Chapter Thirty One: Solomon in Damascus. In the morning there was a knock at the door, it was 6am. Solomon awoke and sat up in bed, stretched, then wiped the sleep from his eyes. The damned dust in this place was incessant. Solomon was a little perturbed to say the least, his morning call and paper were not due until 6:30am, they were thirty minutes early. He opened the door with caution, standing to one side in case of attack. But on opening the door, he was surprised to see a polite looking lad of about 14 stood still and motionless, but holding on outstretched arms, a large pile of white cotton clothes. Solomon slowly took the clothes and bowed in thanks. The boy calmly replied ‘Druze, Druze’ and then stammered in broken English: ‘m-mother sent them’ and duly ran off down the corridor and away. He closed the door and recounted from his mission file that Druze was the name of a local homogenous people and he would be safe wearing these clothes. He threw them on the bed and laid them out. It was then that he found the pistol and ankle holster that he was told to expect, and three magazines of ammunition. He inspected the loaded magazine, loaded the pistol and fitted the shoulder holster. The clothes consisted of a short shirt or (Kamis), a waistcoat without sleeves known as a (sidriyye), a fabric belt (hizam) and a wide cloak or (abaye), that looked like it was made out of two large strips of cloth. For headgear there was a small cap (takiyye), overlaid with a white cotton head cloth (kufiyye or hatta) and held in place with a traditional red head rope or (agal). The outfit was modest and would not attract undue attention. Once washed and dressed, Solomon stood in front of the mirror and admired himself, he smiled, but then: his face became stern as he realised the enormity of the task ahead. He must find his contact and set in motion events that would change the world: forever. He knew the others were on the same path to glory; he must not be the one to fail. He closed the door behind him and headed for the lift. The lift was in the heart of the hotel and felt cool, so comfortably cool. The smell of leaking oil filled his nostrils; he could only guess that the lift had never been serviced as it creaked, groaned, and shuddered to a halt. He stepped out into the foyer and handed his key to the attentive staff. The hotel was located in the Jewish quarter of the old town and it was here that Solomon must meet his contact; a Jewish Rabbi and community leader. They would meet at the old town synagogue, the only synagogue left in Syria. He strode out into the bustling streets of Damascus, the white cotton garments flowing against the slightest of breeze, keeping him cool in the Syrian sun. The synagogue was three or four streets away, it was 7:30 am and Solomon needed to eat. He sat down at a street vendors table. The vender immediately attended his table and poured Turkish coffee, hot and sweet. Solomon looked up and thought of his mission notes, then uttered one word: Baklava. The waiter returned with Baklava, a rich, sweet pastry, made of layers of filo pastry filed with chopped nuts and sweetened with syrup or honey. He motioned for more coffee and avoided the smoke coming from the adjacent table. Solomon thanked him in Arabic: ‘Shukran-shukran’ ‘Afwan’ replied the waiter. Another large puff of smoke passed by Solomon’s table; he looked over and an easy going Arab caught his eye, smiled and looked away. Solomon carried on eating the Baklava, finished and set down his fork. At this precise time the smoking Arab sat down in front of Solomon. ‘Salam, sho Ismak’? (What is your name) Solomon was startled, but settled his nerves and replied: ‘Ismak Solomon’ Hello Solomon, do you follow the way of the architect? Solomon nonchalantly lifted a layer of his fine cotton robe; the Arabs eyes lit up as he spied the small gold Vitruvian symbol. ‘You have been briefed to expect me Solomon?’ ‘Yes Rabbi Shraga Simmons; I am pleased to meet you’. The vendor appeared at the doorway to the premises, Solomon ignored him until he took the hint and disappeared. Were we not to meet at the synagogue? Ah yes, but I fancied some breakfast myself and it was so obviously you I could not resist the approach. Oh thanks, was it that obvious? Well yes actually. Why? Have you looked in the mirror? Well yes. You are very white Solomon; very white indeed, your skin is as white as your robes. Give it a couple of days and you will tan, your robes will be a little dirtier and you will fit in fine. But until that time, we will meet here or at the synagogue. Then and only then, when I believe you are ready; will we meet our good friends of the people. Come. We will go to our beloved Al-Feranj Synagogue. Solomon was surprised at how young the man was, he was only 39 and a Rabbi; something didn’t stack up. Rabbi Shraga Simmons went on to inform Sol that there are only about a hundred Jews left in Damascus; there was an exodus after the late President Hafez Assad permitted Jews to leave the country in 1992. Over the past 16 years, some 3,700 Jews have left Syria and migrated to Israel and the United States. 40% of the world population of Jews lives in Israel, de facto. The remaining Syrian Jews live in the capital, Damascus, the northern city of Aleppo and in the north eastern city of Qamishli. Today was Sunday and Rabbi Shraga Simmons was to lead Sunday prayers, which were attended by only seven Jews who worshiped here and up to now had done do so without a Rabbi. At this point Solomon interjected and realised that the young man had slipped up. He could see on the young man’s face that he was lying. Until now! I thought you was the Rabbi, I need someone with authority, someone people will listen too, as laid out in my mission notes. Where is Rabbi Shraga Simmons? The young man tried to cover his tracks and create a story to cover his mistake. I am sorry Solomon that you feel deceived, our Rabbi left earlier this year. But you are fortunate; in support of the Arab rising and celebration of the Jewish Passover, which commemorates the exodus of the ancient Israelites from slavery in Egypt, he returns. He will be here in two days’ time. Now shall we talk business? No I will wait for the Rabbi.
