In 331 BC, Alexander the Great pulled off one of the most stunning victories in military history when he defeated the Persian military at Gaugamela. Dramatically outnumbered, Alexander used his tactical brilliance to outmaneuver the Persians and bring down the empire. The exact location of the battle, though, has never been fully determined. Join me as I drive through northern Iraq, using modern scholarship and primary sources in search of Gaugamela.
posted on December 9th, 2010
posted on December 5th, 2010
Erbil is a poster child for urban sprawl. As much of Iraq languishes, the capital of Kurdistan is experiencing a period of growth that shows no sign of abating.
In many ways, Erbil, called Hawler by the locals, has the feel of a typical Middle Eastern city: it’s low-rise, the buildings are mostly an unremarkable brown, and traffic jams are a way of life. The city is mostly flat, though an imposing ancient fortress sits atop a dramatic hill in downtown. When you look at a map, it’s clear that the fortress is the heart of the city, with all of the roads radiating out from it.
At the base of Erbil’s citadel is a bustling covered bazaar. Its narrow alleys wind through stalls of clothes, household goods, and gold. Several efforts on my part to do some Christmas shopping there have come up short. Most of the goods are made in China, not Iraq.
Throughout Erbil, there are literally hundreds of road signs pointing to other major cities in Iraq (mostly Baghdad, Mosul, and Kirkuk). It has pleased and amused me to no end to come around a corner on a small back street and see signs pointing me towards some of the country’s hairiest spots.
The Kurds have been remarkably hospitable. On my first day in Erbil, I set off into the bazaar, with no bearings, needing to do a few errands. At each stop, I conducted my business and asked for directions to my next location. And in each case, the storekeeper showed me the way, sometimes leaving his post for 5 minutes to walk me a couple blocks.
My last stop was the book market, a set of narrow stalls in downtown that boasted mostly Arabic literature. I had just finished reading my last book, though, and headed there in the hopes of finding some new reading material.
I quickly found a junky novel and then got into a conversation with Ballen, a 20-year-old med student in Erbil. Ballen, like many Kurds, believes strongly in an independent Kurdistan. It was the first of many conversations I’d have with Kurds on the subject.
“We have Kurdish people in Iraq, Iran, Syria, and Turkey,” he said. “All we want is to have our own country—Kurdistan. We should fight for this.”
Ballen went on to explain how since the start of the war, Iraqi Arabs have fled to the security of Kurdistan. By his telling, the Kurds have extended tremendous hospitality, despite the oppression they suffered under Saddam Hussein and the hostility they continue to face from the rest of the country.
“We welcome them here when they come to Kurdistan,” he said.
“And if you went to Baghdad—“ I began…
“We’d be beheaded,” Ballen laughed.
For all that the Kurds don’t care for the Arabs, if George W. Bush ever needs a new retirement home, he should consider Erbil. The Kurds I’ve spoken to are, by and large, quick to heap praise on Bush. After all, Bush started the war that handed the Kurds the closest thing they’ve had to an independent state. One taxi driver today pestered me repeatedly about when Bush would enter politics again. I informed the guy that Bush was done. “At least the Republicans won the election last month,” he said, citing a fact that many Americans don’t even know.
The Kurdish region has created a sort of security cocoon that has kept the territory practically incident free over the past several years, even as the rest of the country has struggled. While most people think of Kurdistan as encapsulating Iraq’s north, the region maintains an odd, curving border that includes cities like Erbil and excludes Mosul, which is actually north of here.
The area has a regional government that has a complex, sometimes strained relationship with Iraq’s central government. Iraq’s President is Jalal Talabani, a Kurd. His photo adorns a fair number of storefronts around Erbil. The President of the Kurdistan Regional Government is Massoud Barzani. His photo, by contrast, is everywhere. Whereas Talabani and most other Kurdish officials wear suits, Barzani wears traditional Kurdish dress, enamoring himself to the local population.
Erbil’s ancient core is surrounded by a city charging head on into the 21st century. Because of the security in this region, foreign investment is pouring in. On the edges of the sprawl are modern malls, amusement parks, nightclubs, and housing compounds. Visit these places, and it’s hard to imagine the timeless bazaar just a couple miles away.
