It
is
early
in
the
day
in
the
Old
City
of
Jerusalem,
and
virtually
no
one
is
up
and
around.
It
will
be
some
time
before
the
serenity of its streets and alleys is disturbed by the tread of heavy feet and the babble of many voices.
After
an
abbreviated
breakfast
of
"ka'ek"
(the
elliptical
breadroll
cocooned
in
sesame
seeds)
and
"falafel,"
I
stand
before
the
ornately decorated gate of Deir El Sir-yan, the Syriac or Assyrian Convent of St Mark.
I
have
come
here
filled
with
an
unusual
expectation:
to
hear
a
language
first
spoken
in
this
part
of
the
world
2,000
years
ago
by a man who changed the history of the world.
The
gate
is
open,
and
I
step
in.
In
the
ghostly,
candle-lit
semi-darkness
punctuated
by
velvety
clouds
of
billowing
incense,
the sound of the priest intoning the Lord's prayer, echoes across the nave, an astringent but soothing balm.
"Avvon d-bish-maiya, nith-qaddash shim-mukh," (our father, who are in heaven, hallowed be thy name).
This
is
Aramaic,
the
lingua
franca
from
the
times
of
Jesus
of
Nazareth,
still
vibrantly
alive
in
the
liturgy
of
the
Syriac
church,
faithfully preserved down the centuries to the present day.
I
listen
rapt
to
the
modern
reverberations
of
the
ancient
tongue,
feeling
the
haunting
inflections
of
the
guttural,
mellifluous
singing
penetrate
into
the
consciousness
and
overwhelm
the
soul,
taking
the
imagination
back
through
time
and
space,
to
hover
within the presence of the man from Galilee.
"Tih-teh mal-chootukh," (thy kingdom come).
They are the same words uttered two millennia ago by the man who preached that the kingdom of god is within ourselves.
It is a lesson Khader Khano takes tenaciously to heart.
The
service
over,
we
are
sitting
in
the
secretariat
which
is
being
manned
by
this
earnest
21-year-old
deacon
who
is
acting
for
Archbishop Mar Sweiros Malki Murad during his absence abroad.
Within
the
space
of
weeks,
Khano
will
be
making
history
of
his
own
when
he
is
ordained
celibate
priest,
the
first
time
in
over
100 years a Holy Land native-born aspirant is invested with the habit by the Syriac church.
The
occasion
has
spawned
widespread
jubilation
among
the
local
Christian
churches,
particularly
in
Bethlehem
where
a
sizeable community of Khano's compatriots are gearing up for the ceremony.
For
centuries,
St
Mark
had
languished
in
relative
obscurity,
its
visibility
and
accessibility
hindered
by
its
uninviting
external
architectural
disposition.
But
all
that
changed
with
the
1948
discovery
of
the
Dead
Sea
Scrolls
in
the
salty
caves
of
Qumran
by
an
itinerant
Bedouin
sheepherder.
Through
circuitous
and
mysterious
routes
under
the
gathering
clouds
of
war
between
Arab
and
Jew,
the
scrolls
finally
reached
Jerusalem
and
were
kept
for
a
brief
spell
in
the
convent
of
St
Mark,
before
surfacing
on
the
shores of an astounded world.
Khano's
ordination
may
not
count
as
a
comparably
momentous
eventuality,
but
there
is
no
mistaking
the
euphoria
that
has
gripped
the
Syriac
church,
for
this
too
is
another
milestone
in
the
glorious
history
of
these
proud
descendants
of
the
Babylonians.
The
Syriacs
of
the
Holy
Land
are
better
known
by
the
Arabic
appellation
"Sir-yan,"
but
in
other
parts
of
the
world
they
also
refer to themselves as Ashourayeh, Ashouri or Suryoyo.
Traditionally,
the
Syriac
church
used
to
replenish
the
ranks
of
its
clergy
from
the
youth
of
Ashouri
colonies
in
neighboring
Arabic countries, particularly Iraq. But the political upheavals unleashed by the 1967 Six Day War forced that gateway to close.
Khano bubbles with scarcely concealed enthusiasm, caught up blissfully in the gentle breeze of faith and conviction.
"I
have
thought
very
hard
and
very
long
over
my
decision
to
become
a
priest,
and
I
have
found
that
there
is
nothing
more
important to me than to serve God in this way," he tells me.
"All
the
books
I
have
read,
all
the
lessons
I
have
studied
have
prepared
me
just
for
this.
I
have
no
other
interest
in
life
other
than to become a priest."
He
will
be
ordained
in
Bethlehem
but
will
come
back
to
serve,
under
his
new
name,
Father
Boulos
(Paul)
at
St
Mark,
which
was
the
first
Christian
edifice
ever
built
anywhere,
according
to
a
6th
Century
inscription
unearthed
in
1940.
This
was
the
house
of
Mary,
mother
of
John,
called
Mark,
the
Evangelist.
The
church
boasts
a
portrait
of
the
Virgin
Mary
reputedly
painted
by
St
Luke the evangelist.
Alas,
the
monastery
compound,
located
at
the
periphery
of
the
Armenian
Quarter,
is
the
last
remaining
enclave
left
to
the
Syriac Orthodox Church who has lost everything else in the city.
It
is
now
home
for
a
mere
handful
of
clergymen,
their
sharp
decline
paralleled
by
the
attrition
in
the
numbers
of
members
of the Syriac community.
The little is gone too, and the social club has been boarded up.
Only
years
after
its
erection,
the
church
was
destroyed
by
Titus
when
he
conquered
the
city,
only
to
rise
phoenix
like
from
its ashes, and to be rebuilt, over and over again, the last time a century and a half ago.
I
take
my
leave
of
Khano
and
a
short
time
later,
I
am
in
Bethlehem
to
meet
Saliba
Tawil,
a
member
of
the
Bethlehem
Syriac
community. We are old friends.
We
sit
for
lunch
at
Abu
Ely's
restaurant.
A
few
feet
away,
the
monstrous
security
wall
Israel
has
erected,
glares
at
us
menacingly.
For the moment, that eyesore is forgotten as we dig into the incredibly soft and delicious shish kebab, a house specialty.
Tawil
is
a
career
educator,
with
a
wide
ranging
interest
in
community
affairs.
He
has
been
instrumental
in
furthering
negotiations for a twinning agreement between Bethlehem and the French city of Grenoble.
Like
all
members
of
minority
groups,
he
is
zealous
in
his
pursuit
of
the
aim
to
see
his
children
gain
and
retain
a
mastery
of
their native tongue. And like them, he is worried about assimilation and the loss of ethnic identity.
But he also has a pragmatic turn of mind.
"We are all destined to live here together in the Holy Land," he says.
His fondest wish is for his children to grow and appreciate not only their ethnicity, but also the wider world community.
And he believes the only way this can be achieved is when peace reigns in the land.