Syria!

If there is a God—a discussion that could no doubt fill countless blog posts—He probably lives in Damascus. You'd see him walking through the Souq Hammadiyah, builed by His inspired devotees over 1200 years ago, and eating pistachio-topped vanilla ice cream at the Bakdash stand—a newer creation, but no less heavenly. He'd buy a gorgeous silk scarf, handmade in Syria, at the Souq Buzooriya. And he'd finish his day with prayer at the Umayyad Mosque in the center of the old city. (To whom he'd pray, exactly, is beyond me—I'd imagine he'd pray to himself, but that requires a kind of unbelief so perverted the Muslims probably don't even have a name for it). In any case, he'd return home every night to an old Damascene house—built during any of the Umayyad, Abbasid, Ayyubid, Mamluk or Ottoman eras—and say to himself, "Damn, I'm good."

If you ignore the atheist snark in the previous paragraph, you can perhaps appreciate how freakin' awesome Damascus really is. (Sparknotes version, for those who don't plan to read this whole post, I went to Aleppo too, it was awesome, I had a bath and saw a castle, woohoo!) Damascus is the oldest continuously inhabited city in the world, according to most scholars, and holds the record for least-sacked city in the Middle East—just once, by the Mongols. (Freakin' Mongols!) The city has expanded considerably in the modern era, and the new part of the city is not particularly sight worthy—sort of a dirtier version of Amman.

But my, oh my, is Old Damascus great.

For starters, there are the souqs. I get a laugh when I read the promotional material from the Jordan Tourism Board describing Amman's "souq." Amman does not have a souq. Amman has a downtown—a pretty authentically Arab hodgepodge of shoe, clothing, and cell phone stores and sweet shops mixed in with juice stands and shawarma stands, lining the streets below Jebel Amman. But the Souq Hammadiyah, which greets one upon entrance to the Old City, is essentially an ancient, covered market, and it stretches almost 1 km in length. Even Hammadiyah is touristy—the sheer lingerie, offered in more than a dozen styles, is not something you'd picture Ibn Taymiyyah's wife buying in the 11^th century. Beyond the entrance, though, there are three other souqs—spices, silk and clothing. There's the Street called Straight, referred to as such by the Lord in the Bible, where he tells Saint Ananias of Damascus to go to the street called Straight, where he would find a blinded man named Saul. Saul, whom Ananias converted to Christianity, would later be known as Saint Paul.

Then there's the Umayyad Mosque, which is ancient beyond belief—predating even Christianity in Syria. It's changed over the years, obviously, and now bears a fully Islamic character, complete with minbar, mihrab, and fantastic calligraphy and artwork. The photos I've put up here don't really do it justice, but rest assured, my total haul, picture-wise, was upwards of two hundred for the weekend, and so those dying to see the intricate calligraphy can await my return. In any case, perhaps the most surreal thing about the trip was Friday prayer in the mosque, surrounded by literally thousands of Muslims in one of the most sacred places in Islam. (Legend has it that Muhammad refused to go into Damascus, saying "I'll only enter Paradise once). I don't know much of anything Quranic beyond "Ashadu inna le ilaa illa Allah, wa Muhammadun rasool Allah," (I attest that there is no god but God, and Muhammad is the messenger of God." I don't even know the Fatiha, the opening surah of the Quran and a standard piece for recitation on account of its shortness. So I found myself considerably out-Muslimed, blindly copying Yusuf next to me as he performed the series of bows, prostrations and such that characterize the Muslim prayer. It didn't help that the imam giving the khutba spoke quickly and didn't enunciate in the slightest, so what I had hoped would be a half-hour dissertation in beautiful Fusha Arabic turned out to be an exercise in cramped, awkward waiting. Overall, however, the experience was both enlightening personally and culturally fascinating—the Muslim equivalent, almost, of St. Peter's Basilica, although that honor should go to Mecca or Al-Aqsa.

Yusuf assured us that we had acquired ten thousand baraka, or blessings, for praying in the Umayyad Mosque. But we must have had some coming into Syria as well, for we were mabrook—blessed!—with good fortune in our border escapades. Not having acquired Syrian visas before leaving the US, we were advised that it would be next to impossible to get them at the border, but that we should try anyway. We did, and were pleasantly surprised to receive them after only a two and a half hour weight. Less pleasant were the constant bribes we were forced to pay our taxi driver so that he'd wait for us. But overall, since the Syrian border visa is about $120 cheaper than a visa bought stateside, we came out quite well financially.

