A House in Damascus - Before the Fall Page 6
At one point there were a lot of German groups in town (or "come from German" as one of my shopkeeper friends put it). One of these was trudging through the souk one day, and riding shotgun at the back was a very large German man. He was very tall, extremely broad, and considerably, well, fat. He trailed his colleagues in a way suggesting that rather being tail gunner, like the good ship Queen Mary he might take some time to change course. The obligatory camera at shoulder and interested in all the stalls, he was just like any other traveller/tourist/other—except for the attire. He had been in town long enough to buy a black and white keffiye, now employed as a bandana, Rambo-style. The aviator-style dark glasses came under that, even though the light in the souk was subdued. His T shirt was stretched to capacity, barely holding together. The footwear was the de rigueur Velcro-strapped sandals. That left the highlight. Somewhere on his Arabian travels he had contrived to both find and buy a pair of black, transparent Aladdin-type pants, drawn at the ankles. At least he did not go commando—the pantaloons were paired with white boxer undershorts that made a wonderful contrast, along with the visibly hairy legs. Like the Queen Mary, he drew much attention to which he feigned oblivion. The most remarkable feature of this extravaganza was that his minders allowed him out looking like this. What were they thinking? Perhaps he did not have any. Perhaps he was an individualist.
Many such individualists have visited Damascus over the centuries. As Colin Thubron recounts lyrically, the Greeks and the Romans were followed by waves of other invaders leading down to the Crusaders from Europe, before eventually the Ottomans took over for 400 years of rule ended by World War I, after which followed the brief French Mandate, then the independence of Syria through to the Baathists and the Assads. Through all that time, Damascus was visited and reported upon by some marvellously different people.
Crassus, of Julius Caesar fame, was once the ruler here. The great traveller Ibn Jubayr visited the Umayyad Mosque not that long after it was completed, and declared it one of the finest in the whole of Islam. He also declared Damascus itself "the Paradise of the Orient". A little under two hundred years later the even greater traveller, Ibn Battuta, thought that Damascus' only rival was Shiraz. By 1331 Venice had a consulate in Damascus, such was the city's international significance. In the 1480s, there were at least forty Venetians resident in the city, those numbers swelled again by more itinerant merchants in from La Serenissima. As Deborah Howard points out, a good many of these adapted their lifestyle and living quarters alla moresca (in the Moorish style), and frequently took houses outside the Christian Quarter.21 There was good precedent, then, for the House in Damascus. Thubron, again, points out that in 1499 Arnold von Harff, a knight from Cologne, produced possibly the first-ever guide book to the area and the city. In 1614 William Lithgow, a Scot, became the latest to describe Damascus as the "most beautiful place" in Asia, the definition of that region being broader then than now. By the nineteenth century, the flow of travellers had become a flood and included a bevy of bewilderingly different names: Mark Twain, Edward Lear, and the extraordinary Richard Burton, while into the twentieth came Gertrude Bell, Freya Stark, Wilfred Thesiger and, of course, Agatha Christie along with T.E. Lawrence.
Since that heyday, however, Syria and Damascus had rather fallen from view, mainly of late because of global politics that saw it placed high on the "travel advisory" warnings, posted by global governments more interested in constraining their insurance and legal liabilities than in giving a true picture about the local conditions. For many people, Syria became a "no go" zone, aggravated by the sanctions imposed following the George Bush "Axis of Evil" declaration in 2002, and it's even more pernicious derivative, "Beyond the Axis of Evil" produced by the acid-tongued John Bolton, the Bush hardliner at the United Nations.
One immediate nonsense proceeding from those sanctions, for example, concerned PayPal, supposedly the panacea for secure international financial transfer. Before coming to Damascus I booked a hotel online, and paid straightforwardly by PayPal as requested. So money was transferred into the pariah Syria. Once in Damascus, though, when I tried to book another hotel by the same method, that was blocked by PayPal on the grounds I was in a sanctioned country. So I could transfer funds into a sanctioned country from outside, but not within that same country. The logic of that remains elusive.
An American colleague captured another part of the paradox. Anxious about his reception, he braced himself for a response when first asked where he was from. When he replied, his questioner did not break stride or warmth of gaze: "You are welcome in Syria". In order to achieve that welcome, however, my colleague was technically required by the American authorities to renounce all citizenship rights and privileges and protection for the time he was in Syria, because he was in a forbidden state.
The result of such difficulties was that traveller numbers declined until the few years immediately prior to 2011, when Syria was "re- found" by growing numbers of tourists who, on the surface anyway, seemed to think that no-one else had ever heard of the place. That would have amused Crassus and all those others in times when Damascus was a place everybody went.
