“Are we going into the church, too?” Little Ahmed asked.
“Yes. Follow Zorro.”
“But we’re Muslims. We can’t go into a church.”
“You’ll see.”
The floor of the chapel was overlaid with carpets and strewn with cushions. There were no pews or wooden furniture. The altar was an ancient stone slab. Orthodox saints lined up in ranks along the wall clothed in vermillion and ochre against a lapis sky, each surrounded with a golden halo.
“Is this going to be boring?” Little Ahmed asked.
“Probably, a bit.”
“Zorro, can I borrow your camera?”
“No.”
We found a niche in the wall and Little Ahmed nestled himself between me and Rousse. I took a Bible and opened it and Little Ahmed did the same. Zorro squatted to the side, his camera raised in expectation. The roof was full of holes and let in shafts of sunlight filled with dancing dust motes.
Father Angelo began to sing a psalm.
“Oh Lord I have cried.”
Alexandre stood straight as a sentinel, clean-shaven, white wings in his hair. Jean stood with his hands clasped in front of him. Zorro shifted his weight from one leg to the other, and the key chain that looped over his trouser pocket tinkled. Little Ahmed stuck his forefinger in his ear, a habitual gesture which I nagged him about and which he claimed helped him hear better. Father Angelo’s handful of disciples, a dozen monks, made a semicircle of swishing gray cassocks.
I opened the Bible at random and read:
They shall hold the bow and the lance: they are cruel, and will not shew mercy: their voice shall roar like the sea, and they shall ride upon horses, every one put in array, like a man to the battle, against thee, O daughter of Babylon.
Father Angelo called us to prayer, intoning the solemn rise and fall of liturgical cadences . . .
Then the Angel of the Lord went forth and smote in the camp of the Assyrians a hundred and fourscore and five thousand: and when they arose early in the morning behold, they were all dead corpses.
Brother Thomas held a morsel of bread and dipped it in oil and offered it first to Father Angelo, before repeating the sacrament along the line of monks. Jean stood back. Alexandre went forward and bowed his head and received the blessing. Zorro followed and Little Ahmed got up and asked him, can I go too? Zorro nodded and they went forward together. I watched my son bend his graceful neck to receive a piece of bread. When he turned to come back, I saw that his eyes were shining. The smoke from the incense unfurled dragons in the sunbeams. The monks softly sang a tuneless song of ancient origin. I opened the Bible again at random and I read:
Then three thousand men of Judah went to the top of the rock Etam, and said to Samson, Knowest thou not that the Philistines are rulers over us? What is this that thou hast done unto us? And he said unto them, As they did unto me, so have I done unto them.
I opened the Bible two or three more times but could find no consoling verses in between the battles between the Babylonians and the Israelites and the Assyrians and the Philistines and Hittites that historied an endless bloodletting as if nothing would ever change amen.
_____
Zorro was entranced by the high desert light. He said it had a special clarity, especially at dawn. We woke for Matins at 5 a.m., tumbled from our narrow pilgrim beds in the cold dark dormitory, and stumbled down a stone spiral staircase. The bell rang out, cassock figures crossed the courtyard, gliding quietly on sandaled feet. Zorro lay in wait, facing east, to catch the first prick of daylight. Father Angelo shook his head at this ambition, but with an indulgent smile. He said that trying to capture the first sun ray was a vainglorious folly. An endeavor, like landing on the moon, that served only to exercise man’s own belief in his ability to master the universe. “But by all means,” he said to Zorro, “you must try. Otherwise how can you learn to respect the impossible and the miraculous?”
Rousse was fascinated by the ruined frescoes in the chapel and spent hours tracing the outlines of angels and saints. She sketched the orthodox oval shapes of their chipped faces and complained she could not capture the fragility of their beatific smiles because she could not render the effect of time on stone and tinted plaster. Alexandre perused the library where the monastery had amassed a collection of texts in many languages on interfaith dialogue. “We, here,” Father Angelo had told me, “are not the first to try to preach a larger ecumenicalism—to embrace all faiths.”
Little Ahmed had the run of the place and, as the only child, everyone’s adoring attention. He ran off in all directions exploring and the monks indulged his curiosity. Brother Thomas showed him the beehives.
“You have to move your hands very slowly,” said Brother Thomas, holding his hand out level and still to illustrate. Little Ahmed watched him carefully as he moved his hand towards the wooden box beehive. “Because if you move fast, then they attack. They are suspicious. You must move as if you are a butterfly, not like a bear!” Brother Thomas made a violent swiping motion with his hairy forearm to demonstrate. Little Ahmed laughed. “Now you try.” Little Ahmed held his hand out. His thin fingers trembled delicately. “They must trust you, do you see?” Little Ahmed advanced his hand slowly towards the metal catch that secured the front panel of the beehive. A few plump and furry black-and-yellow bees hovered near the hinge. He inched his hand a little closer—
“YOW!” Little Ahmed withdrew his hand sharply. Brother Thomas smiled.
“I was stung many times when I was first gathering honey. But now I know how to move slowly, so the bees accept me. Now I am never stung.”
