The road tricked me again: it lulled me to sleep in Salim’s car. When I open my eyes I see huge crimson crosses glowing on the walls of village houses. I turn to Salim:
“Christian?!”
He nods and smiles.
Of course, I knew that there were Christians in Syria and I’d been curious to meet them. With wide-open eyes I look at the crosses and the reindeer with branching antlers harnessed to sleds.
My plan was to travel through Syria quickly and I didn’t intend to look for Christians. With Christmas only two weeks past, how can I be surprised at such an unexpected gift?
Salim took me to the house of his older brother. The whole family came out to greet me. You can recognize Christians by two signs: women with uncovered heads, their luxurious dark hair is an unexpected treat for the eyes; and a second sign: they offer wine with dinner which is even more unusual in an Arab country. Since there was still some time left before dinner I asked to wash my hands. The female half of the family fussed over me. One woman drew me a bath, another one took my formerly light blue jacket (now darkened with brown stains). They gave me shampoo, soap, a towel. The women spoke ceaselessly in Arabic, smiling, gently touching my arms above the elbow.
The door to the bath closed. I hadn’t even hoped I would be able to wash in privacy.
Once again, a tin tray spread with dishes is set in front of me. I am supposed to eat all of it but I don’t have a chance to swallow one bite as I first have to satisfy the hunger of those around me, patiently answering questions from all sides.
The younger daughter, eighteen years old, speaks English. Her name is Hanouf. I can’t come up with the answer to one question before she’s back with another:
“When are you going further?”
“Tomorrow.”
“No,” she says sternly. “Tomorrow you’ll be with us.”
“Really?” I thought for a second. “Well, OK then.”
In the morning, I hadn’t even opened my eyes before Hanouf’s parents came into the room. How long had they stood behind the door, waiting for me to wake up and give them the green light to enter?
The father sits on the divan, a smoking cigarette in his hand. He has black hair with a streak of grey and a black moustache which looks very good on him. He forgets about his cigarette, smiling with his moustache and looking at me from time to time while asking a half-sleepy Hanouf to translate. It occurs to me that he may have decided not to go to work today — what is going on in his home is too exciting: a real live foreigner! Today is a holiday for him.
The mother shows her welcome in a more practical way. Again a tray with food appears and large round flatbreads are being warmed on the stove in the center of the room. Five minutes later they offer me warm bread. They push towards me small plates with fried eggs, yogurt, hummus: a tasty dish made of mashed chickpeas. They carefully watch so that I keep eating. Two pairs of warm loving eyes stare at me as I eat.
Though the parents want us to stay, Hanouf and I leave to explore the neighborhood.
Nose to nose with a priest
Despite the fact that all continents appeared on earth many eras ago, you have to rediscover the world again and again. Or rather, how wonderful that you can rediscover it again and again! To see with your own eyes, to explore with your own hands, to disprove all the things people so love to say against one another.
You’ve probably heard about the relationship between Arab Muslims and Christians. But have you heard about Christian Arabs?
You couldn’t call this village anything but Christian. Orthodox and Catholics live here side-by-side much the same way. “My” family — Salim’s — is Catholic.
Hanouf and I walk in the direction of the church — only the Orthodox church is open during the day. Without Hanouf I wouldn’t have been able to guess that it’s a church. No domes, though there is a small square-shaped bell tower. The whole building looks like a tall house.
We go in, cross ourselves, each in our own way: Hanouf from left to right, I from right to left.
It was unusual inside too — benches as in Catholic churches, no gilding and not many icons. But I recognize familiar saints in the images.
“Would you like to go see the priest?” Hanouf asks once we’re back outside, pointing to the house next to the church.
“No-o-o,” I answer shyly.
Instead of going to see the priest, we go and visit two Belorussian girls. Their mother married an Arab and moved with her children here when the girls were still young. Now they are both married and have three children between them — these blond-haired kids are running around. The husband of one of the sisters and his mother are sitting inside. Right away they offer us tea and crackers.
Taking advantage of the situation and my native language, I bombard the Belorussian girls with questions, which they answer gladly until we hear the call to prayer.
“The priest is here to bless the house,” says one of the girls. “It’s a tradition every Christmas.”
Before I could ask how one should behave on such occasions the priest entered the room preceded by his own singing. Tall, imposing, he was wearing a black robe under which you could see the contour of a round belly; he had a dark brown beard and curly ringlets and behind his glasses he resembled a huge soap bubble. And his pure joyous singing resembled the play of sunbeams on a soap bubble. And just as a soap bubble bursting flies apart in all directions, the priest liberally threw holy water at all of us. At some point, the priest turned towards me and…the holy water sprinkler in his hands and the prayer on his lips both froze. Puzzled, he turned to our hosts and asked something in Arabic. Eventually, with a bright happy smile illuminating his face, he sank into an armchair. Break-time.
They offer him tea but he doesn’t notice watching those present and asking about this and that. We start a conversation with the help of one of the sisters. I talk about the Church in Russia, ask him if he’s been to our countryIn the end, duty calls. The priest takes up the holy water sprinkler and his prayer fills the house even more fully than before. And I, hearing Arabic singing from the mouth of an Orthodox priest, try to convince myself that this is in fact quite real.
Cross and Kaaba
“OK, we need to turn back,” Hanouf said all of a sudden, although the village street looked interesting further on.
“Why?”
“This is where our village ends.”
“And what’s down there?”
“Muslims.”
“Let’s go there.”
“No!” Hanouf protests fearfully.
“Why?”
“I’ve never been there alone.” She means, without a man.
“And what are you afraid of?”
“Wait,” she agrees and makes a few steps towards a crowd of Arabs standing by a shop on the Christian side. A tall, broad-shouldered young man approaches us.
“This is my cousin,” Hanouf introduces him. “He’ll go with us.”
The guy smiles bashfully.
There is no border between the two villages. Houses with kaabas begin where houses with crosses end. Kaaba is a cube-shaped temple in Mecca, the main place of pilgrimage for Muslims.
Today is Friday — the holy day for true believers. Almost all the shops lining the road are closed. From the mosque, through a loudspeaker, comes the call of the Imam.
Here I attract even more attention than in the Christian village. I look back at Hanouf and suddenly I also experience fear building a wall between me and these people. People whom days ago I completely trusted with my own life. And whom I’ll trust again tomorrow.