Morning on the mountains--Arab time--Tents and encampments--The Women
and their work--Arab wealth--Scenes at the wells--Dogs--Arabian
hospitality--Desert pests--Strange code of honour--The blood
feud--Judgment of the elders--Arab and horse--The Arabs and
religion--The Oriental mind--Arab visit to Damascus.
THE storm continued all night, abating slightly towards midnight, but
increasing in violence as the _fajr_, or first glint of morning, stole
into the sky. A brilliant flash, followed instantly by a terrific
crash, marked the climax just as day broke. The dust, which had blown
thick around us on our approach, was transformed into soft, clinging
mud. The tents were so wet that packing was out of the question. The
hoofs of the animals sank deep into the yielding soil. Travel under
these conditions would be both slow and painful. We were fain to wait
and see what the sun would do for us. He soon rose in all his strength,
and in two hours worked wonders. As tents and roads grew dry, we became
more cheerful. The Arabs gathered in little groups, submitting their
ills to the doctor’s skill, giving what information they could about
our way, the country, and themselves. _Jerash_, we learned, was only
two or three hours distant. Not that the Arabs knew anything of our
method of measuring time. One said, “What do we know about ‘hours’? But
see: If the sun is _there_ when you leave here, it will be _there_ when
you reach _Jerash_”--pointing the two quarters of the sky as he spoke.
The sun is the great time-keeper in the desert. By his pace all
journeys are measured. The three great points from which the Arabs
reckon are sunrise, noon, and sunset--_Shurûk esh-shems_, _Zahr_, and
_Mughrab_. When travelling, they like to be off before sunrise; and
no one is willingly abroad after sunset. They strive to reach some
friendly roof before the last beams of departing day have fled. It is
contrary to the etiquette of the _Khâla_ (“empty waste”) for a guest to
throw himself upon his host after sunset. The evening meal, the chief
meal of the day, is eaten then. To arrive after it is prepared, or
finished, is to put the host to all the trouble of fresh preparation.
This no Arab would do if he could possibly avoid it. If the guest is
of any consideration, the host would grieve most of all that he was
deprived of the privilege of making a proper feast. Therefore, by
common consent it is said, “The guest who arrives after sunset goes
supperless to sleep.” There is, however, another reason for shunning
the shadows of early night. Then especially the robber pests of the
wilds ply their dark craft, with the long hours till morning in which
to flee. With such a start before his crime is discovered, and knowing
as he does the intricacies of the desert, the robber or murderer is
almost sure to escape.
The Arab “houses,” as they call them, are made of goats’-hair, spun
and woven by the women into long strips, about fifteen inches wide.
The weft is stretched on a frame; the woof is worked in by the
women’s fingers, and drawn up tightly with what looks like a huge,
short-toothed, wooden comb. Dark brown and white are the colours mostly
employed. These strips are sewn together with hair thread, into pieces
of sufficient breadth. Two poles are set up at each end of the space
to be covered. Over these the roof-cloth is stretched by means of
cords fastened to the ends, and attached to pins firmly fixed in the
ground. As many poles as are needed to support the roof are introduced
in the body of the “house,” and over these, by side cords, tied as
at the ends, to pegs in the ground, the cloth is drawn taut. Often
sufficient cloth is made for only one end and one side of the “house.”
This is fastened under the eaves, and is moved round with the sun, so
as to afford shade all day. This haircloth, once thoroughly wet, draws
so tightly together as to be perfectly waterproof. Many think its
rain-resisting qualities are improved by the smoke of greenwood fires.
It is the business of the women (_el-harîm_) to put up the “house”;
and among them it is reckoned a high accomplishment to be able, with a
single blow of the wooden mallet, to drive the tent peg home. Jael the
Kenite brought a practised hand to drive the tent peg through the brow
of the sleeping Sisera.
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.
[Illustration: 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.
[Illustration: ARABS AT HOME
(Photo. The Photochrome Co. Ld.)]
It is curious that the Arab should feel himself relieved from all
obligation if he meet the stranger in the open; while if the latter can
but touch the most distant peg or cord of the tent, he is absolutely
safe. To provide for the security of his guest is a point of highest
honour with the Arab; and his comfort is considered before anything
else. He is made “master of the house” while he stays. The owner will
not sit down unless the guest invites him; nor will he eat until the
guest is satisfied. To eat under the same roof, or from the same dish,
constitutes a bond of brotherhood. The host is responsible for the
safety of his guest, as far as his authority or ability extends: the
guest is bound in every way to consider the honour and credit of his
host. The protection of the stranger may even anticipate his arrival
at the tent. If in peril, he may take shelter under the name of some
powerful sheikh. When he utters this name, it becomes the duty of all
to assist him in reaching his protector’s dwelling. Any injury done to
him is an outrage upon the man, who, thus invoked, becomes his patron
and avenger. So in the name of the Lord are deliverance and safety
found (Prov. xviii. 10, etc.). The guest may claim entertainment for
three days and three nights. The host may require him to stay so long.
