MARABOUTS
Standing alone and quite apart from the native officials just
mentioned are the _marabouts_. The name is derived from the Arab word
_marabet_, which originally meant one who served as a soldier in a
_rebat_ or fortress built on the frontier of Mohammedan countries
as defense against the infidel, and which became a base of attack
against Christian neighbors.
In the forts the moslem soldiers gave themselves over to acts
of piety. When the days of holy war had passed the _rebats_ were
converted into religious buildings, and a _marabet_ was, therefore,
a holy man, an apostle of Mohammed.
_Marabouts_ in North Africa are now holy men who claim direct
descent from Mohammed. There are a few who by that virtue alone
become _marabouts_, and it can be imagined, therefore, that there
are a considerable number of these saints in Algeria. Any Arab
village which respects itself has a _marabout_ or two buried in the
cemetery, and a great many have them living on the premises. They
have no official position, and their influence depends entirely
on their own personality. In some cases they are great figures
wielding an enormous amount of power, which is utilized by the French
Government for its own ends, and they are incidentally treated with
much consideration.
On the other hand, as practically all the male children of
_marabouts_ inherit the title, there are many who are completely
insignificant, I will even say unscrupulous and immoral, and who
live on what they can make out of the poor and credulous followers
of the Prophet. They are not always educated, and though they have
probably studied the Koran their knowledge on other matters is
very rudimentary. Many of them profess to be doctors, and though
their methods are very primitive, wonderful cures have been known
at their hands, chiefly owing to the faith of those treated.
They are almost all rich men, owning flocks in the sheep-breeding
areas, date-palms in the far south, and extensive properties in
the north. This wealth comes from the offerings of the faithful in
return for blessings and prayers for their welfare.
This, of course, leads to a great deal of abuse, and there are very
many of these holy men who reap in hoards of wealth which they spend
on sumptuous living. Moreover, as it is supposed to be an act of
grace to be in the following of a _marabout_ their servants are not
paid, and are practically slaves whose lives are in the hands of
their master. They are beaten or punished at will with no redress,
as it is rare that information leaks out officially to the French
authorities, who prefer to interfere as little as possible with
these holy men, whose religion seems, in their own eyes, to absolve
them from all acts of unrighteousness.
They drink alcohol, they rape, they live in the utmost disorder,
imposing unscrupulously on the believing faithful. If they find
people who oppose them they cast spells on them or curse them into
eternity, and the number of credulous folk who believe in this
is extraordinary.
Some of them are good at sleight of hand and perform childish
conjuring tricks which leave their followers in a state of gibbering
astonishment. I remember once confounding a fairly decent type of
_marabout_ who conjured before me by explaining the trick. But,
though he was rather upset, I saw that the people’s faith was
not in the least shaken. Naturally the well-to-do Arabs of good
family do not respect these law-breaking saints, and say that though
their ancestry must be considered, they can not be regarded as real
_marabouts_, whose lives are examples to all the faithful.
However, against these rogues there are many exceptions: men of
great piety who spend a good deal of time and money in relieving
the suffering of the poor, and who have devoted a great part of
their existence to the study of sacred writings, while in practise
they strictly follow the principles of the Koran.
All _marabouts_, disorderly or otherwise, are at the head of what
is known as a _zaouia_. A _zaouia_ is supposed to be a kind of
retreat for men and women, but chiefly women, who are tired of
worldly things. They give up all they have, be it one sheep or a
large-acred property, to the _marabout_, and in return are clothed,
lodged and fed for the rest of their lives in spiritual beatitude.
They also have to work, tilling his land, looking after his horses,
weaving carpets and burnouses, etc., the produce of their work
being nominally used to raise further money to help the needy.
In the case of the conscientious _marabouts_ this is done,
but the practise is also a source of personal revenue to the
unscrupulous. However, good and bad alike, they all have that Arab
spirit of hospitality and charity, and any person, rich or poor,
can always claim lodging and board with the blessing of the holy man.
The _zaouias_ are occasionally a sort of seminary where young
men who wish to be _muftis_ or _imams_ go to study, but since the
creation of competitive examinations at the Medersa the pupils of
the teaching _zaouias_ have greatly diminished.
Occasionally one comes across female _marabouts_. As a general rule
they are not much respected by the educated Arabs, and their field of
action lies chiefly among the poor women who believe that they have
miraculous powers to cure diseases and ward off the evil eye. These
women are sometimes, though not always, the wives of _marabouts_,
and they are also the children of holy men who have no sons. There
have been two very notable ladies of maraboutic standing, Lalla
Zineb, of El Hamel, near Bou Saada, and Lalla Aurelie Tidjani,
of Aïn Mahdi, near Laghouat.
