Ripples Following Ripples ~ THE
TROUBLED MIDDLE-EAST
I‘d
come to England for only a short time, however; it
was in my mind to make a trip in the Middle-East,
knowing, before I began, that it would be a challenge.
I was reasonably well, health-wise ~ in fact, remarkably
well, everything considered ~ and in spite of the
ankle-injury sustained the previous year which still
showed no signs of healing, I could walk alright,
howbeit with some pain at times. For one thing, being
both vegetarian and diabetic meant that my diet had
to be restricted in various ways. I went prepared
to live mainly on bread, tomatoes and a little fruit,
and this is really how it was. But first, a little
background:
As told earlier in my narrative, I first went to Turkey,
Syria and Jordan thirty-three years before, when I
was just a callow youth, but this time, I planned
to go to Egypt, too. Of course, I could no longer
travel as I did in those early days, when I was carefree
and my naïveté protected me, and when
simplicity and economy were a matter of necessity.
Then, I hitch-hiked my way around, walking long distances
when I couldn’t get a ride, and only when really
necessary taking a bus or train. There seemed to be
an unwritten standard for ‘on the road,’
and poverty was practically a virtue; travelers like
me were proud of getting by on as little as possible.
In those days, it was safe enough to travel this way,
which is not to say there was no danger; I guess I’ve
had my fair share of that. Sometimes I was aware of
it, and other times not; when you are young, you tend
to overlook it or not recognize it as such. Now, I
need a modicum of comfort, and no longer hitch-hike
or sleep rough, as I often used to do; I like clean
clothes regularly, and to shower every day ~ not that
I was dirty before, but a daily shower was a luxury
that was often unavailable.
Taking leave of Glen on the 4th of September, 2000,
I flew out to Izmir in Turkey, a 4 hours
flight. Arriving, I changed US$100 and became a multi-millionaire.
(When I was first in Turkey in ’67, one US dollar
got 13 Turkish Lira, but the inflation-rate there
has been around 80% for years, and $100 got me 66
million Lira!) Pockets bulging, so to speak,
I went to Seljuk, a small town south of there
in order to revisit Ephesus, This time, like the previous
time, I went early, so as to have the place to myself
before the tranquility was shattered when the tour-buses
disgorged their cargoes. As usual, however, when one
tries to repeat an experience, it didn’t succeed,
and I did not feel the same magic as upon my first
visit.
My next stop was Canakkale, to visit Ali,
the tour-guide who’d so inspired me at Gallipoli
3 years earlier. We’d kept in touch since then,
and he had invited me to stay at his home whenever
I came again, saying: “My door is always open
to you.” He and his wife, Aiten, made
me very welcome and were careful about my dietary
needs. I joined Ali’s tour-groups around Gallipoli
two more times, and enjoyed again his exposition.
Aiten also took me on trips in the area, to ancient
sites that otherwise I would not have seen.
I spent five days with them before going on to Edirne,
an historic town on the Turkish border with Bulgaria
dating back to the time of Alexander the Great, and
which was the Ottoman Turks’ capi-tal for some
years until they captured Constantinople in 1453.
Edirne’s most prominent landmark is a magnificent
mosque built almost 400 years ago; it was this that
I wished to visit, because when I’d passed through
during my earlier visits, I had not both-ered to stop.
I spent only one day there, meditating for some time
in the mosque, before going to Istanbul, where I got
a room in the Sehir Hotel, the same hotel
I’d stayed in when last there. My main reason
for coming was to get a visa for Syria, the next country
of my route, but being my favorite city, I had to
spend a few days there, retracing some of my old footsteps
and trying to find some acquaintances of my last visit.
I succeeded in finding only one ~ Dusun, the man I’d
helped to overcome severe headaches. He recognized
me before I did him, and we talked over tea.
I did not visit many places in Istanbul, as I’d
explored extensively in ’97; instead, I took
long walks around. Almost daily, I went to meditate
in the Blue Mosque, an awesome edifice about 400 years
old. It is a major tourist-attraction, though still
used as a place of worship. It was there the thought
came to me that one superstition is as good as another.
