. There are a couple of homes with Israeli flags draped from the windows and the rooftops above graffiti such as “Fuck Israel” and other hate slogans scrawled beside crudely painted Palestinian flags. I can't understand why anyone would want to live in a home under military guard in a neighbourhood where they are universally hated, but I suppose there is a bigger picture. I am not the one to adjudicate on the issue. Suffice to say it is disturbing, ongoing, and promises to get worse.
Here in Jerusalem, sublime peace, love, faith, worship, and god are juxtaposed against violence, hatred, guns and ideological warfare in a way that is outrageous and incomprehensible.
I climb down through pathways, walking along ledges and treading carefully to avoid a fatal slip. I move through a network of alleyways that lead through the new buildings of the Jewish Quarter. At the bottom of the path I discover a patio that looks over the western wall and the faithful as they sway in the rain. I think back on the last year. A year of my life spent on the edges of this earth and so far beyond anything I could have imagined. Here I am, blessed, back in the holiest of places with a camera and a bible. I look down at my feet and see rose petals covering the deserted patio before moving on into the dark twisting streets in the night.
This is a far cry from a few hours ago when I made my way through Sheikh Jarra, an East Jerusalem neighbourhood that is a budding flashpoint for Israeli-Palestinian conflict and violence. Settlers have moved into the area, taking advantage of the fact that some of the original Arab residents don't have valid title to their homes in accordance with Israeli law. The Arabs are evicted and the settlers move in. There are a couple of homes with Israeli flags draped from the windows and the rooftops above graffiti such as “Fuck Israel” and other hate slogans scrawled beside crudely painted Palestinian flags. I can't understand why anyone would want to live in a home under military guard in a neighbourhood where they are universally hated, but I suppose there is a bigger picture. I am not the one to adjudicate on the issue. Suffice to say it is disturbing, ongoing, and promises to get worse.
Here in Jerusalem, sublime peace, love, faith, worship, and god are juxtaposed against violence, hatred, guns and ideological warfare in a way that is outrageous and incomprehensible.
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Into The West Bank
Hebron is a city divided. Part is administered by the Israelis and the rest by the Palestinian Authority. The reason for the division is a group of hardcore Israeli settlers that have claimed the center of the old city and reside in a world of fences, barbed wire and troops. Life is clearly not normal and they cannot even leave to go to the bustling markets just outside their barricaded back doors. They do however have access to the tomb of the Patriarchs and Matriarchs which is a mosque containing the bodies of Abraham and Sarah, Issac and Rebecca, Jacob and Leah and even a footprint left by the original man, Adam himself. Very persuasive.
Of course the majority of the complex has been turned into a Synagogue because as usual nobody can share. Barush Goldstein, was the man to demonstrate this most effectively. He is the settler who went into the Mosque and killed 27 Muslims at prayer in the mid 90s. That is not really such big news in the settlement though. The thrust of a well organized poster campaign reminds residents of that in 1929 “Arab Marauders Slaughter[ed] Jews” in the area, 67 of them to be precise, and stole their land after the British moved the community for its own protection. They reestablished the community only in 1967 after the Arab Israeli war. But I digress.
The “synagogue” is now an area of the complex that is protected from “the Arabs” by a barrier inside the building, sealing off Arab access to various biblical all stars including Isaac, Rebecca, and Sarah. There is Arabic calligraphy all over the building and it is really a bizarre sight to see it functioning exclusively as a synagogue. On the other side, the Muslims have some bodies of their own, claiming Jacob and Leah. On the Muslim side, I managed to look through the grill and beside the tomb of Abraham, there was a group of Jewish people looking at the same grave. Amazing that people are going out of their way to worship at the same places because of the same people and they can't find a way to do so in harmony.
Prior to the massacre by the settlers, the mosque was apparently shared by both groups, but sharing is a feature that this region seriously lacks. Presently, the Israeli army controls access to the Muslim entrance to the mosque and troops walk around inside wearing their combat boots. This is in spite of the fact that Jews are not allowed in the Mosque, and Muslims are certainly not allowed in the Synagogue. I suppose that any harmony could last without a serious change of attitude, especially by the most extreme elements at the fringes of either side.
For the time being, the settlers are living the dream by imprisoning themselves on a high security island in a sea of Islam and Palestinians. Five times a day, the wail of the Aazan echoes out over the whole settlement from all sides, bringing to life the isolation in which these people choose to live. The streets are deserted in most areas since the army has moved the Palestinians out of large sections of the old city out on account of the incessant violence between the two groups. There are not nearly enough settlers to fill the space that they have claimed. They barely fill out the one that they inhabit, let alone the surrounding area full of empty shops and homes, devoid of people. There is an eerie feel on the streets and the overwhelming sense of unease is driven home by the barbed wire and troops.
