DAMASCUS.
Towards the end of June I took part in the military races at Alexandria,
and from the "home town" of Hypatia I took ship and went to Beyrout--a
lovely seaport, nestling under the mighty and magnificent Lebanon. Here
I was most hospitably entertained by my friends, the Bustroses. From the
balcony of her palatial residence Madame Bustros enjoys a view second to
none in the world, and every imaginable fruit and flower grows and
blooms on her estate. Beyrout is undoubtedly a place of milk and honey,
and is unquestionably within the Biblical boundaries of the Promised
Land. Ezekiel xlvii., 17, states: "and the border from the sea shall be
Hazar-enan, the border of Damascus and the north northward and the
border of Hamath." This was the northern boundary assigned to Israel and
was actually occupied in the days of David and Solomon.
My journey across the Lebanon was one long feast of the most beautiful
scenery in the world. As we topped the range my last peep of mountain
and valley, stretching away down to Beyrout, hemmed in by the glittering
sea, was like a vision of Paradise.
Instead of going to Damascus direct, I branched off at Ryak and ran up
the Bakaa, the valley which stretches between Lebanon and Anti-Lebanon
to Baalbek, where I spent a wonderful time amid the mighty ruins of that
ancient temple to Baal.
Baalbek is the most beautiful and impressive ruin that it has ever been
my good fortune to look upon. Thebes may exceed it in size, but the
wonder of Egypt had not the effect upon me that was produced when I
stood under the magnificent columns of this great temple to the heathen
god.
I wandered through the vast pile, an insignificant speck amidst its
gigantic pillars and fallen lintels, overthrown and shattered by the
devastating earthquake which centuries ago wrecked this mighty
structure. Who were the architects who designed it? and who were the
engineers who set on high those stupendous blocks? Verily there were
giants in those days.
At Baalbek railway station I came across one of the prettiest girls I
had seen for many a long day engaged in selling peaches. She was a
Syrian from Lebanon, which is noted for the beauty of its maidens; I
overheard her companions address this Houri of the mountains as "Edeen."
While I was standing waiting for my train to arrive a dust storm
suddenly sprang up, and when it was over Edeen sat down and calmly
_licked_ the dust off every peach until they all bloomed again in her
basket; then presently she presented the fruit, fresh and shining, to
the incoming passengers, who eagerly bought it from the smiling damsel!
I need hardly say that peaches were "off" for me during the rest of my
trip, for not all sellers were as beautiful as Edeen!
A few hours in the train took me over the Anti-Lebanon, and I caught my
first glimpse of Damascus, that most ancient of cities, which I had long
desired to see.
When Mohammed was a camel driver, making a caravan journey from Medina
to Aleppo, the story goes that he once camped on a hill overlooking
Damascus. His companions asked him to join them and go into the city but
he replied--"No; Paradise should only be entered after death!"
I viewed the city from the same spot, but, not being so sure of my
hereafter as was the Prophet, I decided to take my chance of entering
this earthly Paradise while it offered.
It is rightly described as a pearl set in emeralds. White mosques,
minarets, and cupolas peep dazzlingly in all directions out of the
emerald foliage. Trees, gardens, and flowers of all kinds abound in this
delectable city, whose charm is enhanced by the murmur of the many
rivers running through it. I, too, like Naaman the Syrian, found "Abana
and Pharpar, rivers of Damascus, better than all the waters of Israel."
The latter is in the district, and runs some ten miles to the south of
the oldest city in the world. The great Saladin is buried in Damascus,
and of course I made a pilgrimage to the tomb of this famous warrior.
I like to avoid the caravanserais set up for Europeans as much as
possible when travelling in the East, so that I may see something of the
life of the people. In this way one has many pleasant little
adventures, experiences and remembrances, which give zest to life.
While lunching at a famous Arab restaurant I made the acquaintance of
Dr. Yuseff, a well-known medical man of Damascus and Beyrout; among
other subjects we talked horses and races, and we became such good
friends that he lent me his fiery, pure-bred Arab steed to ride while
sight-seeing in the neighbourhood--a sure token of friendship from this
cultured Arab of Syria.
Just on the outskirts of the city on the banks of the river Barada (the
Biblical Abana) I had noticed a Bedouin camp crowded with good-looking
horses, so thither I went and called on the Sheik of the tribe. While
sitting with the elders in a huge circle, sipping coffee out of tiny
cups, I discovered from their conversation that my hosts were wandering
Kurds, who were just about to set off for the confines of Persia. I
hinted that I would like to join their caravan, and was immediately
given a warm welcome, but, much as I should have liked to roam the
desert with them, I had to think of my Jewish Battalion waiting for me
at Bir Salem. The Kurds expressed much interest when I told them I had
to go on a pilgrimage to El Kuds (meaning Jerusalem), for of course they
were good Moslems and reverenced the Holy City.
On leaving Damascus I travelled down the Hedjaz Railway as far as Deraa.