The _marabout_ is married in exactly the same way as any other
Arab, and if he is sufficiently wealthy he keeps a well-stocked
harem. Cases occur when the sons of _marabouts_ do not take on their
father’s title but live like ordinary citizens. There are also
a few descendants of the Prophet who have never been _marabouts_
because they say that their ancestors were never inspired by Heaven;
but, generally speaking, the position of a holy saint is too tempting
to let slip by.
I have a great friend who is a _marabout_. His name is Hadj Mohktar,
and he lives at Chellala, on the rolling plain above the Sahara. He
is a dignified old gentleman, about sixty years old; though like
most Arabs he does not know his age. His eyes, which are piercingly
black, twinkle merrily when he is amused; he has a good sense of
humor and a brain far superior to that of most of his caste.
He has been twice to Mecca, but this does not stop him from drinking
a glass of wine when it is offered to him. He is rich and has some
of the finest flocks in North Africa.
One night, hearing that I was at the hotel, he came up to see me
after dinner. I offered him some champagne, which he drank with
evident pleasure. After a little preliminary talk about the prospects
of sheep-breeding that year, he asked me if I would care to take
a walk with him in the village. I accepted, expecting to be taken
to a gathering of learned _muftis_, but to my surprise we wended
our way to the reserved quarters of the native dancing-girls. Our
entry into the house we sought caused, to say the least of it, a
sensation. The girls precipitated themselves towards the old man
and kissed his shoulder and his turban. Cushions were brought,
carpets and rugs, and a throne was made for him. I was accommodated
with a stool at his feet. A tray was brought with honey cakes and
milk, but the _marabout_ waved it all away.
“Bring me beer,” he commanded.
Beer was brought and we solemnly clinked glasses. Dancing-girls
from the neighboring houses appeared and kissed his turban. A few
men drifted in, but seeing who was present, discreetly disappeared.
The _marabout_ turned to me solemnly and said: “In your country
do you have dancing-girls as in North Africa?”
I shook my head.
“Neither did we before the French came. Your people have much
wisdom,” he replied. “They are Christians, are they not?”
“Yes,” I said, “but there are also Jews in my country, and
in our dominions there are Mohammedans and Hindus and Buddhists.”
The old man’s eyes fixed themselves on me.
“But are there, then, other sects than Mohammedan, Christian,
and Jew?”
“Oh yes,” I went on, and I tried to give him a rough outline
of the other faiths of the world. He listened to me in silence.
“You are very young,” he said at last, “but you have the
wisdom of a great _marabout_.”
He spoke no more, and sat fingering the coral beads from Mecca, deep
in meditation. I sat quiet, too, contemplating the amazing scene
before me. The dark blue and red carpets, the flickering candles
casting grotesque shadows on the ceiling, the flaming colors of the
girls’ dresses as they sat in a semi-circle contemplating their
noble guest, while their bracelets and anklets gleamed in the dark
corners of the room.
Suddenly the old man turned to me again.
“You have a great doctor called Voronoff, have you not?”
he asked.
“Well, he does not come from my country, but he is a European,”
I replied.
“I have studied his teaching,” went on the old man. “Can he
really rejuvenate the old?”
“For a short time I believe,” I said, “but I have really not
gone deeply into the question. Personally I do not quite see the
value of being made to live beyond our appointed time.”
The old man smiled.
“You are wise, but you are young. When you feel the weight of years
weighing on you, you will wish again to have all your vitality,
all your faculties. And yet our death is destined, and what can a
human do? _Mektoub!_”
He bowed his head and seemed again lost in meditation.
“Youth fades rapidly, and old age lasts long,” he said at last.
Then, rising, he moved toward the door.
Outside a warm breeze struck our faces, the stars seemed large and
bright in the dark heavens; over there, down the street, one could
hear the deep notes of the Arab flute drawing out its plaintive tune,
the rhythmical beat of the _tam-tam_ struck our ears.
“They play a melody of the far south,” he said. “It is
very beautiful, it is very sad. The heart of the Arab dominated
is sad. I will leave you. May Allah bless and keep you young long.
To-morrow we will visit my flocks. _Inch Allah_.”
He held out his hand, pressed mine, raised his fingers to his lips
and then placed them on his breast. He flung the white burnous over
his shoulder and disappeared into the night.
The note of the flute drifted up with the wind, and I walked back
to the hotel with a feeling of great peace of mind.