Category Archives: Lebanon

A Methodist in Palestine

In 1904 the proud D.D. Methodist Robert William van Schroik, at the age of 61, boarded a German steamer in New York for a 70-day trip to the Holy Land. The cost was $550 to cover the entire trip on sea and land. The number of travelers on the ship was over 800. This was obviously not the first Protestant American pilgrimage to the Holy Land and the travel book that was produced is nowhere near the quality of the classic The Land and the Book, first published in 1859 by the American missionary William Thomson. Our 1904 journeyman called his book The Book and the Land, a pale reflection of the earlier classic. This tale of Sunday School biblical adventure has a dedication: “the bravest of all Crusaders and Discoverers, Christopher Columbus,” although the direction of sail was reversed. If you are not interested in reading the dull prose of this anti-classic, you can follow the highlights in the post below.

The steamer, somewhat larger than the boat Jonah was thrown off

It took eight days to reach Madeira and the first major stop after Gibralter was at Algiers. The ship docked at 1:30 am while the intrepid traveler was taking a bath. Once ashore the fact that he did not know Arabic or French limited his visit. As he laments, “In two or three instances by motion of lips and hands, and even feet, I tried to make myself understood, but it was useless, and, like many others, I resigned myself to my environments.” He was very much the precursor of the “ugly American”, as shown in his comment on the Arabs of Algiers: “Our drive to the Arab quarters, where poverty, disease, imbecility, and squalor were much in evidence to our optical and olfactory senses, showed us how wide is the gulf which separates our Christian, Bible loving America from this country, where the inspired word of God is scarcely seen or read.” I am not sure if our Robert expected to find a Gideon Bible in his hotel room, but I suspect there was none since the Gideons did not start placing Bibles in hotels until 1908 and that was in Montana.

Like many other steamer-rolled Holy Land visitors, it was the idea of walking where Jesus had walked that excited this lay Methodist. For sure he was no “innocent abroad” in the wake of Mark Twain. He shared his steamer suite with two Presbyterians, a reverend and a missionary. As he explains, “We are all good travelers, untroubled by seasickness, and so far we have not missed a meal. We joke each other occasionally about our denominationalism but as all things are foreordained, according to their creed, and we Methodists have the right to choose the best on sea and land, I have chosen them to be good fellows to room with on a ship. So our Calvinism and Arminianism combine beautifully, and stateroom No. 628 is doing its full part to hasten the millennium.” Over a century later the hastening of the prophetic Millennium appears to be ongoing.

After scenic stops in Malta, Athens and Corinth, they reach Constantinople. Here there was a lecture that was greatly appreciated by our itinerant Methodist: “Mr. Pears ‘s lecture was especially fine in the information he gave concerning the museum where many of the relics are unmistakable proofs of those Bible statements most severely criticized. For example, the stone in the museum, positively from Solomon’s Temple, which speaks of the penalty imposed on those who profane the temple fully answers the criticisms of those who tell us that Jesus, a youth, could not have driven the people with a whip from the temple, as it would have created a riot throughout the city.” Whether or not the museum held the foreskin of Jesus is not mentioned. It should be noted that Charlemagne, who said the holy prepuce was given to him by an angel, presented the holy relic to Pope Leo III in 800 CE in exchange for recognition as king. Apparently it disappeared at a later time from Rome.

Eventually the tour reached Beirut, where some 21 brave ones took a train to Baalbek. Our traveler lists his companions: “Of the other members of our party, missionaries, preachers, bankers, business men, two were from Iowa, two from Illinois, one from Arkansas, one from Louisiana, two from Massachusetts, two from Smyrna, two from Beirut, one from Kansas, one from Oregon, one from Sidon, Syria, one from Toronto, Canada, one from Sofia, Bulgaria, three from Saint Louis, Mo., one from Ohio, and one from Michigan.” It was indeed a cosmopolitan group of pilgrims. Yet another lecture was provided, where it was noted that some people say Baalbek was founded by Cain some 133 years after the creation of Adam, although some suggest “Nimrud, the mighty hunter.” But here is the clincher: “There is little doubt that it is the Baalath where Solomon built a castle in honor of the Queen of Sheba, and where he also built a temple to please his concubines after he departed from the worship of God to the worship of Baal.” What a gentleman the ancient Israelite king was, taking care of his hundreds of lust-filled concubines after he got religion.

