Places: The Journey of My Days, My Lives

by Penghlis, Thaao

  As he gave me his card he said, “You know that only thirty percent of Egyptian artifacts have been uncovered. We have a lot of work ahead of us.”

  Great, I thought, as I looked into his eyes. I knew I had broken through and my mission was accomplished—the right to explore my journeys in Egypt and have his full approval. I congratulated him for the great work he was doing in Egypt. I thought he may not be the most likable person with his arrogant manner, but I respected him immensely for the great passion and love he has demonstrated toward his country, and making sure nothing—not even a grain of sand—left Egypt without his approval. Too many European cultures of the 19th century (especially England, France and Germany) looted thousands of artifacts from Egypt and claimed them as their own.

  My next journey was to drive to St. Catherine’s Monastery at the foot of Mt. Sinai, a seven-hour trek through a desolate environment. This ancient church, fortified by enormous walls protecting over 2,000 icons and over 3,000 manuscripts, is second only to the Vatican library.

  Since ancient times the entire area of Sinai has been inhabited by Bedouins (nomads), and it was here that Moses experienced the manifestation of the Divine, where God said, “I am that I am,” and charged Moses to free the Israelites from Egypt’s bond.

  Getting there was difficult. So many security stops. I had mistakenly not taken my passport with me, which was revealed when I entered Egypt legally. My driver had to convince them that I was a tourist having come to meet Dr. Hawass, and so we were allowed to continue on. I wondered why there were so many military and secret police. It was 125 degrees in this hostile environment. The answer would come to me after I had left the country. Through landscapes so desolate and uninviting, I wondered how had Moses survived crossing this desert alone after being thrown into the wilderness by Pharaoh? After eight military stops with the same procedure, being stared at in the backseat by suspicious authority, I just played the role of an innocent in the wild while they tried to stare me down. I survived.

  Finally, we arrived before noon. There, a huge number of military police stood firm a hundred yards beneath St. Catherine’s Monastery. It was an interrogation scene out of the film Midnight Express. The white uniform with the black epaulets, the dark sunglasses and a stance only found in fascist countries where no democracy exists, only fear imposed on the masses. This time my driver’s license ID did not suffice.

  The head of the police strutted and said to my driver in Arabic, “He will have to go back to Cairo to get his passport. He is not invited here.”

  My driver translated.

  I said to my driver, “This is a Greek monastery ruled over by the Orthodox Church. He is a Muslim and cannot deny me my rights to connect to my God.”

  He responded in English, “You are persona non grata. Leave.”

  My driver came up with a brilliant idea to go to the nearest hotel and have the face of my passport faxed from Cairo.

  “You wait here,” he said.

  Along the path to St. Catherine. (Photo: Jack Betts)

  I found a shady spot in all that heat, and while waiting for my driver to return I decided to try a different tactic and began charming the police. I found one that spoke Greek, exchanging stories about dreams and women. My driver returned with evidence of my heritage and I was allowed through. Hallelujah!

  I trekked the rest of the way on a camel. Uncomfortable as they are, there is something in their motion that connects you to the ancient past where things took time, unlike our modern age. I came across the great wall where Emperor Constantine issued the famous edict that brought an end to the persecution of Christians in 313 AD. He built this monastery around the legendary “burning bush.” And it is that tree that still lives after 3,000 years, that continues to give life and purpose to this sanctuary. In all its years of existence, it has never been abandoned.

  Arriving at the gates of St. Catherine, I met with Father Porfidios, a journalist who landed here at the age of fifty. He found a place of solitude, became a monk and never looked back. He took me to the well where Moses had met his wife. Sitting at the spot I was spiritually moved and imagined how Moses, having come out of the hostile desert, overcame the death sentence of the Pharaoh. He settled there and became the great myth that still affects the Christian and Muslim faiths. As I walked further into the monastery, I came across the burning bush. Thick in its intensity, I instantly jumped up to grab a piece only to find it covered with fine thorns that seemed to be telling me, “Hands off!” I could imagine after all these hundreds of years this living sacred tree had been cut and gnawed at by the millions of pilgrims over the centuries, feeling it would bring them closer to God—including myself. I left with bleeding fingers. Ouch!

