CHAPTER I
Damascus—Haurân Railway—Great Moslem pilgrimage—The plains of Damascus—Great Hermon—El-Kisweh—Bridges in Palestine—Ghabâghib—Es-Sanamein—Medical myth—A Land of Fear—Grain-fields of Haurân—An oppressed peasantry—Nowa.
There is a pleasant excitement in the prospect of a journey through long-forgotten lands, where hoary age is written on dark ruin and carved stone, which lends its influence to while away the monotonous days of preparation. But even amid surroundings of entrancing interest in the queenly city on the Barada, the traveller soon grows impatient to find himself in the saddle with his friends, heading away towards the hills that bound the green plains of Damascus. Fortunately, we could dispense with a dragoman, often more an imperious master than an obliging servant, and were able to arrange our routes and carry out our programme according to our own wishes.
Leaving the city by Bawabbat Ullah, we took the Hajj road to the south-west. This for many centuries was, what in the southern reaches it still is, a mere track, not always clear, and often to be kept only by observance of landmarks. To facilitate the passage of troops to and from Haurân, the Government had made a fairly good road from Damascus to some distance within that province. A railway has now been built, and is in working order as far south as Mizerîb. One day, perhaps, it will reach the sacred cities in el-Hejaz. If this do not greatly expedite the hâjj’s enterprise, it will at least add variety to his peril. The first trains east of the Jordan were objects of surpassing interest to the camels. Unaccustomed to give way to anything else on the road, a strange mingling of curiosity and pride brought many of these “ships of the desert” to grief.
MOSLEM PILGRIMAGE LEAVING DAMASCUS
Our journey fell in the late spring of 1890. The Hajj, the great annual pilgrimage to Mecca and Medîna, fell that year in the month of April. A few days before we started, we had seen the pilgrims and their guard setting out. Most were mounted on mules, but there were also a few horses and camels. Conspicuous among these last was that which bore the Mahmal—the canopy in which is carried the Sultan’s gift—a covering for the shrine at Mecca. The canopy is of green silk, richly embroidered, supported by silver posts. On its apex a gilt crescent and globe flash in the bright sun. The occasion stirs the city to its depths. The roofs all along the line of route were crowded, and every point of vantage was occupied by eager spectators. The procession passed amid the hum of suppressed conversation. From the faces in the crowd it was plain to see that many had gone of whose return there was but little hope. The weary, painful journey through the pitiless desert, beset by marauding Arabs, and the insanitary conditions of the “holy places,” prepare a sure path for not a few to Firdaus—“the garden” par excellence of Moslem dreams, the unfailing portion of him who dies on pilgrimage. The stir caused by their passage through the country quickly subsides. When we followed in their footsteps, things had already assumed their drowsy normal.
Passing the gates, we were at once in the open country; for the famous orchards do not extend thus far in this direction. On every side the plains were clad with heavy crops of waving green; the whir of the quail and the crack of the sportsman’s fowling-piece mingled with the frequent sound of running waters—sweetest music to the Syrian ear. Stately camels came swinging along, each with a great millstone balanced on his back. One of these forms a camel-load. The basaltic quarries in the mountains southward, from which these stones, celebrated for hardness and durability, are hewn, have been long and widely esteemed. Full thirty miles away, yet, in the clear April afternoon, seeming almost on the edge of the nearer plain, lay the magnificent mass of Hermon, clad in his garment of shining white—a huge snowy bank against the horizon, twenty miles long and ten thousand feet high. Those who have seen this majestic gleaming height, when the snows lie deep in the early year, can understand how appropriately the Amorites named it Senir—the breastplate, or shield. Syria owes much to Hermon. Cool breezes blow from his cold steeps; his snows are carried now, as in ancient days, to moisten parched lip and throat in the streets of Sidon and Damascus. Many of the streams “that fill the vales with winding light” and living green are sweet daughters of the mighty mountain, while his refreshing dews descend, as sang the Psalmist, even on the distant and lowly Zion.
Looking back a moment from the rising ground, ere passing down behind the Black Mountain, we caught a parting glimpse of the fair city, renowned in Arab song and story. Rich flats now stretched between us and the thick embowering orchards, over which rose tall minaret and glistening dome. A light haze hung over the city, obscuring the immediate background; but away beyond appeared the high shoulders and peaks of Anti-Lebanon, many capped with helmets of snow, standing like guards around the birthplace of the city’s life; for thence comes the Abana, the modern Barada, without which there could have been no Damascus.
