MURDERERS
Rashîd and I were riding down to Tripoli, and had long been looking
for a certain 'kheymah' or refreshment booth beside the road, which an
enterprising Christian of that town had opened in the summer months
for the relief of travellers. When at length we came in sight of it,
we saw a crowd of men reposing on the ground before its awning. We
soon lost sight of them again in a ravine, and it was not till we were
close upon them, climbing up the other bank, that I remarked that most
of them were shackled and in charge of a small guard of Turkish
soldiers.
'Criminals upon their way to the hard labour prison,' said Rashîd.
'What have they done?' I asked, as we dismounted.
He strolled across and put a question to their escort, then returned
and told me:
'They are murderers.'
After that information it surprised me, while we ate our luncheon, to
observe their open faces, and to hear them laugh and chatter with
their guards. Already I had learnt that crime in Eastern countries is
not regarded altogether as it is with us; that Orientals do not know
that shrinking from contamination which marks the Englishman's
behaviour towards a breaker of his country's law. But I was unprepared
for this indulgence towards a gang of murderers. It interested me;
and, seeing that Rashîd was talking with them in a friendly way, I
gathered there was nothing to be feared from their proximity, and
myself drew near when I had finished eating, and gave them cigarettes.
They thanked me loudly. The smile of pleasure on each face expressed a
childlike innocence. One only sat apart in gloom, conforming in some
measure to my preconceived idea of what a murderer upon his way to
prison ought to look like. I noticed with surprise that this one wore
no chain. I went and touched him on the shoulder. It was only then
that he looked up and saw that I was wishing him to take a cigarette.
He did so quickly, and saluted me without a word.
One of the others said in tender tones:
'Blame him not, O my lord, for he is mad with sorrow. He is more
luckless than the rest of us--may Allah help him! He killed the person
he loved best on earth--his only brother.'
'Then it is true that you are murderers?' I asked, still
half-incredulous.
'By Allah, it is true, alas! and we are paying for it by a year's
enslavement.'
'A year! No more than that,' I cried, 'for killing men?'
'And is it not enough, O lord of kindness? It is not as if we had
killed men from malice or desire of gain. We killed in sudden anger,
or, in the case of three among us, in a faction-fight. It is from
Allah; and we ask forgiveness.'
'How did that man kill?' I questioned, pointing to the apathetic
figure of the fratricide, which attracted my imagination by its
loneliness.
'He suffered persecutions from a rich man of his village, who was his
rival for the favour of a certain girl--so it is said. Those
persecutions maddened him at times. One day when he was mad like
that, his brother came to him and spoke some word of blame upon
another matter. He killed him, as he might have killed his wife and
children or himself, being in that state of mind devoid of reason.
When he awoke and saw what he had done, he wished to kill himself.'
'It is from Allah! His remorse is punishment,' exclaimed Rashîd. 'Why
should he go to prison? He has had enough.'
'Nobody of this country would have thought of punishment for him,'
replied the spokesman of the murderers, with rueful smile. 'But his
brother was the servant of a foreign merchant--a Greek from overseas,
I think it was--who put the business in his Consul's hands, and
so----' The speaker clicked his thumbnail on his white front teeth to
signify finality. 'But the poor man himself does not object; it seems
indeed that he is glad to go with us. Perhaps by labour and harsh
treatment he may be relieved.'
As there were still provisions in our saddle-bags, Rashîd, by my
command, divided them among the company, the soldiers and the
murderers alike, who were delighted. It was a merry party which we
left behind, with the exception of the fratricide, who ate the food,
when it was set before him, ravenously, but said not a word.
'May Allah heal him!' sighed the other murderers. 'Our Lord remove
this shadow from his mind!'
Rashîd and I pursued our way on an interminable path meandering in
zig-zags down through brushwood, which smelt sweet of myrtle and wild
incense. I tried to make him understand that he had quite misled me by
the term he had applied to men who had been guilty of no more than
manslaughter. The distinction had to be explained with much
periphrasis, because the Arabic word 'Câtil' means a slayer, and is
given indiscriminately to all who kill.
He caught my meaning sooner than I had expected.
'Ah!' he said. 'Your Honour thought from what I said that they were
"cutters of the road,"[7] or hired assassins, who kill men for gain.
Those are the greater criminals, whose punishment is death. Few such
exist among us. Here a robber will seldom kill a man unless that man
kills him.' [I translate literally] 'when it is just retaliation; and
as for hired assassins, I have known several of them in my time, and
they are not bad people, but unfortunate, having fallen early in the
power of cruel and ambitious men. Most of the killing in this country
is done without a thought, in anger or mad jealousy.'
'Is it for man to judge them?' he exclaimed, with a high shrug, when I
remarked upon their friendly treatment by the Turkish guards. 'They
are punished by authority down here, so we are better; but afterwards,
when comes the Judgment of the Lord, we may be worse. It is hard upon
those men we met just now. They go to prison, most of them, because
they were not rich enough to pay the sum demanded as the price of
blood. For men of wealth, or who have rich relations, it is easy to
compound the matter for a sum of money, in return for which the dead
man's relatives regard his death as due to natural causes, and
forswear revenge. It is hard, I say, upon those men we met just now;
and especially upon the man who slew his brother--may Our Lord console
him!'
A few days later I was strolling in the town and happened to pass by
the public gaol. In the middle of the gate, behind some iron bars, a
wretched man stood shaking a tin can, in which some small coins
rattled, and calling on the passers-by for alms for the poor
prisoners. A little group of English tourists--a gentleman and two
fair ladies--came that way, led on by a resplendent dragoman. They
stared at the wild figure at the prison gate.
'You like to give a trifle to the brisoners?' inquired the guide.
'What are they in for?' asked the gentleman.
'Murders, I guess, mostly,' shrugged the dragoman.
'Certainly not,' replied the gentleman, with indignation.
I ventured to approach and tell him that they were not murderers in
our sense of the word, and that they depended for a bare subsistence
upon public charity. The only thanks I got were a cold stare from the
man, a fastidious grimace from the two ladies, and an 'Oh, indeed!'
so arrogant in tone that I retired discomfited. My ill-success may be
attributable to the fact that I was wearing a 'kufiyeh' and 'acâl' and
so appeared to them as what is called a 'native.'
I myself have always, since that day, felt it my duty to give alms to
murderers in Eastern lands.
FOOTNOTES:
[7] _i.e._, Highwaymen.