art the Redeemer of all creatures, give us by Thy mercy a peaceful
day, and give us remission of our sins.
"_2d._ Cut not off our hope, shut not Thy door against our faces, and
cease not Thy care over us. O God, according to our worthiness reward
us not. Thou alone knowest our weakness.
"_1st._ Scatter, O Lord, in the world love, peace, and unity. Raise up
righteous kings, priests, and judges. Give peace to the nations, heal
the sick, keep the whole, and forgive the sins of all men.
"_2d._ In the way that we are going may Thy Grace keep us, O Lord, as
it kept the child David from Saul. Give us Thy mercy as we are
pressing on, that we may attain to peace according to Thy will. The
Grace which kept the prophet Moses in the sea, and Daniel in the pit,
and by which the companions of Ananias were kept in the fire, by that
Grace deliver us from evil.
"_Whole choir._--In the morning we all arise, we all worship the
Father, we praise the Son, we acknowledge the Holy Spirit. The grace
of the Father, the mercy of the Son, and the hovering of the Holy
Spirit, the Third Person, be our help every day. Our help is in Thee.
In Thee, our true Physician, is our hope. Put the medicine of Thy
mercy on our wounds, and bind up our bruises that we be not lost.
Without Thy help we are powerless to keep Thy commandments. O Christ,
who helpest those who fulfil Thy will, keep Thy worshippers. We ask
with sighing, we beseech Thy mercy, we ask forgiveness from that
merciful One who opens His door to all who turn unto Him. Every day I
promise Thee that to-morrow I will repent: all my days are past and
gone, my faults still remain. O Christ, have mercy upon me, have mercy
upon me."
[42] About Christmas 1890 in Constantinople I had an opportunity of
laying the state of the Gawar Christians and the reduction of the
garrison of Diza before His Highness Kiamil Pasha, then Grand Vizier.
He appeared deeply interested, and said that it was the purpose of his
Government to send troops up to the region as soon as the roads were
open. Since then I have heard nothing of these people, but to-day, as
this sheet is going to press, I have received the following news from
Dr. Shedd of Urmi: "You will be glad to know that Gawar is very much
changed for the better. The Turkish Governor has been removed, and
another of far better character and ability has the post. The Kurdish
robbers have been arrested, and their leader, Abdurrahman Bey,
killed."--_November 2_, 1890.
[43] The complaints to which I became a listener were made by
_maleks_, bishops, priests, headmen, and others. Exaggerations
prevail, and the same story is often told with as many variations as
there are narrators. I cannot vouch for anything which did not come
under my own observation. Some narratives dissolved under
investigation, leaving a mere nucleus of fact. Those which I thought
worthy of being noted down--some of which were published in the
_Contemporary Review_ in May and June in two papers called _The Shadow
of the Kurd_--were either fortified by corroborative circumstances, or
rest on the concurrent testimony as to the main facts of three
independent narrators.
In some cases I was asked to lay the statements before the British
Consul at Erzerum, with the names of the narrators as the authority on
which they rested, but in the greater number I was implored not to
give names or places, or any means of identification. "We are in fear
of our lives if we tell the truth," they urged. Sometimes I asked them
if they would abide by what they told me in the event of an
investigation by the British Vice-Consul at Van. "No, no, no, we dare
not!" was the usual reply. Under these circumstances, the only course
open to me is to withhold the names of persons and places wherever I
was pledged to do so, but as a guarantee of good faith I have placed
the statements, confidentially, with the names, in the hands of Her
Majesty's Principal Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs.
LETTER XXIX
KOCHANES, _Oct. 27_.
After two days the Patriarch arrived from Gahgoran with nearly forty
persons. To realise what this house is like, one must go back four
centuries, to the mode of living of the medieval barons of England.
Mar Shimun is not only a spiritual prince, but the temporal ruler of
the Syrians of the plains and valleys, and of the Ashirets or tribal
Syrians of the mountains of Central Kurdistan, as well as a judge and
a salaried official of the Turkish Government. He appoints the
_maleks_ or lay rulers of each district, where the office is not
hereditary, and possesses ecclesiastical patronage. For over four
centuries the Patriarch has been of the family of Shimun, which is
regarded as the royal family; and he is assisted in managing affairs
by a "family council." Kochanes is thus the ecclesiastical and
political metropolis of the Syrian nation, and the innumerable
disputes which arise among the people of this region are brought here
for judgment and arbitration.
