Category: Syria

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Assassins

Because it was on the way, and because we will be visiting other Assassin castles in Iran, we took a detour on our way to Krak des Chevaliers to see Misyaf fort. The fort itself is not particularly noteworthy, but I thought I would take this opportunity to provide a little background on the Assassins.

To explain the origins of the Assassins, it is necessary to go back to the early years of Islam, in the seventh century. After the death of Mohammed in 632, there arose a dispute as to who should succeed his role as the (religious and political) head of the Islamic world. One faction supported Ali, cousin and son-in-law of Mohammed, while others supported Abu Bakr. Abu Bakr was elected the first caliph (or successor to Mohammed), followed in relatively quick succession by Umar, Uthman, and then finally Ali. Showing the contentiousness of the power struggles at the time, Umar, Uthman and Ali each met his end by murder. Some blamed the death of Uthman on the Ali faction (now known as Shiites), while the Shiites blamed the death of Ali on the others (now known as Sunnis). Following the death of Ali, the Sunni Umayyad dynasty, based in Damascus, took over the caliphate. During this period, the conflict between the majority Sunnis and the Shiites deepened, especially after the Umayyads killed Ali’s son Hussein, much of his family and many of his followers, at Karbala in now Iraq, following an uprising.

While the Shiites have been out of the majority and power in most of the Islamic world since, there have been significant times and areas when they came into control. One of the most important areas was and remains Iran, where Shiites form a majority. Another was the Cairo-based Fatimid caliphate (910-1171, named after Fatima, daughter of Mohammed and wife of Ali), which ruled much of North Africa, Egypt and nearby lands.

In 1094, the Fatimids suffered from their own succession problem. Some of the Shiites in Iran refused to accept the Fatimid ruler in Cairo and formed a somewhat radical rebel group, known as the Assassins.

As you may know, the word “assassin,” which we use now to describe a professional killer, derives from the Assassins, who are called Assassins because it was rumored that they took hashish before embarking on their missions. And much like the contemporary English meaning of the word and its derivative, assassination, the missions of the Assassins, their method of operation, was murder: the strategic killing of Sunni Muslim leaders, including those of the Seljuk (Turks) of Anatolia and attempts on the life of Saladin. The Assassins would work by embedding an operative, sometimes over the course of years, in order to murder, or assassinate, a prominent leader or otherwise powerful or influential person.

Saladin’s greatest success, prior to his defeat of the Crusaders at the Battle of Hattin in 1187, was the conquest of Egypt from the Fatimid caliphate in 1171. After terminating Fatimid rule, Saladin wanted to consolidate his (Sunni) control over the region, including by wiping out the Assassins, who had expanded into now Syria from their bases in Iran and were particularly active under the leadership of Rashid al-Din Sinan, also famous to the Crusaders as the Old Man of the Mountains. In 1176, Saladin sieged the castle of Misyaf, an Assassin stronghold since 1140. According to legend, Saladin woke up one morning during the siege to find on his bed a dagger or poisoned cake and a threatening note, making clear that the Assassins had infiltrated his camp and could murder him at their will. The siege was called off.

The Assassins were largely destroyed (along with so many others) by the Mongols in the 13th century, although some descendent communities are believed to exist today.

Column capital at Misyaf, evidence of earlier fortifications at the site

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photo religion Syria

Umayyad Mosque of Damascus

At the heart of the old city of Damascus, or shall I say *the* heart of the old city, is the Umayyad, or Great, Mosque, one of the first monumental buildings of Islam (finished in 715, only 83 years after the death of Mohammed), on a site that has been a place of worship since at least 900 BC (and perhaps much further back–the history of Damascus goes back to perhaps 5000 BC). A history of the mosque is a history of Damascus itself, and in some ways a history of the world.

Door detail

The most obvious way to reach the Great Mosque is through the Hamidiye Souk, the biggest market in the old city of Damascus. Although the broad, uniform market that you see today dates from Ottoman times, the street itself and its existence as a commercial thoroughfare dates from (at least) the Roman period, when a colonnaded street led directly to the western entrance to the Temple of Jupiter that was located on the present site of the Great Mosque.

