THE WORLD’S OLDEST CITY
Stand with me on the slope of the Lebanon Mountains and take a look
over Damascus. We have climbed the road cut out for Kaiser Wilhelm,
the Emperor of Germany, when he visited this region, and are now on a
bare lofty hill which the Mohammedans consider one of the holy spots
of the world. It is where the prophet Mohammed stood and gazed at that
magnificent town, the Damascus of his day. After staying here for hours,
he turned away with a sigh, saying:
“I dare not go in. Man can enter paradise but once, and if I go into
Damascus, this paradise on earth, I shall not be able to enter the
paradise of the hereafter.”
According to the Mohammedans, Abraham first received the divine
revelation of the unity of God in Damascus; and Josephus says that the
town was founded by Uz, the great-grandson of Noah. The Bible tells us
that Abraham had a steward who came from Damascus, and we know that King
David besieged and conquered the place. There is no doubt that it is
one of the oldest towns, if not the very oldest, upon earth. It was in
existence before the days of Rameses and Thebes, before Alexandria sprang
into greatness on the Mediterranean shores, and while Nebuchadnezzar was
chewing grass in the gardens of Babylon. It was old long before Athens
had begun to be, was already gray-haired when Rome was a baby, and
antedates any of the cities of the present. It is now one of the most
thriving centres of the Mohammedan world.
[Illustration: It is in the horse market that men foregather to trade and
gossip or to enjoy a cooling drink from such a bottle as is shown here]
[Illustration: “O Allah, send customers,” cry the bread sellers in
Damascus, as they squat in the street with their stock and scales]
[Illustration: The beautiful rugs of the Orient are all hand-made, from
carding and spinning the wool to the long months of weaving in the lovely
patterns. But there is more time in the East than we hustling Westerners
ever find]
Damascus lies on the eastern side of the Lebanon Mountains about one
hundred and fifty miles northeast of Jerusalem, and, as the crow flies,
about fifty-three miles from the Mediterranean Sea. It is an oasis city
surrounded by deserts. It is fed by two cold, clear rivers flowing out
of great springs in the mountains of Lebanon and making green this sandy
plain in which they are lost. These rivers are the Abana and Pharpar of
the Bible. You remember how Naaman, the leper, referred to them when
Elisha told him to go and wash in the Jordan seven times and his flesh
would be clean. Whereupon Naaman replied:
“Are not Abana and Pharpar rivers of Damascus better than all the waters
of Israel? May I not wash in them and be clean?” So he turned and went
away in a rage.
You remember also how one of his servants told Naaman that Elisha was
asking a little thing of him and how he then went down and bathed in the
murky Jordan, “and his flesh came again, like unto the flesh of a little
child, and he was clean.”
As we stand on the hill of Mohammed at the northwest end of the city and
look at Damascus we do not wonder at Naaman’s contempt of the Jordan. We
have seen that the latter is a winding, rocky, semi-alkaline stream which
flows through a desert, the great gorge or depression of Ghor. It has a
scanty vegetation along its banks and flows through a valley of death
to the great salt sea known as “The Dead.” The Abana, or Barada, as it
is now called, and the Pharpar, now called Barber, are pure mountain
streams. The former is one of the most beautiful of the whole world. I
have travelled along it almost to its source. It is a rushing river of
pure, clear green water which spreads life over all that it touches.
Together with the Barber it makes green the great plain which lies below
us and builds up the orchards of almonds, apricots, apples, and the rich
crops which cover it, as well as the white city of Damascus rising in its
centre.
Now turn your eyes to the city itself. There it lies under these
magnificent mountains with its luxuriant gardens and orchards surrounded
by deserts. Within and without silver poplars cast their green shadows
over the houses. The town has been compared to a pearl. It is shaped very
like one. My guide, Shammas, who stands beside me, tells me that it looks
like a camel, and a second glance shows me the head and neck of the beast
reaching out to a point where lies a railway station of the road going to
Mecca. The road itself is the long neck of the camel and farther back is
the body, the minarets forming the hump. “Now look again,” says Shammas,
“and see if it is not like a fan!” “Very much so,” I reply, “and it is
also like a great spoon with a long slender handle and large oval bowl.”
To come down to details, Damascus is an expanse of pearly white tinged
with the pink of its roofs. The buildings rise high over the green,
and out of them, like fingers pointing to heaven, are the minarets of
two hundred mosques, with the mighty dome of the Great Mosque in the
centre. At the right of the latter are the arched roofs of bazaars
which have been famous for ages, while away off from the rest is a big
yellow building with a roof of red tiles. That is the centre of Moslem
fanaticism, where for centuries thousands of Mohammedan soldiers have
been quartered. At times, a few years ago, even they have let loose their
religious fury and slaughtered Christians living in the city.