It doesn’t matter what we call ourselves; names
mean very little. Most people do not bother to investigate
or understand their religion, whatever it might be,
and so fail to derive much benefit from it; they take
the easy way out, merely believing. Great ideas
always degenerate when small-minded people get hold
of them. And yet, I will be objective and see
the positive side, too. Here is something I wrote
while sitting in the Blue Mosque:
Magnificent piles ~
The mosques of Istanbul,
The temples of India,
The cathedrals of Europe.
Without superstition and fear
Masquerading as devotion and piety,
They would not have been built.
There is something to be said for Ignorance
When all is said and done,
And it wins over Truth hands down.
Many forms it takes, this human weakness,
And one form is as good as another;
There is little difference between them.
Afraid to fairly acknowledge
And take credit for his abilities,
Man has attributed them to something higher,
Saying they are gifts from God;
Thus he becomes a slave.
With much help from others before us, of course,
We have done what we have done ~
No God and nothing else.
Better to give through love and joy
Than from fear or greed.
In this way, we fulfill ourselves,
And discover more of what it means
To be Human.
I went to a cyber-café to check my email,
but the young guy there spoke no English, so went
to find someone who did. It was thus that I met Fetih,
who spoke fluent English and Dutch, having lived in
Holland for some years. Though a devout Muslim, with
the dis-tinctive beard and mustache favored by those
believers, he was not fanatical or bigoted, and we
had several conversations over the days I was there.
He had a stall selling silver jewelry beside the street
down which ~ I told him ~ I’d ridden into Istanbul
in style by Mercedes in 1967, the year of
his birth.
To facilitate my trip, I bought a Lonely Planet
guide, “Istanbul to Cairo,”
containing all kinds of information that came in very
useful along my way; this book must have paid for
itself many times over by my trip’s end.
The Syrian consulate was a long bus-ride and walk
from where I was staying, and having got there, I
learned that in order to get a visa with a British
passport, I would need a letter of guarantee from
the British consulate, but that Aussie passport-holders
could get a visa at the border without such a letter.
It didn’t take me long to decide to use my Aussie
passport, and avoid the hassle and expense of going
to the British consulate; I have long been allergic
to paperwork, and the less of it in my life the better.
Freed of the need to get a visa for Syria, I left
Istanbul and took a ferry across the Sea of Marmara
to Yalova, then traveled in stages to the
south, passing through the spa-city of Bursa. By the
time I got to Antalya on the south coast,
I had a throat-and-chest infection that required antibiotics;
having had such before I knew better than to leave
it long before starting treatment, hoping it would
get better by itself. I didn’t know the cause
of it, but sus-pect the amount of cigarette-smoke
I’d been exposed to was a major factor. It was
several days before I got over this infection, and
I saw little of Antalya except its museum and its
marvelous natural harbor, the advantages of which
must have been recog-nized long before the Romans
came and made use of it. Pirates probably used it
as a safe haven until Pompey the Great swept them
from the Mediterranean in the 1st century BC.
It was hot in Turkey, especially in the south, and
I feared it would be even hotter in Syria, where I
was headed, but I carried on to Antakya, the last
stop in Turkey. Antakya is the ancient Antioch,
another important city of Roman times, and there are
still tokens of its former glory in the museum ~ especially
mosaics. I stayed only overnight, as I’d been
there before, and was eager to press on. Buses run
between there and Aleppo, the first major city in
Syria, just over the border. I boarded one of these
for the 3-hours’ journey, with a few other passengers.
Leaving Turkey was no problem; after getting our passports
exit-stamped, we proceeded to the Syrian border a
few miles on. Syria is well-known for its bitter anti-Israel
stance, and anyone with an Israeli stamp in their
passport stands no chance at all of getting into Syria;
if one has a Jewish-sounding name, it is reason enough
to be turned away; and it is sometimes enough to be
sus-pected of having been to Israel or intending to
go there for them to reject you. I’d been in
Israel in 1968, the year after Israel’s as-tounding
victory, but that was before everything was stored
on computers, so I felt confident there would be no
record of that. It was with some trepidation, however,
that I got down from the bus at the Syria border-post,
and with good reason, it turned out.