Arriving in Damascus they were put up in the luxurious Grand Hotel D’Orient of the Kaonan Brothers proprietors, but they quickly went into action. “We took carriages at once and drove to the street ‘called Straight’ and saw the house of Judas, the first house Paul visited in Damascus and where the scales fell from his eyes when Ananias put his hands upon him. Near this house was the fountain where Paul was baptized.” In the evening they watched the sunset at a place overlooking Damascus, which they were told was where Muhammad received his first revelation from Allah. And even more, “We also saw the maple tree, called ‘the tree of the holy prophet,’ said to be one thousand three hundred years old. It is of fifty feet girth, over sixteen feet diameter.” They also visited the grave of Fatima, Muhammad’s daughter. It was a very diligent interfaith agenda in this part of Syria.

The Grand Hotel in 1920s

Leaving Damascus, our emotional Methodist penned the following praise: “Damascus! Star and Crescent combined; Emerald of Syria; Eden of our first parents; Abraham’s mount of vision where he had his first revelation of God; where Paul, too, received the heavenly vision to which, like Abraham, he was not disobedient; where Mohammed got an intenser love for the paradise not of earth Damascus! May all that is noble, beautiful, and magnificent in thy long history be repeated and more than duplicated in all the coming ages, and all that has been dark, cruel, superstitious, and unworthy of thee be forever forgotten.” I suspect that this tribute has yet to be translated into Arabic.

Now the sacred object of the tour was close. “A whole book could be written of what we saw and thought at Nazareth, Galilee, and Samaria, where so much of our Saviour’s ministry was spent, but we must on to Jerusalem,” writes our impatient Methodist pilgrim. It was clearly not a whole book he chose to write. On the way the sites of biblical dimensions were almost everywhere. “Our guide pointed to the hill where Samson was born, but we learn that many other places contend for the honor of having been his birthplace.” Imagine that. Perhaps there was a lock of Samson’s hair back in the Istanbul museum.

In Jerusalem he first visited the American Colony, where he was served cake and hot tea. “As we sallied forth that which impressed me was the cosmopolitan character of the people I met. Jews, Arabs, English, French, Scotch, and Americans were to be seen, and twice as many other nationalities were represented,” notes our pilgrim. Now all of Bible history came to light. “I found here the sublime and ridiculous in most convenient juxtaposition. For example, here was the very spot from which the earth was taken out of which Adam was created, and just a few yards away was his tomb. Here was the very spot where the crucifixion occurred, the brass hole wherein the cross was placed marking the center of the earth and, in the cellar of the church, the shrine where Helena, mother of Constantine, discovered in a vision the true cross. Everything is here.” But, “the strangest thing of all is the credulity of thousands upon thousands who accept these claims with the utmost sincerity.” Then, he continues: “All the surroundings show the genuineness of the Bible narrative recorded in the fifth chapter of the gospel by John.” I believe he says this with the utmost sincerity.

Jerusalem is, of course, close to Jericho and the Dead Sea, so off our hero went. “I confess to some nervousness, as our carriage, drawn by three horses, would swing perilously near the precipitous cliffs below the roadway. To add to my trepidation, the drivers are proverbially careless, and often give free vent to their propensity for driving past the teams ahead of them.” It seems he survived, since he later wrote his travelogue. “At about half the distance from Jerusalem we stopped to rest the horses at the Inn of the Good Samaritan, where many curios were purchased. The old inn bears every mark of being on the site of the hostelry to which a kind-hearted Samaritan would have carried a man who had been robbed and wounded and left half dead by the thieves.” Our dear Methodist does not report finding any wounded Samaritans on this part of the trip, but I am sure he would have taken such a person to this very inn. Later he left the carriage to visit the site where Elijah fed the ravens. He does not say if he saw any ravens and what he fed them if he did; nor was there any sign of a chariot in the sky. The heat was rather intolerable; he estimated it at about 150 degrees. Fortunately the group arrived back in Jerusalem in time for lunch.

