Algeria from Within/Chapter 8

Standing alone and quite apart from the native officials just mentioned are the marabouts. The name is derived from the Arab word marabet, which originally meant one who served as a soldier in a rebat or fortress built on the frontier of Mohammedan countries as defense against the infidel, and which became a base of attack against Christian neighbors.

In the forts the Moslem soldiers gave themselves over to acts of piety. When the days of holy war had passed the rebats were converted into religious buildings, and a marabet was, therefore, a holy man, an apostle of Mohammed.

Marabouts in North Africa are now holy men who claim direct descent from Mohammed. There are a few who by that virtue alone become marabouts, and it can be imagined, therefore, that there are a considerable number of these saints in Algeria. Any Arab village which respects itself has a marabout or two buried in the cemetery, and a great many have them living on the premises. They have no official position, and their influence depends entirely on their own personality. In some cases they are great figures wielding an enormous amount of power, which is utilized by the French Government for its own ends, and they are incidentally treated with much consideration.

On the other hand, as practically all the male children of marabouts inherit the title, there are many ​who are completely insignificant, I will even say unscrupulous and immoral, and who live on what they can make out of the poor and credulous followers of the Prophet. They are not always educated, and though they have probably studied the Koran their knowledge on other matters is very rudimentary. Many of them profess to be doctors, and though their methods are very primitive, wonderful cures have been known at their hands, chiefly owing to the faith of those treated.

They are almost all rich men, owning flocks in the sheep-breeding areas, date-palms in the far south, and extensive properties in the north. This wealth comes from the offerings of the faithful in return for blessings and prayers for their welfare.

This, of course, leads to a great deal of abuse, and there are very many of these holy men who reap in hoards of wealth which they spend on sumptuous living. Moreover, as it is supposed to be an act of grace to be in the following of a marabout their servants are not paid, and are practically slaves whose lives are in the hands of their master. They are beaten or punished at will with no redress, as it is rare that information leaks out officially to the French authorities, who prefer to interfere as little as possible with these holy men, whose religion seems, in their own eyes, to absolve them from all acts of unrighteousness.

They drink alcohol, they rape, they live in the utmost disorder, imposing unscrupulously on the believing faithful. If they find people who oppose them they cast spells on them or curse them into eternity, and the number of credulous folk who believe in this is extraordinary.

Some of them are good at sleight of hand and perform childish conjuring tricks which leave their followers in a state of gibbering astonishment. I ​remember once confounding a fairly decent type of marabout who conjured before me by explaining the trick. But, though he was rather upset, I saw that the people's faith was not in the least shaken. Naturally the well-to-do Arabs of good family do not respect these law-breaking saints, and say that though their ancestry must be considered, they can not be regarded as real marabouts, whose lives are examples to all the faithful.

However, against these rogues there are many exceptions: men of great piety who spend a good deal of time and money in relieving the suffering of the poor, and who have devoted a great part of their existence to the study of sacred writings, while in practise they strictly follow the principles of the Koran.

All marabouts, disorderly or otherwise, are at the head of what is known as a zaouia. A zaouia is supposed to be a kind of retreat for men and women, but chiefly women, who are tired of worldly things. They give up all they have, be it one sheep or a large-acred property, to the marabout, and in return are clothed, lodged and fed for the rest of their lives in spiritual beatitude. They also have to work, tilling his land, looking after his horses, weaving carpets and burnouses, etc., the produce of their work being nominally used to raise further money to help the needy.

In the case of the conscientious marabouts this is done, but the practise is also a source of personal revenue to the unscrupulous. However, good and bad alike, they all have that Arab spirit of hospitality and charity, and any person, rich or poor, can always claim lodging and board with the blessing of the holy man.

The zaouias are occasionally a sort of seminary where young men who wish to be muftis or imams ​go to study, but since the creation of competitive examinations at the Medersa the pupils of the teaching zaouias have greatly diminished.

Occasionally one comes across female marabouts. As a general rule they are not much respected by the educated Arabs, and their field of action lies chiefly among the poor women who believe that they have miraculous powers to cure diseases and ward off the evil eye. These women are sometimes, though not always, the wives of marabouts, and they are also the children of holy men who have no sons. There have been two very notable ladies of maraboutic standing, Lalla Zineb, of El Hamel, near Bou Saada, and Lalla Aurelie Tidjani, of Aïn Mahdi, near Laghouat.

