The tent is divided by a hair curtain drawn across the middle. One end is the women’s, or more private family department, into which strangers do not intrude. Here are kept the household stores, coffee, rice, tobacco, samn, etc. Here also will generally be found the small box, strongly bound with brass or iron, containing contracts, which probably the owner cannot read, and any treasures to which more than usual value is attached. A chief’s son on one occasion produced, and displayed with no little pride, decorations which his ancestors had received from European governments for services rendered in troublous times. The other end of the tent is public, where all gather on equal terms. Here the guest is received and made to recline on cushions, which may be covered with silk if the “master of the house” is a man of substance. A shallow hole at one side is the “fireplace,” where coffee is prepared for the company. Sometimes a large stone shields the fire from the wind.
The tents of an encampment are set end to end, with about the space of a “house” between them. There may be but a single row, as in the case of those with whom we had spent the night; but if the number is large there may be two rows, forming a kind of street. The place of honour is at the right hand as one enters the encampment; and at either end this position is occupied by one of sheikhly rank. The status of the householder may usually be inferred from the size of his house; and this is reckoned by the number of poles necessary to sustain it. The chief’s tent in the larger tribes provides accommodation for many guests.
ARAB WOMEN AND CHILDREN
(Photo. The Photochrome Co. Ld.)
To the women fall all work and drudgery about camp. We have seen that they make and pitch the tents. They are the water-carriers, and many a weary tramp they have, returning exhausted, with the sweating girbies on their backs. If the fountain or cistern is very far off, they may have donkeys on which to bring the precious liquid, in “bottles” of partially tanned goat-skins. They, of course, do the cooking, and must hold themselves in readiness at every moment to obey their lords’ behests. When the tribe moves on, they must pack all the goods, strike the tents, and put everything in place, ready for the camels to carry. Their lazy masters, meantime, are lounging in whatever shade there may be, changing their position as the sun moves, “drinking”—i.e. smoking—tobacco, indulging in coffee with the sheikh, or yawning over some tale told for the hundredth time. But when a ghazzu, or “raid,” is projected, then all is stir and excitement among them. Each man girds on his weapons, mounts his riding-camel, and eagerly pushes forward in search of plunder.
The degradation of the women is completed by the practice of polygamy and the freedom of divorce. The husband may in a moment of displeasure simply utter the formula of divorce, and his wife ceases absolutely to belong to him. No particular disgrace attaches to the divorced wife, who easily finds a place in the harîm of another. But the husband whose wife has run away from him smarts for long under the indignity. The mother of daughters is despised; but she who bears many sons is held in reverence, as one who has contributed to the honour of the family, to the strength and dignity of the tribe.
The wealth of the Beduw consists, like that of Abraham and the patriarchs, in flocks and herds. The true representatives, indeed, of Abraham, that grand old sheikh, are not to be sought among the pale-faced slaves of Talmud and Rabbi, huddled together in the close, unhealthy towns of Western Palestine; but in the dark-skinned, free-spirited children of the desert. They roam over wide tracts, wherever vegetation is found, and water to allay thirst, that haunts the wilderness like the shadow of death. The humbler men and youths take charge of the flocks, “leading them forth” to pastures, alas, not often green; and conducting them every second or third day to the watering. Here one may see any day a reproduction, true even to minor details, of the strife between the herdsmen of Isaac and Abimelech. To the stranger’s eye the confusion of flocks at the watering is complete. In reality there is mingling, but no confusion. When the shepherd sees that his charges are satisfied, he simply steps apart and makes his own peculiar cry, when they at once leave the throng and follow him, for “they know his voice.” A stranger they will not follow although he copy their shepherd’s call never so skilfully, for “they know not the voice of strangers.”
The scenes at desert wells are not always so peaceful. Mr. Doughty tells a gruesome tale of a band of wild outriders from the Yemen quarter who, after a long hot ride, reached a little pool. The first man sprang forward, and filling a vessel, put it to his lips. He never drank. The second man, with an awful oath, plunged his sword in his fellow’s heart, seized the vessel, and raised it to drink, when he also fell, bleeding to death under a sword-cut from the man who followed him, and who in a similar frenzy of thirst would not wait until his comrade drank. Then the leader of the band exercised his authority. The fierce fellows were placed in a row, and water was handed to them in turn. What a man of iron that commander must have been.
To every camp is attached a number of dogs, that belong in a general way to the community. They are ferocious brutes, and it is by no means safe for a stranger to approach them alone. They seem to be asleep most of the day, and awake most of the night. They are trusty guardians of the flocks during the dark hours, from beasts of prey, their voices of challenge giving the herdsmen due warning of their enemies’ approach.
Among the nobler sort these “houses of hair” are the very homes of open-hearted hospitality. In speaking of the Druzes we saw that the practice of hospitality was associated with religious ideas long prevalent in Arabia. The particular idea seems to be more clearly recognised by the Beduw. When, in the slant beams of dying day, the weary traveller draws near, the Bedawy sees in him a guest sent by God, and so he is called Daif Ullah—“guest of God,” who for sake of God must be bountifully dealt with. For, are not all men “guests of God,” spending the brief hours of life’s fleeting day under the blue canopy of His great tent, sharing together His hospitality? With such an one the Bedawy will cheerfully share the last food in his possession. For, did not God give the food? and did not He send the guest? His bounty will not fail in what is needful for the morrow. How might two guests sit together in the great Host’s tent, one eating and the other hungry? Hence we have the Arabian proverbs: “Loaf for loaf, and your neighbour dies not of hunger”; and “He who has bread is debtor to him who has none.” Thus do we find in the nobler phases of desert life a fine reflection of the Christian principle, so well realised by the Apostle Paul, who felt himself debtor to every one who knew not the light and joy of the Gospel as he did. The bread of life must be received and dispensed in the generous spirit of Oriental hospitality.