TRIP TO SYRIA - CHRISTMAS 2004/2005
This is not a diary travel, but simple flash. Impressions and colors of a country that has seduced me and I did not understand. DAMASCUS
There is always at the beginning of a journey, an image that is fixed in the head and then you are bringing in the memory. It 'a kind of logo. Of travel in the country. Sometimes a logo of stories. So many stories.
The logo of this trip is a woman in black. A woman in black that I see behind me, in Damascus, while I'm about to cross the busy thoroughfare that leads me to the old town from new town.
E 'already evening. We arrived in Damascus with 12-hour delay. The Alitalia flight, of 21h40, instead of landing in Damascus last minute changes course and lands in Beirut. "For because of fog," announced the captain. Damascus sparkles of lights below us.
From Beirut flight starts at 10 am the next morning, December 27, 2004, without the company gives no explanation for the delay to passengers. There are rumors on airport charges that Alitalia would not pay. Foreign passengers swear they will never fly more with our national airline. I try to sleep stretched out on four seats in the transit hall.
The woman behind me. Like me, wait for the policeman to stop at the sign face swollen river of yellow taxis with their continuous beeps inform the world of their existence.
Of her feel just a form. Black, a long black veil to the foot, wide sleeves, which covers the hair, mouth and nose. The slot from which you could glimpse his eyes and covered by a pair of mirrored sunglasses. Veil and goggles turn the woman into a thing.
I feel that she is looking at me. I also look at it. With the corner of my eye, I look at it. But she did not see anything.
She sees me, I did not.
I feel naked.
Syria is a country where what matters most is always at the shoulders up. From the shoulders down, are all alike. Sacchi information covers forms. The dominant colors are gray, brown, beige, black. Rare white. The red is confined to the keffiyeh, which men of all ages wear on their heads, in different shapes, contained in a circle of black cord. A circle soft worn as a crown of thorns of Christ. From behind
combine up signs of belonging. The female veil, for example, is expressed in many forms. Correspond to degrees of belief? At this or that current schismatic Islam? I miss the codes to understand. I limit myself to then record the shapes. You pass by blacks
veils that cover the whole of the face and body, without allowing glimpses of some sort (the hands emerge from the veils, and gloves and black), those who leave a slit for the eyes, narrow scarf tied under the neck. These sometimes overlap so flirtatious. One, two, three scarves degrading colors, black, beige, white arranged to correct the roundness of a face, the width of the forehead. Some girls wear veils of fabric elastic, knitted, crocheted, slipping on the shoulder to form a braid of wool. Few women revealed. A few tourists. And Christian. Some Christians, I say, they also bring their veil. The others, those which exhibit the striated hair highlights, hair enriched with abundant cotonature 60s, exceed heavily in make-up. They look like the girls of the popular districts of Marseille. I'm not beautiful. Very red mouths, eyes bilayers, false eyelashes and pounds of jewelry sberluccicanti. I wonder if, in turn, is a form of reaction, or if it covers in a way that meets standards of beauty in the Middle East who prefer the excess.
I lose the woman in black glasses and smoked in a sea \u200b\u200bof \u200b\u200bblack women who walk under the arches of the souks of Damascus. The souks of Damascus
strangely resembles the Galleria Vittorio Emanuele in Milan. The main street that leads directly to the great mosque of Omayad, located at the center of the old city is covered with a rounded roof and cast iron plate. From day one can see the holes from which filters the sunlight. Someone tells me are the marks of bullets fired from helicopters in 1982 when President Assad said the raid in Syria that massacred more than 35 thousand people. They wanted to counter the Islamist threat, I will explain ten days later, Abu Jaber, my Syrian driver. He added: "Assad, has done well. If he had, Syria would become like Algeria. "
In the souk at 8 pm, closed shops and open space of the merchants wild. On the ground, in the light of candles or oil lamps, are sold track suits, bras, socks Chinese, soaps, olives, pistachios, wallets, nylon jackets. Circulation of the bicycles and cycling, grinders, equipped with cooker, the cooked peanut. From the latter, through a high tin tube attached to the handlebars, comes out gray smoke.
