There is an oasis. It is in the middle of a desert not so far from the
Euphrates River, not so far from Alexander the Great's fortifications....It is
ancient, the date palms are so huge that they block out the sky, you feel as
though you are in a magic tunnel with clear clean fresh water running in the
hand dug ditches that follow the paths through the trees. People live there.
They have small courtyard mud homes, everything is made of adobe really, the
walls – ancient crumbly adobe walls...and you wander and find a kindly man in a
long desert Bedouin robe...he greets you – he has a donkey, he is working in
the dates. He invites you to his courtyard for Arabic tea, sweet and strong and
served in small glass cups. His son comes out to shyly greet us; and brings
with him the softest whitest sweetest baby donkey you can imagine. I get up –
can't help myself – wrap my arms around the baby's neck and it stands so
quietly. I am murmuring to it in Arabic – 'helwa helwa kathiir.. helwa...'
Someone, a friend, took my photo. I opened three boxes the other day and found
it. The Bedouin man is standing next to me watching. Always the sound of the
ancient running water; the delicious taste of fresh dates washed in the water,
the tea golden in color poured long distance from a special pot – glistening
from the water. How precious is this place, how irreplaceable?
It stands, or stood, a mile from the ruins of
Palmyra, and the Hotel Zenobia built in 1900. It is not describable the ancient
links, the dirt path, the modern clangy noisy Tadmor. The Bedouin man had
chosen wisely his place of residence, his work. It was probably from his
family, the date keepers, keepers of the oasis. I don't know how many other
people lived in the oasis, I can't remember.
Hotel
Zenobia, named after the Queen who ruled from this ancient ancient white
against desert and blue sky Silk Road crossroads. Every morning I sat in a
chair, gathered around a stone table made of a monument capital, they brought
us flat bread, strong tea, apricot jam, goat cheese and dates. As we drank,
ate, wrote and drew; we watched the morning sun illuminate the colonade of
Roman columns. People had been sitting in my chair for 88 years, Agatha Christie,
TE Lawrence, all the Arabists – had sat in my chair. No one will ever again
have that greatest of unimaginable pleasures – to gaze at the history of our
world as it played out on the Silk Road. The combination of apricot jam and
goat cheese on flat bread in the hot hot Syrian sun; strong tea and freedom.
Such freedom....
Blue
and white contrasts – robes of the Bedouin men wandering through. White white
stark white of the marble columns and capitals – paths dusty from the feet of
so many seekers; by camel, donkey, foot. You come down to it from atop a big
escarpment coming from Damascus, it is far, you have driven for most of a day.
You come down and there it lays spread across the valley, overlooked by a
fortress castle atop a steep hill at the opposite end of the ruins. You get out
of your cramped car – stretch – gape and gawk and are finally struck speechless
at the absolute ancient beauty of this precious spot in the middle of no where.
There were no fees, no gates, no brochures, no tickets, no maps, no rules, no
guards. If you were lucky someone would find you with a key for the tombs and
ask if you wanted to see inside. No fences – there is really no way to protect
a site so vast and so integral to the countryside. You carry a big bottle of
water, your camera, your sketch pad, and you just begin to walk slowly. In no
time at all you have left yourself behind. You are alone in a city that
was the finest ancient creation. It is
Palmyra – it is unique, irreplaceable and integral to an understanding of
beauty and history.
If
you are lucky, the people who brought you, also thought to bring bread, cheese,
and wine. You sit, on a marble impediment, back against a column. You eat like
you are starving, and drink deeply. Someone cuts up an apple – passes pieces.
They point out your hotel, the Hotel Zenobia, in the near distance. They
suggest that we not attempt the climb to the citadel until evening, when the
sun is beginning to loose it's power. They discuss star gazing; everyone wants
to tell their favorite Zenobia story, show you their most special place in the
ruins. The best place to photograph, the most interesting frieze to sketch, the
theater, the temple, the tombs – just the marble paving blocks of the streets.
You ask about the green in the distance and you hear about the oasis, how
famous Tadmor is for its dates.
You
fall asleep in an antique bed in your small room in the Zenobia, and it is as
if you have never slept before.
By Nancy Gregory, Hot Springs Author
"A piece I wrote about Syria as ISIS controlled my heart."
