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.
The first Christian school in East Arabia was opened in 1899 on the veranda of the old mission house overlooking the sea. The little children of Ameen who was in prison for his faith were living with their mother in our house, and they needed to be taught; two of the rescued slave boys from Muscat, who had come to help in the housework, had some spare hours in the morning, and it was better for them to study than to sit around doing nothing, for Satan finds an awful amount of mischief for idle hands to do in Bahrein, and so the little school was started for the children in the house. We gave it the name of the “Acorn School” in faith that as “tall oaks from little acorns grow,” so some day education in Arabia would be what it is now in America. We had lessons for two hours each morning, marching, singing, etc., for the little ones, baby Bessie lying on the couch nearby while the children were being taught; others wished to join, but neither accommodations nor strength would allow us to enlarge our borders at that time.
After some months an Arabic teacher was assigned to the station to teach a new missionary the language, and about that time we moved into a larger house. Then our numbers increased, and one of those early pupils was a young Jewish girl; another was a Jewish boy, who remained about three years, and was always a docile and clever pupil in English and Arabic; he has a complete Bible in Arabic, which they read in his home. The girl was a great help to us in every way—first in school, and later in the hospital; she is quite a changed girl and a superior one, and we trust the day will come when she will openly confess Christ and follow Him. Some grown-up lads were among those first scholars, and they came to learn English. One of the older boys was such an apt pupil that he was taken on the staff of the English Political Agent as interpreter for the Persians; another advanced so far that he is able to buy and sell for the wholesale business, and for this reason is a great help to his father, a merchant in Bahrein. These boys have learned much of the truth along with their English, and neither of them now believe that the sun sets in a pool of black mud!
The reflex influence of the school is felt even in their homes, changing some of the habits and language. Some of those early scholars have gone to the Eternal Home. Quite a number of the missionaries and native helpers have helped from time to time in this school, for when one left, another would take up the work. The last few years the girls have been doing needlework and learning how to make their own clothes neatly.
There are a great number of Christians and Jews, but the greater number in good weather are Moslems, and in the cool season the little room is overcrowded, and one teacher is very busy trying to keep all employed. The school is still in the initial stage, but it has proved its right to exist, and when we look into the brightening faces of those who gather to be taught, and listen to the Scripture portions repeated and the hymns spiritedly sung, we can only say: “What hath God wrought!” To outsiders the school may seem a small thing, but to us, who have watched its slow growth, it is encouraging. The teaching has always in view the honour of Christ in a land where His title, “Son of God,” is disputed.
If you could see our new school building you would know how much better off the children are who come to the Christian school than those who still attend the native schools. The rooms and the seats, and windows through which glorious sunshine and light shine, the blackboards and maps and pictures all help to educate through “eye gate.” The boys and girls are graded and separated, for coeducation is not yet a good thing in Arabia. When I taught in the school I used to surprise the girls occasionally by bringing to school some little treat of fruit, dates or candy; and I wish you could have heard their hearty “Thank you” and listened to them as they left the yard and went over the desert to their houses, singing at the top of their voices in Arabic Christian hymns which they had learned in school. They thought it would please me and impress us with their goodness. And it was good to hear these girls and sometimes small boys singing “My Faith Looks up to Thee,” “Jesus Loves Me, This I Know,” etc. And even if they did not understand the deep meaning nor enter into it, it gave them pleasure to sing the bright tunes. And while they sang, they were out of mischief at least. It was so new for these Moslem girls to have any one to care anything about them.
The day was very hot, and I was very tired. The flies were buzzing thick around me and it was impossible for me to keep awake over the book which slipped from my fingers and fell on the floor. I stretched myself for one of those delightful noonday naps which, in spite of the heat and the flies, revive the life of the missionary and make him ready for the work of the afternoon, and as I slept, I dreamed a dream.
I was walking up towards the mission hospital, when what should I see coming down the steps but a roller bandage, walking along as happy as could be, and after exchanging the usual Arab greeting of “Salaam,” he told me this story:
“I suppose you have never heard of me before, and I am sure you never will unless I introduce myself and unroll the story of my short but interesting life.
