Algeria and Tunis :: CHAPTER XIII THE SACRED CITY

CHAPTER XIII THE SACRED CITY

Seven visits to the sacred city of Kairouan are equivalent for the devout Mussulman to one pilgrimage to Mecca. A pleasant alternative for those who wish to gain a high degree of sanctity at a small cost, for since the railway simplified the journey there are neither terrors nor difficulties to overcome.

Picturesque hill towns are passed on the way, and also the first of the chain of Chotts, or shallow salt lakes, almost or quite dry in summer, strange reminders of the time when the Mediterranean penetrated the desert as far as Biskra. Plans have often been proposed for letting in the water again from the Gulf of GabÈs to the Ziban. But though in some ways this might bring added prosperity, in others the change of climate would probably spell ruin. The date harvest at Gafsa and GabÈs would be spoilt, and most likely that of Biskra and Tougourt as well.

The Tunisian oases vie with, if they do not surpass, those of Algeria, but they are little visited, partly because it is not the fashion, but much more in consequence of the discomforts to be faced, as travellers are mostly dependent on their own resources, a native fonduk, or the kindness of some French officer. The fonduks by all accounts are intolerably dirty, and sleep has to be snatched during a lull in the noisy talk, in the corner of a crowded space, with a portmanteau for a pillow, the mud floor and a rug by way of bed. No food or refreshment are offered except coffee. The inns when they exist give rise to pathetic tales of food and dirt. Birds apparently made of india-rubber, quite black and utterly impervious to the blunt knives, pose as chicken, the eggs are of untold age, and the bread sour. Cous-couss is the best thing; it is not at all a bad variety of stew when well made, rather like curry, but laid on a bed of semolina instead of rice, with a very hot, piquant sauce. The number of ingredients is always rather mysterious, and when ill-made it is horribly greasy.

These various drawbacks make even the excursion to the fine Roman ruins of Sbeitla too uncomfortable without a camp, as it is a two days’ ride from Kairouan. The road is supposed to be fit for carriages, but owing to the badness of the track, a strong country cart cannot stand the strain, and is always coming to grief, or losing a wheel at critical moments, so that a rider finds he has chosen the better part. Then it is rather a shock to be told on the return journey, with many miles yet to travel and darkness coming on apace, that no Frenchman considers this district safe without a revolver loaded and ready to hand.

Altogether it is decidedly annoying as well as disappointing, because drawings and photographs of curious places and buildings make the longing for adventure in the wilder regions so strong as to be almost unbearable. There are houses at Tozeur with decorative faÇades, built with raised designs in projecting sun-dried brick. At Matmata and DouÏrat the Troglodytes dwell in rock-hewn cells, forming hill cities cut out of, not built on, castellated crags, whilst at MedÉnine the houses are built one above the other, five stories high, with doors that serve as windows. Most of these houses are reached by climbing up on jutting stones built into the wall, which, even with the assistance of a cord, needs a steady head, though a few have the luxury of an outside staircase.

There is great consolation in the thought that until quite lately Kairouan itself was almost a sealed book, for travellers could only see it when provided with an escort and a special permission, and these were not sufficient to admit them to the mosques, or to protect them from insult or stones in the streets, so that little joy came from a visit even so late as 1888.

Now the nervous need have no misgivings, as the train crawls like a snail over the barren waste, redeemed from desolation by the flowers, more glorious than ever in contrast with the monotonous brown-hued desert framed by distant mountains.

The old walls that encircle Kairouan, with their tones of dusty brown, blend with the plain they rise from, and would be invisible at a little distance were it not for the white minarets and domes within their bounds, which stand out clear-cut as a cameo against the blue of the sky, the purple of the hills, and the faded tints of the soil.

Tradition says that in the year fifty-five of the Hegira (675 A.D.) this was a vast forest, almost impenetrable, and full of wild and terrible beasts of prey and still more alarming serpents, huge and poisonous. Hither, surrounded by his conquering host, came the warrior-saint, Sidi Okba. Here he planted his lance in the ground, saying, “This is your ‘Kairwan’” (caravan, or resting-place). After which he caused fifteen chosen men, the companions of the Prophet who were with the army, to come together for prayer. Then advancing he called out, “Serpents and savage beasts we are the companions of the blessed Prophet; retire! for we intend to dwell here.” At the sound of his inspired voice they fled in a body with their young, and took refuge in the wilderness, whilst the woods that had been their home vanished also. Moreover, it is said that this miracle so astounded the Berbers who dwelt in that land, that they were one and all converted at once, and further it is alleged that it is for this reason that the holy city continues to stand in the midst of a desert unto this day.

