It all started with a meal.

Eating together, I once heard a wise old priest declare, is one of the most intimate activities humans can share. After all, eating is a basic human function; we must all eat to live.

Because of this, all cultures have developed rituals surrounding eating. One such tradition in Arab culture involves eating a meal with one who did you wrong. The shared meal signifies the consummation of sulha, the tradition of conflict resolution.

We came not as enemies seeking reconciliation but as guests – hospitality being another hallmark of Arab culture.

The venue for the meal was humble; it was the home of a Christian family in Syria’s lush Wadi al-Nasara, or Valley of the Christians.

Walking up the stairs to the main living area, we were ushered through a light blue door into what was for the occasion turned into the dining room. The room itself was decently sized; I guessed that it was the largest room in the house. The walls were comprised of sterile, cracked concrete on which were sparsely hung images of the Virgin Mary and the Last Supper.

The centerpiece was a long table upon which was a large feast – all manner of dishes, from nuts to hummus and bread to salads and even French fries were practically overflowing. The lace tablecloth and white and amber plates may not have been of highest quality, but they offered a colorful and textural backdrop to the generous meal before us. Not even in the fanciest restaurants in the largest cities in the world could you have asked for a more heartwarming – and evidently lovingly prepared – dining experience.

Between large helpings of rice and spinach stew, I grazed continuously on the bottomless supply of dried pita chips. For variety I occasionally consumed freshly made French fries. Not a traditional Arab dish, for sure, but one that was clearly specially prepared with the guest in mind to remind us of home.

Our hostess and chef was the middle-aged matriarch of the home. Her hair, pulled back, was thick and dark, her face heavily creased. She was warm, friendly, and inviting. Her toothless grin, however, belied a harrowing past.

We had learned her story before meeting her. During Assad’s rule, soldiers came one day and took away her husband and several other men of the village. They were never heard from again. She travelled to Damascus to learn her husband’s fate and was rewarded with stay in an Assad prison that stole several years of her life. What she suffered there, we do not know and dared not ask. She was eventually released for unknown reasons, returned to her village, and reunited with her children.

Despite the language barrier, she introduced us to her children and other relatives. Word was evidently getting around the village that foreigners were in town, and soon we were being introduced a host of people whose names and relationships I lost track of.

Our bellies full, a few of our group expressed a desire to smoke some hookah, to which the villagers enthusiastically agreed.

We were taken outside to sit in a clearing among the citrus groves. I declined the hookah but eagerly consumed the biscuits being circulated. Foreigners and villagers sat together without being able to communicate with each other, but language was no obstacle to relaxation and bonding.

My wanderlust soon took over and I went off exploring the citrus groves on my own. It was unexpected to see such greenery and fruit in Syria; in my mind, Syria was a land of impassive desert. But my exploration was cut short as I was summoned back as we headed to our next stop.

—

Villagers and guests piled into the bus for the 30-second ride to the winery.

It would be more fair to call it a micro-winery. Unlike the larger, more commercial wineries I’d seen in Europe and the U.S., this winery was comprised of a single, small stone building.

We gathered at the entrance as the winemaker met us and led us into the cramped production space. Speaking excellent English, he proudly explained the production process. His passion for the art of winemaking was as palpable as the sweetness of the blue wine he produced.

Soon we got to taste the blue wine that the winery is famous for. We gathered in the adjacent tasting room where a variety of red, white, and blue wines were brought for our enjoyment, along with several snacks.

I was handed a glass of blue wine. Holding it up to the natural light best showcased its bright, almost unnatural color. The wine, however, is completely natural. I didn’t catch the full explanation, but apparently the method to create the blue color involves the skins of the grapes. It had taken many years – and countless failures – before the technique was perfected.

Preferring my wine as dry as possible, I took only a couple of sips of the sweet blue wine before exchanging it for a glass of white.  

Relaxing into our seats and with the wine loosening our tongues, we asked the winemaker endless questions about his wine and business. But now and again our sense of tranquility was intruded upon by reminders of where we really were.

“What are your hopes for the future of the winery?” we asked.

A cloud passed over the winemaker’s face. His eyes lowered slightly as he stared into painful memories.

“First we need safety.”

As it turned out, this place was not the original location of the winery. The first winery was located in a village several miles away, but threats by rebel forces during the Syrian Civil War compelled it to relocate here.

Realizing that it was far too nice a day to be sitting inside, we moved the party to the tree-covered outdoor space. As we sat beneath the shade, sipping wine, relaxing on the wooden benches, gazing upon the rustic little winery, one of my companions and I remarked how it felt like we were enjoying an afternoon in Italy or Greece.

But we were in Syria. And with the new government, comprised predominantly of former Islamic rebel fighters, in place, I wondered how long scenes like this would last.

My dark thoughts, however, were soon interrupted by a piercing noise. Coming up the pathway were a pair of musicians, one banging a drum, the other playing the mizmar, a traditional wind instrument that produces a rather shrill sound.

“The party’s here!” our guide exclaimed.

Obeying the call of the melody, the villagers collectively rose up, formed a circle, and began to dance. Our group was invited to join in, which most eagerly did. I remained on the sidelines and watched as villagers and foreigners joined hands, kicking the air with their feet and bouncing to the rhythm of the music.

The dancing lasted for hours. Once in a while someone would stop to take a break, but the dancing continued. The music was lively and everyone was in high spirits. From time to time, the women would ululate, their tongues moving rapidly and producing a high-pitched noise that, in Middle Eastern culture, accompanies a joyous celebration.

The light was fading, and still the dancing raged on. It took a long while, but my resistance had finally worn down and I soon found myself taking my place in the circle, hands pumping the air, spinning with my new friends, partaking in the festivities.

We were locals and visitors from across the globe, with nothing in common save for our humanity. By any reasonable measure, we should not be here, together, smiling, laughing, and dancing in a land ravaged by conflict and division. Yet here we were.

War cannot break the human spirit. Even amidst chaos, we can find cause for celebration.

Check my guide How to Visit Syria to learn more about visiting this stunning country.