A slave comes. He is the favorite slave and confidant of one of the Senussi chiefs. His silks are as rich and even more vivid, and there is little to suggest servility. He feels his importance and walks with equally dignified grace through the ranks of the worshipers to take his place, maybe next to a dignitary, maybe next to a beggar. At the mosque the poor not only stand on level ground with the rich and the prosperous, but in a subtle way they have their revenge, for in the house of God the master is God and the beggar may feel as great or greater than the rich man since he is not submerged in the luxury of the world and forgetting God. The old and shabby jerd is, to the Bedouin going into the mosque, as fit a garment for worship as silken brocades are proper raiment for a man going to see the Senussi chiefs.
The worshipers are now ready. The muezzin has finished the call to prayer. There is a hush. The young Senussi princes are entering the mosque. They take the places that have been reserved for them. All eyes turn toward them, and, on account of their youth, they look a little shy and embarrassed. No one rises as they enter, for this is the House of God, wherein God alone is the master. Then the imam mounts the pulpit and delivers his sermon. On the few occasions that I have been able to attend Friday prayers in an oasis mosque, the theme of the sermon has often been the same, advising the congregation to shun the world and its luxury and to prepare for a life of happiness in the next world by doing good. “Beware of the ornaments and the luxuries of this world, for they are very enticing. Once you fall a victim to them you lose your soul and stray farther from God. Draw nearer to God by doing good deeds and obeying his commands. This life will pass away. Only the next world is everlasting. Prepare yourselves for it, that you may be happy in eternity.”
The interior of this mosque is beautiful in the simple dignity of its lines. The walls are bare, whitewashed, scrupulously clean. The floor is covered with rugs or with fiber matting. The worshipers squat cross-legged upon the floor in a very reverent attitude. There are perhaps two hundred of them, ranged in rows, all facing toward Mecca. There are some who count their prayers upon rosaries of amber beads; others, too poor to have rosaries, record the number of their prayers by opening and closing their fingers. There are some whose every movement betrays opulence and prosperity; others, Bedouins of the desert, have a far-away look. The most striking impression is the serenity and contentment written on their faces. Even upon the pinched and haggard face there is an expression of equanimity which shows that the man has accepted his fate. It is written there that he is living on the verge of starvation, yet he does not rebel.
After lunch at El Abid’s, Soliman Bu Matari came again to talk about the trip south. He reported that Bu Helega and Mohammed, who was to be our guide, had met and talked things over, but Bu Helega was still unwilling to go.
Abdullahi had spent the day at Jof, gathering what information he could about the Ouenat route and trying to find out if the Tebus would let me hire camels from them for the journey thither.
After dinner at El Abid’s, I spent some time in Sayed Idris’s library, which he had instructed Jeddawi to throw open to me.
Imagine a room of medium size filled with chests containing books. The ceiling is decorated in vivid colors, the work of an artist, a lover of the Senussis, who came from Tunis simply to do them a service, just as in medieval Europe painters and sculptors devoted their lives to adorning churches. Every bit of wood in the room has come from Egypt or Benghazi. There is a window open to the air with only wooden shutters as a protection against the sun.
AT ARKENU
Hidden in the heart of the desert are these strange picturegraphs