On one recent day, I decided to visit one of the triumphs of modern Erbil: the Majidi Mall. Walking through the front doors, I might have been anywhere in the States. Adidas and Nike both have stores here. High-end clothing outlets line the halls of the three-storey building. A tremendous supermarket in the basement boasts both U.S. and Iraqi goods. The top floor houses an arcade with bumper cars and bowling, a 6D movie theater (whatever that is), a chocolate fountain, and signs for Pizza Hut and Burger King, which are moving in soon.
The day I went, the mall was packed with Iraqis, passing their weekend in the halls of luxury. Confident I couldn’t afford much there, I took a taxi back to the bazaar for a lunch of shawerma and sweet potatoes.
Written by: Theodore May
posted on December 2nd, 2010
(Photo: The view from my window. Sadly, the left most portion of the sign is obscured. It points to Baghdad and Kirkuk.)
I’ve been in Iraq for just over a day now, so my insights are not going to be profound. Let me start, therefore, with this: the Kurds really have their act together. From the moment my alarm went off yesterday morning in Turkey to the moment I was cruising through the Iraqi countryside? 1 hour and 45 minutes. Pretty impressive.
When I arrived in the Turkish town of Silopi on Tuesday night, I was bombarded with drivers offering to make the run to Iraq with me. It took a good deal of willpower for me to turn them down. I was ready to go, but I figured that you only get to go to Iraq for the first time once, and I was going to do it in the daytime so that I could take it all in.
I settled on a young, reserved driver named Mehmet, who assured me that the crossing was terribly straightforward. I didn’t believe him. First off, Iraq is a country at war, even if the Kurdish region is generally considered safe. Second, Kurdish Iraq’s safety comes, in part, from its rigorous border controls. Third, I knew that the Turkish-Iraqi border had a history of tension because of Kurdish separatist groups.
Mehmet asked me what time I wanted to shove off in the morning. Before I could respond, though, he recommended 6. That frustrated me. I was feeling gung-ho and had been thinking of a ripe, early 7. But I wasn’t going to allow myself to be out enthused on departure time, so I agreed.
At 6 the next morning (after just two and a half hours sleep), I met Mehmet outside. He ushered me to a silver Fiat, and we set off. The car didn’t look very official. But before I could say anything, Mehmet handed me his cross-border driver’s license and showed me his passport, thick with pages of Turkish stamps. He proudly pointed to a day in mid-October, when he’d managed to make 3 border runs in one day.
We drove past 2 miles of trucks, which lined the road in a seemingly endless queue to bring commerce to Iraq. Cars played by a different set of rules, though, and we zoomed on to the border terminal.
The land around us was flat and barren. As we left Silopi, I saw a set of imposing mountains, about 10 miles in the distance. They looked like a natural border, and I guessed correctly that they marked the division between the two countries.
Right in front of the mountains, we reached the crossing point. We joined a line with about 15 other silver Fiats and waited. Mehmet and his buddy, who had joined us for the ride (his name was also Mehmet), jumped out of the car and ran to the front of the line to socialize with their driver friends. One of them ran back every 3 or 4 minutes to pull the car forward 10 feet and prevent any cutters (and there were a few) from getting in front of us.
Once we got to the front of the line and the Turkish officer stamped me out, we crossed a bridge over the Tigris River, which marked the separation between the two countries. I can’t believe I’m in Iraq, I thought, somehow expecting to feel different. Reporting from Iraq is an aspiration for any reporter who has spent his time working in the Middle East and studying Arabic.
On the other side of the bridge, we met a couple of Kurdish Iraqi soldiers, wearing green fatigues and toting machine guns. They took a look at me and waved us through. We then got out of the car and headed into the border office. The officer behind the counter gave me a hearty hello and a big thumbs up when I told him I was American. “5 minutes,” he said, after I handed him my passport. “Sit down and drink tea.”
The tea was delivered to me in short order as I settled into a comfortable leather chair. 5 minutes later, the officer returned my passport and wished me a good stay in Kurdistan. Clockwork.
