Faded Glories

Glittering Dubai and dynamic Doha are the usual travel spots for visitors to the Middle East. Syria, with its great history and unique sights, offers different attractions. Marc-Antoine Dunais goes down Syria way.

On Christmas Eve, scores of travelers, revelers and believers huddled under a large elongated tent, desperately trying to beat the brutal cold of the western Syrian desert. At one end of the tent, presiding over this ragtag bunch was Father Paolo, bellowing kindheartedly to guests as olives, cheese, soup, bread and copious amounts of hot tea made their way around the assembly.

Here in Mar Musa, a restored sixth century monastery, Father Paolo cuts an intriguing figure. After all, he is a Jesuit, a representative of the Christian faith in a predominantly Muslim country. And although he is just one of possibly thousands of religious ambassadors to have come to Syria, his story is quite unique: stone by stone, he has spearheaded the restoration of a mountain-flank monastery for more than two decades, while reaching across to Muslim communities.

Cast in a historical perspective, Father Paolo's story is not as unlikely as it may seem. As we traced our way across Syria's ancient sites, jumping between millennia in the space of a few hours, we peeled back one historic layer after another to reveal a country that has alternately been dominated by pagans, Christians, Muslims and even Jews.

Nowhere is this diversity of influences better illustrated than in Aleppo. Dodging our way through the maddening traffic, cursing at demonic yellow taxis that squirreled away the precious few inches of space between cars, we eventually found a semblance of peace in the city's old quarter (old is relative; some sources claim that the town has been populated since the eleventh millennium B.C.) This is a realm of narrow, crooked streets that are the territory of cats and garbage, boys playing soccer, and cavernous souk (shopping lanes) that offer anything from kebab to carpets.

At its busiest hours, the souk comes alive with a busy trade of spices, meats, textiles, clerics bent over religious texts, and the mandatory carpet seller who knows exactly where you're from (Francais, n'est ce pas? Zinedine Zidan!). Carts brush past bikes that have seen a good part of last century, weaving their way around a bunch of women haggling with the apothecary, oblivious to boys scurrying by with a platter of hot tea cups...  A poster in a street-side pharmacy yanks us back to the present: a photo of Hizobollah leader Hassan Nasrallah, who in 2006 egged on militants in Lebanon to attack northern Israel. It turned out later that Nasrallah has quite a following in Syria...  

Walk a few blocks from the souk and this lively pandemonium suddenly gives way to Aleppo's legacy to medieval times--the citadel. The word fortification does poor justice to the imposing mass of this edifice, which projects very clearly the message it was built to convey: you can't take us down. But take it down they did. As we made our way up into the edifice, over the moat and under the towering gate, we retraced the footsteps of Greeks, Romans, Byzantines, Ayyubids and Mamluks who had evicted each other in turns over the centuries. The conquest of this site could only have been achieved with considerable human losses. During the Ayyubid period, the entrance to the citadel was expanded into an ascending tunnel that twists six times according to 90 degree abrupt turns; above, openings allowed the defenders to douse attackers with hot liquids, with perhaps a shower of arrows for good measure.

Torn down by earthquakes and invaders, restored by conquerors and philanthropic organizations, the citadel today is a three-dimensional complex of fortifications, arsenals, baths, granaries and mosques in various stages of decay (or reconstruction). One of the most breathtaking parts of the site is the throne hall, a sprawling room overlooking the citadel's access ramp, where Mamluk sultans officiated in style. To really appreciate the genius and refinement of the hall, one must tilt the head back: the entire ceiling is decorated with lavishly decorated wooden patterns, with an octagonal dome in the center that brings in light through multicolored stained glass windows. The friendly madness of the souk suddenly feels far away.

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Eventually, I spotted a dimly lit neon sign claiming "internet service", which led me to a basement where a dozen or so Syrian young men were interfacing with their computers. "Internet?". I confirmed."Passport?". Passport? They took my details down, along with an explanation of why I wanted to use the internet and I was granted permission to use a terminally dysfunctional computer that labored on a 56k modem connection. In the cigarette smoke, I lasted 20 minutes before making a dash for the exit.
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If you set out northwest from Aleppo, navigating past row after row of dreary suburban residential blocks, the terrain eventually begins to undulate and you find yourself driving through a rocky but pleasant landscape of olive groves, muddy nondescript villages covered with satellite dishes and countless historical ruins--the 'Dead Cities' of Byzantine times. It is in this area that some 1,500 years ago, a recluse man called Simeon gained notoriety for his austere interpretation of Christian faith: Extreme fasting, self-inflicted wounds and an aversion to communal life. To escape from the growing number of faithfuls who came to see him from afar, the ascetic eventually isolated himself by living at the top of a pillar. Today, the modest remains of the pillar can still be seen at the intersection of four derelict basilicas built in St Simeon's name.  

Despite battering by earthquakes, wars and rough winters, the ruins' richly carved pillar capitals, elegant friezes, and monumental building blocks are testaments of Christianity's architectural legacy in the region. Back in its heyday, this grand site would have echoed with the chants of pilgrims and the fragrance of incense. Today, it is the domain of silence and wild grasses.

To go further back in time, we headed south to another dead town--the Roman city of Afamia (Apame). There is a certain dream-like quality to city's main street (Via Colonnata), lined on either side by the remains of once continuous colonnades that stretched for approximately 1.8 kilometers from one end to the other. That's about all that remains of a once sprawling urban center that housed half a million souls. But even today, wandering down the uneven pavements laid down some 2,000 years ago by the Romans, the tattered remains of Via Colonnata don't fail to impress by the size of the pillars and the refinement of their decoration.

We eventually reached Aleppo's southern cultural arc nemesis, Damascus, its historical center nested in a gangue of depressingly drab suburban sprawl. Having successfully put away our car the local way (triple parking) we entered the old town through its landmark souk--Al Hamidiyeh. What Aleppo's counterpart souk lacks in class, Al Hamidiyeh more than makes up for it with its high vaulted roof, ample natural lighting and elegant shop facades that house textile, gift and jewelery stores. The signs in the shop windows give away the origins of the local clientele--Russian, Greek, and English.

Caught in the stream of visitors, we soon found ourselves washed to the imposing walls of the Umayyad (or Grand) Mosque, one of the most glorious edifices of its kind in the Muslim world. Whereas the streets of the old town of Damascus excel in their lack of linearity, the gates propel you into a vast, open rectangular courtyard with a marble floor, flanked by the prayer hall on one side and covered walkways that enclose the rest of the space.

As in so many other holy sites in the region, the Grand Mosque hides its past well. Initially the site of a temple for an Aramean god in 1000 BC, it was next dedicated to Jupiter by the Romans (100 AD). Three centuries later, the temple was reconverted to become a Christian site, with its church dedicated to John the Baptist. In the seventh century, Muslims and Christians would pray side by side. This period of inordinate religious harmony was broken during the eighth century by an overzealous caliph, who destroyed the church and erected the mosque as we see it today (with an indemnity paid to the Christians in compensation).

Back at Mar Musa, Father Paolo continues his own personal crusade, one where the growing stream of visitors to the monastery and the communities at large can bridge different faiths, beliefs and languages. Syria's tumultuous past suggests that such a delicate balance is a rare artifact rather than a recurring trend. At least, here on the fringe of the desert, a microcosm of harmony may subsist briefly, and perhaps even make its mark in Syria's history. 

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