It was December 2010, slightly after Christmas, that I went to Maaloula as part of a two day stay in pre-war Syria.
The village was nestled up the mountains some 30 minutes away from Damascus. I had no idea what to expect there, other than some difference from the souks and mosques that their country’s capital had to offer. I should have known that Maaloula would be drastically different – the driver had been talking a language I wasn’t understanding all the way. It was Aramaic.
Once upon a time, the Maaloula I visited was a calm village, part of a calmer and oppressed country. The people there seemed poor. They also seemed especially devout, asking us to take off our shoes as we visited Christian shrines for saints that Christians in Lebanon worshipped. The town’s houses were tightly packed together, haphazardly built, in a way that climbed up the…
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