There were still a few offices we had to visit, but my driver jumped out at each spot, taking our passports in and returning within a few minutes. I had heard that the drivers knew how to handle everything, but the efficiency was beginning to make me feel like a VIP.
At last, Mehmet delivered me to the taxi stand and bid me farewell. I had decided to head onto Erbil, figuring I ought to get the lay of the land in Iraq before I set off to do any hiking. I took a shared taxi with two Turks, and before I knew it, we were on our way.
The drive took over 3 hours, owing largely to the fact that various stretches of the road were under construction, there were lots of stoplights, and we had to navigate several crowded security checkpoints.
I had seen on the map and been told by friends that the main road to Erbil runs right outside Mosul, one of the most dangerous cities in Iraq and one that is not included in the semi-autonomous Kurdish region. When I asked my driver if we were going to pass near Mosul, though, he laughed. “You’re American. Mosul—“ then he made a cutting motion across his throat. Point taken. After following a few signs towards Mosul, though, we soon made a turn away and headed on a different route to Erbil.
The countryside was flat and unremarkable, with the occasional village visible in the distance. By about 11, we had entered the Kurdish region’s most populous city.
All I can say is that if all of my border crossings on this trek had been that efficient, I would have saved myself a lot of headaches.
Written by: Theodore May
posted on November 30th, 2010
Sanliurfa, or “Urfa,” as most Turks call it, is a town stuck between its ancient past and Turkey’s modern boom. Cobbled roads run into well-paved avenues, 5 star hotels sit practically in the shadow of a medieval castle, and nightclubs lie alongside the alleys of the old city.
At the center of it all, though, is the birth site of the Prophet Abraham (Ibrahim, in Arabic), which boasts a park, cave, and several mosques. It’s one of Turkey’s major pilgrimage sites, and I saw a number of out-of-towners visiting, including an Iranian tour group.
In the middle of the park is the main attraction: a fishpond, commemorating God’s intervention when King Nimrod attempted to burn Abraham alive. God turned the fire into water and the coals into fish to save the prophet. Today, the pond is filled with hundreds of carp, which are considered holy. They’re fed throughout the day by visitors, and they somewhat disturbingly swim in droves up to anyone who walks to the water’s edge.
Here are photos from my visit to the fishpond.
Written by: Theodore May
posted on November 28th, 2010
The long walk into the Euphrates River Valley is not an arduous one. It is, after all, downhill.
As the two lane road rolled downward, I knew that the river lay somewhere ahead, judging from the distant mountains marking the other end of the valley. It wasn’t until late afternoon, though, after the sun had already dipped below the horizon, that I laid eyes on the Euphrates. On the other side lay the village of Birecik and the expanse of Mesopotamia.
Birecik is a striking village. Set right on the water, it has only a couple of streets on level earth, before the village rises dramatically onto the hills overlooking the river. Kebab and shawerma stalls line the streets, and a fish markets boast a selection of carp and steelhead.
Above all, though, this tiny town is a magnet for birdwatchers. The main draw? The culturally important, critically endangered, and hideously ugly Northern Bald Ibis.
After crossing the Euphrates, I took the exit ramp off the bridge only to be confronted by a large sculpture of the bird, black feathered with a bald, pink head. Photographs and paintings of the bird adorn buildings and businesses throughout the town.
No, the Bald Ibis is not much to look at, but it draws scores of bird enthusiasts every year, and the bird is culturally ingrained into the fabric of the town. It has come to define Birecik.
The Bald Ibis has long been a revered symbol across the Middle East, from Turkey to Egypt. Even in Gaziantep, a hundred kilometers away, people told me to visit the Kelaynak, as the bird is called in Turkish. Only 40 years ago, though, the Bald Ibis population was on the verge of collapse. Its cliff-side nesting habitat was at risk from the encroaching population of Birecik, and it was killed off in large numbers by hunters during its annual migration through the Arabian Peninsula and Egypt.
When I read about the bird’s migratory habits, though, I worried that I’d hike all the way to Birecik only to find that the Bald Ibis had cashed in its frequent flier miles and headed south.
I soon discovered, however, that the 40 year-old effort to stabilize the population would mean I’d be able to visit the revered birds after all.
