The Victory of 1973

Who won the 1973 October War? Why did Syria and Egypt attack Israel on the holiest day on the Jewish calendar? What did they want?


If you do not know the answer to any of these questions, then do not expect to find answers at the Syrian October War Panorama. Like a similar structure in Cairo, the panorama is a memorial disguised as a museum that purports to tell the story of the 1973 war through captured Israeli tanks and bombastic oil paintings and sculpture. The most curious part of the story is that it does not even try very hard to explain away the less than glorious bits of the fighting. That is, much attention is paid to Syria's successes in the days after launching a surprise attack on Israel. But nothing is said about the second half of the fighting, the bitter tank battles and daring counter-offensives that left the Syrians desperate for a cease-fire with Israeli guns in view of Damascus.

Having visited the Egyptian October War Panorama during my visit to Cairo this past January, I was curious to see what the Syrians would do with their own memorial museum. Both panoramas turned out to be very similar. The reason has nothing to do with the onetime allies and most times bitter rivals sharing a similar interpretation of the 1973 war. Instead it has everything to do with the fact that the same North Korean artisans designed both memorials. Apparently North Korea has some sort of monopoly on creating grandiose memorials that liberally interpret past wars. I suppose they have a lot of practice. Too bad no one ever visits North Korea to see the originals for themselves.


The panorama in Syria starts out with a line of Israeli and Syrian tanks and rockets facing each other as if the fighting just ended yesterday. All the Israel equipment, of course, is destroyed while the Syrian weapons sparkle. The best touch in the outdoor lineup is the inclusion of the Soviet shuttle that took a Syrian cosmonaut into orbit in the 1980s. As if the broken English instructions emblazoned on the outside of the space vehicle were not enough, the entire shuttle is housed within a Korean pagoda!


Inside the main hall I was treated to a ridiculously over the top documentary and three rooms that use vast oil paintings to celebrate Bashar Assad's military prowess in the 1973 war. The first room consists of four large canvases (all painted by North Koreans), each one showing another grand victory from the Syrian-Arab peoples past. After seeing past conquerors like the Umayyad caliph Al-Walid and Saladin, the paintings culminate with a heroic depiction of Hafez al-Assad directing his troops to victory in the Golan Heights.


This room is only preparation for the top floor where the entire room is painted and sculptured to create a panoramic 3-D visualization of the Battle of Kuneitra during the 1973 War. Visitors sit at the center of the room while their chair slowly spins in a circle. The military guide that led me around was quick to point out that the artwork is only a work of the imagination as the real battle in Kuneitra was nothing like what is depicted. He was less sure what message is being communicated to Syrian visitors--including the schoolchildren that visit every year--when such feats of the imagination have to be used in depicting their country's great military "victory."

All that Glitters is not Gold

A friend in Beijing once described to me how all experiences fit into three categories. The best category, according to her reckoning, are those activities one suffers through at the time yet comes to treasure in retrospect. Perhaps that is how I should understand the halfway point of my summer in Syria, when bed bugs and food poisoning came together to leave me suffering in the stifling heat for two miserable days. Until they struck, everything I had encountered in Syria had come edged in gold. My classes, the weather, the food, my newfound friends...everything impressed me. And then I spent two days in a world of retched pain and when I recovered, nothing was the same. Syria still amazes me. But the glitter is gone.

Guns & Roses

Syria, I wrote to my cousin, will be a terrific place for me to contemplate my decision to serve in the Israeli army for the next two years. Save for the need to keep my Judaism a closely guarded secret, I could not have picked a more ideal police state to consider whether I am really ready to enlist.

My commitment remains unshaken. When it did weaken, however, it was not because I found Syrians so gracious and hospitable. Truth be told, I expected no less. The times I found myself questioning my decision to give the next two years to the Israeli army came when young Syrians would share with me the lengths they go to avoid serving in the Syrian army. All Syrian males, except for only children, are required to enlist for two years. And all Syrians, or at least the dozens of guys I spoke with over the summer, have nothing but absolute distaste for the army. Soldiers are rarely granted home leave and their training seems to mostly consist of a series of demoralizing exercises. Or as one Syrian told me, "the two years serve one purpose: making Syrian guys into lifelong alcoholics."

