CHAPTER X
Morning on the mountains—Arab time—Tents and encampments—The Women and their work—Arab wealth—Scenes at the wells—Dogs—Arabian hospitality—Desert pests—Strange code of honour—The blood feud—Judgment of the elders—Arab and horse—The Arabs and religion—The Oriental mind—Arab visit to Damascus.
The storm continued all night, abating slightly towards midnight, but increasing in violence as the fajr, or first glint of morning, stole into the sky. A brilliant flash, followed instantly by a terrific crash, marked the climax just as day broke. The dust, which had blown thick around us on our approach, was transformed into soft, clinging mud. The tents were so wet that packing was out of the question. The hoofs of the animals sank deep into the yielding soil. Travel under these conditions would be both slow and painful. We were fain to wait and see what the sun would do for us. He soon rose in all his strength, and in two hours worked wonders. As tents and roads grew dry, we became more cheerful. The Arabs gathered in little groups, submitting their ills to the doctor’s skill, giving what information they could about our way, the country, and themselves. Jerash, we learned, was only two or three hours distant. Not that the Arabs knew anything of our method of measuring time. One said, “What do we know about ‘hours’? But see: If the sun is there when you leave here, it will be there when you reach Jerash”—pointing the two quarters of the sky as he spoke.
The sun is the great time-keeper in the desert. By his pace all journeys are measured. The three great points from which the Arabs reckon are sunrise, noon, and sunset—Shurûk esh-shems, Zahr, and Mughrab. When travelling, they like to be off before sunrise; and no one is willingly abroad after sunset. They strive to reach some friendly roof before the last beams of departing day have fled. It is contrary to the etiquette of the Khâla (“empty waste”) for a guest to throw himself upon his host after sunset. The evening meal, the chief meal of the day, is eaten then. To arrive after it is prepared, or finished, is to put the host to all the trouble of fresh preparation. This no Arab would do if he could possibly avoid it. If the guest is of any consideration, the host would grieve most of all that he was deprived of the privilege of making a proper feast. Therefore, by common consent it is said, “The guest who arrives after sunset goes supperless to sleep.” There is, however, another reason for shunning the shadows of early night. Then especially the robber pests of the wilds ply their dark craft, with the long hours till morning in which to flee. With such a start before his crime is discovered, and knowing as he does the intricacies of the desert, the robber or murderer is almost sure to escape.
The Arab “houses,” as they call them, are made of goats’-hair, spun and woven by the women into long strips, about fifteen inches wide. The weft is stretched on a frame; the woof is worked in by the women’s fingers, and drawn up tightly with what looks like a huge, short-toothed, wooden comb. Dark brown and white are the colours mostly employed. These strips are sewn together with hair thread, into pieces of sufficient breadth. Two poles are set up at each end of the space to be covered. Over these the roof-cloth is stretched by means of cords fastened to the ends, and attached to pins firmly fixed in the ground. As many poles as are needed to support the roof are introduced in the body of the “house,” and over these, by side cords, tied as at the ends, to pegs in the ground, the cloth is drawn taut. Often sufficient cloth is made for only one end and one side of the “house.” This is fastened under the eaves, and is moved round with the sun, so as to afford shade all day. This haircloth, once thoroughly wet, draws so tightly together as to be perfectly waterproof. Many think its rain-resisting qualities are improved by the smoke of greenwood fires. It is the business of the women (el-harîm) to put up the “house”; and among them it is reckoned a high accomplishment to be able, with a single blow of the wooden mallet, to drive the tent peg home. Jael the Kenite brought a practised hand to drive the tent peg through the brow of the sleeping Sisera.