The Bald Ibis sanctuary lies about 3 kilometers north of Birecik, along the cliffy eastern bank of the Euphrates. As I learned, conservation efforts mean that the birds are free to breed for six months of the year and are then lured by food into an enclosure shortly before they’d be biologically inclined to migrate south. I arrived in the middle of their captive period, during which they’ve traded the challenge of dodging Arabian hunters for the chill of Turkey in November.
The enclosure is a large mesh tent, set against a cliff, on which the birds were perched when I saw them. The adults sat on the top tier of the cliff, mostly keeping still, while the smaller youngsters bounced from rock to rock, showing off their surprisingly wide wingspans.
I was the only person visiting the enclosure at the time, and I tussled with the security guard who insisted I stay behind a barricade, set far back from the enclosure. This is why my photos are so bad. The guard told me that if I went any closer, I risked frightening the birds and causing them injury as they flew into the side of the enclosure.
There are small populations of the Northern Bald Ibis near Palmyra in Syria and in Morocco. The Birecik population totals 112, up dramatically from the dark days of the 1970s and 80s. Conservationists this year decided to allow 6 of the birds to migrate, and the security guard said he’s keeping fingers crossed for their expected Valentine’s Day return.
Set to the right of the enclosure is the cliff where the birds nest after being freed in the spring. One of the most significant factors contributing to the birds’ demise was that they used to nest on narrow ledges, and the population would lose dozens of eggs every year after the rolled off the edge. Conservationists have now installed numerous wooden birdhouses to help.
The Euphrates basin around Birecik boasts many other bird species of interest to bird watchers. There’s a park in town dedicated to the Pallid Scops Owl, though I was told he’s on winter leave in the south. The security guard showed me numerous photographs of other local species, though the names didn’t mean much to this birding novice.
And that’s how I spent my Thanksgiving. Not with a turkey (although I was in Turkey), but with the beloved Bald Ibis.
Written by: Theodore May
posted on November 26th, 2010
By the time Alexander the Great crossed the Euphrates River, as I did yesterday, he was on a war footing. A two-year march through the Middle East allowed Alexander to secure Greek dominance and supply routes along the eastern Mediterranean. By conquering cities like Byblos, Tyre, Gaza, and Pelusium as he went, Alexander established a solid foothold from which to launch his conquests to the east. This was especially important given continued Persian efforts to recruit allies among the Greek states, which threatened to pressure Alexander from both east and west.
The conquering Macedonian left perhaps his greatest mark in Egypt, where he established the city of Alexandria (one of several dozen he would create in his name), which would grow into a center of trade and learning in the Ptolemaic period.
After meeting with the oracle at Siwa, Alexander became convinced that he was descended from the gods and that the world was his for the taking. So began the long march back to battle with Darius III and his massive army. It’s this march that I’m executing now, albeit with slightly more benign intentions.
My walk has covered the stretch in between Alexander’s two meetings with Darius. At the Battle of Issus, where I began, a scrappy Macedonian force first defeated the seemingly unbeatable Persians by making a direct cavalry charge at Darius’ position in the middle of the Persian line. When the emperor fled, so too did his army.
Rather than chasing Darius, though, Alexander set off on his two-year march through the Middle East. At the same time, Darius returned to Babylon and began amassing a force of incredible proportions. While preparing for battle, though, Darius also attempted to salvage his empire through diplomacy. He sent letters to Alexander, offering him the Persian Empire west of the Euphrates and gold in exchange for a return of Darius’ captured family and peace. When Alexander’s deputy, Parmenio, encouraged Alexander to cut the deal, Alexander famously replied, “So would I, if I were Parmenio. But I am Alexander.”
Alexander turned down the Persian’s offer and began marching back across lands and through cities he had already conquered: Gaza, Tyre, Damascus, Aleppo. By the time he reached a little south of where I am now, he was positioning his military for battle, intent on defeating the Persians and taking Babylon.
The battle would put Alexander’s force, 48,000 strong, against Darius’ army of warriors brought in from lands ranging from Greece to Afghanistan. Alexander was dramatically outnumbered. And, making matters worse, Darius had learned his lesson from Issus and this time positioned himself to fight in an open field, where his numerical advantage would have full impact.
