At a small bus station in northern Damascus, a handful of old men load a worn-out bus with food supplies and large wooden planks. Once the required quota of passengers is met, the driver starts the engine, which rumbles out clouds of smoke. After three-quarters of an hour of the vehicle strenuously puffing its way up the Qalamoun mountains, it stops at Basateen Square, located in the heart of Maaloula. Nestled amid towering cliffs 4,500 feet above sea level, the village is one of the last Christian strongholds in Syria.

It is also one of the last places in the world where Aramaic, the language spoken by Jesus Christ, is still spoken ? sort of.

?In reality, the locals speak Western Neo-Aramaic. It?s hard to think there is a continuity with the language Jesus spoke, as it is a dialect that developed after his time, emerging during the Kingdom of Osroene,? explains Dominique Gonnet, a founding member of the Paris-based Syriac Studies Society and a researcher specializing in Hebrew and Aramaic. Osroene was a Mesopotamian kingdom that lasted into the third century.

While the language is not exactly the same as that spoken by Jesus, ?it is clearly the closest thing to it in our modern world,? confirms Gonnet. In Maaloula, as well as in two neighboring villages, Jabadeen and Bakha, Aramaic is spoken daily by a portion of the population.

On this April morning, a few village elders chat while sitting on benches against the shutters of a closed grocery store. A few yards away, Ryad Wehbi runs a small shop selling electronics, hygiene products and school supplies. Dressed in a black Adidas jacket, the man with a salt-and-pepper beard answers one of the few calls that still come through on his old, burgundy-colored landline. He hangs up when a customer cracks open the door of the shop. Familiarly Semitic notes fill the room during this brief conversation, although it?s impossible to decipher what is being said. Only 10 minutes after arriving at Wehbi?s shop, we realize we are hearing Aramaic for the first time.

?We use the language all the time, in meetings, in shops. Someone will speak to me in Arabic, and I respond in Aramaic. If I?m used to speaking to someone in Aramaic, we don?t speak Arabic together. Some people might not speak it, they understand me just fine,? Wehbi says. Within the hour, four or five customers stop by his shop. The majority speak to him in Aramaic.

In the village, where one-third of the population is Christian and two-thirds are Sunni Muslim, several families have preserved the language as their primary means of communication. While some Muslims know how to speak Aramaic, most speakers in Maaloula are Christian. In the Wehbi household, Arabic is not used for communication ? its use is reserved for interactions outside the home.

?Our parents and grandparents spoke Aramaic, it?s always been passed down from generation to generation. Maaloula was a very difficult village to access in the past. I?m talking about 100 years ago. Nobody left, and few arrived from outside. That?s how the language was preserved and how the heritage was passed down,? explains the head of the Wehbi family.

This living cultural treasure is now threatened with extinction. Over the past 15 years, the war in Syria has had a significant impact on the village. In 2013, its capture by fighters from the Nusra Front, the Syrian branch of al Qaeda at the time, and the kidnapping of 12 nuns from a convent in the village left a lasting mark on the community. ?Everyone fled the town for at least nine months during the battle in 2013, outside to Damascus or Beirut or all over. There was no one in Maaloula,? Wehbi recalls.

After several months of fighting, the village was eventually recaptured by government forces supported by the Lebanese Shiite militia Hezbollah. The scars are still evident. Blown-out minarets still protrude from the town?s skyline, sitting next to burned-out churches. Many homes are still in ruins, their owners having never returned. ?There was a lot of destruction everywhere. We are slowly trying to rebuild, but it?s been 11 years, and there is still a lot of destruction,? Wehbi sighs.

He speaks with bitterness. He regrets the damage the village suffered during the war and struggles to understand the reasons behind it, even adopting an accusatory tone.

?Relations between Sunnis and Christians have deteriorated. Some Sunnis aligned themselves with Salafi groups,? he says. ?In Maaloula, there wasn?t much happening ? the town is tiny, with no army presence, nothing that would justify an attack. But some people chose to join armed factions ? whether it was the Free Syrian Army or Jabhat al-Nusra ? and that?s what led to the destruction of Maaloula.?

The scars of war are etched not only into the walls of homes but also into the minds of the residents. The fall of Bashar al-Assad and the rise to power of Ahmad al-Sharaa ? who founded the Nusra Front (or ?Jabhat al-Nusra? in Arabic) in 2012 ? offer no reassurance to Wehbi, who fears for the safety of his village.

?The situation in Syria after the fall of the Assad regime has only worsened ? both economically and in terms of security. From the Christian perspective, no one is reaching out to include us. There are no guarantees for our future with the rise of takfiri and Wahhabi groups. Just look at what happened to the Alawites on the coast,? he says, referring to the killing of members of the religious group in March.

This fear, echoed by several residents, emerges as yet another reason to leave Maaloula. While few have made concrete plans to depart, even a minor incident could be enough to convince some to abandon the mountains. And with every departure, Maaloula grows a little more deserted, bringing the Aramaic language ever closer to extinction.