“A little, round, fat body like me may have a long story to tell; for when I lie at full length I measure four yards without stretching the truth one bit.
“It is only six months ago, as far as I remember, that I was part of a fine new piece of white muslin in the store window of a merchant, and had no name or place or mission of my own in this big world. One day the salesman reached out and took the piece of muslin down. It was sent with a lot of other purchases to the home of a lady (I think her name was Phœbe or Dorcas) greatly interested in foreign missions.
“The next thing I knew, the willing hands and deft fingers of a band of little folks tore me from my seven sisters and rolled me up so snug and tight that none would imagine I was only a strip of cloth. And then, when a bright new pin was stuck on my breast, really I began to feel quite important. The following day I was put into a pasteboard box with three dozen other roller bandages, and I remember hearing a short prayer, just as they tied down the cover, that God would bless us on our errand of mercy to dark Arabia.
“Time would fail me to tell of the days we spent in the basement of the building of the Board of Foreign Missions, waiting to be put in our corner of a big box, and of all the interesting things I learned from those who spoke about the heathen and Mohammedans while they were packing supplies for the various mission fields. You know I never knew there were so many doctors and nurses, and so many hospitals and dispensaries—not to speak of schools and other things under the care of our Board.
“Finally, the box that was to be my prison house for two long months was tumbled into a dray and taken to the North River pier. There they lifted us into the dark hold of a ship; the sailors fastened down the hatches; the whistle blew, and we were off for the long voyage.
“Being a roller bandage from my earliest youth, I did not at all mind the motion of the vessel; but some of the dolls and picture cards were all upset.
“When we reached Bombay we were transferred with a great deal of unnecessary noise to another ship bound for the Persian Gulf. I remember that I was curious to know at which port of the Gulf I would disembark. One of the biggest roller bandages said he knew, for he had heard the New York lady tell the children that these bandages were for the Mason Memorial Hospital at Bahrein, Arabia. All were not agreed.
“A many-tailed bandage said he thought we were going to Busrah to help in the dispensary there, but a T bandage, which has three ends to it and is shaped like a big letter T, contradicted him, and there came near being a quarrel. The little bandages, however, with one accord smoothed it over by saying: ‘Wait and you will see.’
“The big roller bandage was right. When the British India steamer entered Bahrein harbour with a large cargo of rice and tea and Manchester goods, the missionary boxes got mixed up with the rest, and were put over the ship’s side into native boats.
“Such a hubbub and shouting! I knew we were among Arabs and in the land of Ishmael, although I could not understand one word of their strange language.
“From the cargo boat we were carried on the back of a donkey through the surf to the custom-house, and thence once again to the hospital. I cannot say I enjoyed the donkey ride. The boy who drove the beast had an awkward way of turning sharp corners in the narrow streets, and then the big packing case would bump hard against a stone wall, and give us an awful shaking.
“It was a relief to hear the voices of our new friends. Soon the box was opened, and we saw daylight once more. The sheets and blankets were put to immediate use in the general ward; the dolls put away for Christmas; while we were taken to the operating-room, and put behind glass doors on a shelf. Even though I was not an eye bandage, I could easily see that we were occupying the best room in the entire hospital, and I distinctly heard one of the ladies say: ‘These bandages are fine.’
“You can imagine that we kept our eyes and ears open after such a welcome. Well, it was rather monotonous, after all. Every day, nearly, the doctor had some sort of eye patient on the table, and consequently the eye bandages put on airs of great importance. We waited impatiently.
“One day a nurse came in suddenly and seized me by my throat and took me without ceremony to the general ward, a big room with twelve beds in it.
“On the stretcher, in the middle of the floor, lay an Arab, looking very untidy and weak, and in great pain. I heard his story. His name was Ahmed bin Haroon, and he was a poor fisherman from the distant village of Zillag. Zillag is one of those little struggling hamlets on the Island of Bahrein to which the missionaries occasionally make zigzag journeys, visiting the people to carry them Gospels or to invite the sick to the hospital. The day before, very early in the morning, while he was mending his nets and collecting his fish, a robber came, stabbed him twice in his abdomen, and taking the fish, ran away.
