PERSIAN MEDICAL MISSIONS [2]
The need of them--Work in Isphahan--The "little devil" transformed
into a boy--Amputation--Brothers in adversity--H.R.H. Zil-es-Sultan
as a patient--Fanaticism overcome.
"What restless forms to-day are lying, bound
On sick beds, waiting till the hour come round
That brings thy foot upon the chamber stair,
Impatient, fevered, faint, till thou art there,
The one short smile of sunshine to make light
The long remembrance of another night."
H. E. Hamilton King.
"Medical Missions" need no apology or excuse. Even in the comparatively
few years that have elapsed since their commencement, they have
abundantly justified their existence, both from the missionary
standpoint, and also as philanthropic agencies. If this be true
for purely pagan lands, it applies even more accurately to work in
Mohammedan countries. Medical missionary work is, without doubt, the
golden key that unlocks the door of the heart of the most fanatical
Moslem, be he Persian, Arab, Kurd, or Yezidee (devil worshipper). I
write this deliberately, after eight years' experience in Persia,
Palestine, and Mesopotamia. But in this book it is not meant specially
to emphasise the missionary aspect of our life in these distant lands,
but more to give a slight glimpse of native life as we found it, and
the following, therefore, must be taken as notes from a doctor's diary,
covering a period of eight years' work in Persia and Mesopotamia.
The year 1900 found us at Isphahan. We were living in Julfa, the
Armenian suburb of that great city, and I had temporary charge
of the C.M.S. Medical Mission. The hospital at that period was
simply a native house that had been adapted, more or less, for the
requirements of a dispensary and hospital. There was no lack of work,
patients coming from Isphahan itself, and from all the country round
about. Soon after settling down to the routine work, a little Persian
boy was brought to me from an outlying village by his father. He was
about twelve years of age, and his face was badly disfigured from a
"hare-lip." The Persians believe that this congenital malformation is
the mark left by the foot of the Evil One, so this poor boy was known
in his village by the unenviable title "little devil," and had been a
good deal tormented by his playfellows. He was admitted to hospital,
operated upon successfully, and after some ten days' careful treatment
the dressing was finally removed, and I handed the boy a mirror that
he might look for the first time upon his "new" face. As I watched
his countenance while he regarded himself steadfastly in the glass,
I was amply repaid for the time and trouble spent, by his look of joy,
incredulity, and amazement. Tears of joy rolled down his face as he
kissed my hand, and murmured brokenly, "I am no longer a little devil,
I am no longer a little devil!" He could go back to his village now
gladly, no longer fearing to join in the games of his comrades, and I
feel sure he afterwards often posed as a hero in his little village,
as, the centre of an admiring throng, he recounted the details of
his visit, treatment, and cure at the Mission Hospital.
In all Mohammedan lands, doctors always find it extremely difficult
to persuade their patients to submit to amputation. However hopeless
a condition the injured limb may be in, many would rather die than
enter Paradise maimed. Some perhaps fancy that after death, when the
prophet Mohammed comes to conduct them over that fragile bridge that
leads to the "realm of the blest," he would indignantly repudiate
the claims of an armless or legless disciple! However that may be,
the fact remains that many a poor patient dies who might, by timely
amputation, have recovered and lived for many years. But curiously
enough, soon after our arrival in Julfa, I admitted, within a few
days of each other, two Persians suffering from diseases of the legs
necessitating amputation, and both, after much persuasion, agreed to
the operation being performed. Both were men, and had been admitted
to different wards, but as after-events proved, neither knew of the
other's presence in the hospital: both thus believed that he was
the only Mohammedan doomed to pass the rest of his life bereft of
one leg, with the possible risk of non-admittance hereafter to the
Moslem Paradise.
The two amputations were duly performed, on different days; the
amputated limbs being at once handed to the relatives for decent
interment. Both patients made good recoveries, their progress being
somewhat retarded by their continual lamentation over their irreparable
loss. In due course of time, crutches were provided, and the two men
were encouraged to practise walking with their aid. A day or two later
I was standing at the door of the operation theatre, which opened into
a corridor, with which both the men's wards communicated. Suddenly the
doors of each ward opened simultaneously, and on the threshold stood
these two men, leaning on their crutches, their faces a perfect picture
as they beheld each other. Remember that, in some curious manner,
neither had heard of the presence of the other in the hospital, and
both firmly believed that he was the only Mohammedan that had ever
submitted to the indignity of losing a limb, and lo and behold, here
was a brother in affliction! Crutches were hurled on one side, and
the two men, hopping across the corridor, excitement lending them the
needed strength, fell into each other's arms, rolling over and over
on the floor, weeping, condoling, exclaiming, while we watched the
scene, highly amused, but also feeling inclined to weep in sympathy.
