Fountains in the Sand - Rambles Among the Oases of Tunisia by Norman Douglas
page 24 of 174 (13%)
page 24 of 174 (13%)
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I have seen them so distended with food as to be literally incapable of moving. Only yesterday, there swept past these doors a bright procession, going half-trot to a lively chant of music: the funeral of a woman. I enquired of a passer-by the cause of her death. "She ate too much, and burst." During the summer months, in the fruit-growing districts, quite a number of children will "burst" in this fashion every day. _Mektoub_! the parents then exclaim. It was written. And no doubt there is such a thing as a noble resignation; to defy fate, even if one cannot rule it. Many of us northerners would be the better for a little _mektoub_. But this doctrine of referring everything to the will of Allah takes away all stimulus to independent thought; it makes for apathy, improvidence, and mental fossilification. A creed of everyday use which hampers a man's reasoning in the most ordinary matters of life--is it not like a garment that fetters his hands? _Mektoub_ is the intellectual _burnous_ of the Arabs.... There is some movement, at least, in this market; often the familiar story-tellers, surrounded by a circle of charmed listeners; sometimes, again, a group of Soudanese from Khordofan or Bournu, who parade a black he-goat, bedizened with gaudy rags because devoted to death; they will slay him in due course at some shrine; but not just now, because there is still money to be made out of his ludicrous appearance, with an incidental dance or song on their own part. Vaguely perturbing, these negro melodies |
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