Much cheered in mind and body, and laden with roses from the monastery
garden, we rode down into the insufferable heat of the low ground.
Shortly after leaving Alḳôsh our path turned into the hills to the
right, climbed by a charming valley with a rushing stream in its depth,
crossed a low pass and led us out into the broad green plain which lies
between the Jebel Alḳôsh and the Jebel Dehûk. Flowering grasses brushed
our stirrups as we rode, but, in spite of its fertility, the plain is
almost uncultivated. The few villages, Moslem and Christian, are
harried by the robber bands of Sheikh Nûrî, and whenever the miserable
peasants have gathered together such modest wealth as their resources
permit, the nomad Kurds fall upon them with rifle and with firebrand.
Thus it is that long tracts of land are unpeopled and the hamlets that
exist are more than half in ruin. One we passed that had been looted and
left a smouldering heap of ashes two years earlier, but the newly
aroused hopes of firmer government had induced the peasants to return to
it, and the houses were springing up again. The deep grass through which
we journeyed, both on this day and on the next, is looked upon as a sore
peril, since it tempts the Kurds down into the lowland pastures. To
avoid this annual reign of terror, the peasants are wont to set it on
fire as soon as it ripens, leaving but a small patch round each village.
For a week the plain is wrapped in flame and smoke, and the stifling
heat of the burning rises up to the hill-top monastery of Mâr Ya’ḳûb,
where the Catholic priests are witnesses to the appalling destruction of
what might have been a rich harvest, and to the bitter oppression which
turns the bounty of nature into a recurring threat. Jûsef, whose
imagination is not to be roused except by considerations of a soundly
practical character, cast his eye over the fields and observed
thoughtfully: “The muleteers of Baghdâd must starve this year to buy
fodder for their cattle, yet here is enough to feed all the Jezîreh.”
Heaven send peace to this fair country.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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