SIWA TOWN
“Through sun-proof alleys,
In a lone, sand hemm’d
City of Africa.”
SIWA town is like no other place that I have seen either in Egypt,
Palestine or the Sudan. It is built on a great rock in the centre of
the oasis, and from a distance it resembles an ancient castle whose
rugged battlements tower above the forests of waving palm trees, and
the rich green cultivation. It is somewhat similar to St. Michael’s
Mount, but the inside of the town reminds one more of those enormous
ant hills which are found in Central Africa. The houses are built of
mud, mixed with salt, with occasional large blocks of stone from the
temples let into the walls. The builder works without a line, gradually
adding to the wall, sitting astride the part which he has completed,
so few of the walls are straight. Another architectural peculiarity is
that owing to the necessity of constructing walls thicker at the base
than at the top most of the houses, especially the minarets of the
mosques, become narrower towards the summit. The houses are built one
above the other against the face of the rock, and the outer walls form
one great line of battlements, pierced by little groups of windows,
encircling the town, and rising sheer above the ground, in some places
to a height of almost 200 feet. The original site of the town was the
summit and sides of two limestone rocks which rise abruptly from the
level of the plain; but as the population increased more houses were
built on the top of the old ones, and the town, instead of spreading,
began to ascend into the air, house upon house, street upon street,
and quarter upon quarter, till it became more like a bee-hive than a
town. Fathers built houses for their sons above the parental abode,
till their great-grandsons reached a dizzy height on the topmost
battlements. The mud of which the walls were built gradually hardened
and became almost of the consistency of the original rock.
In course of time the inside of the town has become a vast warren
of houses connected by steep, twisting tunnels, very similar to the
workings in a coal mine, where one needs to carry a light even in
daytime, and two persons can scarcely walk abreast. This labyrinthine
maze of dark, narrow passages, with little low doors of split palm
logs opening into them from the tenements above, forms the old town of
Siwa. In some places the walls are partly ruined and one gets little
views of the green oasis, or the lower part of the town with its flat
roofs and square enclosures, framed by the jagged ruined masonry. It
took me nearly two years to know my way about this part of the town,
at the expense of hitting my head many times against the palm log
beams supporting the low roofs which are in most cases only about 5
feet high.
This human warren is surprisingly clean and free from the smells
that one would expect in a place where there is such an absence
of light and ventilation. One of the most curious things that one
notices is the subdued hum of human voices, from invisible people,
and the perpetual sound of stone-grinding mills, above, below and
all around. When one meets people, groping along these tortuous
passages, they loom into sight, silently, white robed, like ghosts,
and pass with a murmured greeting to their gloomy homes. It is a
great relief after stooping and slipping and barking one’s shins
to reach the open roof on the highest tower of the town where, for
a moment, the brilliant sunlight dazzles one’s eyes, accustomed
to the murky gloom of the lower regions. When, on rare occasions,
I had visitors, I used always to take them up to see the view from
the highest battlements, with a few stout Sudanese Camel Corps men
to help pull, push and propel the sightseers. But most of them,
especially the elderly colonel type, were too hot and exhausted to
appreciate the view when they finally arrived, so I eventually kept
this “sight” for only the most active visitors.
High up in the heart of the town, in a little open space surrounded
by tall grim houses, there is an ancient well cut out of the solid
rock. It contains excellent water. Apparently there is a spring
in the centre of the rock which supplies the well, and two smaller
ones close by. Half-way down the well, about 30 feet from the top,
just above the level of the water, there is a small entrance, wide
enough to admit a boy, which leads into a narrow tunnel bored through
the rock, terminating in the precincts of a mosque on the level
ground. Nobody has traversed this passage for many years, owing to
fear of snakes—which certainly exist, also jinns and afreets. The
tunnel is about 150 yards long, and must have taken years to complete,
but it is difficult to guess its original object. This old well
is specially popular with women, as by drawing water here they can
avoid going out to the springs where they would necessarily meet with
men. Often when I passed out from the narrow entrance of a passage I
would see a dozen women busy with their pitchers, veils cast aside,
laughing and chattering—in a moment, like magic, every one would
have silently vanished, and only the eyes peering from the adjoining
windows would show any signs of life.
Below the old high town, huddled at the base of the mighty walls,
there are more houses, and these, too, are surrounded by an outer
wall. Beyond this more modern houses have been built when there
was less fear of raids from hostile Arabs. Most of the sheikhs and
the rich merchants have deserted the high town and built large,
comfortable houses down below, or among the gardens in the adjoining
suburbs of Sebukh and Manshia. Many of them have also country
houses, where they retire in the summer when the heat in the town
becomes intolerable, on their estates in different parts of the
oasis. Residences of sheikhs and notables are distinguished by a
strip of whitewash across the front, but woe betide a poor man if
he decorates his house in a like manner. Tombs of sheikhs and holy
men are whitewashed all over every year, at public expense. One of
the most wealthy, and most unpopular, merchants covered the whole of
his house with whitewash. This innovation caused grave disapproval
among the conservative sheikhs of Siwa. They complained to me,
saying that from time immemorial the notables had distinguished their
houses by the strip of whitewash, but nobody had ever whitened the
whole house—therefore nobody should! When a few days later some
thieves broke into the “whitewashed sepulchre” and stole twelve
pounds, the whole population agreed that it was a just retribution
on unseemly pride.
The three date markets are large walled-in squares where every merchant
and family have a space to spread their dates for sale; one of them
is common, the other two belong to east and west respectively. There
is a little house by the entrance of each market where an old Sudanese
watchman lives, paid in kind by contributions from everybody who uses
the market. In the autumn thousands of Arabs come from Egypt and the
west to buy dates, which are considered among the best in Egypt. Round
the markets there are enclosures for camels and lodgings for the Arabs,
who are only tolerated in the town because they come to trade. At the
height of the season there is a busy scene. Hundreds of white-robed
Arabs wander among the heaps of red, brown and yellow dates, arguing
and bargaining loudly, while their camels gurgle and snarl outside,
and over everything there rises a swarm of flies. Half-naked negroes
toil and sweat as they load the camels with white palm-leaf baskets
pressed down and full with sticky dates. Lively diversions occur when
a shrill-voiced she-camel shakes off her load and runs wildly through
the crowd, scattering the people, with her long neck stretched out
like an agitated goose. Arab ponies squeal and shriek, donkeys bray and
the pariah dogs snarl and yelp. There is a custom in Siwa that anybody
may eat freely from the dates in the markets, but nobody is allowed to
take any away; so the beggars, who are very numerous, crawl in among
the buyers, clutching greedily with filthy hands at the best dates,
and adding their whining complaints to the general din. Also all
the dogs, children, chickens, goats and pigeons feed from the dates
before the owners sell them. The most popular form of date food is a
sort of “mush,” which consists of a solid mass of compressed dates
with most, but not all, of the stones removed. I used to like dates,
but after an hour in the markets one never wishes to eat another.
