they were put, one each, on the backs of two other asses; the distance is
about ten miles. At Sharkeh we met old friends and were glad that even
after a previous visit we were welcomed. An Arab merchant showed us much
kindness and offered us a shop with a prophet’s chamber above it for
rent. Since this visit our missionaries often come here. From Sharkeh we
crossed over to Lingah, and thence back to Bahrein by the mail steamer,
but Elias went on visiting Ajman and the villages beyond all the way to
Ras-el-Jebel, which means “the top of the mountain.” The Arabic version
of the seventy-second Psalm gives the promise in this way: “There shall
be an handful of corn in the earth on Ras-el-Jebel; the fruit thereof
shall shake like Lebanon.”
XIII
ACROSS THE DESERT OF OMAN
Oman is a little peninsula that sticks out eastward from the big
peninsula of Arabia, and it might almost be called an island. On three
sides are the waters of the Indian Ocean and the Persian Gulf, and on the
west is the great sea of sand which the Arabs call the “empty abode,”
and which has never been crossed by any traveller as far as we know. The
Arabs themselves are afraid to venture beyond the limits of the oases
that touch its borders, and on all the maps of Arabia this desert is
marked “blank and unexplored.” Because the people of Oman for centuries
past lived on such an island with the sea on one side and the desert on
the other, they are quite distinct from the other Arabs. The language
they speak has a peculiar accent, and their religion, although they are
Mohammedans, is in many respects different from that of the other parts
of Arabia.
I want to tell you of two journeys taken across this province. Many
others have been made since, and our medical missionaries can now visit
all the villages in the mountains back of the coast. On May 9, 1900, a
colporteur and I put our two chests of books and medicines on board a
small sailing-boat, and at four o’clock the wind was favourable to leave
Bahrein harbour. We intended to visit the pirate coast, and thence, if
the way proved open, to cross the horn of Oman to Muscat, overland.
The captain and crew of our boat were all strict Moslems, and made no
secret of the fact that formerly they were slave-traders. Crossing by
zigzag lines to the Persian coast to avoid shoals and catch the wind,
we reached Bistana and then sailed across the Gulf direct for Sharkeh.
Half-way across is the little island of Abu Musa, with a small Arab
population, but splendid pasturage, good milk and water. The chief export
is red oxide, of which there are two hills with a boundless supply.
Steamers occasionally call here for this cheap, marketable ballast; we
left our witness in the shape of Arabic Gospels.
On May 14th we reached Sharkeh, the chief town on the pirate coast.
Formerly this entire region was noted for the savage ferocity of its
inhabitants. Thanks to English commerce and gunboats, these fanatic
people have become tamed; most of them have given up piracy and turned to
pearl-diving for a livelihood; their black tents and rude rock dwellings
are making room for the three or four important towns of Sharkeh, Debai,
Abu Thabi, and Ras el Kheima. We found the Arabs rather hospitable, and
quite willing to hear our message. The mat-hut, set apart for our use, we
for seven days made dispensary and reception-room. Here over two hundred
Arabs came to get medicines, buy books, or discuss the reason of our
errand. Many were the quiet talks during those days with all sorts and
conditions of Arabs. There was often no rest until long after sunset; and
no sooner had the muezzin called to daylight prayer than the visitors
began to walk in again. They were a pleasant lot of people, and more
sociable than the Arabs of Yemen, while less dignified than those from
Nejd.
We heard on every side that travelling in the interior of Oman was safe,
so, after bargaining with camel-drivers, we secured two companions
and five camels to take us to Sohar for the sum of twenty _rials_ or
Arabian dollars. At 9 P. M. on May 20th we left, and after a short rest
at midnight to water the camels, marched until nine o’clock the next
day. By going as much as possible by starlight to avoid the heat, and
resting during the day under some scraggy acacia tree or in the shadow
of a Bedouin fort, we completed the distance of ninety odd miles in a
little over four days. A large part of the way we took was desert, with
no villages or even nomad booths; the more usual route by Wady Hom being
a little unsafe, we followed Wady Hitta.
