The natives of Mosul are, as a rule, a very
simple-hearted folk. They are easily amused, easily taken in, and as
easily roused to passion. They are, on the whole, good-tempered and
patient, and, considering the absolute lack of self-control in their
method of bringing up, they give way far less to their passions than
might be expected.
They dearly love social habits, and spend much time in company,
telling and listening to stories, smoking, and drinking coffee.
Unfortunately, they do not confine their drink to coffee, and these
social habits often lead to a great deal of drinking. Arak is the
favourite refreshment at these times, and is [270]indulged in by both Christian and Moslem alike.
It is a pure spirit, and is made by the Christians and Jews of Mosul,
and sold by them to the Moslems. No ceremony is complete without the
arak bottle. At weddings, funerals, dinner parties, at each and every
season of life, it is thought necessary to provide this fire-water. I
am sorry to say that the women also drink, but not to such an extent as
the men.
It is, of course, considered a great sin for a Moslem to drink
either wine or spirit, as both have been forbidden in the Koran: but
their love for the arak is stronger in many cases than their love of
the Koran. A Mosul Moslem woman told me a short time ago that she did
not think there was one Moslem man in Mosul who did not drink either
wine or arak. I hope this is an exaggeration, but the tendency to be
less ashamed of the drinking habit and to indulge in it more freely is
growing more and more. It is sad to think that the Christians of the
city are the manufacturers and vendors of spirit and wines, and that
they are responsible for introducing them into Mosul.
A story is told of a Sultan of Turkey who, desirous of putting a
stop to the ever-increasing drink traffic, made a law by which every
Moslem found the worse for drink should be cast into prison. The first
morning after the new law had come into action, a Moslem was found
drunk lying in the street, incapable of walking to his home. He was
immediately taken to prison, and allowed to sleep off the effects of
the drink. When he awoke, great was his surprise to find himself in the
interior of [271]a prison. On being taken before the judge, he
pleaded “Not guilty,” and said that he had been suffering
for some days from a terrible pain in his tooth, and yesterday had gone
to the hakeem (doctor) to obtain medicine to relieve the pain. The
doctor had told him that the best cure for his pain was to drink a
little brandy, so he had followed his advice, with the result that he
fell asleep and only awoke to find himself in prison. The judge then
commiserated the man on having such bad pain, but assured him it was
easily remedied. Calling to one of his servants, he ordered him to go
at once and fetch the barber, who acted as dentist to all such
sufferers. The prisoner assured his excellency the judge that it really
did not matter, the pain was better. “But,” said the judge
sympathetically, “it may come back.” The barber was brought
and told to examine the man’s mouth. Finding no sign of decay, he
assured the judge that the teeth were sound. The judge began to revile
the dentist, saying, “You call yourself a dentist and do not know
which is the tooth causing this man pain. Find it, and pull it out at
once.” Trembling, the dentist took his forceps and extracted a
back tooth. “Let me see,” cried the judge. “Why, that
is not rotten; what do you mean by pulling out a good tooth? Pull
the rotten one out at once.” Then the dentist again
operated on his unwilling victim, and a second time the judge upbraided
him for not drawing the right tooth, and ordered him to go on till he
had found the one that was decayed. The wretched prisoner, feeling he
could not bear to lose any more teeth, [272]called out that it
was all a lie: he never had had any toothache, and only drank brandy
because he loved it, and promised never to touch it again. The judge
smilingly bade his prisoner begone, warning him, however, that next
time he offended all his teeth might have to come out.
Closely associated with drinking is the gambling habit. This too,
alas! is very prevalent in Mosul. In almost every house card-playing
forms the chief pastime both in the hareem and amongst the men, and, as
a rule, they play for money. Enormous sums of money are lost and won in
this way, and, unfortunately, those in good positions are the ones who
profit most by this gambling habit. One lady was the possessor of many
beautiful jewels, diamonds, pearls, &c., and I was told that she
had won them all by gambling.