The esplanade in front of the mosque Omayad is empty, dark and white. Some men play backgammon sitting on the porch reserved for pilgrims.
We get lost in the maze of narrow streets of the souk in search of Jabri House. We find by accident, after many twists and turns.
The guide is recommended between the eateries in the average price. As soon as I decide later that will be my reference point Damascus. An eighteenth century palace with a courtyard. It feels like being inside a Venetian palace. We eat in the court that during the winter is covered by an immense sheet. A woman without a veil, I recommend ordering the soup of chickpeas with olive oil. It 'delicious. On the bottom floating pieces of meat soft, fat as I like.
Not all are in a restaurant to eat. Groups of friends there are veiled to play cards or backgammon. So do couples. Christians and Muslims. That while crossing rarely, obviously, would attend. They play a kind of "Ciapa, couples, smoking apple-flavored tobacco from hookahs tall stained glass. A boy passes by a water pipe to another with a silver basket filled with hot coals. Using a long forceps, also of silver, the embers on the burner system of the hookah. Return to old now cold embers and replaces them with new coals. That of coals is important work and tireless. He, the coals, never stops.
the toilets, beautiful, ancient, a veiled girl who says his name Hoffa gives me a clean towel to dry your hands. Then I took her face in her hands and kisses me.
Returns slowly to the hotel at night. I have the impression that this is a gentle world. Dolce and sybaritic.
The impression of sweetness vanishes in the night the voice of the muezzin. The voice of the muezzin, here, is not a recorded voice. The muezzin, a man who prays in the flesh live. I understand the voice. A hoarse voice. Mentions that, sometimes, a few cough. In any case, a determined voice, demanding. Plana stentorian the city and I feel that it fits in my bed. My eyes are wide open in the dark. Listening to this voice and appeal with a feeling of alienation. Excavation in the memory and I remember another night, many years ago, when a voice like I wake up in a dark room very hot. Summer 1990, Lombok, Indonesia. Even there, veils. Many veils close under the chin to form a triangle frame and the smiling faces of girls ...
There is no sweetness even in the Shiite women who beat their breasts and throw screaming and wailing in front of the tomb of Hussein, in the Omayad mosque. They, the Shia, the observations in the long undisturbed, sitting on the carpet that covers the entire floor of the room where Hussein is buried. Hussein, I understand, is the husband of Fatima, the daughter of Ali, considered by the Shia descendant of Muhammad. Perhaps history is not like the story, but that's what I explain in plain English with gestures and mutilated women mourners. I have no doubt about the extent of their grief. Cry really, these women. Young and old, weep, competing to see who cries more, who among them is dripping tears more plentiful. It seems to me to see a sort of rite of collective hysteria. The men hit his chest, praying out loud, rushed against the large glass case and gold to protect the tomb, kissing, the licking, touching the plate with your hands, making their way to elbow strikes. As they are covered from head to foot, from a gray shirt Irish prisons have given me promptly at the entrance, I feel like a daughter of Magdalene, a disciple of that film by Ken Loach, who won the Venice Film Festival two years ago. One woman underwear sharply to cover a lock of hair coming out of my hood. I smile, I apologize and I do reluctantly.
The great mosque would always be a place of peace. The white of the paved courtyard, mosaic floors, women in black who appear to float on a sea of \u200b\u200bwhite, elegant gestures that surprises me, the great Persian rugs covering the interior of the mosque, whose plant is exactly that of the Byzantine cathedral that stood in its place and that in turn was built on the ruins of the Roman Temple of Jupiter which is a part of the pediment, all as a whole, invites you to rest. I sit on the ground against one of the great columns supporting the nave. Whole families, swarms of children pay homage at the tomb of John the Baptist, revered as a wise prophet in Islam. A young mullah, gray and white, goggles and intellectual well-groomed beard, holding a Koran lesson to a group of men kneeling around him, bend rhythmically beating his head against the floor. From the large stained-glass windows filter the light a warm laid back.
I could be sitting hours to observe this strange world and instead go out, immediately repented of your choice. I intend to return to the mosque.
the coffee behind the mosque to meet my student of Political Science. He is doing his internship year at the French embassy in Beirut and Damascus is visiting with some friends. I'd like to spend more time with him, telling me of his experience, but he is in a hurry. The evening has a date in Aleppo. We salute you.
