My House in Damascus

An Inside View of the Syrian Crisis

Diana Darke

• Publisher: Haus Publishing
• Year: 2014
• Print ISBN: 9781908323644
• eBook ISBN: 9781908323651
• Topic: History
• Subtopic: Social Science Biographies
• Index: History

How did Syria's revolution reach this its current boiling point? And what's next? This updated edition of My House in Damascus offers an insider's view on these questions and the darker recesses of Syria's history, politics, and society.

Diana Darke, a fluent Arabic speaker who moved to Damascus in 2004 after decades of regular visits, details how the Assad regime, and its relationship to the people, differs from the regimes in Egypt, Tunisia, and Libya—and why it was thus always less likely to collapse quickly, even in the face of widespread unrest and violence. Through the author's firsthand experiences of buying and restoring a house in the old city of Damascus, which she later offered as a sanctuary to friends, Darke presents a clear picture of the realities of life on the ground and what hope there is for Syria's future. Including additional material on topics like the advance of the Islamic State, as well as a new epilogue describing the current turmoil surrounding her house and the refugees she tried to help, this edition of My House in Damascus powerfully documents the human cost of the ongoing civil war.

1

Worlds of Conflict and Harmony

The pleasure of food and drink lasts an hour, of sleep a day, of women a month, but of a building, a lifetime.

Arab proverb

Syria’s war began as an unarmed revolution, a series of peaceful demonstrations. The very first took place in Damascus outside the Umayyad Mosque on Tuesday, 15 March 2011. Clutching my passport, I ran from my house to find it.

That mosque, the spiritual heart of the Old City, was sacred to the Arameans as the Temple of Haddad, to the Romans as the Temple of Jupiter and to the Christians as the Cathedral of John the Baptist. It is, like every mosque in Syria, not just a place you go to pray, but also a timeless space for living, a home from home, somewhere to meet people, have a picnic, enjoy a nap. Children play on the soft carpets inside, or chase each other round the flagstoned courtyard. Forever busy with local families and shopkeepers from the adjacent souks, it still somehow serves as a refuge, a place of calm and serenity. Generations mingle together there. No one is excluded, visitors of all races, nationalities and religions are welcomed.

The Arab Spring had begun in mid-December 2010, with both Tunisia’s and Egypt’s regimes falling to spontaneous popular uprisings within weeks of each other in early 2011. Jordan, Algeria, Yemen, Libya, Bahrain and even Oman had seen demonstrations against their governments. All eyes were now on Syria. Listed 127th out of 178 on the World Corruption Index (alongside Lebanon, but performing better than Libya, Yemen, Iran and Russia), it had the classic revolution formula, as perceived by the analysts: a heavily youth-dominated population, unemployment officially at 10 per cent but probably closer to 25 per cent in the under-25 age group, a rich elite and a massively poor underclass. Surely Syria would not be immune?

That first demonstration was over so quickly, I could not get there in time. A peaceful march of just a dozen or so young men, chanting slogans of reform and freedom, it was an experiment that gauged the regime’s reaction, and they dispersed spontaneously before the police arrived. A week earlier, just yards from the Umayyad Mosque, an elderly shopkeeper had been beaten up by police, prompting an angry riot by fellow shopkeepers. So nervous was the regime about provoking unrest that the Interior Minister had come down in person to discuss their grievances. Friends laughed and told me how all police officers had then received instructions not to upset people, and for a short and glorious interlude, traffic police waved drivers on at red lights instead of fining them. ‘The mukhabarat (secret police) keep calling at my shop every hour to check everything is ok,’ one friend sneered, tossing his head angrily. ‘They are very nervous. I am glad. At last they have something to keep them busy.’

Three days later, in Deraa, in the south of the country near the Jordanian border, the instructions were ignored, and the authorities over-reacted to anti-regime graffiti scribbled on school walls by teenagers. The parents, marching in protest at their children’s detention, were shot at by regime security forces. Some were killed. The president, Bashar al-Assad, went to Deraa himself to try to smooth things over. He even sent an official delegation to offer condolences to the families and sacked the Deraa governor, but it was too late. Syria’s revolution had begun, and by late March regime tanks rolled into Deraa, imagining they could crush the protests with a show of force. As the protests escalated, so did the violence of their response. Their calculation – or gross miscalculation – was always the same. The course of this revolution was set.