Mohammed is said to have taught that there are in this world three gardens of Paradise, four cities, and four oratories. The three gardens include Mecca and Jerusalem, whilst Kairouan is the best known of the oratories or gates of heaven.

LA GRANDE RUE, KAIROUAN

Kairouan has evidently no doubt about its own sanctity, and tries to live up to its reputation, for it is most serious, full to overflowing with mosques and ZaouÏas, or tomb-mosques, which are often both oratories and schools.

An air of austerity seems part of the religious character of this place, as yet untouched by the stir and onward rush of modern life. The easy ways of Tunis, the smooth, smiling faces of the Moorish dandy, the wealth of harmonious colour, are not found here. The men are of a grave, stern race, not given to bright garments, but content, as a rule, with white, or tones of brown. A woman is a rare apparition in the streets, and her closely shrouded form in its sombre black reminds one of a misericordia brother in Tuscany,—though she, poor thing, scurries away as if in search of a hiding-place instead of boldly begging an alms.

The main street, or Zankat Touila, runs from the Bab Djelladin to the Porte de Tunis. Though unusually wide and nearly straight it has a charm of line that makes the irregular grouping of minarets, mosques, and domes, set as they are amidst a tangle of booths, shops, and balconies, into a bewildering succession of ready-made pictures. Both minarets and domes are as white as white can be, like those of any and every city in Tunisia, nevertheless Kairouan, whitewashed as it may be with the same brush, has a few little peculiarities to distinguish it from its fellows. Some of the minarets, for instance, severe to plainness in their construction, have for their sole decoration an inscription in projecting bricks, carried round all four sides, setting forth the creed of the Mohammedans. “There is no God but God; Mohammed is the messenger of God.” Many of the domes, again, differ from those in other places by being fluted, which not only gives variety to the surface, but also a peculiarly graceful curve.

The well-house of El Barota stands in this street; outside it resembles a marabout, but instead of the tomb within there is the sacred well, the only well in Kairouan. The water is brackish in taste, and was discovered after the orthodox legendary method in time of need, by a greyhound scratching up the soil. To add to its sanctity it is said to be in touch in some mysterious way with the still more sacred well of Zemzem at Mecca. This underground communication is in such perfect working order that a pilgrim who lost his drinking-vessel by dropping it into the fountain at Mecca, found it again, on his return to his native city, in the waters of El Barota.

The entrance to the bazaars is through a gateway decorated with black lines, whilst black and white are used alternately round the horse-shoe arch. Inside the bazaar is simple—a whitewashed tunnel, dimly lighted from above, with the usual square, cavernous recesses. Shoemakers, coppersmiths, and tailors are to be found, the latter have already succumbed to the fascinations of a sewing-machine—one of the first signs that the thin end of the wedge of so-called improvement is being driven in. Most of the shops, however, are given up to carpets, the well-known industry of the place. Here, though there is some dread of the coming of aniline dyes and other European enormities, the work is still carried on, as it always has been in hundreds of homes, principally by the women and children. The designs and methods are matters of tradition, vary in different families, and are handed down like heirlooms from generation to generation.

CARPET-MAKING

It is purely a home industry; there is nothing of the factory or workshop about it as yet. The loom, large as it is, with its heavy beams and many cords, takes a good deal of space in the characteristic narrow room, yet it is set up in the guest-chamber opening out of the quiet court. It is placed as near the door as may be, for the sake of light and air, the windows being small and of little account. It casts a dark shadow over the divan in the alcove, which in Kairouan is often of wood elaborately turned or carved, gilt and painted in brilliant colours. The mother sits and works steadily; the babies play with her skeins and balls of wool; the husband dozes or meditates; other women come and chat, and prepare vegetables, though the cooking is done in another room on the other side of the courtyard. All the time the threads are being deftly tied and knotted, clipped with big scissors, and beaten down at intervals with much energy and a heavy iron comb, shaped like a hoe. The carpet grows visibly in a rather mysterious way, as often there is no pattern to be seen, the worker apparently evolving the design out of her inner consciousness, which accounts for the delightful irregularity and vagaries of hand-made rugs.

