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Tag: Damascus

The Window Cleaner

I am sat in a cafe in Brighton watching a window-cleaner wash down a dirty shop front. He has my complete attention, I watch his every wipe, each delicate stroke caressing the shop front, his vigorous scrubbing and mopping before finally rinsing down and brushing the street of any excess water. It is an art form and he is the artist.

Cleaning has become my obsession (along with cooking) whilst I am lost between films.

I sip on the Caffè macchiato in front of me, it is a short espresso with a dash of hot milk on top. I stare out of the window and take in the sun, my mind drifts to Damascus and the fantastic Costa coffee macchiato I first tasted there… why is it so much better than this one here in Brighton I ask myself?

But apprehension about my next trip is never far away, and I do anything to take my mind off it, opening too many wine bottles at home or propping up the local Weatherspoons bar or cooking curries and, of course, cleaning up.

I must go jogging. The thought reminds me of Dubai and a film I didn’t make. Was it the thing to do… To walk away?

In Dubai I was jogging everyday to try and escape the depression of living in hell.

But now, as another year has passed and I have nothing to show for it, I start to wonder if I should have stuck it out in Dubai. Part of me worries that there is no story in Syria, I mean a big story like there clearly would have been in Dubai.

Now that Nizam has set himself free to live his life without my camera recording his every move I am searching for a new soul-buddy, for a new obsession, for a new love.

The shop across the road is shining, its beauty lifts my day. The artist stands proud, wiping his brow and brushes, the shop owner brings his wife and daughter to view the finished work, everyone is smiling, everyone is happy.

I finish my coffee and head for the station, but as I walk I cannot stop myself looking over my shoulder again and again unable to take my eyes off the wonderful work of art which is shining magnificently in the midday Brighton sun.

-18 in Oslo

The misery around me is snow and ice. I slip with my heavy bag, why is no one else slipping? I’m clearly the newcomer here, my first time in temperatures of -18. “Welcome to Norway, Sean my dear” – It’s great to hear Nizam’s voice again even if it is only on my answerphone – but it is impossible to comprehend how he can tolerate this cold. How did the ‘Road to Damascus’ lead us here?

I’m freezing. My ears worst, then my nose. My nose runs a little bit, and then it freezes on some nose hair. A brave painful tug removes the tiny snot ridden icicle. A homeless guy sits staring at me. How can he sit there in this weather?

I continue delicately making my way down a dirty public staircase. Is this the clean Norway life Nizam told me about? I spot a film of oil that makes beautiful colours down the dirty stairs, oil can’t freeze I tell myself, then it dawns on me that this is another oil rich nation I have found myself in, just like Iraq, Iraqi’s always blame the oil for the war – ‘We had to share it with the American’s’ – but here in Norway it’s peaceful. Why don’t they have to share their oil with the Americans? Maybe Norway will be invaded next? I doubt it; Norway is far too cold for American GI’s.

With a tiny population of only 5 million Norway is one of richest countries in the world. I am always fascinated where the oil money goes and how it reaches the people. The oil money goes to provide better social services I am told, that is why immigrants want to come here they say. People will always follow the money I reply, it is the natural way of things.

I pass some prostitutes standing in the freezing cold outside of my hostel, I refuse to imagine how can they have sex in this weather, as I climb the stairs again and disappear into my room to wait for Nizam.

The Damascus conversion

High up on the mountainside we are charmed by the panoramic view of Damascus city by night. This is the most popular tourist stop for bus-loads of tourists and for those Syrians wealthy enough to afford the prices. I’m getting some great landscape shots when a SMS arrives on my phone, it is from Nizam’s wife, she can’t contact him directly since he lost his own phone so she is texting me. It is in Norwegian, I tell him to read it to me, the message says “Let us talk tonight on Skype at 11pm”.

Nizam is thinking deeply about his life in Norway and his love for the magnificent illuminated city that shimmers below… his distant home. I can see his mind hard at work as he looks down into the streets where he spent his childhood, floods of memories; a life that was lost when his mother took him and her family away. “I like Norway and have no regrets about going there. I learned a lot but now I feel something is missing”. Later that night I leave Nizam locked in an intense dialogue with his wife.

In the morning we drink Arabic coffee under the sun, “I think I had my Damascus conversion” Nizam suddenly announces, “It was your blog that did it St Sean, it opened up a new dialogue with my wife, I talked about her and my daughter moving back here and she was open to the idea. I love this country I really want to make a go for it here with my family. We could spend the winter here and the great summers in Norway”.

The hotel attendant joins us. “What are you filming for?” Nizam tells him of our road to Damascus, explaining how he has been a disciple to St Sean’s journey. The attendant holds up his hands and says “St Sean I want to be one of your disciples too, I will look after Damascus when you are gone”. Thank you I say, you have my blessing. “But what is the message?” he asks. “The message is there is no message”, I tell him. He looks bemused for a moment, smiles and agrees. “Ok” he says, “There is no message”.

How easy it is to get a following in this ancient biblical land I think to myself.

Success

I was woken by the call for prayer from a nearby mosque. A rattling old speaker and croaking voice. Why can’t they turn it down a bit? Still, at least there was no snoring from Nizam last night.

We sit up from our business class flat car seat luxury on yet another dusty Turkish roadside. I look over to the smelly WC, I need a pee. I leave Nizam playing with his Arabic stubble in the mirror.

After a buffet breakfast of cheeses salads and watermelon we hit the road again, our aim is to be in Syria and a long awaited hummus lunch by noon today. Nizam is looking more rugged by the hour. I must get my beard trimmed he remarks as we hurtle down the road past families on horse and carts, and others huddled together on motorbikes and side-cars.