A gentle descent brings us to the Aʿwaj, in which many find the Bible Pharpar—a name still to be traced, perhaps, in Wady Barbar, higher up but not a tributary of this stream. On the nearer bank stands el-Kisweh, a Moslem village of some pretensions, with khan mosque and minaret, and ancient castle, while the stream is spanned by an old-time bridge. No new bridges in Palestine are of any account. The only two that span the Jordan from Banias to the Dead Sea—the Jisr Benât Yaʿkûb, below the waters of Merom, and Jisr el-Mejamiʿa above Bethshan—are both survivors of the old Roman system. Around and below el-Kisweh, as in all places where water comes to bless the toil of the husbandman, are beautiful orchards; olive and willow, fig, apricot, and pomegranate mingle their foliage in rich profusion; and high over all rise the stately cypress trees—the spires and minarets of the grove. Here, when the Hajj falls in summer or autumn, pilgrims take leave of greenness and beauty, and press forward on their long desert march to the Haramein. As our evening song of praise rose from the river’s bank, for centuries accustomed to hear only the muttered devotions of the Moslem, we could not but think of the time when the voice of psalms shall roll with the sweet waters down the vale—a time surely not far distant now; and in the thought we found new inspiration for our work.
Continuing southward, a dark mountain lies to the left, well named Jebel Māniʿa, which may be rendered “Mount of Protection,” or “The Protector.” In its difficult recesses the peasant cultivators of the rich open land around find a home, secure against marauding Beduw and lawless bands. Jedûr, the old Iturea, stretches away to the right; we are now in Haurân, part of the land of Bashan, corresponding in name to the ancient Auranitis. At Ghabâghib, where we halt for lunch, great cisterns and scattered ruins tell of an important place in times past. It has fallen on evil days, only a few wretched hovels occupying the site. The poor inhabitants, demoralised by the yearly Hajj, expect much more than value for anything they supply; but neither here nor anywhere east of Jordan did we once hear the irritating cry Bakhshîsh.
From this point the road deteriorates. First there are patches of some thirty yards in length thickly laid with broken stones, then occasional stretches of ground cleared, and finally the ancient track, with no claim to be called a road. These patches illustrate the Government method of road-building. All is done by forced labour. A certain length of road is allocated to each town or village in the district concerned, and this the inhabitants are bound to construct themselves, or pay for its construction. The stone-laid patches represent the diligence and promptitude of some villages; the intervals suggest the evasions of work, in the practice of which the Arab is an adept.
The country now becomes more open. The view stretches far in front over the waving grain-fields which have given Haurân its fame. Westward, the rolling downs of Jaulân, the New Testament Gaulanitis, corresponding to the ancient Golan, reach away towards the roots of Hermon, with their beautiful conical hills, once grim smoking volcanoes, now grass-covered to the top; while beyond Jordan we catch glimpses of the Safed hills. To the left, at a somewhat lower level, through a light mist we see indistinctly the dark lava-fields of el-Lejâʾ, and dim on the eastern horizon rises the mountain-range Jebel ed-Druze.
Es-Sanamein, “the two idols,” where we spent the Sunday, stands to the west of the Hajj road. This is a typical Haurân village. The houses are built throughout of basalt, the oldest having no mortar whatever—doors, window-shutters, and roofs all of the same durable material. They have outlived the storms of many centuries, and, if left alone, might see millenniums yet. The modern houses are built from the ruins, the mortar being mud. Carved and inscribed stones that once adorned temple or public building may often be seen, usually upside down, in these rickety new structures. Many houses are fairly underground, being literally covered with rubbish, accumulated through the long years, as generation after generation grew up within these walls and passed away. One temple, built also of basalt, is well preserved, the ornamentation on pillar, niche, and lintel being finer than most to be seen in Haurân. A Greek inscription[1] tells us that this temple was dedicated to Fortuna. An olive-press occupies the centre of the temple. Near by a large water-tank is connected by channels still traceable with an elaborate system of baths. The ancients loved these more than do their degenerate successors. Several tall square towers are evidently of some antiquity; but awkwardly placed hewn stones, certainly taken from other buildings, show them to be modern compared with the city whose ruins lie around.
The doctor’s name is a passport to favour all over the land: Christian, Moslem, and Druze, however fanatical, have ever a welcome for him. His presence brought a perpetual stream of afflicted ones. The people are in many respects simple and primitive. Myth and mystery grow and flourish among them. Most extraordinary tales are told, and accepted with unquestioning faith. The traveller who goes thither leaves modern times behind, sails far up the dark stream of time, and lives again in the dim days of long ago.
