It is in Hauran that this mixture of races is most forcibly thrust upon
one’s notice. In the villages south of Damascus, the crowd which gathers
round the tents is sure to contain several smiling negroes, some of
them branded on the cheeks; Circassians, with sickle-shaped nose and
thin lips, sharp-featured and small-limbed men with an untamable
expression on their bitter faces; Arabs, darker of complexion, and more
languid of eye; and Turkish soldiers, thin and smallpox bitten. There
are to be found the Jew, sneering complacently at the inferior world;
the fanatical Moslem, who will break the water-bottle your lips have
touched; the Druse, who objects to coffee and tobacco, and to whom you
hesitate to say “Good morning,” lest he may have conscientious scruples
about that; and the cross-bred ruffian, who has no scruples about
anything. Everything helps to strengthen the impression. In Damascus it
seems always to be Sunday with one or other portion of the population,
and a different set of shutters are up each day for nearly half the
week. The railway, it might be supposed, must have blended the life of
the composite East, but it only serves to emphasise the compositeness.
In one of the Hauran stations we had some hours to wait. We spread our
rugs in the shadow of the station-house, with a Turkish officer, an Arab
soldier, and a long line of camels to watch till lunch was ready. When
the time came, the hall of the booking-office was cleared of passengers
of a dozen different nationalities, and our lunch was spread on the
floor, just in front of the ticket-window! The train came at last, an
hour late, drawn by a rather blasé-looking engine. Then began that babel
of tongues which shows how nations meet in the East. All the world
seemed to have sent its representatives to that train--its wealth to
the white-cushioned first-class; its middle-class to the bare boards of
the second; its poverty to the cattle-trucks dignified by the name of
third,--while behind the carriages came two waggons loaded with grain,
their owner perched high on one, and a baby’s cradle on the other.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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