Together with the other travelers, I filled in a visa-form
and paid the $30 fee, and waited in line for it to
be processed. This done, we all got back on the bus,
but had not gone far when we came to a police-post
where our passports were again checked. Every-one
else’s was in order except mine, and I was ordered
to get off the bus with my bags, while the bus went
on without me. I was taken back to the Immigration
office, feeling that yes and no are the same; if I
could go, good; if I couldn’t go, also good.
The prob-lem was, I had entered Turkey on my British
passport, and both the entry-stamp and the exit-stamp
were in that one, while I’d ten-dered my Aussie
passport to the Immigration-officer at the Syrian
border. In that passport, therefore, was the Syrian
visa, but no stamp to show I’d entered or left
Turkey; the Immigration-officer must have missed this,
the border-police didn’t. Both passports are
legal, of course, and I had no worries about that,
but because the Syrians are so suspicious, I knew
they might question my reasons and motives, and turn
me back. They were not very friendly or polite; moreover,
the people at the heavily-guarded border-post spoke
almost no English, and I don’t speak Arabic,
but there was nothing to do except wait while they
left me sitting in the Arrival Hall, and went away
to determine my fate. The out-come was favorable,
and I was handed my passports with the universal word
“Okay”; no apology or smile.
My bus had gone without me, so I had to find an alternative
way of getting to Aleppo, an hour away. It was noon
and hot, and few vehicles running at that time. I
waited in some shade for quite a while before a pick-up
stopped nearby, and I asked the driver if he was going
to Aleppo, and if he was, might I get a ride (and
I just said my hitch-hiking days were over!) Well,
he wasn’t going all the way to Aleppo, but took
me as far as he could. On the way, I noticed military
uniforms everywhere ~ even young school-children were
so dressed! This has been going on for many years
~ two generations or more. How tragic to be so influenced
and trained, and yet apart from the government officials
I met, the common people of Syria were friendly and
hospitable.
Stopping to let me out at his turn-off, my kindly
driver hailed a minibus and asked the driver to take
me into town; he agreed, and I was dropped near the
center, then used the city map in my guide-book; many
cheap hotels were shown on it, as well as lots of
other useful information. I made my way to such a
hotel ~ Green Star ~ and got a room there.
The proprietor was quite friendly, and after a rest,
I set off to explore. I’ve always had a good
sense of direction, and easily negotiated the maze
of alleys and narrow lanes and found my way to the
labyrinthine covered-bazaar, one of Aleppo’s
main places to visit. I didn’t buy anything
there, except something to eat, but it was interesting
wandering around anyway, and I met several people
who were eager to talk, apart from the many who called
out to me to buy their wares. Aleppo’s bazaar,
like the more-famous one in Istanbul, is very old,
as this city was a major point on the caravan-routes
running from the coast to the east as far as one can
think ~ indeed, it was on one of the branches of The
Silk Road ~ and immense wealth passed through here;
some of it stayed, and the city prospered.
In the bazaar, I bumped into someone I’d read
about in the guide-book, a friendly young guy calling
himself James, who spoke English with a Cockney
accent, although he had never been to England. He
was clearly gay, and proud of it, but when he spoke
disparagingly about women, I reminded him that his
mother was a woman. The next day, I met another guy
like James; he called himself Sebastian.
Now, although Islam regards homosexuality as a grave
sin, I’d noticed, on my various trips in this
region, that it is quite tolerated, maybe because
women are so secluded and repressed, and you can be
as gay as you like as long as you don’t say
you are. Pure hypocrisy, but how else to deal with
it when their religion so strongly condemns it?
English is not widely-spoken in Syria, but back at
the hotel, I fell into conversation with a group of
people who did speak it, and one of them asked me
my impressions of Syria, and whether I thought of
Syrians as terrorists. I told him that when I was
in school, my best and favorite subject was history,
and I even had a brief idea of becoming a history-teacher.
