Cavafy’s bedroom. (Author’s Collection)
The God Abandons Antony
When at the hour of midnight
An invisible choir is suddenly heard passing
With exquisite music, with voices—
Do not lament your fortune that at last subsides,
Your life’s work that has failed, your schemes that have proved illusions.
Back like a man prepared, like a brave man,
Bid farewell to her, to Alexandria who is departing.
Above all, do not delude yourself; do not say that it is a dream,
That your ear was mistaken.
Do not condescend to such empty hopes.
Like a man for long prepared, like a brave man,
Like to the man who was worthy of such a city,
Go to the window firmly,
And listen with emotion,
But not with the prayers and complaint of a coward
Listen to the notes, to the exquisite instruments of the mystic choir,
And bid farewell to her, to Alexandria whom you are losing.
—Cavafy
In the Greek Orthodox cemetery in Alexandria, written on his tombstone is a simple inscription: “Poet.”
It was all so personal. I felt that I had visited a past relative whose ghost was still haunted by his own words. So I decided to end my day reflecting along the concourse that paralleled the Mediterranean. While facing the ocean’s turmoil there was a lot to think about, remembering how much of its history had been swallowed up and the mysteries that still remained beneath it. The answers will surface eventually, but for now Egypt is more in search of a modern resolution than its established past.
Into Enemy Territory
Every time I brought up the idea of going to Syria my friends (and even my agent) thought I was insane. I had become an American citizen in 2008 and wanted to know what it was like to travel as an American abroad.
As an arch foe of Israel and the United States, this fascinating region of the Middle East had some of the most bloodied history pass through its landscape. In 2008, Damascus was named the Arab Capital of Culture. Egyptians, Greeks, Romans, Ottomans and the crusaders all carved out their signatures in this cradle of civilization, leaving behind an amazing array of excavated sites and artifacts. It’s unbelievable to think that 70 percent of Syria’s history still remains buried in the sand. My plan was to go and explore Damascus, then on to the great castle Krak Des Chevaliers, and finally to the ancient ruins at Palmyra.
In the summer of 2009, ignoring everyone’s advice, I arrived at Damascus International Airport. I stood in line for almost two hours before I reached the immigration officials. Even then they kept everyone waiting while they conversed in Arabic, not giving a damn about the people suffering in this stifling heat and having traveled for thousands of miles. I was finally called and I handed over my American passport, and that’s when the three officials looked up and studied me with apparent disdain. They asked me the usual questions concerning what interests brought me to their country.
My response was:
“The wonderful history of Islam, and being of Greek heritage I wanted to visit the ancient city of Palmyra.”
“Wasn’t Palmyra Roman?” they asked.
“Yes, but it was Greek first, in the 2nd century BC and a very important Christian site during the Roman and Nabataean occupation,” I replied.
They just stared. It’s moments like this that ratified my decision to always travel with the knowledge of the culture I am visiting, and making sure nothing in my bags would raise unnecessary attention in case I got searched. And that for me is constant. I tried to make more conversation about being in their country for the first time, but they were not interested. And with that, their final stroke was stamping my passport, and throwing it back in my face. Not wanting a provocation, I simply said, “Thank you,” picked up my bag and exited. Finally I was in.
Standing in the light, again. Krak des Chevaliers Castle. (Author’s Collection)
It wasn’t difficult finding a cab, as they all came swarming toward me, shouting their “special” offers. I made a choice and off to my hotel I went, thirty minutes away to the center of Damascus.
At the front desk the female clerk ushered me through the usual arrival routine. I signed in and handed over my American Express card, which she refused.
“In Syria we don’t take this card.”
“What about traveler’s checks?” I asked.
“No, no, no,” she said, “American Express is persona non grata in my country.”
Why didn’t I know this?
“Get me American Express on the phone, please,” I said.
She just stared.
“Isn’t that the reason why you sit on that side of the counter?”
Love was not flowing. Reluctantly she picked up the phone and dialed, handing it over to me when they answered. They were apologetic, explaining that the circumstances between U.S./Syrian relationships faltered, so they were no longer doing business there. I liked this company because if anything goes wrong with purchases, American Express always backs you. So I had no choice but to use another card. The concierge smirked when I handed it to her.
My room was not quite ready, so I decided to walk around the streets by my hotel. I took in the atmosphere of this lovely city surrounded by mountains, its multicultural façades from different periods of its history, the sounds of the mosques and the always dependable jewelry stores, the people strolling by arm in arm, even the men; I began to get excited being in Damascus, one of the oldest continuously inhabited cities in the world. The only drawback was its ruthless government led by the Assad family, who had been in power since 1971 and still dominated this region. Syrians have endured decades of economic hardship, political repression and corruption under this family’s rule, yet it still continues today to jail critics of its regime, also having a stranglehold on the Internet and the media. There are rats in the walls and they have ears, and if you are ever arrested, God help you in those filthy prisons and what these people are capable of doing to you. It was not a movie where the hero walks away in the end, so I decided to trust no one. I was to tread lightly, never taking anything for granted.