The maze of the narrow streets is more puzzling than usual; there is a mean and squalid look, a hopeless sameness about them that makes threading one’s way difficult at first. The great Mosque has to be sought carefully, although from outside the town it is the most conspicuous object. Massive walls, huge buttresses, and towers with fluted domes, protect the inner court, which is entered by gateways under the towers. Vastness and simplicity as befits its name are the keynotes of the building, the slight efforts at decoration lost in the blinding whiteness that is almost unbearable in those hours when the noonday sun beats down upon the city.

Sidi Okba is said to have traced out the foundation of the mosque himself, which he called the Mosque of Olives, and on this ground, already held sacred, he caused prayers to be celebrated before the work of building was even begun. The great difficulty was to find the true position of the Mihrab, the niche which indicates the direction of Mecca. In all other mosques the Imaum who leads the prayers turns slightly to one side or the other of this Mecca niche, to show that the direction is not absolutely correct. Here, however, he stands perfectly straight, because the Mihrab was miraculously revealed to Sidi Okba in this wise. Wearied out by long prayer he fell asleep, and in his dreams an angel appeared unto him saying: “Thou favourite of the Ruler of the Universe, thy prayer is heard. Behold, when day dawns, thou shalt take thy standard and bear it upon thy shoulder, then shalt thou hear a voice crying before thee Allah Akbar (‘God is great’). No ear but thine will hear this voice. Follow, and where the cry ceases, in that place shalt thou build the Mihrab.”

MOSQUE OF SIDI OKBA, KAIROUAN

At daybreak Sidi Okba heard a cry, and when he demanded of his companions whether they heard ought, they answered, “Nothing.” “It is the command of God, the All Powerful,” he said, and raising the standard he followed the voice till the cry ceased. Immediately he planted the standard, saying, “Here is our Mihrab.”

The minaret stands at one end of an immense courtyard, partly paved with Roman tombstones and surrounded by a double cloister. Underneath the court is a vast cistern to hold a reserve of water. At the opposite end, under a fine colonnade, in which Roman columns are found as usual, are the nine great doors of the mosque. These doors are of good old Moorish design, worn with age and softened in colour, but still truly magnificent.

The sudden change from the glare outside to the darkness within transforms the mosque into a forest, mysterious and vast, glowing with rich colour beneath the gloom. And indeed it is a forest of stone, for there are seventeen naves and who knows how many columns. The columns are antique and of fine marbles, onyx, and porphyry, rubbed by the shoulders of the Faithful till they shine. The capitals are also spoils from other buildings, Roman or Byzantine, and one there is of a design so unusual as to be considered unique in its treatment of plant form. Matting is swathed round the base of the columns and covers the floor with its cool cleanliness. The great horse-shoe arches are whitewashed, the roof is rather plain, with heavy beams like a network between the columns. In the central nave hang some wonderful old lustres, with myriads of tiny lamps.

Before the Mihrab is the one incongruous and tawdry decoration—a crystal chandelier, but the darkness happily hides it, and prevents its interfering with the general impression of stately simplicity.

The Mihrab, with its inlaid work and tiles, its coloured marbles, graceful columns, and finely cut capitals, is worthy of the shrine, and shares the admiration of the pilgrims with an exquisitely carved Mimbar, or pulpit, polished and worn with age, which is said to be made of wood brought from Baghdad on purpose.

Most of the pilgrims strive to squeeze themselves between two closely wedded columns standing near by, because, so the old Sheikh said, “those who can pass through this narrow portal will also be able to enter Paradise.” Besides this appeal to the future, there is the less romantic inducement that the passage of the pillars is a certain cure for rheumatism. Whichever reason prevails, no one minds taking off cloaks and burnouses and then trying hard to wriggle through. It is a less difficult feat to accomplish than the trial of truth between two similar pillars in the mosque of ’Amr at Cairo.

