The Sign and the Seal
Page 15
‘That’s what I thought. But I’m puzzled.’
‘Why?’
‘Mainly because none of the tabotat I’ve seen looked anything like the biblical description of the Ark. They were all slabs, sometimes made of wood, sometimes made of stone, and none of them were much more than a foot long and wide or more than two or three inches thick. If objects like these are supposed to be replicas of the relic kept in the church of Saint Mary of Zion in Axum then the logical deduction is that that relic can’t be the Ark of the Covenant after all …’
‘Why?’
‘Because of the biblical description. Exodus clearly depicts the Ark as a fair-sized rectangular chest. Hang on, I’ll look up the details …’
I took down my copy of the Jerusalem Bible from the bookshelf above my desk, turned to Chapter 37 of Exodus, found the relevant passage, and read out how the artificer Bezaleel had built the Ark according to the divine plan given to him by Moses:
Bezaleel made the Ark of acacia wood, two and a half cubits long, one and a half cubits wide, one and a half cubits high. He plated it, inside and out, with pure gold.11
‘How long exactly is a cubit?’ Gedai asked.
‘Approximately the length of a forearm from the elbow to the tip of the middle finger – in other words about eighteen inches. So that means the Ark would have been about three feet nine inches in length and two feet three inches in width and depth. Tabotat simply don’t fit those dimensions. They’re much too small.’
‘You are right,’ Gedai mused. ‘Nevertheless we do have the original Ark of the Covenant. This is certain. In fact there is even an eyewitness description.’
‘You mean the one given by the Armenian legate Dimotheos?’
‘No, no. Certainly not. He saw nothing. I am referring to someone who came much earlier, a geographer named Abu Salih – who was also an Armenian, by the way. He lived in the very early thirteenth century and he made a survey of Christian churches and monasteries. These churches and monasteries were mainly in Egypt. In addition, however, he visited some neighbouring countries, including Ethiopia, and his book contains material on these countries as well. That is where the description of the Ark is given. If I remember correctly it does accord quite well with what you have just read me from Exodus.’
‘This book of Abu Salih’s? Has it ever been translated into English?’
‘Oh yes. A very good translation was made in the nineteenth century. You should be able to find a copy. The editor was a certain Mr Evetts …’
Two days later I emerged triumphantly from the stacks of the library of the School of Oriental and African Studies in London. In my hand was B. T. Evetts’s translation of Abu Salih’s monumental Churches and Monasteries of Egypt and some Neighbouring Countries.12 On page 284, in small print, I found the subheading ‘Abyssinia’ followed by eight pages of observations and comments. Amongst them was this reference:
The Abyssinians possess the Ark of the Covenant, in which are the two tables of stone inscribed by the finger of God with the commandments which he ordained for the Children of Israel. The Ark of the Covenant is placed upon the altar, but is not so wide as the altar; it is as high as the knee of a man and is overlaid with gold.13
I borrowed a ruler from the librarian and measured my own leg from the sole of my foot to my knee: twenty-three inches. This, I felt, was close enough to the twenty-seven inches given in Exodus to be significant – particularly if the statement ‘as high as the knee of a man’ had referred to a man wearing shoes or boots. I knew that such a rough measure could never be conclusive as a piece of evidence; on the other hand it by no means excluded the possibility that the Armenian geographer had seen the original Ark of the Covenant when he had made his visit to Ethiopia in the thirteenth century. And anyway, from my point of view, the real importance of the account that he had given was this: it indisputably described a substantial box or chest covered with gold rather than a slab of wood or stone a few inches thick like the tabotat that I had seen – or, for that matter, like the tabot that had been shown to Dimotheos in the nineteenth century.