I went back to my hotel and found my room ready. When I entered the elevator another man followed me in. I pressed the eighth-floor button and he didn’t move, except through the elevator mirror I caught him scrutinizing me. I thought, Oh, yes, secret police, here we go again. He either sensed I was foreign by my dress, or someone in the hotel informed him I was American. Not too many of us venture into this part of the world, so when we do, a red flag goes up. Getting out of the elevator I insisted he go first. Reluctantly he did and acted out as if he was looking for something until I entered my room. I waved a sad goodbye and he uncomfortably did the same. I had a good laugh, letting him know I was on to him.
Later that evening when I was entering the elevator, to my surprise the same secret policeman was waiting. As the doors shut I asked him if he was following me.
“I don’t speak your language,” he said.
“Pity, we could have had such fun,” I said as the doors opened.
He nodded and left. They always seem to suspect foreigners when they travel alone. I’ve had encounters before with secret police, especially in Egypt where they always believe you’re guilty of something or just simply suspicious. Nothing to hide, I went into one of the hotel’s restaurants to meet my guide, Amir, with whom I had connected through the Internet. He turned out to be a prize.
We sat in the restaurant for two hours discussing the best way to approach my interests. He was a Christian who struggled with the present government. He referred to Syria’s leader as the “Sphinx” as many of his people thought of him as an enigma, with a reputation as a wily and able politician but a man who could also be manipulative and merciless, especially with those who opposed his regime. He was involved in terrorist training, with a pool of individuals willin
g to carry out certain violent missions. Stretching its arms, Syria was key to the Palestinian problem and at the vortex of the Lebanese situation. It acted as a bridge for arms smuggling from Iran into Lebanon for Hezbollah, influencing the outcome of the Israeli/Lebanese war and the assassination of the Lebanese Prime Minister Rafik Hariri in 2005. It seems the Middle East has been at war its entire history, with Iran always stirring the pot. And here I was sitting in the atmosphere of this political drama, with danger always lurking in the shadows.
The next day we decided to venture out to the Umayyad Mosque. This magnificent structure, built in 705 AD with golden mosaics and three tall minarets, houses the final resting place of the most famous Arab leader, Saladin, who originally came from Tikrit in Iraq and was responsible for uniting the Arab world. Next to Mohammed, he is the most revered man in Syria. A military leader who conquered Jerusalem in the Second Crusade of the 12th century AD and brought new light and power to the Muslim world. A simple red-domed mausoleum built in 1193 contains his remains.
When I arrived that morning I was amazed to see the mosque so crowded. After I took off my shoes and entered the courtyard I could not believe its beauty. So pristine, its luminous marbled facing shone in the light like a jewel, with entire families sitting around the square conversing in peace. Its splendor ranks with Jerusalem’s Dome of the Rock, while in sanctity is second only to the holy mosques of Mecca and Medina. As I walked into the mosque hundreds of men were kneeling down praying directly to Allah. I loved the ceremony, everyone praying in unison to the sounds of the muezzins, and not a conflict in sight. In the middle of the mosque was a huge ornamented basilica. To my surprise Amir told me that part of the head of John the Baptist was laying within the tomb, contained in a casket here. I peered through the veiled windows, but the outline of the remains was blurred due to the dim light, and as in many of the Tales of Islam, the mystery remains. But I sat around the mosque with its people and studied their behavior, their women veiled, my eyes remembering never to stare long enough to draw attention.
After lunch our next stop was the Old City Quarter, where miles of winding labyrinthine-like alleys epitomize the city’s charm. It’s exhausting finding your way through, but we finally came upon the Christian Quarter where the church of St. Ananias stands, built over the site of St. Paul’s escape from an attempted murder. Before he converted as an Apostle of Christ, Paul was a Roman soldier who persecuted Christians, found faith and became a staunch advocate of Christianity. If Paul of Tarsus had not spoken Greek or understood the Greek expression of love and if he had not spread that word, then Christianity might have remained a minor Jewish heresy. He was eventually beheaded in Rome for spreading the gospel.
We walked down the ancient steps to the underground chapel of St. Ananias, who had baptized Paul at the spot where an altar stands. St. Ananias became head of the local Christians and a prominent leader of the Apostolic Age. While on missionary work in Syria, Ananias was arrested at the order of Governor Licinius for preaching Christianity and stoned to death outside the walls of Damascus. I sat down on a bench and thought about how many Christians had suffered under Roman authority; even the Apostles of Christ met with a ghastly end. I never understood why religion caused so much chaos. After all, we are supposed to believe in the same God, but the ways of connecting to him cause so much friction.
I remember someone from the Jewish faith asked me once, “Why do you Christians have to pray to icons to reach God? We just simply pray to HIM.”
I remarked, “I didn’t know God had a direct line.” There was no argument.
I felt the ancient stone walls of the simple church, and after 2,000 years the memories that remain within them must be frightening, but then also euphoric. So I remained for an hour quietly meditating, lit some candles and left feeling quite sad. With so much brutality and suffering in the world, where was God? It sometimes made me question my religion, because the answers are usually blank no matter how many times your local priest tried to explain his version of the gospel. In the end you still walk alone and occasionally a beam of light strikes you and re-establishes faith.
