ABRAHAM MITRIE RIHBANY
An intense seriousness is one of the prominent characteristics of the writings of the immigrant; for immigration is a serious and often a hazardous undertaking, as the immigrant best knows. But that he has not failed to appreciate the amusing side of the readjustment period is evidenced by the many touches of humor in his accounts of his relation to his new environment. One of the most pleasing and inspiriting of these accounts is “A Far Journey,” by Abraham M. Rihbany, who was born in Syria in the year 1869, and who came to the United States with little money, but with much native intelligence and an open and receptive mind and soul, eager for the very best that America has to give.The bad effects of the gregariousness of the foreigner in America have frequently been pointed out and deplored; most writers on immigration have failed to see or mention any of its benefits. It is interesting to know the opinion on this vexing question of one who has himself passed safely through a critical transition period. Speaking of his own experience he says that the Syrian colony in New York “was a habitat so much like the one I had left behind me in Syria that its home atmosphere enabled me to maintain a firm hold on life in the face of the many difficulties which confronted me in those days, and just different enough to awaken my curiosity to know more about the surrounding American influences.” Impelled by the question, “Where is America?” and longing for “something more in the life of America than the mere loaves and fishes,” he determined to leave New York and “seek the smaller centers of population, where men came in friendly touch with one another, daily.”
An intense seriousness is one of the prominent characteristics of the writings of the immigrant; for immigration is a serious and often a hazardous undertaking, as the immigrant best knows. But that he has not failed to appreciate the amusing side of the readjustment period is evidenced by the many touches of humor in his accounts of his relation to his new environment. One of the most pleasing and inspiriting of these accounts is “A Far Journey,” by Abraham M. Rihbany, who was born in Syria in the year 1869, and who came to the United States with little money, but with much native intelligence and an open and receptive mind and soul, eager for the very best that America has to give.
The bad effects of the gregariousness of the foreigner in America have frequently been pointed out and deplored; most writers on immigration have failed to see or mention any of its benefits. It is interesting to know the opinion on this vexing question of one who has himself passed safely through a critical transition period. Speaking of his own experience he says that the Syrian colony in New York “was a habitat so much like the one I had left behind me in Syria that its home atmosphere enabled me to maintain a firm hold on life in the face of the many difficulties which confronted me in those days, and just different enough to awaken my curiosity to know more about the surrounding American influences.” Impelled by the question, “Where is America?” and longing for “something more in the life of America than the mere loaves and fishes,” he determined to leave New York and “seek the smaller centers of population, where men came in friendly touch with one another, daily.”
I was told while in Syria that in America money could be picked up everywhere. That was not true. But I found that infinitely better things than money—knowledge, freedom, self-reliance, order, cleanliness, sovereign human rights, self-government, and all that these great accomplishments imply—can be picked up everywhere in America by whosoever earnestly seeks them. And those among Americans who are exerting the largest influence toward the solution of the “immigration problem” are, in my opinion, not those who are writing books on “good citizenship,” but those who stand before the foreigner as the embodiment of these great ideals.
The occasions on which I was made to feel that I was a foreigner—an alien—were so rare that they are not worth mentioning. My purpose in life, and the large, warm heart of America which opens to every person who aspires to be a good and useful citizen, made me forget that there was an “immigration problem” within the borders of this great Commonwealth. When I think of the thousand noble impulses which were poured into my soul in my early years in this country by good men and women in all walks of life; when I think of the many homes in which I was received with my uncomely appearance and with my crude manners, where women who were visions of elegance served me as an honored guest, of the many counsels of men of affairs which fed my strength and taught me the lasting value of personal achievements, and that America is the land of not only great privileges, but great responsibilities, I feel like saying (and I do say whenever I have the opportunity) to every foreigner, “When you really know what America is, when you are willing to share in its sorrows, as well as its joys, then you will cease to be a whining malcontent, will take your harp down from the willows, and will not call such a country ‘a strange land.’”
Of all the means of improvement other than personal associations with good men and women, the churches and the public schools gripped most strongly at the strings of my heart. Upon coming into town, the sight of the church spires rising above the houses and the trees as witnesses to man’s desire for God, always gave me inward delight. True, religion in America lacks to a certain extent the depth of Oriental mysticism; yet it is much more closely related than in the Orient to the vital issues of “the life which now is.” Often would I go and stand on the opposite side of the street from a public-school building at the hour of dismissal (and this passion still remains with me) just for the purpose of feasting my eyes on seeing the pupils pour out in squads, so clean and so orderly, and seemingly animated by all that is noblest in the life of this great nation. My soul would revel in the thought that no distinctions were made in those temples of learning between Jew and Gentile, Protestant and Catholic, the churched and the unchurched; all enjoyed the equality of privileges, shared equally in the intellectual and moral feast, and drank freely the spirit of the noblest patriotism.
My struggles with the English language (which have not yet ceased) were at times very hard. It is not at all difficult for me to realize the agonizing inward struggles of a person who has lost the power of speech. When I was first compelled to set aside my mother-tongue and use English exclusively as my medium of expression, the sphere of my life seemed to shrink to a very small disk. My pretentious purpose of suddenly becoming a lecturer on Oriental customs, in a language in which practically I had never conversed, might have seemed to any one who knew me like an act of faith in the miraculous gift of tongues. My youthful desire was not only to inform but tomovemy hearers. Consequently, my groping before an audience for suitable diction within the narrow limits of my uncertain vocabulary was often pitiable.
The exceptions in English grammar seemed to be more than the rules. The difference between the conventional and the actual sounds of such words as “victuals” and “colonel” seemed to me to be perfectly scandalous. The lettercis certainly a superfluity in the English language; it is never anything else but eitherkors. In my native language, the Arabic, the accent is always put as near the end of the word as possible; in the English, as near the beginning as possible. Therefore, in using my adopted tongue, I was tossed between the two extremes and very often “split the difference” by taking a middle course. The sounds of the letters,v,p, and the hardg, are not represented in the Arabic. They are symbolized in transliteration by the equivalents off,b, andk. On numerous occasions, therefore, and especially when I waxed eloquent, my tongue would mix these sounds hopelessly, to the amused surprise of my hearers. I would say “coal” when I meant “goal,” “pig man” for “big man,” “buy” for “pie,” “ferry” for “very,” andviceversa. For some time I had, of course, to think in Arabic and try to translate my thoughtsliterallyinto English, which practice caused me many troubles, especially in the use of the connectives. On one occasion, when an American gentleman told me that he was a Presbyterian, and I, rejoicing to claim fellowship with him, sought to say what should have been, “We are brethren in Christ,” I said, “We are brothers, by Jesus.” My Presbyterian friend put his finger on his lip in pious fashion, and, with elevated brows and a most sympathetic smile, said, “That is swearing!”
But in my early struggles with English, I derived much negative consolation from the mistakes Americans made in pronouncing my name. None of them could pronounce it correctly—Rih-bá-ny—without my assistance. I have been called Rib-beny, Richbany, Ribary, Laborny, Rabonie, and many other names. An enterprising Sunday School superintendent in the Presbyterian Church at Mansfield, Ohio, introduced me to his school by saying, “Now we have the pleasure of listening to Mr. Rehoboam!” The prefixing of “Mr.” to the name of the scion of King Solomon seemed to me to annihilate time and space, and showed me plainly how the past might be brought forward and made to serve the present.