... We are walking through the town of Quneitra. It is freezing cold and it is raining. Our guide is showing us around the ravaged and decrepit husks that were once houses, shops, and flats. He speaks very good English. We picked him up at the army checkpoint at the beginning of the village. It was not by choice. We amble along a road past a mosque riddled with bullet-holes and fractured by shell-fire. The houses on either side of it are not looking much better. Plaster is rent in huge chunks from what looks like a wide barrelled automatic
weapon. I try not to imagine the effect it would have on soft, human tissue. I try very hard. Our guide takes us north past a police check-point. He asks us to put our cameras away whilst we pass the guard. I am carrying Merryl's as mine was stolen this morning. I never get to file a police report for it in Syria; although I will try several times. Both Merryl and I have a flu-like virus. We have both taken some heavy cold and flu tablets but are still shivering nonetheless; I am not sure if it is entirely due to the cold. We are beginning to realise our guide is not with us for education purposes: his role appears to be one of a custodian. "Please, do not walk this way," he says to us and gestures toward a road on our right. "Up here, toward the hospital." There is no birdsong here. Everything is deathly quiet; enhanced even more by the mist hanging everywhere. Danse macabre seems to seep from the out of the fog. The houses are like mausoleums. There is no glass in the windows. We are all reduced to reverent silence. A UN building looms up ahead, wreathed in barbwire and complimented by a watch-tower on the north-side. As we approach the hospital our guide inclines his head: "they used it for target practice." There does not appear to be much of it left...Evening 1st December
We met Rachel and her friends for dinner in the Beautiful Elissa restaurant in Bab-Touma again. We really didn't mind an excuse to eat there as the food is great. We got a bit lost going through the old city. But we made it eventually. After the meal we headed up to the other end of Straight Street with her and her friends to watch a contemporary dance performance by two of Natalie's Iraqii friends. It was in a Theatre just outside of the Citadel. The performance was called Sins of the Mother. It was, as far as I could perceive, a lament for the war in Iraq. The pain the people had been through, and an cathartic expression for the betrayal and hopelessness many Iraqiis felt. I have been to some dubious modern dance performances before, so I was a tiny bit skeptical. This blew me away. It was amazingly done, and the message and structure of the performance was expressed very well through the medium of dance, music, and lighting. They performers are planning on taking the show to Holland. Maybe they'll reach further. If you hear of them I recommend you check it out. Afterwards. We walked another of Rachel's friends, Barbara, home. She kept getting lost in the old city. I don't blame her. I did several times myself.
The next morning we got up and decided to head to the village of Quneitra. This was the focal point between the 1967 war between Israel and Syria. The area surrounding the town is the Golan Heights. It has been over 30 years since a shot has been fired, but the place remains a ghost-town. We had to obtain passes to reach the place which we had obtained the day before. I got up to discover that I had come down with some dodgy viral infection. However I didn't want to miss this so I grabbed some flu tablets and wolfed them down. Merryl came down with the same virus that day. I also had my camera stolen. So I was in a fine mood! Before we went to Quneitra we decided to take Natalie's advice and go to the War Panorama. This is one amazing piece of Syrian propaganda located just outside of central Damascus. It is worth seeing just for the quality of innacurate information if nothing else. We rocked up to this massive edifice gleaming brightly like a Chesire cats' grin. The car park is full of decommissioned military equipment. Fully working, gleaming, Syrian/Russian planes, tanks, and amoured cars on one side; gnarled, melted, and twisted American/Israeli paraphernalia on the other.
...The theatre is packed. The music comes from all around of us. It is a complete discord. A wailing, intrusive sound that pierces my ear-drums. I feel invaded like I want to shut it out. It rises and falls in an non-uniform way; a clanking, wailing, wave. I want to reach out and try and fix it. On the stage, there are two males dancers sitting adjacent to each other under bright red, almost erotic, lights. The atmosphere is not erotic though, it is ugly and painful. Their movements hitherto have been painful and sore in expression. They sit facing the audience, at random intervals they turn to look at each other: one dancer is a mask of happiness, the other a sneer of malevolence. Neither one gets to see each other's face...