The marabout is married in exactly the same way as any other Arab, and if he is sufficiently wealthy he keeps a well-stocked harem. Cases occur when the sons of marabouts do not take on their father’s title but live like ordinary citizens. There are also a few descendants of the Prophet who have never been marabouts because they say that their ancestors were never inspired by Heaven; but, generally speaking, the position of a holy saint is too tempting to let slip by.

I have a great friend who is a marabout. His name is Hadj Mohktar, and he lives at Chellala, on the rolling plain above the Sahara. He is a dignified old gentleman, about sixty years old; though like most Arabs he does not know his age. His eyes, which are piercingly black, twinkle merrily when he is amused; he has a good sense of humor and a brain far superior to that of most of his caste.

He has been twice to Mecca, but this does not stop him from drinking a glass of wine when it is offered to him. He is rich and has some of the finest flocks in North Africa.

One night, hearing that I was at the hotel, he came ​up to see me after dinner. I offered him some champagne, which he drank with evident pleasure. After a little preliminary talk about the prospects of sheep-breeding that year, he asked me if I would care to take a walk with him in the village. I accepted, expecting to be taken to a gathering of learned muftis, but to my surprise we wended our way to the reserved quarters of the native dancing-girls. Our entry into the house we sought caused, to say the least of it, a sensation. The girls precipitated themselves towards the old man and kissed his shoulder and his turban. Cushions were brought, carpets and rugs, and a throne was made for him. I was accommodated with a stool at his feet. A tray was brought with honey cakes and milk, but the marabout waved it all away.

"Bring me beer," he commanded.

Beer was brought and we solemnly clinked glasses.

Dancing-girls from the neighboring houses appeared and kissed his turban. A few men drifted in, but seeing who was present, discreetly disappeared.

The marabout turned to me solemnly and said:

"In your country do you have dancing-girls as in North Africa?"

I shook my head.

"Neither did we before the French came. Your people have much wisdom," he replied. "They are Christians, are they not?"

"Yes," I said, "but there are also Jews in my country, and in our dominions there are Mohammedans and Hindus and Buddhists."

The old man’s eyes fixed themselves on me.

"But are there, then, other sects than Mohammedan, Christian, and Jew?"

"Oh yes," I went on, and I tried to give him a rough outline of the other faiths of the world. He listened to me in silence.

​"You are very young," he said at last, "but you have the wisdom of a great marabout."

He spoke no more, and sat fingering the coral beads from Mecca, deep in meditation. I sat quiet, too, contemplating the amazing scene before me. The dark blue and red carpets, the flickering candles casting grotesque shadows on the ceiling, the flaming colors of the girls’ dresses as they sat in a semi-circle contemplating their noble guest, while their bracelets and anklets gleamed in the dark corners of the room.

Suddenly the old man turned to me again.

"You have a great doctor called Voronoff, have you not?" he asked.

"Well, he does not come from my country, but he is a European," I replied.

"I have studied his teaching," went on the old man. "Can he really rejuvenate the old?"

"For a short time I believe," I said, "but I have really not gone deeply into the question. Personally I do not quite see the value of being made to live beyond our appointed time."

The old man smiled.

"You are wise, but you are young. When you feel the weight of years weighing on you, you will wish again to have all your vitality, all your faculties. And yet our death is destined, and what can a human do? Mektoub!"

He bowed his head and seemed again lost in meditation.

"Youth fades rapidly, and old age lasts long," he said at last. Then, rising, he moved toward the door. Outside a warm breeze struck our faces, the stars seemed large and bright in the dark heavens; over there, down the street, one could hear the deep notes of the Arab flute drawing out its plaintive tune, the rhythmical beat of the tam-tam struck our ears.

​"They play a melody of the far south," he said. "It is very beautiful, it is very sad. The heart of the Arab dominated is sad. I will leave you. May Allah bless and keep you young long. Tomorrow we will visit my flocks. Inch Allah."

He held out his hand, pressed mine, raised his fingers to his lips and then placed them on his breast. He flung the white burnous over his shoulder and disappeared into the night.

The note of the flute drifted up with the wind, and I walked back to the hotel with a feeling of great peace of mind.