The moment the ancient Syrian capital is left the train enters the
desert, the home of the Ishmaelite. These bold rovers, from time
immemorial, have hunted and harried the peaceful traveller caught
toiling through their fastnesses. We were not molested for the simple
reason that troops of cavalry, British and Indian, were posted at
strategic points all along the railway. A few months later, when we
withdrew from these parts, the Bedouins began their old games, and took
a fierce joy in derailing trains, and robbing, and even killing, the
passengers. In this way a good friend of mine, Comandante Bianchini, an
officer of the Royal Italian Navy, met his untimely end at the hands of
these desert marauders. Bianchini was deeply interested in, and worked
hard for, the Zionist cause, and his loss is a sad blow to his many
friends. A more cheery, lovable man never sailed the seas.
We reached Deraa (the ancient Edrei) without incident, and then branched
off westward to Haifa, the train clambering down and around the
precipitous sides of the Yarmuk Escarpment, past the southern shore of
the Lake of Galilee at Samakh, across the Jordan and running parallel to
it for some miles, then curving upwards out of the Jordan Valley, into
the valley of Jezreel, which continues into the plain of Esdraelon.
These narrow plains, the heritage of Issachar, sever the head of
Palestine from the body, or, in other words, separate Galilee from
Samaria and Judæa. To use an Irishism, this neck had been the "Achilles'
heel" of Israel throughout her history. All down the ages armies from
Babylonia, Assyria, Persia, and Egypt have marched and counter-marched
through this fertile belt. Open passes southward made Samaria an easy
prey. Beisan (the ancient Bethshan), which guards the eastern end and
dominates the passage over the Jordan, was generally in the hands of the
stranger. It was in the neighbourhood of this famous old stronghold
that Barak defeated Sisera, captain of the host of Jaban, king of the
Canaanites--a victory celebrated in the famous song of Deborah. It was
also in this neighbourhood that Gideon smote the Midianites. His motto,
"The sword of the Lord and of Gideon," was also the motto of the
Zionists who served England so stoutly in Gallipoli, and it was a
curious coincidence that, just as the Midianites were routed by the
shouting and clamour of Gideon's three companies, so was the Turkish
Army routed by the Zion mules when, with rattling chains and clattering
hoofs, they stampeded one dark night and galloped through the Turks as
they were creeping stealthily up to attack the British trenches.
Later on in the military history of the Israelites we find the
Philistines battling for the supremacy on these plains and overthrowing
the army of Israel under their first King Saul, who, in the bitterness
of defeat, and finding he could not escape, fell on his sword and died
on Mount Gilboa. In the same battle and the same place the death of
Jonathan put an end to his immortal friendship with David and called
forth the famous lament: "The beauty of Israel is slain upon thy high
places; how are the mighty fallen."
These stories of the Old Testament flashed vividly through my mind as we
rolled onward through this historic valley between Mount Gilboa and
Beisan on the left, and the cone-shaped Mount Tabor away on the right.
Other countries and other scenes were recalled to my mind when I spied
half a dozen beautiful antelope near some standing corn, and my
thoughts of Africa were further intensified when I caught a glimpse, on
the railway bank, of a huge black snake, some six feet long, rapidly
darting away out of danger.
Soon afterwards, on looking to the north, I saw Nazareth perched upon a
southern Galilean hill-top. We wound in and out by the brook Kishon,
where Elijah smote the false prophets. Finally we passed along the
mighty shoulder of Mount Carmel into that great natural anchorage of
Haifa, nestling under its shadow; then southward to Ludd and Bir
Salem--the whole train journey from Damascus taking some fifteen hours
and giving me an unrivalled feast of Biblical landscapes.
Early in July I visited Acre to take part in the races there (which
proved a fiasco owing to the antics of the starter), and suddenly found
myself close to the dwelling of the famous Abdul Baha, the exponent of
the doctrine of the Brotherhood of Man. He certainly has a wide field
before him, for at the present moment there seems to be very little
brotherly love in any part of the world! His particular mission is to
unite the peoples of the earth, and do away with all barriers of race,
creed, and prejudice.
Since Patriarchs, Popes, Archbishops, Mullahs, and ministers of all
creeds have failed to make humanity realise the necessity of "brotherly
love," the League of Nations would be well advised to adopt the Sage of
Acre and make him President of a "League of Teachers," pledged to
inculcate love for one's fellowmen as the cardinal feature of his
curriculum. One thing is certain--the League of Nations will never bring
the world into harmony unless the young are taught to love and help
their brothers, irrespective of nationality.
It will be remembered that Acre was the town to which Napoleon laid
siege after his wonderful march from Egypt with about 10,000 French
Infantry. This extraordinary man was able to cross the Sinai desert with
his army, without either roads, railway, or water supply, capture Gaza,
Jaffa, and Haifa with ease, and only for the British Fleet would
undoubtedly have added Acre, and probably all Syria, to his spoils.
Those who have traversed the Sinai sands in a comfortable railway coach
can afford to pay a warm tribute to this redoubtable warrior, and to the
no less redoubtable Infantry of France.