Barbara Walters chats with Forward Syria
Swaying between art and seduction
Discussing monetary policy with the man in charge
Where the earth screams in horror
11/11/2010 - Issue 45
Where the earth screams in horror
Your calves won't thank you. But a visit to the site of man's downfall is rich and rewarding...if not a little morbid.
On the top of the Mount Kassioun's second, eastern peak, is a small and lonely mosque. Inside that small and lonely mosque is a cave. Inside the cave is a very heavy rock. A rock that has a very bloody history.
From central Damascus, our taxi driver stops where the steep incline begins and shouts out to the teenage driver of a passing pickup – an elaborately decorated Toyota 4.x4’s narrow enough to continue up the mountain. The driver – on his vegetable drop off route, motions for us to climb on the tray.
Soon we are ricketing along a steep incline, winding through the back streets of Muhajrin and Ruq-ned-dine. The houses are grouped closer here, the streets too narrow for regular cars. Washing hangs from windows and from electrical wires strung haphazardly across the cobbles streets. The blaring horns of Damascus traffic sinks below us giving way to the specific voices, doorway conversations and the shout of a children’s football game.
Eventually the road reaches a gradient threshold making even expert driving impossible. The driver helps us from the tray and motions with his fingers that we walk from here.
‘’Up up, up’’ he says, pointing to the peak where a green-blue dome is just visible. That’s where we are headed.
As the last of the mud brick houses the mountain opens up before us and our path becomes clear. A blue handrail zigzags stark against the sepia rock face for what looks like at least a kilometer.
We begin the uneven climb; a small step with the left foot and a lunge with the right, the steps too long for a comfortable momentum. As we round the first bend, we are already panting and sweating. Conversation stops in a combination of dread and determination to reach the distant white building on the peak.
Up, up, up, Damascus is seen from a new angle. The view is spectacular. Square grids of rooftops look maze-like, growing satellite dishes like cacti, and diving swallows chirp and circle around us.
We collapse when we reach the mosque and for ten minutes sit watching the skyline when a young man, caretaker and grandson of the man who built the mosque, shows us inside.
The mosque is built close to the site known as Maqam Aarbain "The Stop of the Forty", allegedly the place where the first murder was committed it is also one of only three places where it is said that all forty prophets revered by all monotheistic faiths have prayed.
At Magarat Ad-Dam, "The Cave of the Blood", the legend goes, that Cain, the first son of Adam, did smite his brother Abel in a competitive rage, causing the earth to split open in a scream of horror.
The caretaker will point out the stone tongue of the earth's gaping mouth, frozen in open dreadfulness.
The cave itself is divided into two parts: the hall of worship and the smaller cave where you can press your hand into the imprint of that of the archangel Gabriel, who held up the collapsing mountain to carry Abel's body from the cave to its nearby resting place.
From the cave ceiling, the mountain still weeps "tears", which some believe heal ocular diseases.
To really get a sense of the gruesome crime, visitors are invited to pick up the death stone, to feel the density of a stone used to crush the skull of a man.
How much is legend and how much is truth, as they say, in the eye of the beholder. But this is not a place for skepticism. It's a place to take from and build on your own set of beliefs, or simply enjoy the complexity of others.
As the caretaker tells us: "I have come up here every day for at least a couple of hours for the last 20 years."
"To pray?" I inquire
"No," he laughs, "This is where I like to practice Tai-chi."