If I have one regret, and for this I wholeheartedly blame my traveling companions Yusuf and Alice, it's that we didn't watch the whirling dervishes on our first night in Damascus. We'd overpaid for a tremendous, neverending buffet of food at a kitschy restaurant in the Old City. But it was pricy, we figured, because of the entertainment provided—musicians and the famous twirling Sufi dancers. Unfortunately, and again I don't want to point fingers but IT WAS ALL YUSUF'S FAULT—some of us got tired, and we retired to the room before the festivities began.

So we spent our two and a half days in Damascus in glorious fashion. We peeked into the Hejaz Railway station, architecturally beautiful, albeit now stuffed with Bashar al-Assad hagiography. We spent three hours in the Damascus Museum, investigating the history of Syria from the most ancient times up through the Islamic era—a truly wide array of sights. We wandered through the Christian quarter, checking out several ancient churches and noticing the subtle but definite cultural differences between the neighborhoods. We bumped into Qasidfolk all over the place, and said to ourselves, "Why are we studying in Amman, and not here?" I'm asking myself that question for next summer as well.

Above all, it was the people who made the trip for us. In Jordan there's a cautiousness to the people—they've been inundated with Palestinian and Iraqi refugees, and it's hard to pin down exactly what it is to be Jordanian. Their foreign policy is a nervous, awkward balancing act of Arab and US interests. So they display most of the qualities of generosity and hospitality that are associated with the Arab world, but you can, for example, walk down a busy street, past houses and shops, and feel unnoticed and invisible. In Damascus that's impossible. "As-salaamu alaykum," they say. "Min ayna antum?" Where are you from? Yusuf will smile, and tell them proudly, I'm an American from Syrian origins, and there will be handshakes and tea and twenty percent discounts on all merchandise. I found myself alternatively wearing the kufi and going without it: with it, you get that much more respect and appreciation from the locals, but you also, not unreasonably, feel dishonest. The only time I actually claimed to be Muslim was in a textile shop. The owner smiled, ordered tea, and we talked about both the contradictions in the Bible and the misapprehensions of Americans about Islam. "Americans see Saudi Arabia and think, 'That is Islam,' but they don't understand," the man said. "That is not true religion." Oh, and I also got a discount.

People were even friendlier, if that's possible, when we went to Aleppo, a five hour bus ride from Damascus, and almost as old of a city. Yusuf theorized that it had to do with the smaller number of tourists in Aleppo as compared to Damascus, which was filled with Frenchmen. Folks in Aleppo, or Haleb as it is called in Arabic, have yet to be exposed to the constant rudeness of tourists, the blatant flouting of dress codes, the sprouting of luxury hotels in formerly cultural areas. So they approach foreigners as they do any visitor—with kindness and open arms.

We only had a night and a day in Aleppo, but we made the best of it. Upon arrival we headed to the Armenian quarter and dined at Sisi—the best restaurant in Aleppo, and possibly all of Syria. It lived up to its reputation—the cheese, for which Armenians are famous, was superb, and the various appetizers and main dishes were also top-notch. Also, it was my birthday! We toasted my 20^th with fine Syrian wine, and my wonderful friends surprised me with a cake that the waiters delivered to our table. Possibly the bet birthday one can imagine. The next morning we visited the citadel of Aleppo, a massive castle on the hill above Aleppo proper. Then down to the souqs—even older than Damascus, and cheaper too—where we wished that we hadn't spent all of our money in Damascus. The highlights of Aleppo for me, though, were twofold: first, a delightful (and cheap) several hours at a hamam in the old souqs, where we sat in a sauna, were scrubbed down, lathered and massaged by a burly man with tattoos reading "LEAVE ME ALONE" and "DEATH OR FREEDOM." Second, a second amazing dinner (spoiling ourselves, weren't we?) at Kan Zaman, which I may have even enjoyed more than my birthday dinner. The signature dish was their special version of kebab—but this had pistachios mixed in, and a hint of that fine Armenian cheese. I may have died and gone to heaven.