We watched as Brother Thomas carefully drew out a wooden frame of honeycomb swarming with bees. They clung to their hexagon cells for a moment and then, finding themselves in the bright sunlight and open air, flew away.
“I do not know if they are free or if they are bereft,” said Brother Thomas. “I worry about this: am I the thief or the caretaker?” He cast his eyes over his several hives. “I give them a home and then I take it away from them.” He made a small laugh. “In this I am like a dictator. I am Bashar of the bees!”
We walked back along the stony track to the monastery. The siege of Deraa, the gunfire cracking in the Damascus suburbs, the terrible stories of arrest and torture that filled my notebooks, seemed another world away. And yet, part of the same world, a world of natural robbery and savage retribution, the order of things, that we were all part of. We and the bees and the ants and the scorpions and the desert rabbits that the monks gleefully trapped too.
All around us was mayhem and violence. The monastery was a strange ethereal interlude. Silence. A bright red lonely poppy growing between two stones, the translucent iridescence of butterfly wings, the cool replenishment of a sip of water. I pricked my fingers on the thorns of a terebinth tree. A zephyr gently blew away my thoughts. I emptied and the air filled my lungs.
I watched Little Ahmed feeding a tortoise with a lettuce leaf. He had grown into a lean and wiry nine-year-old. He had his father’s eyes; they bowed towards the bridge of his nose like gently tipping rowboats, dark green, evergreen, flecked with gold tinsel. They were so dazzling that I would stare into them until he caught me looking and scowled at the intrusion. What is contemplation? Redux, my beautiful boy, only love.
In the desert I listened. We all came together and listened.
“Everyone without exception is loved by God,” said Father Angelo. The terrace shimmered gold in the afternoon sun. “This is universal salvation. You can explain the concept from a theological point of view. But there is also a purely logical route to arrive at this conclusion which does not rely on God or faith. That is: If you search for truth, you must accept that there are different truths—that there is not one truth. This is self-evident. This is obvious to everyone who has ever had an argument with anyone else. Having an argument with a fellow human being is a universal experience. And arguments teach us that there is not conformity, that there is not consensus. If we are fre
e, we argue. The only way people do not argue is if they are physically threatened. This is the nature of dictatorship.”
Alexandre bowed his head to acknowledge the wisdom in his friend’s words. But he was looking for examples of practical application among the grander ideas.
“And now what can we do? How can an idea stop the conflict that is coming?”
“But the conflict is between two ideas,” declared Father Angelo. “Fear of the other, the creation of an enemy, is only a mental construction. The only way to defeat this way of thinking is with another idea! The ‘idea,’ he smiled, exultant, answering everything, and echoing my heart, “of love!”
Little Ahmed stood on the stone parapet and pointed to a figure toiling up the steps.
“It’s Aba! He’s walking up the path! He said he would come!”
Soon Ahmed appeared on the terrace, out of breath. He was swinging an enormous bag of tangerines. “Here!” he announced triumphantly, red cheeks puffed out. “Zorro said the thing to bring was tangerines. I have carried up five kilos of tangerines!”
Little Ahmed dashed over and pulled on his father’s hand and brought him over to us. Alexandre stood to greet him, courtly as ever. Zorro gave him a mock salute.
I said, “Hi, Ahmed.” Rousse squeezed my hand. Little Ahmed eagerly introduced the others to him. “This is Brother Thomas who makes honey and this is Father Angelo who gave me bread in the church.”
Father Angelo came forward in greeting, “You are welcome, come, sit,” and rolled up the sleeves of his robe.
“He’s going to wash your feet, Aba. It’s for humility.” I think Little Ahmed had confused humility and hospitality. Or maybe not. Father Angelo smiled.
“Would you like to help, my boy?” he asked. Little Ahmed nodded enthusiastically. Suds and splashing ensued. The hems of Ahmed’s chinos got soaked.
“It tickles!” Ahmed laughed and looked over at Rousse and me, watching him. “Is this what it’s like getting a pedicure, girls?” Rousse frowned. This was old grist between them. Ahmed would play the Arab male stereotype to prick Rousse’s feminism. She knew very well it was an act; it still drove her bananas.
Little Ahmed ran to the edge of the terrace.
“There are more people coming!” he yelled. Two men had reached the final flight of steps and we peered over the stone lip of the terrace to see their progress. They were bulky and huffing. One had a pistol tucked into his waistband.
“Friends of yours?” Alexandre asked Ahmed. “Did they follow you from Hama?”
“I parked at the cistern near the bottom,” said Ahmed. “I didn’t see anyone else.”
“Mukhabarat or thugs?” asked Jean.
“Same diff,” said Zorro.
We all peered over the wall. The monastery had always had a strained relationship with the government authorities. It was a barely tolerated outpost, anomalous. Father Angelo told everyone to sit down and gestured for the samovar to be brought out. He went through the low stone doorway to greet the two men. They had reached the top of the steps on the other side of the gateway where we could not see them. We stood uncertainly, waiting. I held Little Ahmed tightly by the hand and for once he did not squirm.
