Places: The Journey of My Days, My Lives

by Penghlis, Thaao

  Morocco is a destination I would never make again. I never felt that about another country before. It just struck me that way. Whatever mystery I came across had left with the experiences I went through. They were thought-provoking, challenging, exciting, and disappointing when the evidence shot through film was lost. I still love the movie Casablanca as I realized we never saw much of the outer life in the film, just the intimacy of the characters.

  I never found Rick’s Bar, but what the hell, I can still dream, and besides, I’ll always have Paris.

  Christmas in Israel

  In the summer of 2004, Palestinian gunmen held the Church of the Nativity in Bethlehem captive for thirty-nine days. Monks were trapped inside the Orthodox Church for the entire ordeal. The terrorists created a regime of fear. An Armenian monk and two Palestinians were killed. It was now Christmas Eve 2004 and the tension had died down. I was excited when I arrived at Tel Aviv airport. It was my first journey to Israel.

  Leaving with my baggage I was quickly surrounded by four Mossad agents with badges flashing. I was flagged as a terrorist. Again. I smiled. They looked threatened and aggressively asked, “Are you carrying drugs?”

  “What, on Christmas Eve?” I replied. Blank. I cut to the chase, having been through this before.

  “I’m an actor, you probably recognize me from Mission: Impossible? I’ve been invited to do publicity here for the studio.” Their faces dropped, their masks disappeared, and they apologized profusely through their embarrassment. It was lovely to see their human side. I enjoyed the drama.

  My desire that evening was to find a guide to take me into Palestinian territory and pray at the spot where Christ was born. That evening outside my hotel in Jerusalem my guide was waiting and we quickly began the journey. Trusting the process and feeling I was on God’s path, I went with him in a van across the border. Into a dark street twenty minutes later, another van was waiting.

  They spoke to each other on the phone in their native Arabic language and began flashing their lights. I got into the next van, introduced myself, and by the time a third van appeared I felt I was being kidnapped. But this time a scholar showed up and put me at ease. Due to that tragic summer incident it was forbidden to go there without the proper connections.

  We approached the square within ten minutes. In front of me was the Church of the Nativity where the Christ Child was born exactly 2004 years prior. Carols echoed through the ancient square. I remembered this was my parents’ dream to be standing here at the center of the Christian world. They never did come because of the constant turmoil that exuded from this sacred space. I was in Palestinian territory on the West Bank and not a woman in sight.

  Facing the church with my guide beside me, he explained the three entrances created through the ages. In ancient times a chariot could charge through. Over time the door had been diminished to a small opening where only one person at a time could enter. In front of it stood nine military soldiers blocking the entrance. No one was allowed in. Because of the earlier uprising it had become no longer a place of God but a fortress. The sacred place of prayer was shut. My guide explained my situation to them but they kept repeating, “It’s closed.” He apologized to me. “I’m not lucky,” he kept saying. “I failed you.” I told him I was not going to give up so easily. To have come all this way … I will call God in my own way.

  He said he needed a drink.

  “But aren’t you a Muslim?” I questioned.

  “I don’t care,” he said, betraying a great deal of frustration in his voice. “This place is like living in a box,” he said. He explained that it’s a reminder of their constant battle with the Israeli government. Two Scotches later my bravado rose up.

  “Let’s try again,” I said.

  “It’s useless, they will threaten us again,” he responded.

  Losing my patience I replied, “It’s Christmas. It’s not supposed to happen this way.”

  With my guide Mohammad. (Author’s Collection)

  Determined, we ventured back and approached the guards. They stood defensively. The war was not over.

  Suddenly the door opened and a Greek monk came out puffing on a cigarette. I studied him, thinking, God wasn’t talking to him either.

  He caught my eye and stared at me. “Are you Greek?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I replied.

  “From Mission: Impossible? The masks?”

  “Yes,” I again answered.

  He charged over and hugged me as only Greeks do, without apology.

  “You gave me such pleasure while studying theology. What can I do for you?” he asked.

  “It’s Christmas Eve and I’ve wanted to go inside our Greek Orthodox Church since my childhood, and they won’t let me in,” I explained.

