November 7, 1999
Shades
Of Freya:
A Memory
Trip
By JANE FLETCHER GENIESSE
In Damascus's Street Called Straight
and in the territory of the Druze,
tracking a dauntless woman
yria has always seemed to me an
extraordinary country. Marked
by the footprints of empire since
the Hittites and Egyptians first
clashed at Kadesh at the end of
the 13th century B.C., Syria thrived under
the Romans, argued under the Byzantines,
bowed before the Umayyads, bled under the
Crusaders, the Mongols and the Mamelukes,
and finally rested for 400 years in quiet
obscurity under the Ottoman Turks. Then
World War I shattered that peace and the
country was awarded as a mandate to the
French, to gain independence only in 1945.
| 
Courtney Kealy for The New York Times |
The Great Mosque in Damascus.
|
Lately I had a compelling reason to visit
the country, having just finished writing the
biography of a celebrated British traveler,
Freya Stark (1893-1993), who traveled
throughout the Middle East, lived in Damascus and first made her reputation with an
audacious foray in 1928 into the then forbidden territory of the Syrian Druze. This was
only the first of her many dramatic exploits,
but it was also the only one that landed her
in a military jail.
Last fall, having already visited other
areas such as Yemen where Stark traveled,
I crossed the Bekaa Valley from Lebanon
and descended into Syria. My husband, Bob,
and I drove scarcely an hour before installing ourselves in the very comfortable Damascus Cham Palace Hotel, which buzzed
with businessmen and tourists from every
port.
Of course Damascus is no longer as
Freya Stark found it in 1928, a gentle oasis in
the desert sparkling with fountains and minarets. Today it is a vibrant city spilling out
into busy suburbs that climb the mountains
behind it. Stark, who became Dame Freya
when she was knighted by the Queen in 1977,
had lived with a shoemaker's family by the
Bab Touma within the walls of the Old City,
for which we headed as soon as we had
unpacked.
We decided to stroll through the Hamidiyyah souk, with all its color and bustle,
proceed to the Great Mosque through the
Roman triumphal arch at the end of the
street, and then saunter along the Street
Called Straight -- cited in the Bible in the
Book of Acts -- from which we could turn
into Bab Touma Street. We were lucky
enough to have a friend, Paula, living in
Damascus who met us that morning. Besides being an excellent guide, she was an
enthusiastic collector of the tablecloths and
linens for which the city is famous.
Hamidiyyah proved to be the apotheosis
of an Eastern bazaar, a cacophony of vendors proffering pistachios and bubbling hot
corn, and boys pushing hand trolleys
through throngs of women in various styles
of Islamic decorum from Gucci head
scarves to body-shrouding black veils. Shopkeepers, friendly pedestrians and even the
young soldier who offered my husband a
piece of candy guessed we were Americans
and crossed the street to greet us: "Welcome! American? Welcome!" they called
cheerfully.
I was further surprised when a group of
well-covered Iranian women also hailed me
to inquire pleasantly if I was an American.
It seems that the Iranian government sends
a weekly plane of Iranian widows or mothers of sons killed in the Iran-Iraq war to visit
the many shrines in Damascus that are
sacred to Shiite Muslims. Later, Bob and I
were thrilled to stumble on two exquisite
Iranian-built mosques much favored by Iranian visitors, glorious with mirrors and tiled
arabesques and dedicated to great Shiite
Muslim women, Roqiiah and Zenab. Neither
was listed in our otherwise excellent Cadogan guidebook.
