Deir Mar Musa: Camaraderie (Syria)

Although Deir Mar Musa had been able to survive the ebbs and flows of Christianity in the region, it witnessed a gradual decline through the 15th century, eventually being abandoned in the 1830s with the departure of the last monk. While the church continued to receive visits from Nebek villagers in the ensuing years, its chapel and other buildings were left in perpetual decay, with no promising future in sight.

It wasn't until the 1980s, a century and a half later, that the church was rediscovered. This time, it was an Italian Jesuit priest who spearheaded the reconstruction of the site and the monastic community. Through painstaking effort on the part of Italian and Syrian experts, the chapel's impressive 900-year-old frescoes have been restored to their former glory. Today, the St Moses community is made up of an eclectic bunch, like Syria itself: the half a dozen Italian, Syrian, and French priests and monks receive daily visits from Muslims, Christians, youths volunteers, students and backpackers from nearly all walks of life.

The hustle and bustle of Deir Mar Musa never seemed to stop. During the first night, I attended a special concert by French and Syrian Muslim artists. The musical theme was interfaith; it was a part of the many Christian-Muslim dialogues that the tolerant community actively pursued.

In this musical interaction, visiting French Catholics performed a series of mellow hymns and songs in an impressive array of European tongues (English, French and Latin), from solos to duets and choirs, while their Muslim counterparts played the exotic tunes of traditional and contemporary Arabic music. Amid the resounding applause and cheering, the back and forth exchanges between the various music genres reached the apex when the Europeans and Arabs joined together in an ensemble of singing, Middle Eastern flute and drum beats.

The Italian priest and an imam concluded the evening with words of encouragement, amplifying the camaraderie that had bonded followers of different faiths and nationalities, both on the stage and below. It was a joyous and uplifting experience, one that I had never expected to see in the Middle East, let alone in a country that the U.S. has labeled "Axis of Evil."

Deir Mar Musa: Mountainous Hideout (Syria)

Damascus' Arab Christian and Armenian quarters are impressive and dynamic, especially considering the fact that Syria is a Muslim majority country in the heart of the Arab world. And while the Arab-Israeli conflicts and the subsequent Jewish exodus have all but obliterated the Judaic presence in the city, Damascus' history as host to the three world religions--Islam, Christianity and Judaism--is special in the Middle East. The biblical references to Damascus, as well as the eclectic blend of Roman-Byzantine and Arab architectural styles in the grand Ummayad Mosque, attest to the city's historic nexus between the East and the West; wall reliefs carved with the Star of David in parts of the old town are further symbolic of the Syrian capital's multicultural lineage.

All this fascination with the multifarious aspects of Damascene culture led me to learn more about Syrian Christian life. And thanks to a Danish student I met in a hostel, I was introduced to the St Moses Monastery where I ended up staying for two nights.

Deir Mar Musa el-Habashi, located 90 km north of Damascus, is nestled in mountains around 1,400 metres above sea level and boasts a long, undulating rock staircase that is accessible only by foot. In the past, it would have required tremendous effort to carry loads of food and goods to the tip of the mountains while climbing the steep pathway. But now, a small gondola made from an iron box does the job, permitting visitors to unload their luggage on the cable mechanism before they set out on a hike.

Following a strenuous half-hour walk uphill, two heavy dogs drooping on a flat stone surface greet the visitors with a bark that reverberates through the valley. A large, 10-metre tall rock formation comes into view, at its base a 1-metre gap that serves as the entry to the church compound. It isn't obvious at first sight that a spacious grotto lies within the solid rock, until one stoops to get in and rises up again after a few footsteps to appreciate its height. The secluded cave nested in an already isolated mountainous desert demonstrates the peculiarity of this Syriac Catholic church. But its unusual stories do not end here; Deir Mar Musa was born of unique circumstances, its very prosperity today attributable to a panoply of exceptional factors.