“The poor man had two nasty cuts, deep and dangerous, and I heard them say while cleaning the wounds that he would probably not live. Though he looked so ignorant and dirty, I really felt sorry for the poor fellow, and wondered if I could be of much help. After the doctor put on the dressings, my turn came. In fact, I had more turns than I have ever had since, all in the space of five minutes. Round and round that Arab they wound me close. But to see the look of gratitude on his face when, in a clean shirt and on a nice spring bed, with me for company, he opened his eyes—well, it was worth the long journey, I can tell you. Over our bed there was a chart with No. 109, and the man’s name on it. There were also curious zigzag lines drawn every morning and evening across the chart. The doctor put these lines there, for I saw him do it, after inserting a fever thermometer in the patient’s mouth. I soon learned to know whether the line would go up or down by counting the heart-beats of my companion. Of course, being so close together, we learned to like each other, and I one day explained to him how the people away off in America had sent me as their little missionary for his comfort. On the opposite side of the ward there is a picture of Christ healing a blind man, which we used to look at.
“They prayed for No. 109 and read a little to him, but I am sure he understood what I told him much better. You see, until he got hurt he was very suspicious of Christians and believed all sorts of foolish things about them. Now he talked with the other patients and watched what was done for him, and felt me near him; it was a new life for him. His condition became more hopeful every day; I knew it by the way he began to enjoy his soup. Not that I was with him all the time myself. No; the other roller bandages had their turn, and I heard the rest of the story from them. Ahmed bin Haroon was discharged nearly cured on the first day of the Moslem fast month. He came back after for a visit, and is going about his work—the same fisherman. Only there is no telling how much he may think of what he saw and heard while he mends his nets at Zillag. And the missionaries are sure of a warm welcome in that village ever hereafter.
“The day I was taken off duty and said good-bye to my patient I met such a lot of bandages down-stairs in the surgery; there seemed no end of them! Of course, most of them were common, from the Bahrein bazaar, and unbleached, but they had good stories to tell, nevertheless. I heard it stated on good authority that over a thousand yards of bandages were used up in one month. And when I saw the number of men, women and children with ulcers and abscesses, sitting on the veranda that day, I did not doubt the fact. Only I wish I could have told it to that salesman in New York and to the kind lady. Then there would have been more of us; for I am sure it is no trouble for the boys and girls to make rollers of us.
“My end was near. In spite of all that I had done for the hospital, the sweeper carried me out in a bucket, and then, without ceremony or apology, the whole pile of us were set on fire, and we went up in a chariot like Elijah.”
He ended his story, and as I looked at him, I was just about to say: “How did you ever get back here out of the bucket and the fire to come and tell me your story?” but when I began to speak, the bandage speedily disappeared, and so did the hospital, and I awoke from my dream. The hospital records, however, show how the story of the bandage is true in every particular.
Our little Arab friend, Najma, was born a long distance from the place where last Christmas was spent. Bagdad is the city, you remember, where Sinbad the sailor lived, and in this very city on the old river Tibris Najma was born. Her father and mother were both good Moslems and she was their first-born child, and yet not very welcome, because all Moslems like to have boy babies and not girls. They gave her the name of Fatima after the daughter of Mohammed, their prophet. When she was afterwards baptized into the Christian faith with her mother the name Najma was given her which means a “star.” Her father suffered much persecution for changing his religion, and when he was sent into exile far away from his home, she with her mother and brothers came down the river to Busrah and down the Persian Gulf to Bahrein. It was a long zigzag journey for them by flat-bottom river boat and ocean steamer, and then in the little harbour boat, tacking with the wind to shore.
Until the family came to us they did not know what Christmas meant, and of course had never celebrated it. When her third Christmas came, and it was her last, it was still a fresh and joyful occasion to her, therefore, as it was to all of us in that lonely island and amongst our little group of converts. Not only was it the last Christmas to Najma but for others in that company gathered to celebrate the birthday of our Saviour. Two other little voices that sang so sweetly
were silent before the next Christmas came around. And then the mother of Najma who looked so strong and sat in the corner, interested so deeply in all the recitations and songs, with two others of that little company had gone Home before the end of the new year.
