Thursday, June 14

The Euphrates flows tranquilly and slowly, lapping farmlands and passing through occasional villages scattered here and there in the Syrian desert that ensure the presence of man in this age-old valley. Around the umpteenth bend in the great river there appear on the horizon the remains of an imposing wall: inside, there are enduring traces of a civilization that the desert has preserved for centuries. Ihssan stops the minibus near the entrance: we are at Dura Europos, an immense fortified city from Greek and Roman times. Here, archeological discovery becomes pure emotion; there are well-preserved remains of ancient houses that seem to teem with life, that seem to be still animated today by the cries of the people who lived there; here and there on the entrance wall there are writings by the soldiers of the Roman garrison stationed there: hymns to pagan gods, tender words of love for the distant fiancée. And farther on, a synagogue and a Proto-Christian church bear witness of the parallel and completely harmonious existence of two sister religions, two monotheistic systems, Judaism and Christianity, that arose from the same source and have ancient roots here. The heat is torrid, 45 degrees in the shade: fortunately, the road is not long. The ancient site of Mari is nearby; also nearby, a few kilometers east of the river, there is even the border with Iraq, a land that evokes Biblical as well as recent memories, the deadly glow of war. But not to worry: Saddam is a good friend of the Syrian government, and indeed the latter’s constant aid contributes to ease the embargo that the Rais of Baghdad and his people have been subjected to. Mari consists mainly of the royal palace, a labyrinth of walls in unbaked brick, protected by a rudimentary plastic awning from the unrelenting winter rains. Here, the era is even more ancient: the first temples were built in 2500 BC, the period of the pyramids, that is. And the city flourished for a millennium, until merciless Hammurabi, King of Babylonia, sacked Mari and wiped it out: this sad story is recounted by hundreds of tablets that the fire set by the Babylonians saved.

Saturday, June 16

Aleppo has its heart on a hill and its soul in a thousand alleyways around its feet. Aleppo is a beehive of life and color; around the citadel, the incessant chatter of bargaining merchants is not bothersome but rather the soul of an already lively district; farther on, the superb vestiges of the oldest Turkish bath in Syria evoke pregnant questions of a licentiousness, a luxury that is still very much present; and then the colorful souks, resonating with the rapid-fire discussions of those doing business. We leave behind this stew of sounds and colors and head for Ebla, an ancient site targeted by Sargon, king of the Akadians, and later by the fierce Hittites. Ebla is a flower in the lapel of Italian archeology: since 1964 there has been an active mission from Rome’s La Sapienza University guided by Paolo Matthiae. But the archeologists we encounter on our arrival seem to lack the verve that ought to imbue those engaged in this profession: no tension for discovery, no Indiana Jones-type undertakings. They move slowly, lashed by an incessant wind, and spend an entire afternoon arranging four stones evidently found out of place. Here and there, though, we can appreciate Matthiae’s work, even though his decision to cover the structures brought to light with a thick layer of a sort of lime, to preserve them, seems excessive; it may be effective, but it gives me the impression of being among Eskimo igloos!

Monday, June 18

But in Syria the past is above all Palmyra. There are, it’s true, sites that evoke ancient feelings, like the temple of Baal at Ugarit, where many tablets bear forms of the Biblical Psalms in Ugaritic; or like Krak, built by the knights of the Crusades and filled with life to provide concrete evidence of their efforts in the service of the Cross. But it is at Palmyra that dream becomes reality. Palmyra is a mirage that takes shape slowly, between rocky heights and a small oasis dense with palm trees. Temples, theaters, plazas and the imposing colonnaded street are reflections in the pale-green eyes of Stefania, who looks amazed at such expressive traces of time that flies by yet preserves tangible signs even today. And Palmyra is Zenobia: one can’t help but recall the bewitching wiles of this girl who, before she was even twenty years old, seduced and wedded old Odenatus, the lord of the city. Historians from that period get carried away in admiring descriptions of her amber skin, her jet-black eyes and hair, her ample bosom, an explosive mix that made her queen. It was a small kingdom that expanded and worried the Romans and led Aurelian, lord of the world, to react. An army destroyed Palmyra, and Zenobia, even more proud and beautiful, was taken in golden chains to Rome and locked in a dungeon where she could do no harm.

Tuesday, June 19

We leave Palmyra behind, a splendid rose in the desert, with Zenobia’s beating heart still echoing; and after a long stretch of desert, on the road to Damascus, we plunge into an altogether different environment, one that heralds similar exciting emotions that only Syria and its treasures can elicit. Malula is a small hamlet clinging to hills covered in olive trees with the impenetrable mountains of the Antiliban chain at its back. In this lunar landscape, a young girl with jet-black hair and a sweet smile solemnly recites the Our Father with open hands: this is not just any prayer; it is recited in Aramaic, the ancient language of Jesus which is still spoken here and only here. The sweet and solemn words are unintelligible sounds that are lost in the air, not without leaving a profound feeling in the listener, while the sun slowly sinks until it disappears behind the steep, harsh rock. The atmosphere is surreal: it’s like hearing the first wail of a religion that has marked human history for 2000 years.

Wednesday, June 20

Damascus is the final stop and a required summing-up point for all the flavors and colors of Planet Syria. And after so many Biblical sites, after the Our Father in Aramaic at Malula, the grandiose mosque of the Omayyadi reminds us that we are after all in a mostly Moslem country and that this religion is what marks social and spiritual life here, in a climate, however, of tolerance and respect for all believers. Damascus! Damascus is present and past walking hand in hand, as – and even more than – in other large Middle Eastern and North African cities. Perhaps only in Cairo are there so many strata of past civilizations, but here it’s all more discreet, less imposed by the major tour operators, waiting to be discovered. “Effendi, come and drink some mint tea, come, you will be my guest,” a spice merchant invites me gently; despite extended negotiations, he has not managed to convince me to buy his colorful spices: his cordial invitation comes just the same. In Syria the guest is sacred, and no one ever says no to a little mint tea. (trad.Interpres- Giussano)