Equally significantly, Abu Salih had given some details about how the object that he had seen had been used by the Christians of Axum:
The liturgy is celebrated upon the Ark four times in the year, within the palace of the king; and a canopy is spread over it when it is taken out from its own church to the church which is in the palace of the king: namely on the feast of the great Nativity, on the feast of the glorious Baptism, on the feast of the Holy Resurrection, and on the feast of the illuminating cross.14
There could, it seemed to me, be no question but that this early and quite matter-of-fact eyewitness account provided considerable support for Ethiopia’s claim to be the last resting place of the genuine Ark of the Covenant. The dimensions and appearance were roughly right and even Abu Salih’s description of the way in which the relic that he had seen had been covered with a ‘canopy’ when transported was in accord with the regulations laid down in the Bible:
And when the camp setteth forward … they shall take down the covering veil and cover the Ark with it. And they shall … spread over it a cloth.15
So far so good. But though the Armenian geographer was helpful, he still did not provide me with any answer to the knotty problem posed by the shape of that category of objects known as tabotat. Nor was this problem one that I could afford to ignore. I therefore decided to check out the etymology of the Ethiopic word. In its pure and original form, I wondered, did tabot actually mean ‘Ark’? Or did it mean ‘stone tablet’? Or did it mean something else altogether?
My investigation into this matter took me into intellectual territory that I had never charted before (and that I would prefer never to have to chart again), namely linguistics. Ploughing through reams of obscure and boring documents I established that the ancient Ethiopian language known as Ge’ez, together with its modern and widely spoken descendant Amharic, are both members of the Semitic family of languages, to which Hebrew also belongs.16
I then learned that the word most frequently used in biblical Hebrew to refer to the Ark of the Covenant was ’aron,17 which obviously bore no similarity whatsoever to tabot. There was another Hebrew word, however – tebah – from which scholars agreed that the Ethiopic tabot had undoubtedly been derived.18
I next sought to confirm whether this word tebah had featured in the Hebrew Old Testament, and, after further research, I discovered that it had – though only twice. Significantly, in both cases, it had been used to refer to a ship-like container: first the ark of Noah which contained the survivors of the human race after the flood,19 and secondly the ark of bulrushes which contained the infant Moses after his mother had set him adrift on the Nile to save him from the wrath of Pharaoh.20
Turning to the Kebra Nagast I then found one passage in which the Ark of the Covenant was specifically described as ‘the belly of a ship … Two cubits and half a cubit shall be the length thereof, and a cubit and half a cubit the breadth thereof, and thou shalt cover it with pure gold, both the outside thereof and the inside thereof.’21 Within this ‘belly of a ship’, furthermore, were to be placed ‘the Two Tables which were written by the finger of God’.22
Such language left no room for doubt. Both in terms of its etymology and its early usage the Ethiopic word tabot unambiguously connoted the biblical Ark of the Covenant in its original form as a gold-covered container – a form for which the ‘belly of a ship’ could serve as a clever metaphor capable not only of summoning up an image of the object but also of linking it conceptually to earlier ‘ships’: the ark of Noah and the ark of bulrushes, which of course had both also contained sacred and precious things.
