The destiny of the Baalbek Acropolis was sealed. The altars were destroyed, temples abandoned and dismantled so that the Christians could build a basilica over the courtyard. But in 636 AD, the Arabs conquered and transformed the Acropolis into an impenetrable citadel.
Standing in front of these ruins, interwoven with Christian and Islamic influences, I heard the voice of a fellow traveler say to me: “Can we at least sit for five minutes and take this all in—we may never cross this path again?”
So I did just that, thinking better to get it while you’re here, instead of later when you’re gone and memories are your only recall. I sat in the great Bacchus Temple and what a beautiful monster it was, imagining what great leaders, poets and artists had sat here as well, expressing themselves through their work.
Sadly, a lot of statue heads and carvings were destroyed during the Arab invasion due to the fact the Muslim religion did not recognize idol worship. Still, my senses stimulated, I recalled what the poet Cavafy expressed in his poem “Ithaca,” “Don’t hurry your journey at all, old as you’ve become, and with so many things to recall, you would have become as rich as your essence would have allowed.” And what a visual and emotional feast I had.
I left a little apprehensive seeing the area still immersed with Hezbollah, a constant reminder of their ongoing conflict.
It was time to find treasures, not wars. I entered an antique shop and found some ancient coins made of silver and gold from the Greek and Roman periods. There went the bargaining again. It’s as customary as having your daily coffee.
I counteroffered the merchant’s deal by half. He hesitated. I reminded him of no tourists in his city and reluctantly he accepted. I was so excited by the coins that I kept bringing them out, hour after hour, feeling and looking at them again, thinking what hands and what exchanges had held these coins. They were now my treasures, legally bought, and I was taking them home.
My next journey was going to be a spiritual one, high up in the Lebanese mountains at a monastery called Mar Maroun, where the great Saint Mar Charbel’s remains are interred. I only discovered his story when the hotel concierge remarked about his miracles.
In the Christian world of Lebanon this was their holy place. In the mountains above it all, lies his Charbel’s sanctuary. Getting there was without conflict.
When we entered the monastery, out of the crowd a monk reached over and shook my hand. It was a long connection, as if we had known each other, and as I walked away, I thought, This is what it meant to connect with Divine Light. As if some revelation came through me. I was on holy ground and I was deeply affected.
Saint Charbel was born in 1828 in Lebanon where he had a true Christian upbringing with a passion for prayer. In 1859, he was ordained a priest, and for sixteen years lived his life as a hermit, spending his time praying and worshipping at the Saint Marion’s Monastery like his uncles who came before him. While in sermon in December 1898, Charbel was struck by an illness. He suddenly died on Christmas Eve and was buried in the monastery grounds. A few months later dazzling lights appeared around his grave. The monks dug up his corpse and were amazed that his body was still secreting blood and sweat. He was transferred to a special wooden coffin. Hordes of pilgrims began swarming the place to get his intercession, and through this, miracles were experienced while healing incidents amazingly multiplied. This unique phenomenon caused a moral revolution, a return to faith and the reviving of the virtues of the soul.
I walked through the monastery where hundreds and hundreds of Christians from all over the world were swarming the place hoping for a miracle to take over their lives, to connect beyond the norm and feel Charbel’s presence within them. I was told by a monk that “These places hold in their memory that which has come before, and man’s need to comprehend himself is to tap into that energy that still exists within these walls.”
Elevated after having embraced this experience, man feels a step closer to God. I bought some candles and oils to take home to my friends so that in some way by receiving them, something unexpected happens for them through a connection, a belief, a feeling, and a blessing, even in Hollywood. It certainly was for me.
St. Charbel’s Monastery. (Author’s Collection)
The monastery was a museum in honor of the saint. Displayed behind simple glass partitions that reflected his life were his embroidered clothes, his instruments and vestments of worship, and the visible stains created by his body’s secretions still prominently inside his coffin, preserved for all the pilgrims to behold. In a separate room were his books and an altar for prayer, all glowing by the continuously lit candles, preserving the memory and inspiration of a saint who made a difference, a sharp contrast to the atmosphere of tanks and armored cars driving up and down the slopes. In this one little spot, high up in the mountains, peace and loving energy were flourishing. While Michael was making his own discoveries I sat in the garden reflecting on all that had transpired.
Did something change for me in having been here? I think so. After entering unknown and dangerous territories, it was faith once again that opened my heart and mind as it always did on journeys when grace surrounds you. Fear had evaporated. I finally understood what my emotions were about, having witnessed the contrast of war and peace, and the monk whose reaching hand confirmed visible evidence of some invisible event.
My acting teacher Milton Katselas once said that he loved me and I just looked back in silence. “Don’t you believe me?” he questioned. “It’s in the way you love,” I replied. “There is a difference.”
Just as here in Lebanon they chose to love each other with a love that’s embraced in chaos. It’s a struggle inflicted by this war. Most of the people I liked very much, educated, attractive and respectful. I would love to go back as there is much to see in this small piece of earth with its amazing rich heritage.
