Open Writing

One Sunday Busty and I decided to set off into the desert to see the location, about 20 miles out, where he had been in action in the Syrian Campaign of World War 2.

We were 18 miles from our camp when our Humber faltered and stopped. Busty carried out an inspection and diagnosed that we had run out of petrol, even though the fuel gauge was showing 'Full'. Luckily, we had stopped near two Bedouin shepherds, who were passing the time knitting coarse wool with huge wooden needles. In reply to my question they told me that the tents of their tribe were about five minutes’ walk over a nearby wadi.

Climbing the slope, I saw them — a few small, black dots in the far distance, shimmering in the heat haze. The 'five minutes’ walk', Bedouin time, turned out to be a plod across the desert of nearly one hour. On arrival, I saw that it was only a small part of a tribe. The Sheik was really a 'shoo-weik', or in modem parlance, a mini-sheik. A real Sheik could have hundreds of tents under his control and would often live in Damascus or Baghdad, in a large, comfortable house and growing flabby and lazy, leaving some lesser relation to live in the desert with the tribe.

I paid my respects to the Sheik and explained to him our predicament, whereupon he promptly sent a man out to get Busty. Busty had dozed off and was awakened by a fierce looking Bedou regarding him. When the Bedou beckoned him, Busty let go of the large spanner he had quickly grabbed, and followed him to our sanctuary.

Our host, although poor, killed a sheep in our honour, and we sat on the floor in the low black tent as evening fell, and fed, eating the meat with our fingers. Afterwards, we sat cross-legged in front of a twig-and-dried-camel-dung fire, drinking cups of coffee and talking into the night.

At one stage we all stood up as a visitor joined us. He was given food, and as he ate he talked with the Sheik about sheep grazing and camel breeding and the whereabouts of his tribe, the Beni Khalid. In fact, but for the foreign language, surroundings and dress, they could have been two farmers in Oxfordshire, chatting about local market conditions.

Later in the night from somewhere our host brought us eiderdowns and cushions. Wrapping our heads in our jackets, for fear of catching trachoma, a common eye disease leading to blindness, we slept among the Bedou. There, in the middle of the Syrian desert, miles from nowhere, in complete safety. Nobody would molest us or rob us or attack us because we were the guests of the 'Son of an Arab', and under the protection of a Bedouin in his tent. He would have killed anyone who endangered us.

I was told in my Bedou education that in earlier days of intertribal warfare, if an enemy ran into his opponent's tent and cried out, "I am under your protection," then no harm came to him, provided that he remained inside the tent. The moment that he left it, his host would kill him. When going into battle the womenfolk would walk with breasts exposed towards the enemy, ahead of their own tribal warriors. The women were never harmed or touched as they shouted to encourage their men. I wondered what happened if they came breast to breast with the enemy's women supporters. I should imagine that there would have been no holds or dirty tricks barred, in a real free-for-all.

At dawn, a rescue truck arrived with Abdul, Busty's foreman, a can of petrol and a very worried Hassan, who chastised me.
"You should have told me, oh Master. I knew the petrol gauge was broken; I was going to take it to the Workshop this morning. You should have let me come with you and I would have filled it with petrol. You should never go off into the desert without telling anybody."

He was right. It had been absolutely stupid of me, and lucky indeed that a few tents of the Dulaimee tribe were there. The Sheik's son and a companion had set out, walked through the night, travelling by the stars and local knowledge for 18 miles on our behalf, and raised the alarm for help at the pipeline camp.

Even that was not enough in their opinion. Two days later the Sheik himself came to my office in the tent. He had also walked the 18 miles and brought with him a goat and a tin of yoghurt as gifts, for the honour we had bestowed on them with our presence. A great people! I explained to him that our American boss refused to allow goats to be kept. I then made a pretence of being delighted with the yoghurt and accepted it with many thanks.

Tewfiq reminded me that two Bedouin watchmen had walked off the job into the desert, so we took the Sheik's son and the companion as watchmen. Then, loading the goat into the back of the Humber, Hassan drove the Sheik home in style and brought back the two recruits, delighted at their unexpected good fortune. The delight was mutual.

I loved the desert. Sometimes Hassan and I would stop the car miles from anywhere and get out to rest a moment. One such occasion remains vividly in my memory, and always will. I walked away from the car and with my back to it, just stood there, absorbing the whole scene of magnificent splendour.

I could see from horizon to horizon as they melted into a cloudless blue sky. It was space, infinite space, flat, huge, gigantic, limitless space. Its vastness suddenly overwhelmed me. I lifted my arms with palms upward and fingers wide, reaching out as if to embrace the universe. The silence was so quiet that it rang in my ears with loudness. I felt small and insignificant in my place on this huge planet, and yet I felt myself a part of the grandeur of the whole, magnificent, spectacular scene.

Then came a sudden surge of feeling in complete unity with the universe, with the whole mystery of existence, an existence without end, stretching far beyond the confines of our life span. I was filled with an unexplainable energy and a feeling of complete relaxation and calmness. A feeling of exhilaration came over me, of elation, of peace, of tranquillity. I cupped my hands to my mouth and yelled at the top of my voice, "HULLO, GOD!" And then, in Arabic, "ALLAH AKBAR!" 'God is Greater’.

Slowly, I returned to normal became aware of where I was and turned round towards the car. Hassan was standing there, silent, watching me. He smiled, "I understand, oh Master, I understand. By Allah the Almighty, you must be the son of an Arab."

I stood still as I saw that he was thinking, staring at the ground for a moment, then he looked up. “You know, oh Master, I worship Allah. You also worship Allah but you call him by a different name. But we both worship the one Allah, do we not?"

“Yes, oh Hassan, you are right. We both worship the one Allah, only our name for him in English is 'God'. You, the Arabs, call him 'Allah’. Yes, you are right, you and I both worship the same Allah, but by different names. We are all brothers, oh Hassan, in the eyes of Allah, are we not?"

Hassan smiled, “Yes, oh Master, we are all brothers in the eyes of Allah."

Then, spontaneously, our hands met in a firm handshake of understanding, brotherhood and friendship.