Enda Mariam Cathedral, Asmara

Listen first. Somewhere close by, a low chant rises and falls. It is steady and unhurried, almost like breathing. The air up here is thin and clear, because Asmara sits more than two thousand metres above sea level. Morning light lies flat across pale stone, and the ground underfoot is warm and dusty. You are standing at Enda Mariam, the main Orthodox cathedral of Eritrea's capital. Take a moment before you walk any closer. This is a working place of prayer, and everything around you is in daily use.

The name carries the first clue. In Tigrinya, the main language of the city, "Enda" means the house or the place of someone. "Mariam" is Mary. So this is, quite simply, the House of Mary. The church belongs to the Eritrean Orthodox Tewahedo Church. "Tewahedo" means "made one" — a word that points to the church's ancient teaching about the united nature of Christ. This tradition goes back to the earliest centuries of Christianity in the Horn of Africa, long before any European arrived here.

A church has stood on this ground for a long time. The building in front of you, however, is younger than it may look. It was built in the 1930s, during the period when Eritrea was an Italian colony. That timing matters. In those years, Asmara grew very fast. Italian planners and architects filled the city with cinemas, garages, villas and offices in bold modern styles. Today, that collection of buildings is listed by UNESCO as a modernist African city.

And here is the first surprise. Enda Mariam does not look like an Italian church at all. Its designers did not copy a Roman basilica. Instead, they borrowed from much older, local forms. Look at the front and you will see layered, stepped shapes. They echo the carved stone stelae of Aksum — tall monuments raised by the ancient Aksumite kingdom, which once ruled much of this region. The modern city around you looks forward. This cathedral deliberately looks back.

Notice the two towers that frame the front of the church. They rise in stacked levels, each one slightly set back from the one below. The effect is solid and grounded, rather than light and soaring. Between and around them, colour breaks up the stone. Bright mosaic panels show holy figures with large, calm eyes and strong outlines. That style belongs to the long tradition of Ethiopian and Eritrean Christian painting, where saints look straight at the viewer.

Now look at the walls more closely. In many traditional churches of this region, builders set wooden beams into stone walls. The square ends of those beams poke out of the surface in rows. People sometimes call them "monkey heads." At Enda Mariam, you can look for the same rhythm of projecting squares, echoed in stone and concrete. It is a small detail, and many visitors walk straight past it. Yet it ties this twentieth-century building to churches many centuries older.

The cathedral sits inside a walled compound, and the compound has its own life. Trees give patches of shade. Benches and low walls give people places to rest. You may see elderly men leaning on wooden prayer staffs. You may see women wrapped in white cotton shawls, called netela, with a thin coloured border along the edge. White is the colour of church-going here. On a feast day, the whole compound can turn almost entirely white with worshippers.

Those feast days are the heart of this place. Mary holds a very special position in the Orthodox tradition of Eritrea, and her feasts are among the most important days of the year. On those mornings, crowds gather long before sunrise. Some people stand outside for hours, because there is not enough room inside. Priests carry processional crosses and colourful umbrellas. Drums keep a slow beat. If you come on an ordinary weekday, you will see a quieter version of the same devotion.

If you go inside, follow local custom. Shoes come off at the door, and the floor is often covered with carpets. Speak softly. Inside, the space is divided in a way that may feel unfamiliar. The holiest area, where the priests serve, is screened off from the congregation. Visitors do not enter it. Light inside is softer than the bright sun outside, and your eyes may need a minute to adjust to the painted walls and hanging lamps.

The chant you hear is in Ge'ez. This is an ancient language of the region, and it is no longer spoken in daily life. It survives in worship, much as Latin once survived in Western churches. Most people in the congregation speak Tigrinya at home. Yet they know these old prayers by heart. The melodies are passed down orally, from teacher to student. Some of the priests you see trained for many years to learn them.

Step back now and think about the cathedral's place in the city. Asmara is a city of many faiths living close together. Within a short walk, you can find the Catholic cathedral with its tall brick bell tower, and the Grand Mosque near the central market. Bells, chants and the call to prayer often overlap in the morning air. Locals tend to speak about this closeness with quiet pride. Enda Mariam is one voice in that shared soundscape.

The neighbourhood around the compound is worth a slow walk. Small shops sell candles, incense and simple religious pictures. You may smell coffee from a nearby café, because coffee is a deep part of daily life in Eritrea. Italian-era buildings line the streets, with faded pastel walls and curved balconies. Walking from the modern streets into this compound, and back out again, is one of the clearest ways to feel how Asmara mixes two worlds.

Before you leave, turn around and look at the front of the cathedral one more time. Notice the stepped towers, the mosaic faces, the rows of square stone ends. Notice the people too — someone kissing the gate, someone resting in the shade, someone simply standing with eyes closed. The chant may still be going on behind you. As you walk back into the city, listen for it fading slowly into the sound of the street.