The medina, or old city, of Aleppo is old. A fierce regional dispute simmers with Damascus about precisely which of Syria’s two main cities is actually "the oldest continually inhabited city on earth", and which is merely runner up (Damascus probably just about has the…Read More

The medina, or old city, of Aleppo is old. A fierce regional dispute simmers with Damascus about precisely which of Syria’s two main cities is actually "the oldest continually inhabited city on earth", and which is merely runner up (Damascus probably just about has the edge of Aleppo here, but do not tell the Halabis that!). It sprawls to the west of the acropolis where the Citadel now perches and was once ringed with 5km walls, only some of which still remain, pierced with eight great gates. Inside the covered markets, or souqs, form the heart of the complex. These are ringed by the khans, the walled caravanserais where the merchants’ wagons ended up, lockable at night. The other necessities of a civilised urban life sprang up around these – the bath houses and mosques. Finally the reamining space was infilled with housing – grand and ornate for the merchants, more humble for the local craftsmen. Today the houses are still occupied, the hammams are still frequented, the khans are still stuffed with stock, and hawkers still cry out from their cubbyholes along the main thoroughfares. Surrounded by 14th century masonry, the brick vaulting arching above your head and blocking out the sky, your nostrils filled with the scents of olive oil and laurel soap, syrup, fresh meat, cardamom and spices, rose attar perfume and sweat, the souqs of Aleppo make an unforgettable impression. Covering some 12 hectares, they comprise the largest covered market in the world. Save for the medina of Fes in Morocco (and possibly the old city of Damascus itself), the Aleppine souqs are the greatest example of their kind that I have ever seen.

I started my visit at the 13th century western gate – the Bab Antakya. This is one of only two of the original eight gates remaining, and led west towards Antioch. It is a forbidding – but surprisingly narrow – access route into the old city, piercing high blank walls. It dog legs around to the left in a defensive manner. The stalls of handymen are accreted on to the inside of the tunnel, narrowing the passageway still further. You will doubtless see someone trying to make progress in a mini-van piled high with stock, executing a seventeen-point turn as he tries to get his vehicle around the tight corner, yelling at the pedestrian crowds in his way. This seems to be a recurrent scene here; the ways were intended for camels and mules, not Subarus. It is well worth hanging around until the driver finally gets half-way around the corner… only to realise that he is faced with another van negotiating its way out! Keep an eye out for a giant cannonball hanging threateningly from a chain overhead!

From here a main street stretches east some 1.5km to end by the Citadel. This is the main thoroughfare of the souq – stick to it, and you cannot get lost. The most that will happen is that you end up at the Citadel when you were aiming for Bab Antakya and vice versa. This was the decumanus maximus of the old Roman city of Beroia – Bab Antakya itself sits where once a triumphal arch is thought to have once straddled the road. Certainly Roman masonry was reused in the construction of the al-Kamiliyya mosque just up the road. The street does change its name several times along its length however: west to east it is known as Souq Bab Antakya, Souq al-Attarine, and Souq al-Zarb. Here it does not look like particularly promising territory – the roof is made of sheets of rusted corrugated iron, and the goods for sale are bright modern polyester t-shirts and school uniforms. As a side trip, once through the gate take a left up the stepped lane past a hammam. This brings you out on top of the wall ramparts, looking north across the new city. Up here you can also find a tiny mosque, the al-Qaiqan, or ‘crows’’ mosque with sooty-black basalt Byzantine columns flanking the door of what was once a Christian chapel.

Back on the main pathway the iron sheeting overhead is replaced with ogee-arched stone vaulting, and then a rounded brick-and-mortar ceiling. This is the heart of the souq. There are a mishmash of businesses flanking the paved roadway, mostly geared towards a local crowd – how many tourists would want a strip of meat cleavered away from the hanging fly-blown carcass of a camel? Still, certain industries do tend to cluster together. One can find a glut of copperware in one section, storefronts piled high with carpets in another, one alley glowing gold with stall after stall of jewelry, and an interconnecting passageway drowning in a white froth of overly-elaborate ‘80s-style wedding dresses. The historic names of the streets give an indication of what businesses will be found where – Souq al-Attarine still prickles the nose with the scents of perfumes, Souq al-Tabush still sells kefiyyas and other headgear, while Aleppo’s famous soaps made from a traditional recipe of olive oil and laurel can be found on Souq al-Sabun. These goods, which have more of an intrinsic value for tourists (trust me – I bought a kefiyya and a package of soaps - are clustered more at the eastern end of the route, towards the Citadel. And stall holders generally seem to speak English, or have a friend nearby who can translate. Many of them even seem to have learnt their English in various depressed provincial towns in the UK. Once you are in conversation they will tighten the screws and be very full-on in their haggling, though I actually found it difficult to make eye-contact with any likely-looking salesmen to begin with (possibly because it was late afternoon on the first day of Ramadan and they were all dreaming of dinner and a cigarette). Haggling is expected however, so don’t be afraid to counter with what you personally think is a fair price, or even to walk away if you cannot reach agreement. This is a great place to pick up your souvenirs. As a relic of its famous past here you will find just as wide a selection of souvenirs as in Damascus, and probably at a more competitive price. I saved most of my bartering for Aleppo for this reason – as well as the fact that it was my last stop in Syria so I could use up my excess Syrian currency and not have to carry my purchases for quite as long…

