Then we explored the monolithic stone walls, a castle within a castle, and the inner fortress higher than the outside structure so the defenders could always dominate their enemy from a superior height. There were strategic openings in the walls, allowing the knights to shower their enemy with their ammunition of arrows, rocks and flaming pitch.
In 1188, Saladin came to conquer the infidels, examined its defenses, and because of its impenetrable might, decided to move on without attempting to besiege it. Even Lawrence of Arabia tried to scale the walls barefoot in 1909 but only made it halfway to the top. Like all mighty powers through history, the end always shows its recognizable face.
In 1271, with only two hundred knights left, the Christian warriors surrendered their mighty stronghold to the Muslim forces. Within twenty years after Krak des Chevaliers fell, the Crusaders withdrew from the Holy Land completely.
As we were leaving, a summer classical concert was being prepared. Hearing those aesthetics in this environment was such a contrast to the sounds of war from the past. In a castle that brutally shed so many lives, eight hundred years later it became a forum where the beauty of music permeated through its hardened walls, instead of the loud cries of dying men.
On the way back to Damascus, Amir suggested we visit an ancient village called Maaloula (“Entrance”) where the language of Christ, Aramaic, was still spoken. When we entered the village its religious heritage was evident in this oasis in the midst of a desert. A large statue of the Virgin Mary dominated the rugged hillside at an altitude of 1,500 meters, a Christian site with 2,000 inhabitants, which refused to be swallowed up by the Muslim world at its doorstep.
When we arrived at a monastery, the church within had a very simple entrance. One of the oldest in the Christian world dating from 296 AD, its foyer with three arches was filled with icons. I lit three candles, one each for my family, this country and for my safe passage through. As I took in the church, which was stunning, I pulled out my camera and was advised that no photos were allowed, something to do with people using duplicates for profit. The beautiful woman who was the keeper of this shrine saw my disappointment and volunteered to recite the Lord’s Prayer in Aramaic. Guilt. She guided us up to the simple stone altar, which had no rim or drain spout, a sign that it was never used for bloody sacrifices. She began the prayer, which was so foreign in sound, yet within me I recognized the rhythm. She was such an innocent in contrast to the exploration I experienced at the barracks of Krak des Chevaliers. There, everything was about death, and here in this little sanctum some simple, loving thoughts were being shared. I kept thinking, where is the enemy?
I explored the church, touching everything as I typically do to connect the innocence of icons and its ancient walls while burning candles gave off light. I certainly was in God’s territory. We sat for a while and watched an ancient race of people behaving in the same way their ancestors did for 1,500 years. Simple. These are moments in life that stay with you, touching off memories, something familiar, like having lived there before. All I knew was each day brought me closer to myself, and the fear of the unknown seemed to be dropping away.
After leaving the church I decided to walk around the village. The ancient rock formations were so mysterious that every corner I turned became another expression of art. Its colors were vibrant and whole families filled the spaces, enjoying a picnic lunch. One family, curious about my presence, invited me to join them. Happily I took the opportunity to break bread with a society unknown to me. And I was in my element, like it was an audition. They spoke very little English but my animated behavior broke through the barriers. A plate of mezeh was handed to me like I was family and we communicated as best we could. Curious about my American citizenship, but feeling familiar because of my Greek heritage with theirs, we found a common ground. It’s the leadership that gives the country its reputation to the rest of the world, and we judge its people for it. But here I was seeing their hearts through my own eyes, and what a joyful and insightful experience it was. When it was time to leave they all stood respectfully to embrace, and I parted knowing that a little more peace was shared.
It was back to Damascus as it was getting late. I had a quiet dinner at the hotel where now everyone was smiling. I must have been touched by grace. I read up on my next and last venture to the amazing ruins of ancient Palmyra (the Place of Palms) three hours outside of the city. It was early and hot the next morning when we saddled up for our last odyssey in Syria. I was in my element, feeling like a Bedouin crossing the desert with water by my side, a rolled cigarette burning and Syrian music stirring the atmosphere.