The Governor of Isphahan was H.R.H. Zil-es-Sultan (Shadow of the King),
elder brother of the late Shah. In former years he had been much
more powerful, and practically ruled over Southern Persia, but his
enemies in Teheran roused the suspicions of the Shah against him. He
was summoned to the capital, and there kept a prisoner in his house,
but ultimately allowed to return to Isphahan shorn of his former power.
The Zil-es-Sultan had his own private physician, but would often call
in the English doctor either for himself or his household; in this
way I made his acquaintance, and, like most Europeans who have come in
contact with him, admired both his shrewdness and ability. He always
proved himself a good friend to the English mission, and later I got
to know much more intimately his eldest son, H.H. Jalal-el-Dowleh,
who was the able governor of Yezd, a city some three hundred miles
eastward of Isphahan.
Soon after reaching Julfa, I was sent for by the governor to
examine his eyes. I found him in a garden outside the city, which
he had just had constructed for a summer residence. He received me
cordially, and, after the business part of the interview was over,
chatted freely, telling me of all he had undergone at the hands of
other physicians. A few years before, he had become alarmed about
the state of his eyesight, and became possessed with the idea that
he was gradually going blind. He believed himself to be suffering
from a very hopeless eye disease, very prevalent in Persia, known as
"black cataract" (glaucoma), and despite the assurance to the contrary
given by Dr. Carr (the English doctor) and others, he persisted
in sending for two eye specialists, one from Paris, the other from
London. Both had thoroughly examined his sight, and had confirmed
Dr. Carr's assurances that there was no disease, but his fears had
put him to considerable expense, as both the specialists were treated
right royally. Laughingly he told me how much he had dreaded the
interview with the London specialist, and how the fateful day had
at last come. The doctor had merely lightly placed his fingers on
the eye, felt the tension, and then had smilingly assured His Royal
Highness that there was no fear of glaucoma, a subsequent careful
examination confirming this verdict. "And to think," pathetically
added the governor, "that I had spent all those thousands of pounds
for nothing!" Of course I at once suggested that to have had all his
fears of blindness so happily set at rest more than compensated for
any expense that he might have incurred, but he remained unconvinced.
During the year we remained in Isphahan I had many opportunities of
being received by the governor. He always treated me with the same
kindness, and upon our departure for Kerman, presented me with a
large signed photograph of himself.
Isphahan is a great city that has passed through many vicissitudes:
at one time it was the capital of Persia. Its population to-day is
probably about 150,000. As in all Shiah (Mohammedan) lands, the priests
(mullahs) possess great power. The Moslem archbishops are termed
"mujtiheds." In each Persian city there are generally two mujtiheds,
one official (Sheikh-es-Islam), the other elected by the people,
and the latter, as a rule, possessed the greater influence.
In 1900 the popular mujtihed was the eldest of three brothers, all
mullahs. His power was very great--too great for the taste of the
Shah, if one may credit rumour. Only a few days after our arrival,
a carriage was sent for me, from the second brother of this mujtihed,
who for many weeks had been anxiously looking forward to the arrival
of an English "hakim," as he was suffering from a troublesome disease
which might at any time develop serious symptoms. All these Isphahan
mullahs had proved themselves hostile to the presence of foreigners,
and on more than one occasion they had endeavoured, by preaching
against them in the mosques, to inflame the populace and cause a riot.
At the patient's house I was joined by another doctor (Dr. Aganoor),
who was also the English Vice-Consul, and to whom we were indebted
for many acts of kindness during our stay in Isphahan. The mullah was
really his patient, and I was called in for consultation as to the
advisability of operating. We were ushered into a large room with
a fountain playing in the centre, and there we found the patient,
supported by both his brothers, besides innumerable friends.
We sat in solemn conclave for over an hour, discussing the pros
and cons of the case, and then, having decided upon the course of
treatment, we took our departure. Some days later we were again sent
for, and found our patient in great pain, and the whole house crowded
with his innumerable friends, who had hurriedly come together at the
rumour of his approaching death.
Our patient was in a very excited state, angrily refusing the
consolation offered by his disciples and friends, and violently
shouting, "A thousand tomans (L200) to any one who can take away this
pain." Then, as he felt an extra bad twinge, "Ten thousand tomans to
any one who will cure this pain" (about L2000).
