CHAPTER II
Arab courtesy—Sheikh Saʿad—Egyptian monuments—Traditions of Job—El-Merkez—Religious conservatism—Holy places—Sheikh Meskîn—A ride in the dark—Zorʿa—El-Lejâʾ.
One trait in Arab character must appear to strangers peculiar—the general unwillingness to say anything to a man’s face which may be unpleasant. Truth may be stretched far beyond vanishing-point to avoid this. The results to the stranger are often unpleasant enough. If the traveller, still distant from his destination, ask one whom he meets how far he has to go, he may be told that in half-an-hour, or an hour at most, he will be there, when he may still have six or seven hours before him. The object is to make the traveller mabsût, or pleased, with the reply. Truth is sacrificed for a moment’s pleasure,—typical of how much of the Arab’s improvident life. On the other hand, if the destination is nearly reached, the traveller may be told it is hours away, that so he may be “much contented” to find himself suddenly there. We soon found that the only trustworthy means of learning the distance of a place was to go there.
Sheikh Saʿad and el-Merkez are both seen from Nowa. A stretch of almost level ground, soon covered at a smart gallop, we begin threading our way through the rocky flats surrounding the eminence on which the old village stands. We are in the very thick of the memories of Job, which linger more or less over all Haurân. On the southern shoulder of the little hill stands a small white-domed building, covering the spot, saith tradition, where Job sat during his afflictions. This contains “Job’s Stone,” a large block which Dr. G. Schumacher discovered to be an Egyptian monument, with a figure of Ramses II. Some years later Prof. G. A. Smith found at Tell-esh-Shehâb a stone with the cartouch of Sety I., the father of Ramses II. These are the only two Egyptian monuments yet known in Haurân. Immediately below is the Hammâm Eyyûb, “the bath of Job,” where the man of patience is said to have washed when he was finally healed. The waters are held in high estimation by the country people as possessing marvellous healing virtue. Sweeping round to the right, we pass through the modern village, where a singular scene presents itself. Throughout all Syria and Arabia, one often meets the ʿabîd—“slave,” as every negro is called—but here only is a village community entirely black to be seen. At the sudden apparition of black faces and limbs, one might almost fancy himself transported to some strange hamlet in the Sudân. For these are Sudanese, whose parents and grandparents were brought hither, in the early days of the nineteenth century, by Sheikh Saʿad, of pious memory; and as yet they have kept their lineage pure. The change was a delightful one, from the sandy burning wastes of their native land to this sweet vale, which, with its lines of olive, groves of fruit trees, and musical ripple of cool water, must have seemed almost a paradise to those who had known the thirsty desert. It was inevitable that such a benefactor as their leader should be enshrined in grateful memory. We are not surprised to find him canonised, and the fruitfulness of the place ascribed to his saintly blessing. Thus, in these latter days, has the patriarch found in the modern saint a rival in popular regard; the dark man thinking little of Job and much of his own Sheikh Saʿad, while the native fellah, overborne by the majesty of hoary tradition, bows in reverence before the old-world saint, esteeming the village sheikh a mere upstart. Chiefly round the banks of the little stream are the rival honours canvassed; for this has been regarded, from of old, as the gift of the patriarch of Uz, and now it is attempted to reverse the verdict of the grey centuries in favour of one who is revered only by a handful of immigrant ʿabîd (“slaves”). But who that knows the religious idiosyncrasies of the Arab will venture to say how soon the modern sheikh may not find a place in the Arab Valhalla? Sheikh Saʿad’s grave lies to the west of the village.
The appearance of el-Merkez is deceptive. Red tile roofs, rising above the foliage of surrounding trees, are associated in our minds with the comfort and cleanliness of the West. And verily, were the hand of civilisation here, nothing is wanting in nature to make a pleasant village; but, alas! here is only the mailed hand of the Turk, which seems to crush while it protects, to ruin even while it builds. A sharp canter along a soft green meadow brought us to the entrance of a new street, partly paved. Young fruit trees were planted confusedly around; and over to the left, on open ground, in front of their green tents, a company of Turkish soldiers were engaged in drill. Much of the village is new; but the building is poor, and the houses have already assumed the dreary, untidy aspect common to the Arab village. Deir Eyyûb, “the monastery of Job,” covers an extensive area, but is now almost entirely ruinous. The Moslems claim the honour of its erection, but it certainly existed centuries before the prophet of Arabia was born. Part of the monastery is used as a barrack, and, close by the gate, another part contains the post and telegraph office. To the west is Makâm Eyyûb, where the reputed graves of Job and his wife are shown. In the early centuries of our era, the Christian inhabitants were wont here to celebrate an annual “Festival of Job.” The antiquity of the tradition connecting the place with the patriarch’s name is beyond all question. Dr. Schumacher found in the neighbourhood a place called by the common people “the threshing-floor of Uz.” The towns whence came Job’s comforters have been traced in the names of existing hamlets or ruins; notably Tēmā, the home of Eliphaz, in the northern end of Jebel ed-Druze, two days’, or perhaps only one long day’s, journey eastward.