With uniform antipathy for serving in the army (even the army guide that escorted me around the military's memorial to the 1973 October War was dismissive of serving in the Syrian army), Syrians only differed in explaining to me the unique measures they had adopted in order to evade the army. One had obtained dual citizenship in Jordan (thereby invalidating his ability to enlist) through a combination of bribes and family marriages. Another found a doctor who provided him with the drugs that convinced the military board he was medically unfit to serve. Others first deferred their service with university and then fled to the Gulf to earn enough money so they could avoid enlisting once and for all. Paying off the government seems to be the most straightforward way of avoiding the army. The financial option explains why a military officer told me that the army is nothing like what it was in the 1970s. Three decades ago, he insisted, men were eager to die in defense of their country. "Today," the officer explain, "only the poor and those without education are foolish or desperate enough to embrace the army."

My discussion with Syrians about the Syria army naturally led them to inquire how conscription works in other countries. America, I told them, had enough of conscription due to the student movement and the fallout from the Vietnam War. A Danish friend of mine explained that in his country matters work a little differently. He was selected through a lottery to serve as a sentry outside the Queen's palace in Copenhagen. Quite the cushy post, though not tempting enough as he simply told the military he was going to university instead.

I did not have the chance to speak to any Lebanese about their country's army. And so I left only with what I saw. And from appearances alone, the Syrian and Lebanese armies could not be more different. The Syrian army is still driving around in Soviet tanks from the 1970s. And many of their soldiers can be seen in t-shirts and jeans because the one uniform they are issued either does not fit or is too ragged to wear. The Lebanese army, meanwhile, are dressed as if they just raided a North Face factory. The reality is that their spiffy uniforms--and even shinier looking guns and tanks--reflect the millions of dollars of equipment the West has donated to Lebanon. The idea seems to be that a strong army is Lebanon's best hope against the ethnic militias that could return the country to the dark days of the Lebanese Civil War. I am curious how effective this strategy works in practice, as it seems to be the go to move in countries across the Middle East.

General of the Stamp

When I was in Cairo in January 2009, my desire to make a lighting visit to Israel required me to enter the Mogamma, the very heart of darkness for taking care of visa procedures in the Arab world. The very name is intimidating: Mogamma. And the stories told of what awaits the intrepid visitor inside the walls of the brutish concrete behemoth are even more daunting. Imagine drowning in a bureaucratic swarm of stamps, sweat and boiling tea, with waves of poorly payed government clerks robbing the visitor of his final dignity.

Perhaps I was lucky. Or perhaps the terrible Wizard of Oz was always simply an old man hiding behind a curtain. Because my foray into the Mogamma to extend my Egyptian visa was so seamless, that for a time I was convinced that bureaucratic Egypt is a sheep in lion’s clothing.

Fast forward to Monday June 8. My fifteen day Syrian visa was about to expire and so I was forced to enter the Syrian heart of darkness to extend my stay. This time around there was no brooding Stalinist relic. But the chaotic innards at the Syrian Immigration Ministry rivaled anything cooked up at the Mogamma. The office was only near to bursting the morning of my visit. And I had a friend by my side that made sure we had all the necessary paperwork in hand.

Nevertheless we still had to bump and grind through a flood of Iraqi refugees to get to the first official. After looking at our papers, he informed us we needed to go outside and get a stamp. So we slipped out with no idea where to find this stamp. Lo and behold, an old man in street clothes immediately tugged on my shoulder, waved a pile of stamps before my eyes, and sold me one while explaining that he is the ministry’s official stamp provider. Eh, right.

Back into the grind, stamp in hand. Again I push my way up to the desk. Now the officer looks and is satisfied. But instead of extending my visa, he scribbles something in Arabic and hands it to me with a nod toward an office down the hall.

