le blog raphaelvillatte par : Raphaël

Mosque.

I am an atheist, a godless man. I have no religion and I don't miss it. I am part of the community who says it is no community. As a child, I used to think that I would see religion disappear. Not by my hand, mind you. Time passed, and watching the world and those who walk it, I accepted I was wrong. Neither in my time, nor by my hand. Religion lasts and endures, even without me. I learned to understand what created it, the famous etymology, the bond between all and each other. It didn't explain me the pyres, the martyrs, the tortures, the hatred. But I understood.

I come from a country where, wether you rejoice or regret it, churches are empty. More than 95% of them. Most of them are very beautiful, and they still inspire silence to those who visit them, maybe a remaining strength of its past viguor. No doubt also that the old times architects knew how to build silence. Nowadays churches are battleship skeletons. You can guess the life they used to shelter, and you enjoy the cold wrapping silence when walking through them.

Middle eastern mosques, for many historical, social, religious and political reasons, or mixes of all the former reasons, are well alive, and for many of them, still buzz as old times churches used to do when they were young : in a messy way. 

During the day, you can't miss the Umeyyad mosque. 

Inside, even the believer is a tourist. 

Night left an even deeper impression on me. It's beauty joined the stones, and the stars echoed with children laughs.

So here it is. That's how Damascus felt back in 2010. That and surely much more than that, but the twists and turns of our trip didn't leave us much time to explore. A rugged first impression, no doubt, but an intense and dense life, a life that didn't seem to care much for us, wanderers, witnesses, peepers, exoticists, tourists. After more turns and twists, we came back to Syria, to Aleppo this time. 

Understand me well. I roamed through Iran, twice in two years, two and three weeks. It's few and a lot. Certainly not to make me a specialist, an orientalist, a savant. A good tourist, probably. A traveller. A slacker. Enough time to have it rubbed on me, to forget that I was supposed to come home. Time, no doubt, and atmosphere, help. Atmosphere is humanity. No matter where, in the end, as long as you're having fun. I met happy people in what looked like misery, and desperate rich folks. It's a cliché, but a reality too.

Why talk about Iran when I'm telling you about Syria? Because both countries are geopolitically tied? No. On the leaders' level, the big shots, plotting and scheming, yes, but those guys I didn't meet. I would tell you if I did. On the people's level, people like you and me, the bonds between the two countries are practically invisible. In Iran, nobody ever mentioned Syria, and vice-versa.

So why then? Because my travels to Iran marked my life, my travelling life for sure, but not only. It's simple to summarize : you get out of your hotel, and five steps farther, you're engaged in a conversation. You're being bid welcome, you're being invited, you're being encouraged, you're being advised, you're being defended against the police.

In Syria, I spent little time, I just passed. I saw almost no one. I saw only passer-bys. They watched me pass. In Damascus, you pass. Except for the very young manager of our hostel, a little chattier and funnier. 

Damascenes don't pay much attention to tourists. They're used to them, they live their life. They don't need to get in touch with them, either because it wouldn't be seen with a good eye by the suspicious regime, or for some because they travel all right, and see plenty of strangers in their time. 

No hostility, but no contact. Impression of watching from afar. A vaguely uneasy feeling. 

Whatever you're buying, whatever you're looking for, you'll find it in the souq.

I always have the feeling I'm stealing images. In Syria more than anywhere else. 

It sure isn't the place to get rid of my habit of "shooting in the back"!

You'll find anything, I'm telling you. 

Including a character. The teaman is a pure damascene creature. So famous it's glorified at the entrance of the souq : 

We pursue, and it may come as a surprise, but we turn back and head to the century-old train station : 

In there is a café and a bookstore. You can see the railroad trench. No train comes here anymore. 

And why are we here? For the soccer World Cup. Even if you're not a big soccer fan, the event has its charm, especially when you're on the road. 

In Lebanon, it was THE event. In here, it's hard to find a café with a TV. 100% male atmosphere, unlike Lebanon. 

July 3^rd, 2010.

Damascus.

I remember a micro-bus trip, a wait. One, two, maybe three hours waiting at Charles Hélou Bus station, my knees blocked by the next seat. I remember the hundred plus degrees heat. I remember the driver, a bastard with a dreadful mullet and a dumb cap.

Christophe and Christophe are sitting right next to me, my two friends and road buddies. They're growing impatient. They shouldn't. Just gonna get hot, that's what'll happen. You don't want that.

Later, we'll pass the border checkpoint. But first, the driver stops, and says, go to that change shop, change dollars. I say what? He says yep. I say I got euros, he looks about to cry. Says we can't cross into Syria without dollars. I figured it wasn't the official currency. Yet we drive to the checkpoint, and there all Hell is loose. Funny how the custom agents look cold and relaxed while every traveler tries to look in more hurry than the next, and tries to prove it by shouting and waving his hands. It's a jam anyhow. We stick our hands down in our pockets, just to make sure there's only our hands inside.

The damned driver sends us to pay a visa. He never wanted to understand that we already bought our visa back in Paris. When the custom agent looks at our receipt, he asks, ice in his voice, frowning a Gandalf-size eyebrow : « Why did you pay? You already have visa. » . Then he turns to the driver. More ice. He asks for his papers. The loud, annoying, shady mullet loses his panache right away. He looks at the agent, and he sees cell doors. We can't help but feel avenged.

No pictures from that part of the trip. I guess we were too tense and tired in the van, and for the checkpoint, there's a rule, an explicit one, enforced everywhere : YOU DON'T TAKE PICTURES AT CUSTOMS. And beware of uniforms. 

Later that day, we arrive in Damascus. Coming from Beirut, it's back to school. No more mini-skirts, no more young people driving around, blaring music, no more terraces, no more fun. Just smashing heat. The cop almost runs away, says « Arabyi » and doesn't even look at me when I ask for a direction.

We check in an aging hotel, and head to the Souq. The best we can. Dehydrated, still processing the long trip (long time only, the distance is nothing) from Beirut.

On the way, we find an oasis : an orange shop.

One of the two Chris. No doubt this shot of Vitamins will save him. 

There, damascenes stop, drink, chat and go. When in Damascus, do as the Damascenes. 

Note: At the time, I was street-photographing a lot from the chest, without looking. I thought it smart to shoot without being noticed. Hoping for the happy incident. Also, I was too shy. Shy photographers will shoot you in the back, too. 

PS : Only men here. At that point, it doesn't shock us. It will.