The plan of the souks of Damascus is a logical and understandable Dacil. Incorporates the geometry of Roman roads, the thistle and the decumano, which is divided. A main road straight and many arms that branch on the right and left. Three Bab, or ports of entry, provide access on three sides.
In the most extreme of the souk is the Christian quarter. The transition from the Arab souk in Christian areas is underlined by the multitude of crosses, Roman and Orthodox churches that adorn the doors, are painted on the walls, neon dominate the church steeple. The churches are ugly and modern. More blocks than churches, courtyards have hardened and unadorned, some swing to attract children, flowerbeds let it go.
go down in the basement of the chapel dedicated to Armenian Ananias. I do not know who is Anania, but he soon discovers visiting a gallery of small pictures that tell the story of naive Saul / Paul who received enlightenment on the Damascus road. Received it, now I know, asking him to Ananias that his hands over his eyes released him from blindness. The small pictures are accompanied by captions naively anti-Semitic.
Outside the souk is the modern city.
The modern Damascus is an endless expanse of immbili precarious-looking, graying from the smoke that emerges from the exhaust pipes of cars. A fleet that would make the happiness of the collectors of classic cars. Mercedes, Daimler, Ford old decapotabili alternate with yellow cabs made in Japan. A white Hispano Suiza is parked in the Christian quarter. The yellow taxi along with many maroon Mercedes 50's are the only ones able to stop the dichromatic beige / gray monochrome urban areas. The hill overlooking Damascus is entirely covered with buildings that have the exact color of the sand making up the same hill. At night, it seems the Bethlehem Nativity. A sea of \u200b\u200blights that lead down.
PALMIRA
The bus that takes us in Palmyra is a luxury bus in its own way. In addition to the pilot, there is a very busy steward to distribute bags to collect the vomit, scented towels, paper cups. Every now and then distributed to passengers fresh water from a plastic tank. TV goes on a movie, one of those films that looked naive to the oratory of the brothers when I was little. No need to understand Arabic to grasp the story: a man blinded by ambition, to achieve its goals crushes those around him and this eventually suffer a harsh punishment.
I watch the movie and the monotonous landscape that flows out of the window.
From Damascus to Palmyra are 3, 4 hours the bus and the scenery is always the same. A mountain range on the right and an endless desert of stones on the left. Here and there, the tents of Bedouins. Countless herds of goats on the right and left of the road.
the bus no one speaks. Order reigns in Japan. Nothing to do with the disorder and the voices of the Maghreb. The Syrians seem to be highly sensitive people. Claudio says that in a dictatorship such as that which exists in this country no one dares to speak because there's nothing to say. And what would you say you can not say.
The constant presence of lights, as described in the guide, the experiment at the bus station leaving from Damascus. In the meantime take some photos. Me they ask, pictures, a garbage man, a man traveling with his granddaughter and a soldier. Stands at attention in front of the lens. I shot them and, for some reason, thank you. Not one minute later, a mustachioed man beckons me to follow him. I pretend not to understand. He points the camera and repeats the gestures that I follow. I tell him no. That do not follow him. I do not know who he is. That has no distinguishing mark of authority. And turn away hoping that the story ends there. He argues bitterly with a knot of people formed around us. He leaves and returns with three other men. I see that shows them my camera. I smile to newcomers and show them the photos I took on the digital screen. The newcomers are softer. I told him to put the camera and gestures to explain to me that it is forbidden to photograph in a bus station. Excuse me. And the thing ends there. The spy who dubbed Zecchinetta, as the spy novel by Sciascia, goes away shaking his head.
A Palmyra, here called Tadmor, we downloaded from the bus in the middle of a long, empty highway that cuts through the desert. A few miles away you can see the city. The driver of the bus is said to stop in Palmyra. Then again scoured. We are now caught in a diligent landlord (see case the stop is right in front of his hotel, the only out of town) which we propose his services. Room with a view of the ruins and breakfast $ 10. We decline the offer more to the spirit of contradiction to each other and we are moving towards the city. A minibus stops immediately and gives us a ride to the center. They do not want money. They laugh. And give us the dates.
