Syria used to be a spectacularly beautiful country, with the sweetest people ever. Genuine hospitality and remarkable historic site without hassle and with hardly any other tourists. Since the war all of this has changed. And not fot the good.
This blog is about Syria. Or about the Syria I once knew. Working as a tourguide for Djoser I was lucky enough to visit Syria three times, between 2006 and 2008. Either on a three week trip in combination with Lebanon and Jordan or just two weeks to Syria. We started in Damascus and visited Palmyra, Hama, Aleppo and Latakia or Tartous.
Damascus was famous for the bustling Hammadiya souq, where happy friendly modern Syrians enjoyed their luxurious shopping - arabic style. At the end of the souq was the great mosque, with just behind the gates from Roman time, that were integrated in the mosque walls. The mosque contained a special room remnant body-parts of Abraham,/Ibrahim if I recall correctly. We used to visit the Saida Ruqqiya mosque as well. On the outskirts of Damascus. This is more shiite style, with Iran-like domes and shiny rooms filled with mirrors. The funny thing was that on the market stalls outside the mosqueone could buy souvenirs and flags from Hezbollah. I have a key-ring with the Hezbollah leader in my class room that I use when I teach my students about different cultures.
Around the great mosque of Damascus were narrow cobblestone streets with cafees and marvelous restaurants. Beautiful mezze food in styleful surroundings. Open courts overgrown with grapevines. Friendly dining tables where one would be invited to join in. Where the good life would be shared. Everywhere in the city and in every shop there would be pictures of Bashar El Assad. Sometimes flanked by his father Hafez Al Assad and his brother, who unfortunately died in a car crash some years ago. Sometimes Bashar would be depicted surrounded by children, showing him as loving father of the nation. I think this central part of Damascus is not completely damaged because Assad has a strong grip on most of this area, but outskirts of Damascus have suffered severely under a rain of bombs that the revolution brought about.
To get to Palmyra we would drive with our private bus plus guide to the far east of Syria. The guides in Syria were the friendliest people I have ever met. Real gentleman, who could speak fluent Arabic, French and English. Dressed in immaculate suits they would explain us everything about their beloved country. They would never go out of their way in explaining the situation of freedom of speech or dictatorship in Syria. They would however speak quite openly about it. It did not feel as if they were not allowed to speak freely about anything. Not as if they were controlled by spies of the regime. When we would cross the border into Jordan we would say goodby to the guide as if he had become one of our own family and meet the new Jordan guide. These were more like business men. Ready to make some money over the backs of naive Dutch tourists...
Along the road to Palmyra we would see large tents of nomadic bedouines. If there was time (and I would make sure there was) we stopped for a break to meet the locals. According to dessert rules we would always be invited into their tents and in no time we would be served with tea, freshly baked bread, jam and "eshta" cream. I usually sneaked away from the groups to have a peak in the kitchen where the ladies were baking the bread over a small fire on an up side down large hollow pan. They thought this was really funny and I felt like being let into a little secret. After our visit we always left some money - way less than we would have payed for a normal stop at a cafeteria - and present (creme, soap) and buy some handy crafts. After a large family group picture we would continue with happy hearts filled with memories of generousity and genuine hospitality. I have no idea what may have become of these families. Travelling in a warzone between IS,
government groups, Hezbollah, Russian bombings and no where to go. Did they end up on Lesbos in a refugee camp? Or at the bottom of the Mediterranean Sea?
When we arrived in Palmyra we would first see the gardens. The oasis. Palmyra means palm garden and this was always perfect place for a pic-nic and a cup of tea after our last pitstop at Bagdad cafe. From a hill in the palm gardens we could already see the pillars of the Roman ruins that have made Palmyra famous worldwide. These ruins are just as pretty as any site in Rome or Athens, but there are two big differences. First there is the surrounding dessert that turns pink along with the marble pillars and sandstone of the theatre. Secondly... there are hardly any tourists and around sunset you could roam freely in this magical historic landscape.