Since then, I went on, I came to realize that history
is not true and is always one-sided, because it is
his story, and biased. And, although I try to keep
in-formed of what’s happening in the world,
I don’t believe every-thing in the newspapers
or government propaganda, but prefer to see for myself
whenever possible. I told him my impressions of Syrian
people from my visit in ’67 were favorable,
and that I did not then, nor do I now, consider Syrians
terrorists. On the other hand, though, surely he was
not going to maintain that all Syrians are good people.
In any country, there are people who might be called
good and bad, and many shades in between. He seemed
pleased with my answer.
In that hotel I met an elderly man from Austria, who’d
cycled most of the way from his homeland, alone. We
introduced ourselves; his name was Isidore,
and he planned to travel the same route as me, so
we had something in common. He spoke fluent English
and French, besides his native German.
The next day, I continued my explorations, and visited
the citadel ~ an old fortress dominating the city
from a hill; inside the encir-cling walls most of
it was in ruins, but the throne-room had been restored
and was really quite magnificent; no wonder the en-trance-fee
was steep, but I’d struck lucky, as the day
I went was International Tourist Day, and entrance
was free. So, too, was the city museum, although there
wasn’t much worth seeing there anyway, but this
completed my sight-seeing of Aleppo, and I de-cided
to leave the next morning.
On my way to the bus-station, I was astounded to see
the kind of bread I’d been eating over the previous
two days laid out on ~ and I mean on, with
nothing between ~ the dirty sidewalks to cool as it
came from the bakeries; apparently, this is quite
normal, and the local people don’t question
it. Well, I’ve probably eaten lots of dirty
food on my travels, and I guess if I’d questioned
the prepara-tion of it, I would be much thinner than
I am. Perhaps it’s better not to think too much
about it. I’ve survived so far.
My next stop was Hama, another place with
a long history. The city itself doesn’t hold
many attractions, but is the center from which people
visit other places of interest, so I signed up for
a tour of several Crusader castles the next day.
At the time appointed, I was pleased to find that
Isidore had got in from Aleppo by bike and would be
on the same tour; the rest of the group consisted
of five French women, who kept mostly to themselves,
leaving Isidore and I together. It was rather a long
and tiring day, requiring a lot of step-climbing inside
the immense and strong castles dating from the 12th_14th
centuries, reminding me of the ultimately futile presence
of the European Crusaders in the Middle East. What
determination they must have had to build such fortresses,
crowning strategic hills all over that area, in-tended
to defend and control what they called ‘The
Holy Land’. In 1099, when they captured
Jerusalem, they carried out such slaughter in the
name of Jesus that the streets ran ankle-deep in blood!
So superficial was their understanding of religion!
Eventu-ally, after victories and defeats, they had
to withdraw and return to their homelands ~ the survivors,
that is ~ with little to show for their enterprise.
Many of these castles are in a surprisingly-good state
of preservation, so well-built they were. The most-famous
of them is the Kerak des Chevaliers, which
Lawrence of Arabia called ‘the finest castle
in the world’.
Perhaps I should mention here that, contrary to my
expectations, Syria wasn’t as hot as Turkey
had been, which was something I appreciated; in fact,
Turkey was the hottest part of the whole trip.
Leaving Hama early the next day, I caught a rather
old bus to Homs, the next big city on the
way, an hour’s drive, but I stopped there only
long enough to catch a mini-bus to Palmyra,
perhaps Syria’s greatest must-see site, a desert-city
dating back only about 2,200 years ~ only, I say,
because Damascus, the capital of Syria, is
supposed to be the oldest continuously-inhabited city
in the world. Palmyra became so wealthy astride the
caravan routes that at one point its ruler ~ Queen
Zenobia ~ imagined she could challenge the might
of Imperial Rome; the result was that her forces were
defeated, and she was carried in chains to Rome; her
city was sacked and destroyed so completely that it
never recovered and sank into oblivion. The ruins
cover a large area and show a typically laid-out Graeco-Roman
city, with tem-ples, amphitheatres, market-places,
tombs, and row upon row of re-erected columns. Considering
that Palmyra is surrounded by desert on all sides,
it is amazing that it reached such a state of development.