After several long minutes, Father Angelo emerged, the two men following as meekly as lambs. The one with the gun had put it away. The one with the stick held it deferentially behind his back. Father Angelo called for a basin of water to be brought. He knelt before them and washed their feet. We stood, watching, wary. No one spoke.
Father Angelo had a big head and bright blue eyes as if he had stared at the sky for too long. His size alone was enough to fill your vision. His stillness and those eyes, blue like the planet earth seen from space, were mesmeric. When he looked at me, I felt myself subject to an all-seeing laser. Instinctively, I wanted to please him. His trick of replacing your own desire for supplication with his own humility—his ritual feet washing—was deliberate and disarming.
When he had finished washing their feet, the big square man sat down on the low stool and pulled his socks and shoes back on. I could see the gun bulge under his leather jacket. At first he kept his hand on it, proprietary, but slowly he relaxed and his hands came together in his lap, like a patient boy listening to his catechism.
I marveled to see the threat overcome by sheer charisma. I have never seen it since. I have seen violence back down, threatened with other violence; I have seen violence break its stride, dissimilate, bide its time for another day. But I have never seen it persuaded like it was that day on the terrace high in the Syrian desert.
At first the two men would not say who they were and none of us asked.
“You are welcome, my friends,” said Father Angelo, opening his arms to them. “Please honor us with your company.”
We each introduced ourselves, as formally as a diplomatic reception. Alexandre assumed the role of majordomo. We were all foreigners and that seemed to satisfy them in some way.
Little Ahmed whispered in my ear, “These are not the droids you are looking for.”
Ahmed put out his hand and said his name.
“You are Arab,” the large square one said. He had a bristle beard, a thick gold chain around his neck, a black bomber jacket made of expensive supple leather. When he took it off, I saw it had a Dolce & Gabbana label.
“Yes,” admitted Ahmed, with a sigh, as if he wished he were not.
“Iraqi,” judged the square man.
“Yes.”
“You live in Syria?”
“I work for the U.N.”
“With the ambassador?” said the square man jerking his head in Alexandre’s direction.
Ahmed said, “No, but we are old friends.”
“No pictures!” growled his sidekick at Zorro, who had tentatively raised his Leica in their direction.
Zorro spread his hands innocently: “I’m only cleaning it.”
“And the boy?” The big square man pointed a stubby finger.
Little Ahmed looked up, alarmed.
Ahmed and I answered, at the same time: “He’s my son.”
The gong boomed for supper. An hour earlier than usual. Ahmed and I stood up, each taking one of Little Ahmed’s hands as he walked between us, Rousse behind, Zorro in front, Jean and Alexandre flanking.
We sat on benches around the low wooden table which the two Assyrian sisters had set with small wooden plates of olives, goat’s curd, bread, and a few precious tomatoes. Our two guests sat either side of Father Angelo. He bowed his heavy head, pressed his hands together, and said a prayer in Arabic.
Brother Thomas passed a bowl of honey to the square man, smiling and recounting the histories of his hives and describing the bees and the flowers of the desert plateau. Father Angelo poured wine from an earthenware jug. He raised his glass and spoke a homily to friendship among all men. The smaller man with fleshy earlobes and a low hairline pulled down to his eyebrows like the brim of a hat, loosened his suspicion and made a small salute and drank.
The larger one hesitated before he raised his glass, in countertoast—almost, it seemed, to challenge Father Angelo’s dominion.
“To our country! To Syria!” he pronounced. He looked around the table expectantly. We complied and raised our glasses with him. “To the president, who protects us from our enemies.”
“To peace,” said Father Angelo, amending, parrying.
“To freedom,” added Ahmed. As usual, he couldn’t help himself.
“Freedom is a Western conceit,” replied the square man. “An Iraqi should know this. How are you enjoying the freedoms that America has brought you?” He made a piggy snort.
“Democracy,” Ahmed conceded, “cannot be built in a day. The most stable democracies have evolved over many decades.” The big man laughed heartily.
“God keep us from your democracy! I have studied political theory! Freedom and democracy are only words on paper. The Americans want to use them against us, but what does a good Syrian, taken care of, kept safe and secure
by his government, need with these words? They are shouting them on the streets because they read them on foreign websites. But they don’t know what they mean. I’ll tell you what freedom means. It means the destruction of safety and security. Ask the Egyptians and the Libyans how much their freedom costs and what is its reward.”
“Where did you study political theory?” asked Ahmed, mock polite, making conversation.
The square man said he was a professor, but he didn’t teach anymore. He said he had written many books, but when Jean asked him about them, he said their titles were not important. He said he had lived abroad, in Europe, in America, in Arab countries and other places. He gestured in a large circular wave of his hairy hand.
“I am known as the most generous man in my village. Everyone loves me there. When I return, they come out of their houses and slaughter their sheep. My hospitality is known in the whole district. If you were guests in my home, I would make a feast that would cover three tables and last for days . . .” He opened his mouth wide as if to gulp the meager monastery fare in one swallow, and I saw that his molars were rotten black.
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