The visit to the ghost town of Palmyra we do it in two stages. In the afternoon and the next morning. A couple of coaches courier downloaded two groups of Italians on the site. An Italian woman in high heels is unhappy. He says he is full of vestiges of the kind in Italy. I think of my mother. It would be the same comment that would make her think. A comment that can not be dictated simply by jealousy because Palmira is incredible. Huge, extensive and intact. Walk the Roman road in the middle of tall columns of pink granite that lead up to the temple. After a few meters to the group of tourists is just a memory. Are we alone in the Roman theater, only the temple, only the tombs that have the shape of ziggurath.
the early morning the next day, the brother of the hotelier takes us on the back of a bee decked with flags and colored as if it were a carnival parade, atop the hill overlooking the ruins and on which Fakhr - en - Din, the twelfth century had built its stronghold. We descend on foot along a path. Below us we can understand how much this city lost in the desert was vast and important. It was important before which came to power the queen Zenobia. Josephus tells us that Solomon had founded. Others say that Palmyra was a babel of languages. Aramaic, Egyptian, Jewish, Arabic, Greek. All passed and stopped in Palmyra for its rich oases, we see dust in the background, and for its wines, its brocades, its Phoenician vessels and its spices. Zenobia governs the city in the third century, conquest Ankara, Antioch, opened the city to the Christians and appoint a bishop, Paul, St. Paul. In so doing threatens the power of Rome that even the Queen has done ... asking too much, too daring. The times of Byzantium is not yet ripe.
E 'Aurelian defeats and that seems to have given orders to retaliate Zenobia to burn the city. The definitive end of the Palmyra owe it to Timur that puts it on fire in 1401. Palmira
The modern town / village that is located a few miles of the ruins not testify in any way the ancient splendor of the place. A straight road, deserted, no woman on the street. A monochrome village inhabited only by men who appear. I'll never see a woman in Palmyra, if not a few Western tourists that is parked in the restaurant / bar overlooking the main street. He is not alone in the city, but its owner has understood the mentality of Western tourists. Colorful carpets on the walls, some computers with Internet access, pillow and smiles so that all fans Westerners overlook the dark restaurant in front and from stacking the tables of this place that offers simple dishes at prices salty.
In the back of the restaurant, the owner tries to sell a banknote with the portrait of Saddam Iraq. $ 2 says to me, cheap price. Decline the offer.
A German boy on a bike ride to Istanbul office of scholarships.
meet two girls from Ancona already known on the plane. They are happy, excited by the journey, already enamored of the country. We greet the morning knowing that somewhere we will meet again.
Zour DER ER / Doura Europos
A Der er Zour, the city where there's nothing to see, do we get there by bus the afternoon of Dec. 31. It 'Friday. All the shops are closed and the city is deserted. Let's take a trip to the museum closing time. They say it is one of the finest museums of Syria. There's just us. A gentleman in djellabah sciabattando welcomes us. It makes us understand that it is late, he wants to go home because there is no one at the museum. Then let us see and agree, smiling discreetly accompanies us from room to room, pointing with his finger on those shrines which, in his opinion, I have focused too little. In a funerary urn of clay, there is the skeleton of what must have been a girl. Around the wrist bones and those of the neck, gold jewelry. He, the guardian, makes us particularly this finding. I turn on the light because you look better. He points to the bracelets and even a lock of hair miraculously remained attached to the bones of the skull. I mime delighted amazement. It seems happy to show me his girlfriend.
the evening looking for a restaurant beyond the Euphrates, which bisects the city. The French, we have built a pedestrian bridge that looks like the Brooklyn Bridge. We employ an infinite time to reach the restaurant on the opposite bank of the Euphrates. Along the bridge pairs of black boys watching the water rushing under the piers. I can not figure out how wide this river until it tries to reach the other shore. 500 meters, one mile, maybe. Mixed several times on the bridge looking for a restaurant there.