[Illustration: Prayer in the desert]
Sometimes our caravan would pass a camel’s skeleton bleached by the
torrid sun. When a camel grows footsore or breaks down, there is no
alternative: the poor beast is left to die in the wilderness. The second
day we passed villages and cultivated fields; that night we spread our
blankets on the soft sand, surrounded by thousands of sheep and goats,
driven in by Bedouin lasses from their mountain pastures. Even among
these shepherds we found readers, and the colporteur sold books wherever
the camels halted long enough to strike a bargain. It was late on
Wednesday, May 23d, that we entered the narrow pass of Hitta. Our guides
preceded, mounted, but with rifles loaded and cocked; then followed
the baggage camel, to which mine was “towed,” and in similar fashion
my companion on the milch camel followed by its two colts. We were not
troubled with the heat at night, but during the day it was intense, and
it was refreshing to come to an oasis (common in this part of Oman)
where water burst from a big spring, and trees and flowers grew in
luxury. In the mountainous parts of Oman the roads run almost invariably
along sandy watercourses or deep, rocky ravines. Tamarisks, oleanders,
euphorbias, and acacias are the most common trees and shrubs. Where the
country appears almost barren, we were surprised to find a considerable
population of shepherds and goatherds. Their dwellings are mere oval
shanties constructed of boulders or rocks. In the fertile valleys the
population always centres in villages, and scarcely ever is a dwelling
found at any distance from this common centre.
Just at the top of the pass of Hitta is the village ’Ajeeb rightly named
“wonderful.” The view down the mountains over the fertile stretch of
coast called the Batinah and out over the boundless Indian Ocean was
grand. We descended to the sea, and the turbulent mountain stream, so
cold to our bare feet as we waded it in the early dawn, dwindled to a
brook, and at last ebbed away along the beach a tiny stream of fresh
water. These perennial streams are the secret of a coast fertile for
nearly a hundred and fifty miles.
At Shinas, on the sea, we spent a hot day. The mosque was our pulpit
and salesroom. One graybeard took us to his hut after noonday prayer to
offer us simple hospitality. He spoke with fervour of my brother, Peter
J. Zwemer, who came to his village three years previous. From Shinas our
camels took us to Sohar. At the large village of El Wa we were unable
to stop, as the camel-men were afraid of smallpox, which was prevalent
there. Every one we passed on the way was friendly to a remarkable
degree. The women brought fresh milk and fruit to us ere we dismounted,
and the boys, instead of mocking the strange foreigners, _salaamed_,
delighted to hear that in spite of our appearance we spoke Arabic.
Not one copper did we spend for food and lodging; it is the land of
large-hearted hospitality. To help a sick child or give quinine to some
ague-tormented Arab was to them a large return for their kindness to a
“son-of-the-road.”
My second journey across the northern horn of Oman was made in May, 1901,
with the same travelling companion; and sailing from Bahrein to Abu Thabi
we went straight east to the coast of Oman and then along its shores all
the way to Muscat by camel. It was the longest camel journey that ever I
made, and when I reached Muscat I was convinced that the camel is not
only the ship, but the hardship of the desert.
[Illustration: “_The Missionary Review of the World_” Map of Oman]
The town of Abu Thabi from which we started is situated on a sort of
island formed by the back-water of its harbour. A chasm about two hundred
yards wide, and even at low water, four or five feet deep protects the
town against desert invasion, and a fort has been built close to this
water barrier. After our camels had waded through the water breast deep
and nearly soaked our luggage, we began the desert journey. For three
hours the road was as level as a table and equally barren; then we
passed some outcropping rocks called the devil’s castle. All that day
and the next we rode through sandy deserts with scarcely any vegetation,
resting at noon under the shade of a blanket roped over our two boxes.
It was hot indeed, and the water in our water skins had taken on a bad
taste after the long and jerky ride. We had dates and made some soup from
condensed vegetables, but the Bedouins of our party caught big lizards
and made a boiled mess of them, with rice. They were displeased that we
did not share their meal.
