“It is human kindness, rather than religion or nationality, that conquers the human heart.”
The “Mother of Strangers” is Jaffa. In case you, like me, wondered to whom or what the title referred.
Jaffa that was the richest and largest Arab city in Palestine. Jaffa, known all over the world for its pure gold — its oranges and orange groves. Jaffa, named after one of Noah’s sons who purportedly built the city after the great flood. Jaffa, a major city during the Ottoman Empire. Jaffa that was designated as part of Mandatory Palestine / the Arab state through the Partition Plan, but which Irgun decided to conquer before the end of the British mandate when Arab armies (Egyptian, Iraqi, Syrian, and Jordanian) could enter Palestine. And therefore, the helpless Jaffa that surrendered to the Haganah who promised to protect Jaffa and its people. (“However, before the ink had dried on the agreement, the city was violated, robbed, and the Haganah forces terrorized the few thousand Jaffans who remained.”)
It is more than a sad tale of young love as the blurb describes. Based on a true story, it tracks a seldom mentioned, but significant aspect, of history that is vital in our understanding of the Palestinian struggle. This is one of those books that show us that what is happening in Gaza is never so simple, and that it did not abruptly begin on October 7, 2023.
The only thing I knew about Frederick the Great was that he once met Bach, and the Prussian king gave the composer a musical theme on which the sixteen pieces of Bach’s The Musical Offering are based.
Thanks to the author’s gossipy nature, I think I’m knowing more than I want to. Haha! Kidding aside, reading Nancy Mitford’s historical biographies is an attempt to brush up on European history and not neglect it completely while I am on this predominantly eastbound literary journey.
Mitford seems to be more reflective here and I’ve found it to have more depth than The Sun King, but as a musician I am slightly disappointed that little is said about the momentous encounter with Bach. This book, however, covers a great deal about Frederick’s fraught friendship with his most famous contemporary, Voltaire.
Being controversial herself, Mitford turns the spotlight on Europe’s controversial figures. But without being too academic, she seems to provide the right dose that I’m currently looking for. I like the fact that I don’t end up liking her subjects any better or liking them any less; I just end up learning a little bit more and having a less fuzzy idea of the Europe just before the French Revolution.
Someone recently asked me to recommend a book on world history. That’s the thing: There’s not just one book. One just has to read as much as they can. And that is what we shall do.
This book does not say anything about Egon Schiele. But it very well could have been written by him, had he been a novelist instead of a painter.
An unexpected turn inside the Belvedere Museum in Vienna once brought me face to face with enormous paintings by Schiele. When you go to a place for Klimt and be confronted by Schiele, it is a staggering experience you will not easily forget.
Haunting eyes, naked and exaggerated anatomies, comical expressions, grotesque scenes, and dark humor — whether you like it or not, you cannot look away. Even if you eventually manage to, you will be forced to take another look, and another.
Because by some bizarre and compelling artistry, the artist wraps you around a strangely proportioned finger, the way Cheon Myeong-Kwan does in this whale of a tale.
So, do not let the cover design of the Archipelago Books edition with its happy colors fool you. Or maybe, let it fool you; so that it startles you, the way some skillful art and literature should. Maybe take that turn and be confronted by something you normally would not seek out.
Oftentimes, the art that we find grotesque are missives from a mind sensitive to how the world truly operates. For isn’t this book a critique on justice, economic, and social systems; and even on American influence through Hollywood? And aren’t these political caricatures in the guise of troubling characters and a metafictional storyline?
I would think twice before criticizing this book for what it seems on the surface, lest I become akin to that judge in 1912 who set fire to one of Schiele’s drawings at a trial wherein Schiele was accused of indecency.
“Reader, you will believe what you want to believe. That’s all there is to it.”
“I felt as if I had come not home, not at all home, but to a place which had some strange meaning, which I must try to dig up. I felt this about the whole Black Sea, but most at Trebizond.“
Feeling like I was not ready to tackle heavier themes than those in real life, I took this “adventure” novel out for a spin. It took me a while to warm up to it because it also took me a while to realize that this is not exactly a regular travelogue.
I see it as something else disguising as an adventure book. For beyond the mirage of exciting escapades in Turkey and the Middle East, it is a humorous critique on religion — different kinds. That being said, it is not a travelogue for the easily-offended. After all, Laurie is an agnostic narrator who admits to having a difficult relationship with religion, but sometimes has an outsider’s advantage of seeing through the hypocrisies and bigotries of the seemingly religious.
As our adventuress and her unlikely companions go deeper into the direction of historic Trebizond (Trabzon in modern Turkey) on camel-back, the ruminations on morality also deepen.
“I do not remember when I was in Cambridge we talked about such things… though we talked about everything else, such as religion, love, people, psycho-analysis, books, art, places, cooking, cars, food, sex, and all that. And still we talk about all these other things, but not about being good or bad.”
The ending confirms my hunch that while there is a literal Trebizond of which she writes, there is also another figurative Trebizond to which she refers. In a way, I am glad that this book did not turn out as I expected, and that it turned out to be so much more.
