by Jeffrey Vonk
Accompanied by the sweet fragrance of a huge jasmine tree overhanging the contiguous garden, a snug inner court is where a large portion of the big family gathers. Besides begging me to stay with them for a whole week I receive a lot of questions. One member teaches English at a university, thus functioning as the interpreter in the hearing. All are interested in learning more about my stories of travels abroad, since none of them were able to leave the country. We talk for hours on end, we smile and we laugh and it’s legitimately good company. It all runs smoothly until the verbal atomic bomb drops that changes everything.
They ask for my opinion about Israel. I actually risk getting kicked out of the country or at least getting arrested and jailed when I decide to trust them by stating that I just came from the Abrahamic lands. In doing so I am literally one phone call away from handcuffs and possible beating, or worse. Luckily they are struck with disbelief of my experiences and too astonished to walk away from the conversation. But it is remarkable to witness such friendly people turn into savages when it comes to this subject. Commonly known lies about killing babies and the like are utterly insane. Of course they are brainwashed from early on, I have seen the children's cartoons on television myself in this region, where they indoctrinate the little ones with horrible propaganda. Let alone what the holy Quran openly says about the Jews, which anyone can read. Although they beg me to stay for another week I sense that I need to keep on moving. Who knows? Maybe I have altered their opinion about their ancient brothers from the pastures of old after all. Coexisting with people from another background is definitely an art in itself. Another thing that doesn’t necessarily keep me lingering is the absence of something as simple as toilet paper or an actual toilet for that matter. I am left to shitting in a hole in the floor. Here a flimsy tube with a meagre trickle has to do the trick. No hand soap around. While minding my business I remember how we just all ate from the same platter with our bare hands. It doesn’t take very long for my bowels to become insubordinate. You gotta love backpacking!
In an era before decent smartphones I search for hotels in an internet cafe, which Damascus has no shortage of, but nothing seems to be available. Wondering about the next step on the sidewalk in the sunshine, a French bloke passes. When we make eye contact he directs his steps toward me. By using his Lonely Planet we find a hotel with the only free room in town. It is no surprise when it turns out two stars less than mentioned in the guidebook. Once checked in I can start making new plans.
I mapped out a route that leads me to Mosul in the north of Iraq. I would love to visit the biblical Nineveh to marvel at its renowned ruins and statues of the civilized empire of the Babylonians, not yet smashed to pieces by future terrorist organization ISIS, but I will never make it that far. On the very next morning when I plan to head in that direction, I watch the disappointing news at breakfast. After many months of stability in that area, new terrorist attacks have arisen, making my new desired destination a no-go area.
Now that this idea is off the table I roam the narrow streets of Damascus. They are narrow enough to have to walk around the bronze lamps and Persian carpets displayed by locals hoping to make a buck. The stores in the alleyways are perfumed with spices and grilled meat, making one go back in time instantly. At the eastern gate Bab Sharqi I stumble upon the Chapel of Ananias. You know, according to the traditions this is the disciple that is send to aid the Apostle Paul, who turned blind on the road. This is the supposed location as to where he received his eyesight back. Even the exact site of his baptism is still intact. Within walking distance from the chapel is the Souq al-Hamadiyyeh which is the largest roofed market of the country. Here you’ll find anything you wish for on a cultural artistic level, including a whole bunch of sophisticated junk. At the end of the bazaar you’ll end up at the citadel of the Omayyaden Mosque. Like in most places in the Middle East, this one also is built on top of a former Byzantine basilica. The last mentioned was dedicated to the head of John the Baptist, who’s remains appear to be in the tomb inside. Such a melting pot of rich history, the Romans worshipped Jupiter here and the Muslims their moon god Baal. Another hotspot is reserved for the old tomb of a Kurdish general who succeeded the crusaders on the throne back in Jerusalem, better known as the warlord Saladin. Basically it is one big religious enchilada. All sorts of old tales go about – perhaps most remarkable is the one about Jesus. For when he returns, so the residents believe, he will kill a beast with one eye prior to leading into a great battle of killing all the Jews. It’s laughable at best. I guess we just have to wait and see how that one plays out.
In one of the wriggling alleys a shop owner tries to ply me useless souvenirs before offering me some tea. He reckons the longer I stick around the more his chances increase. Lost in compelling dialogue about Christianity a man joins our little tea party. Big scars on his neck make me wonder about what happened to this individual. I won’t have to wait very long for an answer. When he mingles in our talk it turns out he is a genuine Hezbollah fighter! As recent as last year he was involved in a battle in the south of Lebanon against Israeli soldiers. He counts himself lucky to be alive, lifting his T-shirt he shows more brutal scars all over his body. “From a grenade impact!” he says, almost in a proud way showing his teeth. For me personally an incredible opportunity, less than two months ago I talked with the Israeli Defense Force on my way to occupied territory, now hearing both sides of the story. A privilege neither parties have. If I would have been honest to the authorities about my passport, the chance would have been taken from me as well. Having shook hands with both interested parties the bitter realization sinks in that in different circumstances these men would have gotten along with each other just fine. We live in a crazy world.
