Cairo to Kisumu

by Frank G. Carpenter

See it all again with me. In the eye of your mind cover an acre field with the richest of oriental rugs; erect about it walls of pure white alabaster with veins as delicate as those of the moss agate; let these walls run up for hundreds of feet; build galleries around them and roof the whole with great domes in which are windows of stained glass; hang lamps by the thousands from the ceiling, place here and there an alabaster column. Now you have some idea of this mosque as it looked on the night of Mohammed’s birthday.

You must, however, add the worshippers to the picture. Thousands of oriental costumes; turbans of white, black, and green; rich gowns and sober, long-bearded, dark faces, shine out under the lights in every part of the building. Add likewise the mass of Egyptian soldiers in gold lace and modern uniforms, with red fezzes on their heads, and the hundreds of noble Egyptians in European clothes. There are no shoes in the assemblage, and the crowd moves about on the rugs in bare feet or stockings.

What a babel of sounds goes up from the different parts of the building, and how strange are the sights! Here a dozen old men squat on their haunches, facing each other, and rock back and forth as they recite passages of the Koran. Here is a man worshipping all alone; there is a crowd of long-haired, wild-eyed ascetics with faces of all shades of black, yellow, and white. They are so dirty and emaciated they make one think of the hermits of fiction. They stand in a ring and go through the queerest of antics to the weird music of three great tambourines and two drums played by worshippers quite as wild looking as themselves. It is a religious gymnastic show, the horrible nature of which cannot be described upon paper.

When I first entered the mosque, these Howling Dervishes were squatted on the floor, moving their bodies up and down in unison, and grunting and gasping as though the whole band had been attacked with the colic. A moment later they arose and began to bob their heads from one side to the other until I thought their necks would be dislocated by the jerks they gave them. They swung their ears nearly down to their shoulders. The leader stood in the centre, setting the time to the music. Now he bent over so that his head was almost level with his knees, then snapped his body back to an erect position. The whole band did likewise, keeping up this back-breaking motion for fifteen minutes. All the time they howled out “Allah, Allah!” Their motions increased in wildness. With every stoop the music grew louder and faster. They threw off their turbans, and their long hair, half matted, now brushed the floor as they bent down in front, now cut the air like whips as they threw themselves back. Their eyes began to protrude, one man frothed at the mouth. At last they reached such a state of fanatical ecstasy that not for several minutes after the leader ordered them to stop, were they able to do so. The Howling Dervishes used to cut themselves in their rites and often they fall down in fits in their frenzy. They believe that such actions are passports to heaven.

A great occasion in Cairo is the sending of a new gold-embroidered carpet to the sanctuary in Mecca, there to absorb holiness at the shrine of the Prophet. The old carpet is brought back each year, and its shreds are distributed among the Faithful.

The mosque of the Citadel in Cairo was built of alabaster by Mehemet Ali, the “Napoleon of Egypt.” When Mohammed’s birthday is celebrated, its halls and courts are choked with thousands of Moslem worshippers and are the scene of fanatical religious exercises.

In another part of the room was a band of Whirling Dervishes, who, dressed in high sugar-loaf hats and long white gowns, whirled about in a ring, with their arms outstretched, going faster and faster, until their skirts stood out from their waists like those of a circus performer mounted on a bareback steed, as she dances over the banners and through the hoops.

There were Mohammedans of all sects in the mosque, each going through his own pious performances without paying any attention to the crowds that surrounded him. In his religious life the Mussulman is a much braver man than the Christian. At the hours for prayer he will flop down on his knees and touch his head on the ground in the direction of Mecca, no matter who are his companions or what his surroundings. He must take off his shoes before praying, and I saw yesterday in the bazaars of Cairo a man clad in European clothes who was praying in his little box-like shop with his stocking feet turned out toward the street, which was just then full of people. In the heel of each stocking there was a hole as big as a dollar, and the bare skin looked out at the crowds.