There is no water-shortage in the modern town around
the ruins, and the markets are full of fresh fruit
and vege-tables. Numerous hotels have mushroomed here
over the few years since Syria has opened up, and
their rates are very low; there is much competition
for the many visitors.
Wandering around the ruins, I heard someone call my
name, and looking about, saw Isidore; he had cycled
from Hama to Homs, but balking at riding through the
unmitigated desert, had put his bike atop a bus to
Palmyra and rode in ease. This was the third time
we met, and turned out to be the last, although I
expected to meet him again somewhere along the way.
The next morning, I had a further look around the
ruins, and de-cided to go on to Damascus that afternoon.
I waited for a bus and was lucky to get the last seat
on one coming from another city. The trip took three
hours, and I got down on the outskirts of the city
~ the bus-stations in this part of the world always
seem to be far out of town, probably to cut down on
congestion ~ and got a taxi to the center, along one
of the wide boulevards. Although I’d passed
through this city so many years before, it seemed
as though I hadn’t, as I recognized nothing
at all.
After finding a suitably-cheap hotel, I set out to
explore the capital of Syria. My hotel was centrally-situated,
and everything I wished to see was within walking
distance. The day after I arrived, I vis-ited the
National Museum, the covered-bazaar, and the Umayyad
Mosque, which is one of the oldest in the world;
this must have been truly magnificent until invading
Mongols stripped it of the gold that covered much
of its walls and ceiling. It was never re-stored to
its former state, but was still well-worth seeing.
The mysterious narrow alleys inside the walls of the
Old City beckoned, and I spent some of the next day
wandering into them to test my sense of direction.
Here and there, traces of Roman building showed through
~ walls, columns, and arches. It was quiet and peaceful
here, away from the traffic. There is a street that
follows what had 2,000 years before been the Via Recta:
Straight Street.
Modern Damascus didn’t attract me, and I bought
a bus-ticket for Amman, capital of Jordan,
four hours away. Clearing the check-points at both
borders took quite a while; the Jordanian visa cost
$15. Soon, I was in Amman, a city built on hills,
with hardly a tree in sight. It was a nondescript
place, with no reason to spend long there. I’d
been to the Dead Sea in ’67 and had no desire
to see it again, but I did want to visit the ruined
Roman city of Jerash not far away. This was really
remarkable, and I spent several hours there. I was
more impressed with Jerash than with Palmyra.
Much restoration-work has gone on and is continuing.
A huge temple to Artemis, the patron goddess of the
city, sits on a hill overlooking the city; and, as
in most Roman cities, there is a large amphitheater
and hippodrome.
In Amman, there were newspapers in English, so I could
get the latest news. I’d hoped to visit Jerusalem,
for old times’ sake, but while I was in Aleppo,
the situation in Israel ~ which had been showing hopeful
signs of moving towards peace ~ exploded into violence.
I was dismayed to read it had further deteriorated,
and feared another war was imminent. Noisy demonstrations
were held in the streets of Amman, with many armed
soldiers and po-lice standing by. It wasn’t
necessary to decide not to go to Israel; it had been
decided for me: all borders with it had been closed
until further notice. So near, yet so far away.
This latest tragic situation in that sad land was
brought about by an act of stupidity on the part of
Ariel Sharon, an Israeli military-man and
politician hated and blamed for the massacre of Pales-tinians
in refugee camps in Lebanon in 1982. With many body-guards,
and knowing well what he was doing, he went to the
Temple Mount in Jerusalem during Friday prayers at
the crowded Al Aqsa mosque, an act calculated to cause
trouble.
The result was predictable: widespread riots by Palestinians
and killings on both sides. And this is known as The
Holy Land! What a strange context for the word
‘holy’. ‘Holey’,
more like: full of holes: bullet-holes and bomb-craters.
Which land is more blood-soaked than this, where for
thousands of years hatred and war have flourished,
and the politics of the region endanger the whole
world? It is the prime example of how religion divides
people, and clearly demonstrates that what the Buddha
said about attachment is true: it causes suffering.
