The sheep are getting worried, Eid al-Adhr is on its way… Their blood would soon fill the streets.
Scene from Chez Moi (باب توما)
For my first month here, I’m renting a room from a Syrian family in Damascus’ Old City. The city walls play host to most of the University populace, it seems.
This is the view from my roof, away from the bustle of the narrow streets below. In our courtyard, the muezzins’ ezan converges five times a day from several surrounding mosques. Their watches are a few minutes apart, but they eventually crescendo before the first call reaches the final line, confirming la llah ila Allah - “there is no God but Allah”.
On the horizon of the photo is Jebel Qassioun, limiting the sprawl at the northern edge of city, rising above the pollution.
As night falls, the Damascene nights get pretty cold; I’ve taken to sleeping in my sleeping bag under the blankets. The 7am dash to the shower across the terrace is still chilly, but by the time I eat breakfast, the sun is touching a corner of it, allowing me to eat en terrasse.
Most houses have a big water tank on the roof, holding reserves. The drinking water here shuts off at 2pm for the day, so filling bottles is my little morning ritual - I’m determined not to rely on bottled water after seeing its effects on the beaches at Tartous & Lattakia.
Waltz with Bashar (ii)
On the wall in a café in Damascus.
I’m revising my thoughts about his popularity, and the symbolism of his omnipresence. Although I don’t feel at liberty to say so. Erm, literally.
Umayyad Mosque (الجامع الاموي)
The faith & devotion that one feels within the Umayyad mosque is striking. This is one of the most holy sites for muslims outside of Saudi Arabia.
Walking barefoot across the courtyard, the limestone floor reflects men in suits, women in chador, and children running & sliding across it. Just after I entered, an Iranian man came up to me indicating his camera. I initially thought that he wanted me to take a photo of him & his friend, but when I nodded, he stood at my side, placed his arm around me, and his friend was taking our photograph.
The prayer hall on the other side of this huge courtyard contains the shrine of Hussein, grandson of the prophet. Inside, there was a mass of Iranian Shi’ites who were stood around a man with a loudspeaker. As he sung some sort of prayer into his microphone, they were all beating their chests and chanting in unison. They all wanted a glimpse of the shrine, and the emotion that filled this room was astounding as women were crying amongst the men jostling to film their visit here.
In the main prayer hall, men were sat studying the Qur’an whilst other groups assembled around charismatic people reciting stories, occasionally putting the words into song. The men were sat in a semi-circle around the mullahs, some with tears in their eyes as they listened to the story, whilst the women were sat behind a little barrier which divides the two sexes within the hall. The traditional dress of women in black chador was contrasted as they raised their hands in the air not to salute the shrine, but to take a photo with their mobile phone.
I know nothing of exactly what these stories contained, but the passion that these people felt whilst here, and the devotion to their faith, was extremely moving, even to a Godless soul like me.
I don’t have AIDS
Registering for the University of Damascus requires an AIDS test. Entering a small room drenched in that clinical fluorescent light which is ubiquitous in the country, two nurses in hijab were waiting to take my blood.
The following day, the crowd which is assembled to pick-up the results is madness. For half an hour, there was just a scrum of people passing their tickets forward towards a hapless worker manning the window. People from all over the world, although notably Indonesia & Iraq, were trying to obtain their results which would allow them to stay in the country. Eventually someone took control, calling out names and distributing the sheets of paper certifying the absence of the HIV virus.
With all the talk of biometric identification in the UK, the cynical side of me questioned whether the government also keep a record of your DNA. Already, wherever you travel, you are required to give your passport details, along with the names of your father & mother. Whilst buying a Syrian SIM card, I was required to leave an imprint of my thumb-print. Is this data being accumulated for the country’s many bureaucrats to file through? I wonder what other information will be required during my stay; waist size, favourite colour…?