The Monastery of St Moses the Abyssinian traces its origins to the founder St Moses, the son of an Abyssinian king in modern-day Ethiopia. Similar to the Buddha, St Moses forsook the crown and a comfortable royal lifestyle for a spiritual journey that carried him through Egypt, the Holy Land and Syria, where he eventually settled for a life as an ascetic in grottoes across the desert hinterland. Sadly, however, his quest came to an abrupt end when he suffered a violent death at the hands of an invading Byzantine army, his right thumb miraculously preserved in the Church of Nebek not far from Mar Musa.

Despite the tragic fate that befell its progenitor, the monastery withstood the worst of times by blending in with the surrounding Muslim neighbourhoods. In fact, as if to allay Muslim fears, a church wall is inscribed with Arabic letters dating to the Muslim year 450 (1058 AD) that echo the Koranic verse, "In the name of Allah (God) the Merciful, the Compassionate." Today, Syrian Muslims continue to pay visits to the church, intermingling with the friendly resident European and Syrian Catholic priests and nuns for interfaith dialogue.

(More to continue...)

Axis of Evil (Syria)

I had long wanted to visit Syria, as friends and travelers had told me that not only is the country steeped in history, it is also home to some of the most hospitable people in the world. Bush's "Axis of Evil" remarks made Syria even more enticing to me, as by then I had formed a theory about the negative correlation between a country's reputation and the kindness of its people. Iran and Pakistan are supporting cases; they show how a people can be so incredibly warm-hearted despite the notoriety of their government. And after my positive Libyan episode, I was ready to test my thesis further in the Syrian Arab Republic.

Although Syria is a predominantly Muslim country whose majority belong to the Sunni sect, it is one of the most diverse and tolerant societies in the Arab world. Apart from Syria's status as a secular state that permits religious freedom on the scale rarely seen elsewhere in the Middle East, religion in the Levantine republic is fairly variegated with 90% Sunni Muslim and 10% Christian (Syriac Orthodox, Armenian, Greek Orthodox)---the highest proportion of indigenous Christians in the Middle East after Lebanon and Egypt. Syria is, moreover, multicultural; the Phoenicians, Assyrians, Bedouins, Armenians, Kurds and Jews have all left their imprint on Syria, creating a fascinating melting pot of tongues and traditions. The latest influx of displaced Iraqis further portrays Syria as the millennium-old refuge to peoples from the Byzantines to the Arabs, from the Crusaders to the Mongols, and from the Ottoman Turks to the French.

Enroute to Tripoli (Libya)

After much hassle, the Tunisians finally let me pass through customs. A Libyan taxi driver named Abdullah, who spoke English with a perfect American accent, agreed to take me to Tripoli. But we waited two more hours for a Chadian passenger who was being detained at Tunisian customs. The Chadian was eventually turned back to Tunisia, though he had a valid student visa for the Jamahiriya and could have been admitted to the country had it not been for Tunisian interference. Our driver was frustrated, but he could do nothing about it; we had to leave. Perhaps such is the fate of black Africans in the Maghreb; they are treated with little dignity and respect.

As I had suspected, Abdullah turned out to be an American-educated intellectual who had lived in Texas for more than 7 years. Even more surprisingly, he was married to an American woman and had two adult children in the United States. But by a twist of fate, his family was rendered apart. His passport was revoked without reason by the Libyan authorities when he returned for a brief visit in the early 1990s. As a result, he was forced to stay in Libya and fend for himself, since Colonel Gaddafi had long deprived the intelligentsia of opportunities.

Abdullah became a cabbie plying the lucrative routes between Tunis and Tripoli, transporting passengers to and fro between the two capitals on a daily basis. The taxi business seemed to have earned him a comfortable income, so that he was planning to reopen his short-lived tourist company, which had been erratically suspended by the authorities in the 90's. To make things better, life had visibly improved for him and other Libyans with the UN's rescission of the embargo and the recent normalisation of ties between Tripoli and Washington.