Syria is no stranger to revolutions. Under the French Mandate, when Syria’s artificial borders had first been drawn up by the vagaries of British and French foreign policy after World War One, Syrians rose up against their French masters in the Great revolt of 1925. The French response, like Bashar’s, was unequivocal. They unleashed an artillery bombardment that flattened a whole quarter of the Old City of Damascus – a quarter now known simply as al-Hariqa, ‘the Conflagration’. The French did not stop there. They killed thousands, strung up corpses and held public executions in the central Marjeh Square to serve as a warning to the rebels. They fuelled sectarian divisions in a ‘divide and rule’ policy whilst their propaganda made them out to be the noble guarantors of peace. It worked. After two years of fighting, the rebellion was crushed and the French went on to control Syria for another 20 years, until independence was finally achieved in 1946.

Bashar followed the French example, calling the peaceful protesters ‘sectarian extremists’ and ‘foreign terrorists’ who wanted to destroy the Syrian motherland. ‘They needed to be taught a firm lesson,’ ran the regime narrative on Syrian state TV, otherwise all hell would break loose, a fanatical Islamist government would take over and Syria’s precious minorities would be wiped out. Assad with his powerful security apparatus and tightly controlled armed forces declared himself the only possible saviour of Syria’s future. Was it possible that Bashar, like the French, might succeed?

How different it had all been when the first Muslim armies entered Damascus in 635. After a six-month siege, they had negotiated terms with the Christian inhabitants, even agreeing to share their place of worship at the heart of the city. For the next 70 years the Cathedral of St John doubled as mosque to the Muslim residents, with both religions using the same entrance on the south side. The pious inscription in Greek above the door, now blockedup and heavily disguised by an electricity sub-station, reads: ‘Thy Kingdom, O Christ, is an everlasting Kingdom, and Thy Dominion endureth throughout all generations.’

As the Muslim population grew, more space was needed, so the new rulers negotiated again with the Christians, giving them sites for four smaller churches in return, including the current Greek Orthodox Patriarchate. The two religions learnt to live together and still today there are some 20 mosques and 13 churches within the walled Old City. On Sunday mornings church bells ring out together with the call to prayer in that effortless blend of cultures which has long been Syria’s hallmark, predating the Assad regime by centuries.

I have been back to Syria six times since those first demonstrations and watched as a seemingly unstoppable civil war has engulfed the country. The last time I sat in the courtyard of the Umayyad Mosque in summer 2012 the atmosphere was unchanged, timeless as ever, the soft evening light glowing on the marble flagstones. There was no fear on peoples’ faces. Maybe whatever tension they felt was dispelled as soon as they crossed the mosque’s threshold. But how would it be now that Damascus has witnessed a chemical attack, large-scale massacres, bombings by warplanes and helicopter gunships, now that the death toll is spiralling beyond the comprehensible? Clashes between regime forces and rebels across the city suburbs in the north, south, east and west are displacing thousands from their homes, and driving thousands more to flee across the borders into neighbouring Turkey, Jordan, Lebanon and Iraq. Can the Old City be spared?

Seven years earlier, on a research trip to Syria, the story began unexpectedly when I found an open door. It must have been fate, or serendipity, as the concept of fixed visiting hours, I was warned, did not apply to these magnificent Ottoman palaces tucked away in the winding alleyways of Old Damascus. They sounded so unlikely: forgotten relics of a bygone age, decaying quietly within the ancient Roman walls.

So here I lingered on the threshold of a palace. Retreating from the prying eyes of the street in a zigzag pattern, the entry-corridor keeps the world of the courtyard sacred and serene. Then, in a sudden moment of transition, it leads from the unlit passageway into the dazzling sunlight of the courtyard, into another world. It was my first such moment.