We are always very glad to take part in the social customs of the
people when neither drinking nor gambling is part of the programme, and
I, at least, certainly very much enjoy a dinner served à l’Arabe, with its attendant native
entertainment. The after-dinner story-telling is very amusing when you
have mastered the language sufficiently to be able to follow the drift
of the tale. Shortly before leaving, we gave a farewell dinner to some
of our friends, and, after dinner, entertained them with fireworks,
while one of the guests amused us all by recounting stories, some of
which were very interesting. One was as follows:—
“There is a village near Mosul called Tel Kaif, in which all
the inhabitants are Christians. They are a very original set of people,
differing altogether [273]from the Christians of Mosul in language,
dress, and customs. They consider they are quite the most clever and
important people under the sun, and this idea is apparent in all their
actions. Many years ago there lived in Tel Kaif a very clever and wise
man called Uncle Goro. If any one was in trouble he immediately went to
this man for advice; if any were sorrowful, it was to Uncle Goro they
looked for consolation; were any sick, again it was Uncle Goro alone
who could heal them. In fact, Uncle Goro was looked upon by the
admiring villagers as their one hope and stay in times of need. One day
a cow belonging to the village felt very thirsty. Now, the water supply
of Tel Kaif is not very good, the villagers being dependent upon a
large pool of rain-water, which sometimes dries up during the
long-continued season of drought. Doubtless this cow did not approve of
drinking dirty rain-water, so, while seeking for other means of slaking
her thirst, she espied near the doorway of a house a large earthen
water-pot. Into this she looked longingly, but her horns at first
prevented her from reaching the water. However, after a little careful
manipulation and perseverance, she managed to insert her head into the
jar. When she had satisfied her thirst, she tried to withdraw her head,
but found she could not, so there it had to remain, while the
bewildered villagers looked on in helpless astonishment. At last they
decided to appeal to their wise man, so one went off in search of him.
When he arrived on the spot and beheld the cow with her head in the
water-jar, he considered thoughtfully for [274]a while, and then
gave his advice in the following learned manner.
“Oh, my children,” he cried, “here is such a
simple matter, and yet you could not find a way out of the difficulty.
I am surprised that my fellow-men should be so ignorant.”
Then they all crowded round Uncle Goro, beseeching him out of his
great wisdom to tell them what to do.
“First,” said Uncle Goro, “you must cut off the
cow’s head, then break the water-pot and take out the
head!”
This brilliant suggestion was at once put into practice, the owner
of the cow being the only one who was not quite so sure of the
exceeding greatness of the wisdom of Uncle Goro. When the deed was
accomplished and the head extricated from its awkward position, the old
man stood and proudly addressed the assembled crowd who had flocked to
hear his words of wisdom. “My beloved children,” said he,
“a day will come when your old Uncle Goro will die, and then what
will you do when you have no one to settle such difficult matters as
these for you? Pray to God that your Uncle Goro may long be spared to
advise and counsel you.”
A rather pretty custom exists in Mosul which gives people titles
according to their work, or any special characteristics belonging to
them. For example, the butcher is called “the father of
meat”; the baker, “the father of bread.” In the
hospital, when I am giving orders for the diet list, we hardly ever
speak of the patients by name, but according to their disease, as
“Aboo” (father) liver abscess,
“Aboo-mai-abiyud” [275](father of cataract). One of
the assistants in the hospital was named “The Angel of
Death” by a poor little girl who was brought to the doctor a mass
of burns. It was the duty of this assistant to dress the terrible
wounds of the child every day, and though as gentle as a woman, he
necessarily pained her a great deal—hence the term “Angel
of Death.” The women are designated in the same way as the men,
only substituting “mother” for “father,” as
“Em haleeb,” milk-woman; “Em saba’
saba’een,” mother of seventy-seven (or centipede), this
last simply referring to a girl suffering from hysteria.
This was an interesting case which was in the women’s hospital
for some weeks. The patient was a young woman about sixteen years of
age. She was under the delusion that she had swallowed a
“saba’ saba’een” (a horny centipede, measuring
some seven or eight inches, common in Mosul). She declared she could
not eat anything, for every time she swallowed, the saba’
saba’een opened its mouth and ate the food just partaken of! She
absolutely refused to touch anything of her own accord, so we had to
force food down her throat. Two or three women would hold her hands and
feet while I fed her with a spoon. As time went on she became worse
instead of better, and was always beseeching my husband to operate on
her and take out the saba’ saba’een. After a time he
consented to give her an anæsthetic and operate. On the day
appointed she was taken to the theatre and given a whiff of chloroform,
while the doctor made a slight incision in her skin. This was stitched
up, and she was shown her wound and assured that the doctor had cut her
and [276]found nothing. After this she was much happier,
and was soon well enough to leave the hospital.
Women never know their age in Mosul. On dispensary days each woman
is required to give her name and age. The first difficulty is over the
name. Many do not know their surnames at all. When asked, “What
is your father’s name?” they say, “How do I
know?” and then add with a laugh, “Say Bint Abdulla”
(daughter of a servant of God). Abdulla is often a very convenient name
when the parentage is uncertain.