If he stay beyond this period, the stranger may have to do some work--a
provision, probably, against idlers and hangers-on. The guest may abide
continually in the “house” of his host only by becoming identified with
the family through marriage or adoption (Psalm xxiii. 6).
The guest is expected to show appreciation of the viands supplied
in ways not open to one in polite society. In drinking coffee, for
example, he should noisily draw it in with his breath, smack his lips,
and declare its excellence. But he must offer no payment for his
entertainment. This would be regarded as insult. The Arab eats not
in the morning; the guest departs with a simple “good-bye.” He has
had no more than his right; presently his host will enjoy the like
kindness at his own or some other brother’s hand. The recognition of
this obligation to the needy stranger must often have been the very
condition of life to wanderers in waste lands.
A fuller discussion of many interesting usages connected with
hospitality will be found in the writer’s article “Hospitality,” in
Hastings’ _Dictionary of the Bible_, vol. ii. pp. 427 _f._
Save among the pests that lurk in solitary places, ready to spring upon
the lonely traveller unawares, to whom no life is sacred that stands
between them and plunder, who seem to find a diabolical pleasure in
the mere sight of blood, one need not greatly fear for his life in any
encounter with the _Beduw_. They may take all he possesses, and even
his clothes, wounding him if necessary to this end; but they do not
willingly take life, leaving the disposal of this to Him who gave it.
Like the “bruisers” at home, the Arabs have a code of honour in regard
to hostile encounters; but it refers not to the manner of the blow and
the part where it falls. It has to do with the weapon. To strike a
man with the fist, or with a blunt instrument of any kind, is to put
a heavy insult upon him. On the other hand, to strike with a sharp
weapon, or smite with the edge of the sword, may be criminal, but it
involves no disgrace.
As between man and man, and tribe and tribe, the _lex talionis_ is
in full force. The tribe is not regarded as an aggregate, but as an
organic unity, of which each man is a member, as the hand is of the
body. If the hand do one an injury, satisfaction is found in punishment
through the foot or any other member. Even so, if a tribesman inflict
an injury on one of a neighbouring tribe, and the particular offender
eludes the avenger, any member of his tribe may be taken in his place.
Injury for injury, blood for blood, is the stern law. The offender’s
tribe may confess that wrong has been done, and offer to compound with
the injured for a sum of money. The amount in such cases is fixed in
solemn conclave by delegates of the different tribes, and the value
is represented by a number of camels or other animals. If these are
accepted, the feud is at an end. But among the aristocracy of the
_Beduw_, the nobler sort, such compounding for blood is esteemed
dishonourable. Then the whole tribe, and the wider circle of those with
whom they claim relationship, become a staunch confederacy for defence
of the manslayer, and for mutual protection against the enemy. Thus
the absence of “cities of refuge” is made good to the fugitive; the
usages of hospitality come in to relieve the gloom of dark, relentless
passion. For the manslayer, if he can but penetrate the tent and eat
bread there, may claim sanctuary from the “avenger of blood” himself.
Even the father, who thirsts to avenge the blood of a beloved son, will
let him depart, and neither pursue nor permit him to be pursued until
the space of two days and a night has passed.
The _sheyûkh_--“the chiefs” who administer justice among the
_Beduw_--are renowned for their integrity and for the equity of their
decisions. They scorn bribes. Stories are often told of the disputes
of townsmen who, rather than appear before the corrupt courts of the
land, where each must lose whoever wins, have submitted their case to
arbitration by _sheyûkh el-Beduw_, in whose judgment both parties at
once acquiesced. In cases where blows have been given, no progress
can be made until a balance of injuries has been struck. Only when the
least injured has suffered in person or in goods so as to equalise the
injuries will the case be heard and adjudicated upon. The deliverance
of the _sheyûkh_ carries with it the moral weight of the whole tribe.
He who disregards it practically passes on himself sentence of outlawry.
[Illustration: ARAB HORSEMAN]
The devotion of the Arab to his steed has been sung in many tongues and
in many lands. His mare is the first care of the _Bedawy_; more to him
than either wife or child, save perhaps his firstborn son, when green
food is scarce, and at evening the camels are brought to be milked, the
mare first drinks from the foaming vessel; wives and children share
what she leaves. On his robber raids he rides out upon his camel, the
mare being led, saddled and ready, by his side. In the hour of peril
he will commit himself to her fleet limbs; and not once nor twice in
the course of his roving life the Arab will owe safety and all else to
the speed of his four-footed friend. Tenderly cared for at other times,
her every want anticipated, when the moment of trial comes she will fly
off like the wind; and the distances often covered ere fatigue stays
her career would seem fabulous in European ears. The fondness of the
Arab for the horse frequently becomes a craze, leading him into the
ridiculous. If a man is too poor to own a horse, _e.g._, he will take
a bone of the noble animal and preserve it in his tent! Again, a horse
may be the property not of one or two, but of many. It is considered
as consisting of so many parts, which are bought by different parties.