On Sunday we arrived at an Arab encampment and rested. They made a feast
for us of fresh milk, and at night killed a fat kid, and made cakes baked
on hot ashes. At nine o’clock that night we left our Bedouin friends, and
rode on until past midnight, always due east by the stars. It was very
cold at night in the desert. These extremes of temperature are trying,
but not unhealthy. The following day we came across a poor nomad girl who
was lost in the desert and nearly dying of thirst. She had been seeking
for a strayed camel, and had then missed all traces of the road herself.
For two days she had been alone in the desert, and had almost given up
hope. Our guide gave her some water and dates and showed her the nearest
way to the encampment. All this stretch of country as far as Bereimy is a
wide wilderness of sand for miles and miles in every direction; not level
sand, but sand in big folds and billows a hundred feet high, that change
with every storm.
It was a delightful change to reach the oasis of Bereimy with its seven
villages, joined by streams of fresh water, and date plantations, as
well as high mango trees and gardens of vegetables. Beyond this oasis
the mountain road passed numerous villages to Obri and Dank. We took the
shorter road through Wady-el-Jazi, direct to Sohar. The Arabs in this
part of the world are perpetually at war with each other. Everybody gets
up armed and goes to bed with a rifle by his side. Even little boys carry
a dagger in their belts, and old men will part with anything rather than
their shotguns. We met with no mishap by the way, however, and reached
Sohar safely, but we did not go to Muscat by sea because there was no
wind. Instead we encouraged each other to stick to our rough camel
saddles for four days more, which made the entire distance from Abu Thabi
to Muscat nearly three hundred miles.
The whole country is most interesting. In spite of continual warfare, the
peasants seem to find time to cultivate every fertile spot, and raise
all sorts of crops. We saw barley, wheat, sesame, vegetables and even
tobacco. In one village we rested on the wide threshing floor where the
old-fashioned instrument with sharp teeth, of which the Bible speaks,
lay idle. The Oman plow is much better than those in North Arabia. There
they plow with a crooked stick, whose sharp prong is strong enough to
break up the sandy loam, but in this mountain region the peasants make a
real coulter of iron and fit it to a heavy frame, braced to an upright
handle of three bars set at right angles. The dress of the men and women
is quite distinct from that in other parts of Arabia, and their houses
are built like castles. Nearly every well is protected by a fort, and
villages only a mile or two apart often carry on war with each other
for many, many years. This is the chief obstacle to travel in the hill
country of Oman.
Before you forget our journey across this part of Arabia, I want you to
think of an Arab praying in the desert. One of the names the Arabs give
to the desert is the “Garden of Allah,” because they say there is nothing
but God; no other life, or sound or scene to distract one’s attention;
only the great blue vault above, without a cloud, and the wide stretch of
sand and rock all around the horizon. No wonder that the desert has been
God’s training school for many of His prophets and teachers. Think of
Moses, and Elijah and Paul and Christ.
XIV
JAIL-BIRDS
Did you ever hear of missionaries who were jail-birds? Well, that has
been my experience. This is how it was.
The day after Christmas about ten years ago it was decided that we
make a tour to the mainland of Arabia from the island of Bahrein, our
station. The picnic basket was packed with fresh bread and canned meats
and good things, and we also took along extra clothing, a box of books
and some medicines for the people. Our Arab servant had a hard time of
it to secure a boat that would take us over because the people were
still suspicious of Christians and were not at all anxious to have them
begin work in new places. After a boat had been secured whose captain
was willing for a good consideration to allow Christians to travel with
him we still waited. When one travels by native boat in Arabia there is
always delay; it may be a couple of hours or it may be a few days. Time
and tide and the Arab temper are equally unreliable in the Persian Gulf.
It is no use fussing and getting impatient. That only makes the Arab more
immovable.
