Introduction

This is the daily diary of a two week visit to our son Matthew in Damascus. I am not naturally a traveller to foreign shores, preferring caravan holidays in the UK to hotels abroad. However, it is important to understand the lives your children lead so when we realised Matthew was to be in Syria for more than a year we knew we had to try to join him at some stage in order to understand his world and meet his friends. This account is purely personal and is likely to contain inaccuracies (not least in the names and spellings of his Arabic friends) so I apologise for those in advance. The diary was not designed to be a report, just a series of hooks on which memories could hang.

I would like to thank the people of Syria for inventing (among many other things) the concept of writing and being gracious enough not to claim intellectual property rights on the invention. It is arguably the most important invention in the entire history of the human race.

Image - the Cham Palace hotel at night. We stayed in a cheap and cheerful backpackers hostel but the Cham palace was a really useful landmark for orientation! Cham is a local name for Damascus.

Day 2 – Sunday 29 Mar 09 - Damascus

Matt came here for breakfast then we walked up to the Citadel; passing a pitiful pet shop stall en-route. It was distressing seeing the conditions the animals were kept in. 12 hours later Tim would be speculating what he would do if he won a million pounds - "Buy all the animals and set them free". The souk was better than I remembered the souks of Tunisia - there was little being pestered by vendors and my sense of smell has dulled over the years -but I had the same feeling I get walking round the Swan centre at Eastleigh..."why would I ever want to buy THAT?".

The mosque of Umayaad was an unexpected experience in many ways. I was captivated by the beautiful serenity of the giant, white courtyard where the reflections seemed to root the sky down in the depths of the earth. But I was left cold and unmoved by the giant emptiness of the sanctuary area where the complete absence of a focal point made it feel as holy as an aircraft hanger. After the mosque we walked on through the Souk until intercepted by Farood who brought us into his shop and spoke to us in excellent English (acquired "in the University of Hamidaya Souk"). He was a great storyteller and ended up taking us round to his "Aladdin's Cave" down the Street where he had a room completely kitted in Islamic fashion from the ceiling panels to the wall hangings - part of the family business.

The afternoon was spent wandering round to find a restaurant and then exploring the delightful alleys of the old town. We were struck by the easy friendliness of the people. In Mexico I felt continually bombarded by street sellers and beggars; I felt I was an object of commercial opportunity rather than a human being. Here it is different. We are still approached by the street sellers but fewer approach and still fewer pester. We have had a number of greetings by complete strangers, merely for the sake of communication. We have also had shopkeepers ignore us while we browsed; something that made shopping a more pleasurable activity.

Image - the Umayaad Mosque - man reading newspaper, reflecting on the polished marble courtyard (top); building regulations in Old Damascus are a little lax (bottom).

Day 5 – Wed 1 Apr 09 - Damascus

Woken late with a text from Matthew, we were clumsy and scratchy getting going but slightly revived by the obligatory olive, cheese, egg and bread breakfast and a brief conversation with Anita, a Norwegian of Arabic extraction reading at the table outside our room. When we got to Matt's Tim was tired and easily irritated but we got out to find a taxi and went to the botanic gardens for an ice cream together.

Tim has been fascinated by the ants there and he wasn't long looking at ants when he relaxed and came back to us with all sorts of tales about things he had observed. Matt left to take a lesson so we had a few hours to spend before meeting together to go to the ‘Cain and Abel’ mosque on te hilltop overlooking Damascus. We decided to pick our way to the Azam palace without using a map. Whilst I love maps the end purpose is always to get a map inside my head so it was a nice feeling to walk around the narrow lanes of the souk following only instinct - informed by sunlight and shadow - and end up at the right place.

Azam palace was an inspiration to me in a modest way. I loved the aesthetics of space, water, geometry and vegetation and I set myself a challenge to make any future home I lived in a place where the integration of beauty and nature was considered to be a worthy investment. I didn't see many of the palace exhibitions, choosing instead to spend a long time simply sitting soaking up the place and watching the people.