Getting lost is easy once you venture off the main street however. All the passages and cross-passages are seemingly identical. But it is worth popping your head into one or two of the khans. These were the warehouses of the trade caravans, great open-roofed courtyards with secure strong rooms on two arcaded levels that could be locked and barred at night. Again, seeing a truck trying to make a 90 degree turn off the main passageway and through one of these great doorways, shouting at the pedestrians is one of my over-riding memories of Aleppo. All the stone doorframes are chipped and scraped, and all the vans are scratched and dented in testament to many years of such awkward manoeuvering. They still hold stores, workshops and lock-ups of merchandise, so be circumspect if you want to wander around. The Khan al-Jumruk on the south side of Souq al-Attarine is the largest. It used to house the English, Dutch and French consulates and trade missions as well as some 344 shops. Now you will find the area around the central building piled high with rolled up carpets, bright coloured drapes separating the stock of individual merchants. On the opposite side of al-Attarine is the way to the Great Mosque. Although only ten years younger than the Umayyad Mosque of Damascus, it is not nearly so noteworthy. This is because it has been rebuilt several times (although the square minaret does date from 1090). A shrine there claims to hold the head of Zacharia, the father of John the Baptist.

Aleppo may no longer be the world-famous crossroad of caravans that it made its name as, but the largest souq in the world still hums with life. That so much of the trade there is conducted between locals gives the old city a human scale that would actually probably have been missing in the 17th century when Venetian factors bickered over entire cartloads of spices and Dutch merchantmen bought bolts of silk by the gross. Here today you can see how the inhabitants of this city of 1.7m still walk the same streets as their ancestors, stop at the same stalls, and purchase much the same goods. And pick up some decent souvenirs at the same time obvioiusly…
   Close

While the month of fasting called Ramadan is treated somewhat casually in some parts of the Muslim world, in Aleppo it is very much observed. This northern city is known as being more conservative in religious matters than Damascus, and you will certainly see more…Read More

While the month of fasting called Ramadan is treated somewhat casually in some parts of the Muslim world, in Aleppo it is very much observed. This northern city is known as being more conservative in religious matters than Damascus, and you will certainly see more chadors on the streets of Aleppo. So it is interesting to see how Ramadan is marked here.

During Ramadan the faithful are expected to abstain from eating, drinking, smoking and sex during daylight hours. Families rise early to fill up on breakfast before dawn (around 4.30AM during my visit); likewise they meet together as families or groups of friends to dine communally once the sun finally dips from the sky 9around 8PM. This means they are spending 15 hours without food, water, or a cigarette during the hottest part of the day (the first day of Ramadan in 2009 was also the hottest day Aleppo had seen so far that year). Tourists are not obviously expected to do likewise, though a certain element of discretion might be advised. Locals I came into contact with were tolerant of the sweating westerner sipping from a plastic bottle. Ahmed, our guide to Aleppo, refused offers of water saying that he was observing Ramadan. It did not stop him buying a box of sweet pastries for our group to try amongst ourselves or giving out toffees however.

What this means to the tourist then is as follows. Firstly, locals are likely to be hungry, thirsty, and gasping for a cig, particularly by the late afternoon. One can possibly expect this to manifest in a distracted air and a shorter temper. Come 4PM everyone’s attention is on the clock. During the hour before dusk it is unwise to go out. The roads are clogged with people endeavouring to get back to their homes, speeding, skipping straight across intersections, ignoring traffic restrictions. If they get caught in a hold up those drivers are likely to be seemingly on the verge of road rage. It might also be wise to book ahead in a restaurant, as they see their busiest nights of the year. Groups of (male) friends or full families fill dining establishments up as they break their fast communally. However, this does create a bit of a party atmosphere amongst the diners.

Ramadan seems to be observed very rigorously by Muslims in Aleppo in particular. Restaurants are closed during the day, and food does not even seem to get sold until the afternoon, to keep it fresh for cooks. However, even if the fast is observed more stringently here than it is amongst Muslims elsewhere, Aleppo is actually a good place for Westerners to find themselves during Ramadan. Due to its position as a cross roads for trade, the ethnic make-up or Aleppo is quite varied. More than 15% of the city’s population is Christian, a larger proportion than that of any other city in the middle east except for Beirut. The main Christian area is called al-Jdeida, and is located north of the Old City (‘jdeida’ means ‘new’, as this area was settled relatively recently in Aleppo’s history, and certainly after 1400). This is a delightful little conglomeration of winding streets and neat squares with a village-y atmosphere. It hosts churches and cathedrals of no less than five different Christian denominations – Armenian, Maronite, Greek Orthodox, Greek Catholic, and Syrian Catholic. Here, among the vine-shaded alleyways and shuttered windows you can still find restaurants, cafes and grocers – even a very well-stocked fishmongers! Chris and I visited and had a very enjoyable lunch of Greek salad, cheese borek pastries, and cheese-topped garlic bread. Just what we needed to last us until dusk!