Typical scene, Hamidiye Souk

Remains of Roman arches outside the western (main) entrance to the mosque

After the Roman Empire adopted Christianity as its state religion in the fourth century AD, the Temple of Jupiter was converted into a Christian church dedicated to John the Baptist. Walking around the mosque to the south wall you see a remnant from the Christian church, above a doorway that is now blocked. In Greek, the language of the eastern Roman (or Byzantine) empire, an inscription of Psalm 145 reads, “Your Kingdom, Christ, is an everlasting kingdom, and your dominion endures throughout all generations.”

[picture to come]

But the Christian Byzantine Empire’s hold on Damascus did not endure. In 636, just a few years after Mohammed’s death, Arab Islamic power seized Damascus, which joined an empire that would stretch all the way from now Spain to Central Asia. And in 661, with the start of the Umayyad dynasty, which temporarily transformed the caliphate (or head of the Islamic world) into a hereditary, quasi-monarchical institution, Damascus became the capital of the Arab Empire (a status it would hold for a bit under a hundred years, when the caliphate moved east to Baghdad).

Initially, relatively little changed in the life of the newly conquered cities, which were set in their well-established historical patterns. Greek and other non-Arabic languages remained in wide use, and Jews and Christians were allowed to continue to worship according to their own customs, with few limitations (Islam respects Judaism and Christianity as predecessor faiths in the same tradition and to the same god). But as Islamic power became more established the empire wanted to express its prestige in the form of Islamic architecture (not least of all to match the tremendous Christian architecture that was already all over the Levant and the Byzantine Empire). In 691, Umayyad caliph Abd al-Malik built the Dome of the Rock, on the Temple Mount in Jerusalem. Caliph al-Walit, son and successor to al-Malik, wished to endow Damascus with a similarly magnificent structure and negotiated with the local Christian community for the site of the Church of John the Baptist. In 715, the Great Mosque of Damascus was completed.

Arab control over now Syria has also been interrupted. In the eleventh century, the Crusaders landed on the coast, and thrice attacked but never captured Damascus, in the twelfth century. Just to the north of the Grand Mosque is the tomb of the leader Saladin, who defeated the Crusaders in the late 12th century to restore Arab Islamic control over the eastern Mediterranean. Saladin, who was ethnically Kurdish, was renowned by all not only for his military victories but his sense of fairness and mercy in his treatment of conquered Christians (unlike some of the Crusaders, who committed horrible atrocities against conquered Muslims). After a period of Mamluk control, the Ottoman Empire ruled over Damascus until the end of the first World War, when the French controlled Syria under a quasi-colonial “mandate.” Syrian independence arrived after World War II.

Saladin’s marble tomb on right, with tomb of his secretary on left

Let us enter the mosque. Islamic sites (like Hindu sites and those of other religions, I suppose) differ on whether non-Muslims may enter. Generally in Syria, we have found that all are welcome, even in the holiest sites such as the Umayyad Mosque and its shrines.

Looking in from the northern door

Of course, proper attire is required, which for some women (including improperly dressed Muslim women) means the borrowing of a rather ugly brown robe, giving the impression that a group from some Druid cult is visiting the mosque.

The Great Mosque was one of the largest buildings of its time and is said to have cost a tremendous sum, inviting criticism of the lavish spending by the Umayyad leaders. The center of the mosque is a large courtyard surrounded by columns, some of which date from the previous Christian, and even pagan, structures at the site. Most of the surfaces surrounding the courtyard were covered with rich mosaics. The many remaining or restored mosaics in place today give a true splendor to the courtyard, although sadly most of the originals were destroyed in various disasters (Mongol invasions, earthquakes and fires).

Courtyard, facing west

Restored mosaic

While mosques are of course places of worship, as a theological matter they are more like convenient gathering places than consecrated ground, and you can find family and youth using the courtyard of the Great Mosque as something like a public park or playground, lending the space a levity of spirit matched by the lightness of the reflective marble floor. Plenty of children seek to interact with the foreign tourist, girls shyly peeking while boys ask to have their picture taken.

