Arab and Druze at home

by W. Ewing

CHAPTER III

A landscape of lava—Deserted cities—Caverns—Cultivation—A land of ruins—The guide’s terror—Damet el-ʿAliâ—The sheikh’s welcome—A state of siege—An ugly incident—Druze hospitality—Arab and Druze in el-Lejâʾ—St. Paul in Arabia—The well of the priest—Story of the priest.

From Zorʿa our course lay north-east by east, and we hoped on the way to pass more than one ruin which should tell of the ancient glory of el-Lejâʾ. What a wild solitude it is! Far on every hand stretched a veritable land of stone. The first hour or two of our march no living thing was seen. Even the little ground-lark, which hitherto we had seen everywhere, seemed now to have deserted us. Wherever we looked, before us or behind, lay wide fields of volcanic rock, black and repulsive, swirled and broken into the most fantastic shapes; with here and there a deep circular depression, through which in the dim past red destruction belched forth, now carefully walled round the lip to prevent wandering sheep or goat from falling in by night. The general impression conveyed was as if the dark waters of a great sea, lashed to fury by a storm, had been suddenly petrified; as if the fierce lineaments of the tempest, and all its horror, had been caught and preserved forever in imperishable rock by the hand of a mighty sculptor.

At times we passed over vast sheets of lava, which, in cooling, had cracked in nearly regular lines, and which, broken through in parts, appeared to rest on a stratum of different character, like pieces of cyclopean pavement. Curious rounded rocks were occasionally seen by the wayside, like gigantic black soap-bubbles, blown up by the subterranean steam and gases of the active volcanic age, often with the side broken out, as if burst by escaping vapour; the mass, having cooled too far to collapse, remained an enduring monument of the force that formed it. Scanty vegetation peeped from the fissures in the rocks, or preserved a precarious existence in the scanty soil, sometimes seen in a hollow between opposing slopes. In a dreary, waterless land, where the cloudless sun, beating down on fiery stones, creates heat like that of an oven, it were indeed a wonder if anything less hardy than the ubiquitous thistle could long hold up its head.

We passed several deserted cities, built of the unvarying black stone, and surrounded by strong walls. Many of the houses are still perfect, and seem only waiting the return of their inhabitants. In one of these towns we found a church. It may be about fifty feet in length by about thirty feet in breadth, and is built in two stories, the roof of the first being composed of lava slabs, many of which are still in position. A Greek inscription containing the name of Julios Maximos probably fixes its date about the time of Philip the Arabian. These walled towns were doubtless places of considerable strength in ancient days, and their stone gates may once have been secured by bolts and bars of brass. But, in the largest of them, not more than about four thousand inhabitants could ever have been comfortably housed. If this is remembered, it may aid towards correct impressions of the “cities” taken by the Israelites, and of the exploits of the warrior Jair.

There is not a stream or a perennial spring in all el-Lejâʾ. The water supply of its ancient and even of its present sparse population has therefore long been a subject of wonder. Near one of these towns by the wayside, we saw what probably suggests the solution of the mystery. This was a large natural cave, the roof partly broken through, and underneath a deep hollow in the rock, now brimming over with water from the winter’s rains. It would have been next to impossible to pierce that hard rock with cisterns numerous and large enough to afford refreshment and water for other necessary purposes to man and beast. The work was not required. Nature had provided liberally herself. This cave may be taken as a type of the natural reservoirs in which this formation abounds. Josephus tells of the caves in Trachonitis, inhabited by robber bands and wild outlaws, whose inaccessible retreats secured immunity from punishment. No modern traveller has seen these; but this is not strange, for the few who have ventured within the borders of el-Lejâʾ have not been too curious in examining the wilder and more remote parts. The natives, however, know them well, and would resort thither in times of stress or danger. Indeed, some say that under the rough surface rocks it is nearly all hollow; so that one acquainted with the labyrinth could go from one end to the other of el-Lejâʾ and never once show his head above-ground. From all this it is evident there is no lack of accommodation for storage of water; and, considering the quantity of rain which falls in its season, it would be a long drought indeed which would exhaust the supplies.

PEASANT PLOUGHMAN
(Photo. The Photochrome Co. Ld.)

