pool

One day in the Old City (1)

Text: One day in the Old City (1)

from susan.dirgham, 30.06.09

One afternoon earlier this month, I had time to wander the narrow, cobblestone lanes of the old city at my leisure, alone.

While walking in these alleys - in the shadow of a site held sacred for 3,000 years or more - perhaps I was crossing light energy paths of people who came before me, from believers in the Aramaean god, Haddad, or in Jupiter, the Roman god; to Saint Paul, Saladin, Rumi, Mark Twain, Agatha Christie, or Pope Paul 2. Or even that of my grandfather who was in Damascus in October, 1918. Old Damascus is not a colourful, exotic film set. There is wonder and mystery there.

My wandering began in the Street Called Straight and took me to Mustafa Ali's gallery in the Jewish quarter where I found the tortoises were not sunning themselves in the tiled courtyard and the resident kitten was not being playful. It was siesta time.

I decided to drop in on the Palestinian artist and writer Mahmoud Shahin in his cosy shop; its walls lined with his colourful, distinctive paintings that have been bought by more and more foreigners since he was featured in a popular guidebook. (In an exercise book, Mahmoud records the number of Australians who have purchased his work.)

I did something I usually feel too reticent to do. I accepted the offer of a cup of tea, tried to let go of the worry of talking and instead paid attention to the traditional Arabic music being played on Mahmoud's CD player; it was gentle and hypnotic. He told me where I could buy maqams of syria: the shop had a "green door" and it was "next to an ancient mosque".  His directions were vague, but he wrote down the music shop's name so people along the way could guide me to it. (Landmarks were what people noted more than street names - and never numbers.)

Mahmoud and I perhaps felt some askward union in the quiet time we shared. I sipped the tea, and he stood over his desk brushing the colour yellow haphazardly but evenly onto sheets of paper which he then placed onto a cleared shelf to dry.  And the music enveloped us.  We both knew ourselves and the world enough to value this moment while not giving it undue consequence. I was very comfortable returning his farewell embrace and kiss on the cheek.

I eventually found the CD shop. The green exterior was indeed green. And like Mahmoud's shop, it was a cubby-house - cosy. Nabil, the young shop assistant with the pony tail was warm, welcoming and helpful. He played tracks from the CDs I had selected and he had recommended while I sat on a stool in a corner.

The two women in the photo entered the shop soon after me and, hearing the CD I'd chosen, suggested I might like Abed Azrie, a Syrian singer living in Paris who, they explained, had been influenced by Sufi music. (Wikipedia informs me that Jeff Buckley was a fan.) The lady on the right (another 'Susan') is a journalist and writes for an Internet site which focuses on women's issues, while her friend is an Arabic language teacher. We exchanged email addresses.  A serendipitous moment.

I don't remember much about the rest of the afternoon except it was the usual long walk home; avoiding the crowded souq by circuiting the Citadel, past the Four Seasons Hotel, my favoured Internet cafe, the U.S. Embassy and the President's neighbourhood. But that evening, I returned with a friend - in a ubiquitous, battered yellow taxi - to Mustafa Ali's gallery to hear some jazz.  The audience sat on white plastic chairs crowded into the courtyard of this restored Arabic house while the singer, Lena Chamamyan, and her band performed from the liwan. Mobile phones and cameras were held high, their flashes incessant. Young foreign students in front of us smoked; some people sipped wine, my former boss from the British Council being one of them.  Like me, he is regularly drawn to Damascus. It was a balmy night, the singer's hair was blown about in the breeze and my hair stood on end as it sometimes does listening to singers in Bennetts Lane.

Tags

Alert Moderator

[Alert Moderator]

Comments

0 comments

Add Comment