In my other life

I’m sorry, I was a loser in all my other lives, I did not continue any of them. Once I was a traveler moving from city to the other watching people, keeping a distance and enjoying being a stranger. In another life a pious young man attached to mosques, waiting for prayers and longing to meet God in Paradise. Yet in another life, I was celebrating all the sins, as if that why I was created. OK. I must admit, I’m living all these lives and it’s tiring, thank god it’s only one short life.

Was not in our itinerary

“Sir, see this is Hanuman” I nodded and looked at a gigantic statue of the Hindu God, a huge human figure with a monkey head, covered by golden and red accessories and topped by a decorative conical headdress. The priest, who became a guide as soon as he saw us entering the temple, continued his inapprehensible stories about the infinite Hindu mythologies, while I was trying to entertain my family. I reminded my wife quickly about Hanuman, the monkey god favored by businessmen and students, and turned to my elder son who tried to cling to masks of sudden seriousness and interest, only to leave his younger brother alone in his childish boredom and whining. It was not piety that made us linger in front of Hanuman’s milky statue; we just had to understand what was happening. In a few minutes we were hurried by a nervous ancient sadhu, who barely covered his groin by a tiny wrinkled cloth, to take off our shoes and socks. He kept knocking on the floor with a stick till my wife surrendered and started removing her socks. Tamil and Malayalam words surrounded us, until some of the audience kindly shouted “This way, this way”. Beggars formed a concave semicircle by the entrance, which was hidden by small competing booths selling posters and plastic statues of the numerous kind-looking deities. I pulled my boys towards their first Hindu experience and encouraged my wife not to think a lot about what her bare feet were caressing. The small entrance swallowed us and suddenly we were in a hot damp tunnel, whose walls and ceiling were made of lavishly carved ochre stones, while the floors were softened by devotees’ steps for more than 100,000 days. Noises echoed and the scents of different oils and incenses embraced us till we were stopped by two smiling priests, who gave us a metallic token and took our cameras, mobile phones and my T-shirt. As soon as I was adjusting my blotched glasses, a giant priest appeared in his elegant white dhoti and started stuttering the history of the temple as we followed towards a large square courtyard. In an attempt to keep my family amused I pointed towards a multi-storyed pylon, studded with colorful deities, “Sir, look at the walls of the Gopuram, look inside sir, see the paint sir” “Now, you can’t go there, paint go bad sir, very old 400 years but you can see paint now sir”. I needed my camera and a moment to appreciate and understand the intricate compositions of gods, heroesand kings all colored in pastel pink, light blue, olive green and ochre, these mythical characters were besieged by Peacocks, chariots, chhatris, serpents and demons.“Sir, sir,….here” our priestly guide was 100 meters ahead and pointing towards an endless arcade created by a series of giant stone lions with elephant trunks, where every two trunks carried a huge stone beam to roof the corridor. I had to control myobsession about architecture in this architectural paradise and make sure that my two little boys are following and my jumping wife is avoiding the few puddles in her way. The hymns vibrated in a hidden corner of the huge shrine;the heat whirled ruthlessly as we followed our leaping guide towards the dark interior. He stopped by two gigantic richly ornate chariots, and started explaining in his Tamil-studded English how these huge structures are carried and pulled by the priests in the annual festivals. He pointed at his shoulders where two coarse bumps protruded, and said melancholically “Sir, I’m honored and blessed every year”. The white dhotidisappeared while I was trying to explain what I hardly understood to the rest of the group, who looked miserable, scared, bored and disgusted. Any wise man would just runaway quickly from such an evolving tornado, ”It is too hot”, “Can we go to the car now?”, “I don’t want to continue, I can not see these statues properly….it is very dark”, “ Why? I don’t understand….” “What was he saying?” “at least they could have let me keep my socks, the floor is not clean at all…” I was saved from such a typical family conversation by a shout “Sir, here sir”. I ran towards a wide courtyard where enormous piles of jasmines, lotuses and other unfamiliar flowers in white, pink and crazy orange were gathered. Ancient skinny women were crawling by the piles to fill small reed concave trays, which were quickly taken away towards an adjacent hall. Nothing around could be related to the twenty-first or the twentieth century, no florescent lamps, no tacky plastic clocks, no Japanese tourists with their huge impressive cameras and definitely no one was ranting in his mobile phone. Hymns crescendoedand aromas became thicker as more old weak people carried the flower baskets to a crowded hall. The scene succeeded in distracting my group a bit, as we hurried towards the place where all the flowers were taken. All of a sudden we were surrounded byecstatic devotees covered in sweat and noise, praying, kneeling, crying, shouting and throwing flowers on a small golden idol. The dancing torches animated the sculptures surrounded us, and bestowed dark shadows over the desperate wrinkled faces. The differenttrancedfaces merged into one turbulent sea, the loud mantras echoed infinitely, the orange, golden and red blotches scratched the balmy darkness of the shrine, where I saw my Isis. The vibrant Hindu temple of Schindram, forgotten somewhere between Kerala and Tamil Nadu, took me back to Ancient Egypt, where a lesser number of more-serious deities were worshipped. I did not care about whomof those among us would have been allowed to the “Holy of the Holies” or if the wandering priests were too relaxed and casual in the presence of the goddess. I witnessed how ancient religious and cultural traditions transcended at least three millennia of revelations, wars, conquests, exoduses and fanaticism. How gods and goddesses failed and succeeded, loved and betrayed, felt tired and jealous, cried and slept in an endless spectrum of intricate colorful sagas. That steaming hall where the small golden idol was being showered by freshly-cut flowers could have been anywhere along the Nile thousands of years before the advent of the ambitious Alexander, the arrogant Antony, the Holy Saint Mark and the blessed Aal al Bayt. Our deserted temples, venerated only in documentaries and touristic brochures have lost their gods, worshippers and aura, and are just sadly standing to be punished by witnessing the running of children in their holiest spots and the sprinkles of quick flashes on the sacred texts. The boys, frightened from the claustrophobic noise and the intense musky heat pulled me out of my unorthodox contemplations towards the main gate, however our guide was waiting by one of the corners to show us elaborately carved luscious figures. The boys who accepted coming to India as long as we won’t waste the holiday in temples and museums, were furiously whining to return back to the air-conditioned car, they spread all of their legitimate excuses in front of their bare-footed mother to escape a semi-scary and sticky experience. The guide jumped from one corner to the other alluring me with statues, carvings and frescos depicting vivid legends of the powerful and cunning Hindu gods. “Sir, this temple is very famous, it houses Sthanumalayan, do you know him Sir?” he continues without looking at me, “ Brahma, the creator, Vishnu the preserver, and Shiva the destroyer are worshipped in one sculpture, it is Sthanumalayan sir”. “Come see the drawing sir”, “Look sir, here is a representation of Ganesh as a goddess, only in two temples in India Sir”. We zigzagged from courtyards dotted with heavy stone pavilions to large halls till I lost any sense of space or orientation, and found ourselves heading outside the temple. Within a few minutes we were back in the car, the boys nibbling their chocolates, my wife cleaning her feet with ten wipes while I was thanking the driver who suggested that we stop here to see this temple, which was not in our itinerary!! No place on earth can shake you, humiliate you, honor you, and enlighten you at the same time as India does. In a family holiday to Kerala tailored mainly to leisurely staysby coconut palms lined beaches, lush tropical forests and verdant tea plantations perched a few steps beneath the sky, India blinked with its wisdom and mystery to show us how its ancient land is still fertile with mysticism and devotion. I left my camera by the gates of the temple, whose name I could not pronounce or remember to enjoy a memorable experience, that photos can never describe. Although I cannot recall the shapes and figures of the idols I will never forget that eternal state of consciousness and the unusual feelings of happiness and content that engulfed me.