A Bedouin Girl playing peek-a-boo on a camel
It was Najma’s last Christmas, however, that I was going to tell about. We had been busy all morning decorating the little chapel in the hospital and getting the simple gifts all in order for the afternoon celebration. Najma had not been well for a few days, suffering with those attacks of fever that are so common in the Persian Gulf. When Christmas came we thought she would not be well enough to attend, but she begged so hard and was so sure that she would be all right that we sent around a donkey to her home; and when her mother had put on all her new garments, so bright and pretty, she rode to the hospital. Although she was weak, when she came with the other children she brightened up considerably and took a keen interest in everything, even helping to sing the Christmas carols. When the others had said their pieces, she insisted on saying hers and repeated beautifully the whole fifty-first Psalm. Then she waited until the refreshments were served—that most important part of a Christmas celebration—and afterwards wishing everybody a Happy Christmas she was placed on the back of the donkey and went home.
I wish you could have seen our Christmas tree on that occasion. It consisted of a number of palm branches tied together and the gifts were hung from the spikes of the branches,—presents old and new for all who came. Most people would have been surprised at the absence of dolls, but in Arabia these have to be given out sparingly and judiciously because some of the Moslems are too much afraid of idol worship to appreciate dolls in their homes. Therefore, we gave the children writing pads and pencils, books and toys, beads and new dresses, small bags of rice for the poorer scholars,—something for everybody. How joyfully each received his or her gift!
Najma gathered up all the little things given to her and kept them close by her side all the next day and took a great deal of pleasure in them; but in the evening of that day we were suddenly called out to see her and found her dying from heart failure following that week of fever. It was a surprise and a shock to us all. In spite of her faults those who knew her best could not help loving her. With tremendous difficulty she learned to read the Gospel and was very proud of her attainment as it is only one girl in a thousand among the Arabs who can read. To lose such a bright little Arab girl seemed very sad at that time, but God makes no mistakes, and we are so glad that this little girl had such a bright Christmas as her last on earth. Think of the children who are in the hospital to-day, many of them for the first time in contact with Christians, and that some of them have never yet had their first Christmas in Arabia. There are many, many little girls in this neglected country who would enjoy a Christmas so much if only they knew as Najma did about the Babe born in a manger for their sakes. It is nineteen hundred years ago that He came to the world as its Saviour and yet there are so many countries where the boys and girls have not yet heard of His coming.
If we would win the whole, round world for Jesus we must tell His story all around the earth and give everybody a chance to read the story of His life. Do you remember those beautiful verses of Father Tabb in regard to the First Christmas?
If all Arabia is to hear the story of the Gospel, there are many zigzag journeys yet to be made. The country is much larger than most people imagine, and a great part of it is still unexplored. Fortunately the unexplored sections of the great peninsula are nearly all uninhabited as far as we know, but no one has been there to see or investigate. If you were to travel from New York to Chicago and back on a camel, the distance would be about as great as to cross Arabia once in its broadest direction. Topsy Turvy Land is three times as large as the state of Texas, the largest state in the Union. It is nearly as large as all British India, excluding Burma, and if you spread Arabia out on the map of Europe, without tucking in the corners, you could cover the whole of France, Belgium, Holland, Germany, Switzerland, Italy, Austria, Servia, Roumania, and Bulgaria.
The population of this great stretch of country with its table-lands and deserts, its villages and encampments, is perhaps eight million; and just as Arabia, with its four thousand miles of coast, has only three lighthouses for ships that pass in the night, so the light of the Gospel is shining in only a very few places along the coast, and hardly at all in the interior. At Aden, and Muscat, and Bahrein, and Kuweit and Busrah, as well as along the rivers as far as Bagdad, there are lighthouses of the Gospel. Although only like little candles burning in the night, they can be seen from a long distance. Patients come for hundreds of miles to the hospitals, and when they go away, carry the gospel message for hundreds of miles back to their villages. And yet what are these few stations for so large a territory, and what can less than forty missionaries do among so many people?