***
Yesterday, by crossing the Euphrates River, I entered Mesopotamia, the cradle of civilization and the heart of what was, in 332 BC, the heart of the Persian Empire.
After walking through the ancient trading town of Aleppo, as Alexander did, I headed north to the Turkish border. The walk between Aleppo and the border took two days, and I hiked along a busy road through farmland.
I had worried about crossing the border because I had overstayed my 15-day visa by about 2 weeks. When I told this to my Aleppan hostel manager 2 days earlier, he had said, “So maybe we’ll be seeing you back for another night!” His implication was that the Syrians wouldn’t let me out.
So, as I’ve done many times on this journey, I approached the border with some apprehension. I always worry about border crossings because any hiccup would mean disaster for an entire portion of this journey.
As it turned out, there was no need to worry. The Syrians gave me a cheerful send off, and I was on my way to Turkey. Only, Turkey is so big that they used their border crossing as a buffer with Syria. It took me 45 minutes to walk from the Syrian side to the final Turkish checkpoint.
From there, I enjoyed a brief walk to the town of Kilis, the capital of a newly formed province by the same name. I spent that evening reveling in the socioeconomic up-step I’d taken by crossing the border. More that one Turk has told me that Istanbul is part of Europe, and the rest of Turkey is in the Middle East. Coming, as I was, from Syria, Kilis might as well have been Paris.
The walk from Kilis to Gaziantep wasn’t particularly beautiful. This area of Turkey seems to consist of rocky, rolling farmland, neither verdant nor arid.
After Gaziantep, I headed east through the city of Nizip. To my good fortune, 2 roads run east out of Gaziantep: a highway and a country road. I kept to the country road and, yesterday, made an 8-kilometer descent into the Euphrates River Valley to the town of Birecik, set dramatically on the river.
I apologize for having fallen a bit behind on chronicling my journey and for cramming so much into one post, but come back tomorrow, when I’ll slow the pace back down and tell you about the bald ibis of Birecik.
Written by: Theodore May
posted on November 23rd, 2010
I’ve been following, with great interest, the debate going on in the U.S. about TSA airport screenings. I’ve read a number of opinions suggesting prescriptions for maintaining security and restoring a bit of privacy to the travel process. Some articles have discussed a move towards the sort of screening that Israel does. So, having gone through Israeli airport security, I thought I’d write again about the experience for you here.
But first, let me attempt to put a frame around this debate.
Israel is, in many ways, the model for safe flying. With the story I’ll recount below, you’ll understand why a person would feel safe boarding an Israeli airplane. It’s important to remember that airport security is a sliding scale. The discussion isn’t about whether we want to stay safe when we travel. It’s about HOW safe we want to be and how much we’re willing to give up in order to achieve that security. On one extreme, we could abolish screenings all together. On the other end, we could mandate that travelers fly in hospital gowns without carry-ons. Since we’re unlikely to do either, today’s discussion is about where on the scale we, as a nation, want to land.
For years, airport screenings have been moving in the direction of greater security (though some would dispute that claim) and less privacy. Put another way, we’ve been slowly moving towards the Israeli model.
The El Al check-in counters are in a corner of Heathrow, giving security wide berth to operate without the hassle of random passersby. When I approached the area this June, for my London to Tel Aviv flight, a security agent met me several yards before I even reached the check-in area. He was Israeli, not British.
He asked to see my passport. I handed it over to him, and he studied it, taking his time over visas from Yemen, Syria, Lebanon, the UAE, etc. It didn’t take him long to escort me to the additional screening line. Now, to remind you, this wasn’t at the standard security checkpoint, this was prior to checking in.
I waited in a line filled with other foreigners, including one visibly annoyed Indian. Others, like the Hasidic Jews, proceeded through check-in normally.
After waiting for 15 minutes, another security agent asked me a couple of questions and quickly escorted me to a back room for further screening. I waited for an hour as my bags were scanned and searched in another room. I was checking my backpack, filled with clothes and book, and carrying on a small duffel with all my electronics.