Damascus is a Mohammedan city. It has about three hundred thousand
people, four fifths of whom follow the Prophet. It has also about thirty
thousand Greeks, eight thousand Jews, and lesser numbers of Syrians,
Armenians, Persians, and Druses. These people are very devout. One sees
them reading their Korans in their shops, and at the mosques I have
observed a score or more of the Faithful washing themselves before they
go into their prayers. The mosques are full of turbaned men, old and
young, who pray singly and in groups, and in many one finds companies of
worshippers under a leader. There are also many classes listening to the
explanations of the Koran by the priests, and there are men reading by
themselves.
But come down with me from the hill and take a stroll through the city.
This is Sunday, and we shall first visit the mosques. There are seventy
large ones, where sermons are preached every Friday, and one hundred and
seventy-seven which might be called chapels, connected with which are
Mohammedan schools. Many of these mosques have libraries, and in all of
them the chief study is theology, including the Koran and the traditions
of the prophets. After that comes law, then philosophy, logic, and
grammar. Modern sciences are unknown, and all other branches of learning
are entirely neglected.
One of the chief centres of Moslem religious life is the Great Mosque.
This is one of the finest of Mohammedan churches. It stands in the
centre of the city and covers about seven acres, or almost twice as
much space as the Capitol at Washington. In the great court paved with
marble is a fountain, said to mark the half-way station on the route from
Constantinople to Mecca. It is there that the worshippers bathe parts of
their bodies before going to their prayers. On the other side of this
enormous court is the mosque proper, the oblong floor of which covers an
acre. Many great columns uphold its roof, and other columns stand between
it and the court.
Entering this room, we find two thousand men and perhaps a hundred women
at worship. Nevertheless, the building seems empty. The worshippers are
scattered over the floor. The women are alone, and the men dare not look
at them. They are closely veiled and do not notice us as we go by. Most
of the men are on their knees or sitting upon the floor. Before coming
into the church all have removed their shoes, which now lie beside or
in front of them. The floor is covered with costly rugs, presents from
devout Mohammedans. Think of roofing a large field, upholding the roof by
mighty columns, and then carpeting that field with oriental rugs any one
of which would be fit to hang upon your walls as a treasure, and you have
a suggestion of the picture now before us.
There are strange things in the mosque. In its centre is a marble chapel
supposed to stand over the ashes of the head of John the Baptist. Men are
sitting before the chapel with their heads toward Mecca, and they rise
and fall as they pray to John the Baptist, the forerunner of Christ, and
to Mohammed as the prophet of God. Thus religion, like politics, makes
strange bedfellows.
[Illustration: The transportation monopoly of the Bedouin and his camel
is threatened to-day by the invading automobile and motor truck]
[Illustration: At the end of the Booksellers’ Bazaar looms the Dome of
the Mosque, built amid the ruins of a Christian church, which was itself
preceded on the same site by a Roman temple]
Damascus is the heart of the Mohammedan world. At its back is Persia,
altogether Mohammedan. At its south are Palestine and Arabia, more Moslem
than Christian, while at the north are other realms of Islam. All around
it the people are Mohammedans, who hate the Christians and massacre
them whenever they can. This was the case in the spring of 1909, when
thousands were killed and a terrible slaughter of Christians by heathens
took place in this region. Multitudes were massacred, and it was only
because the great Christian nations of Europe were afraid of their
pocketbooks and of the loss of that balance of power which might result
from a war that the Turkish Empire was not wiped out as a punishment
therefor. The matter was hushed up, and but little of the true story
was told in the papers. I refer to the bloodshed throughout Asia Minor
when the sultan, Abdul Hamid, was overthrown by the Young Turks and his
brother, Mohammed V, was put in his place.
Another strange object in the Great Mosque is the holy tent of the
pilgrim caravan. This is used during the pilgrimage to Mecca, which
generally starts at Damascus. Every Moslem is bound to make this pious
journey at least once in his life, and the followers of the Prophet
gather here from all directions for the trip to their holy city.
As they approach Mecca they take off their clothes, laying aside
everything from the soles of their feet to the crowns of their heads.
They then put on aprons, and carrying only a piece of cloth over the left
shoulder, walk into the city. They march around the sacred Kaaba and
kiss the black stone. They pelt Satan with rocks in the Valley of Mina,
and end their pilgrimage with a great sacrificial feast, at the end of
their Lent, when the festival of Beiram begins.
