CHAPTER I
Damascus—Haurân Railway—Great Moslem pilgrimage—The plains of Damascus—Great Hermon—El-Kisweh—Bridges in Palestine—Ghabâghib—Es-Sanamein—Medical myth—A Land of Fear—Grain-fields of Haurân—An oppressed peasantry—Nowa.
There is a pleasant excitement in the prospect of a journey through long-forgotten lands, where hoary age is written on dark ruin and carved stone, which lends its influence to while away the monotonous days of preparation. But even amid surroundings of entrancing interest in the queenly city on the Barada, the traveller soon grows impatient to find himself in the saddle with his friends, heading away towards the hills that bound the green plains of Damascus. Fortunately, we could dispense with a dragoman, often more an imperious master than an obliging servant, and were able to arrange our routes and carry out our programme according to our own wishes.
Leaving the city by Bawabbat Ullah, we took the Hajj road to the south-west. This for many centuries was, what in the southern reaches it still is, a mere track, not always clear, and often to be kept only by observance of landmarks. To facilitate the passage of troops to and from Haurân, the Government had made a fairly good road from Damascus to some distance within that province. A railway has now been built, and is in working order as far south as Mizerîb. One day, perhaps, it will reach the sacred cities in el-Hejaz. If this do not greatly expedite the hâjj’s enterprise, it will at least add variety to his peril. The first trains east of the Jordan were objects of surpassing interest to the camels. Unaccustomed to give way to anything else on the road, a strange mingling of curiosity and pride brought many of these “ships of the desert” to grief.
MOSLEM PILGRIMAGE LEAVING DAMASCUS
Our journey fell in the late spring of 1890. The Hajj, the great annual pilgrimage to Mecca and Medîna, fell that year in the month of April. A few days before we started, we had seen the pilgrims and their guard setting out. Most were mounted on mules, but there were also a few horses and camels. Conspicuous among these last was that which bore the Mahmal—the canopy in which is carried the Sultan’s gift—a covering for the shrine at Mecca. The canopy is of green silk, richly embroidered, supported by silver posts. On its apex a gilt crescent and globe flash in the bright sun. The occasion stirs the city to its depths. The roofs all along the line of route were crowded, and every point of vantage was occupied by eager spectators. The procession passed amid the hum of suppressed conversation. From the faces in the crowd it was plain to see that many had gone of whose return there was but little hope. The weary, painful journey through the pitiless desert, beset by marauding Arabs, and the insanitary conditions of the “holy places,” prepare a sure path for not a few to Firdaus—“the garden” par excellence of Moslem dreams, the unfailing portion of him who dies on pilgrimage. The stir caused by their passage through the country quickly subsides. When we followed in their footsteps, things had already assumed their drowsy normal.
Passing the gates, we were at once in the open country; for the famous orchards do not extend thus far in this direction. On every side the plains were clad with heavy crops of waving green; the whir of the quail and the crack of the sportsman’s fowling-piece mingled with the frequent sound of running waters—sweetest music to the Syrian ear. Stately camels came swinging along, each with a great millstone balanced on his back. One of these forms a camel-load. The basaltic quarries in the mountains southward, from which these stones, celebrated for hardness and durability, are hewn, have been long and widely esteemed. Full thirty miles away, yet, in the clear April afternoon, seeming almost on the edge of the nearer plain, lay the magnificent mass of Hermon, clad in his garment of shining white—a huge snowy bank against the horizon, twenty miles long and ten thousand feet high. Those who have seen this majestic gleaming height, when the snows lie deep in the early year, can understand how appropriately the Amorites named it Senir—the breastplate, or shield. Syria owes much to Hermon. Cool breezes blow from his cold steeps; his snows are carried now, as in ancient days, to moisten parched lip and throat in the streets of Sidon and Damascus. Many of the streams “that fill the vales with winding light” and living green are sweet daughters of the mighty mountain, while his refreshing dews descend, as sang the Psalmist, even on the distant and lowly Zion.
Looking back a moment from the rising ground, ere passing down behind the Black Mountain, we caught a parting glimpse of the fair city, renowned in Arab song and story. Rich flats now stretched between us and the thick embowering orchards, over which rose tall minaret and glistening dome. A light haze hung over the city, obscuring the immediate background; but away beyond appeared the high shoulders and peaks of Anti-Lebanon, many capped with helmets of snow, standing like guards around the birthplace of the city’s life; for thence comes the Abana, the modern Barada, without which there could have been no Damascus.
A gentle descent brings us to the Aʿwaj, in which many find the Bible Pharpar—a name still to be traced, perhaps, in Wady Barbar, higher up but not a tributary of this stream. On the nearer bank stands el-Kisweh, a Moslem village of some pretensions, with khan mosque and minaret, and ancient castle, while the stream is spanned by an old-time bridge. No new bridges in Palestine are of any account. The only two that span the Jordan from Banias to the Dead Sea—the Jisr Benât Yaʿkûb, below the waters of Merom, and Jisr el-Mejamiʿa above Bethshan—are both survivors of the old Roman system. Around and below el-Kisweh, as in all places where water comes to bless the toil of the husbandman, are beautiful orchards; olive and willow, fig, apricot, and pomegranate mingle their foliage in rich profusion; and high over all rise the stately cypress trees—the spires and minarets of the grove. Here, when the Hajj falls in summer or autumn, pilgrims take leave of greenness and beauty, and press forward on their long desert march to the Haramein. As our evening song of praise rose from the river’s bank, for centuries accustomed to hear only the muttered devotions of the Moslem, we could not but think of the time when the voice of psalms shall roll with the sweet waters down the vale—a time surely not far distant now; and in the thought we found new inspiration for our work.