So I am back in the hallway, waving the note and shouting for advice to every mustached official in view. A hand points to a non-descript office. But when I barge in, the furnishings are almost luxe. Sitting at the desk is a two-star general. Above his lip curls an impressive mustache. And in his hand he bears an even more impressive stamp. The general takes my note, the mustache signals its approval and slam goes the stamp. Then the general of the stamp signs my passport with a flourish. And with a twitch from his mustache, signals that I am done and free to explore his dear Syria for fifteen more days.

Balloting by the Sea

Sheikhs jet to Beirut for the nightlife, Israelis walk out of the waves after the terrorists, and backpackers motor in from the Syrian border when they want a break from chasing the ghost of Lawrence of Arabia across the Arab world. But for Andre and I, two SAIS students to the core, the lure was politics. And D-Day was Sunday June 7 when polling booths on the mountains and by the sea would witness a rarity in the Arab world: a no-holds barred election to decide Lebanon’s political future for only the second time since Syria’s hasty exist in 2005.

Or at least politics is why I thought we were in Beirut for the weekend. My traveling buddy turned out to be more interested in hitting on Lebanese girls. And so our weekend ended up with two separate themes. Neither of which quite worked out according to plan.


Based on the portrayal of the elections in the New York Times and elsewhere, the vote would be decided by independent voters choosing between the pro-western incumbents or an opposition led by the militant Shia Hezbollah party. In other words, whether the region would tilt towards America and the moderate Sunni regimes or towards Shia Iran and its message of radical religious militancy was up for grabs in the Lebanese parliamentary elections.

The reality, from what I observed during my weekend in Beirut, is that the elections promised far less drama because democracy Lebanon-style is at once far more structured and corrupt than what we are familiar with in America. Far more structured because Lebanon operates according to an arcane confessional system that guarantees a certain number of parliamentary seats and government positions to the eighteen religious and ethnic groups that call the country home. And far more corrupt because so much money was pumped into Lebanon by Saudi and Iranian sources that no one I spoke with in Lebanon even pretended that financial support from their politician of choice was not a key factor behind their vote.

So when the western media suggested that the outcome depended on what independent voters thought of the opposing political platforms, they were fooling themselves. The only swing-vote of any interest was the split within the Christian community due to the attempt by former general Michel Aoun to buck tradition and pull Christian voters into his alliance with Hezbollah. But the only swing-vote of any real consequence was how effectively the two sides had spent their Saudi and Iranian millions to ensure their supporters came out in the right numbers on Sunday. As Andre observed, the elections were more akin to a face-off between politically savvy Mafiosa than an authentic display of republican democracy.

Andre and I witnessed this face of Lebanese democracy when we spent the morning of the elections in the ancient Phoenician town of Byblos. Known as Gebal in the Bible, the town is really known as the birthplace of the modern alphabet. I was hoping to see the Roman and Crusader ruins in addition to talking politics with the locals. But all the sights were closed for the election so I had to sate my curiosity with unraveling the Christian town’s political loyalties. Although the two traditional Christian party led by Samir Geagea and the Gemayel family were well represented in the colorful flags and banners that covered the town, the dominant hue was the orange of Michel Aoun’s upstart Christian party. Even when Andre and I met up with the main Armenian party at their beachside headquarters, all we heard was praise of Aoun.


Our last stop in town was Aoun party headquarters. After we declined an invitation to vote, Aoun’s supporters confided they were confident their side had the election in hand. It was hard not to share their enthusiasm. Until we returned to Beirut, of course, where the gleaming downtown reminded me of the Saudi financing and powerful Hariri influence that had rebuilt downtown Beirut and continued to dominate Lebanon. For all the enthusiasm on the ground in Byblos, I did not share their confidence that all that Saudi money would fail and swing the election towards the “pro-West” March 14 coalition.