From this point onward the little openings among the rocks grow larger and occur more frequently. Our little friend, the lark, appears again; and the voice of the partridge and the whir of his wings, to right and left, relieve the dull monotony. When the traveller has fairly penetrated the rough barriers that surround el-Lejâʾ, he finds not a little pleasant land within—fertile soil which, if only freed a little more from overlying stones, might support a moderate population. In ancient times it was partly cleared, and the work of these old-world agriculturists remains in gigantic banks of stones carefully built along the edges of the patches they cultivated. The hands that laid these courses have been cold for ages; the lichens have crept slowly over all, adorning the home of multitudinous snakes and lizards, now long held by its reptile tenants in undisturbed possession. These wise old husbandmen have had no worthy successors. The neighbouring rocks that echoed to the sower’s eager tread and the reaper’s merry song lie under brooding age-long silence, broken only by the voice of the wild game, the cry of the solitary shepherd, or the bleat of the browsing herds. But here, as so often, generous Nature comes with a fold of her loveliest garment to hide the neglect of men. These patches were everywhere blushing with fair anemones and great ranunculi, which, seen in the distance, often appeared like a soft crimson haze, showing beautifully against the black of surrounding lava. The cyclamen, already past on the other side of Jordan, still clung to the clefts in the rocks; and the most delicate little irises were blooming in the interspaces, as if to soften with their sweet beauty the harsher aspect of the savage wilderness.

From every higher eminence we could trace, near and far away, the outlines of numerous ancient towns and villages. Nearly all are utterly deserted and desolate, haunts of wild beasts and birds of night. Here, and in other parts, we were deeply impressed with the fact that we were travelling through a land of ruins. How eloquent are these solitudes with lessons of warning for the great world of to-day! It would have been as difficult for the dwellers in these towns, and in the magnificent cities of the neighbouring country, to conceive of the “stranger” one day coming from “a far land” to walk through their desolate homes, and over the wreck of their architectural splendours, as it would be for the legislators who sit in Westminster to realise Macaulay’s famous vision of the New-Zealander sitting on the ruins of London Bridge, musing, like the noble Roman amid the ruins of Carthage, on the desolation around. But what has happened once may happen on a much grander scale again; for is it not the doing of the Almighty Himself, before whom all earthly splendour is but as the passing reflection of His own sun’s light on the broken surface of the water? It is but the fulfilment of the wrath denounced by the prophet upon the rebellious and disobedient: “In all your dwelling-places the cities shall be laid waste, and the high places shall be desolate; that ... your works may be blotted out.”

Coming nearer the centre of el-Lejâʾ, fresh signs of the husbandman’s presence were seen. Fields of waving wheat and barley alternated with rough knolls, dotted with furze and thorn, while scattered oaks and terebinths lent variety to the scene. Once, not long ago, large tracts were covered by a forest of terebinth; this has now almost entirely disappeared, the natives finding a ready market for the timber beyond their rocky confines, and the branches serving well for charcoal. This depletion of the forest is greatly to be deplored in a land where trees are such a blessing.

Some distance to the right, on lower ground, lay a town of the usual type, somewhat larger than those we had seen, with a tall square tower rising from the centre. The guide called it Lubbain. Directly in front, crowning a slight eminence, was Damet el-ʿAliâ, where we hoped to spend the night, protected by the hospitable and friendly Druzes. We doubted not of our welcome, and our faith was justified right handsomely by the event.

Another incident, however, was necessary to bring our experience into line with that of other travellers in these parts.

When we came within sight of Dama—so “Damet el-ʿAliâ” is contracted—crowning a little eminence in front, our guide slowed his pace, hesitated, and finally halted. “There,” he said, “is Dama; you can now reach it alone; I must return”; and nothing could induce him to move one step nearer the village. We would have had him see us safely there in fulfilment of his contract. But fear was written on every line of his face, so we were fain at last to give him his money and let him go. At once his countenance brightened, his frame became all energy and sprightly motion. In about three minutes he was out of sight. A horseman, fully armed and well mounted, swept down from the gate of the town, and, halting at some little distance, surveyed our party. His soldierly eye was soon satisfied that we were bound on no military exploit, and he came forward frankly to bid us welcome. For the entertainment of his guests he careered around, affording a fine exhibition of horsemanship. He proved to be the son of the sheikhly ruler of Dama; so we were already under the protecting influence of the Druze inhabitants—the sheikh’s guests being the guests of all, among the dwellings of all his people. Stalwart, white-turbaned Druze warriors came down from the roofs, whence they had watched our approach, to second the welcome of their chief’s soil, and accompany us to the sheikh’s house. Thus we entered Dama, which early in the nineteenth century was the reputed capital of el-Lejâʾ. It is still the chief of inhabited towns not situated on the borders, but now the proud title of capital would be a misnomer. It is the most central of all towns in el-Lejâʾ. From its high position it commands a wide view, extending almost to the borders in every direction—a prospect not the less interesting because seen so seldom by European eyes. Enterprising travellers, one or two, may have been here in past years; but probably now for the first time ladies from the civilised West penetrated thus far into this famous but forbidding land.