The square white tomb of Sidi Suliman dominates the date
markets. Although not actually a mosque it is the most venerated
building in Siwa. Around it there are a few white tombstones, and on
most nights the building is illuminated with candles burnt by votaries
at the shrine of the saint. Close by there is a large unfinished mosque
which was built by the ex-Khedive, who left off the work owing to lack
of funds. Mosques in Siwa are conspicuous by their curious minarets,
which remind one of small factory chimneys, or brick kilns; otherwise
they are very similar to houses, except that they generally include
a large court with a roof supported by mud pillars. In several of
the mosques there are schools, and one sees a number of small boys
sitting on the ground, with bored expressions, droning long verses
of the Koran in imitation of the old sheikh who teaches them.
Lately the “Powers that Be” decided that a regular school would
be beneficial to the youth of Siwa. With some difficulty I secured
a building and a teacher. The school began in great style. Almost
every boy in the town attended. They learnt reading and writing, and
after sunset they did “physical jerks” and drill, marching round
the market square, much to the admiration of their parents. But the
novelty palled. Attendance diminished. Attendance at school was to
be quite voluntary, so I could do nothing. In about a month it had
ceased to exist, and the little boys sat again at the feet of the
old sheikhs in the mosque schools. Such is the conservatism of Siwa.
Shopping in Siwa is very simple. Each shop is a general shop and
contains exactly the same as the others. Prices do not vary, so
one deals exclusively with one merchant; the shops are sprinkled
about the town and the customers of each are the people who live
nearest. The shops themselves are hardly noticeable. There is no
display of goods, nothing in fact to distinguish a shop. One enters
a little door and the room inside looks rather more like a storeroom
than a living room; sometimes there is a rough counter, some shelves
and a weighing machine, but measures consist mostly of little baskets
which are recognized as containing certain quantities. The sacks
and cases round the room contain flour, beans, tea, rice and sugar;
in one corner there are some rolls of calico and a bundle of coloured
handkerchiefs hung on a nail from the ceiling.
In the storeroom which opens out of the shop there are more sacks,
tins of oil, and perhaps a bundle of bedouin blankets. Yet some of
the Siwan merchants clear over a thousand pounds a year by their shops
and a little trade in dates. Egyptian money is used, the silver being
much preferred to the paper currency, and credit is allowed, which
enables the merchants to obtain mortgages and eventually possession
of some of their customers’ gardens.
The merchants’ wives attend to the lady customers. There is a
side door in every shop which leads to an upper room, and here the
Siwan ladies buy their clothes, served by the wife or mother of the
merchant. Their purchases are mainly “kohl” for darkening the
eyes, henna for ornamenting fingers and hands, silver ornaments, soft
scarlet leather shoes and boots, blue cotton material manufactured
at Kerdassa, near Gizeh, grey shawls, silks for embroidery, dyes for
colouring baskets and very expensive flashy silk handkerchiefs made in
Manchester, which they wear round their heads when indoors. Some of
the merchants’ wives sell charms and amulets besides clothes. The
women are very conservative in their fashions, only certain
colours being worn. I once wanted a piece of green material to
use in making a flag. I sent to every single shop in the town, but
without success. However, it caused great excitement, and I heard,
on the following day, that the gossips of the town had come to the
conclusion that I was going to marry, and the green stuff was to be
part of the lady’s trousseau. They were disappointed.
There is nothing in Siwa that compares with the gorgeous bazaars
of Cairo, or the gaily decked shops in the markets of provincial
towns. These dark little shops have no colour, only a queer, rather
pleasant smell, a potpourri of incense, spices, herbs, onions,
olive oil and coffee. Meat is bought direct from the butchers,
who combine and kill a sheep or a camel. Sugar and tea are the most
popular necessities on the market. During the war, and for some time
after, there was a sugar shortage. The supply for Siwa arrived at the
coast, but rarely reached the oasis. When a small quantity did reach
Siwa it was bought up immediately, and the merchants who obtained it
took to gross profiteering. The price of an oke (2½ lbs.) reached
as much as 40 piastres (8s.), which in Egypt is an excessively high
price. Eventually the sale of sugar was supervised by the Government
and sugar tickets were issued. Even then there were cases of sugar
being smuggled across the frontier to Tripoli, where the shortage was
even more severe. Arabs or Siwans are simply miserable if they have to
go without sugar in their tea. It makes them cross and tiresome, and
they say themselves that it injures their health. For the rest people
depend on their garden produce, on dates, onions, fruit and coarse
native bread. The women make their own clothes, and generally their
husbands’ too, sometimes weaving the wool for the long “jibbas,”
worn by the working men, on rough handlooms. There is a carpenter in
the town and several masons, but as a shopping “centre” Siwa is
not much of a catch.
Although Siwan houses are unprepossessing from the outside their
interiors are comparatively comfortable. What I personally objected
to was the exceeding lowness of the doors, and yet the Siwans on the
whole are tall. They told me that doors were made small for the sake
of warmth. Roughly the houses are built on the usual Arab pattern;
on the ground floor there are storerooms, stables, and servants’
quarters, upstairs there are guest-rooms, harem, and living rooms. The
entrance hall has seats of mud similar to the walls, and is usually
screened from sight by a corner inside the door. Stairs are steep
and narrow with sudden sharp turnings; they are always pitch dark,
as only the rooms in the outer walls receive any light. Each house
consists of two or three storeys and above them there is an open roof,
sometimes with several rooms built on to it. The old houses of the
high town are different, only those on the topmost level have open
roofs. The immense thickness of the walls makes the houses cool in
summer when the temperature often reaches 112 degrees in the shade,
and warm in winter when icy winds sweep down from the high desert
plateau. The rooms in the houses of the better classes are large and
high, lit by little square windows, which are made in groups of three,
one above and two below in order not to put unnecessary strain on
the masonry. Each window has four divisions with a shutter to each
division; these shutters are kept open in summer-time. The windows
are very low, a few feet above the level of the floor, which allows
people sitting on the ground to see out of them. The ceilings are
made of palm trunks covered with rushes and a layer of mud; the ends
of the trunks, if they are too long, project outside the walls and
serve as pegs on which to hang bundles of bones to avert the “Evil
Eye.” Mud, which becomes as hard as cement, is used not only for the
walls, but for the stairs, the divans, ovens, and most of the kitchen
utensils. Old stone coffins, discovered near the temple or in some
of the rock tombs, are utilized as water-troughs in most houses. The
floors are covered with palm matting, and an occasional old Turkish
or Persian carpet; the divans are furnished with a few cushions,
white bolster-like objects, or beautifully stamped leather from the
Sudan. The walls are whitewashed and sometimes ornamented with crude
coloured frescoes, and in almost every room there are several heavy
wooden chests, handsomely carved, sometimes of great age, which are
used for keeping valuables. Occasionally one sees a couple of chairs
and a round tin table, like those which are used outside cafes,
but personally I have always felt much more comfortable sitting
cross-legged on a heap of cushions near the window than perched up
on a rickety chair above my hosts. A brass tray, a low round table,
a few baskets and an earthenware lamp hanging on the wall, completes
the furniture of a guest-room. I have spent many pleasant hours
sitting in one of these high rooms looking out over the feathery
palm trees and watching the colours change as the sun sank behind
the mountains, gossiping to some old sheikh, puffing a cigarette,
and drinking little cups of sweet, green tea.