  As we sat outside the café, the father began to tell me how the Monastery had been named. In 292 AD an eighteen-year-old woman of royal lineage by the name of Catherine challenged Emperor Maxentius, a worshiper of the pagan gods. By questioning his pagan beliefs, she was sentenced to death. She was put on a water wheel to slowly drown, and to their astonishment the whole thing collapsed. She was finally put to death by decapitation. It is believed that milk—not blood—flowed from her body, and so she was martyred and became the patron saint. In the 19th century, angels guided the monks to her remains in Sinai and buried her within the walls of the great church.

  The singular sound of a monk began to echo through the monastery, announcing that four o’clock Mass had begun. I entered the ancient church and the first thing that struck me was the smell of the thousands of candles that had been lit through the ages. I picked one up for myself and put a flame to it. I felt the ancient icons that surrounded me had entered my very being. My seemingly difficult journey in arriving here all of a sudden disappeared, and I could still hear the haunting sounds of their religious mantra echoing in my mind.

  The next day, on the way to Damascus, I opened the Herald Tribune, and there it was on the front page: an explanation of why I faced so many obstacles getting into Sinai.

  The Egyptian security forces had arrested more than a hundred people throughout the country, suspected of plotting terror attacks on the country’s treasures. They wrote that three cells, led by operatives outside of Egypt, had allegedly planned bombings in three large cities, espousing an ideology of Takfir, accusing others of apostasy. Large quantities of explosives and weapons were found, as well as maps of official institutions in the country. Egypt’s aim was to stop the smuggling of weapons and terrorists through tunnels from Sinai to the Gaza Strip. It cannot afford another threat of terrorism on its soil. Now I understood why my passport was necessary.

  In July of 2011, Hawass was fired. Because of Mubarak’s downfall and Hawass being part of the old regime, the paper Pharaoh was chased from his office and into his car by hundreds of archaeologists. They screamed at the dictator, calling him an egoist, thief and pretender for standing over their discoveries and making them his own. Having met him, I knew one day that his attitude toward others less fortunate would sting him in the end. He has since disappeared. They say he will be brought to trial. But at the beginning of 2012, I read that Hawass was sentenced to one year in prison on charges of corruption. He is now appealing the verdict. Will he win out or has the Arab winter caught up with him? Only time will tell.

  The Burning Bush at St. Catherine’s Monastery. (Photo: Jack Betts)

  Alexandria

  (In Search of Alexander and Cavafy)

  As I entered my car the words of Cavafy the poet were singing in my mind again. “Do not hurry the journey at all, it is better to let it last for many years, and to anchor at the island when you are old, rich with all you had become.”

  It was a Sunday morning and I was on my way to visit the ancient port of Alexandria, where so much history had passed through. The great battles of Julius Caesar in the 1st century BC. Alexander the Great conquering through after crossing the Sahara desert to Siwa, an oasis where he paid homage to the Oracle of Amun and proclaimed himself the son of God. There
is a myth that 50,000 Persians tried to cross the same desert after him, but perished. After all, Alexander saw himself as a conquering God. After his battles in Babylon, where he died, his general Ptolemy I brought his remains back to his sacred city and finally buried them there, placed in a great tomb at the crossroads of the city. The tomb’s existence remained for five hundred years into the 3rd century AD, where Emperor Caracalla visited his tomb to pay his respects as did Nero, except he stole Alexander’s breastplate. Rumor has it that his tomb had been destroyed in the late part of that century. So by the end of the 4th century, the whereabouts of Alexander’s tomb had been lost to myth.