While I debate whether to order the NYRB edition solely for the Jan Morris introduction, I leave you with this poignant and relevant passage about Jerusalem:
“But what one feels in Jerusalem, where it all began, is the awful sadness and frustration and tragedy, and the great hope and triumph that sprang from it and still spring, in spite of everything we can do to spoil them with our cruelty and mean stupidity, and all the dark unchristened deeds of christened men. Jerusalem is a cruel, haunted city, like all ancient cities; it stands out because it crucified Christ; and because it was Christ we remember it with horror, but it also crucified thousands of other people, and wherever Rome (or indeed anyone else) ruled, these ghastly deaths and torturings were enjoyed by all, that is, by all except the victims and those who loved them, and it is these, the crucifixions and the flayings and the burnings and the tearing to pieces and the floggings and the blindings and the throwing to the wild beasts, all the horrors of great pain that people thought out and enjoyed, which make history a dark pit full of serpents and terror, and out of this pit we were all dug, our roots are deep in it, and still it goes on… And out of this ghastliness of cruelty and pain in Jerusalem that we call Good Friday there sprang this Church that we have, and it inherited all that cruelty, which went on fighting against the love and goodness which it had inherited too, and they are still fighting, but sometimes it is a losing battle for love and goodness…”
The music of Giza is a counterpoint between the honking of impatient drivers and the voice of the muezzin. As the call to prayer washed across the Giza Plateau, my ride to the airport came and it was my call to head back home. After all, home is a prayer.
But how can one leave a place when it says goodbye looking like this? Your heart would break a little, too. But then again, what’s a little heartbreak if your heart has not been too well for a while?
The ancient Egyptians believed that when a person died, their heart would be weighed against a feather. It was always a question of whether the heart was heavy or light. As I leave, may the scales find my heart lighter than when I arrived.
The Louvre, with its iconic glass pyramid, used to be the largest museum in the world at 60,600 square meters. Now it has been surpassed by the Grand Egyptian Museum at 81,000 square meters. It is the largest museum dedicated to a single civilization (the ancient Egyptian civilization), and it boasts of a special panoramic window that opens to… *drumroll* THE Pyramids of Giza!
Not a very subtle way of saying, “Take that, Europe!”
I was told that the story began in the early 2000s when a representative from Egypt attempted to retrieve some of their most valued artifacts from Italy and they were met with a strong refusal. (Figures differ by a number or two, but no more than 30 obelisks have ever been found in Egypt and only 6 remain. The majority of these are in Rome and other capital cities around the world.) The reason for the refusal was that Egypt lacked a proper place to store these treasures. Egypt had to admit that there was truth to this, and the idea of the GEM was born.
While researching for this trip, I wondered why there was never a clear opening date. My curiosity heightened when I arrived in Giza and I could see the GEM through my hotel window looking quite complete and ready! When I asked the guides, they told me it was still closed. My intuition said otherwise, and I went there anyway saying to myself that if it turned out to be closed, at least I could still admire the exterior of the building. When I arrived there, I was greeted by highly trained and professional staff explaining that they were holding a “trial opening” and even though the exhibit halls were still off limits, I was welcome to have a guided tour of the building! The cherry on the top of this whole trip!
My personal take, based on passing insider comments, is that they are hoping for the Rosetta Stone and the Bust of Nefertiti to come home before the grand opening, hence the unclear dates. The odds are low, but I sincerely hope it happens. Egypt lacking a proper place to store these treasures has now become an invalid excuse.
It was comical at first. The sight of the crowd by the entrance told me that I would not be having epiphanies or spiritual experiences.
And the guide said that if I wanted to go inside the Great Pyramid, I would have to pay an extra fee, climb a narrow and steep incline that could cause claustrophobia, and see nothing inside.
I paid the fee. Being inside the Great Pyramid is not nothing!
So there I was climbing the steep incline when I noticed figures of a family of three ahead of me. The father muttered, “Kapoya man diay ani! Ta-as pa ni? Mao ra ni makita?”
Bisaya! Inside the Great Pyramid!
Amused and extremely happy to be hearing Binisaya for the first time in over two weeks, I laughed out loud and, even without seeing their faces in the dark, called out to the mom a few feet away from me, “Bisaya diay mo Ma’am? Ako pud! Grabe jud ang Bisaya kay mag-abot bisa’g sulod sa pyramid!” And we laughed our heads off while sweating profusely.
When we finally arrived at the King’s Chamber, instead of having a life-changing experience amidst the rose granite especially chosen for the chamber — the heaviest stones used in the entire pyramid, I acted as photographer for my new friends.
The way out took longer because more people were entering by the time. As I exited back into the glaring sun, the guide was waiting for me. He asked me how it went and I told him I did not regret going in.
He drew my attention to the limestones of the pyramid. (The smooth outer layer, which was granite from Aswan did not erode through time. They were removed, stolen, and used for other structures by succeeding generations.) He then pointed at several fossils in the limestone. “What does that tell you?” He whispered.