Some places there have nothing more than a waist high concrete barrier segregating the two groups (heavily guarded of course), and marking the pathway where Muslims are allowed to walk in order to get to their homes. People from the two groups pass each other every day, though they don't say anything or make any eye contact. You can feel the tide of hatred surging just beneath the surface. [subsequent to posting this entry, I came across http://www.breakingthesilence.org.il/gallery_e.asp - worth a look if you are interested in the situation in Hebron].
The solution is to build a massive wall. After crossing the checkpoint into the West Bank this morning, I took the opportunity to walk alongside the barrier for a few kilometers taking in the graffiti. I couldn't help but wonder to myself what people must have thought when the cranes showed up with troops guarding flatbed trucks loaded with colossal concrete slabs. Did the locals stand there and watch themselves getting penned in or did they just go about their daily lives in an attempt to maintain a feeling that everything was normal.
I cannot deduce the logic behind the execution of this occupation. I get the impression that a lot of it depends on the discretion of ground troops who resemble a group of college students more than they do a well trained fighting force. College students with M-16s of course. Some seem to relish pulling Palestinian men off buses and lining them up with their hands against a wall. Others seem like they couldn't care less, and just want to do their time and move on with their lives.
Whatever the logic (or lack thereof), I cannot predict what to expect at the checkpoints. Some involve intrusive searches, while others don't even involve slowing down or showing a passport. The soldiers are not terribly interested in me. They focus more on barking commands at young Palestinian men and ordering them to lift up their shirts. Either way, from the perspective of a foreigner, the security is a far cry from the three and a half hour 'welcome' interrogation that I received on my way into the country. I am not sure it makes any more sense.
Of course the majority of the complex has been turned into a Synagogue because as usual nobody can share. Barush Goldstein, was the man to demonstrate this most effectively. He is the settler who went into the Mosque and killed 27 Muslims at prayer in the mid 90s. That is not really such big news in the settlement though. The thrust of a well organized poster campaign reminds residents of that in 1929 “Arab Marauders Slaughter[ed] Jews” in the area, 67 of them to be precise, and stole their land after the British moved the community for its own protection. They reestablished the community only in 1967 after the Arab Israeli war. But I digress.
The “synagogue” is now an area of the complex that is protected from “the Arabs” by a barrier inside the building, sealing off Arab access to various biblical all stars including Isaac, Rebecca, and Sarah. There is Arabic calligraphy all over the building and it is really a bizarre sight to see it functioning exclusively as a synagogue. On the other side, the Muslims have some bodies of their own, claiming Jacob and Leah. On the Muslim side, I managed to look through the grill and beside the tomb of Abraham, there was a group of Jewish people looking at the same grave. Amazing that people are going out of their way to worship at the same places because of the same people and they can't find a way to do so in harmony.
Prior to the massacre by the settlers, the mosque was apparently shared by both groups, but sharing is a feature that this region seriously lacks. Presently, the Israeli army controls access to the Muslim entrance to the mosque and troops walk around inside wearing their combat boots. This is in spite of the fact that Jews are not allowed in the Mosque, and Muslims are certainly not allowed in the Synagogue. I suppose that any harmony could last without a serious change of attitude, especially by the most extreme elements at the fringes of either side.
For the time being, the settlers are living the dream by imprisoning themselves on a high security island in a sea of Islam and Palestinians. Five times a day, the wail of the Aazan echoes out over the whole settlement from all sides, bringing to life the isolation in which these people choose to live. The streets are deserted in most areas since the army has moved the Palestinians out of large sections of the old city out on account of the incessant violence between the two groups. There are not nearly enough settlers to fill the space that they have claimed. They barely fill out the one that they inhabit, let alone the surrounding area full of empty shops and homes, devoid of people. There is an eerie feel on the streets and the overwhelming sense of unease is driven home by the barbed wire and troops.
Some places there have nothing more than a waist high concrete barrier segregating the two groups (heavily guarded of course), and marking the pathway where Muslims are allowed to walk in order to get to their homes. People from the two groups pass each other every day, though they don't say anything or make any eye contact. You can feel the tide of hatred surging just beneath the surface. [subsequent to posting this entry, I came across http://www.breakingthesilence.org.il/gallery_e.asp - worth a look if you are interested in the situation in Hebron].