Samaritans wisely traveling in a large group

The goal of the voyage was The World’s Fourth Sunday School Convention, held in Jerusalem for three days in April. “It was replete with interest. For the full report I refer my readers to the ‘Official Report of the Cruise,’ which is to contain stenographic reports of all the lectures, sermons, addresses, etc., including the convention, from the time we left New York, March S, until our return. May 19.” Our stenographic Methodist then lists the number of attendees by nationality, there being 701 Americans out of a grand total 1,526 individuals representing 23 countries, including six from Japan and one from New Zealand. It was an international Sunday School fest not unlike the Mohammedan pilgrimage.

Eventually the host returned to New York. The parting thought in the book is praise of travel.
“The only know the world is to see it, and the present facilities for travel offer every opportunity of reaching even ‘earth’s remotest bound.’ What are you toiling for? Why are you saving money? To buy another farm? to add to your mortgage or bank account ? Of what avail will it all be if you only come to have a plethoric exchequer and a lean intellect ? mind your best capital? Isn’t your mind your best capital? isn’t it worth your while to drop the mad pursuit wealth or pleasure and fit yourself, by travel and observation, to better act your part in life’s soon to be ended?”

Amen to that. The plethoric exchequer would indeed be a sad way to live.

And here is our pilgrim at last:

Loti on Palestine

First English translation of ‘La Galilée’, an account of Pierre Loti’s travels in the Holy Land from Jerusalem to Beirut, via Damascus and many other interesting places, in 1894.  

Pierre Loti (1850-1923) was born Louis-Marie-Julien Viaud into a Protestant family in Rochefort in Saintonge, South-West France (now Charente Maritime). He was an officer of the French Navy and a prolific author of considerable note in 19th-/early-20th-century France, publishing many novels and numerous accounts of his travels around the world. He was a member of the French Academy. Apart from his literary talents, Loti was a pioneer photographer and this translation of his journey from Jerusalem to Beirut in 1894 is greatly enhanced by the reproduction of some of the photographs he took at the time.  

Volume includes 12 historic photos taken by Pierre Loti and 1 map.

For details. click here:

Poetry and the Poet

by George Nicolas El-Hage, Ph.D.

Poetry is the language of prophecy spoken by the angels and gods when they populated this earth before the fall. Hence, the poet is the offspring of that divine race that has since departed our planet to the lofty skies.

Man will never regain his divine status until he embraces his spirituality. Consequently, we have to use language differently. We have to say less and mean more before we are able to communicate effectively. Words should be spontaneous and timeless. They are meant to be charged with emotions and to embody visions that illuminate experience and communicate nothing but the truth.

The poet is not a prophet if prophecy is understood to be the prediction of future events, but the poet should be viewed as a seer if instead, prophecy is meant to be a warning that if man goes on doing such deeds, then the result will be dire.

Although poetry could be national or regional, nevertheless, it shall never be divorced from its universal message and concerns. It is within this context that I write my poetry and hope it will help make our world a better place, one word at a time.

Samples of My Poetry (Translated from the Original Arabic):

“If You Were Mine”
No, I shall not tell you that I became a poet.

The day I read joy and sadness in your smile and witnessed the sun rising in your eyes, I abandoned my heart, crucified on the ivory ramparts of your face, and setting sail, I strove to navigate the deep waters of inspiration.

That day, I discovered my inner self in the mirror of your pure love, and I vowed to tell you this in words. These are some of them.

You are aware that I consider myself responsible before you for the many words yet left unsaid, more so than those recounted.

Possibly my arrival would be delayed tomorrow. I must prepare myself well. The journey for a poet is long and provisions costly and burdensome.

