From Souk to Souk (14 page)

‘How long have you been working here?' As the words leave my mouth I hear how superficial and facile my question sounds compared to the gravity of his last statement.

‘Fourteen years. I divide my time between St George's and Guildford where my wife and two sons live. This is a very special place, though: the people are wonderful. And I've five adopted children here.' His eyes twinkle, lips widening into a generous smile on his round face.

***

The key to terrorism, of course, is fear: fear of the unknown, of wondering whether today will be the day when the dice of fate will roll and you will join so many others as a gruesome statistic. I was not frightened as we walked through the street market in Baghdad, but I was aware that the odds were slightly more weighted than usual. Yet I was only there for a visit, while those around me, the storeholders and shoppers, the children and police, had to run the gauntlet of sectarian violence on a daily basis. These people came here regularly in the knowledge that one day a bomb, perhaps in a parked vehicle, maybe strapped to a suicide bomber and filled with nails, might explode and yet they managed to keep their spirits up and chat and laugh. Perhaps having bodyguards lulled me into a false sense of security: they could offer protection against an aggressive individual, but if a bomb went off they would be as likely to fall victim as I was. To my eye, with their casual shirts over their jeans and their pointed shoes, Hassan and Ahmed at first looked like many other Iraqi men: you could not even see the Austrian-made
Glock
handguns they had tucked in their jeans, one on either side and each loaded with fifteen rounds. After a while, though, I began to notice that their demeanour was subtly different from that of the middle-aged Omar, whose carefree amble was in contrast to the considered manner of the two guards who discreetly observed everything around us. Both were jovial enough, though Captain Hassan was a little more reserved, but I gradually realised that they would have no qualms about using their guns if necessary: in Baghdad, hesitation is not an option.

At first, the food market appeared to be pure chaos: stands at each side of the street seemed in competition with people selling wares from the open backs of vans, empty cardboard boxes formed jumbled mountains and old men and young boys struggled to manoeuvre overloaded handcarts past shuffling pedestrians and across rickety boards spanning open drains. There was plenty of food, but little choice. The range was limited to potatoes, beans, onions, bananas, oranges, apples and watermelons, yet much of the fruit was arranged in meticulously neat piles. The sellers were as proud as their wooden stands were modest. I stopped to look at a row of open bowls of olives – black, purple and green, some as big as walnuts – and boxes of dried apricots, plums and figs. Both displays seemed to attract more flies than customers. The stallholder looked at me with curiosity; his lean form and deeply tanned skin spoke of a much harder life than I could ever imagine. I contemplated how the alter ego of this quiet man might also have been one of the myriad faces in the rioting crowds so beloved of television cameras. Extending a sinewy hand towards a bowl of large green olives, he smiled encouragingly. It was a kind gesture, which I turned down as gracefully as I could by returning the smile, shaking my head and using one of the few words of Arabic I know:
shukran
, thank you. We moved on and a little further passed a couple of small butchers' shops where just two or three cuts of meat hung in the open window; one large piece had some entrails dangling from it, perhaps the heart. My thoughts drifted to the conditions under which I imagined livestock were slaughtered in this country.

Suddenly, taking my arm, Hassan, the shorter of the two guards, pulled me aside as a large camouflage army vehicle, some sort of armoured personnel carrier, rumbled past, each of the four wheels on either side almost as high as my waist. ‘Careful!' he said, looking up at me with a smile.

Sitting atop at the back were two soldiers, silently observing the people around them through their mirror sunglasses, automatic weapons by their side. None of the locals returned the interest: for the shoppers of Baghdad, such sights have become wallpaper.

***

‘There are only seven Jews left in Iraq,' explains Canon White, ‘not counting those in the US embassy. There are more there than in the rest of the country.'

I reflect on this state of affairs. I know Judaism has a long and mixed history in Mesopotamia, including the captivity in Babylon under Nebuchadnezzar twenty-six centuries ago, a seminal moment in Jewish lore. It is tragic that there is no space for Jews here today and, indeed, ever less for Christians.