The solution is to build a massive wall. After crossing the checkpoint into the West Bank this morning, I took the opportunity to walk alongside the barrier for a few kilometers taking in the graffiti. I couldn't help but wonder to myself what people must have thought when the cranes showed up with troops guarding flatbed trucks loaded with colossal concrete slabs. Did the locals stand there and watch themselves getting penned in or did they just go about their daily lives in an attempt to maintain a feeling that everything was normal.
I cannot deduce the logic behind the execution of this occupation. I get the impression that a lot of it depends on the discretion of ground troops who resemble a group of college students more than they do a well trained fighting force. College students with M-16s of course. Some seem to relish pulling Palestinian men off buses and lining them up with their hands against a wall. Others seem like they couldn't care less, and just want to do their time and move on with their lives.
Whatever the logic (or lack thereof), I cannot predict what to expect at the checkpoints. Some involve intrusive searches, while others don't even involve slowing down or showing a passport. The soldiers are not terribly interested in me. They focus more on barking commands at young Palestinian men and ordering them to lift up their shirts. Either way, from the perspective of a foreigner, the security is a far cry from the three and a half hour 'welcome' interrogation that I received on my way into the country. I am not sure it makes any more sense.
Christmas on the Road
26/12/09
Christmas in the Holy Land unfolded in a somewhat predictable way. I made my way to Bethlehem to find that I would not be allowed to enter the Church of the Nativity or even to go within reach of its great stone walls. It seems that some things never change and there is still no room at the inn. Alas, no angels appeared to me and I did not take on the ability to perform miracles.
The night was passed instead in a crowd of Palestinians, mostly men, watching a Christmas concert. There were no Christmas carols, though there were some religious songs by “God's Children's Chorus” that warned that man is a sinner and has “ruined creation.” Fortunately the song also points out that we can all be saved. Not what I had anticipated out of a Christmas concert but it certainly passed the time.
It was a great evening, tainted only by a large number of perverts incessantly groping my friend Sissi while looking at me for approval. That proved enough after a while and we boarded a bus back to Jerusalem and made our way through the old city to the heart of the Muslim Quarter where I have taken up residence in a nice little guesthouse.
Christmas day was special but very much done backpacker style. The plan was hatched in a monastery back in the Syrian desert. I met up with some friends and we cooked a feast in a Hostel kitchen, managing to put together roast beef, with lots of salad, veggies and, of course, vino rosa. After the meal we smoked a water pipe and went to an empty nightclub. I made a quick exit and returned to the hostel to make some phone calls, full of Christmas cheer of course. Thus ended backpacker Christmas in Jerusalem.
Of course everyone missed their friends and families, but it was really nice in another way in that we all had each other, and we came together to do something memorable and special. Hopefully I will be home next year...
Christmas in the Holy Land unfolded in a somewhat predictable way. I made my way to Bethlehem to find that I would not be allowed to enter the Church of the Nativity or even to go within reach of its great stone walls. It seems that some things never change and there is still no room at the inn. Alas, no angels appeared to me and I did not take on the ability to perform miracles.
The night was passed instead in a crowd of Palestinians, mostly men, watching a Christmas concert. There were no Christmas carols, though there were some religious songs by “God's Children's Chorus” that warned that man is a sinner and has “ruined creation.” Fortunately the song also points out that we can all be saved. Not what I had anticipated out of a Christmas concert but it certainly passed the time.
It was a great evening, tainted only by a large number of perverts incessantly groping my friend Sissi while looking at me for approval. That proved enough after a while and we boarded a bus back to Jerusalem and made our way through the old city to the heart of the Muslim Quarter where I have taken up residence in a nice little guesthouse.
Christmas day was special but very much done backpacker style. The plan was hatched in a monastery back in the Syrian desert. I met up with some friends and we cooked a feast in a Hostel kitchen, managing to put together roast beef, with lots of salad, veggies and, of course, vino rosa. After the meal we smoked a water pipe and went to an empty nightclub. I made a quick exit and returned to the hostel to make some phone calls, full of Christmas cheer of course. Thus ended backpacker Christmas in Jerusalem.
Of course everyone missed their friends and families, but it was really nice in another way in that we all had each other, and we came together to do something memorable and special. Hopefully I will be home next year...
Back in Jerusalem
23/12/09
The bells of Jerusalem break the stillness of the early morning with rhythmic notes from all sides. It is still dark outside and the first rays of sunlight have only begun to breach the horizon as another day dawns on the holy land. I make my way through the twisted alleys fo the old city, past the shuttered stalls of the souq and on through the empty square where alleycats pace silently in the shadows. Soon I feel I am at the epicentre of it all, this whole world and everything in it.