It is a crowded life. From sunrise to sunset the pavement outside the
rude hall of entrance, the great room, like that at Marbishu, where
Sulti presides, and the guest-chambers, are always thronged with men
waiting to be received by the Patriarch, sleeping on the big settle in
the hall, or cleaning swords and guns, or wrestling, performing feats
of horsemanship, playing chess, and eating. Sixty persons more or
less are guests here. Every one coming into the valley is received,
and horses are stabled while men are fed. Outside, sheep and fowls are
being continually killed, two or three sheep being required daily;
mules are departing for Diza for stores, or are returning with flour
and sugar; oxen are bringing in hay, and perpetual measuring and
weighing are going on. The cost of provisioning such an army of guests
is enormous, and presses heavily on the Patriarch's slender resources.
Intrigues are rife. In some ways every man's hand is against his
fellow, and the succession to the Patriarchate, although nominally
settled, is a subject of scheming, plotting, rivalries, and
jealousies. Then there are various appointments, secular and
spiritual, to be wrangled for, the difficult relations with Turkey to
be managed, and such a wavering policy to be shaped towards Rome and
American Presbyterianism as shall absolutely break with neither.
Among the guests who come and go as they please, unquestioned, are
refugees from the barbarities of the Kurds, among the most pitiable of
whom is Mar ----, Bishop of ----, bereft under threat of death of his
Episcopal seal, and a fugitive from his diocese, which is almost
destroyed by violence and exactions. Few hours pass in which some
fresh tale of bloodshed, or the driving off of flocks, or the
attacking of travellers, or the digging into houses, is not brought up
here. A piteous state of alarm prevails. Mar Shimun, naturally feeble
and irresolute, and his family council are helpless. His dual position
aggravates his perplexities. Counsels are divided and paralysed. No
one knows where to turn for help on earth, and "the Lord is deaf,"
some of the people say.
On entering the house by an archway, where the heavily-bossed door
stands always open, a busy scene is to be witnessed in the hall,
which is roughly paved with irregular slabs of stone. On the rude
stone settle men are sitting or sleeping, or a carpenter is using it
as his bench, or a sheep is being cut up on it. At the end of a
passage is the "house," a high, big, blackened room, with shelving
floors of earth and rock, ovens in the floors, great _quaraghs_
holding grain, piles of wood, men sawing logs, huge pots, goat-skins
of butter hanging from the rafters, spinning-wheels, a loom, great
roughly-cut joints of meat, piles of potatoes, women ceaselessly
making blankets of bread, to be used as tablecloths before being
eaten, preparations for the ceaseless meals involved by the unbounded
hospitality of the house, and numbers of daggered serving-men, old
women, and hangers-on. This room is only lighted from the doors and
from a hole in the roof. Nearly opposite is a low dark lobby, from
which opens my room, sixteen feet square, with walls three feet thick,
and Mar Shimun's room, about the same size, which serves him for
sleeping, eating, reception-room, and office.
On the same side of the hall are two guest-rooms, now packed to their
utmost capacity, and a large room in which Ishai, the Patriarch's
half-brother, a young man of exceeding beauty, lives, with his lovely
wife, Asiat, and their four children. In a ruinous-looking tower
attached to the main building Mr. Browne has his abode, up a steep
ladder. Below there are houses inhabited by the Patriarch's relations,
one of whom, Marta, is a dignified and charming woman, and the mother
of Mar Auraham, the Patriarch-designate, whose prospective dignity is
the subject of much intrigue.
The presiding genius of the Patriarch's household is his sister Sulti,
a capable woman of forty, who has remained unmarried in order to guide
his house, and who rules as well as guides. When she sleeps I know
not. She is astir early and late, measuring, weighing, directing, the
embodiment of Proverbs chap. xxxi. No little brain-power must be
required for the ordering of such a household and the meeting of such
emergencies as that of to-day, when twenty Jelu men arrived
unexpectedly.