‘I have a doctorate in Judaism. Yes, rather odd for an Anglican priest, isn't it!' the canon laughs, as he sees the surprise on our faces. ‘I actually conduct the Jewish services in the American embassy, you know. I'm doing Passover for them too. Everyone thinks of Iraq as a Muslim country which, of course, for the most part today it is, but so much of the Bible, especially the Old Testament, took place here, you know.' He looks at us. ‘Have you been to the Garden of Eden yet?'

‘No,' says Omar, ‘but we will.'

‘You should! Of course, it has lost some of its original charm,' the canon remarks dryly, ‘but it's still worth going. There is so much to see here: Babylon is fascinating, even though it did not get a particularly good write-up in the Bible. You can see the spot there where Alexander the Great died. The country is full of churches, you know. Saint Thomas lived in Mosul before moving on to India, although it's best avoided at the moment, but I'm sure you know that. It's such a tragedy because until fairly recently there was much more tolerance here towards Jews, Christians, Mandaeans and all the other groups. Many have simply emigrated even though their communities have been here for centuries.'

I notice that when he is not smiling his lips turn down slightly at the corners. I am not surprised. However strong one's faith, however much of a brave face one puts on it, living and working here must surely bring stress as well as satisfaction.

***

We left the food market and made our way along a narrow lane lined with shops selling garish nylon cocktail dresses, drab T-shirts for men and hideous tops and leggings for women with motifs that looked as if they had been copied from 1960s wallpaper. Business seemed slow: the shop workers, all male, stood in the doorways looking bored or sat at desks, playing on their mobile phones or reading newspapers. The street was fairly busy, but nobody seemed to be stopping to look at the goods on show, even less buying them. A youth called out in Arabic, clearly wanting everyone to move aside, as he pushed his way past, carefully balancing a large aluminium tray of buns on his head. He walked briskly and purposefully through the narrow street, continuing to announce his presence to the shoppers as he went on his way. Among the people milling about a young girl in a black
abaya
caught my eye. She must have been only six or seven years old and yet was covered by the shapeless garment adult women wear to prevent men from supposedly being driven wild with lust by the sight of female contours. I asked myself why a prepubescent child should have to dress in such clothes, but none of the answers that came to mind was pleasant.

Omar stopped to ask one of the older shopkeepers if he knew where the synagogue was. The man raised his thick eyebrows and rubbed his chin whilst looking at us as if wondering whether to cooperate or not. Then, with the aid of gestures, he began explaining the route. Omar beckoned us to follow and we continued a little further along dog-leg bends before turning into a sort of dim corridor linking one street to another. Empty boxes lay around and cables ran the length of the grubby walls, the light seeping in from either end just enough for us to pick our way through the shadows. We emerged into a lane, which was so narrow that from the bay windows of the houses you could easily lean out and shake hands with someone in the window opposite. Sadly, the traditional Iraqi homes that lined the short section are an increasingly rare sight in Baghdad. The street soon widened out and we found ourselves standing between a small, nondescript apartment building and the open entrance to a walled yard full of noisy machinery.

‘I think this is it,' said Omar, waving a tanned arm in the direction of the workshop.

We wandered into the yard. Two rows of diesel-powered machines, apparently generators of some sort and each as high as a man, roared away on either side. It felt like walking into a furnace. Buckets, oily rags, and bits of equipment lay everywhere. A man, sweating in a dirty vest, appeared in a doorway at the far end, his mouth forming inaudible words. Omar went up to him and, trying to make himself heard over the din of the machines, explained we were looking for the old synagogue. The man nodded, looked around and then pointed to somewhere beyond the engines. Omar strolled back to where we stood, his face now glowing with perspiration.

‘This is the old synagogue,' he said, almost shouting to make himself heard. ‘The man says we can look around. Over there in the corner he says you can see some Jewish writing and signs.'