When we arrived the city shone like a jewel in the distance, golden in color like the sand it stood upon. We got out and started to walk through the ruins. The main axis of the city of Palmyra was the colonnaded road, with its forest of columns and its shining roofs of gilded bronze, running from north to south, and expanded in the 2nd century AD. The city came under Greek influence because of Alexander the Great and his expansionist policies. But its power lay because of its crucial position as a caravan center along the Silk Route, reaching enormous heights during the Roman occupation and its demand for luxury goods.
Palmyra became an aristocratic republic and found its independence in 261 AD, but ten years later the Roman Aurelian put the city to fire and sword. It was eventually conquered again by the Arabs in 638 AD and burnt to the ground. A castle built during the Crusades stood high up on a ridge looking down on the places it conquered. Wars have destroyed so much beauty, but the remains are some of the greatest ruins I have ever walked through. What is still visible of its conquered past are the influences of the great societies that molded it.
A view from the great Crusader Castle. (Author’s Collection)
When I saw the beautiful amphitheater I made my entrance, the same way the entertainers of the past did, and imagined the applause, taking a bow after reciting some Shakespeare. To my surprise some real applause echoed through from the tourists above, and we all had a good laugh. I had hoped it wasn’t the performance. Nothing like a humble actor finding his audience in a desert landscape. No pay, just an inner reward adding to the many memories I had collected. A man interrupted the impromptu revelry, telling me it was time to hop on a camel. I wasn’t ready to leave just yet. “Later,” I said.
As I visited the many tombs, I discovered such beauty in the expression of how they perceived life and death through the intricate detail of their art. Many statues draped over marble coffins, still in their original color after 2,000 years, and on its walls, their stories written in ancient verse, all so beautifully preserved by this desert landscape.
I overheard an archaeologist speaking to some tourists, “From the air using infrared technology, they discovered that beneath the sands are hundreds of uncovered tombs. The Japanese team analyzed images from satellites orbiting 700 kilometers above the earth, and the results were extraordinary.”
Wow, I thought. So much wealth, so many secrets still waiting to surface to bring further light to this remarkable heritage. And credit must be given to the Japanese archaeologists who investigated and researched a lot of this history. I thought it interesting that archaeologists from a Japanese culture were excavating Middle Eastern life, and they were doing remarkable work.
Now it was time to ride a camel in this hot atmosphere. It was 130 degrees and thank God for my hat. There was no shade at all, just tall columns and some of their fallen remains due to war and earthquakes. I mounted a temperamental camel that kept growling at me. He must have sensed I was foreign. I kept saying to him, “I know we’re at war.” The growling got louder.
And so I began the last phase of the journey along the colonnaded street. How they must have felt during their golden years, surrounded by such beauty with their mythical heroes coming back from war, parading their victories past the shouting mob. Suddenly the roar of a motorcycle whizzed by and stopped, abruptly spraying all of us with sand. The camel got very upset and began to ride o
ff with me dangling halfway off my saddle. But the owner ran after us and took hold of the camel’s rein while he began shouting at the man on the motorcycle.
He abruptly responded to me, “I was the one who asked you to ride my camel first, but you are not a man of your word, you said, ‘Later.’” He roared off screaming, “See you in the next life.”
“Yes,” I shouted back, “hopefully you’ll come back as a camel, so I can kick your ass.”
So much for hospitality. I let it go and finished my trek through the colonnaded street with ease.
Back to the car, it was time to return to my hotel and pack for tomorrow’s flight at 3 a.m. Feeling grateful for having survived my experiences through Syria and navigating my exit out of the country without scrutiny, I boarded my flight to Los Angeles through Russia with an eight-hour layover. Waiting at the Moscow terminal was not without incident because while resting some pickpocket lifted my wallet from my jacket. Eventually I had a laugh over it, as there was no money inside.
I had time to reflect what had transpired in Syria. I was happy with the outcome and the people I met along the way. They were good people, just caught up in a world that was lagging behind the rest of us.