Eventually, one of the agents appeared (they were all exceedingly professional) and informed me that I wouldn’t be allowed to fly with any carry-on baggage. That’s ridiculous, I protested. The only items that can fly under a plane but not in the passenger cabin are things like knives and liquids. I asked, rhetorically, if they had found any of those in my carry-on.
Once I realized there was no arguing, I explained to the agent that I wasn’t prepared to check all of my electronics (computer, cameras, etc.) and risk them disappearing. I said that I wanted to be able to carry my computer, book, and iPod onboard with me. The rest they could check. Nope, she said. I could have the book and the iPod, but not the computer.
At this point, for fear of missing my flight, I accepted El Al’s terms and sprinted for the gate. I made it through British security in a snap and proceeded to the gate at the end of the terminal. Once there, a security agent again pulled me aside and told me that my backpack wouldn’t be allowed to fly at all. It hadn’t passed explosives screening.
I couldn’t believe it. I had been forced to check my carry-on, and the bag I had intended to check couldn’t fly at all. The bag would be sent to a flight simulator overnight, the agent explained, and would be shipped on to Tel Aviv the following day.
The agent then told me I’d been selected for addition screening. He took me into a private room and ordered me to drop my pants. Determined to get on the damn plane, I did as I was told. I was wanded from head to toe. The man even made sure to pat the elastic of my underwear. My book, iPod, shoes, and belt were all tested for explosives before I was allowed to board.
The really interesting part of the journey, though, came in Tel Aviv—after the flight—where I was put through an intense interview in a private office off the immigration hall. This, I would soon understand, was the part where trained agents are looking for behavioral signs that could indicate a person is lying or scared.
I turned out to be an interview subject worthy of the training manual. I was sweating, fidgeting, turning uncomfortably in my seat, and stumbling over my words. Part of the reason for this was typical American self-righteousness. They’re questioning ME? Part of it was that my computer had been sitting by the baggage carousel for over an hour, and I began to worry that I’d never see it again.
The man and woman in the office began quizzing me. Why did I live in Egypt? Did I speak Arabic? Did I know anyone in Israel? What was my email address? Why had I visited so many Arab countries, while this was only my second visit to Israel?
And then the one that made me mad: Why had I covered the Israel-Hamas war from Gaza? Did I not want to write about what the Israelis were going through? Of course, this called my journalistic integrity into question, and I had to choke back fightin’ words, as they say, especially after one of the agents warned me that lying was an offense worthy of imprisonment.
That’s where the story ends. I got into Israel and had a wonderful hike through the country. My computer bag was waiting for me on the other side of immigration, and my backpack (apparently cleared of explosives) was delivered to me in Tel Aviv the following day.
The two most effective aspects of the security screening were the initial profiling and the post-flight behavioral interview. The profiling at the front end of the flight was not race-based. I’m a white American male. No flags there. I was targeted because of my colorful passport. After the flight, agents zeroed in on my discomfort and nervousness, singling me out as someone who might have something to hide (albeit incorrectly).
This blog is not an endorsement or a condemnation of the Israeli method. It’s just meant to shine a light on a system that is more effective than ours with regard to security, though it comes at the cost of a more invasive screening process. I hope it will add some perspective to our national conversation as we discuss where on the security-privacy scale we want our air travel to fall.
Written by: Theodore May
posted on November 21st, 2010
When it comes to talking politics, Syria’s not the easiest place to be a reporter. Trying to engage Syrians in a political discussion is a little like going on a first date: it’s awkward, punctuated by uncomfortable silences, and notable more for innuendo than any truly satisfying outcome.
Sure, it’s not terribly tough to get the intellectual elite in Damascus to open up over a coffee or an Almaza (Syrians tend to prefer Lebanese beer to their own), but I set off on this expedition more interested in the corn farmers than the engineering majors.
You can probably surmise the reasons that Syrians are reluctant to talk about their own politics. For one, president, strongman, and retired ophthalmologist Bashar al-Assad runs the place with an iron grip. I attended a controversial play in Damascus back in the spring that was less surprising for the Hitler moustaches worn by the actors depicting the Syrian secret police than by the fact that the government and censors allowed the play to run in the first place. This is a country that blocks Facebook, YouTube, Israeli websites, and a handful of blogs, including this one.