Perhaps I would find you watching for me and would forget the hardships of travel. Perhaps the sun could have set in your eyes, your black lashes drawing the curtain on the windows of waiting. I know I would be plunged in sorrow. For I have made all the preparations. I would leave the memory of my anguish planted in a tear and write upon its looking-glass: “If you were mine.”

“A Vision”
I bathe every day in the stream of vision.
I wear the cloak of poetry, and I write in the notebook of each morning a new sun.
I create scenes and heroes.
I draw them with colors and words, and they become perfect beings.
They live and die, but I resurrect them anew.
I live with them and become one with them.
I modify their existence and alter their destiny so as to remain their master and their creator.
I am the poet of illusion; my poems are worlds of light
populated only with those who sincerely believe
that poetry is the road to God
and that my poems are the beginning of this road.

“Surprise Attack”
Sway with the breeze
Bow like a lily
Disdain wounds
Become buds
Scattering spring
And light
Stopping tears
And gales
Descend softly with the dew
Become a mound of anemones
The color of my blood
Attack the gardens
Regain your tranquility
My queen
Penetrate the darkness of eternity
Put your arms around the waist of space
The minutes are impregnated
The gardens would be born
Soar with the echo

Be born as you desire
Sister of dawn
Torture hearts with love
Put out the stars of your sky and the moon.
Light anxious eyes
To illuminate your world
Even if the day explodes in fury
Killing itself
Tame wild mares, and meadows
And shadows, tame the multitudes

Pile yourself up
Like autumn’s notebook
Turn inward
Embracing the void as you fall
Couple with the soil
Become heavy with grapes

Sink your roots into my breast
Deep as the carefree shaking
Of a bird’s wing
By the roadside
Or a pulse from within the earth’s darkness
Teach me of the seen
And the unseen
Let your fragrance perfume the wind
Like frankincense
Or dahlias

Become the lines in my hand
For you are the ecstasies of beauty
In my poems
Open within me
Like a star
Like a smile
Watch over my portals
Like a breeze
Fill my windows
Scatter the day
Fill my temple

Become flesh
If only once, become flesh
You would delight in being
The substance of matter, and madness
In enraptured eyes
Attire yourself in the form of letters
And their curves
Tint the syllables
For your garment of beauty is blue
Giving the sky its color
In my hand is a plume
Melting between my fingers
Dripping letters
And blood.

“My People”
I vowed to rise in the eyes of the sun
To have its light wear me as a morning
To build a castle in yesterday’s country
And become the Easter of your holidays.

I relate to you a myth about me
With love and my hands I build your home
I visit you in my poems and my dreams
With the warmth of your eyes I light my tomorrow.

I build for you from the sap of my eyelashes
A swing in the shade of our Cedar tree
Its ropes are my hope and my sinews
And my solemn belief in our awakening

If you had listened to the cry of my lyrics
You would have become again one family and friends
You are the conscience of poetry within me
And the sweet wine in my cup.

I traveled from you to remain for you
I make no distinction… you are all my loved ones
If your love should weaken
Take my blood and the throb of my heart.

“You, Beirut, and the Children”
As the leaves of October,I scatter myself over your blazing inferno;
Your divine and succulent body
From its forbidden summits
Down to its ravenous depths and fertile valleys.

As a summer cloud bearing spring,
I shower gentle kisses upon your flushed lips
Whose color gives the rose its crimson
Whose benevolent banks are a bed of red anemones.

Glory to your heavenly eyes,
Two lakes of pearl and coral
I am the maker of dreams,
Of bracelets most precious
Grant me to fashion an enchanted bangle
For thy delicate wrist.

Your hair,
Waterfalls roaring in the twilight,
Forests of bewilderment,
Fields of ripened grain blessed by the harvest sun
Nourish me from your bountiful fruits.

I am the titan of lovers
Emerging from the womb of legends
Lost in the annals of ancient fables
My odyssey yearns for a happy ending
With the beautiful princess.

O my friend,
In this time of madness
Rootless with each step
Heart forged of iron
What may we hope to plant
But dejection?What may we hope to reap
But regret?
What may we hope to build our home upon
But the banks of sin?

