A Church of Islam

The Syrian Calling of Father Paolo Dall'Oglio

Shaun O'Neill

• Publisher: Wipf and Stock
• Year: 2019
• ISBN:
  9781532667299
• Topic: Theology & Religion
• Subtopic: Theology

In the final decades of the last millennium, a Jesuit from Italy came across the ruins of an abandoned monastery in the Syrian Desert. It was to be the start of a forward-thinking Catholic religious community called Al-Khalil that would celebrate hospitality and friendship as its guiding pillars, bringing together Christians and Muslims from across the region during troubled times. Father Paolo Dall'Oglio and the interfaith dialogue he promoted in the monastic outpost of Deir Mar Musa near Damascus would attract people from all walks of life. The outbreak of war in 2011, powerful governmental and religious opposition, and the mysterious disappearance of the politically outspoken Father Paolo may have curtailed his work, but the progressive community he left behind continues to touch the lives of people across religious divides--within and outside Syria.In this pioneering work in English, part ethnographic study, part creative nonfiction narrative, Shaun O'Neill traces the life and legacy of the irrepressible Italian. He explores the importance of cross-religious understanding and moral leadership in an increasingly polarized world driven by religious and political fanaticism. It is a celebration of religious diversity against the odds and a fascinating glimpse into the character of Al-Khalil's bombastic, larger-than-life leader--Father Paolo Dall'Oglio.

Chapter 1: Tilling the Soil

Dusting off the small travel notebook that I had carried with me, I painstakingly try to decipher my hand-writing from that first visit to Mar Musa. Slowly, a more innocent Syria from yesteryear reveals itself.

First Impressions

Syria, February 2011.

They had kindly asked us if we wanted to stay. Even though we had met just hours earlier, it felt natural to accept. We look out over an endless moonlit desert plain that seems miles beneath us. We are the clouds which blow dark shapes across its pale surface. After the clamor of Damascus with a pre-dawn arrival that allowed us to catch a secret glimpse of that raucous, ancient, sprawl slowly waking up, the smell of freshly-baked man’oushe with a dusting of za’atar wafting through the crisp February air, the call of the muezzin from the towering minarets dizzying us with heady exoticism; here there is only the sound of the wind.

The monastery of Deir Mar Musa had been a recommendation from our pleasant, if overly chatty hostel owner who insisted it was a must-see. A sanctuary of dialogue between various faiths and cultures, a communal space of sharing and hospitality. We took a minibus to the town of Nebek and from there a share taxi dropped us to a dusty, exposed spot, beneath the rocky spires of the monastery where a few solitary goats eyeballed us curiously from the windswept verges of the road. The road was new. In the past a pilgrim needed to hike for several hours over the mountain from the neighboring village. The white sun blazed mercilessly—even in winter. It appeared as if steps had been chiseled into the mountain face, spiraling intimidatingly up hundreds of feet to the beginnings of some modest stone buildings that you could discern if you craned your neck skyward. To think of the place as a fort or a defensive structure of some kind seemed obvious. Later we found out that it had started life, many centuries earlier, as a Roman watchtower.

We were already becoming used to the imperious hospitality of Syrians during our first days wandering around the souqs and alleyways of central Damascus. “Welcome to Syria!” was the heartfelt refrain behind flashing iridescent smiles, so disarming that it was impossible not to be moved. One charming encounter after another, we smiled in turn, a little embarrassed but secretly proud of our new found fame. Syria’s infamous label as one of the “axis of evil” countries did little for its reputation as a tourist destination but hardly curbed local people’s enthusiasm. It was reason enough for us to ensure we left sixty minutes earlier for any appointment. They were fiercely inquisitive and we had lots of tea to drink together.

On entering the monastery that day, we were immediately greeted like returning pilgrims, and told where things were and what time lunch would be served etc. There was the reassuring hum of action. Both foreign and local young people were milling about industriously, doing various tasks in the garden, pruning trees, preparing food, cleaning, washing, organizing, chatting, singing. It was impressive. Amid the mania of activity, a sense of calm satisfaction imbued the place. We were introduced to the head monk, Fr. Paolo. His bulky frame was imposing, and this, in addition to his raspy Arabic, made him seem like a rather formidable figure. There was a no-nonsense air of efficiency about him. He spat out the language in haste, as if he couldn’t stand for the damned words to stay in his mouth a moment longer than necessary. He rolled and twisted them as they ejected violently from his lips. The deep gravelly sounds of his hyper-enunciated rolling vowels echoed off the surrounding rock like gun shots. “An unexpectedly large crowd today. Now it seems we don’t have enough meat for lunch! So be it. Blast. Lamb to the workers and rice for the visitors!” he barked unashamedly, before a generous meal was served up to everyone present, including those, like us, who had dropped by unannounced.

Fr. Paolo had rediscovered this place in the early eighties while studying in Damascus. The costly and lengthy refurbishment, undertaken over a seven-year-period, was his initiative and he had raised the funds himself. He was the seamless link between the Syrian government, local churches, and foreign NGOs,1 in ensuring the vast renovation project had enough money, ran smoothly, and was completed on time. The Vatican and Italian and Syrian governments had also invested in the restoration of the beautiful thirteenth-century frescoes that adorned the simple church that nestled deep in the cradle of Mar Musa’s amber mountains. We spent the rest of the afternoon exploring the labyrinthine corridors of the monastery with a child-like wonder. From the narrow western entrance where one must stoop upon entering, ancient stone chambers branched off, some leading to the small church and its rich frescoes with Arabic date inscriptions a thousand years old, others wound their way to a terrace perched precipitously on the cliff edge.

Later, as the inky blackness of a desert night sky fell on us without forewarning, we ate a small communal supper together—monks and nuns, workers, locals, tourists—and then shuffled in the darkness to our modest stone quarters. It was a silent world that was oddly reassuring. An enormous dome-shaped sky gradually appeared over our heads and the stars seemed close. Upon awakening in the blackness hours later, I desperately wished the toilets were as close as the stars had seemed earlier. Our little challenge involved lighting a candle in the dark, an accomplishment in itself, and then clambering up a makeshift ladder where a squat latrine had been hastily assembled. We had forgotten a torch. By now the moon had risen over the desert, banishing the stars’ bright eloquence. The spectacle of that gloaming half-light illuminatin...

Table of contents

• Title Page
• Foreword
• Acknowledgments
• Abbreviations
• Prologue
• Chapter 1: Tilling the Soil
• Chapter 2: Planting Seeds of Friendship
• Chapter 3: Al-Khalil’s Hospitality
• Chapter 4: Harvest
• Chapter 5: Brotherhood and Solidarity
• Conclusion
• Epilogue
• Current Situation Across the Community of Al-Khalil
• Bibliography