I have not seen these pilgrim caravans, but they are said to be extremely
interesting. Many of the rich go on camel litters something like the mule
litters used in north China. These are beds slung between poles which are
fastened to camels, one going before and the other behind and trained to
keep step. The camels are adorned for the occasion with coins, shells,
and other ornaments, besides hundreds of small bells which jingle as they
march. In advance of the procession is a large camel litter hung with
green cloth and embroidered with gold. This contains the green flag of
the Prophet and one of the oldest copies of the Koran now in existence.
In addition to the worshippers themselves there is always an escort of
soldiers and Bedouins. There are also many half-naked dervishes who sing
and howl and cut themselves, shouting out texts from the Koran as they go
on their way.
It is a question whether the railway from Damascus to Mecca will not
cause this great caravan to become a thing of the past as far as the
travel between Damascus and Mecca is concerned.
During my stay here I have gone out to the cemetery to see the tomb of
Mohammed’s favourite daughter Fatima. Mohammed had several wives in
addition to the four which he allows to each of his followers. His first
wife was Khadija, the widow whose fortune made him prominent and whose
servant he was. As I remember it, she was his first convert. Two of his
other wives and Fatima are buried here, and every Thursday many veiled
women come to mourn at their graves. Fatima’s tomb is a little domed
mosque about fifteen feet square with a praying alcove facing toward
Mecca. Her body lies in a marble sarcophagus, which stands on a pedestal
covered with green velvet and with a piece of green cloth at its head. As
I looked at the tomb I saw several rags tied to the bars of the window
and was told that they were put there as the pledges of sick persons,
showing that they would give money to the mosque if they should be cured.
The tomb of Saladin, the great Mohammedan general who fought Europe
during the Crusades, is also in Damascus. It is in a small mausoleum
attached to the Great Mosque. At the head of the marble sarcophagus is a
glass case in which lies the golden wreath placed on Saladin’s tomb by
the German Kaiser. Because this wreath had a cross worked into its design
it gave deep offence to the Damascenes, who demanded its removal from the
shrine. But the Kaiser’s “great and good friend,” Sultan Abdul Hamid,
ordered it to remain, as it was placed there by the Emperor of Germany.
I have spent some time tracing the footsteps of St. Paul, the apostle.
You will remember that he was one of the Jewish officials, and was
“breathing out threatenings and slaughter against the disciples of the
Lord” when he got the high priest to give him letters to the synagogues
of Damascus, that he might bring such Christians as he found there to
Jerusalem for trial. He was on his way here and was not far from the city
when the light from heaven shone round him and blinded him, and the Lord
said unto him:
I am Jesus whom thou persecutest; it is hard for thee to kick
against the pricks.
You remember how the blind Paul, or Saul, as he was then called, was led
into Damascus to the house of a man named Ananias, not the husband of
Sapphira, however, or any associate of the champion liar of history. You
recall, how, when he came there, he again received his sight and, being
converted, was baptized. It was the house of this Ananias, according to
Shammas and the guide books, that I visited the other day. I found the
Ananias of the present by no means averse to a small gift of silver. He
took all my spare change and then asked for more. I later discovered that
the authenticity of the house is questioned and there is another Ananias
house, which is now used as a chapel. I looked for the house of Naaman
the Syrian, and was shown an old building occupied by lepers.
It was in the Street called Straight that Ananias met Paul. This is one
of the principal highways of the Damascus of to-day. It leads from the
chief gate on the south to the bazaars and is about the only straight
street in the city. It goes right through Damascus and is so wide that
two or three carriages can pass on it. It is the centre of traffic, and
while there I saw caravans of camels, donkeys, and horses bringing in
and taking out all kinds of goods. One line of camels was loaded with
poplar trees as long as telegraph poles. The ends of the poles dragged in
the road as they walked. Behind them came donkeys with panniers of green
cucumbers and horses loaded with baskets of Jaffa oranges, each as big as
the head of a baby. A mule followed the horses. It was loaded with butter
from the interior packed in black leather bottles of the shape and size
of a tin dinner bucket.
St. Paul had a lively time in Damascus. He preached in the synagogue and
confounded the Jews. After a while the Jews took counsel to kill him, and
they watched the gates day and night for that purpose. It was then that
his friends took him by night and let him down over the wall in a basket.
This very place is now shown, and I have made a photograph of the spot.
The wall is a great structure of stone with a mud parapet on top. There
is a house on the top of the wall at the place indicated. This has
windows with great bars across them, and it is very easy to imagine how
St. Paul might have been let down from such a place when he made his
escape.