I enter the gate and cross the stone courtyard, through the arched doorway into the dim lamp light of the holiest of all churches. I pass the rock where Christ was embalmed, brush my hand on the base of Golgotha, and make my way to the side of the Sepulchre itself where the deep voices of the monks resonate in the cool air of the morning. The candlelight flickers against ancient oil paintings as the smell of incense fills the air amidst the sound of the bells echoing in the distance outside. I breathe in the fragrant air, drink in the hollow echoes of those chanting voices, and wonder how I can ever leave this place.
Back through the alleyways, I stop for a couple cheesy pastries. The sun is up now and there is a grey quality to the light of the early morning. My mind wanders back eight years to the last time I walked these streets, wandered through this ancient maze and lost myself in the overwhelming feeling of it all. That was a long time ago and I am a different person now. I fall upon the old city feeling that I know the place, its twists and turns corresponding to fragments of my experience and memories awakening at every turn.
There are people out there who will never make it to Jerusalem and here I am back. I walk the Mount of Olives again, see Gethsemane and wonder about betrayal. I climb through the smashed stones of the ancient Jewish cemetery and make my way across the Kidron valley. A steep climb up the other side puts me back at the gates of David's City looking upon Mount Moriah where Adam and Noah made sacrifices before Abraham made the climb to give his son to the Lord.
Of course it is the “Temple Mount” now, so called because of Herod's massive retaining wall that levelled the mountaintop, but also as a repudiation of its present role as host to al-Aqsa and the Dome of the Rock. The Menorah that will grace the third temple of Solomon sits in the Jewish quarter, waiting for the day “within our lifetimes” when the Third temple is constructed, presumably after razing the existing buildings to the ground in an attempt to purge Islam from the Holy Mountain of Adam, Noah and Abraham: www.thirdtemple.org.
Down below at the Western Wall, the Jews gather on the Sabbath to rock and pray in peaceful harmony with everything around them. It is a beautiful sight to see the descendants of the patriarchs giving themselves over to the Lord. I sit back and watch, content to pay my respects in my own secular way.
The day ends with a walk around the new city and some nice Thai food, a temporary break from my felafel diet, and a slow wander home through the deserted streets of this ancient city of souls.
The bells of Jerusalem break the stillness of the early morning with rhythmic notes from all sides. It is still dark outside and the first rays of sunlight have only begun to breach the horizon as another day dawns on the holy land. I make my way through the twisted alleys fo the old city, past the shuttered stalls of the souq and on through the empty square where alleycats pace silently in the shadows. Soon I feel I am at the epicentre of it all, this whole world and everything in it.
I enter the gate and cross the stone courtyard, through the arched doorway into the dim lamp light of the holiest of all churches. I pass the rock where Christ was embalmed, brush my hand on the base of Golgotha, and make my way to the side of the Sepulchre itself where the deep voices of the monks resonate in the cool air of the morning. The candlelight flickers against ancient oil paintings as the smell of incense fills the air amidst the sound of the bells echoing in the distance outside. I breathe in the fragrant air, drink in the hollow echoes of those chanting voices, and wonder how I can ever leave this place.
Back through the alleyways, I stop for a couple cheesy pastries. The sun is up now and there is a grey quality to the light of the early morning. My mind wanders back eight years to the last time I walked these streets, wandered through this ancient maze and lost myself in the overwhelming feeling of it all. That was a long time ago and I am a different person now. I fall upon the old city feeling that I know the place, its twists and turns corresponding to fragments of my experience and memories awakening at every turn.
There are people out there who will never make it to Jerusalem and here I am back. I walk the Mount of Olives again, see Gethsemane and wonder about betrayal. I climb through the smashed stones of the ancient Jewish cemetery and make my way across the Kidron valley. A steep climb up the other side puts me back at the gates of David's City looking upon Mount Moriah where Adam and Noah made sacrifices before Abraham made the climb to give his son to the Lord.
Of course it is the “Temple Mount” now, so called because of Herod's massive retaining wall that levelled the mountaintop, but also as a repudiation of its present role as host to al-Aqsa and the Dome of the Rock. The Menorah that will grace the third temple of Solomon sits in the Jewish quarter, waiting for the day “within our lifetimes” when the Third temple is constructed, presumably after razing the existing buildings to the ground in an attempt to purge Islam from the Holy Mountain of Adam, Noah and Abraham: www.thirdtemple.org.
Down below at the Western Wall, the Jews gather on the Sabbath to rock and pray in peaceful harmony with everything around them. It is a beautiful sight to see the descendants of the patriarchs giving themselves over to the Lord. I sit back and watch, content to pay my respects in my own secular way.
