The Crescent And The Cross

Over breakfast we formulate a plan to charter a mini-bus with a group of Irish people to Maamula, a small, lofty town with a distinctly christian history. It is also part of the last remaining area where Aramaic is spoken to any proper extent.

Our bus winds it's way way through the hills and valleys at considerable speed. Walking up the steps from the bus stop to the church perched high above the houses of the town, we are greeted by an enthusiastic nun who directs us to the chapel. We are carefully observed by a much more austere nun as we admire the religious gold paintings. We climb through a gorge and then up a steep path that allows us great views of the area and of two statues sitting in the cliff face. One is a brilliant white image of Christ the Redeemer, and the other is a pale blue sculpture of The Virgin Mary.

We enter a very small church where we are told is one of the oldest christian altars in the world. We enter to hear a woman saying the Lord's prayer in Aramaic. This ancient language hovers just above extinction, yet it was from this language that the old languages of Hebrew and Arabic derived from. It is also widely held to be the language of Christ. It was supposedly and famously brought back into popular culture during the film "The Passion of Christ", and this is one of the questions I put to the really helpful young warden. She tells me that several languages are widely spoken during the film , but Aramaic is not one of them. "When he speaks on the cross, he speaks Hebrew", she offers. I suggest that they must get quite a few academics, and linguists amongst others, visiting the area, and researching the language "Actually, no".

We leave this cool, refreshing hill town and start making our way back to Damascus. On the way back we stop off at Seidnaya. This monastery town also has a rich history, and was once the second most important place in the east for Christians to visit after Jerusalem. It was built upon the spot that an Emperor saw a vision of the Virgin Mary, and the crowds soon followed. It still gets a steady enough stream of pilgrims in the modern age, and we soon visit one of the main reasons why. In a very discreet room hangs a very famous painting that Luke the Evangelist purportedly painted of Mary. The creation itself is hidden behind a metallic screen, but that does not deter crowds of people squeezing into the tiny, darkened room for a chance to be near it. A nun stands tending the candles and incense sticks, and the air is heavy with breath and fragrance. People line up to take their turn kneeling before something they cannot see for an all too brief moment to pray for healing, help, comfort and strength. There's a really multicultural feel within the crowd that I find myself standing in and I'm sure a number of these people have waited a considerable time to make it here today. These religious or spiritual places are always so fascinating, watching the intensity and emotion of religious belief etched on the faces of those present.

Arriving back in Damascus, or Sham as it is also known,we enjoy a fruit shake on the crowded outer streets of the old town before a quick change of religion. We visit the Sayyidah Zaynab Mosque which houses the body of one of the Grand daughters of the prophet Mohammed. Zaynab's coffin is highly decorated and housed within an ornate cage, which many people are crowding around. It splits the wall divider that separates the men from the women, so that both sets of people can see and touch the sacred relic. There are tears in the eyes of several men as they hold on to the outer caging, whilst, out of sight, women howl and sob from behind the screen. Other men calmly sit cross legged on the floor, patiently listening to a cleric reciting passages from the Koran. Others sit elsewhere, looking wistful, counting their prayer beads. In such places as this, you always feel like you could stay considerably longer, but it usually feels like you are gazing irreverently for far to long, and taking up a space of somebody else, to whom the experience would mean a lot more to.

We walk back through one of the main walkways of the bazaars, the streets eerily quiet and nearly all the stores closed for business. The religious Friday is very much a day for rest and spending time with family. We end up back near the hostel, sitting out on the streets enjoying hummus, chick peas, and pickles, all accompanied with generous amounts of flat bread. We randomly encounter two tourists (separately) who have just arrived, and whom at least one of the group already knows. Backpacking is often like this. You seem to meet similar people doing similar things at similar times. And everyone knows Gerry. I later meet Diwan at the hostel, and we laugh about a previous conversation. "Oh that Gerry", he exclaims. "Why didn't you say?".

We make the short walk back to the resplendent courtyard of our hostel which is all vines and hand painted walls surrounding a now dormant fountain. Sitting there we all discuss and reflect on our day. It certainly has been one of people and spirituality, capturing a religious feel for the area and those that have lived here for hundreds and hundreds of years.