The Pyramid of Khafre. The second largest pyramid in Giza next to the Great Pyramid of Khufu.
All at once a strong emotion took hold of me and I burst into tears. I tried to control myself but I couldn’t. The tears kept flowing. The truth that we don’t really know anything and all we can do is speculate, and the enormity of history was just so overwhelming to me at that moment.
These stones, stacked perfectly on top of each other by who knows who, who knows how, and who knows why… these stones speak to you in a different language. These stones do something to you.
It was surreal to have this view from my hotel bedroom and its roof deck.
Reviewing the photos that the guide took of me during the Saqqara-Memphis-Giza Plateau Tour, I find that at the Great Sphinx of Giza, there is a photo of me grimacing, another one of me rolling my eyes, and another one of me doing a hair flip. Apparently, he kept clicking while I was lightly arguing with him. He was insisting that I do the touristy pose of kissing the Sphinx. I did not, and this set of hilarious photos that will not do justice to the grandeur of the Sphinx is my punishment for not cooperating.
Instead, here is a decent photo of me with the alabaster Sphinx of Memphis. It is so much smaller than the Great Sphinx but it is an elegant and well-preserved remnant of what was once one of the greatest cities of the ancient world. This strategic city at the mouth of the Nile Delta marked the boundary between Upper and Lower Egypt.
Today, dogs nap lazily under the shade of trees and ruins, seeking shelter from the fierce noonday sun, and very much oblivious to the historical richness of the soil on which they lay.
Memphis was believed to be under the protection of the Egyptian god Ptah, the patron of craftsmen. Nothing much is left of the city save some of its artists’ best crafts.
In many places where nothing of political power and might is left, traces of art remain.
The greatest pharaohs knew that they would not live for hundreds or thousands of years in this world; and therefore needed art and architecture… knowing they wouldn’t… and so that they could.
For now, let’s set aside the magical fact that the crescent moon was directly above the pyramids on my first night in Giza; that the place I booked has a roof deck with a view of the pyramids; and the surreality of the pyramids being right there before my eyes the whole time…
Set that aside and raise your hands if, like me, one of the things you looked forward to at the height of the pandemic was the premiere of Secrets of the Saqqara Tomb on Netflix!
Lugging overweight eyebags with me from a restless night on a bus from Luxor to Giza, I booked a day tour to Saqqara, Memphis, and the Pyramids of Giza.
Saqqara is a treasure trove! Until now they continue to unearth new findings from the site. If not for limited time, I would prefer to spend at least three days exploring Saqqara alone!
What seems to be a pixelated image of a building is the entrance to the complex, followed by a colonnade made of limestone that pre-dates Doric columns by thousands of years and believed to be its predecessor. The end of the colonnade opens to the Pyramid of Djoser, the oldest pyramid in the world, designed by Djoser’s architect, Imhotep, circa 2630 BCE. By stacking six “mastabas” of diminishing size on top of each other, he created the first step pyramid.
Entombed in Saqqara are kings and noblemen from the first dynasty up to the Ptolemaic period. What differentiates the bas reliefs here from those in the previous tombs I’ve seen are the daily life depictions: There is one of a butcher, a birthing scene, and even a circumcision scene! Details abound! I could hardly believe that I was walking into the documentary that had provided me with so much wonder during the darkest times of the lockdown.
Displaying the souvenir eyebags from the overnight bus from Luxor to Giza.
A podcast episode that I listened to around the same time I watched the documentary pointed out that Cleopatra’s era is closer to the invention of the iPhone than it is to the construction of the pyramids of Giza. It still blows my mind. When dates are mere numbers written on a page, the breadth of history’s timeline cannot be fully grasped until such a comparison is made. The novelists made those epochs come alive for me, but to be here… to be here is entirely something else.
The Pyramid of Djoser. The oldest step pyramid in the world.
Based on the rising and the setting of the sun, the pharaohs built their homes and places of worship on the east bank and their tombs and mortuary temples on the west bank of the Nile. From the Old Kingdom pharaohs who had pyramids constructed without inscriptions inside their tombs, to the New Kingdom pharaohs who preferred elaborately decorated rock-cut tombs in the Valley of the Kings, the same pattern is followed.
My excursion to the west bank of what once was ancient Thebes began with the grand Mortuary Temple of Hatshepsut that was exploding with sunlight by the time I arrived. At the time it was built, Egyptian architects and artists were believed to be in a phase of reinterpreting the traditional forms of architecture. The temple is said to be an exemplification of this particular period of artistic revolution, and is considered to be one of the architectural wonders of the ancient world.
I was already overflowing with thoughts and impressions by the time I proceeded to the shadowy depths of the Valley of the Kings. By the time I finished visiting the tomb of Seti I, one of the most beautiful tombs in the valley; Tutankhamun’s, whose tomb still contains and displays his mummy; and the tombs of the Ramesseses, I was already feeling a sensory overload. But at the same time, hushed. Thoughts of life and death, light and dark. Egypt does this to you so beautifully.
The Book-Butterfly 