But now as I write this passage in 2013, Syria, like the rest of the Middle East, is going through a huge transformation, its people battling through their city streets demanding that their voices are heard. The Assad government is behaving like thugs, while fighting and murdering its own people to survive this revolution. A human rights report was issued accusing Syrian security forces of committing crimes against humanity.
Syrian security forces have been killing and torturing their own people with complete impunity. Assad will be facing the same consequences as Mubarak is in prison in Egypt facing a trial for crimes against humanity. If convicted, he would be facing the death penalty. I hope that the people’s cry in Syria will be heard in a democratic fashion so they can have the freedom and opportunity that is their right to become who they truly are, as we are blessed in the West.
I’m so glad I went to Syria and the Middle East before the revolution, because when I do go back to make new discoveries, and with the old enemy conquered, it will be seen through new eyes.
Sunset at Giza
Arriving in July 2010, the light in Cairo was dimmed by the usual smog. It clouded the area, giving off a strange hue that accentuated the mystery of this veiled city. On both sides of the main thoroughfare leading into the metropolis were secret police every thirty yards. My driver said that the president was arriving from Sharm el-Sheikh. Since President Mubarak witnessed Sadat’s murder in October of 1981 and was the only man left standing, he had a great fear of being assassinated. He surrounded himself with the military 24/7. If the gods were talking to him and he was listening, he would have heard that he would be overthrown by year’s end. As with all dictators, their pockets deep, their people’s lives controlled and their dreams suppressed, the youth of Egypt finally exploded. After forty years of tyranny another modern-day Pharaoh’s reign collapsed. And so began the revolution. But this was July and those historical circumstances hadn’t yet arrived.
I was eager to see the three great Pyramids of the Giza plateau at sunset on the West Bank of the Nile, the last of the Seven Wonders of the ancient world. I was met by my driver, Hani, who suggested I have a session with Gamal, a healer who works with essential oils—concentrated hydrophobic liquid containing volatile aroma compounds from plants. Then fully relaxed, I would take the journey to the Pyramids at sunset where the local Egyptian cowboys would serve dinner. It sounded like a joke, but they do exist. Well, I thought, that’s what journeys are about, being available for the unexpected and being part of an ancient heritage that still perplexes the world by the scale of its creation.
Gamal introduced himself and took me to his place of healing, filled with hundreds of bottles of essential oils. He was a most trustworthy man. His eyes gently stared right back at me, unlike some of the dealers here—first the money, and then you’re at their mercy. The trick is never to flinch when deals are being placed as it questions your manhood.
Stripped to my underwear, I lay down on my stomach as Gamal very intensely rubbed lotus oil all over me. The aroma was wonderfully pungent. Then he turned me over on my back and did the same. Without hesitation I slipped into a meditation, landing in my mind’s eye that flashed a bearded male on a camel. Then a cloud crossed my face and quickly disappeared. The same image kept repeating itself, and each time the vision came closer and more focused. My God, it was I in another time, with a beard, dressed in robes. Me, Egyptian? Is that why I keep coming back to Egypt and feeling at home? Why certain memories lingered? Why I kept having a sense of déjà vu? I became so still, so enveloped in my past visions that I didn’t want to resurface. I could hear soft lamentations accompanying the ritual, like a chorus floating over me. After it stopped I began to slowly emerge out of this unexpected revelation.
When I awoke I was surprised to find what seemed like ten minutes was over an hour in time. Gamal had a smile on his face, and said, “You went into a past life, around 2800 BC. You were a merchant who was born in Luxor and eventually moved to Cairo. You keep coming back here because you love this country and you have unresolved issues of your past.”
“Like what?” I asked.
“They will be revealed when you are ready, and when you are satisfied you will let go and move forward.”
It was fascinating, especially when he said “merchant.” My great-grandparents and our ancestors before them were merchants in Constantinople. Maybe that’s why I like dealing with Arabs in business. My attitude is, “Don’t screw with me, I’ve met bigger crooks in Hollywood.” Feeling totally relaxed and vulnerable I was open to my next adventure—getting on a camel and riding into the desert before the light disappeared.