  “Come with me,” he responded. He put his arm around my shoulder and escorted me to the entrance.

  The soldiers took a defensive stance with rifles threatening.

  “Is this not a place of God? Then behave yourselves. This pilgrim has permission to enter.”

  God spoke, and the soldiers parted. As I bent down to go inside I turned to my guide, who couldn’t believe the change of events.

  “You said you were not lucky? Luck is when opportunity meets commitment,” I told him.

  Persistence won.

  I followed the father in and sat at the place of Christ’s birth: this sacred space where thousands have waited to take a glimpse of the most famous spot in Christian folklore. I had an hour to myself, uninterrupted. You can’t help but be moved when touching the core of Christ’s birth. It was no longer a postcard. I thought of my family and friends and the inner peace it touches within the depths of one’s beliefs. I just sat reflecting all that had passed my way. Thanking the universe and feeling like a child again in its beginnings, my pilgrimage had evolved in a most sacred way.

  Two years later while sitting in an Athens café, I watched two monks having a drink and a cigarette. After a few minutes one of the heavily bearded monks turned to my direction. “Do you remember me?” he asked.

  “No, I’m sorry,” I replied.

  “I’m the priest who opened the door to you at the Church of the Nativity two years ago,” he said.

  What are the odds of that happening in this enormous world we live in? It was an emotional moment for me. We embraced each other like spiritual brothers. Another coincidence? Or simply recognizing the signposts of life and knowing you’re on the right track—a reminder that trusting the process does lead to victory. These journeys are there for all of us, the difference lies in the way we see.

  The historical birthplace of Christ. (Author’s Collection)

  Church of the Holy Sepulcher. (Author’s Collection)

  Lebanon

  Ancient ruins at the Hippodrome, Tyre Lebanon. (Author’s Collection)

  I’ve always wanted to visit Beirut, a city regarded as the Paris of the Middle East and situated in the ancient Phoenician country of Lebanon bordering Syria and Israel. It’s been ravaged by wars for centuries and most recently the Hezbollah war with Israel. This group of Lebanese militants has been supported by Syria and Iran, continuously threatening Israel’s existence. The last major conflict with Israel took place in 2006, creating a war lasting thirty-four days. But the threat is always there, waiting to be ignited. And that was the atmosphere I was walking into.

  If I had an Israeli stamp on my passport I would have been denied entry. The great thing about Israel is they only stamp a piece of paper when entering, and returning it when you exit so there is no evidence of your arrival. It all went smoothly through immigration except for the words that kept vibrating in my head when friends and colleagues in Los Angeles had offered me warnings: “Be careful, it’s dangerous, you could get kidnapped, what if you don’t come back?”

  My first day of exploring Beirut was met with chaos. I thought Egyptian drivers were bad enough but Beirut takes the prize. I’m still getting over it. No lanes, no order, screw the red lights; it was a
war within themselves, bleeding through their torment. Horns honking, people walking, abandoning the traffic, the motorcycles navigating themselves through the chaos, making me flinch every few minutes and thinking how the hell could they live this way? Could it be that the constant wars within Lebanon manifested itself into the lifestyle of its people today, chaos breeding chaos?

  Michael, a Lebanese friend from Australia, promised to meet me at the Beirut airport, but he didn’t show up. I waited for two hours. When I finally left for my hotel I was caught up in bumper-to-bumper traffic. What an entrance. I finally arrived and went straight to dinner as it was getting late. Michael finally appeared an hour later. His reason was, “I got lost in my own country, can you believe it?”

  “How great,” I said. “If you can’t find the airport, how on Earth are you going to show me Lebanon?”

  Through our dinner he passionately convinced me that he could, and besides it was a dream we had talked about for twenty years. But by the end of the first morning, after exploring the city, I needed a drink just to relax so that I could take a break from the rhythm of this chaotic place. Perhaps my friends were right. But a journeyman has to move forward through unfamiliar territory if he is to understand what drew him here in the first place. Michael couldn’t stop laughing at my concerns, and so I eventually relaxed and joined him, reflecting on the amusing tales of our past.