Grateful patients sang the doctor’s praise and celebrated his skill. From lip to lip the story and the wonder grew. Some with sore eyes had been relieved. By and by we heard that a great doctor had passed through the country, who took out people’s eyes, opened them up, washed them thoroughly, and replaced them in their sockets, when the aged and weak-eyed saw again with the brightness of youth!
These lands offer a tempting and promising field for the medical missionary. His profession would act like magic in securing entrance to the people’s homes and confidence. And it is practically virgin soil. He would build on no other man’s foundation.
THE COOK’S TENT
About sunset the owner of a flock from whom we wished to buy a lamb was brought to our tents. The flock was sheltered only a little way from the village, but, as the shadows deepened, he displayed no little unwillingness to go thither. At last, armed with sword, musket, and pistols, and accompanied by one similarly accoutred, he sallied forth, not without signs of alarm. Soon he returned, the lamb under his arm, and looks of evident relief on his face. Neither fear nor relief was without reason. In that lawless land, he who goes abroad after sundown takes his life in his hand. Even the hardy shepherd, with tough, well-knit frame, fed on the milk of the flocks, exercised in the invigorating air of the uplands, used from infancy to face the dangers of the solitary wilderness by day, trembles until his knees knock together at the thought of falling into the hands of the enemy who lurks privily for him in the dark.
From es-Sanamein two tracks branch off, one to the east, the other to the west of the Hajj road. The former leads down to the villages on the borders of el-Lejâʾ; the latter to Nowa, Sheikh Saʿad, and el-Merkez, the last being the seat of the Governor of Haurân, who is also military commander in the province. The main part of our company went eastward. Two of us turned towards el-Merkez to visit the Governor, who had been ordered by his superior in Damascus to show us what attention and kindness might be possible. Our arrangement was to meet at night by a city in the south-west corner of el-Lejâʾ, whence we hoped to penetrate that forbidding region. We rode down a ruin-covered slope, on a paved road—monument of the wise old warrior Romans, and crossed, by an ancient bridge, the little brook which, fed by springs on the southern slopes of Hermon, affords a perennial supply of water. The bridge, having served men for centuries, now failing, is almost dangerous to horsemen. A few stones and a little mortar judiciously applied would quite restore it. But where shall we find an Arab with public spirit enough to do that from which another might reap benefit?
Here we entered the far-famed grain-fields of Haurân. What magnificent stretches they are! These vast plains of waving green, here and there tending to yellow, were our wonder and delight for many days. Such land as this, with rich, dark soil, yielding royally, might well sustain a teeming population. Often, in the West, had I watched the interminable strings of camels, laden with wheat, on all the great caravan roads leading from the east to Acre, the principal seaport, and mused as to whence these well-nigh fabulous streams of golden grain should come—from what mysterious land of plenty. Now I could understand it all. As that scene opens to view, visions of the future inevitably rise—but even in fancy one cannot easily exhaust the possibilities enclosed in these generous plains. What it once was, as attested by grim ruins around—a land studded with beautiful cities and prosperous villages—that, at least, it may be again. We see what it is under the hand of the ignorant peasant, with antique methods and implements of husbandry. Who shall say what it might become with enlightened care? This is of special interest now, when the eyes of the world are turning toward Palestine to find a home for the descendants of the men to whom long since it was given by God. Far more of the land in western Palestine than appears to the passing traveller would bear heavy crops of grain; while of the remainder, although much was probably never cultivated, there is very little which, in the hands of patient, industrious people, might not be made to yield fair returns. Evidence of the wealth and immense possibilities of the soil of Bashan meets one on every hand.
As the eye wanders over the wide green expanse, the thought naturally arises, whence the reapers are to come who shall gather in the harvest; for the population, as represented by the little villages seen at long intervals, is certainly quite inadequate to the task. Should the traveller return six weeks hence, he will find the whole country alive. Men and women, youths, maidens, and little children, come trooping up from the deep depression of the Jordan valley; reapers pour down in streams from the mountain glens. And right swiftly must they ply their task; for soon the burning suns and hot winds of the desert will drive the wild Beduw and their flocks hither in search of pasture and water, when woe betide the owner of unreaped or ungathered grain. The robber bands that afflicted the patriarch Job in these same fields, according to local tradition, have worthy successors to-day in the bold wanderers from the sandy wastes.
No scythe ever flashes among the bending heads of wheat and barley here. Everything is reaped with the hook—not changed in form, I should say, for at least three thousand years. Faithfully, too, is the law befriending the gleaners observed; and many a golden armful is carried off at evening by modern Ruth, widow and orphan, to store in the clay vats that stand in the corners of their little houses, against the cheerless winter days. When the grain is cut, it is swiftly gathered into heaps on threshing-floors, in the neighbourhood of villages or other protected spots, ready for the “treading out,” the process that still stands for threshing here.