The day ends with a walk around the new city and some nice Thai food, a temporary break from my felafel diet, and a slow wander home through the deserted streets of this ancient city of souls.
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Mar Musa in the Desert
13/12/09
Out in the middle of the desert, two Norwegian men are walking down an empty highway. They look like they have just come out of a business meeting in their full length wool coats, dress shoes and wool scarves. Their faces are bright red from the sun, the wind and the exertion of walking up hill for miles in the desert. They are hoping against all odds that a vehicle will happen along and pick them up. Sure enough I am soon sitting with them in the back of a pickup truck full of Syrians wearing kaftan and headed to An Nabek. Here is how it happened:
A few days ago I left Damascus in a minibus and made my way out to An Nabek. That was the last stop before miles of barren desert and mountains with nothing but brush and the occasional shepherd with a flock of goats. I hitched my way into the middle of nowhere and was deposited at the turn off for Deir Mar Musa El-Habashi, a Syrian orthodox monastery. I walked up the highway to a stone path that wound its way up a valley toward ancient buildings looking for miles out over the arid vista.
I arrived at the top to find the place somewhat deserted and wandered around a bit before finding my way into the ancient part of the complex. I crouched down and passed through some very low doors and was in the central part of the compound. This was a hive of activity with people moving all over the place, cooking, hanging laundry, chatting and generally milling about. I could not figure out what I was doing there, so I continued my exploration.
I pushed open a door that led inside a church dating from the tenth century. Apparently the place goes back a good five hundred years further than that, but the frescoes inside were added at a later date. I marvelled at the paintings on the walls, remarkably well preserved and hung around for a while alone in the small church, still not quite sure where I was.
Finally a man with a long beard and a kaftan joined me inside. He invited me to lunch and told me that they would find a place for me to sleep after we eat. I made my way out of the church and into a large tent where there were about twenty foreigners, a half dozen monks, a nun and some workers. We ate a vegetable stew with rice, bread, yoghurt, cheese, olives, tomato, and a delicious apricot marmalade. I made some friends and met Father Piero, the monk who had revitalized the place after finding it lying in ruin back in 1982.
I chatted for a while and helped to clean up after the lunch was over. I put my things in my humble quarters, and took a walk to the top of a peak giving a brilliant view of the endless desert vista. Storm clouds were blowing in and I headed back down to the monastery. After all, it would soon be time for meditation. This happens every night, bringing everyone together for quiet reflection in the church. First the monks sing and then the lights go off for an hour and, nobody speaks. After the hour, the lights go back on and there is a Mass, mostly in Arabic for the benefit of the monks, though some English is inserted for the benefit of the tourists. Guests are encouraged to pick up a bible from the shelf, which are available in many different languages. Some scripture is then discussed and afterward it is time for dinner.
Father Piero clearly relishes in the fellowship of the meal and encourages everybody to come together for a nice experience. We prepare the tent with food and eat whatever we have left over from the lunch. It is hard to help out since there are so many hands and I had to pounce quickly to carry jugs of water and tomatoes up to the tent. Once the meal ends, everyone helps to clean up and then it is off to bed. I secure five blankets and throw them over my mattress on the floor, hoping that they protect me from the cold desert night.
The morning begins with the sound of a gong calling people to the morning mass. It is cold outside the blankets so I stay underneath and wait for breakfast instead. Breakfast is much the same, in fact, exactly the same as dinner and is made up of the leftovers from the night before. It seems the food is recycled meal to meal until it is gone. The meals were simple and delicious and made me appreciate the simple pleasures that this type of experience can bring.
A note on communal living: It amazes me how much of the day goes into the tasks surrounding basic subsistence. The labour of the entire monastery seems directed principally toward food preparation and cleaning. That is not to say it is the only thing that people do, just that it seems to occupy an inordinate amount of time. It does produce a great sense of community and mutual feeling of accomplishment and fellowship. It is a nice feeling and I can understand how reluctance to relinquish it results in overnight stays turning into weeks in the desert.
After eating, I retreat into the church by myself and crack open the Old Testament, starting “In the Beginning,” and devouring the couple of books by lunchtime. Lunch again and the cycle begins to repeat itself. After cleaning up, I head off to the library to read about the crusades before succumbing to the lure of ancient gossip about who got stoned and who “lay” with who. Back to the meditation and mass and finally the Last Supper then off to the room and under the blankets for another cold night.
On the final day, I hung about and this time helped to prepare the breakfast while the morning mass went on. I planned to leave right after breakfast but it was a beautiful clear day out in the desert and I walked up into the valley instead. When I returned my assistance was enlisted to chop some garlic and tomatoes and I willingly obliged. As I chopped I thought about staying another night bit I knew I had to start moving, as I intend to be in holy Bethlehem for Christmas.