I looked up at the crumbling walls that rose on either side of the yard and tried to imagine what the building might have looked like when it was a functioning place of worship. Beige plaster crumbled away to reveal rough brickwork, and a network of wires and cables criss-crossed the sky. We followed Omar to the far end of the yard and then passed between the sweating, roaring machines. Beyond the generators was a doorway leading to what looked like a storeroom where, in the gloom, I could see a stack of plastic crates. On one side of the door was the rough plaster outline of a Star of David, on the other I could just make out some Hebrew writing. This was all that remained of the last synagogue in Baghdad.

***

‘We have a wonderful clinic here,' says the canon. ‘We even have a dentist. Like the church, the clinic was badly damaged in the 2009 bombing, but we have managed to repair and restore it and now we treat about 2,000 people a month. It is also one of the best clinics in the world for stem cell work.'

Again, I find myself trying not to look surprised.

‘Yes, you wouldn't think so, would you?' he grins. ‘We have people come from all over the world to get treatment here: more than 3,700 so far. Of course, we don't do transplants; it's all done with the patient's own stem cells. I was the first to be treated, in fact. A friend said I should try it for my multiple sclerosis and it has worked wonders. They can't really do anything for my deafness, though,' he smiles.

Now I understand the walking stick and the slight slurring of speech. Suddenly, I am aware of being in the presence of a truly remarkable man.

***

We turned down another street lined with concrete blast walls and 1980s government buildings, some seemingly in use, others obviously empty. Trees, planted in another era when Baghdad was a city of leafy boulevards, provided greenery and a soft contrast to the prison-like concrete of the neighbourhood. We drove slowly, stopping at one check point after another, each time the heavily armed policemen checking the papers our driver showed them. Eventually, in a narrow side street, we stopped next to a grey prefab hut shaded by a couple of large trees. A dozen or so soldiers were milling around, while another, smoking a cigarette, was sitting on one of the battered plastic chairs that were lined up in front of the makeshift guardhouse. Most of them were wearing black SWAT jackets over their grey camouflage fatigues. Heavy calibre weaponry abounded.

We got out and Omar, Hassan and Ahmed greeted their countrymen, shaking hands with the officers. Papers were shown and we were nodded through, accompanied by one of the soldiers. Wearing a black beret, he was little more than a boy and eyed us with curiosity. Entering the garden of the modest compound with its trimmed bushes, we headed up the path that ran alongside the hedge towards the far end of the building. Among the bedding plants were some rather straggly marguerites, their fragile flowers adding a touch of colour among the greenery. Moments later, we arrived at the main entrance where steps led up to the two wooden doors to the side of which was a plaque. I moved forward to get a better view. The red outline of a knight on a horse spearing a dragon was accompanied by text in Arabic and in English: ‘St George's Episcopal Anglican Church, Built 1936'. As we headed up the steps of the beige brick building, the vicar, dressed in a perfectly ironed black cassock, appeared.

‘Hello!' he said, as warmly as if we were regular parishioners. ‘Now, I must say, you don't look as if you live here.'

‘No,' I replied, ‘we're tourists.'

He laughed loudly.

‘Well, you'd better come in then. I'm just about to conduct the service. Do join us.'

Tell me, have you ever visited somewhere famous or steeped in history and afterwards found that your abiding memory of the place is not of a monument or spectacular building, but of something else, something seemingly insignificant or small, something human? This happened to me in Aleppo. Let me tell you about it.