Before we left Beirut and Lebanon, Andre and I spoke to a few more folks about the election. Seth, a high school friend of my brother, told us about the uneasiness that had gripped the capital over the last few weeks. A young soldier from the Bekaa valley spoke to us while he stood sentry over the rebuilt downtown district. After assuring us that his Hezbollah dominated hometown was safe for American tourists, he added that the army’s mission in Lebanon is “to protect the country from the politicians.” The young Syrian who shared our van ride back to Damascus would probably have agreed with the soldier’s cynicism about the Lebanese democracy. Like many Syrians, our traveling companion tried to persuade me that the Syrian political system is preferable to Lebanon because in Syria money is not wasted and corruption is reduced by avoiding the pageantry of sham elections.

I even heard an Egyptian perspective on the elections, courtesy of two wealthy young Egyptian tourists I ran into after Beirut had went into curfew on Saturday night. Like my Syrian friend, they preferred their own political system; which in Egypt consists of an authoritarian party and a proscribed Islamic opposition in the Muslim Brotherhood. Bear in mind that the Egyptians were hopping furious that Lebanon’s nightclubs had closed for an election. In Egypt, they assured me, elections were far too unimportant to lead the government to take such drastic measures!


My last stop in Beirut was outside the seaside hotel where Rafik Hariri was assassinated in 2005. Four years after his death, Rafik’s legacy continues to define the mission of the coalition led by his son Said Hariri. A leaked report that the international tribunal investigating his death had found evidence linking the perpetrators to Hezbollah was the major story in Lebanon all week (Nasrallah and gang were quick to blame the Zionist enemies as launching the story). Overlooking the poshest hotel in Beirut, where Jimmy Carter and others had set up shop to monitor the elections, stands a brooding stone likeness of the slain Lebanese leader. It was only fitting that having begun my visit to Beirut at the statues Hariri erected to the martyrs of the Lebanese Civil War, I concluded my visit at the statue to Hariri himself.

Lebanon for a Day

Crossing international borders is one of the great attractions of traveling. For all the necessary bureaucratic drudgery, the satisfaction of entering new territory combined with the cool passport stamp will always be sought after by the independent traveler. When I slipped over into Lebanon on Friday June 5, the border crossing was especially appealing because only four years ago the border between the two countries was a barrier in name only. I am all for the free flow of goods and people. But territorial sovereignty still has a place in today's world. Especially when it is enforced through the will of the people, as was the case in the spring of 2005 when Syria was forced to withdraw its army from Lebanon in the face of mass protests in Beirut.

Those protests were on my mind when I set off for Beirut with Andre, another SAIS student. Our goal was to size up the pulse of the country as Lebanon went to the polls on Sunday June 7. The international media was billing the election as a critical showdown between the pro-Western March 17 alliance and the coalition of parties led by Hezbollah. No one could say for sure how the losing side would react to the election results. Everyone we spoke to in Syria and Lebanon though, was sure that our plan to return to Damascus on Sunday evening would be impossible. The first guy we spoke with upon arriving in Beirut even insisted us that our only option would be to return to Syria on Saturday night. The alternative, he warned, would be risking our necks on street that would be taken over by protestors and militias after the polls closed.


While our return leg remained shrouded in doubt, the road to Beirut from Damascus is simpler than anything you can imagine. As long as your visas are in order, the actual drive in a shared taxi takes less than three hours. Throw in an hour for customs on either side of the border, and in four hours I went from haggling with taxi drivers on the outskirts of Damascus to watching the sun set over the Mediterranean from a hotel balcony two blocks from Martyrs Square in Beirut.


Martyrs Square is where nearly two million Lebanese, over a quarter of the country’s entire population, rallied on March 14 2005 to demand Syria leave Lebanon. The site is far smaller than I expected, perhaps a tenth the size of Tiananmen Square. On one side of the square, or parking lot considering how many cars are splayed out over the concrete grounds, looms the blue and tan, and surreally Disneyesque, Al Amin Mosque. Initiated by Rafik Hariri in the years before his death, it now houses his tomb. With the Mediterranean on the northern edge of the square, the only other thing to see when Lebanese are not protesting by the thousands is a dramatic monument to the “martyrs” of the Lebanese Civil War. It is far from clear whether the stirring stone portraits of dying civilians are Shia, Sunni, Christian or Druze. Perhaps that is exactly the point.