After a visit to a movie theatre where everyone jumps up with their right hand placed over their heart when the national anthem plays through the speakers and the flag is shown on the screen, the journey marches on. Quite literally in this particular case. Armed with Nordic walking sticks and good spirits several hard dirt roads lead north. Admirers provide me with free dates and fresh berry juice. Arbitrary goat herders arrange destitute places to crash for the night and teach me how to count to ten in Arabic. Out of politeness I pretend to like their vomit stimulating coffee, luckily the light the bonfire produces is too weak for them to notice me tossing it away. At one of the lonely crossroads a blue traffic sign with a white arrow points right reading ‘Bagdad’. Having overcome the temptation to diverge I keep on going. Deeper into an area that becomes too harsh even for shepherds and nomads. Being close to the main road, redemption is neigh. Three soldiers in a taxi pull over when they spot me traversing ankle deep sand. Their generosity takes me all the way to the forthcoming place, the city of Homs. Today nothing more than a flattened-out blueprint of concrete rubble and warped steel. Years of warfare have unfortunately made it utterly unrecognizable. When I arrive it’s a prosperous town with hardworking people. It is interesting to me that faces from the local population have drastically changed, Turkish influence is undeniable. With a current from south to north the Orontes river defies the natural laws, if I may speak in terms of scientism. At the reception desk of a cheap hotel the clerk is surprised I pay in Syrian pounds. They are used to tourists, at least the few ones taking the time to stop by, paying in US dollars.
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If you are thinking about spending the summer holidays here do not expect to find streets of vibrant nightlife, where you can get drunk or walk around shirtless without getting harassed. Even in these boiling temperatures all parts of skin are covered. A lot of them even far exceed my own short temperedness, and they just have a different set of believes about liberty. For instance, if you vote for another candidate than the ruling establishment, a group of men will show up on your doorstep, using violence when required. Knowing this, it seems less of a miracle getting the same President elected every time, for it is solely out of fear.
When sightseeing continues a fairly big roofed market n
earby is imposing as well as entrancing. Of course the main attraction is the two-thousand-year-old Orthodox Cathedral of Holy Mary, the Om al-Zenar in Arabic. Distinctive from the Catholic church and underground Evangelical ones, this one houses seven holy relics, making it a center of pilgrimage. Most famous of all is the belt of Mary given to St. Thomas as a sign. Allegedly he’s the only one that saw her being carried off to heaven by angels. This remarkable conclusion was made after cross referencing some forgotten scrolls, found during renovation work beneath the altar in 1852. When I find the cathedral in a dodgy neighborhood it is actually closed, but sent from above is a sacristan who was willing to show me around. On the square outside in front of the place of worship I meet a guy my age. Malik has a lot of insider information about the situation in his country and the circumstances Christians truly face. To the outside world it is portrait that everyone with a different background lives side by side, according to mainstream media it is even as peaceful as ever. However, of the daily oppressions is never spoken. Biased jurisdiction will only allow certain things, but don’t mistake that for freedom. I won’t bore you with all he has to say, still, to me it is of great value. My journalistic heart writes everything down. We spend time sharing knowledge until it’s close to dusk and I have to be getting back. Better go now while it’s still safe for a prominently present white guy like me.
In aiming towards the next large city I come across Aleppo. If you are keen to follow world news, this name might ring a bell. Due to its industrial nature it has a different atmosphere. When I enter it’s nothing less than the hustle and bustle of city life. People are running to and fro. Unlike today when streets are empty, except for the amount of debris of buildings that got the shit bombed out of them. Aleppo’s eponymous castle is the predominant point of interest. Encircled by a dry canal of thirty yards wide and twenty yards deep, the indestructible fortress stands on a superficial hill towering above town. Light rocks transform almost insidiously into building blocks of the settlement supposedly in existence since the beginning of times. Separate tribes conquering the sand hill created different styles, and earthquakes had a way of altering the layout now and again, now in present form about as old as Amsterdam. With three steel entrance doors in a gate, an amphitheater, watering holes exceeding a depth of three hundred feet, and spotlights shining upward outlining the thing when dark, it is worthy to be called a pièce de résistance of craftsmanship. Essentially there’s hardly a limit to the things I discover, not to mention the indisputable miracles that occur, but those metaphysical confrontations are for another time. For now, it means I am bound to leave these dry, outstretched lands behind.
The decision has been made to move up north towards new adventures and towards the border that looks forward to receive me. Still I will never forget how special it is, me being one of the last people getting the opportunity to experience the country as it truly was, flourishing as in centuries of old, and alas before it got totally shredded and ripped to pieces. What a sad story. RIP Syria. May you revive again!
10
Kurdistan
Simple things in life can truly be a consolation. For example, witnessing dry lands transform gradually into fruitful landscapes with patches of green, I feel hopelessness finally fading away. Ever since this journey on foot began at the old city gates of Jerusalem, now months ago, it was bleak and parched up to every horizon. Each new day presented a battle against the scorching heat. The windows are slightly rolled down of a car belonging to a random guy I paid off, who was willing to drive the last ten miles to the border, presumably because he had nothing better to do anyway. As I pass a huge, seemingly infinite queue of stationary semi-trucks, salt air reveals the close proximity of the romantic Mediterranean Sea, causing excitement to be perceived by my underbelly. A basic building with big red flags with a white star and crescent moon sticking out heralds the mediocre guarded frontier line. One never knows what to expect at this type of crossings, meaning over land, but everything runs flawless for a change. With a new visa in my passport, I safely make it into the most southern part of central Turkey.
