“Steve, welcome,” says Samir, Marlboro jammed in the corner of his mouth. The leaden Damascus sky is hanging over the minarets and satellite dishes sprouting up out of the old city. Under my stocking feet, the tile is smooth and cold. My brain, foggy from a short nights sleep, somehow finds the words.
“Sabah el-kheir”
“Sabah el-nour,” replies Samir, his grin widening at my crummy Arabic. “Good morning.”
Samir and his brothers Hassam and Beshar are goldsmiths. In their workshop on the ground floor of the house where I’m renting a room, they sit at marble-topped desks working gold plate onto seemingly endless chains for jewelry. Hunched over, they use torches, tweezers and tiny flakes of gold leaf on the base metal chains; the constant rhythm of their feet pumping air through the torches keeps pace with the electronic Arab music spilling from the boom box perched atop the massive safe where they keep the gold.The clock on the wall is flanked by pictures Jesus and Mother Theresa. The brothers are Christian, Damascus born and bred.
After a shower, the call to pray echoes again. I imagine the Christians feel surrounded. Then again, perhaps they don’t think about it. In this enclave of a sprawling city, they have everything they need – shops, food, churches. And it’s been that way for over a thousand years.