So with my friends Gamal and Hani, I rode behind the Pyramids where all the animals, donkeys, camels and horses are fed and stabled. As I learned from my experience in Syria, camels are not the most pleasant animals to ride. I love the rhythm in the heat, it made me feel like to a warrior in a desert, but it’s the hundreds of flies that hover around the camel’s head that bugs me. Also they have this temperament that you can’t always trust, and when they get on their high horse they love to kick and the occasional spit is thrown your way as well. I have been subjected to all of this and responded by kicking them back. I always did make friends in such high places.
For an hour and a half we rode into an area few travelers get a chance to see. A desert that was once very green during the Golden Age of the Pyramids, but now it is very dry with not a single palm tree in sight. This arid area was created around 2200 BC. A dramatic pattern in the weather brought about drastic measures that changed the face of Egypt. This magnificent country suffered terribly, bringing it to its knees. And thus the desert was created and it wasn’t until 1800 BC that Egypt raised itself again and created its new Golden Age.
All of this was going through my mind as we entered a landscape I will never forget. We climbed the sand dunes, and there they were, the last of the Ancient Wonders. Menkaure, Khafre and Khufu, resurrection machines, and in that transformation the Pharaoh became a gloried being of light, effective in the afterlife. Once mummified and the Pharaoh entombed, it set the cosmic engine in motion. It was a meeting point of life and light with death and darkness so they could travel the underworld and eventually join the ranks of the gods. What a process.
It was now 7 p.m. and the intense sun was hovering over the desert when a blasting sound of Middle Eastern music screamed from a stereo. A woman covered in total black with no face exposed except for the eyes was being driven in a horse carriage. I jumped off my camel and yelled at the driver to bring the sound down. The lady in black stared at me, and it was her posture as she stood that revealed her disapproval. This was her country, and it is the way they reveal their discord. I tried to explain the beauty we were experiencing and that silence was necessary to un
derstand what our senses were trying to perceive. That noise pollution was an obliteration of our spirit. She sat down and reluctantly instructed the driver to move on without the noise. “Thank you,” I said with a smile.
I returned to my camel and we continued on. There in the distance on my left was a lone figure dressed in a white galabeya and keffiyeh with the wind blowing his costume so freely that it reminded me of Lawrence of Arabia. It was so surreal that it almost felt like an illusion that deserts have been known to create. What a contrast to the noise a few minutes ago. One being connected to the life presented while the other was unconscious to the elements. The Lawrence figure was enjoying the solitude, while the woman in black was trying to make a stand in a male-dominated society.
We had now reached the highest sand hill where the view of the Pyramids was breathtaking. The light from the sunset was a glowing pink, giving the monoliths an aura of mystery. Gamal got off his camel and instructed us to follow him. Reaching the edge of the sand hills, he asked that we simply remain silent and keep an eye on the largest Pyramid of Cheops and just observe the illusion. If we’re lucky some figures or ghosts from its distant past will appear. He believed they were the keepers of the monuments. He asked us not to question but to trust that whatever we witnessed was not an apparition. After the past-life regression I had experienced that afternoon I was up for anything. Within fifteen minutes something appeared coming out of the largest pyramid. My eyes saw these black figures as ghostlike in their movements. The vision continued for ten minutes and then disappeared. I looked at Gamal and he smiled knowingly.
He said, “I just wanted you to see it, as there are many experiences that take place here at sunset, if you are willing to see.”
Suddenly a roar of Egyptian cowboys came galloping our way. Their leader was carrying our food while the others were supplying the refreshments. As soon as they reached us, the cowboys opened up the carpets like magic and created a setting fit for kings. They animatedly told me at dusk how they love to round up the horses and then for sport race them across the desert landscape like madmen, creating a sandstorm along the way with their cowboy hats and all. I sat to eat with these amazing people who spoke little English, but their communication was an international language called “smile.”
Places: The Journey of My Days, My Lives Page 21