At four o’clock a small boat came as close to the shore as the water
would allow, and then we rode out on donkeys through the surf to the
tossing boat, and in this small “jolly-boat” we were taken to the native
ship where we settled on the poop-deck with all our belongings. The deck
of this little sailing craft did not measure more than six feet by four,
and so we had to sit close or we would fall overboard. The man at the
tiller can manage on three or four square inches of room, and his bare
toes cling to the edge of the boat just like a monkey on the bough of a
tree. The sail was hoisted and away we went for about three hours. Then
the wind dropped and we were becalmed almost in sight of shore until
the next morning. After prayers at daybreak the sail was again hoisted,
and the awkward paddle oars which the Arabs use were taken out to help
increase the speed. Finally, after a severe struggle we arrived at our
destination.
The pretty little town of Darain stood out clearly in the bright
sunlight, and we were glad that at last we were to reach the mainland
of Arabia. I was the first Christian woman that had ever landed on this
part of the coast. There was a ride through the shallow water of about a
quarter of a mile, and our Arab host was kind enough to send out a choice
of vehicles for my use,—a chair, a horse and a donkey. I chose the donkey
as the safest and mounted and splashed through the surf to the land. The
rest of our party followed. We were then conducted to the guest chamber
in the tower,—a large airy room with about twenty window frames and no
windows, only shutters; so that when the wind blew the dust from the
desert, the wooden shutters were fastened, and the light and air had to
be shut out also. Our host was very cordial and laid no special restraint
upon us, although he too was suspicious that we had come to begin
missionary work in earnest in his village,—a thing which he would not
allow. He treated us royally and with genuine Arab hospitality, but yet
his suspicion was evident because he kept us away from another guest of
his, the Turkish governor of Katif, as he did not wish him to know that
he had friends among the Christians. After three days of entertainment
we went on board our boat again on the way to Katif. We landed there in
a few hours but found ourselves in a real “hornet’s nest.” Our very best
and most winning smiles could not melt the harshness of the custom-house
officials. They said our passports were not properly made out, and the
motion was soon made and carried that we should be returned whence we
came at once.
Fortunately, there was no boat ready to take us back, and it was not
our intention to be turned back without at least attempting to dispose
of some of the Gospels which we had brought with us and to win the
confidence of some of the people. We were not despondent because even in
this inhospitable place there was a man who was anxious to receive us and
who invited us to come and stay at his home. We were so happy for a few
brief hours. The man’s wife prepared a guest meal and received us very
courteously. They gave us a well-furnished room and we were delighted
to see that this Moslem was already a Bible reader, for in one of the
alcoves of the room was a well-thumbed New Testament.
But no sooner did we begin to unpack our things than a gruff voice
from below called for us to come down immediately and bring all our
belongings. A lank-looking individual, who said he was a police agent,
compelled us to follow him, and so we went through narrow, dirty alleys
and smelling streets, and were finally conducted into the courtyard of
a large tumble-down house, the steps all crumbling and indescribably
filthy. After struggling up the steep, irregular stairway, we were shown
into a small room in a part of the house quite by itself, which opened
out on to a small roof. It had no windows and only one dingy door.
[Illustration: Bedouin Women and their Children]
A smoky lamp without a chimney was brought in which lit up the darkness
but also showed the dirt. Many generations of men and insects had lived
there, and marked up every space on the walls. When we protested and said
we preferred to stay elsewhere, we were told to remain; that we were
prisoners, and that we were not permitted to go to any other place. While
my husband was led off to the governor by himself I waited. It took him
over an hour to try to persuade the great official to allow us liberty,
but it was all to no purpose. We must remain in these lodgings which he
had provided. There were soldiers on each landing, he told us, and they
were warned to protect us and not to let us pass out. So we settled down
to the inevitable. The kind Arab from Darain was also in Katif, and
later on in the evening he brought the jail-birds some quilts and rags
to make them a little more comfortable. We did our best to rest, but it
was almost impossible, and we were glad to see the first streak of dawn.
Determined not to stay in the house any longer, we prepared a meal from
our lunch basket, packed our few belongings and started to find our way
to the street. The ragged individuals called soldiers murmured as we
passed but did not stop us and we were out in the road and some distance
from the governor’s house when our servant whom we had not seen until now
came after us and said we must not go; that the governor wanted us and
wanted us at once.
