Susa

On top of a snowy plateau stands a city. In the middle, white on white, a brand new cathedral. The inside is almost completely bare. The only worshippers, a group of monks saying mass for themselves. Their singing is discordant, just like the sight of the cathedral - unblemished, yet somehow wrong, grating against the surrounding space.

Soviet-era high rises tower around the cathedral and upon the surrounding hills. Most of them are derelict, bombed-out, burnt-out hulks. In some of them people are still trying to somehow make a living - plastic sheets for windows, metal pipes poking through as improptu chimneys for improptu wood-fired stoves. The empty hulks still provide a source of sustenance - a former window frame, a broken door - anything will do as firewood.

A mosque stands down the hill from the cathedral. From the outside it is quite pretty - an old
Persian design. Inside, everything has been stripped bare. It's strangely quiet in the surrounding streets. A few dogs scavange food from piles of rubbish. They shuffle into the shadows when I approach. We come to a shop. Inside, everything seems normal - the usual variety of food and other daily supplies. The people inside are cautious, reserved, but not unfriendly.

In the central square, a soviet era statue sits on a bench, a contented look on the worker's face. It seems that it's all that remains of the tolerance and coexistance that was once Susa's claim to fame.