Blinking rapidly to adjust to the brightness, my senses were overwhelmed. The warmth of the February sun was welcome after the chilly shade of the street. Winter in Damascus is colder than you might imagine – it even snows from time to time. I felt embraced, enfolded by the warm space, and knew instinctively that the whole purpose of the courtyard house was to protect, to shield the people inside from the world outside, and to give them a space of total tranquillity. Where to look first? The sheer beauty of the old stones, their soft hues of golden limestone, the deep pinkish red of the local marble, the fierce contrast with the harsh black volcanic basalt that ran in alternating bands round the courtyard walls. It took me by surprise. The elaborate stone patterns continued in the courtyard floor, gently polished by the wear of centuries. In the centre was a pale marble fountain, bahra in Arabic, literally ‘little sea’. The sound of the clear water splashing from the bronze dragon-heads drew me irresistibly to its octagonal rim. Beneath the surface, a pair of carefree terrapins glided in the sparkling pool. All round the edge of the courtyard were orange trees, vines, bougainvillea and delicate climbers like jasmine, their intense colours and scents mingling intoxicatingly on the breeze. It was a kind of paradise. The architects of such a space can only have had heavenly visions in mind. ‘Surely the God-fearing shall be among gardens and fountains,’ says the Quran (51:15). Transfixed by the fountain, I do not know how long I stood there. Something in my face must have mirrored these emotions. Maybe my expression conveyed disorientation.

‘Do you need help?’

Re-entering the earthly world, I saw a young Syrian approaching from the other side of the fountain. His face was friendly and open. I could have just declined, whereupon he would certainly have withdrawn and let me be. Syrians are too dignified to hassle, but they will offer help if they think you need it. The course of life can change in just such a moment, in taking an opportunity or letting it pass, a kairos moment. For whatever reason, I answered: ‘Yes … thank you. Do you know anything about this place?’

He looked pleased, and introduced himself as Bassim, an architect working on restoration projects in the Old City. I was astonished. What restoration projects? Where? He smiled and explained what work he had done on the house I had just entered, the Bait Siba‘i, or the House of the Siba‘i family, dating from the 17th and 18th centuries. It had been one of the earliest restoration projects in the city, and at one point it had served as the German Consulate. He described how this first courtyard, closest to the street, was the salamlik, the Ottoman term for the men’s reception area, where male guests were entertained. Keeping this area ready at all times to receive unannounced male visitors meant that family life could go on as normal in the rest of the house.

He led me into a further courtyard, reached by another dog-leg corridor. This, he clarified, was the haramlik, where the women and children lived and where no male visitors ever penetrated unless they were direct family members. Of course, I immediately recognised the word from harem, with all its connotations, but Bassim explained that it simply meant the inviolate area.

Off the haramlik was yet another courtyard, smaller this time and more modest, where the servants of the household lived and where the kitchens were housed. It was called the khadamlik. I knew the terms from earlier visits to the Topkapi Palace in Istanbul, but here, with the smaller scale of the palace, it seemed to me that each courtyard had a strict hierarchy, and curiously, the biggest and most elaborate of them, the one where the most decorative effort was concentrated, was the haramlik. Wealthy families, Bassim explained, would have had palaces such as this, consisting of a trio of courtyards, totally blocked off from outside eyes, with just one entrance from the street, always into the male area.

His English was good, so I did not volunteer that I spoke Arabic. Pointing out some of the architectural features, he explained about the iwan, the huge covered alcove that always faced north onto the courtyard, designed as the coolest spot to sit in summer, since the sun would never shine directly into it. This was where the family would sit, in the shade, on cushions round the edge, the breeze from the courtyard and the coolness from the fountain wafting over them. I could visualise them as he spoke, in their coloured robes and bare feet, like romanticised paintings I had seen of such courtyards, part of the Orientalist tradition. One such painting I recalled from the Tate was The Courtyard of the Coptic Patriarch’s House in Cairo, by John Frederick Lewis, dated 1864, in which the head of the household sat while his womenfolk and servants engaged in domestic chores, surrounded by camels, goats, ducks and pigeons in a careless and chaotic harmony round the central pool. Clearly there was nothing specifically Muslim about this lifestyle – it was simply the way all wealthier people had lived, irrespective of their religion.

Bassim noted the level of my interest, and became more expansive. He explained that the rooms on either side of the iwan were the main indoor reception areas with ceilings six metres high, perfectly adapted to the climate. Windows on two levels, looking onto the iwan itself, provided natural air-conditioning in hot summers, catching any breezes during the day and trapping any cooler air at night. Each room was a self-contained unit, its door leading directly onto the courtyard, and there was no access between the rooms, so that many sections of the same family could live in privacy. On the ground floor there were about eight rooms, and in Ottoman times, Bassim elaborated, three generations of one family would have shared this space, maybe some 20 to 30 people in all. Little did I know how soon, during the coming revolution, things would revert to such a system from necessity and how my own future house would play its part.