A few years ago, strangers of an alien faith had to content themselves with a bare glance at the outside of this famous mosque as they rode past. Now a solitary Christian, having duly deposited a pair of European shoes amongst the Oriental slippers at the door, may enter boldly, rest and dream the day away, tranquil and alone, without let or hindrance. No rude word will be spoken, nor will angry looks trouble or annoy. Nothing will disturb the quiet, for the pilgrims wander softly to and fro, making no sound on the matted floor with their slipperless feet. Now and again the voice of a reader echoes through the silence of this house of prayer, and occasionally a man, bent on asking questions and trying to pick up a few words of useful French, will take his place on the matting beside the stranger, or, if sketching is going on, a small boy will come and kneel for hours absorbed in wonder, watching each movement of the brush, his eager face almost resting on the paper. Yet perhaps this boy’s own father was one of those who indulged in throwing stones at the Roumis less than twenty years ago.

These peaceful ways are the direct result of war. The Sacred City alone resented the coming of the French sufficiently to resist in arms, and therefore alone pays the penalty of its daring in being forced to throw open the mosques and holy places to the tread of the Infidel.

The upper gallery of the minaret commands a wide view over a scene curious enough to attract those already accustomed to Eastern cities. The houses are more like cubes than ever, and lie so close together that their flat roofs seem to form one continuous terrace, broken only by domes and minarets. Every house is square, with a central court. The court and the house-tops are the women’s domain; etiquette does not permit a man to enjoy the air on his own roof, but if business calls him there, he must send warnings to his neighbours, so that their womenfolk may withdraw from courts and terraces and seek refuge indoors.

Quaint and characteristic as the outlook from the minaret undeniably is, yet there is no doubt that its own picturesque outline adds much to the charm of the view from other housetops. The sturdy tower with its warm tones has a look of strength that matches the equally massive walls of the city, and suggests a watch-tower crowned by the white galleries of a minaret.

All round the city walls, towers and battlements dating from the fifteenth century draw a strong dividing line between the white houses and the sandy waste, still dreary, desolate, and treeless as in the time of Okba.

The breach made by the French in 1881 is still left, partly as a warning, and partly because it is now used instead of the old Tunis gate on account of its greater width, and also to avoid an awkward turn; for, like many Moorish gateways, there is a double turn in the thickness of the wall, to assist in keeping out the foe. With this exception, the walls and gates are perfect as in the days of old: perfect not only in preservation but in form. But of all the gates none is so fine as this same Porte de Tunis with its double arch. Both faÇades are remarkable for the skill shown in the use of black and white marble as decoration. Deep shadow throws a mysterious gloom over the interior of the gate, now a picturesque Souk with an arched roof, beneath which many merchants spread out their wares.

MOORISH GATEWAY, KAIROUAN

Outside the gate, more stalls and booths nestle against the walls, and the large open space beyond is crowded with all the bustle and confusion of a market. Men come and go, or gather in wide circles round the snake charmers and story-tellers. Horses and donkeys furtively steal a meal from the piles of grain and fodder. Camels snarl and growl whilst men pack burdens on their unwilling backs, as the caravans prepare to start on their journey. Other camels hop about on three legs, the fourth being doubled back and bound up in what looks a cruel fashion, but which the Arabs declare to be quite comfortable, and the only effective way to prevent their straying.

Beyond the market, again, are some curious reservoirs, called the Bassins des Aghlabites, which receive water from the Oued Merguelli in time of flood; they were probably constructed by Ziad el Allah, who restored the great Mosque.

Still further on, amongst hedges of prickly pears, or figues de Barbarie, rises the mosque of Sidi Sahab, the barber, the rival to the mosque of Sidi Okba, both as regards sanctity and beauty.

A square minaret slightly decorated with coloured tiles is surrounded by an apparently uninteresting pile of white buildings and a dome, but these walls conceal a series of halls and cloistered courts, full of exquisite Moorish work worthy of the Alhambra, though, alas! like the Alhambra they have suffered somewhat at the hands of the restorer, with his distressing want of taste in colour.