  In the 19th century, archaeologist Heinrich Schliemann, having already discovered Troy, set his sights on uncovering Alexander’s lost tomb. He believed as others did that he was buried beneath the Nabi Daniel Mosque in Alexandria. The Arabs had conquered Egypt in 621 AD, destroying the great library that changed the face of Alexandria’s history. Schliemann was denied access to explore the underground city because the mosque was a religious shrine and prominent members of the ruling family were buried nearby. Not able to buy in, he reluctantly left.

  My first stop was to visit Nabi Daniel Mosque. The car pulled up and I was surprised to see the simplicity of its architecture, no minarets and no domes. I took my shoes off as was the custom, and because I was not a Muslim I was approached by the custodian of the temple wanting to know what I was doing in Egypt.

  “To explore my history,” I said.

  “Your history?” he asked quizzically.

  I told him that it was the ancient culture before the Arab invasion that interested me, the Greeks, the Nubians, the Romans and good old Cleopatra. I also told him the last few years, that Arab history, especially the Crusades, had piqued my interest.

  “And who won?” he asked.

  To which I replied, “The Arabs, of course.”

  “That’s why you’re here, my friend,” he replied.

  I explained that in 1867 Heinrich Schliemann believed that Alexander was buried beneath this mosque. As I shook his hand I placed a $20 bill in it. He smiled and gestured for me to follow him. I love traditions.

  I entered the mosque and there in the middle of it was a large gaping hole. He explained that a few years ago while a workman was polishing the granite floor it collapsed beneath him. He took me down by ladder, and there I found myself walking on the grounds of 1st-century Alexandria. The smell of the moist earth permeated the damp cool air. We used a flashlight as we made our way into the past. There were a lot of tombs that had been looted, but I thought, Where be Alexander?

  The keeper mentioned that the underground complex went deeper into the abyss but was dangerous to enter due to its fragile state. Schliemann would have been disappointed, as I was, but I still felt I was in a sacred place beneath a 19th-century metropolis. As we came back into the light the custodian mentioned that new excavations were taking place in the Christian and Jewish cemeteries on Anubis Street, and they now believe that it is the true burial site of Alexander. I thanked him and instructed my guide that our next stop would be Anubis Street.

  We arrived at the cemetery and after going through a maze of tombstones discovered an alabaster tomb with natural decorations covering its entrance. There were lots of workmen digging large trenches as I inconspicuously entered the tomb. I discovered that this structure was merely the antechamber to a large underground tomb. It may have been the Soma where Ptolemy interred Alexander the Great. I spoke to one of the archaeologists who told me that they are now focusing on this impressive underground complex. From our clipped conversation I discerned that this space belonged to someone of great importance and possibly it is the Soma itself, the lost tomb of Alexander. They had dug down ten meters below the surface, and what they are hoping to discover one day could possibly be the greatest find of the century.

  At least three miles of Alexandria’s coastline has been subjected to earthquakes and tsunamis, and many of its seaports have disappeared beneath the sea. But at the moment a lot of excitement has taken place where forty miles out of Alexandria the tombs of Antony and Cleopatra may have been discovered in an area called Taposiris Magna, but that excavation is out of bounds. As for Alexander, the excavations continue. And yet some cynics suggest that in the end Alexander the Great found a watery grave beneath the Mediterranean, buried there not by man but by nature’s powers. But the romance continues.

  That evening I stayed at the Cecil Hotel, an icon of Alexandria, where in the late 19th and early 20th centuries great writers like Durrell, E.M. Forster, Auden and Cavafy spent time exploring this exotic world. Their words were drawn from the whole of the city’s past and present and created their own personal vision.

  The next morning I was anxious to see Cavafy’s house, which had been converted into a museum. He was one of the great poets of the 20th century. It was located at 4 Sharm el-Sheikh. I entered his apartment building, and while I was climbing the stairs I recalled something he said in his biography. Looking out from the balcony of his flat, where he lived for the last twenty-five years of his life, till 1933, he wrote, “Where could I live better? Below, the brothel caters to the flesh, and over there is the church which forgives sins, and over there is a hospital where we die.” The bordello is long gone but the old Greek hospital, where he died, is still standing.