O my Magdalene
My virgin
My sweet lamentation
My beloved City
Lend me your voice
So I can speak unto them

War has broken my wings
My throat is barren
My strings rusted
And despair has muffled my hymn

Tell them to spare the children
To let the children live and dream

YOU, enemies of innocence
Let the children bloom
Let love conquer the forces of darkness
Let peace reign.

Suffer the little children to come unto me
Let my beloved approach
Let my City live
For unto them alone is
My love
My kingdom
My poetry.

For the published poetry books of George El-Hage, click here.

Open Access to Middle East Journals and Newspapers

For anyone doing research on the Middle East for the past two centuries, there is an incredible archive online. Details below:

Alphabetical List of Open Access Historical Newspapers and Other Periodicals in Middle East & Islamic Studies

Below is a list of Open Access historical newspapers and other periodicals in Middle Eastern Studies.
Most titles on the list have been digitized by independent projects across the globe and may not have been fully cataloged. It is often difficult to find and access them on the web or through catalogs such as HathiTrust, AMEEL, Gallica, Revues, WorldCat, etc.
We welcome your comments and suggestions of additional titles to include. Please use the comment feature at the bottom of the page.

For the list of active Open Access journals follow this link:
Alphabetical List of Open Access Journals in Middle Eastern Studies

132 titles as of May 14, 2015.

Abou Ali Issa: The Lebanese Hero Of The Tripoli Explosions


This is Ali Issa’s face. It deserves to become imprinted in our collective memory as a nation.

State of Mind, January 12, 2015

Two days ago, Tripoli got hit with death yet again as a terrorist attack took place in its Jabal Mohsen neighborhood.

The politics and intricacies of the attack are many, but there is one story of heroism springing out of the horror that took place on Saturday that no one is talking about. I figured I will, because this particular story about these kinds of people are the ones that make you see that faint silver lining in all the mayhem.

Many have wondered how come a café as crowded as the one attacked in Jabal Mohsen only amounted to less than 10 casualties. That’s because the suicide bombing attack didn’t go according to the two terrorists’ plans.

Among those was a brave, courageous, heroic man called Abou Ali Issa. He was a father of seven. When the first suicide bomber detonated himself, people started gathering at the site. Abou Ali Issa who wasn’t even at the café at the time rushed to the site to see what was happening. It was then that he saw the second suicide bomber approaching the premises to detonate himself and kill much more people than the first one did. The bomber shouted “Allahou Akbar.” Abou Ali Issa rushed at him and tackled him, preventing the bomber from reaching the café, killing the people inside. The bomber then detonated himself, killing them both.

He didn’t care about the sects of those in the cafe. He didn’t care if he was saving the lives of Sunnis, Shia, Alawites or Christians. Abou Ali Issa did not care about his own life as he was faced with a choice most of us would never face: save others or save yourself. He chose the former.

This man who saved hundreds of life will never become a viral sensation. His funeral was broadcast yesterday, along with that of the 7 other people that died with him, on a split-screen on Lebanese TVs, not even worthy of full screen treatment.

In a few days from now, no one will remember that there were two suicide bombers in Tripoli who targeted innocents, let alone the existence of a man who prevented those terrorists from doing so much more harm hadn’t he sacrificed his own life to save everyone else.

Today, there are hundreds of families in Tripoli and Jabal Mohsen who owe their wholeness to Abou Ali Issa. They owe him the presence of their fathers, mothers, brothers, and sisters. They owe him the sheer relief they felt when their loved ones came back home that day.

Abou Ali Issa’s family, his wife and seven children, did not get that same sense of relief and happiness. Their family will never be whole again, and justice for their father and husband will probably never come.

This is my attempt to make the memory of their father and husband that of a national hero, as it should be, as he is the kind of people who deserve to be paraded around as national symbols, as household names who should never be forgotten, because people like him are rare to come by and they should always be cherished and honored and respected.

May he rest in peace. There are fewer people deserving of such peace.

Update: The Daily Star has covered the story here and here.