Roman columns support the arches in the quiet courts, the floors are paved with marble, tiles of rich design line the walls, the light filters through coloured glass, set jewel-like in tiny windows, and the stucco work adds to the whole effect a touch of light and grace.

The tomb-mosque itself is a domed building of no great size, where behind an open-work screen lies the sarcophagus in which reposes the body of Abou Zemaa el Beloui, the companion and, as some suppose, the barber of the Prophet. Carpets and embroideries cover this tomb, numbers of lamps and ostrich eggs are suspended before it, and all round are ranged quantities of flags, the standards and colours of Islam. Tradition says, that during his life this singular man carried three hairs from the Prophet’s beard—one under his tongue, another next his heart, and the third on his right arm. These three precious hairs are now united in a silken sachet placed on the dead man’s breast, and whether the reputation of the saint or these relics of the Prophet have the greater power in drawing pilgrims to the shrine, is a doubtful question.

Delicate finish, suited to its smallness of scale, makes a yet more perfect shrine of the tiny forecourt, and dome over the tomb of another Marabout, Sidi Abid el Ghariani. Of all the Moorish work in the city, this ZaouÏa is perhaps the gem—at any rate the hand of time has touched it lightly, so that nothing has been done to spoil its charm of colour.

THE MOSQUE OF THE THREE DOORS, KAIROUAN

Quite other considerations make it worth while to go on pilgrimage to the Mosque of the Swords, though its only beauty lies in the distant effect of its seven fluted domes. It is dedicated to a comparatively modern saint, who had great influence in Kairouan. His name was Sidi Amer Abbada, and he began life as a blacksmith. To astonish his admirers he made, and they now say he used, gigantic swords, covered with inscriptions, one of which prophesies the coming of the French. His pipes are the pipes of a nightmare—too huge for mortal man to smoke. As for the colossal bronze anchors he is said to have carried on his shoulders from Porto Farina, quite unaided and alone, are they not now reposing in a courtyard close by? There the sceptical can go and see for themselves and come away abashed, saying, “Truly this was a great Marabout.”

The Djama Thelata Biban, or Mosque of the Three Doors, is noteworthy because of its great age (some six or seven hundred years old) and also for the decorative value of its faÇade. The plan is not in the least original, the outline is elementary—a square block with an equally square minaret beside it. But it is the treatment of the flat surface that is remarkable. The upper part of the front is shaded by a tiled roof supported by wooden brackets, old and mellow in tone. Underneath comes a broad space of golden stone, adorned by alternate bands of raised inscriptions in Cufic characters, and fragments of Roman carved work. Below this all is white, the surface broken by three archways with old capitals and columns, that cast fascinating shadows on the three brilliant green doors that give the mosque its name. Coloured tiles in the same way relieve the whiteness and add to the charm of the minaret. Unfortunately the building is badly placed across the end of a dull street, so that it cannot be seen at a picturesque angle.

The pleasures of Kairouan are by no means exhausted by merely walking through the streets, visiting the mosques, and wandering outside the walls, not even by watching the life of the people either out of doors or at the cafÉs.

Sunsets as beautiful as those of Biskra may be enjoyed from the roof. Afterglows, with a depth and glory of red and crimson unrivalled even in Egypt, created by the magic atmosphere of the dry and somewhat dreary plain, which they transform into a land of mystery and romance.

When the moon rises, another scene of enchantment is revealed. The pale moonlight of our island home is unknown in Africa: here the contrast is wonderful, the brilliance positively startles. The first impression on leaving a lighted room is that it has been snowing heavily. Then gradually one begins to grasp the extraordinary depth of the shadows, the absolute clearness of each outline, the suffused glow, the positive warmth that throws such glamour over each common thing. Last of all, one sees that in this moonlight there is colour, soft and low in tone, but yet distinctly recognisable.

As a little change, or perhaps because sunset and moonlight might be thought dull, the authorities kindly decreed that a military tattoo should be held. Gay sounds of martial music, the light tramp of marching feet, the hum of many voices, drew every one to the balcony, to find the street bright with flaming torches. The lights flared up, casting weird shadows over the crowd of eager faces as the wind blew the flames to and fro. The gay uniforms, the lightly stepping, almost dancing feet of the soldiers as they marked time, contrasted strangely with the statuesque pose of the sober citizens, or the wild unkempt figures of men from some distant oasis, or nomads from the desert. How they all enjoyed the show!—soldiers as much as any one else, and the band seemingly most of all.