Now with old fears behind me, and new ones approaching as they always did in times of discovery, I had no intention of getting off this train that carried my love for life’s mysteries, knowing that they will always continue to unravel on their own terms.
The Citadel
The Citadel. (Author’s Collection)
When powerful men do the unexpected, pivotal moments in history are created. One of those moments is the story that took place in the Middle East during the Third Crusade. Saladin had taken Jerusalem, the most troubled city in history, during the Second Crusade and cleansed the city with rose water. He replaced the cross with the crescent symbolizing Islam and dragged the symbol of the Christian world upside down through the streets of Jerusalem. But now the crusader army under Richard the Lionhearted was confronting the Arab leader in the late 12th century AD. But in that final night, both believing that God was on their side, Richard didn’t attack and Saladin chose to hold the city. Why both men did the unexpected remains a great mystery.
As I was studying up on this world, I decided to go back to Egypt and explore the Citadel in Cairo. It was built and completed in 1183 AD. But Saladin never lived in the fortress and left it a year after it was completed. Its location was chosen after a test was made to find the cleanest air in the city. By putting strips of meat in selected spots they could tell how long it took to deteriorate. The raw meat remained the freshest on a hill. Because the quality of air was important, the greatest consideration was the military advantage of the site. Built along the Nile it posed a major threat to any foreign army invading Egypt. It was built with the help of ready-cut stone brought down from the Pyramids of Giza.
I arrived at the Cairo airport and was quickly lined up in front of an X-ray machine to test my health condition. The H1N1 virus was spreading throughout the world and it was a necessary procedure. It seemed to me people would be healthier if they could do something about the horrific smog. I was cleared quickly and met by my guide. When traveling the Middle East I always advise people to work with professionals to eliminate games and uncertainty.
We arrived at the Hyatt Hotel along the Nile. I was gi
ven a beautiful room with a great view on the forty-fourth floor where I could see the Citadel at the top of the hill. On a bad day, which is almost every day, the city disappears into the smog and Cairo looks even darker with its mud-like architecture. It’s not a pretty sight. But beneath its layers lies an amazing and mysterious history. That’s why I love it.
The following day I explored Saladin’s world. The fortress was immense, and sounds of the muezzin, distorted and encompassing, filled the air.
I arrived at Muhammad Ali Mosque, built in the early 19th century within the walled city. As usual the shoes come off and you enter a sacred space where people sit on carpets and after prayer discuss their views on life. The domes are magnificent, made of green glass and tile, projecting a beautiful heaven that crowns its faith. When I was once studying to play a terrorist back in Los Angeles, I decided to visit a mosque. I washed my hands and arms in the men’s bathroom where others did the same, to be cleansed when they prayed to their God. After the ritual, I came out and stood near where the men began to kneel and pray. To my left women prayed separately. I studied them for about thirty seconds, until a huge guard grabbed me and pinned me against the wall.
“Who are you and why are you looking at our women?” he asked harshly.
I stared him right in the eyes and said, “Is this not a place of God?”
He nodded, “Then behave yourself.” It sounded like a line from a movie.
Then calmly I said, “I want to see your superior.”
He let go of me and I followed him. I was taken to the back of the mosque where a man, so simple in his demeanor, was reading his Koran. He looked up and asked what he could do for me. Then gestured for me to sit.
“I’m going to play a terrorist and I didn’t want to make a cartoon out of him, and so I came here as part of my research,” I explained.
He told me some stories, and as I watched him I realized this was very the man I was to play. Simple, without ego, a man connected to his God. I thanked him, smiled at the guard and felt revived. So every time I enter a mosque, I do so respecting their rituals.
Next I found myself with a guide walking the castle streets until I came to the ancient prison. A policeman stepped forward and my guide translated that this area was out of bounds to tourists. I gave him some money and the doors opened up. It never bothered me, as the average Egyptian makes very little money. With his soul satisfied, he let us go through. We came across an old prison that had been smashed to pieces. The tale behind this was that Sadat, the leader of Egypt before Mubarak, was imprisoned here. When he became a modern Pharaoh, Sadat gave freedom to all the prisoners and had the prison condemned. Each cell had been fitted with an iron ball, attached by a chain that held the victims. An ugly sight but obviously the treatment of the prisoners by the authorities was brutal, and because it was inhumane President Sadat had those memories smashed.
The colors that dominated the city were a dirty earth-brown, but some of the moldings and motifs around the ceilings and entrances are painted in the most remarkable colors, cobalt blue, ivory and blood red. Something powerful is encompassed in these walls that holds people’s faith together. I stepped out into Saladin Square and sat on the ancient tiles, taking it all in. Perhaps their faith is strong because it’s performed five times a day, constantly connecting them to their inner core. And this is manifested physically through its magnificent and glorified monuments. The mystery that remains behind is always there, so when connecting to its hidden source it brings back knowledge of the self. And as one crusader said, “If you can reach that, then you will know wisdom.”