On the north side of the courtyard (left, on the picture of the courtyard above) lies the prayer hall, topped at the center by a high dome. The prayer hall itself is a cavernous space, with three “aisles” formed by large transverse arches. The feeling of the space is much like a basilica (perhaps because the layout is not dissimilar from that of the former Church of John the Baptist), but worship is not oriented along the aisles toward an altar but across the narrow width, to face the mihrab, or prayer niche facing Mecca, which is the central feature of all mosques. Central courtyard plus “church-like” interior prayer hall is the typical Arabic mosque style, to be distinguished from Turkish or Iranian styles. Reflecting the continuity from Christianity to Islam, and from Christian church to Islamic mosque, one of the largest features of the prayer hall of the Great Mosque is a shrine that is said to contain the final resting place of the head of John the Baptist, where it is venerated by Muslims and Christians alike. The relic was reportedly found in a crypt when the Great Mosque was constructed in the 8th century.

Shrine of John the Baptist, prayer hall

Another reminder that Islam sees itself as the successor to Jewish and Christian tradition is that Islam considers Jesus to be a prophet (along with the notables of the Old Testament). Built in the 13th century while the city was under M
amluk control, the Minaret of Jesus stands on the southeastern corner of the Great Mosque.

Minaret of Jesus, seen above a Roman arch

Perhaps the most interesting thing about the Great Mosque is that, like so many other sites of worship, it has been a sacred place for so many different faiths. Religious worship is oddly conservative–even as the gods and the dogma change radically, holy sites persist, sometimes along with forms of worship. Presumably, much of this is due to “new” religions adopting sites and practices of older faiths, which had held places of prestige and reverence in local populations for centuries prior. While in the case of the Great Mosque of Damascus, some of the reason was likely practicality–nowhere else in the heart of the city was there such a large, open site, prebuilt with walls and other structures–continuity of places of worship is such a common phenomenon that other factors were also likely at play. It is an interesting pattern indeed, and perhaps one I will cover in a future post.

Nighttime

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Being American in the Arab World

Being an American has become, especially of late, a politically sensitive matter. I suppose this has been to a certain extent true for a while–any hegemon, by its ability to influence the course of events, is likely to have fans and detractors, and America has wielded superpower authority since at least World War II. Similarly, being European in the colonial age must have had its complications as well as conveniences, and the same for other ruling powers and their citizens in the span of time. But being American right now is particularly tricky; there is something of a global consensus that the U.S. government has abused its moral and military power, to embark on a series of misguided adventures that has endangered the world. These issues are at their most acute in the Arab world, which sees itself (and rightly so) as one of the principal targets of American militancy.

Fortunately, goodwill toward the U.S. has not totally worn, and people in Syria (and most other places we’ve been) are smart (or forgiving) enough to know that not all Americans support Bush and his policies. The response here to our stating that we’re American is universally “You are welcome,” with a heartfelt stress on “wel-come” as is the Syrian style. I may be imagining it, but I perceive that the locals want to make especially sure that we, as Americans, feel welcome, despite it all. People here (and around the world) still like and not dislike Americans (and infectious American culture). As one man put it, “Syrians love Americans. Everyone loves Americans.”

About two thirds of the time, our being American merits no special comment. But American tourists are relatively rare here, and sometimes there are some questions or comments. Often, people express, in one way or another, that while we are personally welcome, they disapprove of Bush and his policies. This gives us a chance to explain that we are in agreement with them, and look forward to the end of his presidency (this is actually fairly fun to gesticulate if the person we’re speaking to doesn’t speak English). If we have time, we explain how Bush is not only bad for Syria and the Arab world, but also for America, citing his environmental and tax policies, as well as Hurricane Katrina. Some people are also curious to hear what we think the prospects are for the next President. They want to know whether things will improve, under Hillary or Obama or McCain (when asked, they seem to prefer Hillary). U.S. policy affects the lives of people around the world, and Syrians are eager to have an insight into the U.S. domestic political process.

A fair number of times, people have asked us to tell Bush and other Americans what Syria is really like, that it is a safe place with good people. They have a sense of what our perception of the country is (mullahs and terrorists, or, perhaps as bad, complete ignorance), and want us to act as a witness to the truth (related post on “the real Syria” to come). Not even once yet in Syria have we faced hostility for being American.