Like many cities in the Middle East, Aleppo has been continuously inhabited for millennia, perhaps since 5000 BC, a mind-numbing period if you try to calculate the number of generations who were born and have lived and died here: maybe as many as four hundred. Unsurprisingly, Halab, to give it its Arab name, is a
millefeuille
of human settlement in the region made up of layer upon layer of history. The catalogue of powers that have ruled or governed the city reads like the contents list of an encyclopaedia of great civilisations and empires: Greeks and Romans, Sassanids and Mongols, Byzantines and Turcomen, Ottomans and French, and many others besides. Alexander the Great, Saladin and Tamerlane each succeeded in wresting control of the city, yet, if they are remembered today, it is not for their conquest of Aleppo. The crusaders, on the other hand, twice tried and failed to take the city, and the names of few of them, if any, have survived the passage of time. Yet, many of those who came to Aleppo did leave their mark here: in its architecture, in its art, in its music, and in its food. Some, as I was to discover, left an enduring legacy of a different sort.

I arrived after driving from Hama, a small town some 150 kilometres to the south renowned for two things: its giant wooden water wheels, or
norias
, that churn slowly in the Orontes River with a distinctive cracking, creaking sound and, rather less picturesquely, the 1982 Hama Massacre when government troops shot thousands of the city's inhabitants. Aleppo was the latest stop on a tour of Syria I made when the Assad regime's position was still unchallenged. Top of my ‘must see' list were the city's vast medieval citadel and its celebrated souk, of which I had heard so many stories. I had a map and a mobile phone, but locating my hotel was a challenge and I found myself going back and forth along the same stretch of road outside the old centre desperately trying to join up the hotel receptionist's directions with the nondescript concrete buildings around me. Finally, I came across a patch of rough land full of parked cars at the far end of which stood
Bab al-Qinnesrin
, one of the nine city gates hewn from the nougat-coloured limestone out of which much of old Aleppo is built. I parked up and headed into the heart of the historic city, wheeling my duffel bag behind me as the gentle November sun slipped towards the horizon. The dimensions of the imposing gate were deceptive: the actual entrance was only accessible on foot or with a handcart. I made my way through the shadowy vaulted chambers of the gateway. In one, a handful of youths lingered in the darker recesses, their whispers ceasing as I walked past; the only noise was of pigeons fluttering up to barely visible ledges. I emerged blinking into the former Christian quarter of the Old City, my luggage bumping and bouncing along the uneven paving stones of the narrow street. An old man in a traditional long, grey
thobe
and a white crocheted
taqiyah
on his head looked at me with bemusement as he walked past, half a dozen neatly folded
dishdashas
under his arm, whilst a group of young boys in blue school uniform smiled a cheerful ‘Hello!'

The entrance to the hotel was unpromising, not to say alarming: a narrow stone corridor that sloped downwards into darkness, it looked more like the opening to a pharaoh's tomb. I took a deep breath and stepped into it, a sensor-triggered light immediately revealing an old wooden portal at the end. I rang the bell and moments later the door creaked open, a slim man in his forties beckoning me inside with a hand so hairy it looked like a tarantula crawling out from the end of his suit sleeve. In perfect English he introduced himself as Nazim and bade me enter. As is often the case in the Middle East, the building's unassuming exterior gave nothing away as to the wonders concealed behind its simple walls. After just a few paces following Nazim's silhouette, I found myself in the courtyard of a beautifully restored sixteenth-century merchant's palace. In this dusty corner of Syria, it was a hidden oasis of chic where a bubbling fountain and an
iwan
– the three-sided portal open at the front and typical of Islamic architecture – invited me to forget the world outside and come and relax on the rows of satin cushions along its walls. The courageous investment its owners had made was testimony to their belief in Aleppo's potential as a tourist destination. Nazim smiled when he saw my face, his cold green eyes glowing with satisfaction.

That night, in a nearby restaurant, I reflected on a grand city's gradual decline into relative obscurity. I asked myself how some of today's metropolises would be seen a few centuries hence and wondered if they, too, would be relegated to being historical ‘also rans' as power waxed and waned and trade routes changed. As I scooped up a mouthful of garlicky hummus with a piece of hot flatbread, a waiter asked me if I was enjoying my meal. Looking up to reply, I was surprised to see not a swarthy Arab but a fair-skinned man with red hair. And he was not the last I was to see in Aleppo.