I'm ready

Im ready…. Im totally ready. I sinned…. I prayed. I kissed the blackstone and cried by the kaaba. I wasted infinite years in lust and indulgence. I earned some money and spent even more and more. I suppose that I was a good friend, saved some from boredom by naughty and gossipy tales. I worked, over worked, postponed work and even begged for work. I read, I wrote and I’m sure that I’ll greatly miss doing this again. I loved, I hated, I l forgave, I didn’t care, I screamed and then at last I became numb. I’m ready…I’m ready to leave. I will miss you all. I don’t know what will happen, and sorry I won’t be able to tell. Will it be a nap? A long sleep? A dream? I hope it won’t be a nightmare! You will miss me, I’m sure…just as I missed all those who went there. But where is there? Is it even a place…or is it just a different state? So many preachers shouted and warned us, but I think it should be ok. I have never harmed anyone and whatever I did was not intentional. Am I starting to confess? Too many questions will be on that day. Will I’ll be burnt for something silly I said or did, I hope this won’t be the way. Im ready…..Im totally ready. Im not running away from endless responsibilities, children to raise and bills to pay. If this is a short phase, a period, a journey, then let me reach the final stage. Am I longing to the eternal happiness? The peace of mind and everything we don’t have here and now. I had my share of laughs and a way bigger share of tears. I feel content and happy, now there is no reason for fear. I wasted opportunities, I let people down, I tried to do my best but most of the time I was lazy and lame. I loved the sea, the desert…. Do I have time to add more, I still have a lot to say. Im ready… am I ready? no Im not ready…. No one is ever ready to leave...