[Illustration: THE WESTERN QUARTER FROM AN EASTERN ROOF]
In summer-time the people sleep on the flat roofs of their houses,
which for that reason are surrounded by low mud walls to ensure
privacy from the neighbours. They lie on the roofs, men, women and
children, always with their faces covered from the moon, because they
say moonlight on sleeping faces causes madness. In the daytime the
women gossip on the housetops and carry on intrigues, for there is
nothing easier than hopping over the walls from one roof to the other,
and it is not considered _comme il faut_ for husbands to frequent
the roofs in daytime. Often when I climbed up to the citadel and
looked down over the town I saw a group of girls sitting on the roofs,
generally singing and dressing each other’s hair. When they caught
sight of an intruder watching them from above they bolted down the
steep stairs like rabbits to their burrows. One sees real rabbits,
too. Almost all the natives breed them, and for safety’s sake they
are kept on the housetops.
One of the features of Siwa town are the “Dululas,” or sun
shelters. They consist of spaces shaded from the sun by a roof of
rushes and mud, supported by mud pillars. Often in the centre there
is a stone basin containing water, which is kept always full at the
expense of one of the sheikhs in memory of a deceased relation. Here
the greybeards of the town assemble in the evenings, strangers sit
and gossip when they visit the town, and the Camel Corps men wander
through to hear the latest news. It is a sort of public club, and
one hears even more gossip than at a club at home. The largest of
these sun shelters has become a little market, and a few decrepit
old men spread out their wares in its shade—a few baskets, a dozen
onions, an old silk, tattered waistcoat and some red pepper would
be the stock-in-trade of one of these hawkers. What they say in the
“suk” corresponds to the “bazaar talk” in India, and it is
incredible how soon the most secret facts are known there.
The Siwans are a distinct race quite apart from the Arabs of the
Western Desert, but in appearance they differ very slightly from their
bedouin neighbours. Owing to their isolated dwelling-place they have
retained their original language, which appears to be an aboriginal
Berber dialect. They are unquestionably the remnants of an aboriginal
people of Berber stock, but constant intermarriage with outsiders has
obliterated any universal feature in their appearance, and through
intermarriage with Sudanese they have acquired a darker complexion
and in some few cases negroid features. On the whole one does not
see the Arab type, or the Fellah, or the Coptic type among the Siwans.
The men are tall and powerfully built, with slightly fairer complexions
than the Arabs. In some cases they have light straight hair and blue
eyes, and one whole family has red hair and pink cheeks, though they
themselves do not know where this originated. Most of the younger
men are singularly ugly and have a fierce and bestial expression,
but with age they improve, and the elders of the town are pleasant,
dignified-looking men, though effeminate in their manners. The
children are pallid and unhealthy in appearance. The Siwans have
high cheek-bones, straight noses, and short, weak chins. They are
very conceited and think much of their looks; on feast days even the
oldest men darken their eyes with “kohl” and soak themselves with
evil-smelling scent.
The wealthy Siwans wear the usual Arab dress—white robes, a long
silk shawl twisted round the body and flung over one shoulder, a soft
red, blue-tasselled cap and yellow leather shoes. On gala days they
appear in brilliant silks from Cairo, and coloured robes from Tripoli
and Morocco, but on ordinary occasions the predominating colour is
white. The servants and labourers, who form the bulk of the population,
and include many Sudanese who were brought from the south as slaves,
wear a long white shirt, white drawers, a skull cap and sometimes a
curious sack-like garment made of locally spun wool ornamented by
brightly coloured patterns in silk or dye. Siwa is the only place
in Egypt where one does not see the natives apeing European dress or
slouching about in khaki trousers or tunics—remnants of the Egyptian
Expeditionary Force.
The women are small and slender, and very pale owing to the inactivity
of strict seclusion. The palest women are the most admired. Their large
black eyes are ornamented with “kohl,” and their small hands are
tinted with henna. In public they wear a universal dress which is quite
distinctive. It consists of a dark blue striped robe, reaching below
the knees, with full sleeves, cut square and embroidered round the
neck, white drawers with a strip of embroidery round the ankles, and
a large square grey shawl with a dark blue border, which covers them
when they go abroad. Their ornaments consist of innumerable silver
ear-rings, with bunches of silver chains and little bells, silver
bangles, anklets, and necklaces. An unmarried girl is distinguished
by a “virginity disc,” which is an engraved silver disc about
the size of a saucer, suspended round the neck by a heavy silver
ring. These rings are generally very old and beautifully engraved with
arabesques. When a Siwan woman is wearing all her silver ornaments she
tinkles like a tinsmith’s cart, but her husband poetically compares
her to a caparisoned pony. Their general appearance is quite pleasing,
but they are very unlike the handsome, healthy-looking Arab women of
the coast.
At home the wealthier women wear coloured silks and richer
clothes. They wear their straight black hair thickly oiled and dressed
in a complicated coiffure. A fringe of short curls hangs above the
eyes, and a number of plaited braids are worn on each side of the face,
like the fringe of a mop. Strips of scarlet leather are twisted into
the tresses, which must always be of an uneven number, and on the
ends of the leather are hung silver bells, rings and amulets. One of
the first travellers to Siwa remarked on the strength of an ear that
could bear such heavy silver ear-rings, but instead of hanging from
the actual ear the rings are fastened to a leather band across the
top of the head. All the material for women’s clothes is made by
one family of Egyptian merchants at Kerdassa, near the Pyramids. One
brother has a shop in Siwa, and the others live in Egypt. Owing
to this the price of clothing is very great, yet none of the Siwan
merchants have ever considered setting up an opposition trade.
Women of the upper classes rarely appear in public during the day,
except at funerals, when hundreds of them squat round the house, like
a crowd of grey crows, howling and shrieking. When one rides past they
hop up from the ground and run a few steps, with long grey shawls
trailing behind them on the ground, and then they squat down again,
like vultures scared off a carcase. They never work in the fields or
drive the flocks to pasturage like the Arab women, or the fellahin,
but occupy themselves in making baskets, or pottery, and in household
duties. When one woman calls on another she wears all the clothes she
possesses, and gradually discards them in order to impress the people
she is visiting with her wealth. When I met a woman in the streets
she would scuttle into the nearest doorway, or if there was not one
handy she would pull a shawl over her face and flatten herself against
a wall; even hideous old harridans affected an ecstasy of shyness
on seeing an Englishman. Hardly any of the women can speak Arabic,
and it is owing to their strange secretive lives that the Siwans
have retained their language and are so unprogressive to-day. They
resolutely oppose all innovations, refusing even the help and advice
of the Egyptian Government doctor. It is to their influence as mothers
that the women owe what power they have, because Siwan men care very
little for their wives. Most men keep one wife only at a time, but
they often marry as many as twenty or thirty, if they can afford to,
divorcing each one when she ceases to please.