The serving-men all look like bandits. The medieval Jester is in
existence here, Shlimon, a privileged person, who may say and do
anything, and take all manner of liberties, and who, by his unlimited
buffooneries, helps the Patriarch and his family through the dulness
of the winter days. He and another faithful fellow, said to be equally
quick with his tongue and his dagger, are Mar Shimun's personal
servants. At fixed hours the latter carries food to his lord in tinned
copper bowls on a large round tray, knives and forks not having
penetrated to Kochanes.
The routine of the day is as follows. The Patriarch rises very early,
and says prayers at dawn, after which those who have the _entree_ are
served with pipes and coffee in his room, and talk _ad libitum_.
Business of all sorts follows; a _siesta_ is taken at mid-day, then
there is business again, and unlimited talk with unlimited smoking
till five, when the Patriarch goes to prayers at church, after which
everybody is at liberty to attend his _levee_, and talking and smoking
go on till 9 or 10 P.M. It is a life without privacy or quiet. The
affairs of the mountains, litigation, tribal feuds, the difficulty of
raising the tribute, the gossip of the village, and just now, above
all else, the excesses of the Kurds, form the staple of conversation,
as I understand from _Qasha_ ----, who, as a personal friend, spends
much of the day in the Patriarch's room. In winter, when Kochanes is
snowed up, chess and the pranks and witticisms of the Jester fill up
the time.
The curious little court, the rigid etiquette, the clank of arms, the
unbounded hospitality, and the political and judicial functions
exercised by the Patriarch, with the rude dwelling and furnishings,
combine to re-create the baronial life as it might have been lived in
Roslin or Warkworth Castles.
Though I had half-seen Mar Shimun at Gahgoran, I was only formally
presented after his arrival here. It is proper for a woman to cover
her head before him, and I put on my hat and took off my shoes. His
room is well paved, the plaster is newly coloured, and there is a
glazed window with a magnificent prospect. There were rugs at one end,
on which the Patriarch was seated, with two chairs at his left hand.
He rose to receive me, and, according to custom, I kissed his hand. He
took my letter of introduction, and put it under a cushion, as
etiquette demanded, and asked me to be seated. On the floor along the
walls were bishops, priests, deacons, Jelu and Tyari mountaineers,
lowlanders from Urmi, and men of the Shimun family, all most
picturesquely dressed and smoking long wooden pipes. On each
subsequent occasion, when I paid my respects to him, he was similarly
surrounded. Mr. Browne acted as interpreter, but nothing but very
superficial conversation was possible when there was the risk that
anything said might be twisted into dangerous use. Mar Shimun is a man
about the middle height, with large dark eyes, a sallow complexion, a
grizzled iron-gray beard, and an expression of profound melancholy,
mingled with a most painful look of perplexity and irresolution. He
cannot be over fifty, but the miseries and intrigues around him make
him appear prematurely old. When I approached the subject of the
anarchy of the country he glared timidly and fearfully round, and
changed the subject, sending me a message afterwards that _Qasha_ ----
and Kwaja Shlimon, a Chaldaean educated in Paris, are in possession of
all that he could tell me, and would speak for him.
He and his family are very proud both of ancestry and position. Within
limits his word is law; a letter from him is better than any
Government passport or escort through the nearly inaccessible
fastnesses of the Ashirets; "By the Head of Mar Shimun," and "By the
House of Mar Shimun" are common asseverations, but he and his are
exposed constantly to indignities and insults from minor Turkish
officials and from Kurdish chiefs, and the continual disrespect to his
person and office is said to be eating into his soul.
He wears a crimson _fez_ with a black _pagri_, a short blue cloth
jacket with sleeves wide at the bottom and open for a few inches at
the inner seam, blue cloth trousers of a sailor cut, a red and white
striped satin shirt, the front and sleeves of which are very much _en
evidence_, and a crimson girdle, but without the universal _khanjar_.