With regard to their age, women are quite hopeless. I have often
seen an old lady, bent double with the weight of many years, come into
the dispensary.
“Well, mother, how old are you?” I ask her.
“How old am I? How do I know, my daughter?”
“Do you think you are fifteen?”
“Well, I may be.”
“Are you twenty yet?”
“Perhaps I am,” replies the fair damsel of eighty.
“I know I was born two years before the year that the locusts ate
all the corn.”
As to how many years ago the locusts destroyed the crop she has not
the remotest idea.
Or another woman will come, certainly not more than twenty or
twenty-five, the mother of a baby in arms. On being asked her age she
replies, “About sixty”! The natives never have any idea
when their birthdays are, but keep their name-days instead. Thus
amongst the Christians all Johns will keep the feast of St. John as
their feast-day, and so on.
Parents have a convenient way of forgetting the date of the birth of
their daughters. A girl who is [277]not betrothed will remain
twelve or thirteen for much more than one year; for when she has passed
fourteen or fifteen years she is no longer considered young, and not
very likely to be betrothed at all if her real age is known.
The natives of Mosul are very superstitious; more especially,
perhaps, is this true of the women. One curious superstition they have
with regard to scent. Now an odour which is filthy and dangerous, such
as may be felt in most of the houses, is not at all injurious
from their standpoint, but a sweet-smelling scent is an abomination to
the women. If by any chance I have been using anything in the way of
scent (though as a rule I am very careful not to), the first thing I
see on entering a room is that the women all immediately apply their
handkerchiefs to their olfactory organs. At first this custom appears,
to say the least, not too polite; but when you realise \ what it means
to them, you understand and excuse them. They firmly believe that a
sweet smell brings sickness and sorrow—that it is equally fatal
to mothers and young children—hence the great fear of anything in
the way of scent. One day our reception-room was full of women who had
come to visit me. Suddenly a visitor was announced (a native of the
country, but not of Mosul); immediately all the women crowded into one
corner, burying their heads in their chuddars. I could not make out
what had disturbed them till I discovered that the new-comer was
strongly scented. She was left severely alone by all the others, who
kept as far away as possible from her, some even leaving the room,
fearing lest evil should overtake them. [278]
Another day I went to visit a little patient of my husband’s
in whom he took a great interest. This little boy was the spoilt
darling of his parents, the father especially idolising him, watching
over him carefully lest any harm should befall him. Great was his
consternation and distress when it was found that an operation was
necessary to save the life of the boy. When the little chap was
convalescent I went to see him. After talking to the mother some time
in another room, she suggested our going to see the boy. No sooner had
I appeared at the threshold of the door, when the boy buried his face
in his hands, calling out, “Oh, you smell, you smell!” I
assured both the mother and the boy that I had no scent of any kind on
me, but the boy would not be pacified, and continued crying out,
“Go away—you smell!” As he was still weak, I thought
I had better depart, as excitement was bad for him. When visiting
amongst the women it is better not to use scented soap, as they detect
even that sometimes!
Birds have a good many superstitions connected with them. Last year,
while we were waiting for the decision of our committee regarding the
future of the mission in Mosul, some women informed me that “good
news was coming.” Good news meant to them that the Mission was to
be kept on. On asking how they knew, they told me they had just heard a
bird singing which is supposed never to raise his voice except as the
harbinger of good tidings. Storks are looked upon as omens of good
luck. These birds return every spring to Mosul, hatch their eggs, and
migrate in early autumn. The natives of Mosul always hail their return
with great joy, especially if they nest [279]on their roofs. Some
will even go so far as to put baskets on the roofs, hoping that the
storks will be attracted by them and make them their home for the
summer. They agree with Longfellow in his love of storks, as expressed
in his poem—
“By God in heaven
As a blessing, the dear white stork was
given.”
If there had been any truth in this superstition, we
ought to have been very prosperous; for at one time we had no less than
three families of storks on our roof. Personally I think they are not
altogether too desirable, for when sleeping on the roof they are apt to
become very noisy companions. I do not think I like to be laughed at by
these birds. In the early morning they stand close by one’s bed,
throw back their heads till they rest on their backs, and then laugh
aloud at the idea of any one sleeping when once dawn has appeared.
The common name for storks in Mosul is “the thieves,” as
they sometimes steal small articles of clothing hanging out to dry,
such as handkerchiefs; and no one would ever dare to go to the nest to
hunt, lest they should disturb the birds and cause them to fly away.