The sheikh advancing, offered the heartiest of welcomes. He bade his subordinates attend to our horses, and with great dignity led the way under his hospitable roof. His house was most substantial, built of large basaltic blocks, well fitted, without mortar. The roof was composed of great slabs of the same material, covered with earth. The floor was earthen, with a hollow in the centre where blazed a great wood fire. What of the smoke passed our throats and eyes escaped by the door and a small opening in the opposite wall. A rude wooden door took the place of the ancient slab of stone, which might be seen forming part of the pavement in front.

We found a baitâr, or farrier, deftly plying his hammer at the sheikh’s threshold, making the nails which should hold the shoes of the village horses in place until another wanderer should come to make a new supply. These men, and occasionally the makers of the red shoes and flimsy long boots worn by the Arab, are often met in the remotest parts, making long journeys even into the unkindly desert, in search of livelihood for wife and little ones, left far behind in the shelter of their native towns.

Ushered into his dwelling, we sat upon straw mats spread on the floor, and leaned against straw-stuffed cushions arranged along the walls. Delicious buttermilk was brought to refresh us; also cool water to drink, and to wash withal. The good sheikh and his sons sat down on the floor, and busied themselves preparing coffee for their guests. This beverage is universally offered to the visitor on his arrival; but, while in western towns it is made by domestics, its preparation is an accomplishment held in high esteem among the sheikhly families of Druze and Arab. Those who are liberal with their coffee are called “coffee sheikhs”—a name held in honour, and much coveted by men of high spirit and generosity. A handful of coffee-beans was put into a large iron ladle, which, resting on a small tripod, was held over the fire. The beans were stirred with a strip of iron, attached by a light chain to the ladle handle. When roasted to a rich brown colour, they were put into a large wooden mortar, brass-bound, and pounded with a hard-wood pestle, which resembled the heavy turned foot of an arm-chair. With marvellous precision the youth who wielded the pestle raised it over his shoulder and struck fairly into the centre of the mortar. No little training and skill are necessary to beat such music from dull instruments as he produced with pestle and mortar, the pleasing cadences varying with the different stages of the process. The music of the pestle is esteemed as great an accomplishment as that of guitar or violin among ourselves. The fine brown powder was ready for the pot; a flavouring berry of cardamom was added, as a distinguished mark of honour; hot water poured on, it was left for a little to simmer by the fire. The first cup was thrown upon the fire as a libation to the tutelary spirit of the house—an interesting survival of old superstitious rites. A second cup was drunk by the sheikh himself, as an assurance to his guests that they might drink in safety—an assurance not wholly unnecessary in a country where men not seldom die from the effects of “a cup of coffee” adroitly manipulated. Then with his two little cups—about the size of china egg-cups, and without handles—he distributed the strong-tasting dark liquid to each in turn, repeating this a second and a third time as a mark of distinguished honour.

Meantime we were able to observe the general appearance of our host and his friends. The sheikh was rather over middle age, of average stature. His frame was well knit and athletic. The sandy whiskers, pointed beard, and light moustache left visible the firm, finely-chiselled lines of a face that had something royal in it. He wore the common red slippers; a yellow striped ghumbaz, that reached to the ankles, gathered at the waist with a leathern girdle; over his shoulders was thrown an ʿabâʾ or cloak of goat’s hair, of the characteristic Druze pattern, striped alternately black and white. His red tarbush was surrounded by a thick turban of spotless white. He bore himself with an air of quiet dignity. Of a taciturn habit, he spoke but little. When he did speak his word secured instant attention and obedience. In such a position, constantly calling for wisdom, self-reliance, self-control, swift decision, and energetic action, with any basis of real character, a truly noble type of simple manhood is easily developed.

In the matter of dress, his followers resembled their chief. Every man of them, from the sheikh downwards, was a sort of walking armoury. They literally bristled with lethal weapons. Rifle and sword might be laid aside on entering the house, but the girdle contained pistols and daggers enough to make each man formidable still. The town is an outpost of the Druzes, taken by the strong hand, and maintained against the Arabs only by constant watchfulness and readiness to fight. This explained the careful scouting of us on our approach. For ourselves, however, we had nothing to fear. Since the fateful year in the history of Mount Lebanon, 1860, when the Druzes in their extremity were befriended by the British, every man who speaks English is sure of a cordial welcome among this people.

