A House in Damascus - Before the Fall Read online

  It is a place to soak up rather than explore because, to the surprise of many, there is not that much to see. Most devotees raced through the "sights", then simply sprawled in the prayer hall pleased to be a close part of one of the great Islamic experiences, refreshed and re-committed from having been there. That is probably what all great spiritual places do: create a space in which revision can occur, reworking the individual faith that goes to make up a far greater collective. There is an unfathomability to it—it looks too simple. It cannot be that simple. Islam, as portrayed in the West, all too often has a hard edge that is impossible to find in a monument like the Umayyad Mosque. Once more there is a gap between image and reality to be explored and explained, not ignored in favour of an easier branding that serves other purposes.

  From the main bedroom upstairs in the house, the view out its flyscreen-covered windows behind the lattice shutters was of the Jesus Minaret at the southeast corner of the Mosque. The ladder up to its peak was almost in touching distance so that the muezzin, if he ever climbed up there again (he would now only do so to check if the loudspeaker was working), would be clearly visible. Not too far away, in the Shaghour district, there is said to lie the grave of Bilal, the Ethiopian who was the prophet's first muezzin in Mecca, but come to Damascus after the leader's death. At night, the Minaret was lit brightly, shining through the bedroom door and window as a constant reminder of just how long the Mosque had been there and, intriguingly, just how long people must have been living on the house site. From the little balcony outside that bedroom, I could see the Dome of the Eagles. A scramble up onto the bathroom roof near the water tank revealed the Minaret of Qait Bey on the south western corner of the Mosque, and through to the Minaret of the Bride in the middle of the northern wall, just down from the tomb of Salah ah-Din (better known in the West as Saladin). This house site has long had a presence with the Mosque and especially, then, with the Jesus Minaret.

  The idea of the Jesus Minaret being in the Mosque surprises those who believe Islam and Christianity to be so far apart as to have nothing whatsoever in common. There are, in fact, points of commonality along with the differences. This minaret dates from the 13th century, and was probably built in stages, because it has a classic Umayyad base topped by a distinctly Ottoman upper section. In many ways it captures the syncretic, synthesising nature of the Mosque incorporating those pre-Greek pagan foundations as well as the Greek, Roman other formations that preceded it.

  One interesting sidebar reveals a little of this Christian-Muslim paradox. In the mid-nineteenth century, the author of Murray's guide pointed out a particular inscription that readers should inspect in the Umayyad Mosque:

  Thy Kingdom, O Christ, is an everlasting Kingdom,and Thy dominion endureth throughout all generations.6

  The writer reflected on how strange it was to discover that here—was it to be interpreted as a rebuke, or as an encouragement from Islam for closer engagement between the faiths? More the former than the latter, it seems, because this followed:

  God grant the time may soon come when it will be an appropriate motto for this noble structure.

  The other major nineteenth century guide books picked up on both the inscription and, in different ways, the wishful thinking: the Umayyad Mosque had something of a Christian heritage, so the demise of Islam would return the building to its rightful state. The Reverend W.M. Teape wrote: "the Mahommedan has dealt harshly with the magnificence of the church." He had hope, though, because the cup and leaves etching on the doors, he thought, could mean only the Eucharist.7

  However, in retrospect, the Murray guide sentiment was not surprising. Although unacknowledged, the author was the Reverend Josias Leslie Porter, resident in Damascus between 1849 and 1859 when he served as a missionary to the Jews on behalf of the Irish Presbyterians.8 That admixture could scarcely be stranger. Born in 1823, the son of a wealthy Donegal loyalist farmer, Porter trained initially in Glasgow before being appointed to a parish in Newcastle. From there he went to the Levant to begin his mission, but also to begin writing what would be a string of books on the region and on religion. He married the daughter of his Church's Moderator whom he later succeeded, before coming President of Queens College in Belfast where he died in 1889.