On our first morning we followed our
friend to the Great Mosque, where Paula
and I donned black hooded gowns to enter
one of the most important Muslim sites in
the Middle East. Once a Roman temple of
Jupiter, then converted to a Christian basilica, the mosque was appropriated after the
Arab conquest in the 7th century, and to
Muslims it is the fourth-holiest place, after
Mecca, Medina, and the Dome of the Rock in
Jerusalem. We were overwhelmed by the
grandeur and tranquillity of this
vast, columned building whose courtyard still glitters with brilliant mosaics placed there by Byzantine artisans 1,500 years ago. For a thousand
years the Great Mosque was the
gathering place for pilgrims on their
way to Mecca, and it is said that the
heads of both St. John the Baptist and
the Prophet's martyred grandson,
Hussein, are buried here. Just outside is the tomb of the great Kurdish
general Saladin, who drove the Crusaders from Jerusalem.
Emerging once more into brilliant
sunshine, Paula suggested that we
cross the street to the shop of Hassahn Zahabi, an engaging and scholarly merchant. He had cloths aplenty
to consider, not to mention antiques,
silver and metal objects, and rugs --
and anything he didn't have, we were
assured, he could get. After many
rounds of sweet tea and a lively if
cautious exchange on politics, we
emerged with four high-quality red
Christmas tablecloths and matching
napkins machine-embroidered in the
delicate loops of the "arrhabani''
stitch. Each set cost less than $30.
Told that there was marvelous
shopping in Damascus, we made our
way through the spice souk, the gold
and silver souks, the shops selling old
Bedouin objects, Roman coins, kilims and antiques, the wonderful
book bazaar, even the "louse" market, or Kumeile souk, which specializes in second-hand goods. I began to
despair. There was simply too much
for one lone consumer. Incidentally,
Damascus has the best ice cream
Bob and I have ever tasted. A weary
shopper can be quickly revived by a
stop at Damer, a superb family-run
sweets shop a block from the Cham
Palace.
roceeding with our
bundles to the Christian
Quarter, we walked along
the Street Called Straight
and Paula showed us the
spot where St. Paul is said to have
been lowered from the city walls in a
basket, and also the House of Ananias, the man who restored Paul's
sight after he was struck blind on the
road to Damascus.
Roaming, enchanted, through tortuous streets with overhanging balconies, we occasionally stopped to
appreciate a cavernous khan, or
warehouse, where artisans still pursue their crafts. At the 16th-century
Khan al-Zait we stepped into an airy,
tree-shaded courtyard surrounded
with vaulted arcades that had once
housed an olive oil factory. Mounting
the stairs we paused to watch young
men weave agals, the traditional
ropes worn on kaffiyehs, or head
scarves, in a strikingly harmonious
atmosphere. We also visited the Maristan of Nur al-Din, the most advanced hospital of its kind when it
was built in 1154, and an exceptionally beautiful and serene refuge with
its splashing central fountain surrounded on four sides by graceful
liwans, or niches, where students
once gathered with their teachers. A
hospital through the 19th century, it
is now a museum of medicine and
science.
| 
Courtney Kealy for The New York Times |
At the Roqiiash Mosque, a favorite among Iranian visitors, dedicated to a Shiite Muslim woman.
|
Another museum that hauntingly
evokes a world gone by is the handsome old Azem Palace, built in 1749
by a Turkish pasha whose enlightened governorship of Damascus
brought prosperity to the city and
won the affection of its inhabitants --
thus arousing the suspicion of the
Ottoman sultan. After 14 years
of stewardship the unfortunate
Asad Pasha al-Azem was summoned
home and strangled. But there is
nothing remotely sinister in the
sense of aristocratic life conveyed by
the gracious courtyards, public receiving rooms, capacious kitchens
and baths, and the haremlek, or family apartments -- all delightfully furnished with costumed mannequins.
Finally, out of respect for Freya
Stark, we wound round to the Bab
Touma, or Thomas's Gate, named
for the last Byzantine defender of
the city and the place where the
Muslim armies knelt in prayer before launching their assault in 635.
We could only guess, peeking into the
surrounding walled gardens, which
one might have been the house of
Freya Stark's shoemaker landlord
many years ago, where she shivered
through the freezing Syrian spring,
recovering from a severe bout of
dysentery and trying to be cheerful
despite the "awful smells."
