Rev. George Varughese (Shaji Karackal)
Maaloula, Syria: Perched on the rugged cliffs of Syria’s Qalamoun Mountains, about 56 kilometers northeast of Damascus, the ancient village of Maaloula clings to existence like the rock-hewn monasteries that define its skyline. Home to some of the last fluent speakers of Western Neo-Aramaic—the everyday language believed to have been spoken by Jesus Christ—Maaloula has endured centuries of change, but the scars of Syria’s civil war and its aftermath threaten to silence what remains of this sacred tongue.The village, whose name means “entrance” or “gateway” in Aramaic, has long been a living museum of biblical heritage. Narrow stone paths wind between houses built into the mountainside, where residents—once numbering several thousand, now far fewer—still greet one another with “Shlomo” (peace) and converse in phrases echoing the time of Christ. Aramaic phrases like “Talitha koum” (“Little girl, arise,” from Mark 5:41) or the cry “Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani” (“My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” from Mark 15:34) feel immediate here, preserved not in dusty texts but in daily life.Yet Maaloula’s story is one of profound loss. During the height of Syria’s civil war in 2013–2014, rebel groups including al-Nusra Front affiliates overran parts of the town, leading to fierce battles, the kidnapping of nuns from the Convent of Saint Thecla, widespread destruction of churches and homes, and the flight of most residents. Bullet-riddled walls, collapsed roofs, and looted artifacts still mark the landscape, even after government forces recaptured the area. The fall of the Assad regime in late 2024 brought new uncertainties under transitional authorities, with reports of lingering instability, emigration, and fears among the Christian minority.Today, the population has dwindled dramatically due to displacement, economic hardship, and the pull of safer opportunities abroad. Aramaic, once passed naturally from parents to children, is spoken fluently by fewer people—mostly older generations—while younger residents increasingly default to Arabic amid modernization and diaspora influences.Despite the devastation, determination runs deep. Residents and local clergy are actively working to rebuild: restoring monasteries like Saint Sergius (with its ancient icons and frescoes) and Saint Thecla (built around a sacred cave), repairing homes, and reviving cultural practices. Informal efforts include teaching Aramaic at home, in small community classes, and through church services that use classical forms of the language. Organizations inspired by Maaloula’s heritage, such as local initiatives to document and teach the dialect, aim to stem the tide of extinction.Photographer Ryan Biller’s images capture this resilience: the golden light on cliffside convents, elders sharing stories in Aramaic over tea, children learning phrases amid rubble-strewn streets. The village remains a mixed community—roughly half Christian, half Sunni Muslim—where interfaith ties have historically endured, even through conflict.In an era of rapid cultural loss, Maaloula stands as a poignant symbol. Its fight is not just for a language but for a direct link to the words Jesus spoke, preserved against war, emigration, and time itself. As one resident told Biller, “Aramaic lives in our mouths, not just our books. If we stop speaking it, a piece of history—and faith—dies with us.”