  Writing the guide was lucrative, reflecting the popularity of Syria amongst the well off travelling public. For the first edition Porter was paid the substantial sum of £382/4/0. In 1868 he received a further £101/5/0 for producing the second edition. In 1875 he earned another £210. The book was clearly popular because after Porter's death another religious man, the Reverend Haskett Smith, was commissioned to take it over and he produced the fourth edition. Haskett Smith, however, turned out to be more troublesome writer for Murray.

  He was born the son of a London cleric and graduated from Cambridge before taking holy orders. A teacher and a cleric before going to the Levant, he lived for a time on Mount Carmel, then bought land in the Druze country. Like Porter he wrote several books but, unlike his predecessor, Haskett Smith turned that into an industry, embarking on magic lantern lecture tours all over the world, including Australia and New Zealand. Some of his writings were controversial, such as a suggested link between Druze social practices and those of the Masonic orders, of which he was a member. One acid reviewer of his work remarked that "It would not be strange if Mr. Smith has been hoaxed by some astute Oriental."9 He was also a controversialist, some of his suggestions about the history of Jerusalem causing considerable discussion. It seems he became too exciting for Murray, because in 1905 he was quietly replaced on the Palestine and Syria volume by Mary Brodrick.

  She was born the daughter of a London solicitor in 1858, and showed great perseverance in becoming one of the first women students of Egyptology at the Sorbonne in Paris, prior to joining the University of London in 1888 where she had a long tenure before her death in 1933. For several years around the turn of the twentieth century she was based in Cairo, working with all the leading names in archaeology while living on one of the great Nile houseboats that became something of a salon. There is still a lecture in her name at University College London. She obviously had safer hands than Haskett Smith so far as Murray was concerned, because they gave her charge of the guidebook even though she knew relatively little of Syria.

  What seems to have escaped all these august writers, however, was that the Mosque's minders obviously saw value in their visits. Somewhere between 1858 (when the Murray guide appeared) and 1876 (when the Thomas Cook variation was published), this great Islamic centre was opened to foreign tour groups. No more than twenty people could visit at a time, and the price per group was twenty French francs.10 The authorities were charging the tourists to come and see the slogan at which they could then rail once back outside.

  According to the Islamic tradition, the Jesus Minaret marks the spot where Jesus will descend on the Day of Judgment, prepared to fight the anti-Christ. The symbolism of anti-Bashar al-Assad demonstrations staged near the Mosque a few months later had powerful resonance.

  A Manager From Melbourne

  ~

  He awaited the first morning after I checked into his excellent hotel in Bab Touma. Two years in the making, an old Damascene house was now a boutique hotel visible from the square and accessible up Al Hammam Bakri.

  His English was excellent and he was a short, neat, trim bundle of energy.

  "You are from Australia? Where abouts?

  Melbourne.

  'I worked in Fitzroy for six years, in restaurants. I am an Australian citizen and so are my kids, and I have a sister there and another in Sydney."

  People like him had been coming from Syria to Australia for a very long time. In 1891, the census recorded 142 Syrians living in Victoria, while Sydney already had an identified "Syrian Quarter." That was slightly misleading, because for a long time all Lebanese migrants (who began coming to Australia in the 1850s) were identified as Syrians. With the onset of the 1901 White Australia policy the Syrian/Lebanese inflow
slowed, but by 1921 there were still over 400 identified Syrians in Victoria, and the figure stuck around that level until the 1960s. A steady growth from then meant that by 2011 there were approximately 7,000 clearly identified Syrians living in Australia, primarily in Melbourne and Sydney. Of the contemporary community about 60% identify as Christian and 33% as Muslim, with a significant number nominating no religious affiliation. Statistically the community shows up strongly in retail and manufacturing occupations but, significantly, underscores the general migrant community and the Australian non-migrant sectors on most significant measures such as educational qualifications and income. Their most obvious presence comes in the form of organisations like the Syrian Orthodox Church with its distinctive buildings, patriarchs and rituals.

