Man in a white frock.

 

The UK Sunday newspaper, the Observer, has a photograph of the Pope bending down to shake the hand of a small boy in Moria, the detention centre for refugees on the Greek island of Lesbos.

The boy, aged about 4, is beaming up at the smiling Pope –  pleasing picture.

But what might the little boy make of this strange man in a long white frock, wearing a white skull cap and probably speaking a strange language?

Still, I thought, to the little boy assuming, rightly or wrongly that he is from the Middle East,  is the Pope’s garb really all that strange?

Given that Christianity has come to us out of the Middle East, it’s not surprising that many Christian clerics have inherited a Middle East way of dressing with skull caps and long gowns.   Further, there are other similarities in the way of praying. (Here, I have to speak of the Catholic Church as this is the only one I am familiar with.)

There is a point – or was, as I’m not up to speed on this – when the priest is offered a bowl of water to wash his fingers in and then a towel to dry them. This symbolises the action of the Roman Governor, Pontius Pilate, who washed his hands of the business of bringing Christ to trial, thus leaving it to the locals to do their worst and crucify him.

Washing before eating, however, is fairly regular in the Middle East and is also a cleansing ritual engaged in by Muslims before starting to pray which is why, in every mosque, you will see a fountain specially for ablutions.

I have engaged in this hand-washing tradition on two separate occasions. The first was in the Sahara when I was travelling with Polisario – in the days before the term embedded had entered the language.  I’d been taken across the Algerian part of the desert to the underground military HQ of Polisario, descending by ladder into a series of interconnected ops rooms where, before the briefing, a soldier brought me a small bowl over which I held my hands as he poured water through my fingers from a small ornate silver jug before offering me a towel to dry my hands with. Even in wartime, the protocol of Arab hospitality was observed.

 

The second time this happened, was in Syria in the hinterland of Deir ez Zour. I had been cycling along the Euphrates River, known there as the Furat, for quite a few hours. Night was drawing on and I needed somewhere to stay. By great good fortune, I came across a group of Bedouin who invited me to stay in their winter camp.

A large mat was spread out on the ground in what we might call the yard and the matriarch of the family invited me to sit down with her. She called for a bowl of water and someone handed her a lovely jug full of water and this she poured over my tired feet and as she did so, the white sand of the desert was washed away from them.

The water was cool and soothing but greater than that was the graciousness and elegance of the welcome. The protocol of the desert was again being observed and I was part of it.

If you ever attend a Catholic Mass, check out the garments worn by the priest and his acolytes and then watch out for the hand-washing ceremony – both gifts that have come to us from the Arab world.

 

Mary Russell

Click here to reach my website:  www.maryrussell.info  where you will find news of my cultural travel book on Syria. Let me know what you think.

Some pictures from Damascus and one from Baghdad

I came across these the other day.  Each tells it own story.

This is the gentle old man who owned the tiny sweetshop opposite my hotel in Souk Saruja. He sold sweets and biscuits mainly. In the picture, he’s wearing his cap. He put it on specially after I’d asked if I might take a picture of him. Every day, just before mid-day prayers, he shut up shop and walked slowly up the narrow street to the local mosque which was called  the Mosque of the flowers. This was a very peaceful part of Damascus.

 

This man had a little independent business selling hot coffee from his bicycle. he had a small woodburning stove in the front basket. You can see the fine chimney taking the smoke away. The canvas carriers held fuel for the stove. He had wraps of paper for the coffee and the sugar and a water container as well.

I thought his whole arrangement was great. He is master of his universe. I did wonder if he needed a licence to trade. Probably an unofficial one. The man is standing by the wall of the old city of Damsacus, capital of Syria.

 

 

This is Baghdad.  It’s on the wall of Baghdad’s oldest university which is older than Oxford – by a few years.

The decoration show the swastika and is an indication of Iraq’s ancient cultural ties with India where the swastika originates.

I was in Baghdad shortly before the US and the UK invaded Iraq under the mistaken belief that Saddam Hussein had an arsenal of nuclear weapons.