From Berlin to Bagdad and Babylon

by J. A. Zahm

The ruins of this old metropolis show what an important city Nisibis must have been when it was ranked with Edessa and Antioch and Damascus at the period when they were at the zenith of their power and greatness. And history tells us of what a fertile and densely populated region it was once the capital. In the days of its splendor it was surrounded by marvelously fruitful gardens and grain fields while the valleys of the Gargar and the Khabur were famous for their olive groves and their extensive plantations of cotton. Many cities and towns on the Khabur, which have long been in ruins, were once noted cotton markets whence this valuable staple was shipped to Mosul and Chilat in southeastern Armenia, where it was converted into muslin. The word muslin, as is known, is derived from Mosul because this fabric had its origin there. But both the cultivation of cotton and the manufacture of muslin have long ceased to be the important industries they once were in this part of the Orient.

Another feature of this part of Mesopotamia, noted by historians, was its forests. It was at Nisibis “where good timber was abundant,” that the Emperor Trajan had a large fleet constructed to be used on the Tigris.[314] Now the entire country is so treeless that anything larger than a shrub is rarely seen. So uncommon, indeed, is a tree of any size that when one occurs, it is deemed worthy of a special name, even as was “The Oak of Weeping,” under which was buried Debora, the nurse of Rebecca.[315]

Nor is the desolation which so characterizes the regions round about Haran and Nisibis exceptional in northern Mesopotamia. It is typical of the entire country extending from the Euphrates to the Tigris. But according to the “Peuteringian Table” this vast belt of land was once studded with cities and towns, of which there are now but scattered traces. Crumbling walls, remnants of bridges and churches and reservoirs are all that now remain to attest the prosperity of this land in the days of Roman grandeur and Byzantine splendor.

At Nisibis we reached the present eastern terminus of the Bagdad Railway. Thence to Mosul, about a hundred and fifty miles distant, we journeyed on the backs of dromedaries. I did not, however, regret that this slower means of locomotion necessitated our spending more time in a region that recalled Libya’s solitary waste,

Its barren rocks, parched earth and hills of sand.

Not at all. I have always loved the desert, its solitude, its tranquillity, its restfulness. In it,

Far from the madding crowd’s ignoble strife,

I have spent many of the most peaceful and enjoyable days of my life. I love its diaphanous skies, which are as limpid as the crystal heaven of Eden. I love its dry, ethereal, stimulating atmosphere which exalts the spirits, restores the zest of youth, intensifies the joy of living. Often, while within its quiet confines, I have exclaimed with St. Bernard and St. Jerome, O sancta solituto! Then I realized, as never before, its attraction for the hermits of the Thebaid and the anchorets of the Syrian Chalcis.

It matters not that the desert is as monotonous as the ocean; that its silence is broken only by the muffled footsteps of our even-paced camels; that there is a total absence of life—there is not a beast or bird or insect visible in the broad expanse; that on all sides one sees nothing but sterility, desolation, and death.

This is all true—very true. But if the desert has the monotony of the ocean, it also holds within its mysterious solitudes all the awe and solemnity; all the grandeur and sublimity of the ocean. This is particularly true at the magic hour of refulgent sunset. Then its shifting sands and fantastically formed rocks—black asphalts, brown sandstones, gray and rose granites which are massed like groups of antediluvian monsters—are illumined by splendors of color and phantasmagorias of light which transform the most ordinary landscape into a veritable fairyland.