Enter the Norwegians. I awoke that morning thinking that there was no way out of the desert except hitchhiking. The Norwegians apparently had arranged a taxi. I rushed out to jump in the cab with them and didn’t even have a chance to sample the delicious lunch I had helped to prepare. This was most disappointing when we walked down the winding stone path through the valley and heard the bell ringing, summoning all people to the dining tent. It was even more bitter once the Norwegians advised me that they didn’t have a cab waiting, but rather they would just hail one on that desert highway in the middle of nowhere.
So there I was on that long desert highway to nowhere with two Norwegian businessmen...
Out in the middle of the desert, two Norwegian men are walking down an empty highway. They look like they have just come out of a business meeting in their full length wool coats, dress shoes and wool scarves. Their faces are bright red from the sun, the wind and the exertion of walking up hill for miles in the desert. They are hoping against all odds that a vehicle will happen along and pick them up. Sure enough I am soon sitting with them in the back of a pickup truck full of Syrians wearing kaftan and headed to An Nabek. Here is how it happened:
A few days ago I left Damascus in a minibus and made my way out to An Nabek. That was the last stop before miles of barren desert and mountains with nothing but brush and the occasional shepherd with a flock of goats. I hitched my way into the middle of nowhere and was deposited at the turn off for Deir Mar Musa El-Habashi, a Syrian orthodox monastery. I walked up the highway to a stone path that wound its way up a valley toward ancient buildings looking for miles out over the arid vista.
I arrived at the top to find the place somewhat deserted and wandered around a bit before finding my way into the ancient part of the complex. I crouched down and passed through some very low doors and was in the central part of the compound. This was a hive of activity with people moving all over the place, cooking, hanging laundry, chatting and generally milling about. I could not figure out what I was doing there, so I continued my exploration.
I pushed open a door that led inside a church dating from the tenth century. Apparently the place goes back a good five hundred years further than that, but the frescoes inside were added at a later date. I marvelled at the paintings on the walls, remarkably well preserved and hung around for a while alone in the small church, still not quite sure where I was.
Finally a man with a long beard and a kaftan joined me inside. He invited me to lunch and told me that they would find a place for me to sleep after we eat. I made my way out of the church and into a large tent where there were about twenty foreigners, a half dozen monks, a nun and some workers. We ate a vegetable stew with rice, bread, yoghurt, cheese, olives, tomato, and a delicious apricot marmalade. I made some friends and met Father Piero, the monk who had revitalized the place after finding it lying in ruin back in 1982.
I chatted for a while and helped to clean up after the lunch was over. I put my things in my humble quarters, and took a walk to the top of a peak giving a brilliant view of the endless desert vista. Storm clouds were blowing in and I headed back down to the monastery. After all, it would soon be time for meditation. This happens every night, bringing everyone together for quiet reflection in the church. First the monks sing and then the lights go off for an hour and, nobody speaks. After the hour, the lights go back on and there is a Mass, mostly in Arabic for the benefit of the monks, though some English is inserted for the benefit of the tourists. Guests are encouraged to pick up a bible from the shelf, which are available in many different languages. Some scripture is then discussed and afterward it is time for dinner.
Father Piero clearly relishes in the fellowship of the meal and encourages everybody to come together for a nice experience. We prepare the tent with food and eat whatever we have left over from the lunch. It is hard to help out since there are so many hands and I had to pounce quickly to carry jugs of water and tomatoes up to the tent. Once the meal ends, everyone helps to clean up and then it is off to bed. I secure five blankets and throw them over my mattress on the floor, hoping that they protect me from the cold desert night.
The morning begins with the sound of a gong calling people to the morning mass. It is cold outside the blankets so I stay underneath and wait for breakfast instead. Breakfast is much the same, in fact, exactly the same as dinner and is made up of the leftovers from the night before. It seems the food is recycled meal to meal until it is gone. The meals were simple and delicious and made me appreciate the simple pleasures that this type of experience can bring.
A note on communal living: It amazes me how much of the day goes into the tasks surrounding basic subsistence. The labour of the entire monastery seems directed principally toward food preparation and cleaning. That is not to say it is the only thing that people do, just that it seems to occupy an inordinate amount of time. It does produce a great sense of community and mutual feeling of accomplishment and fellowship. It is a nice feeling and I can understand how reluctance to relinquish it results in overnight stays turning into weeks in the desert.