While Wehbi?s outlook is far from optimistic, a short walk up from the lower part of the village offers an even clearer sense of the bitterness he feels about the recent history of Maaloula.

Perched atop a cliff, the Safir Hotel overlooks Maaloula. Its four stars still cling precariously to its blasted remains, an unfortunate reminder of the town?s former fortunes, when the hotel hosted tourists and pilgrims from across the globe. Bullet and shell impacts are part of the scenery, as are the charred remnants of a car abandoned at the entrance to the complex. A few old administrative binders dating back to 2011 are scattered among the rubble on the ground floor. Only an old caretaker wanders through the former hotel, tasked with protecting the telecom antenna that sits atop the ruins from thieves who will likely never come.

A few tourists who venture to Maaloula occasionally stop by when visiting the nearby St. Sarkis and St. Bacchus Monastery, located just a stone?s throw from the Safir. Built around the fifth century, it houses some of the oldest religious icons in the world. Inside, Father Fadi Barkil presides over the Sunday Mass. He emphasizes the importance of Aramaic in Christianity. ?Most of the Holy Bible was written in Aramaic originally ? in fact, seven of its books were written in this language.?

However, even within the church, traditions have been lost over time. ?In the past, I was performing Mass in Aramaic, but now we don?t do that anymore. We perform Mass in Arabic because it?s easier to do it in a relaxed way,? he admits, wearing his long black robe. This is because of the dwindling number of speakers, along with fewer believers.

?Our population has decreased from 10,000 to less than 1,000,? the priest laments before continuing. ?Possibly more and more people will continue to leave, so slowly, Maaloula will decline and go.?

Although the war, which caused a massive exodus of villagers, has ended, the outflow of people has not stopped. Young people often leave the village once they?ve completed their high school diploma. Many go on to study at universities in Damascus before continuing their studies abroad.

Charbel Kalloumah left to study in Damascus at the age of 18 in 2017. Since last September, he has lived in Budapest, where he is pursuing a master?s degree in computer science with a specialization in artificial intelligence. ?There are no jobs in my field there, and it?s become very difficult to imagine a future in the village. Today, transportation is scarce, electricity is lacking and the security situation worries many young people,? he says.

Before the war, Maaloula could still count on a vibrant tourism industry: 200,000 visitors in 2010 compared to just 6,000 last year. ?A lot of young people have deserted the village since there are no more tourists,? Kalloumah adds.

In Hungary, he lives with his brother, Issam, who is two years older. Together, they speak Aramaic. This allows them to keep the language alive in their daily lives, where English has taken on an important role. Like the Wehbi family, the two brothers grew up in a household that spoke Aramaic. ?This language is our identity, but beyond that, it?s also part of Syrian history, our region and our traditions,? says the young engineer.

Still, Kalloumah is aware that he is likely part of one of the last generations to speak this ancient language. He strives to get a few Aramaic words out of his 5-year-old cousin, the youngest in the family, but the rest of his relatives have already lost this oral tradition and speak only in Arabic.

?Honestly, it?s a huge worry for me that the language may eventually die out. I hope we can keep it alive for as long as possible, but it doesn?t seem to be going well, and that makes me very sad,? Kalloumah admits over the phone.

The young expatriate student still has a handful of friends who have stayed in the village, including 28-year-old Tony Muealam. He learned the language through school friends, since his family doesn?t speak it. Together, they run a small cafeteria situated between the Safir Hotel and the St. Sarkis and St. Bacchus Monastery. As he does every morning, Muealam chats with his friends from the village in a small shop adjacent to the family business. ?My friends are all older than 40,? he laughs.

When he?s not working with his relatives, Muealam heads to the land his family cultivates. ?I also make wine, arak and even zaatar. People in Maaloula survive by working multiple jobs.? A land of farmers, the village is suffering greatly from the economic crisis strangling the Syrian population. ?Life is expensive here, especially in winter when it?s cold. Electricity and heating costs are high ? someone can spend up to 2 million lira [around $160] just on fuel. Meanwhile, average wages are around 1.5 million, and for government employees, it can be as low as 500,000 to 600,000.?

Agriculture and livestock, which sustained the village for thousands of years, no longer provide a sufficient income for the villagers. The tourists who once gave Maaloula an economic boost have also almost disappeared. Many residents, not just the young, have decided to leave the village in search of better job opportunities, and the situation does not seem likely to improve.

?To be honest, the future doesn?t look good. Maaloula feels almost empty, there are barely any job opportunities. If someone gets married and has kids, there just aren?t enough resources to raise them here. Maybe one or two couples get married in a whole year, and only a handful of children are born. Some years, not even five. It?s really bad. I don?t think life, schools or any real future will remain in this place,? he says.