These birds are rather a convenience sometimes for the washerwoman:
when blouses disappear it is easy to lay the blame on the
“thieves.” They are almost as useful as the proverbial
“cat.”
Our servant Judy is a little woman full of queer superstitious
ideas. While in Mosul I received the sad news of the death of my
father: poor Judy was so distressed lest by over-much mourning I should
[280]tempt God to take my husband too. As dressmaking
is rather primitive in Mosul I decided to have some things dyed black.
Judy would not hear of such a thing, saying that only widows must wear
dyed clothes, and that if I wore dyed dresses for my father, she was
sure something would happen to my husband.
Another thing she never would do, and that is to step over our feet!
In the summer evenings we used to sit in our verandah, which was rather
narrow, and if by chance we should place our feet on a hassock in front
of us there remained no room for any one to pass. I could not make out
why Judy would never pass that way when it was necessary to enter the
room at our back. At last she told me that if she stepped over our
feet, she would be in danger of “cutting our life,” and
that if we died it would be her fault. After this I often tried to make
her step over my feet, by blocking her pathway, but she never would, so
strong was her belief that by so doing she would cut short my life!
It is surprising how ignorantly superstitious some of the
better-class people are. A wife of a very wealthy Christian merchant in
Mosul had a child who suffered terribly from sore eyes. She brought him
to the dispensary for some time, but finding that the treatment pained
the child and made him cry, ceased to bring him. We heard afterwards
that she had resorted to the following superstitious method of
healing.
A sheep was bought, killed, and opened: while the blood was still
hot the head of the child was inserted into the middle of the
sheep’s body and [281]allowed to remain there about
fifteen minutes. Could any treatment be more revolting and disgusting
than this? and yet these people, rich and influential members of Mosul
society, really believed that by doing this their child’s eyes
would be cured. Needless to say it had not the desired effect, and
months afterwards they again brought the child to the dispensary, and
having learnt their lesson by experience, were content to leave the
child in the English hakim’s hands, with the result that after a
couple of months’ daily treatment the eyes were quite healed.
I do not know what virtue is supposed to exist in the killing of the
sheep or goat, but it is a custom very much in vogue in Mosul. On our
return from Beyrout, after having been absent three months, a live goat
was brought out into the desert to meet us, and the moment we alighted
from our carriage this poor creature was slaughtered right under our
eyes. In Persia the custom amongst the Armenians at a wedding feast was
for a sheep to be killed just as the bride and bridegroom were stepping
over the threshold of their new home. It was not considered lucky if
the bride did not put her foot into the blood as she passed. In Mosul,
too, I believe a sheep is sometimes slaughtered at weddings in this
way, but I have never seen it done.
When a wife is desirous of becoming a mother, there are various
superstitious methods to which she may resort, but perhaps the
favourite one of all is that connected with Sheikh Matti. This is a
monastery situated some twelve hours’ ride from Mosul,
[282]on the side of a lonely mountain. The woman
makes a pilgrimage to this place, and is then told that she must spend
a night in the solitary chapel there. While she sleeps an angel will
visit the building, and if her request is to be vouchsafed her, will
place an apple by her head. If the angel desires to be especially kind
to the woman, he will place two, or even three apples near her, the
number of apples indicating how many children God is going to honour
her with. Strange to say, these angel visits do not take place unless
provoked by a fair amount of backsheesh!
There are a good many superstitions regarding medical treatment of
diseases and accidents, but these, I believe, are fast dying out in the
face of European learning and skill. The people are learning by
experience how much better are the English methods than their own. For
instance, it used to be the common custom for those suffering from
fever to go to the mullah, who would lay his hands on the
patient’s head while reading a few verses from the Koran. If the
fever did not go at once, well, it was the fault of the fever, not of
the mullah. I fancy fever patients are beginning to prefer English
medicines rather than to trust to the laying on of hands by the mullah.
When any one has been bitten by a mad dog, which, considering the
number of street dogs, is of very rare occurrence, he goes at once to a
sheikh, who will give him an antidote. This consists of a date from
which the stone has been taken, and into which the sheikh has spat two
or three times to fill up the gap caused by the removal of the stone.
Upon eating this, the man [283]is supposed to be free from all
fear of the development of hydrophobia.
These are merely a few of the superstitious customs found in Mosul
to-day. Had we time or space they might be multiplied many times over,
but enough, I trust, has been said to awaken love and sympathy in our
hearts for these simple folk, whose minds are so easily influenced and
guided by these useless and often degrading
“Heart-chilling superstitions, which can
glaze
Even Pity’s eye with her own frozen
tears.”
Coleridge. [284]