I began to protest, but was finally persuaded to return and to my
great surprise was conducted into a room gorgeously furnished where a
nice-looking meal was being set on a small table. The governor arose
and received us very politely, inquiring after our health and comfort.
We swallowed our wrath and told him in the best Arabic possible that we
were quite well and hoped his lordship was also. He then invited us to
breakfast and would not accept a refusal. We wondered what would happen
next. After we had explained our errand and stated our desire to sell
books to the people and talk to them about religion, he said he would
permit us to stay with the custom-house officer, but that we must not
distribute or sell a single book and that a soldier must go with us
wherever we went. It was his belief that the people might do us harm
unless we were well guarded, and that as they had never before seen
Christians it was entirely unsafe for us to distribute books or sell
them among Mohammedans as fanatical as those in this part of Arabia.
Thanking him for his kindness and accepting his apologies for keeping us
as jail-birds during the night, we left his rooms and started walking
through the streets. A soldier guard followed us, but when we refused
to pay them for their service as guards and guides, they turned their
backs and went away. And so in this land of misrule and intolerance, this
uttermost province of the Turkish Empire, we were once more free.
XV
THE ACORN SCHOOL
To the American schoolboy a Moslem school and school-books would appear
the dullest things possible. Yet the Arab boys do enjoy school for there
is always something to distract the attention, especially if the teacher
is a shopkeeper. While a customer bargains, or the water carrier passes,
or the coffee-house man brings the daily “cup of cheer,” or, in the case
of a woman teacher, callers come, all eyes and ears are open not towards
the lesson but the conversation and the sights.
The earliest and _only_ text-book is the Koran or portions of it cheaply
lithographed on common paper. There are no pictures in their primers, for
a Moslem tradition says that Mohammed cursed all who would paint or draw
men and animals. There is neither singing nor prayer when school opens.
Mohammed said, “Singing or hearing songs causeth hypocrisy to grow in the
heart even as rain causeth corn to grow in the field.” The school has no
special building, but may be in the corner of a mosque or in the yard
of the teacher; or part of his shop (if he is a merchant) will form the
schoolhouse. There is no furniture except mats and folding bookstands.
These look like tiny sawbucks. The schoolmaster sits amongst his boys
on the floor, and they all drone out their lessons together. There are
no grades, neither is there order in the schoolroom. One lad may be at
the alphabet; another one as far as counting numbers; a third child may
be spelling out the first chapter of the Koran, while others are reading
from the middle of the book at the top of their voices. The education of
a boy should begin at the age of four years, four months and four days.
On that day he is taught to say the Bismillah, or opening chapter of the
Koran. Soon after that he may be sent to one of the day-schools to learn
the alphabet.
When a boy has finished the reading of the whole of the Koran for the
first time and has learned the rudiments of writing, he graduates from
the primary school. On this occasion he has a rare holiday. Dressed in
fine clothes, perhaps mounted on horseback, he visits the neighbours,
receives gifts and sweetmeats and brings a handsome present to his tutor.
If he does not intend to become a doctor of divinity or of herbs, this
is the end of his school-days, and the lad is put to learning a trade or
helping his parents.
[Illustration: A Meccan Boy]
As to moral training, tradition commands pious Moslems to teach the
boy of seven to say his five daily prayers; at the age of ten, if he
omits them they are to admonish him by blows. Boys are taught early
the proprieties of conversation and behaviour according to Oriental
etiquette. They are also taught the ceremonial washings and the correct
postures for devotions. But purity of conversation and truth are seldom
taught by precept, and never by example.
Writing is taught on a wooden slate or in copy-books made by the
teachers. Slates and slate pencils are practically unknown, and the
youngest child begins with a reed pen and ink. Caligraphy is not only a
science, but the chief fine art in that part of the world which abhors
painting, statuary and music. To write a beautiful Arabic hand is the
height of youthful scholarly ambition.
A country that has only such schools cannot progress; and so the
missionaries open schools with a broader course of study and with better
training for the mind and heart.