   Close

From the south west corner of of the Umayyad Mosque Souq as-Silah leads off south. You will not be able to miss the welcoming golden glow of the treasures on display here. This is the heart of the jewellers’ souq, and goldsmiths and silversmiths have…Read More

From the south west corner of of the Umayyad Mosque Souq as-Silah leads off south. You will not be able to miss the welcoming golden glow of the treasures on display here. This is the heart of the jewellers’ souq, and goldsmiths and silversmiths have a keen eye for interested tourists. A jink left and then right comes to probably the most atmospheric and crowded street in the souq: Souq al-Bzouriyya. This is the spice souq, and the press of people is most intense here as both tourists and locals are drawn in to look at the sacks and panniers of multi-hued herbs and powders. It is a place of light and shadow, the scents of walnuts, rosewater and cloves, the noise of hawkers and impractical cars and motorbikes forging through the chattering masses. I did actually find making any sort of headway difficult, feeling like a salmon trying to swim upstream. This was an issue as I had a sudden need for a toilet. I ended up darting down a couple of steps and through an ornate doorway. Haltingly explaining my predicament I was allowed to relieve myself in the toilets of the 16th century Hammam Nureddin, one of the grandest and oldest bathhouses in the country still in use. Just past here another archway led into the zebra-striped Khan As’as pasha, a stately mid-18th century caravanserai centered on a fountain. You have to pay to look around, but you can easily duck through the main doors and get a photo for free like I did.

At the southern end of the spice souq you hit Sharia Medhat Pasha. This was the main decumanus of the Roman city, known as the Via Recta or ’Street called Straight’ to give it its Biblical name (Acts 9). The length of this road, from the Bab al-Jabiye in the west to the Bab ash-Sharqi to the east has seen a lot of renovation work done to it, removing some of the atmosphere. Cars chug quite happily down the well-maintained road, the buildings seem plusher and more luxurious, and the pavements are swept clean. A visit down it at night after the shopkeepers have packed up for the evening reveals identical batches of lock-up store fronts. Following it east leads into the less-visited sections of the city, the Christian and Jewish Quarters.    Close

Most of the souqs (covered markets) of old Damascus lie in the western half (really the north-western quarter) of the walled old city. The eastern sections, while they do still have stores and shops, seem to be more residential in character. Aspects of the daily…Read More

Most of the souqs (covered markets) of old Damascus lie in the western half (really the north-western quarter) of the walled old city. The eastern sections, while they do still have stores and shops, seem to be more residential in character. Aspects of the daily life of Damascenes can be witnessed here – mustachioed old men sat around backgammon tables in the shade, black-clad women sweeping out doorsteps, people toting plastic bags of shopping, and worshippers on their way to church.

Church? Why yes. Damascus may host some of the holiest sites in Islam, but as a great cosmopolitan centre of learning and trade it has always hosted people of different religious persuasions. The area north of the Bab ash-Sharqi is referred to as the Christian Quarter (or Bab-Touma, after St Thomas), and that to the south as the Jewish Quarter, though in truth the Christians have expanded south of the Street called Straight (Sharia bab-Sharqi) as the Jews have mostly left. Though even before their twentieth century exodus St Paul’s Chapel was set into the southern wall in this area, marking the spot where Paul had to be lowered out of the city to escape the Jewish population he had miffed with his preaching).

In fact an estimated 20,000 people left the old city between 1995 and 2005, and a walk down the side streets will revealed abandoned and decaying buildings, smashed windows and canting roofs, mouldering plaster and rampant vines. This was particularly true in the Jewish Quarter – often I walked for five minutes at a time without seeing a single other person. In general the alleys were jumbled, trackless, dilapidated, and still inhabited, as a flash of a face behind a curtain, the sound of radio from an upstairs window, or a rolling ball identified. Those people I did bump into were either tolerant of my journey or genuinely pleased to see me. There was no nasty atmosphere or ‘side’ to be felt. I did not feel scared or threatened once. Nor did I feel lost. The alleys generally run at right-angles to each other, letting you keep your bearings. Moreover there were frequent wall-mounted signs for suggested walking routes, which meant that if I felt momentarily misplaced (like when I suddenly emerged out of a gap in the southern walls into a combined greengtocers’ market / truck stop) I could simply follow the signs, assured that they would be leading me somewhere (though having some sort of map, even if only the one in a guidebook, will certainly be worth its weight in gold).

The start of these areas is really where Sharia Medhat Pasha and Sharia Bab Sharqi meet. Although this was the main road of the Roman settlement it becomes obvious that its Via Recta / ‘Street called Straight’ name is just early irony. The streets were laid out well before the Romans, and there is a awkward jink in the path there marked by a Roman arch. It was just past here that I found myself walking in tandem with an old chap on his way home. "I am not a guide!" he said out of nowhere, as if affronted that I might have even thought that (I had not uttered a word). From that a conversation grew up. His name was Maurice, he used to work for KLM in Damascus which had granted him a very cosmopolitan and well-travelled background. Now he was on his way home. He may not have been a guide, but he proceeded to give me tips about where I should go to find cheap street eats, and which churches I should visit (his top recommendation was the Greek Orthodox church, though there are also churches of the Greek Catholic, Syrian Catholic, Syrian Orthodox, Armenian and Maronite faiths sprinkled about). He finished off by stating that every evening he went to pray at the Chapel of Ananias, the underground chapel of the disciple who – according to the New Testament – converted Saul to Christianity (the Damascene conversion). I would be more than welcome to join him there at 7 o’clock. And though I am not a religious man I still regret the fact that I had already made plans for that evening so I could not take him up on his offer.