What is the Mekong, Nile, Mississippi, or the Euphrates, some rivers are part of my imagination, the mythical, the exotic. And a stroll along the banks of the Euphrates, the last night of 2004, I'm excited. Der er
Zour is a step towards the border with Iraq, to \u200b\u200bDora Europos and Mari. We arrived with one of the thousands of minibuses that run the length and breadth of the Syrian street. You put on the curb, you sign on the first minibus that goes, he proclaims the destination and if the minibus is precisely to climb there then. Beside me sits a woman covered by a long black veil that you put in your mouth and then relentlessly pistachios it spits out the peel. In the minibus no one looks, no smiles, no one speaks. After about an hour the lady next to me with his hand touches the scarf that I got in my head and makes a sign to give. I start to laugh and say no! That is the only one I have and it takes me. A man turns and beckons to be silent. In the sentence that he addresses them in Arabic I sense the word "American." "No American, we shook his head. "We, Italy." Now the atmosphere is more relaxed in the minibus. A flayed end with a few gestures and words in English man asks us where we are going. Dora Europos, I say and I realize that the name does not say anything to him. I pull out the card from the bag and showed him where we want to. So he understands and beckons us not to worry. When we arrive, we will tell him. The lady wants to see the paper. Puts it in his eyes. I point the finger Damascus, Aleppo, Iraq. She looks, does not understand but pretend to understand, and when I say Iraq touches his chest. "You, Iraq?" I ask. She says yes. It touches the chest several times, each time saying "Iraq, Iraq." The man laughs. The talks in Arabic and understand that you kidding, is telling her that it is unnecessary for you to look both paper cards do not understand anything. She did not leave it and keeps asking me to show her the paper. And each name is a nod. Then he looks straight in the face with the man to scorn. The drawing a map of the world in my diary. Iraq, Syria, Palestine, the Mediterranean Sea where we also put a small boat, and the boot of Italy. She makes her head, more and more ignorant and more and more convinced. The man does not stop laughing. Everyone in the minibus, laughing. All. Except me and the lady.
Along the road to border with Iraq is not the shadow of a soldier, the shadow of a checkpoint. I seem to see the profile of some anti-aircraft guns on top of a hill. It 's a moment. The road turns off and not see them anymore.
Suddenly, in the middle of nowhere, the minibus stops and passengers make us nod off, smiling.
We got it. Fermi, on foot, in a desert of stones. A few miles away we identify the silhouette of what appears to be a sand castle. A sand castle built of those children on our beaches. We approach on foot. Doura Europos, one of the greatest cities of antiquity. In Doura, not now that the walls are red, covered by sand until the middle of the desert. Guess within the perimeters of the houses, temples, theaters. Standing, in addition to the walls that enclose the city, there is nothing left to Doura Europos. We walk in the midst of the immense expanse of red perimeters giving even imagine what they should be. A few hundred meters, in the only side without walls, the Euphrates flows. Along the banks, tall reeds. The water flows slowly. We walk on broken statues, amphorae, jars of clay. Collect it and someone brought it away as a souvenir.
Come back as soon as we position along the street with the intention to stop a minibus, we are joined by a Bedouin who abandons his flock of goats to welcome us. He asks us, in its way, with gestures and words, mutilated, if we are Americans (Americans understand that this is becoming an obsession). We hasten to do shook his head and then he smiles and makes a V for victory with his fingers.
Der er Al Zour return, we stopped to eat a shawarmah in a small restaurant along the main road. Our neighbors table, two boys and a baby, speak English. They invite us to their table and begin chatting. Mezit, is professor of English at secondary schools. The English speak it badly, but is happy to have us at his table. Do not eat. Do not even eat the child and the other guy. We say it's an honor to us at their table and that is why they do not eat. To make the most of the time we spend with them.
