Chronical of a Trottinglobe

1,001 Knights

Along Syria’s Wadii Nasra ridge, the skyline is a battlefield. Thunderclaps jab their swords at the craggy 950-year-old silhouette of Krak De Chevaliers. Beneath the clouds, Krak De Chevaliers or Qual’at al-Hisn rises in defense, proud as one of the world’s largest military castles. Meaning the “Castle of Knights,” it earned its name when it headquartered the Knights Hospitaller and their herd of 2,000 horses.

My attention lingers briefly on the castle’s imposing walls, where window slits eye my quick step cautiously. After centuries of conquest, they distrust unannounced visitors. I slouch, ducking from their view.

My hunger from fasting for the Muslim holiday of Ramadan surmounts my fear, and I hurry towards a building in the castle’s shadow: a restaurant, my refuge. I open the door and force it shut against the wind. Inside, the walls wear crimson fabric and wooden tables sag under the weight of food. Crumbled tabbouleh, soft white labneh, crispy fattoush, and puffed pide invite temptation. Their steam hovers patiently. A line of friendly waiters greets me and waves me to a table at the far corner of the empty restaurant.

A cracked voice over the radio sings the final notes from prayer. I smother a cough. The smell of food is so thick its spices tickle the back of my throat. My stomach contorts in anticipation. Plucking a date from my dish, I wait for a signal that prayer has finished and Iftar, the breaking of the fast, begins. One of the waiters nods, and with relief I squeeze a date between my teeth.

As I reach for my first scoop of humus, the restaurant door bursts open. My hunger disappears. By the dozens, young men stream through the door. Their knee-high boots track in dirt, their black capes collapse upon entering the warm windless room. Swaggering to the tables, they push back their cloaks to expose slick leotards shimmering purple, red, green. Eyes are coated with black eyeliner; mouths are painted with hunger. Their hair smells like horses.

Filling every empty seat, the men don’t laugh or speak. Some twist their palms towards the sky in prayer and pause. Others snatch a pide, effortlessly glazing it with labneh, and stuffing it into their mouths.

In my corner I am hidden, stifling the urge to laugh, make eye contact, or question. The knights are not here to work, to talk, or to entertain. They are here to eat. Waiters dart between tables, stacking plates, keeping pace. I look to them for answers. Does this procession happen every day? Where did they come from? Who are these sequin and velvet clad Arabian Knights? My expression earns a nod and a pide refill.

Outside, the voluminous clouds bow to the Krak de Chevaliers, a gentleman’s close to a well-fought fight. Full from the feast, one by one, the knights begin to leave. Their silhouettes merge with the castle’s, working to keep a history of battles and banquets alive.