Evidence of faith is hidden everywhere. Several times I rounded corners to find myself face-to-face with shrines to the Virgin Mary. 15% of the population of Damascus is reckoned to be Christian to this day – one notable 20th-century inhabitant was pan-Arabist politician Michel Aflaq, founder of the Ba’ath party.

Without the crowds of the Souqa al-Hamadiyya and al-Bzouriyya there is more time to dawdle here and take an actual interest in shopkeepers’ wares. I ended up buying an embroidered felt bag from Anat by the eastern gate for around £20 and a decorative inlaid wooden trinket box for 500 SYP up in Bab Touma. Wandering is a pleasure, especially if you can find somewhere serving food or drink. I lunched on a chicken shawarma and a freshly-squeezed orange juice from neighbouring stalls (60 SYP each) up in Bab Touma, had a lemon juice whilst nosing in the windows of poky little antique shops just east of the Umayyad Mosque (and the remains of the Romans’ eastern temple gate) for 75 SYP, and paid 100 SYP for a quite incredible iced mulberry juice from a handcart near the Azem Palace.

If you head into the eastern sections of old Damascus, just feel free to wander – and take plenty of photographs!
   Close

His name, he told me, was Anwar. His name meant ‘light’ – the day of his birth saw his little Syrian village connected up to electricity for the first time and he was born that night beneath the glow of an electric lightbulb. He told…Read More

His name, he told me, was Anwar. His name meant ‘light’ – the day of his birth saw his little Syrian village connected up to electricity for the first time and he was born that night beneath the glow of an electric lightbulb. He told me this as we flew over Germany en route to Istanbul. I was travelling on to Cairo. Anwar knew Cairo – he had studied medicine at the university there in the days of Nasser and Sadat, back before he had moved to England to practice as a doctor. Today he was travelling back to Damascus to see his family. When he heard that my journey overland from Cairo to Istanbul would take me through Damascus he all but insisted that I take his mobile phone number so that he could show me around his home town. It was only by saying that I was travelling with a group that I managed to dissuade him. Still, he gave me advice on what to do with my time in Damascus – check out the Takiyya near the National Museum, wander around the old Jewish quarter ("the Jews were the handymen, the artisans; their neighbourhood is very ornate"), queue up for ice cream with the presidents and dignitaries at Bakdash on Souq al-Hamidiyya, take a trip out to Bosra and see how villagers still lived among the Roman ruins.

"I am not a tour guide" the old man said. We had fallen into step together as we walked down the old Biblical ‘Street called Straight’ in Damascus’ old city. He may not have been a tour guide, but Maurice proceded to direct me to some of the local churches and hand out advice on where to get cheap eats in the Christian Quarter he called home. As we parted company he extended one final offer. Every evening at 7pm I would be able to find him worshipping at the old Chapel of Ananias; he would be pleased if I could join him.

Aleppo, the first day of Ramadan. Leaving my hotel room as the sun sank two of the staff called me over. They had set up a table with food and drink. They would be honoured if I would join them for dinner as they broke their fast.

I was to experience this time and time again during my stay in Syria: simple unforced hospitality. It happened too many times to be a coincidence. People were pleased to see tourists. In a night club the DJ ordered shots for our table and joined us to down them. Breaking a journey at a roadside reststop we entered to find it overflowing with about 200 adolescent members of the Syrian army on national service. Their reaction as they saw us enter was like that of over-excited puppies. A chorus of happy "Hello!"s and "You are welcome!"s filled the air.

There were negatives too, particularly for females. At that same rest-stop one girl’s thigh did get ‘accidentally’ groped. At Palmyra a restaurant owner plied a female friend with free drinks before inviting her back to see his ‘Bedouin tent’. Filling up for petrol, a group of lounging men paused from smoking their cigarettes for just long enough to start taking photographs of the girls climbing in and out of our van on their mobile phones. Most shocking of all one girl was goosed in the Shrine of Hussain at the Umayyad Mosque itself. All around was the wailing and crying of fevered religion and one guy thought it appropriate to pinch the backside of a visitor, despite her all-concealing grey robe.

These negatives can be experienced in any Arab country – stereotypes of western women are gained from watching our films and TV shows, and unfortunately the behaviour of some tourists confirms it in their eyes. But on the whole I found the people of Syria the friendliest and most open of probably anywhere I have travelled. Here we experienced Arab hospitality writ large – we were guests of the nation as a whole. Maybe they are aware of the reputation their government has abroad, but their welcome certainly showed that it is wrong to make judgements about a people and a nation just because of the actions of a regime that they did not vote for. Syria deserves to be known for the warmth and hospitality of the Syrian people, the friendliest in the world.

   Close

With a population of more than two million, the city vies with Damascus as the longest, continually habituated location in the world. For more than 8,000 years, people have lived here, worked here and brought up families. The culture is secure, comfortable, impenetrable and welcoming.…Read More

With a population of more than two million, the city vies with Damascus as the longest, continually habituated location in the world. For more than 8,000 years, people have lived here, worked here and brought up families.
The culture is secure, comfortable, impenetrable and welcoming. Although my visit was during Ramadan, the city was alive with the shouts of merchants, their customers and the ubiquitous clack of backgammon.