Abdullah openly praised the government for providing many essential services at no cost, such as free housing and health services--made possible thanks to Libya's possession of Africa's largest petrol reserves. Such accolades seemed reasonable, since Libya is reputed to have the top per capita GDP in all of Africa. But when the passengers were dropped off Abdullah cursed Gaddafi for ruining Libya, as if to suggest that beneath the surface of social harmony and economic development signs of dissent were emerging.

Anxiety Awaits (Tunisia)

I obtained the Libyan transit visa in Tunis after waiting for a week. It was a surprising development, especially given that Libya and Taiwan have neither diplomatic nor economic ties. In fact, it is not uncommon for Taiwanese to be restricted or even barred from entering certain countries, such as Pakistan, Tunisia and Lebanon, simply because Taiwan receives so little international recognition.

Moreover, independent travelers of various nationalities are routinely turned down from visiting General Gaddafi's al-Jamihiriya (Arabic for "state of the masses"), a country that has been isolated by the West for over a decade and only recently been removed from the State Department's list of state sponsors of terrorism. How could a Taiwanese backpacker enjoy relative ease of access when others do not?

But what surprised me the most was the fact that I was never questioned as to the status of my Tunisian entry visa, which was affixed on my U.S. passport. If they had known I was also a US citizen, I would never have been given the green flag.

Finding a way to go by land to Libya was not as straightforward as I had assumed, but by the word of mouth I eventually found the street not far from Bab al-Bahr where minivans were lined up and destined for the Libyan capital Trablous (Tripoli). We waited for more than five hours before the shared minivan was fully occupied and departed late at night. On the bus, everyone was curious as to why I, an Asian, was going to Libya. It seemed rather amusing to the two drivers and my fellow passengers, mostly businesspeople, that I was willing to pay 30 dinar ($25) just to cross into Libya. For many of the women and men on board, it was unthinkable that Libya had anything interesting to see. After all, Libyans are widely considered by Tunisians to be uncouth and backward "rural pumpkins," notwithstanding their common heritage as Arabs. A man next to me even asked why I was not spending more time to tour Tunisia, which had far more interesting attractions.

The journey to the border at Ras al-Jedir was 9 hours long. At 5 a.m., traffic came to a screeching halt as hundreds of vehicles awaited the opening of customs. We descended the van, had our bags checked after a 1-hour hiatus, and presented our passports. But I was singled out to stay behind while others were quickly granted stamps of approval. A Tunisian official took both my passports away, after I was forced to show him that I had the requisite visas on different passports.

For half an hour, my companions and I were anxiously looking for the official who had confiscated my passports and disappeared without a trace. When he reemerged, he did not have my passports with him. I was told I had to stay alone at the border. My protests fell on deaf ears as I defended my rights to leave Tunisia for Libya.

--"Monsieur, j'ai des visas pour entrer la Tunisie et la Libyie. Pourquoi je ne peux pas partir maintenant?"
(Sir, I have the visas for entering Tunisia and Libya. Why am I not allowed to leave right now?)
--"Il est interdict d'avoir les visas sur deux passports."
(It is forbidden to have visas on two passports.)
--"Mais il n'y a pas de probleme avec mon visa tunisien!" I retorted, You could simply stamp my U.S. passport and let me leave Tunisia and never have to worry whether I could enter the other side of the border!
--"Vous ne pouvez pas entrer la Libyie comme ca...We have an agreement with the Libyans whereby foreigners without Libyan visas are not permitted to go."
--"But I have a visa for Libya; you know it! It says very clearly that I am permitted to enter the country. Just give me the exit stamp, and everything will be fine."
--"No, it is not possible. Il faut que vous restiez ici." (You must stay here).

My companions could not help; they left my rucksack and bag behind and departed for Tripoli. The next hour and a half was a gruesome wait, as I nervously contemplated whether I would have to return to Tunis and purchase a ridiculously expensive intracontinental flight to Cairo.