The terrible rites of the AÏssaouas may be witnessed every night. The sect is powerful in Kairouan, has its own mosque, and they welcome all those whose curiosity is strong enough to overcome their feelings of horror or of self-contempt for wishing to look on at such doings.

The Marabout AÏssa (a name which means Jesus), who came from Morocco, was once wandering in the desert, far from home and friends, and suffered much from hunger. In fact he would have died of starvation had he not been endued with miraculous power, and this enabled him to eat all kinds of impossible food, including snakes, scorpions, fire, glass, and leaves of prickly pear, spines and all. His followers imitate him, or pretend to do so, to this day, having previously worked themselves into a state of frenzy after the manner of the Howling Dervishes. Their feats in this direction, and also with swords and daggers run through their bodies, seem so hideous and disgusting even in the telling, that one wonders how any Europeans can bear to see the sight. Yet numbers do, and get so excited that they forget to be horrified or feel sick till they get home.

A wedding feast is a very different ceremony, so that to be invited to see one in old-world Kairouan is a piece of real good-fortune. After dinner the Arab servants hurried us off, with two French officers and their wives, through the still marvel of a moonlight night. The music of the tom-toms and the trilling cries, half-shrill, half-sweet, of rejoicing women, could be heard long before the house was reached.

The outer gate, decked with boughs, stood wide open, though as yet only the ladies were allowed to enter and cross the courtyard to an inner court full of flickering lights and a bewildering number of restless, ever-moving women. Gay as butterflies they fluttered round us, whilst with pretty gentle ways they patted and stroked our hands and clothes, pulled, pushed, and led us in and out of three tiny rooms, showing us all the preparations, the embroidered linen and hangings, the lights, the robes, the state bedstead, and, last of all, within a circle of elder women seated on the floor, the bride herself. Demure, a little wistful, with a studiously impassive expression, in all her finery of silk and veils, bedizened with jewels, she posed like an image, aloof and very lonely in the crowd.

A DESERT AFTERGLOW

Then suddenly the cry was heard, “The bridegroom comes,” and in the twinkling of an eye we found ourselves alone in an empty court, the women had all vanished, though how they packed themselves into those wee rooms was a mystery.

Our loneliness was only momentary, for the men swept in like a flood to the sounds of the usual wild music and much banging of tom-toms. Then a group of AÏssaouas began their prayer or incantations, swaying and shouting as they swung themselves backwards and forwards. Happily the bridegroom was impatient, and stopped the performance before any horrors occurred. Whereupon the men were all hustled off the premises, the French officers very reluctantly going with the rest. As the last man disappeared, out fluttered all the butterflies again. It was the woman’s hour, and they made the most of it. They enthroned the bridegroom, a handsome young man, on a dais, covered his head with a beautiful new burnous, arranged to fall like a veil on either side of his face, which it almost concealed. Like the bride, he was preternaturally solemn, and sat there with his eyes shut, pretending to see nothing, whilst thoroughly enjoying many furtive peeps.

Then the revels began, pretty girls danced round him laughing, with lighted candles held on high. With a certain quaint grace they mingled merciless chaff with all manner of elfish tricks, pinching and giving him saucy kisses, deceiving him with pretences that his bride was coming, even going so far as to play at being the bride themselves, and doing their utmost to make him laugh. Only Rembrandt could have done justice to the delightful effects of light and shade, the marvellous play of colour. The girls, with their bright beauty enhanced by the quaint horned caps, the gay silk veils, and chains and jewels gleaming under the flickering lights, the lace sleeves falling away from their bare arms, and their lithe, graceful forms wrapped in bright-hued silk, were a perfect picture.

The bridegroom bore all the teasing with a stolid countenance and a mock air of meekness—it is considered most unlucky to smile—but at last he received his reward. The real bride stood before her lord, veiled, with her head slightly bowed. He rose, lifted her veil, and kissed her. The little ceremony was at an end.

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