The bazaar in Aleppo is magnificent. Comprised of 37 separate souks (specialist market areas for spices, broomsticks, cloth, soaps or whatever), 21 caravanserai (lodging for merchants from out of town) and 11 mosques, the covered market covers 12km² of central Aleppo, and has done so for hundreds of years.

Merchants selling all manner of goods vie for trade, and their calls punctuate the atmosphere. The calling of the muezzin gives rise to a break as the faithful head to the closest mosque for their devotions, but soon enough the tempo of the bazaar reaches another crescendo, and the merchant life of Aleppo continues unabated.

The centre of town is dominated by an ancient citadel. Built, captured and recaptured over the centuries, this site dominates the landscape. Inside it is a labyrinth of passages, streets, buildings and the accoutrement of a community of 4,000 with a royal palace thrown in for good measure.

The citadel is a marvellous place to allow the imagination to run amok. The restoration work is continuous, and for those with an interest in life in the 12th century, this is a must.

Another "must see" is the hammam, or steam bath. For a modest fee £400 Syrian (C$10) one can be steamed, lathered, massaged and treated to a restorative cup of tea. The hammams are strictly regulated as to accessibility to men and women, and the twain never meet. That, at least is the theory.

During Ramadan the hours are different. I showed up at 6:30pm, eagerly anticipating the men-only session. Two Italian couples were in front of me, and I was advised that they had made "special arrangements" and that probity would be assured, and our passage through steam would be completely separate.

Comforted, I headed for the steam bath and sweated an appropriate amount; once dripping sufficiently, a large man beckoned me to the lathering area, and began to soap my body with a large mitt that appeared to be made of sandpaper.

Lathering nicely, I was turned on to my back only to open an eye and see a coach tour being paraded through this "traditional hammam."

Forty tourists, Italian, I think judging by their accents and their leers, were taking photos. I wearing little but a smile, I could do little but wonder how my now Islamicized temperament would adapt to this outrage.

Fortunately, the soap produced a sufficiency of bubbles, but nevertheless, chastened I retreated to the anonymity of the steam room as soon as I could. Next time, and now knowing the protocol, I would head for a distant steam room, inaccessible to Romans.

Cleaner than I have been for a very long time, it was dinner time, and Aleppo offers a myriad of options. We chose a quiet restaurant near our hotel, and for £250 Syrian ($6 Cdn), we dined on a mezze of hummus, salads and baba ganoush followed by lamb cutlets. The local beer in Aleppo is al-Chark, $3 Cdn for a half-litre bottle, and is delicious.

Of my hotel, The Baron, what more can be said. Built by the Mazloumian family in 1911 to serve the European travellers on the London to Baghdad Express, this venerable property still functions as a centrepiece of Aleppo life.
The hotel is old, and although renovated to some degree, still holds the charms and somewhat spartan comforts afforded to travellers in the early 20th century. It has had a lot of famous guests, but none more so that Agatha Christie, who wrote Murder on the Orient Express here. She would still recognize her favourite room, number 203, where the decorations on the wall have not changed since her last visit.

The décor is a reminder that travellers in bygone days did not experience comforts close to those that contemporary tourists demand, but were satisfied by more secure and uncompromising surroundings. Dark mahogany walls, bakelite phones, night auditors who still keep track of the property's financial comings and goings in a large, green ledger and a staff who are both solicitous and an integral part of the hotel's family.

It is a most comfortable place, and although far from luxurious, has all of the attributes that a traveller seeks.

Aleppo is also close to both St. Simeon's monastery, and to the Dead Cities, both of which are worth a good look. St. Simeon was an eccentric, even by the standard of the 4th and 5th century mystics.

Having spent a couple of years (in the late 4th century) in an isolated monastery, and feeling it to lack in asceticism, he chose to spend the next 39 years of his life perched on top of a 10m pole, preaching from the top to the assembled masses.

Restored variously in the 6th, 9th, 10th and now 21st centuries, this site stands proudly, high above the plains. Guides talk of traders and visitors coming from Antioch, the closest seat of government, as if this political infrastructure still existed. Time has a way of standing still in some archaeological sites, and here, it has simply ground to a halt.

The church walls are clearly visible, as are the cloisters, living quarters and the cathedral. There are so many ghosts wandering its passages, and as our guide, Mustapha said, "this is a house of God; of one God, with three prophets, Abraham, Jesus and Mohammed." This was a mantra that we heard often, a religious creed believed in an area branded by its zealots. The Dead Cities lie between St. Simeon and Aleppo, and stopping in al-Rafadah for an hour, wandering its streets and wondering how the city was abandoned was time well spent. Nothing changes, and trading patterns have changed throughout the ages.