When the great Missionary Conference met at Edinburgh in 1910 and the report was made on How to Carry the Gospel to all the non-Christian World, it stated that “Of the eight million inhabitants of Arabia, it is entirely safe to say that fully six million are without any missionary agency.” One can travel from Bahrein across the mainland for 1,150 miles without meeting a missionary or a mission station, all the way to Aden. On the entire Red Sea Coast, as well as the south coast between Aden and Muscat, there is no mission work. Of the six provinces of Arabia, only three are occupied by mission stations. No one has ever preached the Gospel at Mecca, where Mohammed was born, or at Medina, where he lies buried, and although some ninety thousand pilgrims from every part of the Moslem world pass through Jiddah every year on their way to Mecca, this important city is still waiting for an ambassador of Jesus Christ.
Perhaps the most neglected class in this great neglected country are the Bedouins, or nomads. Like Ishmael of old, “their hand is against every man, and every man’s hand is against them.” Hated alike by the town dwellers and the Turks, they are the roving gypsies of the Orient, and yet they are so numerous and so closely bound together by tribal ties that sometimes one can see their black tents spread out in vast encampments like a city of tabernacles in the wilderness.
It is a strange life these children of Ishmael lead, a life full of its joys and sorrows and desert hardships. Under the shadow of a black tent, or the shade of an acacia bush, or perhaps behind a camel, the Arab baby first sees the daylight. As soon as it is born, its mother gives it a sand-bath, and the father gives it a name. For the rest, it is allowed to grow up much as it pleases. Trained from birth in the hard school of fatigue and hunger and danger, the Bedouin children grow up saucy and impudent, but with cunning and a knowledge of all the ways of the desert and the life of the caravans.
The Bedouin children have no books nor toys. They play with dead locusts or dried-up camel’s bones; they make whistles out of desert grass, and love to use the sling as David did, with pebbles from the brook when he killed the giant. The girls help in the hard work of drawing water, making butter and driving the camels to and from pasture. Although they cannot read, and have no picture books, they all of them study without ceasing the great picture book of nature, and their little dark eyes, whether watching the sheep at pasture, or counting the stars in the blue abyss from their perch on the lofty camel saddle in the midnight journeyings, are never at rest.
In some parts of Arabia, Bedouin women when they travel ride on a camel saddle called a howdij, which protects them from the gaze of strangers. Sometimes they play peek-a-boo, as the camel trudges along. In many respects their life is most unhappy. Doughty and other travellers believe that over one-half of the nomad population seldom know the blessing of a full meal. When they hear from the lips of Western travellers of countries where there is bread and clothing and peace, and water in great abundance, they are surprised, and contrast the condition of other nations with their lives of misery. One of them, after listening to Doughty’s description, threw his hands up, and uttered this prayer, “Have mercy, O Allah, upon Thy creature whom Thou createdst! Pity the sighing of the poor, the hungry, the naked. Have mercy, have mercy upon them, O Allah!” Who can help saying “Amen” to the nomad’s prayer? We cannot judge them harshly when we remember that they have never had a fair chance, and that for centuries warfare and plunder have been their daily life. I remember with much interest a Sunday I spent in the black tents of Kedar, with a crowd of nomads sitting around. They were most hospitable, and brought in great wooden bowls of fresh milk, with butter floating in it, dried dates and bread baked on the coals; then, when our appetites were satisfied, they listened, oh, so eagerly, as I told them for the first time the old, old story of Jesus Christ’s birth, and death and resurrection. Some of them were so ignorant that they had never heard of a cross, and I remember taking two twigs from the ground and showing them how our Saviour was crucified for our sins, according to the Scriptures. No one has visited that tribe in Oman since my journey eight years ago. How long must they and others wait for Christian teachers? Shall the Bedouin babies have a better chance than their mothers had?
The kingdoms and governments of this world have frontiers which are guarded and must not be crossed without permission, but the kingdom of Jesus Christ has no frontier. It has never been kept within bounds. It has a message for the whole race, and the very fact that there are millions of people in the heart of Arabia who have never heard, becomes the strongest of reasons why we must carry that message to them. Difficulties and dangers should not hold us back. They did not hold back Jesus Christ when He made the long journey to our lost world. He depends on us to finish His work. As it is written:
F.F. FLORIS FERWERDA