On Friday night Andre and I headed out with some of his friends to tackle Beirut’s vaunted club scene. His friends chose a fairly subdued bar and so nothing I saw quite matched the madness of a night out in Beijing or Shanghai. To be fair, perhaps I did not see what I was not in the mood to appreciate. I am never very comfortable spending Friday nights away from the comfort of a Shabbat table. And as anyone who knows me well can attest, I am as hot and cold when it comes to dancing as they come. With the right company and music, I can go all night. But faced with unimaginative techno, cigarette smoke, an empty dance floor and memories of the friends I wished were by my side, I was colder than the Titanic.

On Saturday I wrapped up my prayers early in the morning so Andre and I could spend the day walking around Beirut. The city gets called the Paris of the East and all sorts of vampy names that seek to capture its liberal vibe (my two cents are for referring to Beirut as the Qingdao of West Asia). No doubt Beirut is far more liberal than any other Arab city. Having come from Damascus, the contrasts could not have been stronger. A free press! Outspoken citizenry! And of all things, a contested election!


But the northern stretches of Beirut are also empty. Not just of soul, though critics have described the rebuilt downtown area as lacking quite a bit in the character department. No, Beirut is empty of people. Even with sharply dressed soldiers deployed at every intersection, the capital resembled a western where nothing but whirling hay and the occasional slammed door greets the hero as he strides down main street on his trusty steed. The few Lebanese we had a chance to speak to on Saturday explained the empty streets as a result of the election. Although everyone in Beirut will tell you they come from the city, much of the urban population remains registered in their home villages. And so when the polls open on Sunday, that is where they must vote. Perhaps. But I have a strong suspicion that the spanking new downtown area always looks fairly empty. The human waves that surge through the streets of downtown Cairo and Damascus simply have not yet had a chance to come to terms with the wide avenues and glass office buildings of downtown Beirut. When they do, I can only imagine what new direction this most liberal of Arab capitals will be heading.

Old Brooklyn

The Jewish Quarter in the Old City of Damascus is home to one of the most ancient Jewish communities in the world. Identifying any of the sixty odd Jews that have avoided the lure of exile is nearly impossible. Not simply because their appearance does nothing to suggest their religion but because the government carefully monitors the Jewish community's involvement with foreigners, American Jewish visitors in particular. Identifying the Jewish Quarter itself is much easier. All you do is wander through the southwestern corner of the Old City's narrow alleyways until the silence of boarded up houses shouts out that you have arrived at the former homes of families no doubt comfortably ensconced in Brooklyn and Deal, New Jersey. A Syrian friend explained to me that when the last burst of Jews left during the first Iraq War, they kept the deeds to the houses so no one in the last two decades has moved in.

On Thursday June 4, I found myself passing through the spooky emptiness of the Jewish Quarter en route to an Armenian music performance at a nearby courtyard sculpture garden. The singer was a beautiful Syrian-Armenian lady named Lena Chamamyan. Her voice was even more beautiful and for over two hours the overflowing Christian and Muslim crowd hung on her words. The silence of the Jewish Quarter, however, is the sound that was still ringing in my ears later in the night.

Syria may have more scenic abandoned homes than anywhere else in the world. South of Aleppo are the Dead Cities, a series of ancient ghost towns whose residents mysteriously disappeared some fifteen centuries ago. Along the border with Israel are the empty concrete houses of Kuneitra, which the government uses as a propaganda tool to display to foreign dignitaries how Israel laid waste to the town before pulling out in 1973. And right in the center of Damascus, in the quietest corner of the Old City, are the bordered up homes of the Jewish Quarter. They tell another story of Syria's sixty year stand-off with the Jewish state. It is a narrative that may have as much to do with the mystery of the Dead Cities as the tragic statement of Kuneitra. Unfortunately it is not a narrative that few Syrians are likely to take much interest in anytime soon.