The tent is divided by a hair curtain drawn across the middle. One end is the women’s, or more private family department, into which strangers do not intrude. Here are kept the household stores, coffee, rice, tobacco, samn, etc. Here also will generally be found the small box, strongly bound with brass or iron, containing contracts, which probably the owner cannot read, and any treasures to which more than usual value is attached. A chief’s son on one occasion produced, and displayed with no little pride, decorations which his ancestors had received from European governments for services rendered in troublous times. The other end of the tent is public, where all gather on equal terms. Here the guest is received and made to recline on cushions, which may be covered with silk if the “master of the house” is a man of substance. A shallow hole at one side is the “fireplace,” where coffee is prepared for the company. Sometimes a large stone shields the fire from the wind.
The tents of an encampment are set end to end, with about the space of a “house” between them. There may be but a single row, as in the case of those with whom we had spent the night; but if the number is large there may be two rows, forming a kind of street. The place of honour is at the right hand as one enters the encampment; and at either end this position is occupied by one of sheikhly rank. The status of the householder may usually be inferred from the size of his house; and this is reckoned by the number of poles necessary to sustain it. The chief’s tent in the larger tribes provides accommodation for many guests.
ARAB WOMEN AND CHILDREN
(Photo. The Photochrome Co. Ld.)
To the women fall all work and drudgery about camp. We have seen that they make and pitch the tents. They are the water-carriers, and many a weary tramp they have, returning exhausted, with the sweating girbies on their backs. If the fountain or cistern is very far off, they may have donkeys on which to bring the precious liquid, in “bottles” of partially tanned goat-skins. They, of course, do the cooking, and must hold themselves in readiness at every moment to obey their lords’ behests. When the tribe moves on, they must pack all the goods, strike the tents, and put everything in place, ready for the camels to carry. Their lazy masters, meantime, are lounging in whatever shade there may be, changing their position as the sun moves, “drinking”—i.e. smoking—tobacco, indulging in coffee with the sheikh, or yawning over some tale told for the hundredth time. But when a ghazzu, or “raid,” is projected, then all is stir and excitement among them. Each man girds on his weapons, mounts his riding-camel, and eagerly pushes forward in search of plunder.
The degradation of the women is completed by the practice of polygamy and the freedom of divorce. The husband may in a moment of displeasure simply utter the formula of divorce, and his wife ceases absolutely to belong to him. No particular disgrace attaches to the divorced wife, who easily finds a place in the harîm of another. But the husband whose wife has run away from him smarts for long under the indignity. The mother of daughters is despised; but she who bears many sons is held in reverence, as one who has contributed to the honour of the family, to the strength and dignity of the tribe.
The wealth of the Beduw consists, like that of Abraham and the patriarchs, in flocks and herds. The true representatives, indeed, of Abraham, that grand old sheikh, are not to be sought among the pale-faced slaves of Talmud and Rabbi, huddled together in the close, unhealthy towns of Western Palestine; but in the dark-skinned, free-spirited children of the desert. They roam over wide tracts, wherever vegetation is found, and water to allay thirst, that haunts the wilderness like the shadow of death. The humbler men and youths take charge of the flocks, “leading them forth” to pastures, alas, not often green; and conducting them every second or third day to the watering. Here one may see any day a reproduction, true even to minor details, of the strife between the herdsmen of Isaac and Abimelech. To the stranger’s eye the confusion of flocks at the watering is complete. In reality there is mingling, but no confusion. When the shepherd sees that his charges are satisfied, he simply steps apart and makes his own peculiar cry, when they at once leave the throng and follow him, for “they know his voice.” A stranger they will not follow although he copy their shepherd’s call never so skilfully, for “they know not the voice of strangers.”
The scenes at desert wells are not always so peaceful. Mr. Doughty tells a gruesome tale of a band of wild outriders from the Yemen quarter who, after a long hot ride, reached a little pool. The first man sprang forward, and filling a vessel, put it to his lips. He never drank. The second man, with an awful oath, plunged his sword in his fellow’s heart, seized the vessel, and raised it to drink, when he also fell, bleeding to death under a sword-cut from the man who followed him, and who in a similar frenzy of thirst would not wait until his comrade drank. Then the leader of the band exercised his authority. The fierce fellows were placed in a row, and water was handed to them in turn. What a man of iron that commander must have been.