The Governor himself had gone on a tour of inspection through the towns of Gilead; but his wakîl, or representative, treated us with all courtesy, furnishing us with letters to the subordinate officers in the province, and drinking coffee with us to seal our friendship. We entered one of the least forbidding of the hovels in the bazaar, seating ourselves on upturned measures or logs of firewood. After negotiations with the host, there were set before us on the earthen floor a pan with eggs fried in samn—clarified butter, universally used in cooking—coffee in a pot remarkable for blackness, brown bread not free from ashes, milk, and pressed curd, which passes for cheese. During the progress of the repast, soldiers and natives came, in turns, to view the strangers; probably also with the hope of sharing the coffee. Wondrously acute is the Arab’s perception of the odour of coffee, and swift are his feet in carrying him to it. Coffee-drinking, and more especially tobacco-smoking, consume a large proportion of the Arab’s time. What a vacant life theirs must have been before the introduction of the fragrant weed! This latter now grows profusely all over the country. The coffee-beans of el-Yemen are esteemed superior to all others.
Mounting again, we turned our faces eastward. Not far from el-Merkez we found a copious cool spring, into which our horses dashed with delighted eagerness. Then we galloped away over a beautiful country of rounded hill and soft vale, cultivated plain, and slopes of sweet pasture; anon our horses plunge to the saddle-girths in the stream that sheds fertility over wide acres. Far before us spread the rolling downs of Haurân, dotted all over with ruined towns and villages, like dark rocks amid the verdant ocean, that swayed in the spring breeze. Here and there were seen the Moslem weleys—little square buildings with white domes, sacred as covering the last resting-places of reputed saints. One of these we passed, perched on what must have been in times past a strongly fortified hill. A stream washes the foot of the mound, and on the opposite bank the music of a water-mill greets the traveller’s ear. These weleys or makâms—“places” of the saints—witness to the marvellous continuity of religious thought and association in Eastern lands; for there is no doubt that most of these, situated as they are on high ground, are simply survivals of the ancient “high places,” frequented by the inhabitants before the dawn of history, against which in later times the prophets raised their voices, taken over bodily by the religious system of Islâm. To these, at certain seasons, pilgrimage may be made by the faithful for prayer, in the belief that the spirit of the saint thus appealed to will by intercession secure an answer. But with the growing disposition to avoid all that savours of inconvenience, or that, lacking ostentation, brings no immediate credit to the performer among his fellows, such pilgrimages are now infrequent.
But the makâms are not without use. In lawless, unsettled lands it is well to have some spots where property may be safe. What is placed under one of these domes even the most abandoned will hardly dare to touch, so strong is the superstitious dread of kindling the saint’s wrath, whose protection has been thus invoked. In each of these a grave is found, with one marked exception. There are numerous weleys in the East, dedicated to el-Khudr—“the immortal wanderer,” variously identified with St. George and the prophet Elijah. He is not dead, therefore he has no tomb; these are only his resting-places in his ceaseless wanderings to and fro upon the earth, destined once again to appear, declare all mysteries, and right all wrongs. Strange, weird tales are afloat of lights kindled by no mortal hand, appearing in these lonely weleys by night, and fading away with returning dawn. Then it is known that the Lord Elijah has visited his shrine, and passed forth again on his invisible circuit.
It is interesting to note the methods of measuring time adopted by those to whom watches are still unknown. We asked the miller how far it was to Sheikh Meskîn, or Sh-Meskin, as the natives call it. “You will go there,” he said, “in the time it takes to smoke a cigarette.” This is a common expression to denote a short time. It is like a flash revealing the extent to which cigarette-smoking prevails among these benighted peoples. Even in the remote wilds of el-Lejâʾ we found the little coloured boards with elastic bands in which the white cigarette paper is secured, no other signs of civilisation being seen, save the weapons carried. It is a sad reflection that these are the only heralds of her approach our boasted civilisation sends before her into these darker places of the earth.
Sheikh Meskîn is a large village, with many ancient remains and Greek inscriptions, situated on the western side of the Hajj road. Notwithstanding the cordial invitations of the inhabitants to stay with them until the morrow, for “the day was far spent and night was at hand,” we were constrained to press onward to Zorʿa, where we knew our party must be awaiting our arrival, not without anxiety. Crossing the Hajj road, and wading deep pools in the bed of a winter stream which passes the village, we struck again through the fields, nearly due east, and over a beautifully rounded hill which seemed literally groaning under the heaviest crop of wheat I had ever seen. From the summit we saw across a narrow valley the border of el-Lejâʾ, within which, in the fading light, we could distinguish the outlines of Zorʿa. A low rocky hill, rising abruptly from the valley on the side next el-Lejâʾ, is crowned by a little village. This we knew to be Dhuneibeh, owned, with its lands, by a wealthy citizen of Damascus, a Christian; occupied entirely by Christians—Greek, of course—who cultivate the soil for him. Ere we reached the village the sun set, and a moonless night closed around us. Here we were overtaken by a soldier magnificently mounted and thoroughly armed. The kindly colonel at Sheikh Saʿad, fearing that dangers might beset us in the darkness, ordered the horseman to follow, and see us safely to our destination. His fine horse, notwithstanding his rapid journey, showed not one drop of perspiration; and for his wonderful instinct in keeping the way in the dark we had soon reason to be thankful. Our road led over the mound, past Dhuneibeh—a most difficult ascent, and no easier descent, by reason of the unequal rocks, which we could no longer see. This is a great danger in travel by night over volcanic country. All is black under foot, and the path cannot be distinguished from its surroundings. The hospitable sheikh would have us await the first light of breaking morning; but finally, with many warnings to be on our guard, he gave us a guide who should conduct us past the immediate dangers of open ditch and cistern around the village. Even he lost the way several times in this short distance.