  Over the years Australia has maintained a fleeting connection with Syria, in two major forms: either as part of regional parliamentary delegations such as the one in 2003 that visited Israel and Lebanon as well as Syria; or more latterly as concern arose about the activities of Hamas and Hezbollah that came to have their headquarters in Syria. That last issue became the subject of constant reference in the Australian Parliament as Department of Foreign Affairs and Attorney-General representatives announced the latest sanctions. In among that came things like representatives from the travel industry protesting the levels of "travel advisories" to places like Damascus where, industry figures suggested, they were as safe and perhaps even safer as they were anywhere—a comment echoed by most travellers to Damascus before the troubles of 2011 began.

  My manager friend, then, was part of a long line of Syrians who had developed Australian connections, and I soon met others. Several taxi drivers said they had family members or relatives in Perth, Sydney or Melbourne. The man in the souk who sold me sheets and pillows asked from whence I came. He had a sister in Melbourne and a brother in Sydney whom he hoped to visit soon because he missed them. I wonder if he has achieved that yet? While staying at a hotel in a very small village looking up to the ramparts of the mighty Krak Des Chevaliers out past Homs, I went down the street to one of two restaurants. When it came time to order, the young man asked, inevitably, was I Australian?

  Well, yes, Australian and a New Zealander.

  "Where do you live?"

  Near Melbourne.

  "I have a sister studying in Melbourne and I am saving money so that I can go and study, too."

  He got a good tip.

  A Taxi to Work

  ~

  Yellow taxis in various states of disrepair almost swamp Damascus with their numbers. They are everywhere, all the time, and are as likely encountered in an impossibly narrow Old City laneway as outside the wall on the main roads.

  They keep the city moving. The microbuses are cheaper for people coming in from the outskirts or even from around the country, but have a fearsome reputation for being overcrowded and driven by daredevils. For SYP 10 you can reach the Old City from the farthest flung new concrete suburbs mushrooming all over the hills. And the newer big buses do a good job of transporting people about the country. But taxis reign supreme in the city proper. They are cheap, too. A ride from Hariqa to, say, Umawiyeen Square (which is really a traffic circle and one of the major vehicle circuses) might cost SYP 25 on the meter and 50 with a tip, about $US1 at that point. While car ownership was booming, most people still travelled by taxi because it was affordable, and avoided parking dramas.

  There were fewer more entertaining moments than watching Citroen, Peugeot and even Chevrolet vintage enthusiasts parking in the Old City, or navigating the corners. Enthusiasm definitely replaced common sense for these people as it does, let's face it, for anyone keen on cars. Many Syrians are no different in this respect, otherwise why would Hummers appear on the streets of Damascus? Given the potential for serious wear and tear, why would anyone here run an Audi Q7, a BMW 740IL, a Mercedes 500 or any similar vehicle? The Landrover Discovery makes some sense in that the driver can see over everything else and it is handy once out of town, which is why many of them have Kingdom of Saudi Arabia plates having swept their owners up through the desert, the modern replacement for the camel.

  The taxi, then, was cheap transport and even cheaper entertainment, if sometimes producing more adrenalin flow than normally contemplated.

  The first decision was really about what sort of ride was contemplated. If the answer to that question was "calm", then a ready rule of thumb was to look for a taxi that seemed well cared for, shiny, polished and free of scrapes and dents. The driver might be old or young (but always male), but the car was the giveaway. Unless it was brand new out of the showroom, then that car likely had a careful driver.

  By definition, the reverse was also true. If "adventure" was desired, the battered car with dust and tape its covering holes was the answer. The more battered the better, and the jackpot had been hit if the seatbelt in the front did not work, the seat itself rocked uncontrollably, and all its springs had apparently been dropped somewhere near Homs.

  The careful driver would almost certainly provide a steady ride to the destination, little or no commentary on the behaviour of fellow road users, and the meter would invariably go on. You would be asked to put on the seatbelt if sitting in the front. Belts were not then mandatory in the backseat, that law was apparently in the offing.