Cities once powerful and wealthy were abandoned for no better reason that the opening of a new trading route; times change and these changes have been relentless and continuous for thousands upon thousands of years. Sitting and cogitating on the stones of the village, looking out over a timeless landscape, it was hard to determine the boundary between peaceful and boring. Imagining that one is a first-century shepherd was beyond me, and soon I headed back to Aleppo for the final overnight.    Close

The ruins of Mari (Tell Hariri in Arabic) were crucial in furthering our understanding of ancient Mesopotamian culture. Among the great treasures found here were hundreds of statues and a hundreds of clay tablets that provided crucial insight into the language and culture of the…Read More

The ruins of Mari (Tell Hariri in Arabic) were crucial in furthering our understanding of ancient Mesopotamian culture. Among the great treasures found here were hundreds of statues and a hundreds of clay tablets that provided crucial insight into the language and culture of the ancient Mesopotamian empires. However, despite all this importance, what remains in Mari today for the visitor to see is very little. All the good stuff has been carted away to museums inside and outside of Syria.

The site today is still under active excavation, so perhaps some more impressive stuff will be found in the future, but among the mounds of dirt there is really only one sight that is of any interest, the Palace of Zimri-Lim, dating from around the third millennium BC. What remains today is basically a vast expanse of corridors and courtyards that you are free to explore. Other than that there is not much here to spark the imagination, but for some strange reason that I don’t understand, the sight seems to be a popular stop for tour buses. They will stop here and ignore the infinitely more impressive Dura Europos. I originally wasn’t even planning on stopping by Mari, but since I was already at Dura Europos and had plenty of time, I decided that I might as well hop hitch my way over to Mari, and it really was in the trip the most interesting experiences came from.

All of these sights are rather out of the way, and unless you are on a tour getting to and from the sights, it takes a bit of work. It took me a combination of local mini-buses, some hitching, and a lot of walking to get to my destinations, but, in the end, all this probably turned out to be more rewarding than the sights themselves. On the way back from Mari, I managed to flag down a mini-bus that was heading back to Deir ez-Zor. The mini-bus was completely packed with people, the only seat available being a small space behind the driver’s seat facing the rest of the bus.

So there I sat, towering over the rest of the bus, everyone’s eyes fixed on me and me looking nervously back in their direction. After a few moments of silence, an audacious young guy finally asked the first question all Syrians ask, "Where are you from?" The rest of the bus leaned forward, perking their ears, and awaiting the response. Knowing that I was just a bit over 10km from the Iraqi border, I hesitated a bit, but decided that there was nothing to worry about. So, in Arabic, I told him that I was American but was studying in Damascus. He smiled and started to laugh a bit. When I asked what was funny, he shouted out, "I’m Iranian!" I smiled and the rest of the bus gave out a laugh.

Soon we were in a large game of "Where are you from?" There was a Syrian soldier next to the Iranian. An old man in the middle said he was from Yemen, and a family in the back was Iraqi. We all had a good laugh over the awkwardness of the situation, an American stuck in a bus among a veritable "axis of evil." Then in a scene typical of Syria, we spent the rest of the bus ride joking and laughing without a single mention of politics. For that hour and a half, it didn’t matter where we were from, we were all on the same bus.
The vast majority of travelers in Syria are on a prepaid trip where they are shuttled around in a bus, only getting a glimpse of the Syria the tour guide wants them to see. I feel sorry for these people because they are missing out on one of the greatest aspects of Syria, the hospitality and friendliness of the people. Some of my greatest experiences have been on mini-buses just like this and it’s a shame that most people don’t get to see it.   Close

Immediately after descending from the bus at the Malikiyeh mini-bus station, I was approached by a Syrian police officer. He gave me a stern look and asked in Arabic, "Where are you going?" I told him that I just wanted to go see Ain Diwar.…Read More

Immediately after descending from the bus at the Malikiyeh mini-bus station, I was approached by a Syrian police officer. He gave me a stern look and asked in Arabic, "Where are you going?" I told him that I just wanted to go see Ain Diwar. "Come with me," he said and then decided that he also wanted the bus driver to come as well. We walked into an office and sat down. The man asked for my passport, looked at it, and then smiled. He explained that we had to go to the local police station to register. I asked where it was and if I could walk there. "No," he said, "I want him [the bus driver] to escort you." He then took the bus driver’s identity card and ushered us into the bus. Once we were in the bus, I immediately started apologizing. I was sorry to have dragged him into this and I didn’t realize that it was such a big deal to go to Ain Diwar. The driver looked at me and then let out a huge laugh, "Don’t worry at all," he shouted, "everybody has to do this. Me, you, everybody…They are just cautious about people visiting Ain Diwar."

You see, Ain Diwar is a small town on the Tigris River in the northeast extremity of Syria. This is the heart of Syrian Kurdistan and right on the border with Turkey and Iraq, and while the relationship between the Kurds and Syria has always been rather good, across the border in Turkey it has not. Back when the Kurdish independence movement was raging and Turkey was basically in a civil war, Turkey often accused Syria of harboring Kurdish rebels and allowing for arms to be funneled into Turkish Kurdistan from Syria. All of it came to the brink of war when Syria harbored Abdullah Ocalan, the head of the PKK and the most wanted man in Turkey. Although things have calmed down in Turkey and peace has been established, Syrian-Turkish relations, although better, have not been fully repaired and there is still plenty of distrust. Thus it is understandable that the Syrian government wants to keep track of just who comes and goes from this area.

