Tomas, the Camino Templar

To many, Tomas de Paz was a mercurial figure on the Camino. He seemed to belong to an another era, a time and place where ceremony, brotherhood and service to others were values to be lived and honored.

His passing brought back memories of my own time with him, and the role he played in encouraging me to walk to Jerusalem for peace. Below is a story that I wrote many years ago, and that I share with great appreciation for his presence at that moment in my life.

His light always shone bright, and I am sure that it continues to do.

Buen camino, peregrino de la paz!

Mony in Manjarin, Camino de Santiago

I arrived in Murias de Rechivaldo, hot and tired from the day’s long walk. I’m not sure why I didn’t stay in Astorga, a must on every pilgrim’s itinerary, four kilometers back. My feet seemed to have a life of their own, carrying me forward as my mind replayed words I had overheard only days earlier:

“Every individual on a journey of personal transformation must walk three paths.

On the Camino to Santiago de Compostela, you walk the Way of the Sword, battling your personal demons and claiming your courage.

On the Way of the Heart, you walk to Rome, exploring the meaning of love in all its facets, from the human to the Divine.

Finally, on the Way of the Soul, you walk to Jerusalem, towards the most sacred within you, to touch its brilliance and offer its gifts to the world.”

Steps that were now leading me to Santiago began to hint at steps long forgotten that led to more ancient lands. The mere mention of Jerusalem − Yeru Shalom, City of Peace − stirred my imagination. Perhaps it was my Lebanese roots, or the soul connection I longed for, or the peace my heart craved; but at that moment Jerusalem and the promises she held conjured a powerful elixir that began to magnetically draw me to her.

The statues of two eagles – my totem – greeted my arrival at the Murias municipal albergue, adding to my anticipation. The place was modest, and offered the magnificent gift of a single bed, not a bunk bed, upon which I triumphantly placed my sleeping bag. By evening, every space was taken.

I settled into my bed, and began my daily ritual of updating my diary, trying once again to bring order to the latest round of emotions and stirrings that the word Jerusalem had wrought. I looked up, and noticed a man standing in the doorway of the albergue, casually glancing about. He appeared to be in his fifties, with salt and pepper hair and beard. He wore thick, dark-rimmed glasses and sported white pants with a matching waist-length tunic. An air of the eccentric hovered about him.

I smiled at the array of characters that made up the pilgrims I was meeting on this Camino, and continued writing. When I chanced to again look up, the man was standing by my bedside. He smiled at me with affection and spoke in a rapid-fire Spanish I could not understand. I returned his smile and nodded, not so much at the words spoken, but at the feeling of care and encouragement he transmitted.

In the setting sun, a ray of light momentarily flashed off a large medallion that hung around his neck. In that flicker, I saw emblazoned one word: Jerusalem.

Every hair on my body stood on end, but before I could react or find a way to communicate with him, my mystery man moved on to other people in the albergue and left soon after.

I leaned back in my bed, trembling.

Who was that man? Why did he come straight to me? And that medallion – what does it mean? Surely, he is a connection to my Jerusalem omen. I must find him.

Those were the only thoughts that accompanied me the following days, as I moved higher into the mountains of Galicia. I passed Foncebadon and the iconic Cruz de Ferro, and was rounding a corner on that majestic day when, suddenly, the sound of classical music filled the air. I stopped, just to make sure I wasn’t hearing things. This was, after all, the Camino and all manner of the unexpected was to be expected. The music played on and as I continued ahead, I began to make out the occasional toll of a bell. I hurried my steps.

Around a bend and down the hill I rushed until I found the source of all those sounds: a hobbled-together shelter bustling with pilgrims, sharing space with white geese wholly unperturbed by their presence. A hand-painted sign indicated that I was a mere 222 kilometers from Santiago, 2475 kilometers from Rome, and, to my shock, 5000 kilometers from Jerusalem.

Finally, I saw him. My mystery man, dressed in white pants, a white tunic with a large Crusader-like cross stitched across the chest and a flowing white cape, and wielding a sword.

I was in Manjarin, and the enigmatic man was Tomas, the Knight Templar who ran this shelter for pilgrims.

With barely-contained enthusiasm, I approached Tomas to introduce myself; but he hurried past me, leading a small group of pilgrims to a large, wooden cross near the entrance. I wasn’t sure what was happening, but joined the small group that now enfolded him. He spoke in solemn, confident tones, and with the few words that I recognized – ángeles, paz, Jerusalén – understood that he was praying for peace in Jerusalem. Tears filled my eyes. I had found my next steps.

But Tomas left shortly after and never returned, leaving me alone with the million questions that I had for him. With no other option but to walk, I continued towards Santiago, knowing that Tomas held the answers to my quest and that I would somehow find a way to connect with him.