The Siwans are typically Oriental. They are hospitable, dishonest,
lazy, picturesque, ignorant, superstitious, cheerful, cunning, easily
moved to joy or anger, fond of intrigue and ultra conservative. They
are not immoral, they simply have no morals. The men are notoriously
degenerate and resemble in their habits the Pathans of India. They seem
to consider that every vice and indulgence is lawful. It is strange
that these people who are among the most fanatical Mohammedans of
Africa should have become the most vicious. Yet most of the Siwans are
Senussi, members of that Mohammedan sect which corresponds in a way to
the Puritanism of Christianity. It advocates a simple and abstemious
life, and condemns severely smoking, drinking and luxury. Yet the
most religious sheikhs are generally the most flagrantly outrageous.
In spite of their unenviable reputation the Siwans are quite satisfied
with themselves, and speak with tolerant pity of the Arabs and the
Sudanese. The Siwan Sudanese have become like their original masters,
and do not seem to object to being called “slaves,” but there
are constantly furious rows between the natives and the Camel Corps
originating with the word “slave” being used with reference to
the latter. The Arabs, and to a greater extent the Siwans, consider
themselves very superior to the Sudanese who, until quite recently,
they could buy and sell.
The population is divided into two classes, the one consisting of
the sheikhs, merchants and landowners, the other of the servants
and labourers. The former class is an all-powerful minority. There
is no middle class. There is also a religious division; the Senussi
predominate in numbers, but the Medinia sect is the richest. The
latter sect is said to be the successor of the Wahhabi confraternity;
it is connected with the Dirkawi, which was founded by Sheikh Arabi
el Dirkawi. It was established about one hundred years ago by Sheikh
Zafer el Medani, who was born at Medina in Arabia. His doctrines found
favour in Tripoli and were adopted by the Siwans some time before
the arrival of the Senussi, and Sheikh Zafer himself visited Siwa on
several occasions. The two sects are very similar. The Medinia have
still several religious centres in Egypt and Tripoli, but they lost
ground considerably on the advent of Senussiism. In spite of their
similarities the two sects are by no means well disposed to each
other. Membership is hereditary, and no one has been known to change
from one party to the other. They have their own mosques, sheikhs and
funds, and on religious festivals they hold their meetings in different
parts of the town. I used always to make a point of visiting the
gatherings of each sect. There are two other less important religious
bodies known as the “Arusia” and the “Sudania,” but they only
consist of a few dozen old men who perform strange dances on festivals
in honour of their particular saints. The Siwans are very religious,
more so than the average Arab, but this is probably owing to the fact
that their mosques are conveniently near, and if one is absent from
mosque the neighbours notice, and talk about it! One has heard of
such things at home.
The prosperity of the people depends almost entirely on the date
harvest. The date groves, which form the wealth of the oasis, are
watered by some two hundred fresh-water springs. The water rises
through natural fissures, or artificial bore-holes, from a sandstone
bed about 400 feet below the surface. The largest springs, such as the
“Fountain of the Sun,” measure as much as 50 yards in diameter,
with a depth of about 40 feet. Each basin is fed by a group of little
water-holes, and the water comes up from the ground sometimes in
continuous streams of bubbles, and sometimes with sudden bursts,
so the surface seems constantly moving. There is a theory that an
underground river flows east towards the Nile and its water comes to
the surface in the various oases between Egypt and Tripoli. The fact
that Siwa lies considerably below the level of the desert plateau,
and even below sea-level, supports this theory. Or possibly the water
comes from the high desert plateau north of Siwa, where there is a
heavy rainfall; but the water supply never varies, and has never been
known to run dry. The water in the springs differs considerably. In
some it is very brackish, in others it is quite sweet, and some springs
are flavoured with sulphur; again, some springs are warm, and others
are several degrees colder, so one can chose a bathing-place, hot or
cold, according to inclination. Many springs, often the sweetest ones,
rise a few feet away from the salt marshes, and one spring, which used
to be salt, has now become sweet. The largest springs are edged to a
certain depth with squared stones and blocks of masonry, which looks
as if it might have been finished yesterday, though it was probably
built almost a thousand years ago. The basins are generally round,
shaded by a ring of palm trees, beyond which lie the gardens.
The sides of the basins have been gradually built higher and higher,
so that the surface of the water is now several feet above the level
ground, and little brooks run down from the spring heads into the
gardens in all directions. They are regulated by rough sluice gates,
made generally of a large flat stone, which is removed to allow the
water to flow, and replaced, with a plaster of mud, when the water
is no longer needed. Each spring forms the nucleus of a garden which
belongs to a number of different people. The gardens are divided
into little beds of a uniform size, about 8 feet square, lying an
inch or two lower than the level of the ground. These beds are known
as “hods.” When the water is flowing the labourer goes in turn
to each “hod” and scoops a passage with his hands connecting
the “hod” with the water channel, which is on a higher level,
then he makes a rough dam across the channel so that the water flows
into the “hod” and fills it; afterwards he closes the entrance
of the “hod” with a handful of mud, pushes aside the mud dam,
and the stream flows on to the next “hod,” where the same thing
occurs. I have seen little boys at the seaside doing just the same
sort of thing. In some cases two water channels cross, and then one
of them flows through a hollowed palm trunk.
The cultivation round every spring is made up of a number of gardens
owned by different men, some of them consisting of no more than half
a dozen palm trees and a couple of “hods.” All the ground is
watered by the central spring, so a careful water system has been
evolved by which the water is divided and portioned out to each
piece of garden. For each spring there is a ponderous tome called
“Daftar el Ain”—the Book of the Spring, which records the exact
quantity of water, or rather the time of water, that each garden is
allowed. This is followed with the greatest care by the Keeper of the
Spring, who regulates the irrigation, and is paid by the owners of
the adjoining garden in proportion to the number of trees that they
own. Each day is divided into two halves, from sunrise to sunset,
and sunset to sunrise; this again is subdivided into eighths, and
each subdivision is called a “wagabah.” Thus if Osman Daud’s
garden receives an allowance of four “wagabah” every other day,
it means that he receives the full strength of the water from the
springs for twelve hours on consecutive days.
When one buys a garden the water rights are included, but men often
sell part of their water right to a neighbour, this, of course,
being recorded in the Book of the Spring, which is kept by one of
the sheikhs. The “Ghaffir el Ain,” or Guardian of the Spring,
takes his time from the call of the muezzin, or in distant gardens by
the sun and the stars. At night a special muezzin calls from one of
the mosques for the benefit of the watchmen on the springs out in the
gardens. The system has been in force for so many centuries that there
are very rarely any disputes on the subject. All questions are referred
to the books, which serve also as records of ownership of the gardens.