Hope and Change

President Obama's speech to the Arab world on Thursday June 4 marked the start of two weeks of busy geopolitical events in the region. And like everyone else in the Middle East, Syrians are political news junkies to the core. The funny bit is that unlike their peers in Egypt and Israel, who from my experience will loudly and fiercely debate the merits of any political decision, Syrians are hesitant to share their opinions on the news. A Syrian friend explained to me that the hesitation is a holdover from the tight reins that the late President Hafez al'Assad maintained over the country. No one has quite the same fear of his son and successor, President Basher al'Assad, though the anticipation in 2001 of a Damascus Spring has chilled into what looks to be a long winter.

The irony of Syrian reticence to talk politics is that their country is probably the Arab state most affected by the political events this June. If Obama's desire to unclench the fists of America's opponents in the Arab world is to bear fruit, the harvest will necessarily take place in Damascus. And the ramifications of the elections in Lebanon and Iran have strong implications for the country that considers the former its territory and the latter its closest ally.

Obama's Thursday morning speech from Cairo University was replayed on all the Arab channels in primetime. Most locals I spoke to had caught some if not all of the president’s remarks. But they did not seem to give the speech much thought. Syrians remain cautiously optimistic of Obama, though the Arab street is deeply skeptical by nature and remains unconvinced that anything but actions will signal a new direction in American policy in the region.

Obama’s decision to locate the speech in Cairo did elicit comment from many Syrians. Like my chess opponent in the mukhabarat, many Syrians voiced envy that Damascus had lost out in the location of the speech to its perennial opponent for leadership of the Arab world. Although Syrians recognize that the idea of Obama speaking in, let alone visiting, Damascus remains a pipe dream in the near future, they were not ready to concede that the decision to locate the speech in Cairo says much about the political bedfellows that the Alawite regime has chosen to align itself with in the region. As I told a Syrian friend, as long as Syria is tied up with Iran, Hezbollah and perhaps the radical Palestinian groups, America will find it difficult to make much progress with Damascus.

Shavuot on the Mountain of Moses

When I decided to come to Syria for a month this summer, one of the toughest parts of the decision was accepting that I would necessarily be sacrificing the chance to observe many Jewish rituals. My tfellin were left behind for fear that their discovery in Syria would prove dangerous. And although I did bring a small siddur (Jewish prayerbook) with me, I knew in advance that whatever experience I had developed in observing shabbat on my own in atheist China would be put to the test in not quite atheist Syria. My first shabbat in Syria came wrapped in an even bigger challenge because the Jewish holiday of Shavout began on Thursday night, meaning that the spiritual opportunities and mundane restrictions required on shabbat would start one day earlier. How could I properly observe one of the key holidays on the Jewish calendar in a Muslim police state, especially as I had only arrived in the country three days before and barely knew how to find my way to the closest ATM, let alone whom I could trust with my religious needs.

I knew I had to leave Damascus. And if there was one place in all of Syria that spoke the language of the holiday commemorating the reception of the Torah by Moshe and the Jewish people in the wilderness, I had no doubt it was the ancient Monastery of Mar Musa. The monastery is perched on a desert cliff face 100 km from the urban bustle of Damascus. The closest town is nearly twenty km away, though visitors to the monastery are welcome to stay for free in any one of several dwellings that look out over the wilderness of northeastern Syria.

The setting alone may have been enough to draw me to the monastery. But it was the history and contemporary mission that sealed my decision to spend my holiday weekend in what after all is a Christian enclave. Mar Musa is named after its legendary founder, a traveling Ethiopian priest named Moses whom is said to have been the rightful heir to the Abyssinian throne of Solomon. Moses established the monastery in the sixth century, five hundred years later a church was added and only in the early years of the nineteenth century was the site abandoned. In the 1980s, an Italian former Jesuit named Father Paolo reestablished the monastery. With the support of foreign monies, the ingenious father and his small crew of coed acolytes have created a wonder along the rock face (complete with modernish electricity and plumbing!). The purpose behind the reborn monastery is simple: to create a hospice for spiritual searchers and to promote a message of spiritual faith and tolerance.