Fear aside, there’s just not a lot to talk about, politically. There is no notable opposition movement in the country, and the president seems anything but reform-minded. Domestic politics, therefore, don’t seem all that interesting to the average Syrian. Even in places like Egypt and Gaza—neither of which are known for being politically pluralistic—I chatted about politics frankly and frequently with government boosters and detractors alike. Not so in Syria.
Still, I pushed a bit, trying to get at political issues with anyone I could corner.
In Homs, said to be Syria’s third largest city, I chatted one evening with a nuts vendor. Sitting in front of his manicured mounds of pistachios and almonds, Ahmed admitted to me that the economy in Homs had gone sour.
“In Damascus, Aleppo and even Hama,” he said to me, “there is business. Here, there isn’t any money.”
Seeing an opportunity, I pressed Ahmed on whether the government was to blame for the poor economy.
He sighed and then gave the sort of vague answer I’d come to know well.
“In Syria, nothing changes,” he said, adding nothing more.
In a quiet corner of a café in Hama, a mid-sized city on the Orontes River, I struck up a conversation with a young, unemployed man who had a decent grasp of English.
The man talked for some time about the United States, generally echoing the sentiments of many Syrians, saying that he hoped relations between the two countries would improve.
At one point he turned to me and asked, “Are you a Republican or a Democrat?”
“What are your politics?” I asked, employing the artful dodge of a reporter.
“Oh, I’m a Democrat,” he said. “I love Hussein Obama.”
“I meant, what are you in Syrian politics?”
“Ah, I’m, well…” Then he began laughing, gently at first, and then hysterically, either as though he’d never been asked the question or couldn’t believe someone would dare ask it at all.
“This is Syria,” he said, after a while, through the cracks of laughter. And nothing more.
Syrians will open up on a number of subjects: Israel, the U.S., the Iraq war, Islam, family, etc. And while there is an opening to talk domestic politics in Syria, it’s not a very big one.
Written by: Theodore May
posted on November 18th, 2010
This week, Muslims celebrated Eid el-Adha, marking one of the most important dates on the Islamic calendar. The holiday marks Abraham/Ibrahim’s almost-sacrifice of his son, Ishmael/Ismail. It’s a day so important to Muslims that many refer to Adha as Eid el-Kabir, meaning “the Great Feast.”
The first Eid el-Adha I spent in the Muslim world came in December, 2008. I was in Cairo, and I woke up particularly early on that weekend day to take in the morning prayer. I went with a friend to the Moustafa Mahmoud Mosque, an impressive structure set just off one of Cairo’s broadest boulevards. The road was closed, though there were only a smattering of people about, making me wonder if friends had overblown their descriptions of Eid el-Adha’s morning prayer.
It didn’t take long, though, before the masses of worshippers started to arrive. And they came by the thousands. At first, my friend and I wandered the streets, weaving throughout the assembled crowd. As more people arrived, though, we found ourselves increasingly hemmed in, until we were relegated to a planter on the mosque’s north end.
The morning had the feeling of one part prayer meeting, one part festival. Vendors worked the crowds, selling popcorn and inflatable toys. Others handed out cellophane prayer rugs for those who hadn’t brought their own. Worshippers milled about, greeting friends with the familiar two kiss (or very familiar three kiss) hellos.
When the muezzin signaled it was time, though, the many thousands clogging the streets in front of the mosque drew silent and prayed together in striking unison.
One friend warned me that after the prayer, the streets would “literally run with blood.” It turns out he wasn’t far off. In keeping with tradition, many Muslims slaughter an animal on the morning of Eid el-Adha in celebration of the sheep Abraham killed after God spared his son.
As I walked home that morning after watching the prayer, I saw livestock in various states of butchery throughout the streets. Some had just been killed, others were being hacked apart by butchers, while some had already been turned into neat cuts of meat. The meat from many of these animals would be divided up into portions, some for the owners and the rest to feed the poor.