The young man looked concerned, annoyed even and attempted to sway Sol’s decision. Sol left, something was obviously not right; he would have to inform London of this serious breach of protocol. Only Rabbi Shraga Simmons had the influence and connections to ensure a meeting with governor Makhluf of the 14th province of Syria as elected by President Bashar Al-Assad. The plan was to bring down President Al-Assad by inciting the people to create as much pressure on the local authorities as possible; and then by way of the governor, influence the armed forces, and the security forces to switch allegiance from the President and the Baath Party to the Jewish Rabbi, but not as a vehicle to put the Jews in power; but by way of the Rabbi as a communication tool for the people of Syria; all the people, the Jews, the Arabs and the minority Christians. Rabbi Shraga Simmons was the only man with any chance of bringing the people together as one. Political change will be impossible if this plan fails; the Al-Assad family’s right to remain in power is actually written in Arabic law, but the modern populace wants freedom, not necessarily democracy, just basic human rights to freedom of speech, self-improvement and religious unity: they were sick of fighting each other over religious difference. So the time of the Arab Rising is upon us; our Masonic Mission? To support and influence the Arab Rising to ensure enough momentum is in place to remove the dictator and his Baath party; and ensure viable changes to allow the building of the 3rd temple in Jerusalem. The Rabbi is the key to it all; he alone has the connections with the governor and the Alawi tribal leaders. But we need to move quickly, protestors are mobilising every day in ever greater numbers. The government is worried, very worried; army and security forces are everywhere. At least two dozen protestors have been killed in the last twenty four hours as security forces retaliate. Blood has literally flowed on these streets in recent days. But the people are stronger, stronger than they have ever been; they now believe change is possible. Sol strides away from the Synagogue, away from the colourful mosaics and glittering pillars; toward the busy, dusty streets of the Old Town. And he becomes aware of something else above the normal noise of these busy streets. People are migrating toward a sound with depth and solidarity, the kind of commotion and shouting that can only come from a crowd of a thousand voices, probably coming from the main square; he decides to take a look. People rush past him, he maintains his pace, but does not run. When he does get to the sourc
e of all the noise and commotion, he finds himself stepping onto a massive marble plaza in front of the Umayyad Mosque; the building sponsored by the Romans on the site of a Christian Basilica dedicated to John the Baptist. The Mosque is massive and houses the Dome of the clock, the Dome of the treasury and the tomb of Saladin the great, within the North Wall; it is truly a wonder of the world, a truly famous and holy site. He is pleased with what he sees: flags waving, people shouting and cheering, the place is packed. All pointing and chanting at the Mosque for their spiritual leader to support the day; and then it happens: Grand Ayatollah Sayed Al-hakeem appears on the frontal balcony of the Mosque and the crowd roars. And then Al-hakeem raises his arms to embrace the crowd, his wisen face smiling with serenity; the noise of the crowd increases to a deafening level. His black robes, head gear and long grey beard portray such humble modesty; but the power of the man is incredible, every movement of his arms and hands is received by a loving and devoted people who truly believe in the divine right of Islam. Sol keeps his guard up, always aware of the people around him; he can see the army around the edge of the square; but the plain clothes security forces loyal to Al-assad are not so easy to spot and could literally be the death of him. It would be so easy to be swept up by the whole thing, especially as Sol and his brothers are sympathisers to it all. But his time in Syria was approaching the twenty four hour mark and it was time to log in and sync up with his missionary brothers. He would need to discuss the issues surrounding the failed meeting with Rabbi Shraga Simmons; the pilgrimage was lost without the Rabbi, they would fail.