We walked up to Matt's in time to meet the students near the Islamic University for the ride up the hill. The minibuses in Damascus are mainly small and thin. There is a reason for this which you soon discover on the ride up through the steep narrow streets of the Kurdish settlements clinging to the sheer limestone slopes of the hillside. This is an area with many illegal houses and refugees with no official status. This might explain in part the higgledy piggledy nature of the housing. After my lesson on earthquake prediction I sincerely hope these people get a decent warning of the next earthquake here. I would not like to be on these slopes when it took place. The drivers took it all in their stride as clutches slipped and brakes squealed. The drivers know their vehicles to the nearest millimetre but it still seemed impossible that no-one collided or got run over.
Finally, we stopped when the road gave way to steps and we climbed a concrete stairway that zig zagged among a few remaining houses then launched several hundred metres across bare yellow limestone to the squat square form of the mosque near the hill top. We removed our shoes, the girls covered their heads and we walked through the sanctuary area to the cave behind. In the cool of the cave the Iman told us the story of Cain, Abel, jealousy and murder. We heard how the mountain itself gasped at the deed, and we saw the tongue and tonsils of the mountain frozen in open mouthed shock. Nearby we saw the hand print of the angel Gabriel on the cave roof, holding the mountain to keep it from crushing Cain and thereby wiping out the forebear of the human race. We were shown the Arabic name of God picked out by the random deposition and erosion of calcium on the cave roof. We heard the tale of the forty refugees who hid in the cave hundreds of years ago and are still (apparently) in there; whenever one dies another replaces them so they continue to live - a shadowy invisible presence - behind the bricked wall and three round window openings to the back of the cave where the faithful throw money and photographs of their loved ones.

All this we heard twice; once in the guttural arabic of the Iman and then a second time in the beautifully accented English of Maha (the "big eyes of the little deer") who translated for us. Many of the students prayed. Fouad explained to us that when you visit a house you give two greetings; one when you arrive and one when you depart. "So it should be when you visit God's house and that is why we pray twice when visiting a mosque". His little brother Osama (10) had joined us for the trip. Osama’s English was excellent and when we asked him how he spoke such good English he casually said ‘I picked it up playing computer games’. He had a wonderful smile which seemed to permanently light his face. That cheerful disposition might come in handy in later life. It could be tricky living in the US with the name Osama and a birthday on September 11th.

We left the mosque just as the evening call to prayer rose across the city. In the gathering gloom of the early evening, constellations of green light could be seen from the mosques across the city. Green is the colour most associated with Islam; not surprising that a culture with its roots in the desert should regard green as the colour of life and holiness. Each light was a focal point of sound as the call to prayer rang out. Up on the hill we heard the rumble of traffic drowned by wave on wave of incantation; sounds reaching back to ancient times before green neon lights or electric amplification. As the wave of prayer faded back to the drone of cars Matthew gathered the students in a story-telling circle and we passed around tea and biscuits in the dark. The stories flowed from Alla'adin to Leprechauns, the hanging gardens of Babylon and Sargon the Great.

Just before the stories began, while the tea was being poured, we had a phone call from Vivienne at the Halifax to say our offer on Mike's house had been accepted. Our own story seemed - at last - to be moving forward. It was an unbelievable thing; a house way beyond our expectation now within our grasp and a place big enough to allow space for new dreams and new adventures for us all. Above all it offered us more than a house. It offers a home big enough that hospitality can be practiced in tangible ways.

Images - The beautifully crafted arches of the Azam Palace (top); climbing up through the shanty town to the 'Cain and Abel' mosque (middle) and the illuminated stairway leading back down the hill towards Damascus (bottom).

Day 6 - Thursday 2nd April 09 - Damascus

This was the day we left the hotel. We made the most of the final shower, ate the last of the olive, yoghurt and bread breakfasts then arranged to store the luggage while we went to meet Matt and Tim at the handcraft market. We bought a couple of presents including a clock with Arabic numerals. There was a music shop selling Ouds, drums, whistles etc. The whistles were the cheapest and had a wonderful bagpipe drone so I bought a double set for 500sp. Terry and Tim were mortified and persuaded me to take them back and swap them for a drum. Secretly I would have preferred the drum but didn’t think I could justify the expense so their prejudices against my piping played to my benefit...