Donkeys and camels are the carrying animals chiefly employed in the fields. They are constant companions everywhere, even in the desert, where the former has almost as good a claim to the honourable title “ship of the desert” as his better-known comrade. The grain is bound in bundles of equal weight, one of which is tied on either side, over a broad, wooden saddle. Seen in motion from a little distance, the animals are quite concealed: they seem like so many animated “stacks” making their way home. Reaping and gathering are soon accomplished, but threshing and winnowing are tedious. The most primitive methods are still employed. Round each heap the ground is covered about knee-deep with grain, and over this, round and round, oxen or horses are driven, trampling it under foot; or the old tribulum, a strong piece of board, with small stones fastened in its under surface, is drawn, until the straw is beaten small and the wheat or barley thoroughly separated. This is then drawn aside, and a second supply, taken from the grain-heap, treated in the same way. The process is repeated until all has been thus reduced. Winnowing is done only when there is sufficient wind to “drive the chaff away.” Then the new heap of threshed stuff is attacked with a wooden fork of three prongs and tossed high in the air. The grain falls at once, forming a heap beside the workman, while the chaff or crushed straw is blown into a bank farther off. This may be repeated several times, until the wheat or barley is quite clean. Then it is put into goats’-hair sacks, ready for transport, since only a fraction of what the land produces is used in the country.
Indeed, it is but little of anything that the poor husbandman has, in the end, for his labour. The Government tax is a first charge upon the entire crop. A tenth is the legal proportion to be paid to officials. But the season for the collection of ʿashâr, or tithe, is often one of oppression and terror for the wretched villagers. Soldiers are quartered upon them, who practise all manner of excesses at the expense of their poverty-stricken hosts; and scenes of violence and rapine are all too common. The tithe has often to be paid over and over again to purchase peace. There is no other way; for if the despised fellah lifts his voice in protest or appeal, there is no ear to hear and none to sympathise. He can only thus bring down the iron hand more heavily on his own head. Of what remains, he must sell the most. But in the country there are no buyers; he must needs send it to the coast or sell it to agents for shipment abroad. Camels afford the only means of transport, and the cost is ruinous. A camel-load consists of two bags, and one of these must go to pay the hire of each camel. Only half thus remains to be sold at Acre in the name of the grower; and happy is the man who receives from cameleers and agents all his due for this miserable remnant of his harvest.
What would our western agriculturists say to such conditions as these? Who can wonder if the people are utterly heartless, having neither spirit to cherish dreams of improvement nor courage to give them effect? What wonder if the thief and the robber increase in a land where honesty and industry are so severely punished? One can see what an incalculable blessing the opening up of this country by rail should be, putting it into connection with the outside world, and bringing all the civilising influences that elsewhere follow the wheels of the steam-engine. What the result will be remains to be seen. Should Israel come back with the returning tides of civilisation, he will find the land almost like an empty house, waiting for the return of its tenants. The scanty population would heartily welcome the advent of masters who could both instruct them in improved arts of husbandry and protect them against unrighteous exactions and oppressions.
TREADING OUT THE CORN
The black remains of Nowa cover a large area. In its essential features the village resembles es-Sanamein, but lacks the relief afforded by the temples. A few fragments of ancient sculpture and architecture are scattered through the village, which also boasts a large tower, its most conspicuous feature, corresponding to those at es-Sanamein. Some have sought to identify Nowa with Golan, the ancient city of refuge. It commands a wide and beautiful prospect over the district for which Golan was appointed; beyond this there appears to be no reason for the identification. The place is associated in local tradition with the patriarch Noah. Whether the name was derived from this association or vice versa, who shall now determine? In any case, the grave of Noah is pointed out, a little to the north-west of the present village,—which suggests the reflection that, if we are to trust tradition, these old worthies must have been often buried; for I have stood by another grave where Noah was buried, and that at no little length, near Zahleh in Mt. Lebanon. The grave is many yards long, and even then, it is said, the patriarch’s legs are doubled down. The mother of our race, also according to the Moslems, lies within sound of the Red Sea waves, in the sacred soil of el-Hejaz, while the Jews with equal earnestness maintain that she sleeps beside Abraham and Sarah, with Adam, within the holy precincts of Machpelah. The prophet Jonah has tombs almost anywhere, from Mosûl to the Mediterranean Sea.