To every camp is attached a number of dogs, that belong in a general way to the community. They are ferocious brutes, and it is by no means safe for a stranger to approach them alone. They seem to be asleep most of the day, and awake most of the night. They are trusty guardians of the flocks during the dark hours, from beasts of prey, their voices of challenge giving the herdsmen due warning of their enemies’ approach.
Among the nobler sort these “houses of hair” are the very homes of open-hearted hospitality. In speaking of the Druzes we saw that the practice of hospitality was associated with religious ideas long prevalent in Arabia. The particular idea seems to be more clearly recognised by the Beduw. When, in the slant beams of dying day, the weary traveller draws near, the Bedawy sees in him a guest sent by God, and so he is called Daif Ullah—“guest of God,” who for sake of God must be bountifully dealt with. For, are not all men “guests of God,” spending the brief hours of life’s fleeting day under the blue canopy of His great tent, sharing together His hospitality? With such an one the Bedawy will cheerfully share the last food in his possession. For, did not God give the food? and did not He send the guest? His bounty will not fail in what is needful for the morrow. How might two guests sit together in the great Host’s tent, one eating and the other hungry? Hence we have the Arabian proverbs: “Loaf for loaf, and your neighbour dies not of hunger”; and “He who has bread is debtor to him who has none.” Thus do we find in the nobler phases of desert life a fine reflection of the Christian principle, so well realised by the Apostle Paul, who felt himself debtor to every one who knew not the light and joy of the Gospel as he did. The bread of life must be received and dispensed in the generous spirit of Oriental hospitality.
ARABS AT HOME
(Photo. The Photochrome Co. Ld.)
It is curious that the Arab should feel himself relieved from all obligation if he meet the stranger in the open; while if the latter can but touch the most distant peg or cord of the tent, he is absolutely safe. To provide for the security of his guest is a point of highest honour with the Arab; and his comfort is considered before anything else. He is made “master of the house” while he stays. The owner will not sit down unless the guest invites him; nor will he eat until the guest is satisfied. To eat under the same roof, or from the same dish, constitutes a bond of brotherhood. The host is responsible for the safety of his guest, as far as his authority or ability extends: the guest is bound in every way to consider the honour and credit of his host. The protection of the stranger may even anticipate his arrival at the tent. If in peril, he may take shelter under the name of some powerful sheikh. When he utters this name, it becomes the duty of all to assist him in reaching his protector’s dwelling. Any injury done to him is an outrage upon the man, who, thus invoked, becomes his patron and avenger. So in the name of the Lord are deliverance and safety found (Prov. xviii. 10, etc.). The guest may claim entertainment for three days and three nights. The host may require him to stay so long. If he stay beyond this period, the stranger may have to do some work—a provision, probably, against idlers and hangers-on. The guest may abide continually in the “house” of his host only by becoming identified with the family through marriage or adoption (Psalm xxiii. 6).
The guest is expected to show appreciation of the viands supplied in ways not open to one in polite society. In drinking coffee, for example, he should noisily draw it in with his breath, smack his lips, and declare its excellence. But he must offer no payment for his entertainment. This would be regarded as insult. The Arab eats not in the morning; the guest departs with a simple “good-bye.” He has had no more than his right; presently his host will enjoy the like kindness at his own or some other brother’s hand. The recognition of this obligation to the needy stranger must often have been the very condition of life to wanderers in waste lands.
A fuller discussion of many interesting usages connected with hospitality will be found in the writer’s article “Hospitality,” in Hastings’ Dictionary of the Bible, vol. ii. pp. 427 f.
Save among the pests that lurk in solitary places, ready to spring upon the lonely traveller unawares, to whom no life is sacred that stands between them and plunder, who seem to find a diabolical pleasure in the mere sight of blood, one need not greatly fear for his life in any encounter with the Beduw. They may take all he possesses, and even his clothes, wounding him if necessary to this end; but they do not willingly take life, leaving the disposal of this to Him who gave it.