Mezit want to leave, he said. He wants to leave Syria for some time. Europe dreams, dreams of London. I tell him about London there are low cost flights and groped can put away some money and go. He says that his family would not agree. Then, the British, Europeans, he knows it, hate Arabs. That his family thinks he correrrebbe a huge risk to go to Europe. His friend asks me if I think the European Mezit could find a bride. Mezit you scorn. I said, bad as they are, and Arabic in addition, those who want to want me I try to reassure him. I tell him he looks like my son, who is beautiful and always full of morose. He smiles. Really? I wonder ... Do you think so? Then I asked what about what happens in Iraq. We hasten to reassure him about our anti-American sentiments, but he corrects us. It tells us that it is the leaders in America to behave badly. But, the people, he says, the American people is not bad. He adds that every time I said something like ends always a fight and he takes them regularly. I leave my mail and my mobile number. His affectionate SMS follow me around the living room.
I've kept. They are in memory of my phone. "Have a nice day", "May I write to you SMS Sometimes?", "I love Italy, I love you both".
ALEPPO
The journey to Aleppo is long. 6 hours in the usual bus line that transmits the usual film and has the usual parish steward who delivers the usual water tank in the usual plastic cups. The only variation is a stop at the hour of prayer, to allow the driver and passengers to perform their duty as good Muslims.
Outside the window a monotonous landscape. Desert sand and rocks, interrupted by villages with gray cement houses never finished. No color, Syria, stops the monochrome gray and beige.
We stopped near a large coffee unadorned. Many passengers are rushing to eat a plate of kebab or drink a cup of tea. I sit at a table next to a kid that I had already noticed at the time of the bus. He had accompanied his grandfather, a relative, at least, and had close and kissed him on the footboard of the bus. The boy was shielded dall'effusione visibly embarrassed.
I turn the floor immediately in perfect French. I am amazed that the mastery of language, but he explains that it is of Syrian origin, father's side, and Algerian mother's side, but was born and raised in Rennes. What are you doing in Syria? Study Arabic, he says. I chose to do a year of high school here, before returning to France because I do not speak Arabic, he said. And I want to know where it came from my father. Then he laughs and says ... where I come from. And you? he asks. Why Syria? I do not know what to say. It seems too simple to answer: well, just to make a trip. And it's not quite true. Syria has always been part of my imagination. Aleppo that traded with Venice. Venetian traders returning from their raids marine cargo "... silk and damask" I talk to him ... then in Venice, Venice and the East, the story S. Marco, Armenians, and Venetian ships at Acre awaited the caravan from Aleppo, Damascus, Baghdad ... The bus driver
trumpets summoning the passengers. He prayed, and prayed with him more in a secluded room at the back of the coffee. The boy tells me: pity, I would have liked to continue talking with her ... if you like, in Aleppo, I can help her to find his hotel. The
greet just down to the bus. He is still on the platform waiting to be helpful. I ask him if he wants to share the same taxi that will take us to the hotel. He thanks you, smiles, wishes us to spend a good stay in Syria and leaves.
Aleppo choose to sleep in an old Damascene house in the souk.
The room is furnished with carved furniture and carpets on the walls. In front of a sitting room with cushions and a table with a plate always full of fresh dates.
The souks of Aleppo is almost fully covered. He slips on the pavement of large format black stones polished by the feet of those who have trodden for centuries by the hooves of donkeys, the wheels of carts. In the area where they sell soap slips even more.
The Aleppo soap is a soap made with simple olive oil and laurel. Retailers displaying the stacking bricks of soap in bold pyramids green-brown. Along with the soaps are also sold ram's horns, fish ball, dried bats, skeletons of marmots, and plenty of spices, which covers all shades from brown cumin, through the red curry, they come to the yellow crocuses.
There are few dealers who stop to urge tourists to buy. A relaxed atmosphere, a bustle of veiled women, children, men in djellabah, a river of people, carts, donkeys decorated with bows.
Within a boutique touch to the texture of some colorful scarves and behind the pile of scarves in question, glued to the wall, there are some reproductions of old photographs and portraits of Oscar Wilde. Oscar Wilde, I say aloud, amazed. The shop boy look at me, laughs, then points to an indefinite age type who sits in the shop drinking tea and smoking shisha. And 'My uncle tells me in English. And it is queer as a seal. He, his uncle, he smiles and asks me if I am Italian. It 'very nice. It has the Mossette old unrepentant queers. A fierce sarcasm. A woman in English in front of the store. He winked at me and tells me: You look ... even though restoration face looks oddly Cossiga ... your president, he says, the one with the tic. Then he devoted himself to Claudio, the sybaritic night promises, I want to start to love homosexuals. He tells us that Aleppo is a free city, which can not be clearer. A woman in black. To examine the goods lifts the veil that covers the eyes and examine the color of the fabric from below.