A Friendship of Unequals (Tunisia)

Said did not return home to Maztouria, as he could not afford to. Instead, we met in Djerba where he was working in a touristy hotel catering to Germans and other Europeans. Puffs of apple-scented tobacco ascended into the air, a mild bobbling sound reverberating on the ground, as we caught up with one another over sheesha. Said was pleased to see me back in the country, but it was obvious that something else was on his shoulders.

Slowly, he told of contemptuous treatment by Western holidaymakers, even though he and other Tunisians are the masters of this land. While his earning here was higher than what he could have achieved in Tataouine, it was still difficult to have to serve alien couples and families who regarded him with little respect, as if he was a mere thief who plied on tourist money. But I was not a "tourist" but his brother, he said, because I appreciated the culture and traditions of Tunisia and was well loved by his family.

Opportunities are rare in Tunisia. While tourism is a booming industry there, its salutary effects are lost on the vast majority of Tunisians. With record high unemployment and rising prices, young people who make up the bulk of the population are forced to look elsewhere for their livelihood. Going to university is not a realistic option, as tuition is high and there is a huge shortage of jobs anyway. Sadly, a phenomenon has developed in which young men are engaged in alternative prostitution--many have chosen to become boyfriends to older white women in hopes of obtaining free passage into Fortress Europe.

Said was contemplating something along this line, although it was marriage to a young beautiful Czech woman with whom he had interacted that he had in mind. As if to allay my doubts, he told me that this was a far more promising path for him, given the circumstances in which he found himself. Papa Ali was getting old; the entire family was looking for ways to accumulate savings to allow him to perform the hajj in Saudi Arabia, a rite of passage that was far beyond their means.

Marriage with a European woman would be easier, even though she was not Muslim, as Said could then work in a continent where wages were far higher than the meager $5/day that he could ever expect to earn at home. Moreover, a European woman could certainly afford air travel; she would be able to financially support her bon homme should the need arise.

I could not help Said in any way. Having to sacrifice one's own beliefs and leave loved ones behind for a foreign (usually hostile) land, is a difficult matter for migrants and refugees all around the world. In his shoes, I would very likely consider the same option. But I am not similarly situated as Said. I can afford to travel the world for no other divine purpose than pleasure, even if I was backpacking on a shoestring. I also have life opportunities that many Tunisians can never imagine. And when I think of all these asymmetries between me and Said, I could utter little in the way of advice or assistance to my friend.

Got AIDS? (Ethiopia)

That was the question on my mind when I returned home after visiting 15 countries in the course of 5 months and a half. I even went to a hospital in Taiwan to check whether I had contracted the feared epidemic, not to mention my diarrheal and skin conditions that were caused by months of rough walking, eating street food, sleeping on the street/in dodgy hostels, and taking bumpy bus rides.

So what was all this about?

In September 2007, I traveled in Sudan with a South African couple on a Land Cruiser and then backpacked solo across Ethiopia, both malaria-endemic regions. I was stung by a gazillion mosquitoes first in Khartoum and later in the flooded South Sudan, having to worry constantly whether I had taken enough malarial pills and insect repellent to avert a potential death-inducing catastrophe. But I didn't feel nauseous on the scale that travelers had described to me. Moreover, I never expected Ethiopia to pose a similar level of malarial risk as its neighbouring Sudan. Accordingly, I took my guard off once I crossed borders from the Islamist "pariah state" into the oldest Christian land on the continent.

Ethiopia, at least its highlands region, is arguably the safest country in sub-Saharan Africa in terms of malaria exposure. Because the majority of Northern cities and villages are located on altitudes above 2,000, the resulting temperate climate is not conducive to mosquito habitation. Even the mosquitoes that do exist are considered safe, so malaria is not, as far as travelers are concerned, a serious problem.