While mass tourism is solely clumped in the western provinces, focusing on that side of the country alone, this area managed to preserve its authentic character. Here where the undiscriminating slow current of the Orontes river flows further inland the riches of Antakya are protected by the magnificent Amanus Range, nowadays known as the Nur Mountains. Rustic dark brown peaks aren’t the only things that changed their name, for the city itself was formerly known as the biblical Antioch. According to legend it’s on this latitude where the followers of Jesus were first named Christians. Shrouded in antiquity the remains of huge walls from later times in history tell tales of the important role it played during the defensive campaign of the Crusades. What a time that must have been, when the brave knights of Europe were fighting for what they believed in, in order to save their Judeo-Christian heritage.
* * *
With renewed vigor I begin to hike eastward. As my directive I use the position of the summer sun, but not for long. That same sun in combination with weeks of malnourishment and dehydration makes me feel weak and fatigued. The endless lanes of cracked asphalt are pursued with a clearly decreasing pace until I reach a mental juncture.
Why am I inflicting this self-mortification to my own body? Infrequent passing tour busses beckon me to join. After some inner resistance I give in at one point. For a handful of lira you can buy a bus ticket for a ride that lasts forever, so who am I kidding really? Once on board I slump down in my chair almost convinced I deserve this. For some unjustified reason I feel a bit guilty anyway – forsaking my reliable walking sticks like this. I check out my fellow passengers: some are wearing headscarves, males and females alike, some are wearing sweatpants with tuxedo shoes while others have an old revolver tucked in their leather waistband. Not really knowing what to make of the last thing I definitely don’t feel unsafe. Yet at the same time I reserve a part of my consciousness to stay vigilant at all times.
In the many hours that follow we pass through mountains and sloping valleys. One can’t help noticing the increasing number of roadblocks and check points. This continues until we penetrate deep into borderless Kurdistan, reaching the timeworn city of Van in the Far East, not too far from the Iranian border. Still four years away from a devastating earthquake that would absolutely flatten the place resulting in hundreds of deaths and thirteen hundred wounded. In Central America I have been exposed to the sudden dangers of true earthquakes a number of times, but so far always made it out alive and without any harm done.
As peaceful as it seems now, the centuries of violence and conquering nations left traces of epic wars. From the Armenians to the Byzantines, from the Mongols to the Ottomans and lesser known conquests. Most intriguing is the brick fort built right outside the city. It is situated on a high rock built by the first documented inhabitants of the kingdom of Urartu, one of earth’s most ancient tribes. Besides the strategic location it also has a breathtaking view on the lake and hilly surroundings. My mind goes slightly hysterical when I discover carved inscriptions of Xerxes the Great on the rocky wall of the citadel. This king of Persia is interpreted in the Book of Esther as Ahasuerus, most likely the father of Darius the Mede. If only a time machine existed you could witness the magnitude of the military undertakings that became a way of life for many. Standing here with closed eyes taking in deep breaths of air I sense the endless caravans leaving their tracks in the sand; the horses, the carriages, the camels, the soldiers, the slaves, the Silk Route comes to life. Clinking sounds of swords, harnesses, and all sorts of steel, as well as the trampling of hooves. Smells of the cattle and fresh spices, and the presence of all the spoils of war from the various battles along the way. Adding to the magic is the fact that I am all by myself in these remote fields. Somehow I did it again, in the middle of high season, I am privileged to be the only Westerner close to a city of four hundred thousand heads.
With thirty d
egrees Celsius outside there is an abundance of good food like one can only find in the Far East. Blocks are marked by rows of comely engineering, or rather the absence of it. Since I never make reservations for a place to stay I keep my eyes open for something that feels good. While traveling a lot of these things go by intuition. Not that I always choose wisely as would soon prove to be the case. A simple three-story hotel has exactly one room available. When the bellboy, an unshaven man in his forties, carries my luggage up the stairs for lacking an elevator, he snares with a thick accent, “I hate English, I hate America and I hate Israel!” We haven’t even shared words when he begins to spew his hatred. Shaking my head I wonder where this is coming from. And more importantly, where will it lead to?
As soon as the very next day it becomes apparent this wasn’t an isolated incident. Random strangers are fishing for information, and I can’t leave a single store before I answer the two unavoidable questions: “Where are you from?” and “What is your occupation?” It becomes more bizarre when I realize that even the people who don’t speak a word of English, do know these two questions. Even the small children. As if they can smear stripes of war paint beneath their eyes and hit the jungle drums with any suspicious answer. Indwellers speaking a bit more English enquire what the hell a white guy like me is here for. It seems they have a hard time coping with the truthful narrative. Being a sitting duck it doesn’t take very long for the police to be informed either.