After eating, I retreat into the church by myself and crack open the Old Testament, starting “In the Beginning,” and devouring the couple of books by lunchtime. Lunch again and the cycle begins to repeat itself. After cleaning up, I head off to the library to read about the crusades before succumbing to the lure of ancient gossip about who got stoned and who “lay” with who. Back to the meditation and mass and finally the Last Supper then off to the room and under the blankets for another cold night.
On the final day, I hung about and this time helped to prepare the breakfast while the morning mass went on. I planned to leave right after breakfast but it was a beautiful clear day out in the desert and I walked up into the valley instead. When I returned my assistance was enlisted to chop some garlic and tomatoes and I willingly obliged. As I chopped I thought about staying another night bit I knew I had to start moving, as I intend to be in holy Bethlehem for Christmas.
Enter the Norwegians. I awoke that morning thinking that there was no way out of the desert except hitchhiking. The Norwegians apparently had arranged a taxi. I rushed out to jump in the cab with them and didn’t even have a chance to sample the delicious lunch I had helped to prepare. This was most disappointing when we walked down the winding stone path through the valley and heard the bell ringing, summoning all people to the dining tent. It was even more bitter once the Norwegians advised me that they didn’t have a cab waiting, but rather they would just hail one on that desert highway in the middle of nowhere.
So there I was on that long desert highway to nowhere with two Norwegian businessmen...
Syria
08/12/09
Once in Syria you can be sure that you have truly arrived in the Arab world. The men wear Kaftan and there are Palestinian flags hanging in the streets alongside portraits of Bashar Assad and the Syrian coat of arms. Political discussions inevitably turn into a condemnation of Israel and an outpouring of support for the fellow Arabs dispossessed of their land and livelihood. People seem proud of their country, their culture and their customs.
This goes a little too far sometimes. I had a Kurdish man inform me that Chinggis Khan was Kurdish. He seemed genuinely surprised at my misconceived notion that Chinggis hailed from Mongolia. We discussed the matter at length and he remained entirely convinced that Chinggis was a great Kurdish war hero. I told him that Saladin was from Kurdistan too. At least we agreed on that.
Walking about town, I begin to notice some new characters watching me. There is an occasional portrait of the Ayatollah and his smiley sidekick, but the stage is stolen by dramatis personae both new and exotic. There is Bashar and his dad, the prodigal son and the deceased strongman and their portraits are spread far and wide throughout the land. There are decals on the windows of cars, and portraits hanging in businesses. If you miss these, you still know you are in Syria as a result of the huge billboards in the streets. My personal favourite is basher with the military fatigues on looking like he belongs in Top Gun. Or something like that. The Assad dynasty is not the end of the characters on this Levantine stage.
Enter Hassan Nasrallah, the cheerful looking leader of Hezbollah. He is always beaming from ear to ear, his chubby cheeks bursting beneath his bushy beard. Though he may hail from neighbouring Lebanon, he is wildly popular here and is widely represented, beaming ear to ear whilst holding Kalashnikovs.
These guys are so much fun that it is unnecessary to even criticize them. Fortunately the censor precludes any of that dirty criticism from entering the country by means of a restrictive internet filter. They are on to the fact that Facebook and YouTube pose a mortal threat to civilization as we know it. Thanks to god that somebody is looking out for me and protecting me from these menaces. Chalk one up for the Islamic Republic of Iran who had no problem with me accessing my blog (though I doubt they would support its contents).
In spite of the cult of personality dictating government, and the affiliation with organizations based on dubious principles, society at large strikes me as relatively liberal. A large number of young ladies dress without hijab. The ones that do are generally not the chador wearing types. They are more likely matching the bright purple headscarf to the high heeled suede boots of the same colour. This is not your grandmother’s hijab.
Of course I have been subject to the typical Neanderthal attitudes of some men. One of these described a particular sexual position then advised me that “If you do that, you won’t be able to control her what if you get sick for a month. She will have sex with every man and she will be a prostitute.” Seems logical. Another man interrupted a political conversation among westerners to ask us if we knew various words describing a certain part of the female anatomy. I denied any such knowledge with such a straight face that he continued in his attempts to make me understand by uttering a slew of slang, each term more abrasive than the last. The battle of the wills did not stop there. Finally I had him describe what he was talking about in excruciating detail, satisfied that he was embarrassed and felt he had bitten off more than he could chew.
Putting these things aside, the Syrians have been nothing but friendly on the whole. Though nothing can hold a candle to Iranian hospitality, this country is full of welcoming people and aside from a bit of bargaining required in the souq, westerners are welcomed and treated as guests.