In Addis Ababa, I became seriously sick for the first time in 3 months. Initially, I thought I had caught a flu, but the condition worsened day after day. After hours searching for a clinic in the Piazza on my second visit to Addis, I eventually came across one that would provide blood tests for malaria. But my somewhat zealously Ethiophile guidebook didn't prepare me for what was about to happen.

The clinical doctor utilized a rather rudimentary needle to extract my blood sample; it appeared that the needle was not even new as there was no prepackaging, although it could have been sanitised. As I awaited in another room for test results, Indian-made giant posters advertised detailed information on safe sex, sexually transmitted diseases, pregnancies, and so forth....It finally dawned upon me that this was a specialty clinic for AIDS/HIV, and not just an average clinic.

A nurse came to say that I was not malaria positive. But instead of acquiring a peace of mind, I could not extricate myself from the spectre of having traded for something far more deadly.

Ethiopia has a serious prevalence of HIV and prostitution. According to Ethiopian government health statistics in 2002, the HIV prevalence rate in the capital was as high as 15%. While Ethiopia is the second largest African country with a population of 77 million, its incidence of HIV is also high relative to its size. It is estimated that 2 million adults and 200,000 children suffer from HIV/AIDS, and the majority of the infected age groups are below 30--people who form the backbone of the national economy. The issue is so severe that the government has launched highly visible campaigns to promote safe sex, condom use, and treatment for sexually transmitted diseases. Clinics treating AIDS patients have also mushroomed up in many major cities, even spreading beyond provincial capitals to remote towns and villages.

Friends once related to me that while Ethiopian women are the world's stunning beauties, one should take "proper precaution" when befriending them. Although their joke may sound crude and lack political correctness, it is true that AIDS and the dearth of medical services are heart-wrenching issues that have wreaked havoc on communities, leading to the breakup of families and dashed hopes for children and young adults my age who may never live to see a brighter future.

I am fortunate. I will probably never see this situation happen to myself and my loved ones, simply because I am privileged to have resided in the right place at the right time.

Good-byes (Tunisia)

For lunch, Zena and Mabrouka teach me how to cook couscous Tunisian style. We laugh as the women, Khawla and I help each other out, peeling and dicing potatoes and bell peppers, mixing in spices, and steaming a mound of wheat granules on top of the stewing vegetable and lamb concoction. The pungent scents of turmeric, cumin and harisa (chili) soon fill the air, as Zena happily opens the lid and proceeds to pour the soup into the couscous.

The national dish is spicy, sweet and filling. In the typical Znaiti fashion, the guest is given the largest portions of the meat served with baguette slices and mint tea. This time around, I have mastered the art of eating with the first three fingers of the right hand: I used the bread to soak up the juices and fold in small pieces of carrots, lamb and peppers.

It is then that I learn more of the family's stories. Papa Ali has worked diligently his entire life; as a youth, he worked in Libya. Later on, he returned to Tunisia and became a farmer and owner of a small grocery shop near their home. Now, at age 70, Papa Ali has achieved most of his goals with the notable exception of one: the hajj pilgrimage to Mecca--the milestone event in a Muslim's life--for which his sons are trying hard to accumulate savings. The women, too, are helping Papa Ali towards the realisation of his lifelong dream: they tend a plot of ancestral land and knit yarns and make bead necklaces on the side. Apart from Said, though, none of them benefits directly from the booming tourist industry that is concentrated in Djerba, Tunis, Kairoan, and Matmata, the latter made famous by Star Wars.

Unfortunately, the urgent needs of the family and rural tradition also mean that Zena and Mabrouka will remain unwed and stay behind to take care of their elderly parents. Wrinkles and sunburns are strikingly visible on 29-year-old Mabrouka and 11-year-old Khawla, despite their relative youth. Yet, even without the luxuries and choices that many of us take for granted, the women of the family seem content, optimistic and never complain. Zena is the jokester and chatterbox in the house; we laugh a lot even though we barely understand each other. (I still remember the time when she picked up my deodorant and smelled it out of curiosity!). Mabrouka is the chef who knows how to make the best couscous, brik, macaroni, and chips. And Khawla is the mature girl who aids the family in every possible way she can, including cleaning, cooking, farming, and running errands; a girl half so mature as Khawla is increasingly difficult to find in today's developed world.