Each is thus entitled to say, with an approach to truth, that he owns
horse-flesh. The owner of a good horse never willingly parts with
it. If pressed by necessity, he may allow another to become part
proprietor. Even then he will hardly sell outright. The man who has the
_rasan_ (“halter”) feeds the horse, and in return enjoys the use of it.
Thus it was with a beautiful mare, half of which, with the _rasan_,
was owned by the present writer. The other partners were a native
Christian gentleman, a rich Moslem merchant in Acre, and the pasha of
the province.
We have referred to the religious connection of certain Arab customs.
From this it might be inferred that they are a religious people. This
is strictly true. Nominally they are Moslems; but their religious
knowledge is scanty at best, and their thinking far from clear.
They believe in the existence of God; they are taught to consider
themselves His special favourites. All non-Moslems are regarded as
His enemies and theirs. But of the moral character of God they have
hardly the glimmering of an idea. They will “thank God” as heartily for
success in a robber-raid as for recovery from sickness. One must know
something of the character of God before he can understand what _sin_
is, and why God abhors it. But the _Allah_ of the Moslem, capricious
in his choice of favourites, is very indulgent towards the frailties
and failings of those who confess him and his prophet. It is futile
to seek to identify _Allah_ with the God of Christianity. His name is
for ever on the lips of his devotees. The most trivial expressions
they confirm by appeal to Deity, and that with equal glibness whether
they be true or false. Some isolated articles of faith they have, and
certain rites, such as circumcision, which are religious in their
origin, but they have nothing which can properly be called a religious
system. The mind of the Orient, indeed, while singularly fruitful in
ideas, is deficient in the elements essential to the thinking of ideas
together. It is mystical, reflective, analytic, but it lacks the power
of synthesis. There are no great Arabic philosophers, in our meaning of
the term. Their “philosophers” are gifted men, whose wit flashes forth
in sparkling epigram, in wise discriminations and sage counsels for
the conduct of life. For systematic treatment of the problems of being
and well-being we search among them in vain. Even what by courtesy we
call the “system” of _Islâm_ is not an organic unity, but rather an
aggregation of ideas around the great central dogma. For the hints as
to systematic treatment of the revelation in Jesus Christ found in the
Epistles of St. Paul--for even here there is hardly anything beyond
hints--we are indebted not to his Hebrew training, but to his Gentile
learning, and especially to his acquaintance with Roman Law. While the
Oriental mind has been prolific in originating thought, the great task
of synthesis has been given specially to the mind of the West.
Give to a rude, untutored people the simple idea of the unity of
God, without any conception of His moral character, together with
the further idea that they are His peculiar favourites, and you have
prepared the way for a descent not to be thought of without a shudder.
If, after long generations, we find this people one “whose heart is
not right with God,” “whose mouth is full of cursing and deceit,” our
wonder may be, not so much that they are fallen so low, as that they
have preserved their nobler institutions and maintained themselves as
well as they have done against the tides of corruption. And there are
signs of a yearning among them for better things. Let one authentic
story suffice.
External influences affecting the _Beduw_ are few and slight. Peddling
Jews from Damascus, Safed, Tiberias, Jerusalem perambulate their
country by times; but their trade is almost entirely confined to the
barbarous ornaments worn by the women. The Moslem pilgrimage which
yearly passes through their territory is doubtless a power for evil,
fortunately limited in its effects to the districts more immediately
adjoining the great _Hajj_ road. Once in a while, however, some of the
men may journey to _esh-Shâm_ (Damascus), city of wonder and beauty
to their uncultured minds, returning with strange tales as to its
greatness, and confused ideas of its streets, orchards, and musical
waters. One such had visited this “earthly paradise,” the Arab’s dream
of splendour and pleasure. He, however, was most of all impressed with
what he saw of worship in the great mosque. The effect upon his own
spirit was deep, and this he conveyed to his fellows in the solitudes
when he returned. It stirred the slumbering necessity in all their
hearts for communion with God. At sunset he drew them up upon the
sand, and, standing before them, he imitated as well as he could the
movements of the worshippers he had seen, and in these he was followed
by his friends. _Ya Allah!_ he said, _mitl ma bikûlu fî esh-Shâm_;
and his fellows responded in turn, _Wa azwad, wa azwad, wa azwad_. “O
Allah! just as they say in Damascus.” “And more, and more, and more”!
The tale may seem ludicrous, if not absurd; but it has also a pathetic
aspect. Does it not seem like a cry from the hearts of men in darkness,
yearning for light on the Godward road? Are we not _debtors_ to such as
they?