This place has the potential to be a major tourist destination if it were not for all the western misconceptions about the country and the government’s apparent reluctance to clarify them. It is hard to spend money here making $15 USD a reasonable daily backpacker budget. Hotels are clean and beds comfortable (200 Syrian Pounds or $4USD), transportation is cheap and efficient, the most expensive bus ride so far setting me back about 200 Pounds, food is delicious and cheap, meals rarely costing me more than 50 Pounds or 75 with a drink ($1 - $1.50 USD). The fake ISIC Card I picked up on Khao San Road has also come in handy, reducing admission fees from somewhere in the hundreds to ten Pounds or less ($0.20USD). It’s a cheapskate’s paradise over here, though not much of a party destination I suppose. I guess you can’t have everything.
Once in Syria you can be sure that you have truly arrived in the Arab world. The men wear Kaftan and there are Palestinian flags hanging in the streets alongside portraits of Bashar Assad and the Syrian coat of arms. Political discussions inevitably turn into a condemnation of Israel and an outpouring of support for the fellow Arabs dispossessed of their land and livelihood. People seem proud of their country, their culture and their customs.
This goes a little too far sometimes. I had a Kurdish man inform me that Chinggis Khan was Kurdish. He seemed genuinely surprised at my misconceived notion that Chinggis hailed from Mongolia. We discussed the matter at length and he remained entirely convinced that Chinggis was a great Kurdish war hero. I told him that Saladin was from Kurdistan too. At least we agreed on that.
Walking about town, I begin to notice some new characters watching me. There is an occasional portrait of the Ayatollah and his smiley sidekick, but the stage is stolen by dramatis personae both new and exotic. There is Bashar and his dad, the prodigal son and the deceased strongman and their portraits are spread far and wide throughout the land. There are decals on the windows of cars, and portraits hanging in businesses. If you miss these, you still know you are in Syria as a result of the huge billboards in the streets. My personal favourite is basher with the military fatigues on looking like he belongs in Top Gun. Or something like that. The Assad dynasty is not the end of the characters on this Levantine stage.
Enter Hassan Nasrallah, the cheerful looking leader of Hezbollah. He is always beaming from ear to ear, his chubby cheeks bursting beneath his bushy beard. Though he may hail from neighbouring Lebanon, he is wildly popular here and is widely represented, beaming ear to ear whilst holding Kalashnikovs.
These guys are so much fun that it is unnecessary to even criticize them. Fortunately the censor precludes any of that dirty criticism from entering the country by means of a restrictive internet filter. They are on to the fact that Facebook and YouTube pose a mortal threat to civilization as we know it. Thanks to god that somebody is looking out for me and protecting me from these menaces. Chalk one up for the Islamic Republic of Iran who had no problem with me accessing my blog (though I doubt they would support its contents).
In spite of the cult of personality dictating government, and the affiliation with organizations based on dubious principles, society at large strikes me as relatively liberal. A large number of young ladies dress without hijab. The ones that do are generally not the chador wearing types. They are more likely matching the bright purple headscarf to the high heeled suede boots of the same colour. This is not your grandmother’s hijab.
Of course I have been subject to the typical Neanderthal attitudes of some men. One of these described a particular sexual position then advised me that “If you do that, you won’t be able to control her what if you get sick for a month. She will have sex with every man and she will be a prostitute.” Seems logical. Another man interrupted a political conversation among westerners to ask us if we knew various words describing a certain part of the female anatomy. I denied any such knowledge with such a straight face that he continued in his attempts to make me understand by uttering a slew of slang, each term more abrasive than the last. The battle of the wills did not stop there. Finally I had him describe what he was talking about in excruciating detail, satisfied that he was embarrassed and felt he had bitten off more than he could chew.
Putting these things aside, the Syrians have been nothing but friendly on the whole. Though nothing can hold a candle to Iranian hospitality, this country is full of welcoming people and aside from a bit of bargaining required in the souq, westerners are welcomed and treated as guests.
This place has the potential to be a major tourist destination if it were not for all the western misconceptions about the country and the government’s apparent reluctance to clarify them. It is hard to spend money here making $15 USD a reasonable daily backpacker budget. Hotels are clean and beds comfortable (200 Syrian Pounds or $4USD), transportation is cheap and efficient, the most expensive bus ride so far setting me back about 200 Pounds, food is delicious and cheap, meals rarely costing me more than 50 Pounds or 75 with a drink ($1 - $1.50 USD). The fake ISIC Card I picked up on Khao San Road has also come in handy, reducing admission fees from somewhere in the hundreds to ten Pounds or less ($0.20USD). It’s a cheapskate’s paradise over here, though not much of a party destination I suppose. I guess you can’t have everything.
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