  The next day we were on our way to Tyre (Sur in Arabic), an ancient Crusades city south of Beirut and north of Israel. In the late 12th century the Christian leader Richard the Lionhearted and fellow crusader Conrad de Montferrat developed a rivalry over the kingdom of Jerusalem. Montferrat was one of the most successful commanders of the Crusades as he had taken the city of Tyre. He was now in a strategic position to open negotiations with Saladin, the Islamic leader, over Jerusalem. Conrad was killed in broad daylight on the streets of Tyre by a group of assassins known as the Hashashins, a group of terrorists that originated in Iran in the 9th century and who eventually migrated to Syria. Their ceremony consisted of taking hash before assassinating their victims in broad daylight. This ominous shadow was greatly feared as it struck from out of nowhere. Today it is believed they are the ancestors of Al-Qaeda.

  Richard was a chief suspect of Conrad’s murder because he wanted complete control of the Crusades while Saladin fought to keep Jerusalem under Islamic law. These rivals represented the symbols of the cross and the crescent. The leader of the assassins, Hassan bin Sabbah, was also a suspect. To this day Montferrat’s murder remains unsolved.

  Roman ruins in Tyre. (Author’s Collection)

  Three hours later I found myself in the heart of Hezbollah territory, driving through this city where all that history had taken place. I was excited, being surrounded by so much culture, from the time of Alexander the Great to the invasion of Islamic forces in the 7th century and on to the infamous Crusades. Now, in the 21st century, the Islamic military was strongly showing its presence. The previous day we were told that two Lebanese men were hung as spies for Israel. This ancient historical port was not exactly Shangri-la. The bullet-riddled buildings and the war-torn streets dominated the landscape. I stood there in disbelief watching the results of a modern battle, an end zone filled with people and machines. The only color was dirty beige.

  After driving through the streets my friend Michael pulled into a gas station to ask directions to the ancient Roman ruins of Tyre. Out of nowhere a Hezbollah with a face like a bull stuck his face into mine threateningly and demanded: “Are you an Israeli spy?”

  I said, “Grecia! Grecia!” not wanting to take out my passport, knowing that being an American here would create difficulties. He tried to stare me down, but I didn’t flinch.

  Michael, thank God, intervened with his broken Arabic, “No, no, he is a friend of Lebanon. Greek?”

  He just kept staring, and finally dismissed me and told us to move on.

  Lovely, I thought. I was at the edge, experiencing their drama. But it saddened me to see that many people’s lives here have known only war and confrontation, a way of life imposed by other nations.

  As we drove toward Tyre we observed numerous UN soldiers standing by their jeeps on the lookout for any trouble, and so we felt a little safer. An hour later we entered the Roman ruins of Tyre and found ourselves in the middle of the Hippodrome, where famous chariot races had been held. Ben-Hur came to mind. And so I slowly ran around the entire oval, listening to the cheers of the imagined mob. I was back in my youth and loving every second of it. I took a bow and collapsed in the heat. It was exhausting but exhilarating. The arches where the charioteers had entered were still standing. It was one of Rome’s most popular sports where thousands cheered on their favorite heroes, where drivers used their skills and any other tactics, fair or unfair, to win. A magnificent ruin standing among the weeds, a shell of its former grandeur, but still there to remind us of its glorious past. My imagination soared.

  After my imagined race we returned to Tyre, where I was shooting photos of the current landscape. Three security cars with tinted windows drove by. I started to photograph them, when I heard a loud “No!” I ignored it even though I knew that in the Middle East one is not allowed to photograph government buildings, police or military personnel. I pretended I was photographing the church in front of me. Two policemen accosted me and grabbed my camera. Thank God it was film and not a digital camera, so the evidence was not visible. They wanted to know why I was aiming my camera at the security cars. I humbly told them that I was photographing the Christian church, this place of God. A UN soldier, right out of James Bond, came into the argument. I explained everything to him and he convinced them that I was an innocent. Suspiciously, they handed back my camera. Sometimes I think the kid in me creates circumstances just to provoke and then find ways of getting out of them. It makes my journey a little more interesting although I wouldn’t recommend it. I breathed a sigh of relief, as another obstacle was overcome.