At the Malikiyeh police station, the driver and I were seated in a room with the police chief and the questions began. None of it was harsh or intrusive and always done with a comforting smile. He explained that it’s just procedure and that it has nothing to do with me in particular. When he was satisfied with the information, he asked how I planned on getting to Ain Diwar. I told him I planned on hiring a taxi. "No," he said, "I’d rather have you go with the bus driver here."
So off we went towards Ain Diwar. Again I apologized for having accidentally dragged him along, but he wouldn’t have any of it. "This is great," he said, "I love showing people my home." His name was Fakhri and he was a Kurd. All along the way to Ain Diwar we had some good conversation about Kurdistan and the Kurdish people, then we came over a hill and two sets of large mountains came into view. The one to the east marked the Iraqi border and the one to the north was Cudi Dag, the most important mountain in Kurdish folklore and (along with Ararat) one of the mountains that claims to be the final resting place of Noah’s Ark. Flowing right beneath Cudi Dag was the Tigris River (Delijah in Arabic). The south bank marked Syria and the North, Turkey.

Upon arrival in Ain Diwar, we registered again with the border police and then headed down a steep dirt road into the Tigris valley and to the location of the old Roman bridge that used to span the river. The views coming down the road were the most spectacular, providing a view of the whole valley. All along the road to the valley are vast fields of cotton, the main product of this region, and we could see numerous farmers stuffing the cotton into large burlap sacks and placing them onto trucks.

Finally we arrived at the bridge at the edge of the river. Not much remains of the bridge, but it is still an impressive sight. We climbed atop the bridge to get a view of the whole valley and of the barbed wire and towers that marked the Turkish border. It was a bit weird to be standing atop the bridge looking out at Turkey, knowing that inside those towers are probably numerous guards peering right back at you through binoculars or the scope of a rifle. Supposedly during the more volatile times, the Turkish guards were known to shoot randomly across the border every once in a while, killing a few people a year, but those times are thankfully over.

When we had our fill of the bridge, we headed back to the river bank to dip our feet in the cold, clear water that flowing down from the mountains of Turkey. Sitting there amidst cotton fields and goats on the tranquil banks of the river, it’s a bit humbling to think that a few hundred miles down that river is Baghdad, the sight of so much strife today.

Upon returning to Ain Diwar, we stopped at a coffee shop for a brief cup of tea and to enjoy the view. It’s a truly spectacular view, but I was a bit disappointed that Cudi Dag wasn’t in its usual snowcapped state. Still, it was easy to see why the Kurds hold the land so dear to their hearts, as it’s a magical place. Fakhri confided that he hoped that one day the Kurds would have their own state, but he doubted that he would be alive to see it.

After tea, we headed back to Malikiyeh to inform the police that I hadn’t run across the border and to pick up a few passengers for the trip back to Qamishle. When we arrived in Qamishle I thanked Fakhri, paid him for his services, and said my goodbyes, but before I left, he gave me his phone number in case I had any friends that wanted to see Ain Diwar. It seems that Fakhri is eager to establish himself as the Ain Diwar guide.   Close

The Druze are the Mormons of the Middle East, or perhaps the Scientologists, members of a sect that most people know nothing about and about whom all sorts of wild stories have come about. The Druze arose out of Ismaili Shia Islam in the 10th…Read More

The Druze are the Mormons of the Middle East, or perhaps the Scientologists, members of a sect that most people know nothing about and about whom all sorts of wild stories have come about. The Druze arose out of Ismaili Shia Islam in the 10th century under the ruler of the Fatimid Caliph Hakim. The Druze believe that Hakim was the incarnation of God and the religion grew out of that, drawing heavily on Christianity and Plato. They maintain all the prophets of Christianity and Islam but have a large streak of Gnosticism. For centuries the Druze community was persecuted for their beliefs that most considered to be heretical. Thus they practiced the Islamic doctrine of taqiyyeh, concealing one’s religion to avoid persecution. Because of this, the Druze religion has always been secretive and among the Druze the people are even divided into two groups, uqqal (knowledgeable) and juhhal (ignorant). Those who are “knowledgeable” have access to all the secrets of the religion and form the religious and political backbone of the community. Today there are large numbers in Syria, Israel, and Lebanon. Most Druze consider themselves Arab, and thus most Israeli Druze, most of whom live in the occupied Golan Heights, stay loyal to Syria. Inside unoccupied Syria, however, most of the Druze live in the area known as the Jebel Arab. They make up one of the wealthiest communities in Syria but are noticeably insular, and thus many people look at them slightly suspiciously.

The Jebel Arab lies only an hour and a half to the south of Damascus and is a small hilly land that rises out of the Harran plains. Heading into the Jebel al-Arab reminds me why I love Syria so much. It is such a diverse country, full of so many communities, that each area of the country is like a whole new country with its own traditions and even with their own accents. One of the first things you may notice when entering Druze country is the complete lack of minarets. The Druze do not build traditional mosques, and the call to prayer is not done. Instead you will recognize houses of worship as discreet buildings flying the druze flag.

Another thing you will immediately notice is that in general Druze are a lot lighter. Many have red hair, freckles, or blue eyes.