Like the “bruisers” at home, the Arabs have a code of honour in regard to hostile encounters; but it refers not to the manner of the blow and the part where it falls. It has to do with the weapon. To strike a man with the fist, or with a blunt instrument of any kind, is to put a heavy insult upon him. On the other hand, to strike with a sharp weapon, or smite with the edge of the sword, may be criminal, but it involves no disgrace.
As between man and man, and tribe and tribe, the lex talionis is in full force. The tribe is not regarded as an aggregate, but as an organic unity, of which each man is a member, as the hand is of the body. If the hand do one an injury, satisfaction is found in punishment through the foot or any other member. Even so, if a tribesman inflict an injury on one of a neighbouring tribe, and the particular offender eludes the avenger, any member of his tribe may be taken in his place. Injury for injury, blood for blood, is the stern law. The offender’s tribe may confess that wrong has been done, and offer to compound with the injured for a sum of money. The amount in such cases is fixed in solemn conclave by delegates of the different tribes, and the value is represented by a number of camels or other animals. If these are accepted, the feud is at an end. But among the aristocracy of the Beduw, the nobler sort, such compounding for blood is esteemed dishonourable. Then the whole tribe, and the wider circle of those with whom they claim relationship, become a staunch confederacy for defence of the manslayer, and for mutual protection against the enemy. Thus the absence of “cities of refuge” is made good to the fugitive; the usages of hospitality come in to relieve the gloom of dark, relentless passion. For the manslayer, if he can but penetrate the tent and eat bread there, may claim sanctuary from the “avenger of blood” himself. Even the father, who thirsts to avenge the blood of a beloved son, will let him depart, and neither pursue nor permit him to be pursued until the space of two days and a night has passed.
The sheyûkh—“the chiefs” who administer justice among the Beduw—are renowned for their integrity and for the equity of their decisions. They scorn bribes. Stories are often told of the disputes of townsmen who, rather than appear before the corrupt courts of the land, where each must lose whoever wins, have submitted their case to arbitration by sheyûkh el-Beduw, in whose judgment both parties at once acquiesced. In cases where blows have been given, no progress can be made until a balance of injuries has been struck. Only when the least injured has suffered in person or in goods so as to equalise the injuries will the case be heard and adjudicated upon. The deliverance of the sheyûkh carries with it the moral weight of the whole tribe. He who disregards it practically passes on himself sentence of outlawry.
ARAB HORSEMAN
The devotion of the Arab to his steed has been sung in many tongues and in many lands. His mare is the first care of the Bedawy; more to him than either wife or child, save perhaps his firstborn son, when green food is scarce, and at evening the camels are brought to be milked, the mare first drinks from the foaming vessel; wives and children share what she leaves. On his robber raids he rides out upon his camel, the mare being led, saddled and ready, by his side. In the hour of peril he will commit himself to her fleet limbs; and not once nor twice in the course of his roving life the Arab will owe safety and all else to the speed of his four-footed friend. Tenderly cared for at other times, her every want anticipated, when the moment of trial comes she will fly off like the wind; and the distances often covered ere fatigue stays her career would seem fabulous in European ears. The fondness of the Arab for the horse frequently becomes a craze, leading him into the ridiculous. If a man is too poor to own a horse, e.g., he will take a bone of the noble animal and preserve it in his tent! Again, a horse may be the property not of one or two, but of many. It is considered as consisting of so many parts, which are bought by different parties. Each is thus entitled to say, with an approach to truth, that he owns horse-flesh. The owner of a good horse never willingly parts with it. If pressed by necessity, he may allow another to become part proprietor. Even then he will hardly sell outright. The man who has the rasan (“halter”) feeds the horse, and in return enjoys the use of it. Thus it was with a beautiful mare, half of which, with the rasan, was owned by the present writer. The other partners were a native Christian gentleman, a rich Moslem merchant in Acre, and the pasha of the province.