Each Siwan, however poor, keeps a book of his own in which he enters,
or rather pays a scribe to record, an account of his property. It
states the boundaries, number of trees and water rights of his
garden. When a man buys a garden he writes down the particulars
in his “daftar,” and this is signed by the person who sold
the garden, and witnessed by several responsible sheikhs or “nas
tayebin”—respectable people. This entry serves as a title-deed
for the purchase. When I was at Siwa there was a lengthy and involved
law case about the ownership of some property, in which one party,
in order to prove inheritance, forged an entry in his “daftar.”
But cases of forgery were not frequent—fortunately, as they added
considerable complications to an already difficult case.
There is more water in Siwa than is required for irrigating the
gardens, and in many cases sweet water flows to waste among the salt
marshes. The Siwans are unenterprising. They only cultivate just
sufficient for their own needs, and not always that: they only work in
the gardens where the soil, after centuries of watering and manuring,
has become very rich. They grow a very little wheat and barley, but
not enough to supply the population, who depend on imported barley
from the coast, yet there are many fertile plots of land which would
raise corn, and which could easily be irrigated. Lack of labour and
implements is their excuse when one questions them, but in the spring
numbers of Siwans go up to the coast and hire themselves out to the
bedouins as labourers, preferring to work on the coast instead of
increasing the cultivation in their oasis.
The palm groves of Siwa are very beautiful. It seems a veritable Garden
of Hesperides when one arrives there after a long trek on the waterless
desert which surrounds the oasis. One appreciates the slumberous shade
of the luxuriant gardens, long, lazy bathes in the deep cool springs,
and feasts of fruit on the banks of little rushing streams. Perhaps
it is not surprising that the Siwans are lazy and indolent, for their
country is in many ways a land of Lotus Eaters. The natives have a
happy-go-lucky Omar Khayyámish outlook on life which is accentuated
by the place they inhabit.
The gardens consist mainly of date groves with some olive orchards. But
among the date palms there are many other trees—figs, pomegranates,
pears, peaches, plums, apricots, apples, prickly pears, limes and sweet
lemons. The numerous vineyards produce quantities of exceptionally
fine grapes, which last for several months and are so plentiful that
large quantities rot on the branches. The natives are not very fond
of them and no wine is made in Siwa, except “araki,” which is
distilled from ripe dates. Dates and a little olive oil are the only
exports, and it is on the produce of the date palms that the life of
the people depends. The poorer Siwans live almost entirely on dates;
the beams and the doors of the houses are made from palm trunks;
mats, baskets and fences are made from palm fronds; saddle crossbars
are made from the wood; saddle packing consists of the thick fibre,
the branches are used for fuel; the young white heart of the budding
leaves is eaten as a special delicacy, and the sap of the palm makes
“lubki,” a drink which is much liked by natives. The wealth of
the whole community is derived from the sale of dates, so it is not
surprising that they watch anxiously in springtime to see if the
crop will be a good one. Generally, on alternate years, there is a
good crop, then a fair crop, and when dates are plentiful olives are
few. Nature seems to have made this careful arrangement.
The cultivation of dates is by no means as simple as it would
appear. The trees need careful watering, manuring and trimming, and one
notices very clearly the difference in crops from well or badly cared
for gardens. In the early spring the work of artificial pollination is
carried out by special men who are skilled in the process. A branch
is cut from the male date tree, which bears no fruit, sharpened, and
thrust into the trunk of the female tree. Unless this is done to every
tree the fruit becomes small and worthless. There are about 170,000
trees, each of which bears, after the fifth year, an average of three
hundred pounds of fruit. Little attention is paid to the other fruits
which deteriorate from lack of pruning, but with a little trouble and
proper methods they would improve. Formerly the oasis produced rice,
oranges, bananas and sugar canes, but these no longer grow as they
needed more trouble to cultivate. Only dates and olives are sold,
and it is considered very shameful for a man to sell other fruit;
the same idea applies to milk. Siwans either eat fruit themselves,
give it to their friends, or let it rot; only the very poor natives
sell any. I had considerable difficulty in getting a regular supply,
but eventually I accepted “gifts” daily from certain men, and
repaid them with sugar, which they liked, though if I had offered
them money they would have considered themselves grievously insulted.
While at Siwa I dried large quantities of figs and
apricots—mish-mish—which were very successful, and especially
useful for taking out on trek when fresh fruit is unobtainable. None
of the natives had attempted drying fruit, though the excessive
heat and the flat roofs offer excellent opportunities, and quite an
industry could be developed in this way. A variety of vegetables are
grown, but only by a very few people. The most common are onions,
watercress, radishes, pepper, cucumbers, gherkins, egg fruit, mint,
parsley and garlic.
The gardens are manured with dry leaves and dried bundles of a thorny
plant called “argoul,” which grows about the oasis and is much
liked by camels. Bundles of it are cut and left for some months to
dry, and finally dug into the soil round the fruit trees. The streets,
markets and stables are all swept carefully, and the manure is sold
to owners of gardens. The contents of public and private latrines
are all collected and used as manure in the gardens. It is a good
system, as it ensures sanitary arrangements being promptly carried
out. The soil of Siwa is strongly impregnated with salt. In many
places there are stretches of “sebukh” which consists of earth
hardened by a strong proportion of salt which feels, and looks,
like a ploughed field after a black frost. It is almost impassable,
and the occasional deep water-holes, hidden by a layer of thin soil,
make walking as dangerous as it is difficult. Two large salt lakes
lie one on the east and one on the west of the town. The water in
these lakes rises irregularly during the winter months, and subsides
in the summer, leaving a glistening white surface of pure salt which
looks exactly like ice, especially in places where the dark water
shows between cracks in the salt. One can lift up white slabs of
salt in the same way as ice, and send a piece skimming across the
surface, like stones on a frozen pond at home. Sometimes there are
deep pools in the midst of the marshes where the white salt and the
vivid blue sky combine to colour the water with the most brilliant
greens and blues. Causeways built by the natives traverse the marshes,
and by these alone it is possible to cross them. In ancient days the
Ammonians sent a tribute of salt to the kings of Persia, and such
was the quality of the salt that it was used for certain special
religious rites. The glitter of the salt lakes in the middle of the
day is intensely trying to the eyes, but at sunset they reflect and
seem to exaggerate every colour of the brilliant sky.
The salt lakes, the numerous springs, and the stagnant water lying
about the gardens bred mosquitoes and fevers. Formerly this low-lying
oasis was a hotbed of typhoid and malaria. Its evil reputation was
known to the bedouins who never stayed there a day longer than was
necessary, and even now they speak of almost every fever as “Siwan
fever.” The natives themselves attributed the fever to fruit,
and still call it “mish-mish fever,” owing to its prevalence
during the season when apricots are ripe. But nowadays conditions
are enormously improved. Typhoid is practically unknown, the malarial
mosquito has been banished from Siwa, though it still swarms in the
neighbouring oases; several thousand pounds has been spent by the
Egyptian Government in draining and filling up stagnant pools, and
fish have been imported by the Ministry of Health which breed in the
springs and feed upon the mosquitoes’ eggs. The town is kept clean
and there are very strict regulations about sanitation, and thousands
of sugar-coated quinine tablets are distributed to the people each
week. They have discovered now just how much of the sugar can be licked
off before the quinine begins to taste. The result is that since the
war there have been very few new cases of malaria, though many of
the people are so sodden with fever that it is impossible to cure them.