Islamic State took over Palmyra some years ago, iconoclasting many of the ruins and statues according to their extreme Muslim convictions and terrorising the inhabitants. At some point the government took over again, trying to clear the city of booby-traps and muslim fundamentalism. They held the city for some months, but when they started to bomb the hell out of Aleppo they left Palmyra alone, ready for IS to capture it once again. My heart cries for Palmyra. 
On our way towards Aleppo we always had a stopover at Hama. A provincial town, famous for it's Nourias. Wooden waterwheels that would weap and screech while turning. The sound was a mixture of moaning and screeming. Maybe it was a memory of the past? Some 20 years ago there was small uprising in Hama. The local muslimbrotherhood demanded more freedom to practice their believes. Hafez Al Assad sent in the airforce and bombed their neighborhood to the ground. That should teach them. All that remembered of this occurance were some newly built housing blocks, not too far from the Nourias. When our guide explained us the story we found it very hard to believe that a president would ever go against his own people so fiercly! Little did we know. Five years later the same faith hit many cities in Syria. I am not sure what happened in Hama since the war started, but I can only imagine...Before going all the way to Aleppo we would make a stopover visit at Crac de Chevalliers, where we learned a lot about crusaders and holy wars between Christians and the Muslims of Salah ed Din. As
Other places of interest would be Qualat Samaan (St. Simeon's church) ruins, where poppy flowers surround the grey rock leftovers of this Christian pilgrim place, and Apamea, an other unexpected surprise of Roman ruins in the middle of nowhere.
And then there was Aleppo. Where the Citadel of Salah ed Din towers over the old town with it's beautiful covered souq and another Great Mosque. Next to the citadel was the very old bath house, that was still in use. What a great place to relax. I don't suppose it still exists... Back in 2008 I met a group of students who were celebrating one of the girls' 20th birthday. I was invited to their table. They were young priviliged Christian medical students who were in their second year at the University of Aleppo. The next day I visited them at the University and later that day I attended a muscial performance of one of them in a wonderful old Syrian Orthodox church before spending the evening at an open air terrace, watching Manchester play Barcelona in the Champions League. These guys were obviously from a rich background and did good for themselves since several generations. They were so full of life and enjoying their unspoiled youth.
Before things got really bad in Aleppo, even before the first bombs hit the university, most of most of my friends had moved away to Germany, the USA or France to finish their studies and do internships in hospitals. They did not stay in refugee camps or try to reach Europe by boat. But they can never go back. Their Christian families mostly moved to the coastal areas around Latakia. Very few of the Syrian Orthodox Christians ever supported the uprising that started in Aleppo. The also did not join any rebel groups that Assad refered to as terrorists. Nor did they join the government army. Their lives and houses just got distroyed and if they lived in the wrong area, such as the grandparents of one of my friends, they were forced to convert to Islam by Jabat El Nusri or some other Al Quaida type of rebel group.
When we got back to Damascus we had some more day trip possibilities. The remarkable theatre of Basra in the south, with its marble stage surrounded by basalt pillars. Another world class heritage site, where sheep herders used to roam around the ruined city. I don't know if the war has reach that far south. Maybe its proximity to Jordan makes this place a somewhat safe haven. This does not go for the final day trip that was another highlight of our visit. The cave churces and monastries of Maaloula. Tranquille and sacred. Hidden in the mountains and canyons to the west of Damascus. Where the people speak the Aramaic language. The same language that Jesus spoke in his days of preaching peace. Some nuns were obducted by rebels for months. Many sacred sites were damaged for good.
It all started in March 2011 when some teenagers painted revolutionary slogans on a wall and were tortured by the regime. Demonstrations started and people peacefully took to the streets of Aleppo, infuriating Bashar Al Assad and opening the gates of hellfire.
This dictactorship should have just stayed how it was. Long live the dictatorship. Long live Syria.