  Of all Syria's interesting reforms before the disturbances of 2011-12, the one most foreigners prized was that governing speed on the roads. The Government imposed a strict speed of 110kph on the open road, 80 in other areas and 50 around town. The consequent reduction in the road toll was dramatic in a country where President Bashar al-Assad only came to office because his elder brother Basel died in a car crash. For anyone who had travelled the roads elsewhere through the Arab world, like neighbouring Jordan, this new regime was a blessing. No 180kph races on the highways, no 110 rides around the city, no racing to beat the oncoming car now heading directly at you at 130 kph. A trip to Homs, Lattakia or Aleppo, or even out in the desert was now relatively benign, traffic-wise at least, so that the emphasis was on watching the sights rather than cramping up from clutching the emergency grip too tightly.

  That did not mean the taxis were dull, though, especially if "Battered For Adventure" was the vehicle selected. One day, the drive to work came courtesy of a very nice man with a "sensible driver" vehicle. We set off from behind the Hamidiyeh at dignified pace, swung around in front of the Citadel and down past Souk Sarouja on the inside lane, back under the flyover and out onto Shukri Al Qwatli. While calmly waiting for the traffic lights to change there, the driver pointed out a traffic policeman renowned across the city, apparently, as "the nice one" who had been on duty there for years. It was all very peaceful.

  Somewhere around the Four Seasons hotel, however, a boy racer cut across in front of us, spurted forward then back out again in front of another car. His Kia had a throaty roar. For some reason Mr Sensible took immediate offence. He floored the accelerator, also slipped between two cars and set off in pursuit. Follow that car. He caught the racer near what was then still called the Dedeman Hotel but the boy spotted him in the mirror. We were jammed in on all sides, panels close to panels on either side, noses to tails front and back. That closeness made the speeds seem so much greater. Could we possibly escape this unscathed? The Kia held position across a couple of lines of traffic and the sensible one got frustrated, so cut back right to the edge of the inside lane, muscled up inside then in front of another car, this all at about 80kph in packed traffic. The racer held his nerve, and his line. My guy swung to the outside across about five lanes of traffic, then back across to position himself for the swing into the off ramp to Umawiyeen and round past the huge military centre patrolled by red-bereted soldiers carrying machine guns.

  The pair were nip and tuck, trying to out-manoeuvre each other. That was interesting here because on the roundabout six major roads fed in with a nominal "in turns" sequence sort-of commanded by the traffic police, many of whom were on national service and not
exactly career or "best practice" minded. "In turns" would never satisfy this pair, both barging their way through the six streams of traffic coming from down past the bottom of the office. At least the end was in sight and I might just survive. We raced up the hill, the Damascus Opera flashing by on the left, the National TV and Tadio buildings on the right. Respite came at the top. The boy racer went left, we turned right towards the front of the office. Mr Sensible immediately reverted to type, dropped me at the office, accepted the tip gracefully, wished me a good day, and took off in search of more clients.

  This man had considered himself provoked, but others came more naturally to the aggressive approach. Late one afternoon a "Battered For Adventure" taxi lurched to a halt outside the office, and we set off for Hamidiyeh. On that road late afternoon traffic is gridlocked but, never fear, we cut straight out across four lines to get pole position leading to the lights so we could then swing down past the Opera then back onto the "freeway", a misleading term at this time of day. The lights were with us. All the way around and down, we were a cigarette paper thickness from the cars in front and to each side as Fangio sought maximum advantage. It was warm, and all windows were open in all cars. I could have reached into the next car and taken a sip of the coffee the driver had in a holder in front of him. He looked at me, I looked at him, we exchanged smiles and quizzical looks. Then came the green light and Fangio took off, weaving in out of seemingly non-existent spaces. He certainly knew where his panels were because, on half a dozen occasions, impact seemed inevitable at 90kph and I was looking for somewhere, anywhere to go—but we missed everything.

  To be fair, technically everything missed us, evasive action taken by other drivers on all sides putting us in what NASCAR devotees know as "the bubble". We thus travelled all the way back into town threading through and across traffic, simply because others gave us space. The variation is this—what is the best way to go when there are cars either side and two in front? Easy. Simply drive right in between all adjoining vehicles and snuggle up to the two in front, at 80 kph, and especially the battered utility vehicle with all the pipes sticking out the back at about eye level on the passenger's side.