In its one thousand years of existence the Citadel had gone through many physical changes, each empire expressing itself differently through its architecture. I visited the palaces built in 1218 AD in the southern enclosure. The rooms were large and very much in the European-inspired style. A little rococo where a gold motif gave it an aura of wealth reflecting a society rich in its façade. Many paintings and portraits adorned the palatial halls and walls. Jewelry was prominent, their facial expressions austere, having been influenced greatly by the Ottoman baroque.
Saladin’s strength came from his connection to God, whom he always believed was on his side. In 1185 AD, he was gravely ill, and while on his deathbed, had a revelation to take Jerusalem. He believed God spared him from death to conquer the Holy Land. He called for a Jihad, and a new holy war was born in Jerusalem. This was the city where Mohammad spiritually rose from the rock, and by reminding them of this, Saladin united the Arab world.
After taking Jerusalem he overpowered his enemy and shattered their icons. The remains of the Cross of Jesus had led the Christians into battle, giving them twenty victories. Now that symbol was conquered and Saladin took it to Syria where it disappeared forever.
In the Third Crusade, Richard and his army crossed the European continent for three years to get back from Saladin Christianity’s two most prized possessions, the Cross and Jerusalem.
After exploring this moment in history, I concluded that on the eve of his victory Richard knew his men were exhausted and that his army could not sustain holding on to the Holy Land indefinitely. What was also gnawing at him was that his brother John wanted to capture the English crown for himself. Richard turned away from his dream and spared Jerusalem the atrocities that would have transpired.
Saladin, knowing that Richard had the upper hand, was willing to be a martyr. But the unexpected took place, and Saladin believed that God was on his side once again. But slowly Saladin—who was born in Tikrit, Iraq, ironically the same birthplace as Saddam Hussein—was losing his grip and died at the age of fifty-six, six months after Richard had left. Richard never saw Jerusalem and died in battle fighting the French at the age of forty-two. Richard’s body had become bloated and exploded into pieces. They say his remains were buried in three different graves. The Christian world never fully recovered.
Finishing my journey, I exited the massive gates and turned back once more to a world where great warriors laid down their lives for their God and the Citadel which encompassed their beliefs and dreams. It was a collision of two faiths and a clash of those symbols—the Crescent and the Cross. Saladin’s body was taken back to Damascus where his remains were interred in the great Umayyad Mosque. My curiosity would like to have opened his sarcophagus and witnessed what this great icon’s remains looked like and the armor that embraced him in his final hour as a warrior.
On my way to the airport I stopped at the spot where Sadat was assassinated. What a great man Egypt had lost. When I read his spiritual book In Search of Identity I was deeply moved by his insights into metaphysics. He was a peaceful warrior. I never felt he was fully appreciated by the Arab world, mainly because he favored the West and brought peace with Israel.
On the other side of the road where his assassination took place a modern pyramid stands with a hollowed center. How ironic that a man who had such compassion and insight for peace in the Middle East should be symbolized by a pyramid with an empty heart.
I left Egypt awakened, certainly grateful and stirred by all that evolved and all the knowledge I had gained. I realized how important it is to know when a journey ends and another begins.
I witnessed on this voyage the beginning of the end for the Mubarak regime. The rumblings had started and another piece of history will have folded. By tapping into that culture’s spirit and being there to witness Egypt’s new transformation, I gained a better understanding who the Arab Egyptian was becoming while fighting for freedom, and a clearer perception of myself for having walked through it. After all, isn’t navigating history’s path the reason why we’re here?
The Way Out Is The Way Through
On the 28th of June 2008, I arrived at Cairo International Airport to meet with Dr. Zahi Hawass, archaeologist and the Supreme Head of Antiquities of Egypt. Having read many of his books and followed his career through the Los Angeles County Museum of Art, as well as his many guest appearances on Discovery and the
History Channel, I felt I had a good grasp of this man. He made a huge difference in bringing to light many of the discoveries of Ancient Egypt onto the world stage.
I arrived in his office punctually at 2 p.m. It was filled with female assistants and surprisingly absent of any Egyptian art.
Walking in, I politely asked, “Are you ready, Dr. Hawass?”
Abruptly he answered, “Ready for what?”
Hmmm, where had all the charm gone? He refused to look up and appeared to be horribly busy. I decided to keep my one-pointedness, as the Zen teachings taught me not to flinch. I began throwing questions at him about Bahariya (Tombs of the Golden Mummies), Seti I (Pharaoh) grandfather of Ramses II, and anything new found in Egypt’s largest tomb created for Ramses’ sons.
All his answers were an abrupt “No” or equally dismissive. I couldn’t seem to reach him. I decided to try another tactic. I remember reading about his friendship with Omar Sharif, whom I had worked with in Europe ten years prior. So I inquired about our mutual friend.
He curtly responded, “He lives in Paris. What else?”
I quickly showed him photos and stories of documentaries I was developing for the Discovery Channel. Immediately I recited a dissertation on the fees that would allow us to shoot in these places. I felt the need to finish this game he was playing, and like an actor knowing his cues, I stood up and quickly finished the meeting with a handshake. At last, a shift took place, and he stood up. I think he was surprised that I had ended the meeting before he had. I was not about to experience his dismissal.
Places: The Journey of My Days, My Lives Page 18