The inside of the building is even more... interesting. It was built in collaboration with North Korea. They also supplied artists to paint the magnificent works that adorn the walls inside. The levels are split into different sections. The first section is full of paintings depicting periods of peace, that the Syrians helped achieve through the ages, with different civilizations. Pictures showing peace treaties with the Egyptians; to the Palymyrenes; to the Romans; to the Crusaders. There is a clear message on these walls. We don't start wars, we finish them. We were then taken upstairs to watch a.. mmmm.. video. We had to sit with a bunch of 8 year-old kids and take in a wonderful bit of subjective footage of the six day war. I can't believe they were feeding this stuff to their kids. It
was basically a bunch of spliced film reels showing Syria as spanking the Israeli's arses and staunching the threat of Zionism - as they put it - into Syria. They forgot to mention they didn't exactly win. From this great bit of fiction we were lead up to the panorama itself. This a rotundum in the roof of the building with a 360 degree painting. You can sit on a fully rotating platform and take in every bit of this amazing, if slightly subjective, vista. The main beef I had with this is the same one I did with commando novels as a kid. It always irked me that the enemy was shown as a slightly feral human being: a snarling look, weasily eyes and a swarthy face (hang-on am I describing myself here?); and in every scene these wascawwy Isrealis are seen to be deserting their posts, getting shot, and generally running away. Aren't they just rawscawwy, kids? It was all good cheesy, propaganda, and it was interesting to glean how the masses are being educated here.
was basically a bunch of spliced film reels showing Syria as spanking the Israeli's arses and staunching the threat of Zionism - as they put it - into Syria. They forgot to mention they didn't exactly win. From this great bit of fiction we were lead up to the panorama itself. This a rotundum in the roof of the building with a 360 degree painting. You can sit on a fully rotating platform and take in every bit of this amazing, if slightly subjective, vista. The main beef I had with this is the same one I did with commando novels as a kid. It always irked me that the enemy was shown as a slightly feral human being: a snarling look, weasily eyes and a swarthy face (hang-on am I describing myself here?); and in every scene these wascawwy Isrealis are seen to be deserting their posts, getting shot, and generally running away. Aren't they just rawscawwy, kids? It was all good cheesy, propaganda, and it was interesting to glean how the masses are being educated here.... Ammar and I are chatting outside of the Eastern Temple gate, beside the Ummayad Mosque. Marcus, Merryl, and Per, are walking behind me. It is early evening and the c
ity is bustling. "In Baghdad now, it is not good to be a Sunni," He tells me. I ask him why not. "Saddam was a Sunni, now Shiite militia are in control. They kept coming to me everyday, asking if I was a Sunni. It is not safe to live in my area now." He goes on to tell me he saw people looting in Baghdad and corpses in the streets. He tells me the police caught a gang of men in a car in southern Iraq. They were shooting people randomly in the streets. The men arrested turned out to be disguised American soldiers: this did not make the news.
"Was the invasion a good thing for Iraq," I ask.
"No." He replies,
"Will things get better do you think?" I further enquire, "maybe in five years?" We walk down to Restaurant Ummayad where we are to eat our meal and to watch the Sufi dancers this evening.
"I do not think so," he says. Throughout our conversation he is glancing around furtively"I am glad I am able to talk to you with this." I look at him carefully. He has been stuck away, alone, along time with dark thoughts heavy on his shoulders. I realise I have no idea how to even begin to comprehend how he feels.
"Me too." I reply...
ity is bustling. "In Baghdad now, it is not good to be a Sunni," He tells me. I ask him why not. "Saddam was a Sunni, now Shiite militia are in control. They kept coming to me everyday, asking if I was a Sunni. It is not safe to live in my area now." He goes on to tell me he saw people looting in Baghdad and corpses in the streets. He tells me the police caught a gang of men in a car in southern Iraq. They were shooting people randomly in the streets. The men arrested turned out to be disguised American soldiers: this did not make the news."Was the invasion a good thing for Iraq," I ask.
"No." He replies,
"Will things get better do you think?" I further enquire, "maybe in five years?" We walk down to Restaurant Ummayad where we are to eat our meal and to watch the Sufi dancers this evening.