Amir gave me a tour of the city, its museums and landmarks, and what impressed me the most was the Souk, where Middle Eastern wares are sold. Damascus was an important caravan city with the trade routes from southern Arabia, Palmyra, Petra, and the Silk Road from China all converging on it. The city has been built up with every passing occupation and it has been difficult to excavate the ruins that lie at least ten feet below the modern level, just like Alexandria, Rome and Athens.
We came to the entrance of the Souk, a massive marketplace covered with a corrugated roof, selling everything from clothing, jewelry and carpets, and their famous ice-cream parlors and the always curious salesman trying to lure tourists and the locals into his shop. One thing that stood out was the dappled lighting effect by the sun streaming in through hundreds of bullet holes in the roof. It was caused by celebrating Arab riflemen after the Ottomans and the Germans retreated in 1917 and by machine guns from French planes firing down on Syrian rebels in 1925. I loved the atmosphere that it offered, like stars from heaven pouring down on you.
The people were very friendly and continued to be as I got more into my journey, certainly a contrast to my beginnings. I explored the amazing colors of the spices stacked up like jewels, and smelled their pungent odor. The chef in me was fired up, but I didn’t buy anything to bring home as customs in the U.S. are strict about foreign food products. I ended up buying some of their ice cream, rich in cream and rolled in pistachio nuts. It was delicious. I was tempted to buy some beautifully made jewelry in lapis and some silverware, but a voice kept telling me you don’t need anything. Carrying merchandise can be exhausting when traveling, as we all know, but when you come back home, they become part of the memories that you reveal in the conversations you shared with friends over dinner.
Coming out into the sunshine, on the other side of the Souk stood the columns and arches that were the remains of the Temple of Jupiter, reminding me of the powerful Roman era with the eastern foothills as its backdrop. What a setting, taking in the modern and ancient architecture. I just loved how well the contrast worked. So intriguing, so mysterious and rich are these bloody worlds of past eras. And there, a short distance away, was a huge poster of Assad the Sphinx dominating the landscape. The image reminded me how little would shift as long as that dictator was in power. But nothing really has changed since ancient times, when previous leaders built replicas of themselves too, to remind its people daily who was their god, never believing one day their statues and images would crumble and disappear into the sand. It was a full day and it was time to go back to the hotel.
Our next journey was the legendary Krak des Chevaliers in Hama, three hours outside of Damascus. We began early, driving through hilly regions and deserts until we discovered the castle in the distance reaching a summit of 750 meters above sea level. The height and size were spectacular. The fortress was completed in the early 12th century, built to control a strategic passage called the Homs Gap in the Orontes Valley. It was to highlight Christian power, a symbol that the conquerors were here to stay. The Crusades were a collision of two faiths, the Crescent and the Cross, both believing God was on their side.
We drove up the steep terrain until we reached the top of the hill in front of its enormous gates. From the outside the fortress was powerful and intimidating. As I slowly walked through the castle I couldn’t help but feel the memories of their wars coming at me, and the sounds of horses’ hooves, back from war, echoed through the chambers. Those energies were left behind in the shadows of dark corridors, for theirs was a brutal life, bloody fighting for their Jihad, serving God and longing for enlightenment. I came across a secret chamber that led down into the gallows of the castle, and supposedly the tunnels end two miles away into a Christian church called St. George. It was a route the Crusaders used to enter and escape from the enemy. But the passageway was closed off now becaus
e it was in danger of collapsing.
I moved further into the castle until I arrived at the Hall of the Knights, which included a well, a bakery and the latrines. The chambers that held the kitchens were enormous, where large pots were used to cook and feed the hundreds of soldiers, and always hold a five-year stock of provisions in case of siege. I sat there imagining the raucous conversations reverberating through those fortified walls, how they withstood the numerous Arab assaults during their more than two hundred years of occupation. Because of its impenetrable walls those knights lived securely within the castle. I went down to the moat, full of algae, and above its exit door lying between those thick grey walls was an emblem with the name Richard the Lionhearted, King of England. He was a devout Christian but a brutal leader in his battles against Saladin.
Inside the Souk, Damascus. (Author’s Collection)
Krak des Chevaliers Castle, Syria. (Author’s Collection)
On top of Krak des Chevaliers. (Author’s Collection)
I couldn’t wait to reach the top so I could witness how the Crusaders watched their enemies approaching. Running up the stairs, two steps at a time, I kept reminding myself I was still an athlete. Being in this battleground, ancient as it was, still brought out the warrior in me. Reaching the castle’s highest point, I stretched out my arms and called out to the universe. Men created steeples built on top of mountains because it brought them closer to God. And on top of this castle, I experienced that feeling. What a view they had, so clear that I could see Lebanon in the distance. My guide directed me down to the moat and the drawbridge that was used to obstruct the enemy. Just like in the movies, where the hero saves and kisses the maiden in the end, but that was Hollywood. Though here there was not a woman in sight. It’s as if they did not exist in the Crusaders’ world or in the world of Islam. Lust left no trace.
Places: The Journey of My Days, My Lives Page 20