  As we moved on, our James Bond soldier (who oddly enough was from New Zealand) told us to be aware of our surroundings. Hungry to learn from his stories, we decided to invite him to a late lunch. We sat at a restaurant by the sea and listened to his tales of survival in this war-torn country. It was a world I found fascinating. He told us how an Israeli soldier kidnapped a number of years ago was an excuse by Hezbollah forces to begin a new war. Iran was delivering highly sophisticated weapons through Syria into southern Lebanon, helping Hezbollah create a new challenge to the Israeli dominance. Newly armed with more sophisticated weaponry they fought a new kind of war against their old enemy, and Israel realized that Hezbollah sitting at its border was now a force to be reckoned with. The Israeli soldier whose kidnapping started this last war was finally returned to his homeland. Israel pulled back and is now secretly preparing for another war. Will it ever end?

  We asked the soldier for directions to Montferrat Castle, in particular the location where Conrad had been murdered in the 12th century. He warned us that the area was dangerous since Israel dropped hundreds of cluster bombs, ruining some of the ancient sites and riddling the place with over 100,000 mines. His expertise was in finding and disengaging them. What an incredibly dangerous life, I thought. And there I was, a few hours ago complaining about the traffic. It certainly places things in perspective.

  It was an interesting day. I felt a little like a spy, the actor in me always attracting the unexpected and playing it as well as my cards would allow. We said our goodbyes and headed back to Beirut. It took three hours of intense driving. I never relaxed for a minute, always thinking the “enemy” could stop us at any moment. But then I thought about those soldiers and what they go through on a daily basis. I had nothing to hide, except being an American citizen. I was disappointed that I was unable to explore the area where the assassins struck. I enjoyed the Roman ruins, especially the Hippodrome where once upon a time thousands of spectators gathered to watch and cheer on their heroes. Their voices still echoed in my mind and all tho
se ancient stones that I walked along evoked the wealth and beauty of the past; such moments of wonder raced through my mind. The green marble columns, the mosaic road, the magnificent arches I passed through and the coastline that I drove along was an extraordinary backdrop to this great Phoenician civilization.

  Baalbek. (Author’s Collection)

  Two days later we began to climb the mountains on our way to the city of Baalbek, three hours north of Beirut but not far from the Syrian border. The terrain was absolutely spectacular especially during the winter when the whole area is covered in snow. It’s Hezbollah territory again, so I knew I had to be aware of not attracting attention. But as usual I ended up doing just that. A jeep with three soldiers had their machine guns aimed right at us all the way up the mountain. Ah, the games of war that have plagued this whole area since the Crusades. Feeling uncomfortable with the present scenario, Michael decided to pull into the first possible stop at McDonald’s, and let them drive past without incident. He always remained calm.

  Finally we arrived in Baalbek at one in the afternoon. Not the ideal time, as the sun was burning down; it was 120 degrees, and no shade. I must have been a Bedouin in another life as I always ended up in a desert, this time as a hot-blooded Greek trying to be cool. Entering the ancient city, I thought, What a glorious space, filled by the largest Acropolis I had ever seen. I was blown away. Such enormous stones placed on top of others in perfect fit and alignment, built before the dawn of our most ancient cultures.

  What minds could have erected them? Like the Pyramids of Egypt, they remain an enigma. In the main section of the forum a group of men were setting up a stage and lighting for a concert series; their first was to be Puccini’s La Traviata. With crumbling ruins serving as a dramatic backdrop, it was the ideal location for such a glorious tragedy. During the Hellenistic period, the city was originally named Heliopolis, City of the Sun, by Alexander the Great. It is considered today as the most important archaeological site of Lebanon. But it was the Romans who eventually finished building this masterpiece. Some of its stone foundations weighed up to 1,000 tons. The final portion was built during Nero’s reign in 65 AD. It was a true example of the power of the Roman Empire, expressing itself through its grandiose architecture. At the end of the 4th century AD the Roman Emperor Theodosius proclaimed Christianity as the official religion of the Roman world until the Arab invasion.