talk. The men in the coffee-house entertained no hope that the constitutional or any other government would succeed in establishing order.
“Ever since the days of the Benî Ghassân,” said one (and I could have added “ever since the days of the Hittites”), “the Arabs have ravaged the land, and who shall stop them? The government does nothing and we can do nothing. We have no power and all of us are poor.”
“In the last six years,” said another, “we have had fourteen Ḳâimmaḳâms at ’Ânah. Not one of these gave a thought to the prosperity of the town, but he extorted what money he could before he was removed.”
“There is a new Ḳâimmaḳâm on his way here,” I observed.
“True,” he replied. “When the telegram came last summer telling of liberty and equality, the people assembled before the serâyah, the government house, and bade the Ḳâimmaḳâm begone, for they would govern themselves. Thereat came orders from Baghdâd that the people must be dispersed; and the soldiers fired upon them, killing six men. And we do not know what the telegram about liberty and brotherhood can have meant, but at least the Ḳâimmaḳâm was dismissed.”
My zaptieh broke in here. “Effendim,” said he, “it fell out once that I was in Bombay—yes, I was sent from Baṣrah with horses for one of the kings of India. And there I saw a poor man whose passport had been stolen from him, and he carried his complaint to the judge. Now the judge was of the English, and he fined the thief and cut off two of his fingers. That is government; in India the poor are protected.”
“Allah!” said one of the coffee-drinkers in undisguised admiration.
I knew better than to question the validity of the anecdote, and, with what modesty I could assume, I accepted the credit that accrued from it.
“But even the English,” pursued another, “cannot hold the tribes. Effendim, have the Afghans submitted to you? Wallah, no.”
He had laid his finger upon a knotty point, and I took up the question from a different side.