The next day, I set off to explore Syria's largest city. Busy and bustling, and with a population a third bigger than the capital Damascus, Aleppo still feels overwhelmingly provincial. The opening of the Suez Canal in 1869 saw trade that had previously passed through the city being carried by ship instead. During the 1920s Turkish War of Independence, Ataturk seized a large chunk of territory from the newly established state of Syria, meaning much of the city's natural hinterland lies on the wrong side of the border. The result is that it is no longer the commercial and cultural crossroads it used to be. To the visitor, the sense of isolation is heightened by the fact that Aleppo sits in a far corner of a country off the main tourist circuit.

My first stop was the famous citadel, the
Qal'at Halab
, a massive limestone construction based around an elliptical hill and surrounded by the remains of a vast twelfth-century moat, dangerously deep, unwelcomingly wide. Human settlement of the hill dates back to the third millennium BC, but it was not until some two thousand years later that the first fortress was built. The size of the fortifications that, even today, dominate Aleppo leave you in no doubt as to the one-time importance of the citadel and the city at the centre of which it stands. Most of the impressive remains that now rose in front of me dated from the Ayyubid dynasty founded in the twelfth century by that most famous of the crusaders' foes, Saladin. As I wandered up the long stone bridge, its six high and slender arches leading from the outer to the inner gate, I found myself imagining bloodthirsty battles of yore with swarms of foot soldiers storming the castle under a hail of whishing arrows. Inside the main gateway, the passage took one right angle turn after another, a ploy exercised to make life difficult for invaders, not least by preventing the use of battering rams. Above me, machicolations served as a grim reminder of the boiling liquids that those inside used to pour onto attackers trying to seize the castle. I paused and contemplated the violence that would once have filled the tranquil space in which I now stood: the shouts and cries of man and beast, the sound of metal upon metal as swords clashed again and again, the stomping of countless marching feet – quite simply, the sounds of siege.

Now, as I stood there, the battles and bloodshed were no more and if the ghosts of those who died fighting here wandered the ruins they did so without leaving the faintest trace of sorrow or melancholy. The citadel, partly restored at the beginning of this century, was a peaceful place and grass and wild flowers grew where the inhabitants of this city-within-a-city once went about their daily business. Young couples sat quietly on the low stone walls, discreetly holding hands and casting furtive glances as I walked past. I made my way slowly round the rocks and rubble, pausing now and again to gaze at the urban sprawl below, the noise of its traffic seeming to belong to a different world. Nowadays, Aleppo, home to over two million people, extends across an area unimaginable to the ancestors of its current citizens. Looking out from the ramparts, I tried to imagine how somebody from centuries ago would react upon seeing the vast city as it is today. Beyond the historic core, Aleppo is not a pretty sight: seen from the hilltop fortress, it is but one more beige metropolis, something in which the Middle East excels.

Just beyond the citadel lies the souk, a veritable Aladdin's cave in which it is difficult not to get lost. Numerous friends, assuring me it was a highlight not to be missed, had raved about its authenticity. Not here some pastiche filled with overpriced bric-a-brac aimed at tourists; this was where many in the city did their daily shopping. Made up of more than a dozen separate markets, Aleppo's bazaar is still, as it was in the times of the Silk Road, the largest in the world and is said to be one of the best in the region. Each market specialises in a particular type of produce such as foodstuffs, cotton goods, jewellery or ironware, its unfathomable network of cobbled streets and passages criss-crossing a gently sloping hill under a roof of vaulted stonework and corrugated metal.