By the same token, however, tabot definitely did not mean or in any way connote flat solid slabs of wood or stone. So there was still a genuine mystery here. That mystery, however, was finally resolved for me by Professor Edward Ullendorff, Fellow of the British Academy and the first incumbent of the Chair of Ethiopian St
udies at the University of London. Now retired and living in Oxford, this renowned scholar insisted that he could see no difficulty in explaining how slabs of wood or stone had come to be referred to as ‘Arks’ by the Ethiopians:
The genuine Ark is supposed to rest at Axum; all other churches can only possess replicas. In most cases they are not, however, replicas of the whole Ark, but merely of its supposed contents, i.e. the tablets of the Law … In other words: the description of these stone or wooden tablets as tabotat is simply by way of a pars pro toto referring to the most important part of the Ark, the tables of the Covenant.23
Flies in amber
By eliminating an apparent contradiction, Ullendorff’s solution to the tabot problem lifted one of the clouds of doubt that hovered over Ethiopia’s claim to possess the lost Ark. Other clouds remained, however. Amongst them, one of the darkest was brought to my attention by Ullendorff himself. In a paper entitled ‘The Queen of Sheba in Ethiopian Tradition’ he had indicated very strongly that the Kebra Nagast was not to be taken seriously as a work of history; rather its purpose had been to glorify Ethiopia and it was to this end that the Ark had been introduced into it.24
Nor was Ullendorff alone in the view that the Kebra Nagast was largely apocryphal. In the Introduction to his translation of that great epic, for example, Sir E. A. Wallis Budge pointed out that it was most unlikely that the Queen of Sheba could have been an Ethiopian at all: ‘It is far more probable’, he wrote (rehearsing an argument with which I was already somewhat familiar), ‘that her home was Sebha, or Saba, in the south-west of Arabia.’25
Several authorities made much of the fact that in Solomon’s time – a thousand years before Christ – Ethiopia had not possessed any real civilization of its own and certainly had not boasted an advanced urban society capable of producing so illustrious a monarch as the Queen of Sheba. Indeed, the consensus was that enlightenment had not even begun to dawn in the Abyssinian highlands until about the sixth century BC and had not reached any level of sophistication until some four hundred years after that. Neither could this period of progress be regarded as an Ethiopian achievement: instead the catalyst had been an influx of Arab tribesmen whose ‘superior qualities’ had revolutionized the sluggish culture of the native inhabitants. Coming mainly from the Yemen, these Semitic immigrants had
settled in the north of Ethiopia and in the process of assimilation with the local population brought about a cultural transformation. They brought with them gifts beyond price: religion, a more highly-developed social organization, architecture and art, and a system of writing.26
In short, Ethiopian civilization was not only much more recent than the Axumite legends implied but also had been borrowed from elsewhere. In their heart of hearts, furthermore, most Ethiopians knew this to be true and felt deeply insecure about their heritage. Indeed one standard work of history went so far as to suggest that the Kebra Nagast was popular because it filled a deep psychological need on the part of the Abyssinians ‘to prove their ancient origins … Parvenu peoples, like parvenu individuals, hanker after ancestors, and peoples have as little scruple in forging family trees as have individuals.’27
In my view the importance of all these arguments lay less in the notion that the Kebra Nagast was mainly a work of fiction (since that did not preclude the possibility that what it had to say about the abduction of the Ark could have been based on some real event), but rather in the consensus that Ethiopian civilization was relatively young and that it had been derived from South Arabia.
This consensus had a real bearing on my attempts to establish the legitimacy of the Ethiopian claim to the Ark because it applied not only to the general civilization of the highlands but also – and quite specifically – to the Falashas. The Kebra Nagast stated quite plainly that the Jewish faith had been introduced into Ethiopia in the 950s BC when Menelik and his companions had arrived with the Ark (indeed it even said that the Queen of Sheba herself had been converted to Judaism).28 On the face of things, therefore, the existence of indigenous black Jews in Ethiopia looked like significant corroborative evidence for the Ark’s presence. On closer examination, however, this turned out not to be the case – or at least not according to the scholars. As Richard Pankhurst had told me in 1983,29 the academic establishment was overwhelmingly of the opinion that the Jewish faith was unlikely to have reached Ethiopia before the second century AD, and that it had been brought across the Red Sea from the Yemen where a large Jewish community had indeed been established after AD 70 by emigrants fleeing Roman persecutions in Palestine.30
One of the strongest proponents of this view was Professor Ullendorff, who presented a long argument on the subject in his influential Ethiopia and the Bible and who concluded quite emphatically that the ancestors of the Falashas must have been converted by Jews who had ‘entered Ethiopia via South Arabia’ over a lengthy period from AD 70 through until about AD 550.31
I decided that I would have to investigate this issue very thoroughly. If the Judaism of the Falashas was indeed less than two thousand years old – and had come from Arabia – then a great swathe of apparently convincing ‘cultural corroboration’ for direct contacts between Ethiopia and Jerusalem in Old Testament times would be obliterated at a stroke and Axum’s lcandidacy as the last resting place of the Ark would lose much if not all of its credibility.