One afternoon I spend entirely hammam. The hammam of Aleppo, one of the few private bath for a few hours for women, is superb. It seems that it goes back to the fourteenth century and that is exactly as it was at that time.
I do not know how to behave at the hammam, I forgot your bathing suit. I laid bare? I keep the pants, t-shirt? A girl shows me at a small loft overlooking the great room to the first time. In the midst of a huge fountain. All around the walls, couches, pillows, boxes and boxes. Half-naked women of all ages, smoke, eat, chat and drink tea, wrapped in big white towels. I take off, the rest in his underwear and shirt, and wrap me in the blue-white striped shorts that gives me one of the attendants. In shorts and sandals, step in the other rooms. A maze of rooms, niches, smaller rooms, large spaces. The more we advance, the higher the temperature. In the last rooms can be glimpsed just the shapes that emerge from the steam. I go up to a bathtub full of hot water and began to sprinkle with a tray of aluminum. I have a soap, a sponge and a bowl of horsehair. Women are half naked. Some in her slip, others in drawers, some in bikinis. I ask an old lady if I can undress completely and she tells me that within the I can show, but nothing else ... would not be worthwhile, he explains with gestures, and then the other is put at around gossiping. I guess, by this sentence, a harem of gossip, a world apart, stories.
Slowly, through the steam emerge prepared tables of fruit, vegetables, meat. The women sit on the marble floor mosaic that resembles that of the Basilica of San Marco peeling mandarins or munching pistachios.
from room to room you hear laughing, singing and shouting. At times, here is, echoes the cry strange that Arab women are up and which closes the film The Battle of Algiers. So far, I have always considered a battle cry. Hammam looks more like a joyous rite collective. Slowly women are approaching. I have tangerine, I offer skewers of roasted meat. Thank you and decline the offer. But how will they eat in the middle of all that steam? A girl comes up and offers to wash my hair. I sit cross-legged on the floor. She sits beside me and starts an endless series of soapy, groom and rinse cycles. Another involved. I massage my legs with animal hair in the towel. Rubs me the strength. Fortissimo. Esco dall'hammam legs all red.
In the first room, wrapped in two large white towels I drink tea and I smoke a cigarette. A girl who deals with my own loft, one blonde and handsome features alter, tells me that her father studied engineering at Perugia. Teaches that every once in a little Italian. I doth all the phrases he has learned and then tells me that you study English in Aleppo because he hopes one day to be able to leave via.Vorrebbe study abroad, perhaps in Italy, she says, but his father will not let her . He tells me that they have a different upbringing. Education different from ours. That his father does not trust to let her go alone in Italy. I leave my mail, telling you that you can read about the scholarship at our universities. It would be a dream, it makes me ... then, as I'm leaving, he kisses me lightly on the cheek.
Del Christian quarter of Aleppo has little to remember. The district is still inhabited by the Orthodox, the Armenians, the Circassians. It 's a more middle-class neighborhood, much more bourgeois souk. In a square enclosed by buildings reminiscent of the Venetian squares do I polish boots sciuscià a local rag that snaps to every shot that gives the shoe. Aleppo's best restaurants are concentrated in this neighborhood. Sissi, for example, or the Yasmeen House. Al Koumma eat at noon. Here and there, private rooms for groups of wealthy Syrians in a suit and red keffiyeh to eat sitting on the floor around a low table.
To honor a promise made to Patrick, a French friend, early one morning to find the tomb of Jakimanski. Jakimanski is Orthodox grandfather of a friend of Patrick. Jakimanski to know who was a Russian diplomat, who had lived in Aleppo and in the 30 who died in this city. Patrick, at Christmas, he told me he had always wanted to go to Aleppo to search for the tomb of Jakimanski. The try for you, I said.