I finished my Camino a few weeks later in Finisterre, more confident than ever in the signs that were leading me to walk the Way of the Soul. Determined to get my answers, I decided to return to Manjarin to work as a hospitalera, serving the pilgrims on their journeys, and to build my Spanish in an attempt to communicate with the mercurial Tomas.

Tomas gave me a knowing smile when he saw me and, in his warm embrace, only said that he was expecting me.

The days and nights passed quickly. The rustic setting, with no electricity, toilets or running water was challenging, but I found pleasure in the simplicity of welcoming pilgrims, making conversation, and helping to prepare and clean up the morning and evening meals. It was physically tiring because of the large number of pilgrims in August, and emotionally intense.

At the daily prayers that Tomas held, I would often find myself weeping, my fears of walking alone to Jerusalem completely overwhelming me. Tomas would continually come over and reassure me, telling me to have faith and courage for the journey ahead. He encouraged me to meditate in the energy circle he had on the property, and to gather my strength. I did just that and, along with my yoga, found myself receptive in ways that I had never been before.

One day, Tomas asked me to help him with the new cape he had received, as he was having difficulty tying the knot around his neck. Standing before the wall-sized print of a Templar Knight praying before the city of Jerusalem, and preparing Tomas for his habitual ceremonial prayers, I truly felt as if I was in another time and place, very far indeed from the serious business woman named Mony.

As I smoothed out the knot, Tomas suddenly went very still. His eyes seemed to look past me and a smile of recognition crossed his lips. He began to speak, so I hurriedly asked one of my companions there to translate for me.

“You and I knew each other in Phoenicia (modern day Lebanon). You were a Sufi warrior and I a Christian knight. Your name was Yasser ibn Tubal. We had a deep bond and, together, fought for good and justice in that land. You were also with me when I died in Nazareth in 1270, and were the last person to tie my cape before I was buried. Your final words to me were that we would meet again, and that I would recognize you by the light in your eyes.”

He held me in a warm embrace and I thought, “Finally, I can ask all my questions!” But he released me just as quickly and proceeded to the daily prayers without uttering another word or speaking of it ever again. Such was my time with Tomas, marked by one fly-by encounter after another that only added to my questions.

As the only Arab woman in the group, I was affectionately called la sarracena, a term referring to the Saracens, the Muslims who ruled most of Spain for 500 years. When one of the men there, named Andres, was to be initiated into the Order of the Knights Templar, I was invited to attend this typically secret ceremony and asked to stand as a Saracen, to symbolically unite Muslims and Christians in their common goals of brotherhood and peace. I couldn’t be more thrilled, or honored. Donning a scarf that covered the lower part of my face, with flowing pants and shirt, I looked very much the part, especially with my tanned skin and darker features.

The late night air was fresh as we drove the winding, dirt roads that led us high into the mountains of Galicia. I had no idea where we were. At one of the highest points, we finally stopped and got out. The wind howled at those heights, and darkness blanketed the valleys below. Only the stars lent their light.

I followed the small group into what I was told were the ruins of a Templar church, not knowing what to expect, only that the magical awaited. Inside a small temple, shielded by ancient stones, an altar had been erected and several candles lit there. The white robes and polished swords of the Knights gleamed in their soft light. The smell of incense and soulful chanting of Ave Maria added to the holy and mystical of that moment.

We formed a circle around Andres, as Tomas spoke words in a language I could not understand, or perhaps not meant to understand. His voice ebbed and flowed, at times not even sounding like his own, heightening the aura of mystery that engulfed us. The energy was palpable, moving among us, sharing its presence, its love and ancient wisdom. When the ceremony ended, I felt as if I too had received a blessing for my journey ahead, and that it was time to leave.

On my last day, Tomas gifted me a red Tau pendant that he had carved and painted. He explained that it symbolized friendship, protection and the union of the spiritual and material worlds. Placing it under a portrait of the Archangel Michael, he prayed for my safe arrival and that I may always have the courage, strength, truth and integrity to walk this Way of the Soul to Jerusalem. I would wear the Tau from that day onwards until I arrived in Jerusalem.

My red Tau, carved and blessed by Tomas

Tomas also presented me with a letter, written in Spanish and sealed with the Knights Templar stamp, asking those who read it to help me on my journey.

I felt prepared physically, mentally, emotionally and, now, spiritually.

In the end, I did not choose pilgrimage. It chose me, weaving a web of improbable synchronicities to reveal to me the guiding steps of my life. I would learn to flow with those synchronicities and to trust their wisdom in ways that my logical mind couldn’t always comprehend.

Pilgrimage – the act of walking outwardly to an inner, sacred destination – opened up a way of being in the world that would never have been possible had I stayed in the comfort and predictability of my routine life or had I listened to logic alone. Pilgrimage offered me the great opportunity to open my heart, and to trust its whispers and gentle guidance.

That remains its greatest gift and lesson to this day.