The sons of the family are amazing, too. Selam has a musical talent. He dances and plays Egyptian drums and a Tunisian leather bagpipe that emits a distinct high-pitched sound and tempo that are reminiscent of Tunisian artist Samir Lousiff's masterpieces. Habib, born in the same year as I, is always cheerful and laughing even though he wears scars, sunburns, and bruises from working long hours in construction. And Said, the friend who opened his home to me when I first visited Tunisia, at a time when I felt alone after parting with my travel buddies!

The heart-warming hospitality of the Znaitis has been inspirational to me. So when we wave good-bye, it is one of the most sentimental moments in life. I know that I will probably never see them again. But the memories of their smiles; their dances; their laughters; their food; and their kindness will never fade.

The Znaitis revisited (Tunisia)

Papa Ali is still the adorable, old but wise, man that I remember from my last trip. Though a man of modest means and no formal education, through hard work, honesty and faith in God he has managed to provide for his large family and has raised each of his children well. All of his sons, daughters and grandchildren are respectable, down-to-earth, and intelligent people who exude a lot of confidence and optimism despite struggling with poverty and little employment opportunities in a country where the average daily wage is around US$5.

Moreover, everyone helps each other out unconditionally, with a bond so enduing that many of us in the developed world would envy. Perhaps in spite, or because of, the lack of material wealth, the family provides the glue that help carry people through hard times.

I spend the next two days with the Znaitis while waiting for Said to come home. At night, I would sleep along with Hedi, Hamadi, Selam (27) and Habib (25) on the flat rooftop as cool breezes lightly brushed the skin, and the full moon and bright stars twinkled in the limitless expanse of darkness that has inspired many a philosopher, artist and scientist.

Before going to sleep, Hedi would pray to God in the typical Muslim ritual composed of Koranic recitations, hands raising to the ears, palms touching the chest, and kneeling on all fours--repeated several cycles. He would also sit beside me on the rooftop, inquiring about me and my family in French mixed with Arabic words, while Hamadi looks at me curiously with his innocent, shy smile. Sometimes we cannot understand each other; the small Egyptian Arabic phrasebook that I brought with me helps to bridge some of the gap, though only imperfectly (Note: Colloquial Egyptian Arabic is distinct from Tunisian Arabic, so much so that speakers of the dialects cannot understand each other without a third mediating language. An Algerian Arab once told me that he would have to switch to French or English in order to converse with a Lebanese). Regardless of the language barriers, Hedi's gestures of affection touched me deeply, giving me a sense of belongingness at a time when I haven't seen my parents for over a year.

The North African sun comes into full swing at 8 a.m., its brilliant rays waking the foreign guest at last. The Znaitis have long been awake, with the exception of Selam and Habib who are young men and naturally sleep late. The women have already fed the mama and baby goats in the small chamber round the corner of the house; fetched water from a nearby source; folded bedsheets and blankets; and swept and mopped the open courtyard where the family's daily activities would take place.

Mama Aida is now seated on the ground making na'na chai (mint tea) using a small kettle heated by a miniature "stove"; she would fan the charcoal from time to time to stop it from burning and keep the distinct mint flavour brewing. Meanwhile, Mabrouka (29) takes an iron plate with tasty brik (pastries filled with meat, vegie and eggs), cheese, milk and coffee--quite a divine, hearty breakfast she has cooked especially for me! All of us then sit in the courtyard sipping Mama Aida's specialty hot green tea, seasoned with handfuls of mint and sugar. It is certainly delicious, but what particularly touch me are the lengths to which the family have sought to make me feel at home.