Having finished the tour of the ground floor, he led me up a flight of steps and I was amazed at how the temperature of the rooms on the first floor was a good five degrees Centigrade warmer. In winter, he said, the family would move upstairs to benefit from the warmth, as the sun beating on the flat mud-brick roofs meant that they reached an ambient temperature much more quickly than the downstairs rooms. The upstairs rooms were also smaller, with lower ceilings. These simple but harmonious design techniques struck me as wonderfully pragmatic – yet functionality at no point gave way to dullness. On the contrary, here was something I had not come across before – functionality combined with an exceptional degree of beauty and style.

What I did not know then was that these courtyard houses were the culmination, through centuries of trial and error since they were first conceived in ancient Mesopotamia around 2,500 BC, of a design that neared perfection. Their microclimates and internal thermal environments have recently been scientifically measured and found to provide a variety of rooms and spaces designed to be lived in during different seasons and at different times of day – the ultimate eco-house.

Bassim had put a small kettle on a kerosene stove, and while it was boiling, he scampered agilely downstairs and returned a few moments later with a handful of shiny greenery plucked from the courtyard trees. ‘Naranj leaves,’ he said, putting them in the kettle, ‘they give a special flavour.’

We sipped at the fragrant tea from our tiny elegantly-shaped glasses, and even though he didn’t ask, I felt the need to explain myself. ‘The reason I’m so interested in these houses,’ I began, ‘is because I’m researching a new guide to Syria, for a British publisher.’ He seemed to find this entirely normal, and led me into a small neighbouring room fitted out with a trio of computers and extensive maps on the walls. One was a gigantic map of the Old City in intricate detail, appearing to show every single building within the Roman walls. The writing was all in Arabic.

‘This is where the other restoration projects are,’ he said, and put his finger on several blackened blobs on the map. I expressed surprise at how organised this all seemed to be, and he told me about the Mudiriyyat Dimashq al-Qadima, the Directorate of Old Damascus. It was a kind of Historic Buildings Council, he said, whose job it was to specialise in looking after the old buildings of the city, intra muros, ‘within the walls’, as the academics called it. He must have read my thoughts, as he then said: ‘You realise that you can buy property here if you are interested. The government does not have the money to save all these houses. There are so many of them, neglected, abandoned, falling down, but what can we do? Our budget only allows us to save about 300 maximum. The rest will be lost.’

I felt my heart racing. ‘But surely,’ I said, convinced I had misunderstood, ‘you don’t mean that I, as a foreigner, can just come along and buy a chunk of a UNESCO World Heritage site?’ How insane of me even to think such a thing.

‘Why yes, of course,’ said Bassim straightforwardly, ‘it is possible. Why not?’

‘Because it must be mamnou.’ It was the first Arabic word I had used up until that point in our conversation, but Bassim appeared not to notice. The power of the word mamnou in the Arabic language is considerable. Its three Arabic root consonants, as well as meaning to forbid or prohibit in a secular context, also mean to declare something impossible or out of the question. It has a finality to it that goes way beyond anything conveyed by the English...

Table of contents

• Cover Page
• Title Page
• Copyright
• Dedication
• Contents
• Preface
• 1. Worlds of Conflict and Harmony
• 2. Unescorted
• 3. Escorted
• 4. Nobody’s Poodle
• 5. Into the Unknown
• 6. The Dead Auntie
• 7. Insurance Against Fate?
• 8. Revelations
• 9. Friends and Brides
• 10. The Donkey Between Two Carrots
• 11. The Law and Educational Corruption
• 12. Completion and the Caretaker
• 13. No return
• 14. Monasteries and Desperation
• 15. Thugs and Tamerlane
• 16. The Triumph of Asabiyya
• 17. Future Imperfect and Perfect
• 18. Into the Lion’s Den
• 19. The Way Forward
• Acknowledgements
• Glossary
• Cast of Characters
• A Note on the Choice of Charity