This is the man who is the head at once of a church and nation, the
temporal and spiritual ruler of the Syrian people, the hereditary
Patriarch, the _Catholicos_ of the East, whose dynastic ancestors
ranked as sixth in dignity in the Catholic Church in its early ages.
It was not, however, till the early part of the fifth century, when
the Church of the East threw in her lot with Nestorius, after his
condemnation in 431 by the Council of Ephesus for "heretical" views on
the nature of our Lord, that the _Catholicos_ of the East assumed the
farther title of Patriarch. As I look on Mar Shimun's irresolute face,
and see the homage which his people pay to him, I recall the history
of a day when this church, which only survives as an obscure and
hunted remnant, planted churches and bishoprics in Persia, Central
Asia, Tartary, and China; its missionaries, full of zeal and
self-sacrifice, brought such legions into its fold that in the sixth
century the ecclesiastical ancestor of this Patriarch, then resident
at Baghdad, ruled over twenty-five metropolitical provinces extending
from Jerusalem to China; and when in the fourteenth century it was not
only the largest communion in Christendom, but outnumbered the whole
of the rest of Christendom, east and west, Roman, Greek, and other
churches put together. It is truly a marvel not only that Baghdad,
Edessa, and Nisibis possessed Nestorian schools of divinity and
philosophy, but that Christian colleges, seminaries, and theological
schools flourished in Samarcand, Bokhara, and Khiva! How this huge
church melted away like snow, and how the tide of Christianity ebbed,
leaving as a relic on its high-water mark within the Chinese frontier
a stone tablet inscribed with the Nestorian creed, and how Taimurlane
pursued the unfortunate Christian remnant with such fury that the
_Catholicos_ himself with a fugitive band was forced to fly into these
mountains, are matters of most singular historic interest. Most
fascinating indeed is it to be here. Each day seems but an hour, so
absorbing are the interests, so deep the pathos, so vivid the
tableaux, so unique the life in this hamlet of Kochanes, on its fair
green alp at a height of 6000 feet among these wild mountains of
Kurdistan, musical with the sound of torrents fed by fifty
snow-drifts, dashing down to join "the Pison, the river of Eden" (as
the Patriarch calls the Zab), on its way to the classic Tigris.
The afternoon I arrived, Sulti, Marta, Asiat, and several other women
courteously visited me, and the next day I returned their visits in
their simple pleasant houses. These formalities over, I have enjoyed
complete liberty, and have acquainted myself with the whole of
Kochanes, and with many of the people and their interests, and have
had small gatherings of men in my room each evening, _Qasha_ ---- or
Mr. Browne interpreting their tales of strife or wrong.
"Fear is on every side," the fear of a people practically unarmed,
for their long guns, some of them matchlocks, are of no use against
the rifles of the Kurds, _nor dare they fire in self-defence_.
Travelling is nearly suspended. A company of people whose needs call
them to Urmi dare not run the risk of the journey till they can go
down with Mar Gauriel and his large escort. It is evident that the
Patriarch and his people hoped for a British protectorate as one
result of "the Archbishop of Canterbury's Mission," and that they are
bitterly disappointed that their condition is growing worse.
"How can we listen to teaching," say some of them, "when we have no
rest? How can we believe in God when He lets these things happen to
us? The Almighty is deaf, and we cease to pray. Can we hear teaching
when the wolf is on us by night and day? If we let go the Cross we
might be rich and safe. Night by night we ask, 'Shall we see the
morning?' for our oppressors wax fiercer daily."
Mar ----, Bishop of ----, mentioned previously as a fugitive from his
diocese, is a fine, pleasant-looking middle-aged man, more like a
sailor than an ecclesiastic. Late one night, in a whisper, with a
trusty watch at the door, he told his story, through _Qasha_ ----, in
the following words:
"I fled, fearing for my life, because many times I had spoken
against the oppressions. The Kurds have carried away most of
the sheep and goats, besides taking all they wished to have,
and they entered through the houses, plundering everything,
and burning two in ----. Their words are 'give or die.' I
petitioned Government regarding the oppressions, and Mohammed
Bey came, and by threat of death he got my seal, and wrote in
my name a letter, saying it was all false, there were no
oppressions, and he was a very good man, and he signed it
with my seal, and it went to Stamboul. My seal has now been
for one year in the hands of Mohammed Bey, who has killed
about thirty Christians in Berwar. Three months ago I fled to
save my life.