Soon after I began this new phase of my research, however, it became apparent to me that the scholarly consensus in favour of ‘the Yemeni theory’ had largely come about because there was an absence of evidence for any alternative theory. There was nothing whatever which proved that the Jewish faith could not have arrived by some other route; on the other hand there was no proof that it had. The tendency therefore had been to focus on South Arabia as the likely source because it was known that there had been other migratory movements from that region into Ethiopia.32
This struck me as a deplorable failure of logic in which absence of evidence, which was one thing, was in fact being treated as evidence of absence – which was quite another. To reiterate, the problem was a lack of proof that Judaism might have arrived in Ethiopia much earlier and by a different route than the scholars believed; but there was no proof at all that this could not have been the case.
I therefore felt that the field was open and that what I needed to do in order to satisfy myself one way or the other was to study the traditions, beliefs and behaviour of the Falashas themselves and to draw my own conclusions about their origins from these. I thought it likely, however, that their religious observances would have been adulterated during the twentieth century by extensive exposure to western and Israeli visitors. I therefore turned to older accounts that depicted their way of life before it had been contaminated by modern cultural change.
Ironically, several of these accounts were written by foreigners who came to Ethiopia with the express intention of engineering cultural change, notably nineteenth-century Christian missionaries who had heard rumours of the existence of a sizeable population of Abyssinian Jews and who had rushed to convert them.
One such evangelist was Martin Flad, a young German who arrived in Ethiopia in 1855 to proselytize on behalf of the London Society for Promoting Christianity amongst the Jews.33 His book, The Falashas of Abyssinia, was published in 1869. I found a worn and much-handled copy of it in the British Library and soon became intrigued by several passages in which the author insisted that there must have been Jews in Ethiopia at least since the time of the prophet Jeremiah (around 627 BC34), and possibly since the reign of Solomon. Flad based this assertion in part on the fact that:
The Falashas know nothing of either the Babylonian or the Jerusalem Talmud, which were composed during and after the time of the captivity. They also do not observe the Feasts of Purim and of the Dedication of the Temple, which … are still solemnly kept by the Jews of our time.35
On further investigation, I discovered that the Feast of the Dedication of the Temple was properly known as Hanukkah (meaning, litera
lly, ‘Dedication’). From my point of view the most significant fact about it was that it was instituted in 164 BC36 and therefore would certainly have been observed by the Jewish community that established itself in the Yemen after AD 70. The academic orthodoxy which had previously persuaded me to see the Falashas as the descendants of Ethiopians converted by these Yemeni Jews thus suddenly began to look very suspect. To put matters as plainly as possible, non-observance of Hanukkah suggested only one rational conclusion: the Falashas must have acquired their Judaism before 164 BC and thus not from the Yemen but from some other source.
I next researched the Feast of Purim of which Flad had also found Ethiopia’s Jews to be ignorant. This festival, too, I learned, had been observed since at least the second century BC. Indeed it was quite possibly of even earlier provenance than that: the events that it commemorated took place in the mid-fifth century BC and several of the authorities whom I consulted suggested that its observance had become widely popular by 425 BC.37 This raised the interesting possibility – of which Flad himself had obviously been convinced – that the Falashas had become isolated from the evolving body of world Judaism well before that date, perhaps during the sixth century BC.
I now had a growing sense that the gap between Abyssinian legend and historical fact was closing fast: five hundred years before Christ, after all, was only four hundred years after Solomon. It was beginning to look more and more probable that the Judaism of the Falashas had arrived in Ethiopia in early Old Testament times – just as the Kebra Nagast and the Falashas themselves had always claimed. If this were so, then the implications were clear: at the very least the story of the abduction of the Ark to Ethiopia by Menelik deserved to be taken much more seriously than the academics had hitherto allowed.