[Illustration: CLEANING TAMOUSY SPRING]
It is supposed that the fever is a form of malaria, but when I got it
myself, very badly, and had several blood tests taken in Cairo, no germ
of any known fever was found. The same thing happened to three other
Englishmen who caught the fever in Siwa. So far no careful analysis
has been made of the disease, which is spoken of as “malaria”
because it is certain that malaria exists in the oasis.
Each spring in Siwa is cleaned out once in every two years in the
summer-time. On these occasions the owners of the gardens give a free
meal to the labourers, and a luncheon party to their friends. It is
a popular and pleasant entertainment. Almost all the men in the town
turn out and work in relays of fifty or a hundred, baling out the
water from the springs with old kerosene tins, leather buckets and
earthenware pitchers. It is a slow proceeding; some of the largest
springs take several days to finish, and the work must be continuous,
as the basins are continually filling. The men and boys, covered with
mud, shout and sing as they work, every now and then diving into the
water and swimming round. Every man, woman and child in Siwa can swim,
and most of them are expert divers. The women swim like dogs, with
much splashing, but the men are very good. A pump would drain a well
in a single day and save much labour and wasted time. As the water
sinks masons and carpenters repair the sides of the basin, fitting
in new stones and patching up old ones. A curious custom terminates
these occasions. Each guest and labourer is presented by the owners of
the spring with a handful of berseem—clover—as a partial payment
for his labour. When the men ride home in the evening they twist the
clover in wreaths round their heads and round the donkeys’ ears,
then, when they arrive at the town, the donkeys are allowed to eat it.
One of the “characters” of Siwa, always very much in evidence
on these occasions, was an old, half-witted man known as “Sultan
Musa.” He suffered from a delusion that he was the Sultan of Siwa,
but I fancy that he was trifle less foolish than he pretended to
be. He played the part of court jester at all entertainments. The
Siwans found him intensely comic; they asked him questions—how old
was he, how many wives, and what he had done; when he mumbled that
he was 100 years old and had 20 wives, and various other domestic
details, they simply shrieked with laughter. I got heartily sick
of the old imbecile and announced that I did not wish to see him
when I went anywhere. Sometimes when I arrived at a party I would
catch sight of him being hurriedly bundled out of sight, and later
I heard the servants in the background laughing hilariously at his
dreary witticisms.
A few days after my arrival at Siwa I received an invitation
to a luncheon in the garden of one of the leading sheikhs. The
messenger announced that Sheikh Thomi would call for me at eight
o’clock on the following morning; I wondered at the hour—but
accepted the invitation. The next morning, while shaving before
breakfast, I was disturbed by a terrific hullabaloo. My dogs, who
strongly object to unknown natives, a trait which I encouraged,
were circling furiously round a party of Siwans who sat on their
donkeys below the house. My servants went out and rescued them,
explaining that I would be down soon; a few minutes later I joined
them. After many salutations and polite inquiries I was introduced to
the other guests, a crafty-looking, one-eyed merchant, two venerable,
white-bearded sheikhs and several notables of the town. They were
all dressed very distinctly in their best, wearing coloured silks or
spotless white robes. Sheikh Thomi, a cheerful, rotund little man,
with the reputation of being the richest sheikh in Siwa, wore a
long white burnous and a gorgeously embroidered scarlet silk scarf,
and rode a big black donkey with a satanic expression. I was offered
the choice of a number of donkeys. I picked out the largest one, and
off we went. The donkeys have no bridles or reins; one steers them by
beating their necks with a stick, and very occasionally they go the
way one wants them to. Mine was the fastest, so I led the cavalcade,
hoping that my mount was sure-footed. We dashed through the town
with a tremendous clatter and a cloud of dust, scattering children,
hens and old women, out on to the roads, and then for a mile or so
at a hard gallop towards some gardens. My donkey knew the way. We
arrived at the garden as it was beginning to grow hot, and were met
at the entrance by a troop of servants who took the donkeys.
Sheikh Thomi led me, slightly dishevelled, through a thick palm
grove, followed by the rest of the party, to a large summer-house
built of logs and thatch, set on the edge of a round spring from
whose green-blue depths constant streams of silver bubbles rose to
the surface. Little green frogs swam in the water and numbers of
scarlet dragon-flies hovered over it. The walls of the summer-house
were hung with gaily striped Tripoli blankets—vermilion, white and
green—the floor was covered with beautiful old Persian carpets,
and cushions were ranged round the sides. Through the open ends of
the building I saw long vistas of palm trunks, and the sun caught the
scarlet blossoms of the pomegranates and the shining, purple grapes
on their trellis frames. The air was heavy with the scent of orange
blossom and “tamar-el-hindi,” and the deep shade inside the hut was
a welcome relief. Outside the white-robed servants hurried to and fro,
carrying baskets and dishes, while two boys, in the distance, sang
curious Siwan songs, answering each other back as they swung to and
fro high up on two palm trees. Sheikh Thomi, with much whispering and
smiling, went outside. I leant back on my cushions lulled by “the
liquid lapse of murmuring streams,” thinking how absolutely Eastern
the whole scene was.
Suddenly—to my horror—I heard a hideous grinding sound and a
shrill, raucous voice with a pronounced American accent began singing,
“Waiting for the Robert E. Lee,” a tune which I always object
to. It was a gramophone, very old and decrepit, the most prized
possession of Sheikh Thomi. I tried to look as if I enjoyed the
tune, which was played over and over again for about half an hour,
and followed by some slightly less repulsive records of native music.
After listening to this musical interlude a servant brought in a bunch
of pink and white sweetly scented China roses which were distributed
among the guests, and then the meal began. A dozen boys served as
waiters, carrying the dishes from an open-air fire round the corner
where several cooks presided over the food. At first it was suggested
that I should eat alone, in solitary state, but I protested, so Sheikh
Thomi and three others ate with me, while the rest of the guests
retired outside to eat later, probably with more ease in my absence. We
sat cross-legged on the ground, a position that without considerable
practice causes the most agonising “pins and needles.” The meal
was eaten almost in silence, broken only by the noisy sounds of eating.