Nowadays, the intrepid explorers of Straight Street come armed with the Lonely Planet Guide, the Bradt Guide, or the curiously outdated Rough Guide, each catering to a slightly different audience. There seems now to be an inverse relationship between the numbers of travel guides advocating cultural sensitivity, and the numbers of tourists displaying none. Either they missed those pages on the way to the shopping ones or, more likely, considered those cultural pages as not applying to them. That stands reflected in the numbers of people who seem to think that buying the airline ticket to X actually means they have bought X itself. This attitude creates spectacular moments, such as an Italian's performance in Luang Prabang in the Lao People's Democratic Republic. The monks' morning rounds for alms gathering there is now a colourful magnet for everyone with a camera. This guy was armed with both still and movie cameras, and managed to get right in front of and under the noses of the monks at every point on the walk, so that they had somehow to get around him to do their daily work. He even managed to get between the monks and their devoted givers, a particularly dreadful act. Not content with that he later invaded the pagoda, putting himself and cameras between the novice monks and breakfast. It was a breathtakingly crass display of ignorance.
Our harem-panted friend did not cause that sort of intrusion, at least. Nevertheless, it might well be argued that the shopkeepers of the main Hamidiyeh arcade now had his type more in mind as their customers than those travellers on the lookout for a genuine piece of craft, an artefact, or an antique. Most of the shops carried standard textile items (many of them imported from Asia), ceramic musical instruments shaped as maps of Syria, brass objects, chess sets with Crusader pieces, standard wood ware boxes, guide books and maps (most not very good) along with other assorted knickknacks. These outlets were interspersed with a small number of outlets still stubbornly selling to the locals, especially women's clothes, a couple of ice cream shops and the very odd speciality venue like the musical instrument centre up near the Citadel end.
The real interest is off in the side alleys where, with diligence, both the everyday and the unusual may be found. It was in one of those alleyways I first encountered my Aramaic friend. He was in the same spot almost every day, a strategic location where the spice souk winds into the jewellery one. He would be either standing in front of or sitting on his chair, watching for customers whom he might escort to his shop a few metres away. It was a nice shop, a peaceful place with some nice things in among the usual range of mosaics, fabrics, jewellery, ceramics and the odd sabre. There was no sales pitch, just his pleasant company on a tour of inspection before he returned to his vigil, ready to greet people in English or German or French or Italian or Spanish, and he had a good eye for nationality. We exchanged greetings on many days, his post on my normal route home.
Busy day?
"Yes, high season, a lot fro
m German."
He knew a lot about the Germans, it emerged, because he had married one. This was another aspect of Damascus and Syria that continued to unfold, the number of foreigners who had married into the country, as it were, and seemed very happy with their lot. Somehow Syria seemed better at this than several other neighbouring countries, and much of that could then be put down to the fact that despite sanctions, there was strong Syrian interaction with and great knowledge about the rest of the world. It was one of the many promising features of Syrian life that suggested things might be returning to normal.
Busy day?
"Not so many now, low season. There will be more towards Xmas."
It is getting colder. Does that reduce the numbers of tourists?
"Not really, they still come, but in lower numbers."
This was the stock in trade of the stall holder. Many complained that business was slow no matter how many came, because tourists were leaving no money. They came, looked, touched, left. Sometimes they might even ask a price.
Early on in our discussions, he revealed he was an Aramaic speaker, the language of Christ, and so a Christian from Maaloula, a tiny place of about 2, 000 people in the mountains to the north of Damascus, and the last place on earth (including a couple of nearby small villages) to speak the language. The town is thus a literal connection with the Bible. That was yet another twist to the Damascus tale: here was a man from that unique background, working in Damascus surrounded by an inestimable number of variations on the faith scale, and doing so happily.
The day before I left Damascus, my last walk back through the souk, he was still there, if looking more tired than normal.
Are you ok, my friend?
"Yes", he replied, "the cold weather does not agree with me and there are not enough customers to take my mind off it. Would you like to come and visit my shop?"
Of course.
Souk Sarouja
~
Of course, part of Hamidiyeh's problem is that it has the name, so tour groups meander through daily, vainly trying to follow the fluttering flags held aloft by their harried leaders. Hamidiyeh has become as much a destination on the "tick off" list as an experience, and that by definition changes the place. Therein lies the irony that dogs many such places around the world: it is overwhelmed by popularity, so what made it great in the first place is now in danger of disappearing.
Right nearby, though, lies the antidote, a guide to something of what it was all like once. It takes a short walk to the right at the freeway end of Hamidiyeh, towards Salah ah-Din's statue outside the Citadel. Cross the little road that runs around the side of the Citadel, and then a small bridge over what in the drier seasons is a fetid offshoot of the Barada river, itself almost unrecognisable from its former glories. Just along from the bridge a row of old houses hang over the stream, festooned with leather and craft works put together by a craft guild. Immediately over the bridge on the right comes what looks like a dead-end covered laneway.
This is the beginning of Souk Sarouja, the Saddlemaker's Market that covers a huge area, wending in and out of neighbourhoods, broken up by new developments and even split by the highway that runs past Hamidiyeh. It is complex and fascinating, take any alley and a new world awaits. The fact that Sarouja sits immediately outside the Old City walls is indication enough of its age. The area probably began its real development during the fourteenth century, a spill over from the bustle and business of Hamidiyeh, in much the same way that the Midan developed immediately outside the walls to the southwest. These two areas were necessary to the continuing prosperity of the city then, but not necessarily or automatically considered part of it. Visitors throughout the years always distinguished the different areas but, while giving due deference to the main souk, were always careful to emphasise just how important areas like Sarouja were. By the nineteenth century, Sarouja was nicknamed "Little Istanbul" because of its popularity as a residential site among the Ottoman official caste, which also spilled over into the nearby Qanawat quarter, as well.