She told me

The goddess, the mother goddess, the productive earth, Ishtar, Ashtoreth, Astarte, Athar. The queen immortalizing a small oasis by dignity and pride. The nun still hymning in Aramaic after two millennia of Judas’s betrayal. The mother spending most of her life cooking and preparing thyme, and olive oil for her family I will not mourn her now. I will not cry again. I will not accept any more condolences. I am returning today to rejoice, cherish and venerate the goddess, the queen, the nun and the mother. In a land "flowing with milk and honey". Whose fertility tinted the dead sands of Asia in every possible green shade before kissing the salty Mediterranean, and made it the reward at the end of every barren and dismal silk road. A land whose beauties seduced invaders and crazed tyrants. where Assyrians, Amorites, Hittites, Canaanites, Phoenicians, and Arameans delicately brushed and interwove her long silky hair, before being suddenly pulled by the Egyptians, Sumerians, Babylonians and Persians, till young Alexander crossed the Aegean to tighten a Hellenistic band around her flowing tufts. The Romans intervened to make sure that Zenobia’s dark braids were plaited in their style before disappearing beneath a white veil as pure as that of the Virgin. In cities older than time, her sons chiseled life with their sweat, songs, pain and hope. She were blessed them as she whispered their stories. I heard them all, and I came today to recall them, cry them and sing them again to you, and to hail her with her endless legacies and golden glories.