As I walked into the souk, I left behind the bright sunlight of the Levantine autumn and entered a world illuminated by a curious mix of electric bulbs, ornate lanterns and shafts of light falling through centuries-old oculi in the arched ceilings. Men and boys hurried about, transporting all manner of wares, faces glistening as they laboured to push hand trolleys piled high with heavy boxes and bulging sacks. Shoppers went about their business, buying, bargaining, arguing and joking while dark-haired youths sauntered arm in arm, pausing to chat with friends working on stalls, and women in headscarves perused packs of socks and bags of tea.

I saw more scarves in the souk in Aleppo than anywhere else I have ever been: stacked practically, draped seductively, hung demonstratively, they tempted even the most resolute to succumb to looking, even if not buying. The vendors were keen to convince me that half their stock was pashmina and, whenever I paused to look at their merchandise, hurriedly began unfolding one scarf after another, inviting me to feel the quality, not look at the width, or the Syrian equivalent thereof.

‘Genuine pashmina!' I heard the stall owner proudly declare as I stopped to look at a particularly splendid example in blue and green. I looked up to see a titian-haired man smiling at me, his skin as pale as any European's. I felt the soft cloth between my fingers, its gentle fabric warm to the touch. He would make me a special price, he beamed, blue eyes twinkling. I wanted to ask him about his fair features, but feared he would consider me rude, so smiled and said I was just looking and that I might come back.

As I continued along the narrow passages, marvelling at the cornucopia of goods, a voice calling out behind me in Arabic gradually fought its way into my consciousness. Turning round, I had just enough time to leap out of the way of a tired-looking and rather grubby grey donkey on which sat an old man. A gnarled hand protruded from his beige
thobe
, fingers like polished twigs clutching tattered reins, but the scrawny beast seemed to know where it was going anyway. From under the off-white scarf draped over the man's head, I caught a glimpse of a face that could have been carved from the root of a tree. I watched as the strange pair turned and disappeared ‘off stage' down one of the passages like extras from a play who have performed the same role for longer than anyone can remember.

Approaching a stand selling bathroom soaps and sponges, I saw a giant of a man deep in conversation with the young storekeeper, gesticulating with his hand, circling a finger as big as a sausage. Spotting me, his interlocutor held up a rectangular bar of dark green soap and waved me across. With his immaculately coiffed black hair and tanned skin, he resembled so many other men in this city; only a scar on his left temple made him stand out. Picking up another bar from the top of a pyramidal display surrounded by loofahs and dried starfish, he invited me to smell the hand-made soaps. With theatrical enthusiasm he held the bar to his face and sniffed deeply, eyes half closing as if momentarily transported to another, less mundane place.

I walked over and took the soap from his outstretched hand, trying not to look at his scar. A rough, square block, it had the unmistakeable fragrance of laurel. I realised it must be the famous Aleppo soap made from olive oil and reputed to have been used by beauties of antiquity such as Queen Zenobia of Palmyra and Cleopatra. I could feel the stallholder's eyes on me as I rubbed my fingers over the tablet with its calligraphy imprint. As if reading my mind, he assured me it was not expensive, yet of the finest quality.

His tall friend said something to him in Arabic. I looked up and saw he was an albino, his pale skin and startling pink eyes incongruous in this most oriental of environments. Only now did I notice wisps of white hair underneath the chequered dark blue scarf wrapped loosely round his head.

Eager to regain my attention, the soap seller began listing other perfumes: lavender, vanilla and cinnamon, and pointed enthusiastically to the stacks of soap. His albino friend had seen my surprise and now I was sure he sensed my embarrassment. I handed the bar back to its owner and asked how much it was.

‘Two hundred,' he said, already wrapping it in brown paper.

The albino's pink eyes darted to his friend. However authentic the market was supposed to be, I suspected I had been quoted a tourist price, but did not want to haggle over a few cents. I handed over my Syrian pounds, took possession of my modest purchase and continued my exploration of the labyrinthine souk. I stopped to look at gleaming brassware and then drifted on as nonchalantly as possible as shopkeepers, ever on the alert for the slightest indication of interest, scuttled towards me like spiders whose web had been touched by a fly.