However, we soothed him, injected a little morphia, assured him
there was no immediate danger, and as the sedative commenced to work,
and the pain disappeared, with it went all thought of rewarding his
benefactors: on the contrary, he took extra trouble to explain how poor
a man he really was, and that it was due to the malice of his enemies
that rumour reputed him wealthy. However, to cut a long story short,
by means of a simple operation, and much patient care and attention
on the part of Dr. Aganoor, he ultimately made a good recovery,
and was really grateful, using his influence afterwards rather to
restrain than augment the anti-European fanaticism of his other two
brethren. Later a nephew of the chief mujtihed, himself a mullah,
actually consented to come into hospital to undergo an urgently needed
operation, and this proving successful, gained for us another staunch
friend from priestly quarters, whose friendship stood us in good
stead on another occasion which might have ended rather differently,
but for his intervention. A few months had elapsed: rumours still
reached us from the city of occasional attempts made to stir up the
fanaticism of the people against us, the chief offender being the
third and youngest brother of the mujtihed before mentioned.
One day Dr. Aganoor and I were both sent for in a great hurry. We
heard that the whole city was in an uproar, that this fanatical mullah
had been poisoned, some said "by order of the Shah," others that the
governor had asked him to a feast, and as he returned, ere reaching
home, the symptoms had started; others that the women of his "anderoon"
(quarter of the house in which no man but the husband may enter)
had given him "oil of bitter almonds" by mistake. On approaching the
house we found a crowd round the door, and the house itself packed
with disciples and friends of the great man. We were hurriedly shown
into a large hall, with marble pillars and floor, densely crowded
with a mass of human beings, all engaged in watching the last gasps of
the poor mullah, who was lying on a pile of carpets stretched on the
marble floor. We learnt to our dismay that he had been unconscious
for four hours, and apparently precautions had been taken that the
English doctors should not be called in until that amount of time
had elapsed. Before that intent, silent, fanatical crowd, we did
all that could be done to save the life of the man who had been our
bitter enemy, taking turns to perform artificial respiration, &c.,
but all in vain, for, as in my turn I worked the dying man's arms,
he took his last breath, and I whispered Dr. Aganoor that all was
over. It was getting towards midnight. Julfa was three miles distant,
and we were alone in the midst of that fanatical crowd. Well did my
colleague know that once the intimation was given that the end had
come, the scene would baffle description; the whole city would be
roused, and our lives might even be in danger; knowing these things,
he whispered me to go on performing artificial respiration while he
got ready to go. So I went on with my task, working the dead man's
arms until all was ready for our instant departure. Then reverently
folding his hands on his breast, I drew over his face the coverlet,
as an intimation that all was over. I never again wish to hear such
a yell as then arose from the throats of that great throng. Doors
were flung open, the mob from without rushed into the room,
women poured in belonging to the dead man's household, shrieking,
wailing, tearing their clothes and hair. Some of them made a wild
rush at us as they passed, and it really looked a bit serious,
for already amidst the uproar we could detect occasional cries of
"The Feringhis have poisoned him." To my relief, amidst the excited
throng I noticed the face of my old friend the mujtihed's nephew,
who had been an in-patient in the hospital, and when he noticed that
I had observed him, he beckoned us to follow him. We obeyed gladly,
and he led us away by a private passage, which finally emerged into
a public square a long distance from the dead man's house. There our
good Samaritan left us, promising to send us our horses and servants,
whom we had left waiting outside the patient's house. As we waited
for them to come, we could hear the sound of cries from all parts
of the city, followed by wailing of women, and the scurrying of many
feet, as all flocked to the quarter where the holy man's body lay. At
last our servants and animals arrived, and we made haste to escape,
reaching home after midnight, thankful to God for preserving us from
what might have proved a very dangerous position. Next day we heard
that the whole city had gone into mourning; all the bazaars were shut,
and the shops draped with black, and this mourning was kept up five
whole days. Rumours were persistently circulated that the English
doctors had poisoned the mullah, but no one really believed it, and
I was able to attend the city dispensary as usual, even during the
funeral ceremonies, and patients rather increased than diminished,
some of the dead man's relatives even coming for treatment.
So ended priestly opposition; the chief mujtihed himself was frightened
at the mode of his brother's death, and kept very quiet, for fear,
perhaps, that a similar accident might happen to him. His surviving
brother and relatives were now quite friendly, and a few years later
Dr. Carr was able to obtain ground and build an excellent hospital
in Isphahan itself, welcomed alike by officials and priests. There is
also an excellent Women's Hospital (C.M.S.), in charge of Dr. Emmeline
Stuart, who has for many years given her life to work amongst Moslem
women, and whose name is held dear by many a poor Persian village
woman, who has found relief and loving care at her hands, and those
of her staff.