"Seventeen years the oppressions have begun; but it was ten
years ago when we could easily keep ourselves and raise our
bread--now we cannot. In ----, five years ago, all had plenty
of dress and bread, and every family kept two cows and two
hundred or more of sheep. But now, when I visited them, I
would shame to look at the female persons, so naked were
they, and so did they hide themselves for shame in the dark
parts of their houses, for their dress was all in pieces, so
that their flesh was seen. I was thirsty and asked for milk,
and they made reply, 'Oh, we have not a cow, or a sheep, or a
goat: we forget the taste of milk!' And most of their fine
fields were gone out of their hands by oppressions, for they
could no longer find money wherewith to pay taxes, and they
sold them for a vile price.
"K---- was the best village in Sopana, and more wealthy than
any village of Kurds or Christians. There I went and asked
for some milk. They said, 'Never a goat, or a sheep, or a cow
have we.' I ask of all the families their condition, and they
make reply, with many tears, 'All that we have has left our
hands, and we fear for our lives now. We were rich, now we
have not bread to eat from day to day.' Seventeen years ago
the village of B---- had fifty families of wealthy villagers,
but now I only find twelve, and those twelve could scarcely
find bread. I had asked bread, but I could not find it. By
day their things were taken by force out of their houses: at
night their sheep and cattle were driven off. They could keep
nothing. Our wheat, our sheep, our butter is not our own. The
chief, Mohammed Bey, and his servants ask of us, saying,
'Give, or we will kill you.'"
This is a sample of innumerable tales to which I listen daily. Some
are probably grossly exaggerated, others, and this among them, are
probably true in all essential particulars. Daily, from all quarters,
men arrive with their complaints of robbery and violence, and ask the
Patriarch to obtain redress for them, but he is powerless.
[Illustration: DESIGNS ON TOMBS AT KOCHANES.
_To face p. 297, vol. II._]
My favourite walk is down the fair green lawn outside the village, on
which is a copse of poplars, with foliage of reddening gold. Beside
it, on the verge of the precipitous heights above the Terpai, is a
bold group of rocks, on which the church dedicated to Mar Shalita is
built. The ruins of a former church, dedicated to Mart Mariam, are
higher up the alp. Below the rocks are a great number of tombstones,
with incised ornaments upon them bearing the general name of crosses.
The church has nothing specially ecclesiastical in its appearance. It
has some resemblance to a keep with out-buildings, and its irregular
form seems to have been dictated by the configuration of the rock. It
has no windows, and the cruciform slits at a great height look like
loopholes. It is indeed the ultimate refuge of the Patriarch and the
villagers in case of a descent of the Kurds. I walked all round it,
through the poplar grove, with its mirthful waters, among the tombs,
and back by the edge of the ravine to the west side without finding a
door. In truth the only entrance is up a rude and very steep ladder,
about ten feet high, with a rude door at the top six inches thick, but
only three feet high. How old and infirm people get up and down I
cannot tell. So difficult is the access that I was glad to avail
myself of the vigorous aid of Mar Gauriel, who, having visited
England, is ready on all occasions with courteous attentions to a
lady. The reason of the low doors is said to be that all may bow their
heads on entering the house of God, and that the Moslems may not
stable their cattle in the church. The entrance harmonises with the
obvious pervading motive of the design, which is _inaccessibility_.
[Illustration: SYRIAN CROSS.]
The door opens into a small courtyard, partly protected by a wooden
roof. At its farther end, in a recess in its massive wall, is a small
altar. Its west wall is pierced so that the approach can be commanded.
In this courtyard the daily prayers are frequently said during the
warm weather. A few steps lead from this into a building of two
stories, a rude little house in fact, once occupied by one of the
Patriarchs, and latterly by the late Rabban Yonan, a holy man, almost
a hermit, whose reputation for sanctity has extended far beyond the
limits of Kurdistan.