In The Early Days Of Al-Islam, If History Be Credible,
Arabia Had A Race Of Heroines.
Within the last century, Ghaliyah, the
wife of a Wahhabi chief, opposed Mohammed Ali himself in many a bloody
field.
A few years ago, when Ibn Asm, popularly called Ibn Rumi, chief
of the Zubayd clan about Rabigh, was treacherously slain by the Turkish
general, Kurdi Osman, his sister, a fair young girl, determined to
revenge him. She fixed upon the “Arafat-day” of pilgrimage for the
accomplishment of her designs, disguised herself in male attire, drew
her kerchief in the form Lisam over the lower part of her face, and
with lighted match awaited her enemy. The Turk, however, was not
present, and the girl was arrested to win for herself a local
reputation equal to the “maid” of Salamanca. Thus it is that the Arab has
learned to swear that great oath “by the honour of my women.”
The Badawin are not without a certain Platonic affection, which they
call Hawa (or Ishk) uzri—pardonable love.[FN#26] They draw the fine line
between amant and amoureux: this is derided by the tow[n]speople,
little suspecting how much such a custom says in favour of the wild
men. Arabs, like other Orientals, hold that, in such matters, man is
saved, not by faith, but by want of faith. They have also a saying not
unlike ours—
“She partly is to blame who has been tried;
He comes too near who comes to be denied.”
[p.95]The evil of this system is that they, like certain
Southerns—pensano sempre al male—always suspect, which may be worldly-wise,
and also always show their suspicions, which is assuredly foolish. For
thus they demoralise their women, who might be kept in the way of right
by self-respect and by a sense of duty.
From ancient periods of the Arab’s history we find him practising
knight-errantry, the wildest form of chivalry.[FN#27] “The Songs of Antar,”
says the author of the “Crescent and the Cross,” “show little of the true
chivalric spirit.” What thinks the reader of sentiments like
these[FN#28]? “This valiant man,” remarks Antar (who was “ever interested for
the weaker sex,”) “hath defended the honour of women.” We read in another
place, “Mercy, my lord, is the noblest quality of the noble.” Again, “it is
the most ignominious of deeds to take free-born women prisoners.” “Bear not
malice, O Shibub,” quoth the hero, “for of malice good never came.” Is there
no true greatness in this sentiment?—“Birth is the boast of the faineant;
noble is the youth who beareth every ill, who clotheth himself in mail
during the noontide heat, and who wandereth through the outer darkness
of night.” And why does the “knight of knights” love Ibla? Because “she is
blooming as the sun at dawn, with hair black as the midnight shades,
with Paradise in her eye, her bosom an enchantment, and a form waving
like the tamarisk when the soft wind blows from the hills of Nijd”? Yes!
but his chest expands also with the thoughts of her “faith, purity, and
affection,”—it is her moral as well as her material excellence that makes
her
[p.96] the hero’s “hope, and hearing, and sight.” Briefly, in Antar I discern
“a love exalted high,
By all the glow of chivalry;”
and I lament to see so many intelligent travellers misjudging the Arab
after a superficial experience of a few debased Syrians or Sinaites.
The true children of Antar, my Lord Lindsay, have not “ceased to be
gentlemen.”
In the days of ignorance, it was the custom for Badawin, when tormented
by the tender passion, which seems to have attacked them in the form of
“possession,” for long years to sigh and wail and wander, doing the most
truculent deeds to melt the obdurate fair. When Arabia Islamized, the
practice changed its element for proselytism.
The Fourth Caliph is fabled to have travelled far, redressing the
injured, punishing the injurer, preaching to the infidel, and
especially protecting women—the chief end and aim of knighthood. The
Caliph Al-Mu’tasim heard in the assembly of his courtiers that a woman of
Sayyid family had been taken prisoner by a “Greek barbarian” of Ammoria.
The man on one occasion struck her: when she cried “Help me, O Mu’tasim!” and
the clown said derisively, “Wait till he cometh upon his pied steed!” The
chivalrous prince arose, sealed up the wine-cup which he held in his
hand, took oath to do his knightly devoir, and on the morrow started
for Ammoria with seventy thousand men, each mounted on a piebald
charger. Having taken the place, he entered it, exclaiming, “Labbayki,
Labbayki!”—“Here am I at thy call!” He struck off the caitiff’s head, released
the lady with his own hands, ordered the cupbearer to bring the sealed
bowl, and drank from it, exclaiming, “Now, indeed, wine is good!”
To conclude this part of the subject with another far-famed instance.
When Al-Mutanabbi, the poet, prophet, and warrior of Hams (A.H. 354)
started together with his
[p.97] son on their last journey, the father proposed to seek a place
of safety for the night. “Art thou the Mutanabbi,” exclaimed his slave, “who
wrote these lines,—
“‘I am known to the night, the wild, and the steed,
To the guest, and the sword, to the paper and reed[FN#29]’?”
The poet, in reply, lay down to sleep on Tigris’ bank, in a place haunted
by thieves, and, disdaining flight, lost his life during the hours of
darkness.
It is the existence of this chivalry among the “Children of Antar” which
makes the society of Badawin (“damned saints,” perchance, and “honourable
villains,”) so delightful to the traveller who[,] like the late Haji Wali
(Dr. Wallin), understands and is understood by them. Nothing more naïve
than his lamentations at finding himself in the “loathsome company of
Persians,” or among Arab townspeople, whose “filthy and cowardly minds” he
contrasts with the “high and chivalrous spirit of the true Sons of the
Desert.” Your guide will protect you with blade and spear, even against
his kindred, and he expects you to do the same for him.
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