ARBELA
In the 7th century the hordes of fanatic and savage Arabs swept away the Persian culture that was fast becoming imbued with Christianity, and Arbela and Adiabene fell into those depths that engulfed many a greater city and province. However, Arbela was sufficiently important to be mentioned as one of the larger cities sacked and ruined by the barbarian Mongols of Hulagu Khan in the 13th century. Fortunately the ruins of Ishtar’s temple and the old city were then hidden under a covering of earth that time had deposited upon them, and thus Nature has preserved them for Western investigation, from the hands of a human pestilence that respected neither monument of God nor man.
During the centuries the Kurds, who drive out many peoples, have occupied the city, which is still the most important of the province. So powerful is the Kurdish language, however, that in many places whose population is not of that race, the forceful, graphic language has displaced all others; and as in Sulaimania, the people, originally mixed, now call themselves Kurds.
As we entered Erbil at nightfall and left it in the dark of dawn, I had practically no opportunity of seeing its modern aspect, but its mound was visible till we had gone many miles over the flat plain. Starting at four in the morning, we got into Altun Keupri in the late afternoon. To the north of this town the plain gives place to low hills, the valleys of which at this time of the year were a mass of flowers; but the rain once more overtook us as we passed by the pretty gardens outside the little town. Here the Lesser Zab crosses the plain from east to west, marking the boundary of old Assyria proper, and the later Adiabene. Altun Keupri, a place without any particular history, is situated on an island between two branches of the river. From the north it is entered by a long bridge with a turn in the middle, like an elbow. Reaching the entrance to this, one is challenged by an individual who emerges from a hole in a wall, and counting the mules, gives tickets in return for payment of tolls, which tickets enable the passenger to pass the bridge on the south side free of further charge. The place is picturesque enough, standing up upon its island, the house-walls being built in a continuation of the low cliff face, giving it a fortified appearance. One long street runs through the town, which among the river Arabs and in Bagdad is known as Guntara (Qantara), “The Bridge.” There is a little bazaar, occupying half the length of the town, which gives place to a coffee-house and a tea-house lower down. Then come the barracks, which occasionally harbour a few soldiers; and lastly the telegraph office, which one passes, to reach another large coffee-house and the foot of the bridge that gave the name of “Golden Bridge” to the place.
“Gable Bridge” would have been more correct as a descriptive title. To ride up or down is impossible, the loaded mules and horses have to be carefully pushed and guided over its precipitous slopes.
As an example of the daringly experimental in bridge design it is excellent, and its extraordinary appearance must have impressed its builder very considerably to gain the name “Golden Bridge”: it is of the most prosaic and uncompromising stone and plaster.
I found out more about the place later on, but on this occasion we passed right through it, and in a downpour threw down the loads in a yard among a few houses on the south bank of the river. My companions repaired to a little tea-house near by, and I found a room in a corner of the yard occupied by a darvish, who followed the trade of mat-weaver, a craft unknown in these regions. This room he consented to share with me, advising me not to sit too near the door, which had a habit of falling down occasionally. As I was in a town and my Kurdish head-dress was soaking wet and very heavy, I discarded it for my fez, thereby gaining the title of “effendi” from the darvish, where before I had been but “brother” or “beloved.” Moreover he busied himself to attend upon me, asking me in Kurdish the while where I was going. At last he stopped in the middle of puffing at a smoky fire, looked up at me with a half smile and addressed me in Persian. He had detected a Persian word or two I had used in Kurdish. Hearing my Persian he displayed his knowledge of tongues by asserting that I was undoubtedly a Shirazi, and receiving a confirmation of his statement, immediately changed his “effendi” for “agha,” the Persian polite form of address. Nor was he content with this adjustment of affairs; he rose, and taking my hands in his, kissed me on both cheeks, ejaculating:
ENCOUNTER A PERSIAN
“Bi haqq i ’Amiru’l Mu’minin chashmam raushan shud va ruzigaram bi ghurbat khush!” (“By the right of the Lord of the Faithful[28] my eyes are lighted, and my days in the strange land made pleasant!”)
Never did I realise more vividly the truth of the Kurdish saying, that Persian is the sweetest of tongues; or the Shirazi, “that a word of Persian in a strange land is better than a drink of water in the desert.” After weeks of harsh Arabic, uncouth Turkish, and rough, if not disagreeable, Kurdish, Persian came like the voice of a friend among enemies. My darvish was a native of Nishapur, the birthplace of the famous Omar Khayyam, and had travelled on foot from there to Mecca, and though it was now three years, had not yet returned, wandering towards it gradually, earning a living by the exercise of his craft. Now he would not allow me to so much as light a cigarette for myself, and sent me out to the tea-house while he swept the room, prepared tea, cooked some eggs, and got some curds and bread.