We have referred to the religious connection of certain Arab customs. From this it might be inferred that they are a religious people. This is strictly true. Nominally they are Moslems; but their religious knowledge is scanty at best, and their thinking far from clear.
They believe in the existence of God; they are taught to consider themselves His special favourites. All non-Moslems are regarded as His enemies and theirs. But of the moral character of God they have hardly the glimmering of an idea. They will “thank God” as heartily for success in a robber-raid as for recovery from sickness. One must know something of the character of God before he can understand what sin is, and why God abhors it. But the Allah of the Moslem, capricious in his choice of favourites, is very indulgent towards the frailties and failings of those who confess him and his prophet. It is futile to seek to identify Allah with the God of Christianity. His name is for ever on the lips of his devotees. The most trivial expressions they confirm by appeal to Deity, and that with equal glibness whether they be true or false. Some isolated articles of faith they have, and certain rites, such as circumcision, which are religious in their origin, but they have nothing which can properly be called a religious system. The mind of the Orient, indeed, while singularly fruitful in ideas, is deficient in the elements essential to the thinking of ideas together. It is mystical, reflective, analytic, but it lacks the power of synthesis. There are no great Arabic philosophers, in our meaning of the term. Their “philosophers” are gifted men, whose wit flashes forth in sparkling epigram, in wise discriminations and sage counsels for the conduct of life. For systematic treatment of the problems of being and well-being we search among them in vain. Even what by courtesy we call the “system” of Islâm is not an organic unity, but rather an aggregation of ideas around the great central dogma. For the hints as to systematic treatment of the revelation in Jesus Christ found in the Epistles of St. Paul—for even here there is hardly anything beyond hints—we are indebted not to his Hebrew training, but to his Gentile learning, and especially to his acquaintance with Roman Law. While the Oriental mind has been prolific in originating thought, the great task of synthesis has been given specially to the mind of the West.
Give to a rude, untutored people the simple idea of the unity of God, without any conception of His moral character, together with the further idea that they are His peculiar favourites, and you have prepared the way for a descent not to be thought of without a shudder. If, after long generations, we find this people one “whose heart is not right with God,” “whose mouth is full of cursing and deceit,” our wonder may be, not so much that they are fallen so low, as that they have preserved their nobler institutions and maintained themselves as well as they have done against the tides of corruption. And there are signs of a yearning among them for better things. Let one authentic story suffice.
External influences affecting the Beduw are few and slight. Peddling Jews from Damascus, Safed, Tiberias, Jerusalem perambulate their country by times; but their trade is almost entirely confined to the barbarous ornaments worn by the women. The Moslem pilgrimage which yearly passes through their territory is doubtless a power for evil, fortunately limited in its effects to the districts more immediately adjoining the great Hajj road. Once in a while, however, some of the men may journey to esh-Shâm (Damascus), city of wonder and beauty to their uncultured minds, returning with strange tales as to its greatness, and confused ideas of its streets, orchards, and musical waters. One such had visited this “earthly paradise,” the Arab’s dream of splendour and pleasure. He, however, was most of all impressed with what he saw of worship in the great mosque. The effect upon his own spirit was deep, and this he conveyed to his fellows in the solitudes when he returned. It stirred the slumbering necessity in all their hearts for communion with God. At sunset he drew them up upon the sand, and, standing before them, he imitated as well as he could the movements of the worshippers he had seen, and in these he was followed by his friends. Ya Allah! he said, mitl ma bikûlu fî esh-Shâm; and his fellows responded in turn, Wa azwad, wa azwad, wa azwad. “O Allah! just as they say in Damascus.” “And more, and more, and more”! The tale may seem ludicrous, if not absurd; but it has also a pathetic aspect. Does it not seem like a cry from the hearts of men in darkness, yearning for light on the Godward road? Are we not debtors to such as they?