[I should note that opinion in the Islamic Middle East is not totally uniform–one Kurd we met explained how he felt Bush to a liberator, a defender of freedom and a “brilliant and beautiful man.” He had similar feelings for Rumsfeld, Powell and Rice. I suppose I can see why some Kurds might have this perspective–but other Kurds we have met are of the same mind as the Syrian Arabs and us.]

One anecdote. We took a daytrip from Damascus to visit the convent at Sednaya (famous for an icon of the Virgin Mary that is revered by Christians and Muslims alike as a fertility shrine, but really is not very interesting). Having seen the church and icon, we were sitting outside a small bakery on the main road in town eating snacks (mini pizzas and small pies with meat–cheap, delicious and ubiquitous here), when a rather sturdily built man in his late thirties came out of a nearby store to greet us. He had the usual questions (where are we from, etc.) and asked us whether we had visited the church of St. Peter in town. When we said that we had not, he told us in his limited English to wait one minute, for he would take us. The minute stretched into ten, but we waited since we didn’t want to reject his kindness and I had read that the church was an interesting one, having been converted in Byzantine times from a Roman pagan building (a tomb?). Finally, he walked out of the store with a bicycle pump, which as the three of us strolled down the street he delivered at his modest home to his young son. Reaching the gate of the church, which was not far, he produced his ring of keys–it turned out that he was the custodian of several of the Greek Catholic churches in town (and without him we couldn’t have entered the church at all).

St. Peter’s of Sednaya is a functioning small church (10 meters square, 8 meters high), cubelike and austere. The doorway is partially blocked to require that worshippers bow as they enter.

We walked through the small church and went up to its roof via a set of narrow stairs. When we returned to the nave and rested in the pews, the custodian explained to us that he was from Iraq. He took out his UNHCR identification papers showing him to be a refugee in Syria, and explained that some of his other siblings were now in the U.S. Earlier, he had joked that my shoes resembled U.S. military shoes, but I had thought nothing of it–as it turns out, he was speaking from personal experience. With his limited English, he explained to us that he was an Iraqi Christian who fled Iraq after his young daughter was killed in the violence. It wasn’t clear from our conversation who was directly responsible, but it was clear that he blamed the U.S.–he couldn’t understand why the U.S. was there: Iraq was safe and secure under Saddam, including for religious minorities such as Christians, and then the U.S. came and destroyed it, causing death and chaos. From his point of view, the U.S. attack on Iraq didn’t make any sense at all, even as a religious war, which it seemed to us he thought it in part. He rolled up his sleeve to reveal a large tattoo of a cross on his forearm, and demonstrated how he showed it to the American soldiers who had mistreated him and his family, saying “I am a Christian–Why are you doing this to me?” Halfway into our conversation, he broke into tears.

I had been afraid of meeting my first Iraqi. I know, I may very well have unknowingly met Iraqis while living in New York, but somehow the consolation of living in the U.S. would seem to provide some compensation for the horrors that they must have faced from the war of our causing. Like so many immigrants before them, coming to America would provide a new start with fresh hope and opportunity. But here I was faced with a sobbing man who had lost a child, and was living not in his home in Baghdad but in a small Syrian village, feeding his family on what must be a meager income from the church and no doubt feeling in limbo, his life completely turned on its head. This is the freedom we brought to many hundreds of thousands, perhaps millions of Iraqis, and no doubt, he and his family were luckier than many others that were forced to flee or chose to stay.

In our shame, we didn’t know how to respond. We suggested that things could improve with a new president in the U.S. But, as he pointed out, it would make no difference to him–it was far too late. And perhaps it is too late for Iraq as well–the U.S. broke something that it cannot put back together again. We offered consolation and sympathy, and in the end left no doubt of our regret on a personal level for the faults of our nation. As much as Syrians may disassociate individual Americans from the Bush administration’s policies, we knew that living in a free democracy, the American people were largely to blame.

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Damascus

What I imagined as a child and young man, then came to the false realization that didn’t exist, thrives in the heart of the Middle East. Old Damascus came to us as something of a revelation, not one as life- and world-altering as that had by my biblical namesake here, but still something that will change the way I view the world, as travel to somewhere so different and exciting, the discovery of something you did not previously know to exist, can. As a man on the street predicted with confidence on our first day in Damascus, “You will love it, and you will return.”