Of course, the eleven hour bus ride back to Amman was enough to pull me back to earth. The movies shown on the bus (at full volume, despite our futile protests) included Dead Ringer, a horrid American B&W film starring Bette Davis, and 24 Hours in Israel, which I can only assume was some sort of Syrian propaganda film. It ended with shooting and the fluttering of the Syrian flag over what I'd guess was the Golan Heights. Needless to say, I didn't sleep much, but I really had to go to class—we'd already missed two days in order to have enough time in Damascus. So did I have a hell of a time? For sure. Will I be back—possibly as soon as next summer? Inshallah.

Petra!

A few years ago, the Barron family took a trip through Arizona and Utah, visiting that trifecta of natural wonders—Grand, Bryce, and Zion Canyons. I was, of course, amazed by the Grand Canyon; its vastness overwhelmed me, and the impact of Colorado River, winding through the rocks since time immemorial, provided an instructive lesson in the impermanence of everything. But it was Zion Canyon which really got to me. In terms of sheer spectacle, it placed a distant second to the Grand Canyon; it lacked that single, astonishing view of an unbroken chasm in the rocks. It was, however, infinitely more explorable. We spent three days clambering over hills and wandering through valleys, fording streams and losing ourselves in the endless expanse of mountains.

Imagine Zion Canyon, with its glorious red rocks and incredible vistas, its countless nooks and crannies. Now stick it in the Jordanian desert, and hire an ancient civilization to carve incredibly detailed, impossibly monumental buildings into its cliff walls. That’s Petra. It’s simply unbelievable. Two thousand years, the Nabatean people fought off Rome, controlling sea ports as far south as Aqaba and the Hejaz. They left almost no trace of their culture, their religion, their history. But they are survived by what is truly one of the wonders of the world—this magnificent, “rose-red city half as old as time.” (The poser who wrote those words, John William Burgon, had at the time of the poem’s composition never even visited Petra. When he did go, sixteen years later, he told his sister, “there is nothing rosy about Petra, by any means.”)

But there is something special about the place. You enter Petra through the kilometer-long Siq, a narrow path that winds through high cliffs (rose red!) until you reach the famous Treasury. Here, of course, is where my camera batteries decided to die on me. I had to rely on other people taking photos, so this post doesn’t contain all the photos that I’ll eventually have.

The Siq:

The Treasury:

From there, the path turns to the right, passing an 850-seat theatre carved into the cliff, and a massive complex of tombs. Afterwards, you pass through the Colonnaded Street, visiting the Great Temple, on the way to the center of the old city. Then it’s an hard climb to the top of the mountain where the Monastery is located--but on donkey it’ s only twenty minutes! Yes, that’s right—I put my fate in the hands (er, hooves) of a donkey who seemed to think his objective was to pass the lead donkey at a quick trot right at the edge of the cliff rather than, I don’t know, keep me alive. All in all, however, it was an amazing ride, despite my ripping my pants when climbing onto the donkey. I had a much better experience than either Jason, who had to keep shouting “Shwayy, Shwayy” (slowly, slowly) to both the donkey and the Bedouin boy guiding it, or Tristan, whose donkey didn’t seem up to the task and who had to dismount at least twice on account of orneriness. We walked the last five minutes of the path, and turned right to suddenly find ourselves in front of yet another façade of the cliff—even bigger than the famed treasury. The inside of the Monastery, while cool and shady, wasn’t much to write home about, but the experience of discovering a huge cave-carving on an isolated, rocky mountain is truly unforgettable.

We spent several hours on the monastery mountaintop, climbing out to a magnificent viewpoint that overlooked Wadi Araba desert, as well as Jebel Haroun, the tallest mountain in Petra and the burial place of the Prophet Aaron, brother of Moses. It was by then past noon, and getting uncomfortably hot. We’d already spent many hours in Petra, having gone in at 6:30 that morning. The park had been mercifully deserted in the early hours, but now it was filling up and heating up as well. We elected to catch an early bus and head back.

All in all, the practicalities of the trip worked out fabulously. The eight of us took a three-hour bus ride from Amman to Petra for the equivalent of $6, the night before we went in, and we stayed in an el cheapo hotel for about $12 per person. Despite earning the sobriquet Sleazy McSleaze from the group for, among other things, trying to sleep with Kate, our hotel manager was remarkably helpful in arranging our trip and in getting us return transportation. Our taxi driver spoke beautiful, achingly slow Arabic so we could understand him and respond, and the drive back to Amman was blissfully air-conditioned. Overall, I had the time of my life.

