Damascus

Yalla, habibi

There is no God but Allah and Mohammed is his prophet - declare all honourable Muslims, and on second thoughts even for us, who are neither honourable nor Muslims, the above thesis is a subject for consideration. Despite European and Christian prejudices, Mohammed cannot have intended anything bad for mankind. In his inspired moments he allowed polygamy for men, and for the modern enlightened woman the wearing of jeans, multicoloured head scarves and chadors with 'Super Star' labels. Making cleanliness the basic requirement for ceremonial prayer, Allah legitimised the passion for social bathing, and for similar reasons he revived perfume making, which by now has developed into an institution of care relating to basic hygiene.

Thus in Damascus - keeping to the prophet's will and with the enticingly nauseating power of scents in mind - you can become shrouded in a cloud of patchouli at every step. The hotel room is fragrant, an air filled with sweet scent hovers around the taxi driver, the lottery ticket seller and the public conveniences in the street. In the souqs and bazaars the aroma of curry, coriander and peppermint blends with the scent of orange-blossom and some of the characteristic local sweets cannot be imagined without a taste of rose water.

In the same way do Syrians follow the prophetic message of peaceful coexistence and the notion that "the guest always brings light into the house". With self restraint unusual for Arabs, they greet the sometimes hesitant visitor: velkam in Damascus. Welcome, we are pleased to have you here, habibi! We try to win your confidence but do not force the 'best quality' roasted nuts, sweets, shawls and carpets on you. We don't grasp your trousers begging to let us polish your shoes or weigh you on the bathroom scales. We offer you tea and let you go up to the terrace of our house for you to see the splendid view from there, but we will harshly blow the horn should you try to fearlessly brave the road in front of our car - whether there is a zebra crossing or not! Damascus residents are unbeatable when it comes to blowing the horn. It is inexplicable when, why and for whom they blow it - in a traffic jam, when there isn't one, before, during and after indicating, indignantly, happily, for long, briefly or intermittently, they blow the horn. It is actually even a sign of friendship, acceptance and hospitality when a bike ringing its bell sharply butts you when dawdling in a narrow street or a barrowman pulling his vehicle against the traffic flow tries to force you to avoid him by crying out "yalla, yalla, habibi!" - "come on, come on, my friend, just get out of my way!"

Photo? Photo?

There a bit, a bit more, that's it! Goldfish sellers in the street, begging children, youth hanging around in parks, but even girls and women covered from head to toe smile and are pleased to have a camera turned on them. They step in front, pose in an embrace, giggle, and if you don't give in they use body language and demand directly - Photo! Photo! A father proudly explains to his one or two-year-old son that the picture is the first step to world fame and shop owners promoting themselves as occasional models pose as stars among the brains, mutton heads and piles of chickpeas at the market. There are some who chance a daring step and after a little hesitation draw out their mobile. They do not just dare to click, but venture a bit nearer and ask, but only the man, whether they, perhaps they may also take a photograph ... of us. Then after the nod of agreement they turn the camera to me and with pleasure indicate the 'booty' exclusively with me captured. Of course, they do not actually show it to me. So much about everyone being equal among Muslims.

Black and white, yes and no

Bar the average clothing of a thoroughly religious woman or man, nothing is explicitly black or white. Damascus, for example, shines in at least three basic colours. The yellow taxi, like the New York yellow Cab, make unknown, is the nicest. According to our informants, the Geely ALJ 300 model, the well-known enthusiasm for which on the part of every Arab taxi driver cannot be restrained, does not really exist on the market. Only in Damascus are a few thousand of them running. But watch out, a Syrian taxi driver is a strange individual. He knows the city like the palm of his hand, but drives like a madman and you do well to take a few lessons in Arabic before telling him your destination, since he is sensitive even to tiny differences. In vain can you proudly throw at him some choice Arabic asking to be taken to the Cassa. Perplexed, he scratches his head and can only grasp with some help in his native tongue that you actually want to go to the Cassa, i.e. the Christian quarter. Then there is the colour green - the neon light of waste bins and mosques which transform the Syrian capital in the evening with large lights apparently giving you the go-ahead. The embodiment of manly elegance and order is the colour beige, which is only given some playfulness by the orange stripe on the wooden baton of the traffic policeman. Swaying it in the air like a conductor, he directs both cars and pedestrians with equal enthusiasm. Beyond these is the plethora of colour found in a bazaar: the crimson, ochre and brick red of spices, the bright purple, pink and orange of rugs, and the gold of mosques and minarets, which shows well even in black and white.

Gold is what glitters

It happens that your own prejudices prove to be your undoing and you cannot imagine in an Arab country that Christians and Muslims can get on in peace. And if you insist, even Jews. Damascus is not only a very good example of peaceful coexistence, it is also part of biblical history. That on Friday, the Muslim holy day, the shops of the Christian quarter are crowded with Arabs in headscarves is one thing. Yet, if you get into the Medina, the old town surrounded by a wall suddenly begins to recall history, connecting the Bible and the Koran: Paul converted from Saul was rescued from Damascus in a basket let down by the town wall; legend has it that the decapitated head of John the Baptist is kept in Saint John's Mausoleum, the prayer room of Omajjad Mosque regarded as the fourth largest in the world; the north-eastern of the three gracious minarets of the great mosque is known as the Jesus minaret. Note that, although ecumenism and ticket sales are great incentives, it can happen that on a Friday non Muslims are not even allowed near Saint John's head. Since on the holy day only the followers of the one God, Allah, can have a chance to enjoy the protection of the holy place and the almighty at the time of the Last Judgement, which in all probability will happen on a Friday. Naturally, if Allah is willing, or as is said in the prophet's language: Insallah.

Orsolya Csejtei