Alley scene in the old city

The sheer scale of the old city (the walls run for more than five kilometers), its historical continuity (the center of town has been occupied by a place of worship for over three thousand years, including a Roman temple, a Christian church and now the Umayyad Mosque–post to come) and its historical preservation (Roman streets are identifiable, including Straight Street which is mentioned by name in the bible, and the great majority of the old city lies in its medieval layout, with a minimum of truly modern architecture to distract the eyes)–each impresses the visitor. Here is not only a city that has persisted through the centuries, but a truly great city that has prospered through many empires. At the crossroads of the world, Damascus was the site of some of the most important events in history (and in the middle of some of its greatest conflicts), yet comes to us not as a museum piece but as a living city–bits and pieces destroyed and rebuilt, inhabited (it is really much too large not to be inhabited) and noisy with commerce.

Roman sarcophagus, National Museum

Cafe, old city

The greatest impression to us, coming from India, and despite our stop in the squeaky modern United Arab Emirates, was a real sense of civilization, fitting for one of the world’s oldest continuously inhabited cities: a sophistication in people’s behavior and lifestyle that is not present in South Asia (despite the wealth of Bombay’s elite and the richness of Indian culture, there is always the feeling that you are ten meters away from abject poverty and life at its rawest and most base) or the (overly nouveau riche) Gulf; restaurants and cafes the atmosphere and cuisine of which any world city would envy (extravagant yet tastefully so, elegant yet cheerful, and making full use of the city’s architectural endowments); and a timelessness in the dark narrow alleys and historical monuments that could come only from accumulation through the centuries, as empires and nations deposited their structures, people and ideas within the city’s walls.

Coffeeshop sign, old city

Children, walking among Roman arch east of Umayyad Mosque

This sense of civilization is nowhere more alive in Damascus than in its courtyard houses, or baits. Originally built by local merchants or governors during the Ottoman Empire, seemingly countless mansions exist throughout the old city and fully display the artistry and incredible wealth of the town. [Although not remembering that it was from Damascus, I have long lusted after the “Nur al-Din room” at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York, which you may have seen. It is not known from which house it Damascus it was removed.] Many of these houses are open, one way or another, to visitors, and in this post I will briefly describe four such houses, to give you a sense of Damascus today.

Tiled wall facing courtyard of Dar Anbar, former home of a rich Jewish merchant

Ceiling detail, Bait Quwatli

Antique Door. Antique Door is one of many restaurants converted from old courtyard homes (especially prevalent in the Christian quarter of the old city). Not the fanciest we saw, but still impressive, it is packed with customers each night, especially young people playing cards or backgammon while smoking an apple tobacco nargileh (post on the nargileh/hookah/sheesha hopefully to come). Syria, while not a rich country, is not an impoverished one either, and many people, at least in the big cities, have the disposable income necessary to enjoy a moderately priced evening out. The food at these restaurants is terrific, and a bargain at around SYR 600 (around $12) for an ample dinner for two, considering the stately and jovial ambience that could not be purchased at any price in most cities in the world.

Evening at Antique Door

Bait Farhi. One of the most striking things while walking through Damascus is the amount of construction that is going on. It almost feels like every large house is undergoing restoration, often to be turned into a hotel or a restaurant. Many hotels have opened in the old city in the last year or two, and many more are due to open in the years to come. By chance we walked by one of the most ambitious projects, the renovation and outfitting of Bait Farhi, an old home in the Jewish quarter, into a boutique hotel to be called Pasha Palace. Shirley Dyksmo, a Dutch-French interior decorator who together with her Syrian-French architect husband is heading up the project, personally gave us a generous tour, revealing the beauty of the house and its potential as a (fabulous) boutique hotel. Ms. Dyksmo explained that they are doing almost all the work in-house, having hired entire teams of craftsmen (over fifty in all) to painstakingly restore artistic details. Over the years (presumably as the fortunes of the Farhi family waned), the house had been carved up into over a dozen small apartments, with cinder block walls added to break up the large rooms and the beautiful walls and ceilings covered up with layers of paint and dirt. They are hoping to open the hotel next year, and for sure we will try to stay there on our next visit to Damascus.