The mission of the monastery was tested shortly after I arrived at Mar Musa on Thursday May 28. Over a modest vegetarian dinner, one of the six resident monks asked me why I had forgone consuming the bread and wine that had been served during the evening mass. Earlier in the day I had gingerly decided to sit in and observe the Christian prayer service held in the eleventh century chapel that lies at the heart of the monastery. The soulful Arabic prayers sung by the worshippers redeemed my hesitancy to attend, though it was frightfully awkward when Father Paolo looked around in confusion after one slice of pita and sip of wine were returned to him untouched by yours truly.

So when the priest asked, I replied without hesitation that I was not Christian and so was not prepared to take an active role in the service. If I was not Christian, was I perchance...? No, I replied, I am Jewish. Silence. You know, Jude. Juden, Yehuda? More silence.

Just as the meal seemed likely to grind to a complete halt, a visiting Syrian Christian girl to my right perked up and cautiously inquired whether I could marry Jesus. Marry Jesus? At first I was sure she was confused at how Jewish belief differed from her own. But when my attempts at some basic clarification went nowhere, I realized what she was really asking with her limited English. So I explained that barring unusual circumstances, Judaism strongly discourages intermarriage with Christians (Jesus having been the best translation the Syrian girl could come up with for Christians). A few folks laughed, a volunteer came at me with some more questions and the tension passed. Only after the meal did one monk tell me on the side that he was so glad I had come to visit the monastery. But he urged me to be very cautious in letting word of my religious faith slip in the rest of the country. As he put it "American? Challas (enough/too much)! American and Jew? Double Challas!"

Mar Musa is a wonderful place for weighty conversations. And over my three day stay, there were plenty. A young Syrian girl long since distanced from her Muslim roots was full of questions about what stereotypes Jews in American have about Arabs and Muslims. An Italian guy of mixed Jewish ancestry was fascinated by my explanation of the theological divide between intent and deed in Judaism and Christianity. A Christian Syrian-American and I exchanged very different opinions about the merits of considering Bin Laden a fair representative of Islam. And most memorably, a young Frenchman who lives at the monastery as a long term volunteer was full of questions about Jewish mysticism and prayer. But what he really wanted to know was what went into a Jewish shabbat meal to make them so special. As I tried to convey to him the magical energy woven through song and Torah discussion by the shabbat table of, say, Rav Machlis in Jerusalem, I could only smile as my mind replayed Rabbi Yehuda HaNasi's words to the Roman emperor when the latter asked what spice was missing from his luxurious spreads that the Rabbi included at his Friday night dinner. The spice is Shabbat, the sage explained, and in all your treasure houses, oh emperor, where can you find Shabbat?

The monastery also gave me a chance to dwell on questions of my own. In this I was hardly alone. Another visitor was visiting Mar Musa in order to understand what had recently driven his older brother to embark on a solitary hike that began in Paris and wove through a few dozen countries--including Syria--before concluding at the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem. I sought my own questions through prayer, bits of meditation and old and new biblical favorites like Ruth, Psalms, Song of Songs and--hear me out on this-- the book of Matthew from the New Testament. I fell into reading the New Testament when I spied a Chinese/English copy of the Bible and began flipping through to see how the biblical cadence was captured in Chinese. My language talents gave out before my patience and so when I turned a page and saw the words of Matthew, I settled down for the first time to see what the New Testament had to say for itself. I was fascinated to see that Matthew is the origin for so many of the greatest lines of Lincoln and other great orators; surprised at how polemical the text actually is; and pretty confused at some of JC's line. My favorite may be what he says in response to his disciples when they are upset at seeing a lady pour perfume on their leader. Not quite what I expected, though it captured the mix of spiritual and intellectual questioning that marked my Shavout stay at Mar Musa.