During our wanderings I had kept
a sharp eye out for Druze, members
of a famously secretive and rebellious sect that has a long history in
both Lebanon and Syria of resisting
central authority. In all the pulsing
humanity around us, I had not seen a
single one of these mysterious sectarians whose ancestors broke with
Fatimid Islam in the 11th century
and who are still looked on as apostates by both Sunni and Shiite
Muslims. Their elders wear baggy
"Turkish" trousers and fezes tightly
wound with white cloth, and sport
ferocious mustaches. The women do
not hide their faces, but traditionally
cover their hair with long white veils,
often adorning their foreheads with
gold coins.
Freya Stark began her writing career with her lively account published in London of being apprehended by the French police when in 1928
she slipped through a military cordon around the area south of Damascus known as the Jebel Druze, the
home of most Syrian Druze. Famously courageous fighters and profoundly inimical to French rule, the Druze
had sparked a revolt in 1925 that
swept like wildfire through the entire
country. That rebellion is still considered Syria's war of independence,
even though it was crushed by the
French. When Stark was there, she
saw the inhabitants avert their eyes
from foreigners and observed sympathetically that "it must be very
unpleasant to have one's city occupied." Bob and I were determined
not to leave Syria without seeing the
Jebel Druze.
It turned out to be a marvelous day
trip that we took with a driver and
guide, a Sunni Muslim named Hasan
who was bemused by our interest in
the heretical Druze. He was also
enormously proud of the region's glorious history under the Romans.
Driving southwest from Damascus,
with Mt. Hermon's shadow on our
right, we entered the province known
as the Hauran, which had once been
a breadbasket for the Roman Empire. After the Arab invasions of the
7th century, the area slid into neglect.
We found ourselves driving
through a strange black landscape
where harvested fields alternated
with the cones of exhausted volcanoes as our car gradually mounted
toward the Jebel Druze, or Mountain
of the Druze, renamed Jebel al-Arab
by the present government.
At Shahba, our first stop, I finally
saw the first of many Druze elders
dressed as I had imagined, while Bob
inspected the ruins of what had been
ancient Philippopolis, named for
Philip the Arab, emperor of Rome
from A.D. 244 to 249. The main street,
or Decumanus, is paved with great
stones hewn of the same basalt the
entire province seemed made of, as
were the remains of a temple, a
palace, and an amphitheater -- all
black. We were the only visitors to
Shahba's museum, which houses
splendid mosaic floors from a once-grand Roman villa.
Twenty minutes later on, in the
provincial capital, Suweida, we found
another, larger museum that had an
impressive collection of basalt statuary as well as more Roman mosaics.
We ate a bit of lunch there, then
drove another 20 minutes to the
town most revered by the Druze,
Qanawat, known as Kanatha under
the Romans, for it is here that the
Druze high priests live.
asked our guide what my
chances were of calling on the
chieftains. Freya made such a
call and was given a gracious
reception, even if the Druze
were more than a little stunned to be
visited by a noninitiate -- and a
young Englishwoman at that. Hasan
was aghast, but not for the reasons
you might think. "Ah, Lady," he said,
"If we call on the Druze, they will be
required, for reasons of hospitality,
to put us up for three days."
| 
Courtney Kealy for The New York Times |
Druze elders, members of a secretive sect, in Shahba.
|
Bob, as alarmed as the guide at the
thought, urged our swift departure.
We hurried back to our car and descended from the heights of the
Druze's dark mountain to the Sunni
Muslim town of Bosra less than an
hour farther south, near the Jordanian border.
Here, at the southernmost edge of
the Hauran, we were overwhelmed
to find ourselves standing along with
other tourists in a sweeping modern
plaza. Before us rose the towering
black walls of a magnificent Roman
theater. This extraordinary structure, encased by a fort built in the
1200's as a protection against the
Crusaders, is remarkably preserved,
we discovered as we puffed up its
mighty ranks of seats to take in a
glorious view of the countryside. Despite earthquakes and the ravages of
2,000 years, Rome's might seemed
undiminished. As the late afternoon
sunshine painted the vast blocks of
black basalt with gold, we declared
ourselves ready to head back to Damascus.
