Cherchez la femme
A Detour to Aleppo: Hammam, Masseuses, and One Unforgettable Landing
"Come here!" echoed repeatedly and firmly through the misty hammam.
It was the only phrase that passed between the masseuses and us – the guests. And ... as you'll soon see, these words were more than enough.
2001 SYRIA ( before the WAR)
To set the scene: we were in the baths of ancient Aleppo, a city of artists and mystery. It was spring of 2001,
One evening, a group of Dutch and French women and I decided to try out the local ritual bath in town.
We had absolutely no idea what we were in for.
Upon arrival, we were handed towels, white gowns, and bars of olive soap. At the entrance, three masseuses sat quietly on a bench, dressed in black robes, their faces composed and serene. With subtle gestures they told us to wait, that soon we'd be part of the bathing ritual.
Women to the right — that was the direction for the female guests. We were wearing our white gowns.
Then naked, one by one we walked through huge doors into a steaming, fog-filled chamber.
The decor, barely visible through the haze, suggested turquoise-and-green mosaics across walls and floor. The space was round; four smaller circular rooms branched off.
Then, from one of them, came the decisive: "Come here!"
Through the steam emerged the first masseuse – fully nude, her figure unmistakable. (Yes, the black robes truly disguised nothing once you entered.)
Her two equally ample colleagues stood in the main circle prepping: buckets, scrubbing cloths, the works.
After about fifteen minutes of heat and sweat, we were summoned for the massage.
Manufacturing began.
The first in line was "Venus of Willendorf" (we called her that). She stood by a huge barrel of cold water, ladle in hand, her olive soap ready. One by one she poured water over our heads and scrubbed our hair like a fairy-tale stepmother combing tangled locks — harshly enough to feel. And while she worked, her breasts swayed wildly side to side, so much so we worried they might fling her into another room.
The second masseuse massaged the upper half of our bodies, the third the lower. Who twisted where, I no longer recall — perhaps it did wonders for our joints though.
We Western women didn't protest. We let ourselves drift in the whirl of events, completely out of our control.
Since we were the last group of the day, the masseuses decided to go all out.
Once we were massaged enough that we lost track of where one body part ended and another began, they started singing. Fingers snapped to the rhythm of an Arabic melody. Before we knew, belly dances in the steam.
No "Shall we dance ?" — just another "Come here!"
And we joined in. Refusal was not an option.
The climax was absurdly theatrical. One of the masseuses poured a bucket of soapy water onto the floor. Venus of Willendorf sprinted and landed on both breasts, legs high like a Boeing 747. She slid across the floor runway-like — maybe ten meters — before landing feet-first and coming to a stop. The entire hammam responded: finger-snapping, accelerated rhythm, applause — a runway full of landings, flights from North to South and back.
These landings — I will remember them for a long time.
We closed the event with a final collective belly dance. And just like that, it ended as suddenly as it began.
That last "Come here!" guided us back to the changing rooms.
At the hammam exit we saw the three robes in black again, sitting quietly on the bench.
As if nothing had happened.
But that Mona Lisa‑smile on their faces gave us certainty: these were our masseuses.
It was meant to stay a secret. Arab women know well what they are doing.
But I was foolish enough to tell my husband about it.
Since then… every time he's in a Muslim country, he can't rest.
At every veiled woman he sees, his mind replays that runway, that flight — South to North, North to South…
And I ask you:
Do you believe that women this passionate really must be veiled?