Constructing missing molding, based on remaining pieces

Construction scene, main courtyard of the house

Ceiling, after restoration (this room also features a fountain)

Hebrew detail

Dahdah Palace. A stop for tourists for dozens of years, Dahdah Palace remains home to Mr. Dahdah’s wife and children (the monsieur having passed away). We knew of the beauty of the home from a book, but didn’t quite know how to visit it–and so we did what is customary for these listed homes in Damascus, which is to show up and see if entry is possible. Upon our ringing the bell, an elderly woman popped her head out of a window a half block away (these houses are big) and asked us to wait a few minutes. The lady, Mr. Dahdah’s widow, came down and started to give us a tour of the house in impeccable English. As it turns out, she was born in the United States, but moved to her family’s homeland of Lebanon before college due to an ailing grandparent. She and her husband had owned the house in Damascus for decades, and lived both there and in Lebanon. The facts were not what was most interesting, but her presentation. Not only was her accent and speech elegant, but the lady had in her diction and manners all of the elegance of a time past. You could imagine the sophistication of cosmopo
litan Lebanon when she was a young adult, and feel in the presence of a grace that is no longer easy to come by. She was much proud of the fact that her house remained a true residence rather than a restaurant or hotel (“I’ll never sell it”), and that the house was renovated when artisans still possessed traditional skills (she thought that some the recent renovations were not being done properly, although she did note the very high budget of the Pasha Palace project).

Lamp and decorative stone inlay facing courtyard, Dahdah Palace

But of course to maintain a home such as Dahdah Palace takes a large amount of money, and the house was not in the same condition as the homes that have been converted to commercial use. When we attempted to take a picture of one of the walls of the house, which had peeling paint, the lady requested with a mixture of pride and underlying regret, “Don’t take a picture of that–it’s not so pretty.” Although it seemed to us that the paint had been peeling for a while, she explained that premature rains the previous year had botched the annual paint job. She described with sadness the recent collapse of a large and beloved tree in the courtyard, a tree that was as much a part of the house as its walls, but caused much damage as it fell.

After discussing with her her history, the state of Damascus and our travel plans, she took us into one of the large rooms facing the courtyard, which was outfitted as a shop of Damascene crafts. In her gentle manner, she explained that her husband had run a crafts workshop and store when he was alive, and that the house was a true source of wonderful items. “Now we’re selling souvenirs for some money, that is what we’ve come to,” she sighed. She showed us a charming metal bowl for scooping bathing water, explaining how it was used. I was hesitant to buy any such item now since metal is heavy and we would be heading back through Damascus anyway, but our inspection of the item was cut off by her daughter, who arrived to take over the retail efforts. What a difference between mother and daughter! Lacking her mother’s charm and with the pushiness of a poor salesman, the daughter worked hard to clinch a sale, but the more she spoke the less I was interested in buying.

Nonetheless, it was charming to be acquainted with the lady of the house, and reassuring to see people holding on to their homes despite economic pressure–the old city of Damascus would of course not be the same if all of its homes were turned into hotels and restaurants to service tourists.

Geometric patterns in stone along floor, Bait Quwatli

Ceiling, Bait Quwatli

Mustafa Ali. Located near Bait Farhi in the Jewish quarter is the studio and gallery of Mustafa Ali, a Syrian sculptor. Having achieved acclaim for his work all over Europe and North America, Mustafa Ali relocated to the Jewish quarter of Damascus five years ago, filling the void left by the departed Jewish population (of which only 28 remain), who left their complicated lives in the Arab world for greener pastures in Israel and elsewhere. Mr. Ali’s aim is to create in the Jewish quarter an artistic neighborhood–a common pattern of gentrification but a plan for which many initially thought he was crazy. And it’s been successful–there are now dozens of artists in the Jewish quarter and the city has recognized its significance with an official designation. With hotels such as Pasha Palace and artists such as Mustafa Ali, a new life is being breathed into a neighborhood that had declined.

Mustafa Ali in his office