Morgabriel

There are rocks everywhere - rough rocks full of holes and rounded crevices, covered with dried moss and mildew or broken by dry thorn bushes. They are sitting in creamy brown soil, the kind that wraps itself around your boots and won't let go. In between the rocks are small trees, leafy enough for a goat to chew on, but not to give anything you could really call shade. That's all there is for miles - hills of it, until they turn to the snowcapped mountains in the north.

Morgabriel Monastyr stands in the midst of all this, just as it has stood for the past 1600 years. A 6 metre wall surrounds the compound. Inside, a tree-lined alley leads to the heart of the monastery. Small birds flutter through the pines, chirping brightly. A crisp north wind carries the faint fragrance of the trees.

At the entrance I am met by Zakariah and his little brother Gabriel. He takes me into the compound, hardly saying a word. In the 5thC church, the alter is a cluttered enclave: books, eucharist, a cross. Before the altar stands a dias with the biggest bible I'd ever seen. The cover is sculpted entirely from silver. I am next taken to the old basilica, a chorus of jackhammers and drills accompanying my entrance. A single crate at the top of the round dome is the only source of natural light. The catacombs are all unmarked. Before the entrance, one of the bishop's graves. St. Simon's tomb sicks out of the thin plaster floor that sounds strangely hollow. The new curch is covered with murals, probably painted some time in the 1960s.

On the way out, we pass one of the priests - great silver beard, black robes. He nods lightly.

In the desert I meet three things. First, a herd of hairy goats, eating their way through everything. Second, a Turkish man with a backpack trekking to the monastery. Lastly, a Kurdish woman leading a donkey - red head scarf, a purple and green double layered dress.

I sit by the side of the road, counting the oil cisterns speeding in from Iraq. Finally, a bus comes.