The Druzes well sustain the ancient tradition of hospitality in these parts. Our host invited the whole party to supper. We were many, and hesitated to accept, lest it might seem imposing on his generosity. He silenced all objections by an intimation that supper was already in course of preparation; and with great thoughtfulness he ordered it to be served in our tents, judging that this would be more comfortable for us. These were pitched in the enclosed threshing-floor, in a hollow north of the village, sheltered from the night winds, which here blow cold, and overlooked by the sheikh’s house.

We had soon further evidence that these men did not carry instruments of death for mere ornament. Two villagers accompanied some of us who went to shoot partridges. We were strictly warned to be home by sunset, but we were yet far off when the shadows began to thicken. Passing over a little hill in the dim twilight, we saw a solitary figure gliding swiftly along the bottom of the valley below. Our two companions unslung their rifles, and, with far-echoing alarum, dashed down the hill in full career upon the stranger. There was no mistaking their purpose. We stood with strange forebodings of evil to follow which we were powerless to prevent. The dark figure halted on hearing the shouts of his pursuers, turned, and approached them. To our infinite relief, they parted peacefully. Our guards, returning, said he belonged to a friendly tribe. Asked what would have happened had it been otherwise, they replied at once, “He should have died as a spy.”

Returning with the fall of night, we found the table spread, and tray after tray of steaming viands was laid out until it literally groaned—for a tent table, ours was strong—under the load. First a lamb roasted whole, then a kid stewed whole in leban, then a great tray of rice cooked with samn (clarified butter) as the Arabs know how, each grain whole and separate. A number of smaller dishes completed the repast, such as stuffed cucumber, kibbeh (a preparation resembling white or oatmeal puddings), leban (the ordinary thickened milk of the country), and bread in abundance. A light of pleasure gleamed in the kindly eye of the sheikh as he saw the ample justice done to his supper by the hungry travellers, whom he encouraged, by every means in his power, to eat and spare not. Loath was he to see anything remain uneaten.

Supper over, the sheikh and his followers set themselves for general conversation. It was particularly noteworthy that no question was asked and no subject started which might have disturbed the equanimity of the guests. It was inevitable that with such warlike spirits martial subjects should be discussed. We were interested in the sheikh’s narration of some of the recent history of el-Lejâʾ. The Druzes and the main Arab tribes in el-Lejâʾ are hereditary foes. The memory of suffering and loss incurred in old strifes rankles in their bosoms, ever urging them to seek revenge. There is chronic blood feud between them. Some time ago the Druzes held only positions near the south-east borders, but, waxing bolder, they advanced and took Dama, then a town utterly deserted. The position being strong, and the neighbouring land fruitful, they thought it worth defending. The Arabs, unwilling to lose so valuable a prize, assembled in force, and, coming down upon the isolated occupants of Dama, were, after a tough fight, victorious. But the Druzes, while they retired, did not relinquish their claim. Securing themselves in the fastnesses in the south-east, they sent messengers through Jebel ed-Druze to rouse their friends, as the Scottish Highlands were roused of old by the fiery cross. These doughty warriors, as much at home in the turmoil of battle as in the peaceful work of field or vineyard, rushed forward in wild joy to redress their brothers’ wrongs. Before the chosen men of the Druze nation the Arab irregulars could make no serious stand. They were defeated and driven away into the inhospitable, stony land to the north-west. In the morning light, straining our eyes in that direction, we thought we could dimly descry their black tents among the hardly less black surroundings. And since that time they have never mustered courage to renew the attack. They might, by a supreme effort, dislodge again the little colony in Dama; but they know the terrible vengeance that would be taken by the bold mountain men.

The conversation was intensely interesting, as, indeed, was the whole situation. These calm, dignified men before us, discoursing on the various chances of war in which they had themselves borne a part, and into which they might soon be plunged again; a head here and there, enveloped in a cloud of smoke from pipe or cigarette; sparkling eyes, glittering in eager faces that grew gradually darker as the lines receded into the night, leaving strange memories behind, when at last the sheikh and his followers went forth and vanished in the darkness.