The goddess Ishtar, who sown prosperity everywhere did not know how and from where to begin. Her eyes shined with pride and happiness, before smiling to allow the words to whirl around her tender voice. It all started here, in the same place where Cain killed his brother Abel with a rock. On one of these silent mountains Adam came to mourn his son, the first human to die. From his tears and pain Damascus was born. A city that grandmothered the most ancient ones, and witnessed patiently their birth and decay. A city whose name had sparkled sixty time in the bible. A city whose grace guided the Jewish traveler Saul of Tarsus to Christianity, and recreated him as the Apostle Paul in one of her streets. A city which Prophet Muhamed refused to enter, why? the truth is covered by many colorful velvet legends, one says that on the horizon the Prophet saw how beautiful the oasis city was, so he decided to stop his journey because "man should only enter Paradise once”. In a different, yet, generally accepted story, when prophet Muhamed was a young boy accompanying his uncle’s merchant caravan, and as they passed by the southern city of Bosra, he met a monk, who believed that a prophet was soon to appear among the Arabs. As soon as Bahira, the monk saw Muhamed, he realized that he carried all the signs of the awaited Prophet described in his old manuscripts. Accordingly he advised Muhammad’s uncle to take him back to Makka as soon as possible to protect him against possible enemies. The goddess sighed, and continued, she said that even if Muslims believe that Muhamed did not enter the city, they are waiting for Jesus descent from heaven onto the white minaret of the city’s great mosque. However between the death of Abel and the descent of Jesus, my city had never paused, it kept enchanting her generous people and their visitors. The verdant orchids hugging the city, showered her with flowers, scented herbs and fruits year round, as Barada river washed her slowly and tenderly. I saw kingdoms and dynasties whirling around its churches, mosques and palaces, and listened to their murmurs praying, moaning and singing. I lingered around the cobbled winding alleys, roamed the legendary bazaars, meditated in the shaded courtyards and was purified in the ancient balmy hamamms. I lost myself in the goddess, I embraced Damascus with all my senses, and surrendered to the spell of the immortal city, the city of Jasmine. The queen called, she commanded me to come closer. To cross the arid emptiness, and visit Palmyra. The “Bride of the desert”. The provincial town that woke up suddenly to conquer Egypt. The oasis that dared to oppose Rome. The booming voice echoed around Corinthian columns, archways, theaters, ornate tombs and reached her gods, Bel, Nebo, Arsu, Baalshamin in their magnificent temples. Zenobia’s eastern flair, stubbornness, beauty and wisdom glowed over the golden stones as a quick mirage and an unfulfilled dream. I traced her elegant steps around her thriving cosmopolitan city, where Aramaic, Greek and Palmyrene burbled in its markets. The mysterious queen was wrapped in myths woven by her enemies, who bestowed all their misconceptions about the east generously on her. The Roman prejudice did not expect or accept that the Regina Orientis expands her territory, so they simply crushed the magnificence, looted the treasures and dissolved her nascent empire. The courageous beautiful Queen of the East, was dragged to Rome in humiliation, while her people were scattered in the ruthless sands. The sun and heat crescendoed forcing me to leave the splendorous ruins, the shadow of the ambitious queen, and to ignore the savage screams of Rome’s mob. “But I say to you, love your enemies, bless those who curse you, do good to those who hate you, and pray for those who insult you and persecute you…” these prayers resonated across the rugged mountains hugging Ma’lulla. The small village capped by a sacred hallow, that has been woven for two millennia by priests, nuns and worshipers, who have been flocking here seeking blessings, before the herds of tourists who come to listen to an almost extinct language. The same language spoken by Jesus. An old nun approached me smiling and offered to show me the village, she moved calmly around the young crowds and I followed. Arabic was replaced by Aramaic, which for my ears was a strange combination of Turkish, Hebrew and even Farsi, a strange rearrangement of letters or a harsh deconstruction of Arabic words. My childish attempts to relate the sounds around me to Arabic words did not surprise my kind host. The hills guarded the monasteries which guarded the relics of the martyrs which guarded the pure faith. Ma’lulla had a unique feeling, a flair of a silent and serious religious carnival, all the ingredients of a lavish moulid were scattered around me, yet in an unfamiliar stillness. The serenity of my nun and her village made any attention given to the history or architecture of the monasteries seem superficial and unnecessary. The cool interiors, the whitish grey surfaces and the elegant icons with formal stiff features of saints and angels contrasted to the surrounding landscape of steep mountains and faraway green fields. The long black uniform caressed the stone floors, as the nun murmured her prayers and returned peacefully to a silent corner. She said too little, yet I heard and understood too much. I thanked her before disappearing again in her celestial world, a world that one hopes to reside in or even visit.

Busy, tired, short tempered and funny as most mothers, she yelled at me to come quickly, carry her heavy bags, and follow her around the endless vaulted lanes of Aleppo’s bazaar. I struggled to distribute my attention between the finely decorated entrances I was passing by and the clumsy teenagers pushing their huge carts towards me. The labyrinth was eternal, and el Khala seemed to be determined to buy everything available. She stopped at almost every stall chatting with the vendors, discussing prices, gossiping and complaining from the unusual heat. We bought hummus, olive oil, thyme, garlic, peppers, raisins, nuts and other spices that I have never seen or smelled before. She made sure that I tasted whatever we were buying, so a green olive, was followed by a dried fig, a pinch of bitter thyme was forgotten by soft pistachios, and salty cheese. She was smiling, patting my back and praising Aleppo and its surrounding lush fields, blinking her eyes in a playful manner and assuring me that Aleppo has the best produce and that no one can compete with the Aleppine women. Spinning from one lane to the other, a massive mound topped by a medieval citadel blocked the horizon, while gazing at the monument, she hurried me and said, “These are just stones, dead silent stones, the beauty of Aleppo is around you”, she laughed and added, “… and in the bags you carry”. Throughout the afternoon el khala was cooking relentlessly and recalling the history of her city, the defeats and glories, the glorious days and the barren years. Proudly listing the different ethnic groups that formed the beautiful, rich and unique mosaic of Aleppo, Arabs, Kurds, Armenians, Circassians and many other groups, who came here to trade and work, bringing their icons, spells, songs, poems and jokes. Each adding a color, a melody, a proverb to charming generous Aleppo’s. Her ringing voice faded into the noises of placing the numerous mezze plates on an endless table, that all her dear relatives and friends. Jokes danced around the table, throwing sweet happy laughs, but her faint voice was still heard.