Dreams of Damascus

As war has once again returned to Syria I find myself often thinking of those days past, when I called that oldest of cities, Damascus, home. In particular I think of all the times I spent in the Great Omayyad Mosque. It should be said that I am not a religious man. I have never prayed. I do not even know how to do it, although I have seen it done a thousand times. It was not spiritual solace I sought; it was something else, another kind of comfort from woes less celestial in nature. Above all I used to sit out in the courtyard and watch. Children playing. Couples resting from the hustle and bustle of the souq. Families having picnics. The playfulness of this, the fourth holiest place in all of Islam, always struck a chord with me. No somber reverence of the Churches of Europe here. Noise, laughter, stolen glances. This was a kind of religious sanctuary that to me exemplified the best of the East in general and Syria in particular. The very architecture of the building reflected this relaxed approach to the divine; a mélange of all the faiths that had once walked this land. Although its likely origin was as a temple to the Aramean god Hadad, it was the Romans that turned it into one of the largest structures of the ancient world: a great temple to Jupiter. Those powerful roman pillars still dominate the temple, together its exact sense of symmetry reflecting the Roman obsession with order and power, and the connection between them. When Rome became Christian, cosmological power grew less from an organized universe as much as from sacred symbols and icons. And so the head of John the Baptist found its final resting place here, where it still remains, blessing the city with its aura of sanctity. The blessing would prove short lived, however, and the Islamic conquest would see the city and temple returned to its Semitic ancestry. Al Walid, the sixth Caliph, set about making it the most impressive structure of his large domain, bringing craftsmen from all across the newly conquered lands, from Morocco in the West to India in the East. All left their mark. Combining Roman symmetry and austerity with Persian love of sophistication and abstraction, to whimsical results. Like Islam itself it parts took from all the territories conquered and molded them together into something new. Something in the process of defining itself. While later Islamic periods would see clearly defined architectural styles flourish, as beautiful as they are predictable, the Omayyad Mosque still stands today a tribute to the power of idiosyncrasy. Here, within its walls I would lay remembering the times when Islam was yet open and inclusive, and crisp clear air and fresh winds blew through Syria.