Only the houses in the north-east of Dama are occupied. The most interesting structure in the town is an old church with Greek inscriptions, in the south-west quarter. Probably it corresponds in date with that we saw on the way. Such buildings are of frequent occurrence. The presence of so many remains of Christian antiquity over all these parts suggests reflections as to the extent to which Christianity had laid hold on the then inhabitants, in the beginning of its world-conquering career. The land enjoyed a second day of grace before the final outpouring of wrath and fulfilment of prophetic doom; and for a time it seems to have been roused to improve its privileges. By what agency was the evangel brought hither? Perhaps we may never fully know. But the Romans proudly styled these regions the province of Arabia; and through this the converted persecutor Saul at least passed, if he did not spend his three years’ sojourn here ere going up, in his new capacity as apostle, to Jerusalem. The reasons for believing that the desert of the exodus was the scene of his retirement are not convincing. It harmonises ill with our ideas of the tireless energy of the apostle, who had just consecrated all his fiery devotion to his Lord, and in the first flush of his new-born zeal had proclaimed the truth to his countrymen in Damascus, to picture him haunting the solitudes, where no ear could hear and no heart respond to the wonder of new-found love and joy which he was panting to express. May not these early years of discipleship have been bright years of missionary activity, more immediately successful than those covered by the record of the beloved physician? And, although their history has long been lost amid the darkness of ages, it is pleasant to think that, when the books are opened on high, the fresh light may reveal another brilliant in the glorious crown of the apostle, to be cast down at the Saviour’s feet.

One took a jar and went to fetch water for us to drink. Wishing us to have the best and coolest, the sheikh called after him, “Bring it from the well of the priest.” The name struck me as curious at the moment, but, knowing how persistently ancient names cling to particular spots, and not thinking it at all likely that a “priest” should be found in a Druze village, I thought no more of the matter. Afterwards, however, I heard a story of disinterested self-sacrifice for the sake of Christ which, told of a Syrian, was peculiarly refreshing to a missionary’s ear; and, quite unexpectedly, the sheikh’s words afforded valuable confirmation of its truth. The average Syrian character is the despair of the missionary. Those calling themselves Christians are most disappointing. What time one hopes to see a spirit of self-forgetfulness developing, and a disposition to give the best of life and ability to Christ’s service, among the strangely varied peoples of Syria, he will probably be surprised by a request for some personal favour or advancement. There are noble exceptions, of course, and I have known some, acquaintance with whom forms a permanent enrichment of life. It is well to remember, too, that the conditions in Syria are peculiar. Cut up as the population is into so many little communities, it is the very home of religious fanaticism. The mutual repulsions existing among these sections are terribly strong, each believing itself to be the true and only conservator of God’s truth, and all others, in slightly varying degrees of blackness, simply children of the devil. In such surroundings the feeling grows slowly that those who possess the light are debtors to all who sit in darkness. They must be patiently dealt with; and the story of the priest is a help to patience, as showing of what self-devotion the Syrian character is really capable.

I received the story in fragmentary form, but so much is clear: A young priest of the Greek Church, a native of Mount Lebanon—the district which has contributed most of the native Christian workers in the country—had laid on his heart the necessities of the great dark land east of Jordan, and, in a spirit of true Christian heroism, he resolved to go forth, single-handed, to the work of evangelisation. He left the comparative comforts of his mountain home for the rude life of these wild regions, with no protection but that of his divine Master, counting the salvation of Moslem and Druze equally precious with that of his own people. He made his way into el-Lejâʾ, staying in villages where he could find a home for a little, and, when his position grew dangerous, passing on to others, carrying some little of the light of civilisation, as well as the evangel. Thus, arriving at Dama, he took possession of an empty house, put wooden frames with glass in the windows, swung a wooden door on hinges in the doorway, and arranged his scanty furniture within. The village lacked good water, so he had an old well cleaned out and repaired, and soon it was filled with wholesome rain-water. For about a year he went out and in among the warlike inhabitants, seeking to teach them the way of the Prince of Peace. A belief got abroad that he had found treasure among the ruins, and had it concealed in the house. A conspiracy was formed to kill and plunder him. He got news of the fact, and, seeing that his life was no longer safe, he was fain to move to another village, leaving a well of clear, cold water to preserve his memory, and, let us hope, also in some hearts a light that will lead to the Fountain of living waters. Exactly where he is now, I do not know, but some years later he was still in the district. “Persecuted in one city, he flees unto another.”

WELL IN THE DESERT
(Photo. The Photochrome Co. Ld.)