I’d noticed some intense phone calls last night between Nizam and some females. I never inquired further. Today he is talking about his father though and is worrying that he may end up like him.

Much of Nizam’s confusion lies between being raised in Syria and Libya until the age of 20 and then leaving for Norway when his mum left his father. Since then he has married a Norwegian girl and has a child. Today he sees much of the Arabic world through confused Western eyes, “There is very little emphasis on the family any more and I worry I’m following my father into failed marriage”, he laments. “It isn’t so easy to divorce here but it is in Norway. I missed out on knowing key things about my father and that’s why I came to him. But however much I try asking him he always wriggles out of giving any answers. I don’t want to make the same mistakes as him but sometimes I feel that I am.”

We take a step closer to each other today on our personal roads to Damascus. Almost without knowing it we are sharing life’s dilemmas, I wonder if such tender masculinity graced St Paul on his road centuries before. I know very little about Nizam but feel comfortable to share a part of myself with him. Last night I said we were like brothers from different parts of the world on a similar path. He laughed and said people reading your blog will think we’re more like lovers.

Last night I was anxious and Nizam could tell. Being away from my family and the pressure it imposed on them and me sometimes gets too much, I’d had fraught calls from home and become depressed. The mood swings were broken with beer and wine stops. I wondered if St Paul had felt this kind of anxiety.

In these moments I feel far from the St Sean I’d love to be. I feel I am selfish, that my life, well at least this part of my life, is all about me, and nobody else. Nizam is a supportive disciple though, still playing with his beard as we drive along, the hot air gushing through the open windows, he says, “Who are we if we are not happy? There are some things we have to do”.

The border finally approaches, and after 2 nights sleeping rough in Turkey we are almost there. We pass through the Turkish control, and finally we are hearing Arabic sounds. I smile sweetly at the cigarette smoking Syrian inspecting my passport. I can almost smell the hummus waiting for me.

Suddenly he looks up and points to an Israeli baggage sticker on the back of my passport and before I know it we are being escorted out of Syria and back into Turkey. Bastard. I feel so stupid. I never checked my passport for stickers… It’s a 3 day drive back to Istanbul. Does the road to Damascus end here, at the border?

Fortunately Nizam befriends one of the border guards who tells us to take the sticker off and try again at the next crossing. It adds an hour and half to our 4 day trip, but spirits are up and we soldier on. At the next crossing they say they do not issue visas. I am asked to explain the reasons for my visit and my occupation. The mere mention of TV sounds alarm bells and Nizam does some quick and clever talking. The boss here is warming to us and wants to help, he hands Nizam a cigarette and rings his boss. 3 hours later we pass through the checkpoint and celebrate with a non-alcoholic beer from the fist shop we find.

“Welcome back to Syria St Sean we’ve almost made it now”, I smell the air and feel the land and smile at Nizam. Now we are really on the road to Damascus.

On the road

Nizam woke in a shock. I was drinking from a bottle of water that suddenly made a loud crack. “Good morning darling! How are you today”, he smiled in a cute Arabic way. Before I could respond he took off to find some coffee, I grunted after him.

The bastard had kept me awake half the night with his Arab style snoring. I would reach over and tickle his Arabic stubble, he would sit up momentarily then fall back to sleep. 6 hours earlier we’d pulled off the road into a dark parking-lot following a one hour run-around at the Bulgarian and Turkish border. At 02:30 am it was time to sleep. We had the last night-cap from a bottle of bad Bulgarian wine and quick puff on a broken cigar. I joked to Nizam that our cars flat-bed seats were like airline ‘business class’ but for free. He boringly pointed out that the difference was that we were parked at the side of a road and not going anywhere.

We were losing precious hours. The plan was for 40 winks but 6 hours later I’m watching the sun rise over beautiful fields of sunflowers, an inspiring start to our late day.

Nizam returns with 2 cups of undrinkable ‘so-called’ Nescafe. “Darling you do look beautiful today.” He smiles and hands me the muddy coffee and pokes at an empty cigarette box. I yawn scrubbing bottled drinking water into my yoghurt stained trousers; an accident from last nights meal at midnight on the motorway. “Let’s hit the road we have 1000 kilometres to drive to the Syrian border.” 3 hours later I am looking for Istanbul but we seem to have passed it. “Fuck I wanted to see it.” It was 20 years since I was last here. We seemed to have missed it. We carry on the long road to Damascus.

Nizam looks at me thoughtfully. “So what is it that is drawing you back to Damascus Sean?” Before I can answer he continues his train of thought.. “You know I feel like I’m one of your disciples, I’m one of your followers on this mission, I’ve pissed off 3 women to be you on this journey and I don’t know why. It felt important to be with you. I believe in you even if you doubt yourself at times. I’m sure St Paul had similar doubts on his travels. I feel like St Nizam following St Sean on his journey of discovery on the road to Damascus.”

I suddenly feel a huge responsibility for him. He cancelled a Bulgarian holiday planned for next Tuesday with his wife and daughter to be with me. I say I hope we find something, someone, that we can call a film to make this painful venture worthwhile. Nizam smiles. “No it is already worthwhile we are together on this adventure and we will find whatever we find. But I feel a force pulling you to Damascus like St Paul had all those centuries ago.” I ask him what he thinks it is that is drawing me back. Nizam pauses, “I think it is the hummus. You haven’t stopped talking about it since your first trip. Shit that sounds shallow”. “No not at all food is great” I reply, “It is life and life is precious”. I wonder to myself if part of St Paul’s mission was also for the Damascus hummus.

We are low on supplies and pull up at a service station, Nizam returns with a bottle of wine and a packet of fags, it feels like a modern scene from the bible…