Classes!

Haven't posted in a while, so I thought I'd update folks on what I'm doing. I've now had just over a week of classes, so that's been keeping me occupied. Why I am writing this now, when I should be in class, you ask? Well, I had the good (or bad?) fortune to get 1-5 classes, guaranteeing me plenty of sleep every night and a lazy morning. The other bizarre thing is that our off days are Friday and Monday, meaning that we don't have a two-day weekend, but we never have class more than three days in a ow. The Qasid folks explained that this would reduce both the Friday fatigue of sitting through the fifth consecutive class day, as well as the forgetfulness of Mondays, in which you're struggling to remember what you slept through on Friday. So far I tend to agree with them. It's great to not have to go more than 3 days before a day off. And the only problem--how to take weekend excursions--is hopefully solved by them rearranging a couple of the weekends to make them consecutive. That way, we can go to Syria or Petra or something like that.

Other fun things:

• Went to Madaba this past Monday. It's a Christian town just 45 minutes south of Amman, whose ancient churches boast beautiful mosaics, including the oldest known map of the Middle East. We visited it as a day trip, though we spent about 5 times as much money trying to find the right bus station in Amman--getting scammed by taxi and serveece drivers all the way--as we spent on the actual bus fare (maybe $1.50 roundtrip).

Modern church building, but the right mosaic has a great picture of Pope John Paul II preaching at Mt. Nebo (where Moses saw the Holy Land and then died) a few years ago:














Part of the big, old map, showing the Holy Land:

Fragments of mosaics at the Archaelogical Museum in Madaba:

• Went to a Sufi zawiya (convent) a few nights ago for their twice-weekly hadra. You may have heard of the Whirling Dervishes, famous for their spinning, twisting rituals. Also known as the Mevlevis, they represent one particular tariqa (order) in Sufism, which is generally described as the mystical side of Islam. Well, the Sufis in Kharabsheh--which is filled with them--are adherents of a different order, the Shadhili tariqa. Their hadra, in which they practice dhikr, or remembrance of God, is characterized by men standing in a circle, following a rhythmic pattern of alternately bowing and leaning back. Now, as you know, believing in God and following a rhythm are two things I'm not especially good at. But I went along gamely, and as it was the first time as well for my roommate, Mohammed, who'd invited me to the hadra, I felt less out of place. It helped that I was, like everyone else, wearing a kufi, which I'd bought downtown for just a dinar. Besides, the Kharabsheh zawiya is an interesting, not exactly traditional place. For one thing, many of the dervishes are Americans or Westerners who've converted to Islam and have come to study and worship under the master of the zawiya, one Shaykh Nuh. For another thing, this Shaykh Nuh is also a convert. Known as Shakyh Nuh Hah Mim Keller (the last name of which is not exactly Arab or Muslim), he was born Roman Catholic but, after a lot of philosophical soul searching, gravitated toward Islam. His fascinating account of this conversion (long, and not a bit convincing, is here: http://www.masud.co.uk/ISLAM/nuh/bmuslim.htm). In any case, I was amazed to travel so far from the United States and find a mix of Jordanian locals and expat Americans practicing dhikr!
• Oh, I suppose I'm taking classes as well. Those are actually quite good, although in the first few days, when the workload was light and the going slow, I wondered how much I'd benefit. Luckily, the pace has picked up, and we're on track, as far as I can tell, to finish the book. That would enable me to skip Harvard 3rd year Arabic and start 4th year or do colloquial language. I could go more in detail as to what exactly we're doing in class (passive conjugations of hollow verbs! discussions of Islamic revivalism in the context of antidemocratic Arab politics!) but I fear a lot of it would be lost on the audience. Suffice it to say that I'm ata'llum al-luga al-arabiya bi-shaklin jayiddin, wa sawfa atakalam bisur'a wa wadihan heena arja'a ila al-wilayat al-mutahada.
• I'm going to see WALL-E tonight! It's at the Mecca Mall. Don't judge.
• Food still good. Keep posted for updates.
• Went to Wild Jordan (modernist, organic food, US-funded cafe with great view of downtown Amman) couple of nights ago. Here's roommate Mohammed on the balcony, with the Temple of Hercules in the background:

That's all, folks!