Jens walked back in the room apologizing for being so
disorganized. The two old men explained themselves to be a part of an order of
monks from Mar Mousa, Syria, which they specified as between Homs and Damascus.
Every monk I have read or heard about I have imagined with a
brown habit, so imagine a monk and then replace the habit with dress slacks and
a polo. They were big, boisterous and vibrant with life and generosity. Jens
and Paolo, two 21st century cloistered Europeans hovering over a
computer in Kurdish-Iraq arguing in Arabic about a plane ticket. This wasn’t
really a scenario I experience every day.
Eventually they booked the plane ticket and immediately they
focused all their attention on accommodating us as guests. Yens brought tea and
the remaining biscuits from outside, while Paola asked Hastiar and myself about
our lives. Most of his questions were directed at me, his thick Italian accent
added weight and intelligence to the sound of his deep voice. His questions
varied from asking about my school and career to my religious affiliations and
political stances. He wanted a quick rundown of me before I left the country.
Paolo was much more subtle and slow with Hastiar, as if he was handling his
conversation with care and tact.
We stayed with the monks for over an hour, and I don’t know
if I can say that I came away with any new revelation. I can say that I have
enjoyed the hospitality of monks from Syria, and though admittingly modest, to
me their company rivaled that of kings.
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