"I do not think so," he says. Throughout our conversation he is glancing around furtively"I am glad I am able to talk to you with this." I look at him carefully. He has been stuck away, alone, along time with dark thoughts heavy on his shoulders. I realise I have no idea how to even begin to comprehend how he feels.
"Me too." I reply...
It took quite while to get to Quneitra and by the time we had got there, I had realised a) our camera had gone, and b) I was really, really ill. The tablets had started to kick in though and I could at least walk around. We got a service to a village about 10km outside of the town and then negotiated a taxi there and back. The whole town is a leftover from the six day war between Syria and Israel for ownership of the Golan Heights. It is now a museum. A reminder of what used to be here - and was lost.
We reach a checkpoint, just before Quneitra, and we were assigned a guide. He was more of guard; although he showed us around, he did not ask for money at the end. He took us around the war-torn remains of this town. Still virtually untouched since the Israelis withdrew in 1973. A lonely UN building stood in the middle of the town. Barbwire and fences surrounding it. We walked up to the remains of the hospital, which was decimated by shell-fire and then, subsequently used for target practice afterwards. The inside was pulped.
...Merryl and I are Christmas shopping in Straight Street. It is getting late and night is falling. We are tired and our arms are laden with bags full of shopping, however we are enjoying ourselves tremendously. We have been haggling and bartering and have some great presents. People are climbing up and down makeshift ramps, in and out of alleys, and shops. Some of the ramps are doors from the shops themselves. We strike off the street and clamber up a mud verge toward a back-street, we are looking for some Kaffiyres. A woman is trying to lower her pram down the mud verge. People are spilling past her. A young teen-age boy helps Merryl up the slope. She turns to thank him "Shukran." She says. He tells her he loves her. I start to laugh: A Casanova in the making...
He wasn't the most talkative of people. To be honest there wasn't much to talk about. Silence hung in the air, like something sacrosanct; none of us felt like speaking much. We walked down past a house with washing hanging outside on the upstairs' balcony. We asked him to whom it belonged. He told us there is a restaurant here.
'How many people are living in this town?' we enquired.
'five.' He replied.
Our taxi dropped us off back in the nearby town and we got a service into Damascus. I tried to report my camera in the police station but is was pretty much impossible to get a police report. I think I'll wait until I get to Jordan. We headed back to the El-Haremain hotel, and the virus claimed us.
We reach a checkpoint, just before Quneitra, and we were assigned a guide. He was more of guard; although he showed us around, he did not ask for money at the end. He took us around the war-torn remains of this town. Still virtually untouched since the Israelis withdrew in 1973. A lonely UN building stood in the middle of the town. Barbwire and fences surrounding it. We walked up to the remains of the hospital, which was decimated by shell-fire and then, subsequently used for target practice afterwards. The inside was pulped.
...Merryl and I are Christmas shopping in Straight Street. It is getting late and night is falling. We are tired and our arms are laden with bags full of shopping, however we are enjoying ourselves tremendously. We have been haggling and bartering and have some great presents. People are climbing up and down makeshift ramps, in and out of alleys, and shops. Some of the ramps are doors from the shops themselves. We strike off the street and clamber up a mud verge toward a back-street, we are looking for some Kaffiyres. A woman is trying to lower her pram down the mud verge. People are spilling past her. A young teen-age boy helps Merryl up the slope. She turns to thank him "Shukran." She says. He tells her he loves her. I start to laugh: A Casanova in the making...
He wasn't the most talkative of people. To be honest there wasn't much to talk about. Silence hung in the air, like something sacrosanct; none of us felt like speaking much. We walked down past a house with washing hanging outside on the upstairs' balcony. We asked him to whom it belonged. He told us there is a restaurant here.
'How many people are living in this town?' we enquired.
'five.' He replied.
Our taxi dropped us off back in the nearby town and we got a service into Damascus. I tried to report my camera in the police station but is was pretty much impossible to get a police report. I think I'll wait until I get to Jordan. We headed back to the El-Haremain hotel, and the virus claimed us.
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