Searching out restaurants, prowling the souks
We stayed at the Damascus Cham
Palace, part of a chain, on Maysaloun Street, (963-11) 223-2300, fax
(963-11) 221-2398, a comfortable,
well-run modern hotel. Our room had
a view over the city, television and a
bath with marble tub and shower.
Doubles begin at about $130.
Where to Eat
In Damascus it's best to avoid taking meals in hotels -- only because
the food tends to be dull. Instead, try
one of the reliably pleasant restaurants where even the ubiquitous
mezze, a mix of hors d'oeuvres that
invariably includes hummus and unleavened bread, take on vivid personality. We skipped tabouli, the appealing parsley, wheat and tomato salad,
because it is wiser to stick to cooked
food.
None of the following restaurants
are expensive; they range from $5 to
$25 a person. With one exception, all
are in the Old City; your concierge
can write directions in Arabic for a
cabdriver. Most of the restaurants
we tried take credit cards and all allow smoking.
Al Ezz, on Bab al-Bareed Street.
Turn left off Hamidiyyah at the Roman Arch; the restaurant is just a
few doors away on the left. Climb to
the stained-glass-windowed third
floor, where one can eat at a table or
sit cross-legged under Bedouin tenting. A delightful place for lunch. No
alcohol served.
Casablanca, in the Christian quarter. Turn left just before the Bab al-Sharqi; the entrance is on the left
just past the Piano Bar Restaurant.
Serves delicious Ksara wine. Excellent; somewhat fancier than the others here, and more European in atmosphere.
L'Auberge, on the Street Called
Straight: very good pizza if you want
something familiar. Nice for lunch.
| 
Jean-Leo Dugast for The New York Times |
The Roman theater in Bosra is remarkably.
|
Restaurant Le Chevalier, on Abdel
Malek bin Marwan Street in the Abu
Rumaneh district: first-rate cuisine
and superb Lebanese wine.
Shopping
In the Old City, commerce fills the
air like the aroma of freshly baked
bread. You will find that these shopkeepers, like their colleagues in the
souk, are gracious, helpful, unhurried, ready to offer tea and conversation in English, and often willing to
send packages back to your hotel. It
would be unfair to them, however, to
ask them to cash traveler's checks,
which is unlawful. Not liking to say
no, some have gotten into serious
trouble trying to be accommodating.
Note that stores may close on Friday, Saturday or Sunday, depending
on the religion of the owners.
M. Hassahn Zahabi, opposite the
Great Mosque, offers goods of high
quality, including clothes, antiques,
rugs.
Sohail al-Mallah, on the covered
section of the Street Called Straight,
known as Madhat Pasha Street, carries chic double-faced wool jackets
for about $100.
A. el-Subaini, on the second floor in
Ghassan Street, the third street on
the right off Hamidiyyah. Look for
his sign, or ask for Sultan, as he is
known, for antiques, Bedouin dresses
and jewelry, brass, copper, silver,
old rugs, tablecloths. Like Hassahn,
he is a well-known source to European visitors.
Soubbi al-Khayat, next to the
Azem Palace, has a beautiful selection of brocades, as well as antique
silver objects and jewelry. A friend
bought a jeweled camel for $75.
Mohammed's Antiquo, on the
Street Called Straight Street going in
the direction of the Bab Sharqi, by a
huge sign of a coffee pot just before
the Roman Arch, had the largest selection of cotton muslin tablecloths in
charming woodblock prints. A 102-inch round cost less than $15.
In the gold souk you can usually
bargain an item down another 20 percent if you pay cash.
-- JANE FLETCHER GENIESSE