For the sake of a few stones ~ the Wailing Wall
~ Jews are ready to sacrifice everything, including
their lives, just like Muslims over their mosques,
not seeing that these are the externalia. Why can’t
they practice the principles of their religion without
a wall? Does religion depend upon things like that?
Some Jews wish to destroy the mosque standing on the
site of their ancient temple which was demolished
by the Romans in 70 A.D., in order to construct another
temple and resume their animal sacrifices. If they
succeed in destroying the mosque and the Dome
of the Rock ~ which is Islam’s third most-holy
shrine ~ the world will be plunged into unstoppable
war.
This nonsense raises the whole question of religion:
what is it for? Do we need it, or should we outgrow
it? Should it cause more or less hatred in our hearts?
Should it make us more nar-row and intolerant or more
open and kind? Should it ennighten or enlighten
us? We cannot ban religion outright; that was tried
in the Soviet Union, China and elsewhere and it didn’t
work. Only through education can we understand the
purpose of religion, and that, alas, takes a long
time. It makes one want to give up in frustration
and despair!
Most of the Buddhist holy places in India
were destroyed mainly by invading Muslims in the 11th-12th
centuries, but we do not hold that against Muslims
forever, and certainly not against present-day Muslims;
we take it as another example of Impermanence and
realize that all building ends in destruction. Those
who carried out the destruction acted from ignorance
and hatred. In the great university of Nalanda,
there were 10,000 monks and 2,000 teachers at that
time; most of them were massacred and the rest fled
for their lives. Enlightened people do not kill and
destroy like that. Our enemy is Ignorance,
not people, and no-one really wants to be ignorant,
do they?
Having seen all I wanted to in and around Amman, my
next stop in Jordan was Petra, the fascinating
city cut almost entirely from rock in a mountainous
region over 20 centuries ago. Petra is Greek for stone
or rock, so the city is aptly named. Spread
over a large area, it is not for those who dislike
walking or are unable to. It is reached through a
gorge that narrows to about two meters before it opens
out and reveals the impressive façade of a
tomb. This is a city mainly of tombs, which are everywhere,
and many are huge, like temples; the sandstone from
which they were cut is multicolored in places, as
if it has been painted. The city had flourished under
its builders, the Nabateans, and had later
been taken over by the Romans, but had been lost and
forgotten to the outside world for about 700 years
until it was rediscovered in the 19th century. The
entrance-fee here was the highest of any place on
my trip ~ $33 for two days, which are needed to see
the whole area ~ but having come this far, it would
have been silly to miss it, so I paid. Only in the
last 30 years has it been open to visitors, and now
plenty stream in. In the middle of the desert¬
~ most of Jordan, like Syria, is desert ~ there were
almost no trees, and no water, the aqueducts of the
people who lived there having ceased to function long
ago. Yet, during the rainy season, flash floods occur,
and once, several tourists were swept away and drowned
when they disregarded the warnings of the locals.
Outside the ancient city itself, in what, not long
ago, had been a poor village, many hotels, from back-packer
places to five-stars, line the streets; times change.
Two hours by bus from Petra is Aqaba, Jordan’s
port at the head of the Red Sea; this was my next
destination, as it is from here that ferries cross
the Gulf of Aqaba to Nuweiba in Sinai,
which had been occupied by Israel from 1967 to 1982,
when it was re-turned to Egypt. There was an exit-tax
of $10 to pay before leav-ing Jordan (it is a poor
country that needs all the money it can squeeze from
foreign visitors), but I’d made allowance for
this, and spent my last Jordanian money on food before
boarding the fast catamaran ferry (there’s also
a car-ferry, but it is slow and apparently unreliable,
and I wanted to reach Cairo that night), at noon;
this cost $30 for a 3-hours’ trip; little choice.
It was full, too. Pulling out of the harbor, I could
see Eilat, Israel’s southernmost city
~ or rather, town; it is too small to be called a
city ~ where I’d spent some time camping in
a wadi (dry stream-bed or valley) in ’68. Viewing
it from the sea, I could tell it wasn’t much
bigger than it was all those years ago; there were
a number of new hotels and port-facilities; this is
Israel’s only access to the Red Sea. Memories
of long-gone days surged up.
|