A round wooden table was placed in the centre, and each guest was
provided with several flat round wheaten loaves, which served as
plates, and some strips of thin native bread, which looks rather
like pancake, only darker and more solid. The meal consisted
mostly of mutton, cooked in various ways—boiled, fried and
stewed—with different kinds of vegetables, salads, spices,
curries and flavourings. One of the dishes, a very excellent one,
was stewed doves, eaten with fresh grapes. The pudding was the least
appetising dish on the menu, it was made of crumbled bread, mixed
into a sticky mass with “semna” oil and sugar. There were about
a dozen courses. Each one was brought in in a big dish of polished
ebony and placed on the table. The guests ate from the central dish,
using the thin bread to pick up the meat. One takes a piece of thin
bread between finger and thumb, dips into the dish, sandwiching the
meat in the bread. It sounds a messy proceeding, but after a little
practice I found it quite simple. Servants brought round a brass ewer,
and each guest washed his hands after every course; the Siwans also
rinsed their mouths—noisily. Every now and then some one would
fish out an extra succulent morsel and hand it to me, or if one man
had secured a tasty bone he would tear off the meat and heap it on
to my loaf. Towards the end of the meal a few loud hiccoughs are
not considered amiss, and to loosen one’s belt, very obviously,
is thought most complimentary. One needs it too!
The food was very good, excellently cooked, and so tender that there
was no difficulty in separating the meat from the bones. When I
thought, and felt, that we had finished, there followed an enormous
dish heaped high with perfectly plain boiled rice. This is called
“Shawish”—The Sergeant—because it clears away the other
dishes! Afterwards an enormous copper tray was carried in by two
boys loaded with every kind of fruit—plums, peaches, pears, grapes,
apricots and figs. Last of all came tea, and bowls of palm wine for
those who liked it. It is made from the sap of the date palm, and
when freshly drawn it tastes like sweet ginger-beer, but a little
goes a very long way.
Tea-drinking in Siwa is as solemn a ceremony as after-dinner port
at home. The host either dispenses it himself, or as a compliment
invites one of the guests to pour out. Towards the end of my time
at Siwa I was thought to have acquired sufficient experience, and
occasionally I poured out myself. The guest invariably pretends to
refuse, protests that he is not worthy, but eventually accepts the
honour. The pourer-out is called the “Sultan” of the party, and
every “Sultan” tries to make the best tea in the town. People
are very critical, and opinions vary as to who is the super Sultan
in Siwa. As soon as the “Sultan” takes over the job he becomes,
for the time, master of the house. He calls loudly for more sugar,
boiling water, and scolds the servants as if they were his own. If
he doesn’t like the quality of the tea, he says so and the host
apologises. A servant brings a low table with a number of little
glasses about 4 inches high, a locked chest containing three divisions
for red and green tea, and sugar, and a bowl of hot water to rinse
the cups. One is asked which kind of tea is preferred, red or green,
and the safest and most popular reply is “A mixture of both.” The
“Sultan” then very deliberately rinses the glasses from a kettle of
boiling water which stands on a little brazier at his side, measures
out the tea into the pot, adds a little water, pours it away, then
carefully makes the tea, pours out a little, tastes it, and finally,
if he approves of the flavour, hands one glassful to each guest. The
tea is drunk with no milk; the first brew is rather bitter, with a very
little sugar, the second is very sweet, and the third, and best, is
flavoured with rose petals, orange blossom, or fresh mint. Each guest
drinks one glass only of each brew, and what is over is poured out and
sent to the servants, or into the harem. It should be sipped noisily,
and satisfaction expressed in the sound of drinking. One drinks
either three glasses, six, or nine. I have known twelve, but that is
considered rather an excess in polite society. Personally I consider
it one of the best drinks I know, but at first people dislike it.
The Siwans are greedy, when they get the chance, and on these
occasions their appetites are enormous. They have the greatest
admiration for anyone who eats copiously. A certain Government
official, whose fondness for large meals was famous, came down to
Siwa. He attended a luncheon party, which was given in his honour by
some of the sheikhs. The meal was a matter of some dozen or fifteen
courses. I myself, by using the greatest discretion, and only eating
a few mouthfuls of each dish, managed to last out. But the guest of
the day took, and ate, a liberal helping of each course. The Siwans
themselves became a trifle languid towards the end of the meal, but
he persevered. Even the plain boiled rice did not daunt him, or the
sticky oily pudding. It earned him an everlasting admiration in Siwa,
and his name is always mentioned at Siwan parties as a really fine
fellow, “The Englishman who ate of everything.”
Meat is difficult to get in the oasis. When a bedouin convoy arrives
the Arabs often slaughter and sell a camel. There are a few sheep
and goats imported from the coast, but the price of meat makes it
impossible for the poorer folk to buy it. I had with me a number
of dogs. One of them, an attractive mongrel, produced a litter of
pups. Several people asked me to give them one, and I did so. I
was pleased to see how well their new owners looked after them; they
appeared even fatter and fitter than when I had them. Then I went into
Cairo on local leave. When I returned, about a month or so later,
I inquired after the puppies. One of the men who had taken one told
me, “They were fine, so fat and so large——” But “Where are
they now?” I asked. He looked surprised, pointed to his stomach,
which was a very obvious one, and explained that they had all been
eaten last month on the “Eid el Kebir,” one of the Mohammedan
festivals. He said that nobody could ever imagine that I had given
them away for any other reason than for eating. There was nothing
to be done, but I never gave away another puppy. I drowned the next
litter, and it was considered extremely wasteful.
The Siwans eat cats too, and mice and rats. At one time there were many
cats in Siwa and no rats. Now there are rats but no cats. Cats were
easier to catch than rats, so they went first. One man, a merchant,
complained that his house and shop was overrun with mice and rats. He
had gone to great trouble and brought a cat from Egypt, but as soon as
it was full grown it disappeared! Dogs are considered “unclean”
by the Mohammedan religion, and they are never eaten in any other
places in Egypt.
Dogs are useful at Siwa both as watch-dogs and companions. My dogs
used to sleep on the high terrace of the house, and they always
gave one warning of anybody coming over the half mile of sand
from the town. Besides, dogs are the most human and affectionate
of all animals, and one gets to feel the need of companionship
at Siwa. It is a solitary life. One either likes it or hates it;
there is no compromise, and most men hate it. Sometimes one does
not see a single white man for several months, and then, when a car
patrol arrives, they stay a few hours in the town and dash back on
the same day. One needs a certain temperament to stand living at
Siwa. In the summer the heat is so great that one does not go out
much in the middle of the day, unless there is urgent necessity,
consequently for many hours every day there is nothing to do. If one
sleeps much in the daytime one is unable to sleep at night. A man at
Siwa must have some form of hobby in which he can interest himself
without needing the assistance of other people. Painting, writing,
photography and reading all serve the purpose. I mention them as they
formed my own spare-time occupations. But without something of this
kind life becomes unbearable. It is an ideal place for painting and
photography. The strangely varied scenery, the brilliant sunshine,
the picturesque natives, and the wonderful colouring, especially the
sunsets, provide a variety of subjects on every side. Siwan men quite
enjoy being photographed, but the women strongly dislike it. Eventually
by teaching my Sudanese servant to use a camera I managed to secure
a few indifferent photos of women. When one “snaps” people they
immediately demand a copy of the photo, imagining that the camera is
also a simultaneous printer and developer.