The area of \u200b\u200bChristian cemeteries is not easy to find. The taxi drivers, in general, know very little addresses and are oriented on the basis of references rather unorthodox (the bakery that makes the baguette, the church where the Pope is gone, the bar where there are computers) do not know where are the Christian cemeteries. A more enterprising taxi driver agrees to accompany us and start an investigation carpet stopping at every passing car that joins. From a Christian met the day before in a caravan to Aleppo, we know that all Christian cemeteries are concentrated in the north of the city. We try to indicate to the driver at least the north pole, but the conversation is virtually impossible. He speaks in Arabic. Not stop to chat in your language. I reply in English, Italian, French. Travel long shopping streets all the same wandering between mutually unintelligible languages, drive along some dusty parks, universities, the area of \u200b\u200bgovernment offices, and suddenly we find ourselves in the suburbs. A long road that seems to lead to nothing through dozens of cemeteries closed by high iron gates. The taxi driver download it in front of one of these cemeteries. A guard opens the gate in djellabah us and shows us an area of \u200b\u200bgraves where he thinks it could be Jakimanski. They are Orthodox graves, with names written in Cyrillic character. Comparing the names inscribed on the gravestones with the name I was careful to reproduce in Cyrillic on my travel notebook. We walk the paths that separate the graves, back and forth. We clean the graves covered with earth or mold. There is no trace of Jakimanski. A plaque a yellowing photograph of a boy and a girl both with a violin in his hand.
Let's return to Damascus Aleppo in the early morning of a cold rainy day. Abu Jaber will be our driver for three days. It is not easy, in fact, reach the castle of Saladin or the Krach of the Knights. The train glides through the mountain roads with no indication in Latin characters. In another, at 1400 meters is the snow. Snow fell during the night.
Of these three days, plus the imposing walls of the Crusader fortress, I remember the city of Apamea, white Roman city almost intact on top of green hills not far from an artificial lake. Walking along the street in Rome. We are alone. We, goats and a shepherd.
before returning to Damascus, we stop at the Monastery Der Mousa Tues. It 's a strange monastery built atop a rocky outcropping in the desert. The monks have made some steps cut in stone that allow easy access. Hear voices from below. On the terrace in front of the monastery four or five Nordic girls with hair in pigtails tied tight sunbathing reading. We reached Frédérique proposing a tea. Frédérique is a beautiful French boy of Lyon. Tall, blond, smiling sweetly. For two years living at the monastery. And six years it took orders. He tells us that the monastery founded it a decade ago an Italian Jesuit, Paul. No, they are not Jesuits, he says, but Uniates. They can marry, specific, but always depend on the Pope of Rome. Their presence is intended to be evidence, continues. Testimony of the possibility of coexistence between the religions. They, for example, practice Ramadan, along with fellow Muslims, he says. This practice is highly esteemed and well accepted by the people here.
The chapel is beautifully decorated with frescoes inside the monastery. The colors are vibrant. Ocher, yellow, red. Many rugs on the floor, as in mosques. A gentleman he is lying next to a heater that warms the chapel. It 's a sick brother, he says Frédérique. The man smiled sadly. When Claudio and monaco leaving the chapel, I stopped to chat with him. He speaks fluent Italian because he spent two years in an unidentified monastery in Perugia. It 's the second time he tries to gain acceptance in Der Mousa Tues. We had already attempted a first time three years earlier. But Paul, the prior, he had decided he was not ready. E 'of Lebanon, he says. And do not believe that Paul will accept it this time either. He says this as if from the fact that the Lebanese and the fact of not being accepted there was a connection that I can not grasp. I make a joke and say that maybe, Paul, brother, choosing them according to the sympathy, the feeling and belief may count for little. It is exactly like that, tells me softly. I greet him with the impression that this discontent are looking for a refuge, a way to atone for past sins. From
Melloula, the town where Aramaic is still spoken, and where we should stop for the night, even after running away hour. The little nun of the Monastery of Santa Tecla we have hosted. They wanted proof that we were married, restless of the fact that none of us had faith. But the cell that is destined is cold, the village off. Over all hangs an air of funereal. Quickly resume their packs and set off on the first minibus that goes to the capital.
the night of January 10 we take the plane to return home.