Sarouja was where the Bedouin came to buy the horse gear that can still be found today, in that first little alley just over the bridge. Half a dozen vendors crammed into small alcoves stock a profusion of the distinctive saddles, bags, covers, rugs, bridles, halters, leads, decorations and other equipment all made in the instantly recognised colours, mostly black and red but also green and red as well as some others. This is an immediate connection with the famous Arab equestrian past and tradition that many people in Syria and elsewhere in the region are trying to revive. It is a more immediate evocation of the rich past than anything encountered in Hamidiyeh.
Sarouja is also home to many of the great craft traditions, notably brass making. There are a couple of blocks in the area where the old style huge brass trays, jugs, ewers and cooking implements are made, amidst a fury of sparks, noise, water and hammering. The workshops sit alongside or behind the display rooms: the means of production for any piece is on direct show, what you see is what you get. That is no longer automatically the case in Hamidiyeh. There was a lovely touch in one especially busy if small alley hosting some exquisite pieces. Amidst the cacophony, sitting free on the top of their cage, were two gray parrots, every now and then adding their voices to the Babel going on around them. There are not that many birds to be seen in Damascus, apart from the free range pigeons around the Mosque and the homing ones housed in a myriad of lofts, so this was a welcome sight.
Wandering through Sarouja now takes a lot longer than the same exercise through Hamidiyeh, because it is seemingly endless. Tightly packed rows of small shops give way to older, larger and now abandoned buildings. The facades of old, once grander residences mask the desolation behind. Lorries navigate through impossibly small tunnels. Little alleyways open up to reveal marvellously eclectic building styles. Elegant little mosques with their graveyards dot the area, and bath houses still ply their trade. Business is everywhere: fresh fish, vegetables, clothes, bags, hardware, electrical goods, musical instruments. The butcher shops are especially striking, at least to Westerners for whom meat now appears either in packaged form at the supermarket, or in neatly arrayed trays at the butcher's. Here the carcases hang in sight, mostly in the open air outside the shop so that prospective customers might inspect them, then are attacked with large knives for whatever slab is required. Just near the house, almost on Straight Street, a poultry shop followed the same principle. The birds were hooked on a rail outside, awaiting selection by customers. Feathers and feet then flew about in a flurry of knife work, to the inevitable consternation of passing foreign tour groups.
Sarouja, is a strong reminder of how life was and in many ways remains for large numbers of Damascenes. There are modernities in the souk, yes, mostly in the form of the phone shops with all their deals offered by franchises said to be dominated by relatives of President Bashar al-Assad. That discussion about "connections" was never far away, and would increase in volume as the conflicts developed during 2011, a far cry from days not that long ago. Siham Tergeman's delightful memoir, Daughter of Damascus, recalls the close-knit social unity of Sarouja as she grew up there in the last days of the French mandate and the early ones of the "new" Syria.22 Something of the old conditions are remembered, too. Her "old" house, the one in which she grew up, had character along with snakes, scorpions, spiders, centipedes, lizards, rats, chameleons, mice, snails, ants and cockroaches.
We fled from the snakes in our beautiful Arabic house to a modern house where snakes don't come out of the walls, and neighbours also don't bother to greet each other. There in that old house lies my true essence which I can never relinquish for the sake of a smart, clean luxurious street in a new Damascus where houses rise high over the roofs of the city.23
Souk Sarouja still retains that atmosphere, as demonstrated in one particular trail. The walk through past the equestrian suppliers takes in some plumbing merchants, wholesale grocers and plastic goods providers before opening onto a little square where s
treet vendors sell vegetables and second hand goods. The street here is busy because it is a major by-pass around the Old City, and its possible extension had become the subject of a major heritage debate. A walk along to the right encountered some of these butchers where pedestrians might occasionally have to duck under flying chunks. Then came a covered arcade leading off diagonally to the right, a formerly grand space now down at heel and peopled by metal merchants, building suppliers and electricians. This was still a tradesmen's area. Further in, though, the arcade changed. Handmade shoe suppliers appeared, alongside their more commercial counterparts. Craft shops popped up, along with small restaurants and teashops. Nargileh suppliers were numerous. By now the arcade had given way to a narrow winding alley. Off to the right came more of these treasures, while away to the left lay the Shia quarter. The alleys were packed with people all impatient to be somewhere else, so leisurely browsing was a challenge. This entire, vast area is a working space rather than a tourist one, then, pockets of intensive trading interspersed with residential quarters. Traders might set up shop by simply laying a large cloth on the ground from which to sell their vegetables or fruit or second hand goods. Others pushed hand carts piled high with peanuts in the shell or other produce.