Muealam himself is engaged and hopes to have children with his fiancee. Beyond all the reasons he listed, one stands most in the way of imagining a future in the village.

?Of course we want to have children, but only if we can stay here. I worry about safety. If I ever decide to leave, it will be because of the security situation. The lack of general security really frightens us,? he admits ? echoing the concerns of Wehbi, his neighbor down in the village.

Like the village, which is slowly dying, Aramaic is gradually disappearing. The language is now just practiced orally. Few people can decipher its symbols from a bygone era. In 2007, Georges Ruzqalla, the last remaining teacher at the Aramaic Language Institute, developed a new alphabet for Western Neo-Aramaic to help the villagers relearn how to read and write their language. Deemed too similar to Hebrew, it was banned by the government after a virulent media campaign in 2010. Ruzqalla continued to teach the language using other alphabets, such as Syriac, Arabic or Latin. Since his death in 2021, no one has taught at the institute.

Yet in Maaloula, when it comes to expertise on Aramaic, there is one name on everyone?s lips: Georges Zaarour. In the winding, hilly alleyways of the old village, perched on the side of a cliff, a large white house with a long balcony overlooks the valley. This hidden aerie, almost impossible for visitors to find, is perhaps the last real sanctuary of Aramaic in the world. At 79, Zaarour walks with difficulty and has lost much of his hearing. One must raise one?s voice to be understood. But when it comes to Aramaic, a light sparkles in his eyes.

?I?ve been working on poetry and writing for 20 years without pause ? 27 written works in Aramaic ? and I haven?t received a single dollar for any of it. I write Aramaic using the Arabic script, nobody writes in Aramaic anymore,? he says.

In his living room, furnished with a dozen traditional sofas, religious icons adorn every wall of the room. On a small table placed under a window, Zaarour has pulled out a few books from his personal library, which contains about 1,500 volumes. Each translation work requires immense determination. Sometimes, he spends several years translating texts.

?I?m the only translator in the world. This language is 7,000 years old. I?m translating the holiest language there is, although it?s full of missing words and a weak vocabulary. Of course, it takes time and hard work,? says Zaarour, holding an old magnifying glass to help him read the ancient characters despite his declining eyesight.

A lover of the language, he insists that the Aramaic spoken in Maaloula is, in his view, closer to the original language, whereas the version spoken in Jabadeen and Bakha is more akin to the northeast Syrian dialect spoken during the time of the Kingdom of Osroene. While he speaks with passion, he is deeply concerned about its future.

?The younger generation speaks Arabic, and when they leave for university, they stop speaking Aramaic. In families that migrated before or during the war, the language has already faded. If things continue this way, Aramaic could be nearly gone within 10 years,? he worries.

To halt the fate that looms over Aramaic, Zaarour continues to teach a few young people from Maaloula and the surrounding villages. Every week, the village church is transformed into a classroom, and he imparts his knowledge to a handful of students.

?I will teach, read and write this language until the last moment of my life. I?ve given more than I ever thought possible. Now, what matters most is passing it on ? working with the new generations to preserve it, so it lives on from one to the next,? he concludes, his tone heavy with gravity and uncertainty.

But who among the new generation will carry the torch after what may be the last living guardian of the language of Christ?

Perhaps the answer lies with Rimon Wehbi. He is a 30-something native of Maaloula, and like many Syrians, now lives in Germany. Rimon is pursuing a doctorate in the study of Aramaic and its syntax. His expertise has given him a clear understanding of the urgency surrounding the language?s future.

?So far, no fluency test has been conducted to determine how many Maaloula Aramaic speakers are still there. However, from my research and my connections, I estimate that out of the 500 inhabitants still living in the village, fewer than 100 are fluent speakers, and around 100 to 200 speak broken Aramaic. The rest can?t speak it at all,? Rimon explains.

In response to this growing threat, Rimon has launched an organization, Yawna, with the mission of reviving Aramaic and preserving Maaloula?s cultural heritage. He has developed a curriculum to teach anyone interested in the language and offers online lessons to students from Maaloula and beyond.

If there is any hope left to save Aramaic for future generations, it rests on Rimon?s shoulders. Through Yawna, he is not just preserving a language but fighting to keep a culture alive, both in Maaloula and in the diaspora.

?If we can create enough educational resources, connect speakers virtually and encourage regular interaction in Aramaic, perhaps the language will survive,? says Rimon, his gaze fixed on a future he?s determined to shape.

The fate of an ancient language, once spoken by the prophets and revered by millions, may now hinge on a single individual and a small group of determined souls. Aramaic is more than just words, it is the lifeblood of a people and a civilization. Its survival depends not on destiny, but on the will of those who refuse to let it slip into oblivion. In the struggle to keep this language alive, Rimon is not just preserving history, he is standing between Aramaic and its extinction, a modern-day David fighting the Goliath of time and neglect. The battle, though difficult, is far from over. (News Lines Magazine)

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