  Outside Cavafy’s residence. (Author’s Collection)

  I knocked on the door of his flat and Mohammad, the keeper of the museum, welcomed me. The sound of a 1940s opera singer spoke his poem “Ithaca” in Greek, melodiously filling the entire house. I remembered that even Jacqueline Kennedy requested that it be read at the end of her journey. It seems the older I get the better I understand it. After all, it is about the voyage of life.

  Ithaca

  When you set out on your journey to Ithaca,

  Pray that the road is long,

  full of adventure, full of knowledge.

  The Lestrygonians and the Cyclops,

  The angry Poseidon … do not fear them:

  You will never find such as these on your path,

  If your thoughts remain lofty, if a fine emotion touches your spirit and your body.

  The Lestrygonians and the Cyclops,

  The fierce Poseidon you will never encounter,

  If you do not carry them within your soul,

  If your soul does not set them up before you.

  Pray that the road is long.

  That the summer mornings are many, when, with such pleasure, with such joy you will enter ports seen for the first time;

  Stop at Phoenician markets,

  And purchase fine merchandise,

  Mother-of-pearl and coral, amber and ebony, and sensual perfumes of all kinds, as many sensual perfumes as you can;

  Visit many Egyptian cities, to learn and learn from scholars.

  Always keep Ithaca in your mind.

  To arrive there is your ultimate goal.

  But do not hurry the voyage at all.

  It is better to let it last for many years;

  And to anchor at the island when you are old,

  Rich with all you have gained on the way,

  Not expecting that Ithaca will offer you riches.

  Ithaca has given you the beautiful voyage.

  Without her you would have never set out on the road.

  She has nothing more to give you.

  And if you find her poor, Ithaca has not deceived you.

  Wise as you have become, with so much experience,

  You must already have understood what Ithacas mean.

  —Constantine P. Cavafy (1911)

  Reading at Cavafy’s Desk. (Author’s Collection)

  As I walked into Cavafy’s office and sat at his Victorian desk where he wrote his poetry, I gazed out the window and took in the surroundings. The sheer curtains suddenly flew open.

  “Ah, was that his spirit entering the room, after having been at a local bar observing his beautiful people, youn
g and old?” I chuckled.

  Then sadness when I felt he had gone.

  I walked through the rest of the house and into his bedroom, with its brass bed and the intricate lace that covered it just as he had left it—so Greek, so simple and traditional. I lay down on his bed and took in the ambience. I felt blessed and yet a sudden loneliness came over me. Is this what he felt in his final days and why his poems had a tinge of melancholy? My thoughts were interrupted by the caretaker who asked me to sign the guest book. As I did, I noticed that above my signature was the name of the president of Greece, Karamanlis. Then a group of young students entered and I thought he would have been pleased by the influence he had had on such a varied group of people.

  Just before I left the room, I turned and whispered, “Thank you, I now realize what Ithacas meant.”

  It’s about anyone on a life’s journey. He says not to obsess too much on the obstacles before you, to keep you from the riches that await you. If you don’t own them they cannot defeat you. The poet advises to enjoy all that comes your way. The final insight is the acceptance of the life you have lived. I read that when Cavafy died he drew a circle on a piece of paper and then placed a period in its center. Was that God’s eye? He seemed complete.

  I read an article by G.W. Bowerstock who said that in the summer of 1932 when Cavafy’s death drew near, his friends persuaded him to go to Athens for treatment of throat cancer, only recently diagnosed. He attracted many notables who wasted no time in revealing what they learned, even though after a tracheotomy Cavafy was no longer able to speak at all. His last observations had to be transmitted by way of penciled notes. He returned back to Alexandria in 1932 and died the following April.