The slaughter aspect of the holiday seems to consume the whole city. At one point, several days after the Eid, I stopped on the street to wrap up a phone conversation. My nose quickly picked up an unbearable stench, at which point I realized I was standing next to two discarded sheep heads, leftovers from the slaughter a few days before.
This week, I took in the Eid in the quiet, conservative, central Syrian city of Hama. I didn’t get up for the dawn prayer, as I did in 2008, but I strolled the quiet streets shortly thereafter. The city was quiet. People had returned home after praying, and Hama felt like a ghost town. As I passed one covered alley, I saw an elderly butcher, his galabaya stained with blood, hacking away at a pair of sheep carcasses with a cleaver. Down the way, a few kids played in the street, begging me to take their picture as I passed.
Of course, by late afternoon, home time was finished and the crowds emerged, taking to the streets in celebration of the long weekend. The religious side of the day had given way to the universal tradition of celebrating time off from work or school. The streets throughout Syria’s urban centers were, and remain, jammed with revelers. Corn vendors seem to occupy every corner, competing only with sweets-sellers and knock-off watch merchants.
I’ll conclude with the two rules I’ve learned from Eid el-Adha:
- Don’t wear sandals out on the day of the holiday unless you like the feeling of sheep slaughter in between your toes.
- Don’t be in a hurry in the evenings. When it seems that an entire city has poured onto the streets, the “going” is much of the fun.
Written by: Theodore May
posted on November 14th, 2010
It’s been some time since I’ve taken the opportunity to update you, my loyal readers, on where this ragtag effort of mine to hike across the Middle East stands. And on the eve of my 7-month anniversary on the trail, I thought this might be a good time.
To date, I have walked my way across 6 countries and territories, two of them twice! I’ve begged my way across borders, navigated Egyptian deserts in the height of summer, talked my way past more militaries and militias than I ought to admit, and drunk more tea than an average person would (or should) in a lifetime. I’ve got holes in every sock (yes, literally) I own, hiking boots with no treads, a backpack with broken zippers and jury rigged straps, and all this warm weather gear that’s beginning to seem useless in November! Straight razor shaves have become a regular part of life, kilometers have replaced miles in my lexicon, and I’m looking forward to the day that I don’t get any more emails from friends asking: Where are you?
As I traipsed down the trail today, I began laughing to myself, realizing that I’m enjoying every part of this expedition—the hiking, the writing, the photography, etc.—more today than I did in southern Turkey on April 15, when I set off. All you have to do is admire the photo above to understand why. These waterwheels in Hama represented just another Saturday in the Middle East.
Despite the many pleasures of life on the trail, the end of the road is lurking on the horizon.
So here’s where we stand.
I’m in central Syria now, making tracks for the Turkish border because my 15-day visa expired 8 days ago. And I can tell you from personal experience, you don’t want to mess with the Syrian military.
An aside: When I was first planning this trip, the two biggest logistical considerations were sketching a rough timetable for the trip and figuring out what gear to bring. It continues to amaze me how I could get the timetable so right and the gear so wrong. I’ve stayed very loyal to the timeframe I spelled out (even though I had no prior hiking experience that would inform my planning), and at the same time brought loads of useless gear that did nothing but slow me down.
So, with confidence in my timetable, I can tell you that I aim to hit the Turkish border by the end of this coming week. From there, I’ll be brushing back up on my Turkish language skills (at this moment, I only remember the word for “water”) and hiking for 10-12 days along Turkey’s southern border with Syria.
I should reach the Turkey-Iraq border in early December. At that point, I’ll wrap up my hike and tackle the last couple of weeks by car/plane/helicopter/etc.
First, I’ll drive into Kurdish Iraq and report from there for a few days. Following my visit to the north, I’ll head to Baghdad (by plane) and then drive south for a visit to Babylon. When I was working on a name for this project, the GlobalPost editorial team warned me that if I put Babylon in the title, I’d actually have to make it there. To me, that sounded like good incentive. At last, Babylon seems almost within reach.
I’ll wrap up my trip to Iraq with a several-day embed with U.S. troops in the country, reporting and blogging from our newest forgotten warzone.
And with any luck, I’ll make it home just in time for Christmas.
Written by: Theodore May