The capital of Druze country is Suweida, a town that is worth a visit for three things: its wonderful museum, excellent kebobs, and ubiquitous arak (anis-based spirit). Most people who make it into the Jebel Arab stop here, but the region has much more to offer. One of these is the town of Shahba, a town that contains a plethora of basalt Roman ruins and a wonderful mosaic museum. The main attraction of Shahba is the towering Roman baths, but there is also a nice Roman theater. Perhaps the most interesting thing, though, is how Shahba, a small down in rural Syria can feel more modern that parts of Damascus. Part of it has to do with the wealth of the Druze. The other part is that the Druze, like most minorities in Syria (i.e. Druze, Alawis, Christians, Ismailis), carry a bit of a more liberal air. The women are dressed in the most stylish fashions available in Syria, trotting around on stone streets in high heels. But even with the modern influence, you can still spot many elder Druze women wearing the traditional white scarf and veil that they are known for.

Nearby to Shahba is Qanawaat, another small town that contains a magnificent old basilica, as well as a nice Roman temple. Outside the temple there are a few vendors selling goods, but other than that there is no trace of tourism.

The Jebel Arab do not contain the most impressive ruins in Syria and are probably not worth a visit unless you have a lot of time, but they do provide an interesting insight into one of Syria’s most interesting minorities, the Druze. And one thing is for sure: you will likely be the only one there and be treated as a welcome guest by curious Druze wondering why you are there. It’s also likely that you’ll get a few stares, just as did when I sitting on the side of the road when of a whole school full of teenage girls came running by giggling, smiling, laughing, and daring each other to come and talk to me. Two finally did, shouting out “Hello” in English, but when I replied in Arabic, they got scared and ran away.   Close

In the mountains to northwest of Damascus lie the towns of Sayidnaya and Maaloula, the centerpieces to Syria’s Christian heartland. The first one you come to is Sayidnaya, the larger and more visited (by Syrians) of the two due simply to Notre Dame du Sayidnaya,…Read More

In the mountains to northwest of Damascus lie the towns of Sayidnaya and Maaloula, the centerpieces to Syria’s Christian heartland. The first one you come to is Sayidnaya, the larger and more visited (by Syrians) of the two due simply to Notre Dame du Sayidnaya, a legendary chapel known since before the Crusades for its holy miracles and its painting of Mary allegedly done by St. Luke, but there are plenty of other convents, monasteries and churches to be found as well.

Getting to Sayidnaya is an easy minibus ride from Damascus and lakes little over an hour. It’ll drop you in the center of town from where you can climb the hillside to the Convent. The structure of the convent itself is a rather modern one, although a place of worship has existed here since the reign of Justinian in the 6th century. The entrance is through a steep set of stairs (although an elevator is available) that take you through a passageway and into the courtyard of the convent.

Depending on what day you arrive, the number of people accompanying you will vary, but you will never be alone. This shrine is one of the largest pilgrimage centers in Syria. It not only constantly draws Christians from all over Syria, Lebanon and Jordan, but it also draws crowds of Muslims who come, mostly on Friday, to venerate Mary. If, however, you happen to be in Syria on September 8th, then you will have the occasion to come to Sayidnaya to celebrate festival of Mary. The town is flooded with Christians and Muslims alike who gather on the hills and celebrate into the night, dotting the countryside with campfires.

While the convent itself is nice, the real prize, and the reason everyone comes to Sayidnaya is to see the painting of Mary. It is hidden in a cave in the back of the convent, through a small entranceway. A sign on the outside (only in Arabic) reminds you to remove your shoes. On the way in you pass by various crutches, bandages, and remnants of other answered prayers. Eventually you reach a small room, decorated in paintings, but with the painting of Mary at the center and a small bowl of oil in front of her. Visitors will cross themselves upon entry, kiss the painting, cross themselves some more and then have one of the nuns anoint them with some of the oil. The nun will even dip a piece of cotton in oil for you to take home to someone who couldn’t make it. Once respects are paid, visitors cross themselves and leave.

Although the convent is the main focus of pilgrims to Sayidnaya, as just a traveler you may find Sayidnaya’s other sights more interesting. One of them is the Chapel of St. Peter, a converted Roman temple and the oldest church in town. The other, my personal favorite, is the Convent of the Cherubim, only accessible by a long winding road that climbs high into the Anti-Lebanon mountains, the convent looks more like what a convent should be, isolated, on the top of a mountain and (in winter) covered in snow and cold. When you arrive on the grounds there will likely be nobody about, so what you need to do is just knock on the entrance and one of the monks will open up, likely it will be an affable monk with a long dark beard named Efram. Efram speaks no English, so unless you have some Arabic skills, communicating may be hard, but he’ll still be delighted to show you around the grounds.

The convent’s main sight is the Chapel of St. Thomas, another converted Roman temple that still has its columns. The inside is decorated with frescos and icons depicting scenes from the Bible. Outside of the church, Efram, will show you numerous caves that used to be the cells in which monks lived (the now have small apartments) as well as the large cross on the top of the mountain from which you can get spectacular views of the Syrian desert and the Anti-Lebanon mountain range.

After the tour (which I shared with two Lebanese guys from Montreal), Efram invited us in for tea and cookies and proceeded to tell me how wonderful my name was. “Nathanael,” he said giving it its beautiful Semitic pronunciation “is such a fantastic name. He was the first man to believe that Jesus was the Son of God without asking for proof. It’s a good name to have.” It was good to hear. Having traveled extensively in the Arab world I was used to Arabs bungling my name… “Nathna? Natooo? Naytnal?” But among Arab Christians it was always a hit.   Close