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The first thing that confronted me on my way to see the festivities today was a giant yellow chick made predominantly out of yellow pom poms riding on the back of a miniature glittery lilac open top car. Initially it stunned me somewhat as personally it is not one of the things I'd expect to pop up on these ancient straight street of biblical fame. Still, I followed this odd object around the corner, where it parked, ever so slightly menacingly, just up the road from the nearby Syrian Catholic church where the road was crowded with bystanders ready and waiting for the various events of the day to unfold.
This year we have had the dubious pleasure of Easter being on the same day for the Orthodox and the Western Calendar. Of course, this meant we would have all the excitement (and the marching band music which seems to have been circumnavigating my house ALL WEEK) over in one fell swoop, providing there was no tussle for control of the Christian Quarter by rival factions of the community.I was fairly confident that this couldn't happen - there are far too many denominations around for one to have complete domination and even the unhappy placement of the Armenian Society of the Cross directly opposite the Syrian Catholic Church of St George would not upset this balance. People have co-existed for centuries here, why should anything change?
I was first put on my guard by this odd placement of the giant chick close to the Syrian Catholic church, but even closer to the Armenian contribution of a large red banner that was propped up near the proceedings.Then, I realised that there must have been a surplus of yellow pom poms because what did I see attached to the berets of the band playing within this church but aforementioned pom poms? So, the chick was in cahoots with the Syriac Catholic and I realized that this was obviously the Syriac Catholic archbishop's way of tacitly supporting his scout flock. Not daffodils as for the Welsh, but bright yellow pom poms.
For quite a while the band just stood directly outside the church under the suspicious gazes of the armenians lurking across the road. Then, just as you thought the drumming would finish, they'd strike up again as if taunting their fellow scouts, exactly the same but for their different coloured neckerchiefs. At the height of one of the noisier ditties I heard the sound of sirens. That's it, I thought. The police are intervening to prevent a potentially inflammatory situation. Two motorcycles came down the road, but it was only to accompany some bigwig to the eucharist. The flow of probably very important people in Syrian society continued for some time, the band striking up a triumphant fanfare every time one of these people entered or exited the church. The Armenians maintained their watch. This is direct provocation, I thought, and wondered when and how the Armenians would react. It amused me to see in the street not much later a priest - I think Armenian - eyeing up with suspicion a Greekwith his large headdress. Was he concealing a sousaphone in his voluptuous robes?
Although the scout bands were just groups of teenagers still blighted by acne with the girls under the misconception that the tighter the skirts and more makeup the better, there was still something undeniably unnerving about their fanfares - almost reminiscent of some star wars rally. After a while, they exited the church pointing their frighteningly sharp and undoubtedly deadly spearheads for their flags at perfect eye level to get out of the gate. I was hoping that violence could still be avoided. What would Jesus do? I wanted to shout out. I feared the appearance of the Maronites or, even worse, Les Peres Lazaristes. The only thing I didn't fear was the appearance of the Anglicans if indeed there were any nearby. They'd be far too polite to create any sort of a hoo- ha on such a day, I mean really it just wouldn't be appropriate.And anyway these parades are terribly showy and vulgar, probably best to give such things a wide berth.
In the middle of this inner monologue an attempt was made by a generous- hearted Syrian lady to invoke the memory of the Messiah by blessing me with my very own stigmata by piercing my vulnerable lightly sandalled feet with her own precision sharpened stilettos. Although the attempt wasn't entirely successful in perforating the whole foot I was just grateful that she considered me worthy of her attention. I can only hope of course the bruise will stay with me forever.
The band marched round to rally its (scout) troops by marching directly past the seat of their archbishop. At a turn off not far after there was waiting, as if in ambush, another band. But instead of clashing, the S-C band marched past unhindered. Something was going on here. The band that had been in the turn-off swiftly followed, being boosted in strength by a two-man boat, a sedan full of live baby chicks and many children resolutely marching in time behind them. They all looked highly serious - especially the smallest children dressed in what appeared to me to be giant cotton wool balls. I must say this second band wins the prize for the most terrfying bass drumming - lord of the rings worthy methinks - but loses kudos for having the battle plans for its trumpet playing troops written down on small notepads for them to hold. Had it come to hand to hand combat they would have been at a particular disadvantage. Thus it was I left them pursuing one another up, down and around bab sharki/bab touma when I took refuge in the alleyways. I briefly retreated back to my house.
But not for long. After perhaps half an hour I perceived a new sound. Another band? Indeed it was and I ran out to discover who else had joined in. Sure enough in their red and blue, backed up by chiquely dressed men and women that only had the slightest whiff of mafia about them were the Armenians, walking up from bab sharki. I followed them to the turn-off to bab touma where I was fortunate to witness the most amusing impasse between two religious organisations I think I have ever seen.
At this corner the Armenians came face to face with none other than the second marching band I had thought had been lying in wait for the S-C.For perhaps a full ten minutes both bands exchanged provocative fanfares, whilst the standard bearers stood barely a few inches away from one another, impassive and unmoving. There was tension in the air and expectation in the crowd. An anxious looking scout master was dispatched to carry out negotiations as the baton twirlers practised their moves, obviously in anticipation of a direct conflict. Eventually the Armenians were persuaded to move across to one side of the street and wait as the other band passed in the opposite direction.A sense of relief filled the air.
But only briefly. The band began to march past with trumpets blazing and had been going barely seconds when the Armenians too opened up and blasted with bellicose power the approaching troupe. It was war and I had no idea how it would end with these two rival tunes and beats going so strongly. One of them, if not both, would surely collapse under the aural influence of the other.
Then the oddest thing occurred. Suddenly like a piece of steve reich (only the saddest musos will know what I am going on about, the rest of you should be grateful you do not get the reference) both bands became in synch with one another. I suppose if we were going to be ever so slightly pretentious or profound here it was like seeing how all the fundamental ideas of Christianity (or even religion in general) are the same in every denomination, just the overlyingmelody and the snare drum fills were different. It was magical to hear it here in Damascus, its atmosphere saturated with history and religion, and though it only lasted a few seconds it was hugely powerful. Then it was chaos again, the bands were past each other with one continuing down to bab touma, the other to bab sharqi.
As the sound of the bands slowly faded along with the bells of the nearest church the sound of the Azan came over the city. I smiled and went to find an internet café to write it all down. Both cafes I normally use were closed for Easter, one being Catholic, the other Armenian. I love Damascus.
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