According to the proverb “Two is company, three is none,” but I
think most men who have experienced it would agree that in an isolated
district three is generally company and two is purgatory. The odds
are one in a thousand that “the other man” will be congenial,
and if he is not life is insufferable. If there is a third man things
feel better, but to live for months on end with one other man, who
one does not really like, results in mutual detestation. This may
sound morbid and unnatural, but one sees so many examples. I knew
two quite ordinary normal men posted in a lonely district where
they rarely saw another Englishman. For the first month they lived
together quite happily, in the second month they quarrelled, in the
third month they took to living in separate houses, and at the end
of four months they were not on speaking terms! Then there are other
men who cannot stand living alone. They have no personal occupation,
they become depressed, take to whiskey in large quantities—or worse,
and therein lies the way to madness.
Then there is the question of marriage. In most cases the authorities
do not encourage, or rather do not allow, men to marry. They very
reasonably consider that married men are unsuitable for desert work;
they either leave their wives in Egypt, and worry about them, which is
not surprising, or they manage to “wangle” a permission out of the
powers that be and take their wives out to the desert. Then, of course,
a married man is stationed in a pleasanter place than one who has
no wife. It is a difficult problem, and in most cases results in men
wasting the prime of their life in a bachelor condition on the desert.
But one was kept fairly busily employed at Siwa. A considerable part
of the work consisted in judging cases, similar to the duties of a
magistrate at home (this, to my mind, was the most interesting part
of the routine); also there was a section of Camel Corps to keep
in training, and the local police. I went out on patrol for a few
days every month, but after once exploring the whole neighbourhood
these “treks” were not exciting. Most of the law cases were not
of great interest; they consisted mainly of petty thefts, assaults
and infringement of Government regulations. Divorce and questions of
inheritance were not supposed to be dealt with by me, as they came
before a special Mohammedan court, whose representative, an old kadi,
went on circuit every year, though he always avoided Siwa, owing to
the tedious journey and the huge file of cases that were waiting for
his decision. The Siwans knew almost to the penny how much they would
have to give him for a favourable decision on any case.
Sometimes, however, I did get curious cases, and the following one
illustrates the social conditions in the town.
A young Siwan woman called Booba, about fifteen years old, after a
series of very varied matrimonial experiences, married an Arab who was
settled in the town. Although she had been married many times she was
considered a very respectable person and related to one of the leading
sheikhs. Divorce is considered no disgrace, and a divorced woman does
not lose caste as in other parts of the country. Very soon the Arab
husband died. This occurred in January, by the end of March she had
married again; this time her husband was a Siwan merchant. He quickly
grew tired of her and divorced her after a month of married life,
but he treated her well and paid the residue of her marriage money
to her brother who was her nearest male relation. She returned to her
brother’s family, who were by no means pleased to see her. Being an
exceptionally good-looking girl she was courted again by another man,
the young son of a sheikh, who was considered rather a “catch.”
He married her in June, and very soon after she gave birth to a
child. As the child was a girl, the husband divorced her two days
after its birth. The wretched woman was turned out of the house in
the night by her late mother-in-law. She managed to get to her own
home, but her brother’s wife refused to let her in. The brother
himself was away. Eventually she found a lodging with an old woman,
a relative of one of the earlier husbands, who had, it seemed, some
liking for the girl. While staying here the child died—possibly
from exposure, possibly from other reasons.
Immediately the families of the last three husbands hurried to give
information against her, and charged her with murdering the child. The
doctor examined it and found signs of possible suffocation. I listened
for several days to the evidence of a number of witnesses, mostly
repulsive old women who enlarged with horrid keenness on the most
disagreeable details. But eventually nothing was proved, and the girl
was acquitted. It was a disagreeable case, but one could almost find
parallels to it in the English police-court news.
Female witnesses at Siwa were very difficult to manage. They never
spoke or understood any Arabic, so the six sheikhs, who acted as a
jury, interpreted for them. I used to sit on a platform at one end of
the room, and the six sheikhs occupied a bench along one side. Women
pretended to hate coming into the court-house, but I think they really
rather enjoyed it. The orderly, one of the police, would firmly propel
the lady into the middle of the room, she being completely covered from
head to foot with clothes. As soon as the orderly retired she sidled
over to the wall and propped herself against it, generally with her
back turned on me. The sheikhs would remonstrate, “For shame, turn
round Ayesha, daughter of Osman, and speak to the noble officer.”
The lady would wriggle round a little and allow one eye to appear
through the drapery. When questioned she mumbled inaudible replies,
growing slightly more coherent if she was personally concerned in
the case, but if there was another woman giving evidence she would
gradually lower her veils, speak louder, and finally show her whole
face as she shrieked abuse at her opponent—quite regardless of the
eyes of the court. The sheikhs were invaluable on these occasions;
it would have been very difficult to work without them.
One woman, who sued her neighbour for throwing stones at her hens,
disturbed the court considerably. When she was led in by the policeman
she appeared particularly cumbered with clothes. Suddenly a terrific
disturbance began among her shawls and draperies; she gave a shrill
squeal and two hens disentangled themselves from her clothes and dashed
madly round the court-house. Two of my dogs, who were lying at my feet,
sprang after the birds and chased them round the room, which plunged
the proceedings into the wildest confusion. The woman had carried in
the hens intending to confront her opponent, at the critical moment,
with the injured victims. Judging from their activity they had not
been much injured.
One man, Bashu Habun, son of the old sheikh who was hanged, caused more
legal work than the whole of the rest of the population together. He
spent his time appropriating the property of one of his brothers who
was in prison. The brother had an agent in Siwa, a foolish old sheikh
called Soud, who was too honest, or stupid, to withstand the sly
cleverness of Bashu Habun. At one time there were seven cases between
them, involving many hundreds of pounds. I settled the first three,
but found that the latter dealt with inheritance, and so were beyond
my jurisdiction, but I got heartily sick of the sharp, foxy face of
Bashu Habun and the noisy, foolish obstinacy of old Sheikh Soud. Both
of them tried to secure my support by sending donkey-loads of fruit to
my house before the cases were tried, and on one occasion the servants
met both bringing presents, and returned together with their offerings
to the town. The idea of “baksheesh” is so firmly planted in
the native mind that it takes a long while to die out. Still, one
finds that the natives really appreciate and prefer an impartial
administration of justice, in place of justice—of sorts—which
depends on which of the two parties can offer the highest bribe to
the judge. The Senussi were by no means above this method, but they
let political considerations weigh equally with “baksheesh” on
their scale of justice. In the days when a Turkish governor ruled in
Siwa he made his money by accepting and extorting bribes, and if,
when British Administration retires from Egypt, the oasis is ruled
again by a native mamur, the same system will possibly flourish.
[Illustration: IN THE WESTERN QUARTER]