After a tasty restaurant lunch we collected the bags from the hotel. On the way we passed a bike converted for cooking crepes. Matthew told us he used to hear the vendor pedalling round advertising his wares in English by shouting loudly "Crap on a biiiike!”. I had forgotten how much I miss Matthew’s anecdotes and sparkly eyed humour.

We went by taxi to Matthew's where we met Laurence and Nour who accompanied us to the garden centre with the grand plan of greening Matthew's balcony. It was wonderful to walk round somewhere brimming with greenery. There were also a range of birds for sale including some big chickens cramped into tiny cages where they could scarcely turn around, far less stretch their wings. One cage had a dying bird lying on its side in the heat and flies. Tim and I took the cage to an assistant but we could not understand their reply so really didn't feel we had helped either the bird or our own conscience. Tim and I discussed whether we should secretly set the birds free or at least help their chance of escape by removing the stone from the top of the cage. But in true English fashion we ended up not making a fuss or causing embarrassment to us or anyone else.

We got a lift back with Laurence, Nour and Omar (who joined us at the garden centre). Carrying the plants up to the fourth floor was hard work but not as hard as carrying the soil - thankfully we didn't need to do that particular job as the friendly delivery man who does the roof garden for Laurence and Omar seemed quite willing to lug the bags up the stairs! We had tea with Laurence's family and I found out what a skilled and knowledgeable photographer Omar is. He is doing an MA in Vienna on a part time basis. I envied Nour who is growing up with his Dad speaking Arabic, his Mum speaking French and English liberally sprinkled as their social language with friends. He will end up knowing three languages without studying any. However, it seemed strange that a couple so cultured and well educated had decided to settle in a noisy polluted city and bring up a child there. The extent of my surprise suprised even me. It reflected deep seated prejudices; not against amascus, just about cities in general - I still find it inconceivable to choose to live in one. I know many people have few choices but I would sacrifice a lot for the joys of clean air and the song of birds.

I was very tired after tea and just wanted to sit down but Terry had realised she still had the key for the hotel room and I knew it was better to take it back sooner than later so I forced myself to walk back to the hotel to deliver it. As an incentive I took my camera with my new lens attached and gave myself the luxury of abundant time. Damascus seems busier in the evening than it is in the day and I walked slowly, choosing unfamiliar routes to broaden my knowledge of the city. On the way back I picked my way through the dark and narrow streets of souk Sarouja using the moon for navigation. It was a much longer route but being more interesting was less tiring. It also felt remarkably safe and it was with some confidence I explored the maze of little streets. I knew if I got lost I’d be unable to ask for directions but I didn’t expect to get lost. It wasn’t that I knew where I was, just that I was fairly sure I could end up in the right general area provided I walked far enough and could see the moon now and again. I spent a long time photographing a stray cat in a derelict building and an equally long time composing the moon behind the crescent on top of a mosque.

Walking through the city at night, with its bustle of activity I felt an invisible spectator, almost a ghost from another time or place, unable to communicate. I looked in on restaurants, recognising few of the foods and overhearing wholly incomprehensible conversations. There was an ambiguity in my invisibility. Part of it was appealing but part of it was alienating. I felt like a beggar must feel as people walk past avoiding eye contact; but then I realised that this was nothing to do with language barriers - I feel equally distant when walking through any English towns; if truth were known I feel an outsider in every group, sometimes even among my closest friends and family. It's something to do with not being a nuisance, not imposing on people but insecurity is only part of it. It’s also about the joy of solitude (mixed, no doubt, with a bit of pride and aloofness). The origins are dim and distant and the motivation mixed but I’ve learned to live with it happily enough … though it sometimes frustrates Terry.

When I got back to Matthew’s I was ready for bed and we were greatly blessed to find his flatmate, Kate, had tidied her room and changed her bedding so that we could sleep in her bed until she got back from Beirut.