Open Writing

I was now posted to the Horns Personnel Office as an assistant to Farouk Shaabani, and incidents came to our notice showing the other side of the story. At T4 station, a Britisher walked out and knocked a golf ball about in the desert. When he returned, the Security Police arrested him and locked him in a cell. His crime was failing to report to them for permission to leave and then re-enter the station. At another station, when a film was being shown in the mess, the Security Police burst in, stopped the showing of the film, or any future film, until such time that each performance started and ended with the playing of the Syrian National Anthem, when everybody would stand as a mark of respect.

I had occasion to drive up the line to T3 on business. I reported to the Security Police in Palmyra; they were all new. No welcoming shouts of Ahlan wa Sahlan this time; instead, he rudely took no notice of me and kept me standing in front of his desk, like a schoolboy in front of a master; then he looked up,

"Passport!" he demanded loudly. I handed it to him. For a moment he looked at it and then tossed it back so that it fell on the floor. As I stooped to pick it up, he turned to the other officer and said, in Arabic,

"Look at him; another son of a dog Englishman on his knees to pick up his dirty passport. Welcome the day when they all leave." The other added, 'Yes, may Allah damn their religion; I'll be happy to throw them out of our country into the sea."

I said nothing.

Before leaving Palmyra, I sent a messenger to Tewfiq asking him to meet me on my way back, and then continued on to T3. Business completed, I headed down the line towards Palmyra. Seeing the tents of the Spa'a tribe I stopped for a coffee and chat with my old friend,Sheik Sou'an, who greeted me like a returning brother. I reminded him how his eight-year-old son had challenged me to a shooting match.

With his first shot, his son smashed the target. With my first shot I nearly smashed my shoulder with the recoil but missed the target. Now, I asked Sheik Sou'an what type of rifle it had been, where he had found it and at what price. Laughingly, he acknowledged that it was not really the best rifle he had and suspected that it was something from the French in World War 1. Then he showed me his own rifle and told me the price he had paid for it. I noticed two soldiers sitting quietly in the background; one of them asked me my name when I left. I thought nothing of it.

In Palmyra again, I left the sullen Security Police to be greeted by a smiling Tewfiq, who could not stop shaking my hand, and led me to a cafe. And there they were: a number of ex-members of the pipeline Gang drawn up in a long line, as if on parade. "As salaam alaykum", I cried out, and back came a loud shout of, "Wa alaykum es salaam", together with huge grins and laughter and perpetual cries of, "Ahlan wa Sahlari"

I walked along the line, like royalty, stopping, shaking hands with them as Tewfiq introduced me. I had a word for each: "How are you, Mustapha?...Hullo, Abdul Hameed, how is your wrist now, after your accident?...! am happy in your presence, Khalid, are you still fighting with Ibn Ahmed? Where are you, Ibn Ahmed?" An answering shout from further down the lrne..."Ah! There you are."... And so the inspection continued. Standing there in the background, watching the whole scene, were the Security Police. One of them approached me just as I was about to leave, and spoke in Arabic,

"So, you speak Arabic."

"Not as well as I would like to."

"Do you know many Syrian Arabs?"

'Yes, they are my friends."

"Do you discuss politics with them?"

"No. I am not interested in your politics. Why? What is wrong? Why the questions?"

"Never mind the questions. I will ask what I like. If I wish I can arrest you for questioning."

"May Allah give you strength and guide you." He glared at me for a moment,

"You may go."

"Thank you; I am obliged for your kindness."

Before leaving I was able to tell Tewfiq that a permanent job was waiting for him at T4 station, as Foreman of Labourers, to start the next day. It was a pleasure to see the smile of complete delight on his face, probably matched only by mine.

Leaving Palmyra, we headed towards T4, but on the way I saw some more Bedou tents and dropped in to pay my respects to Sheik Hameed. We chatted over coffee about the day that the riot took place at T3. Once more I noticed two soldiers in the background, silent, staring, and they also asked me for my name before I left. I thought it more than a coincidence that soldiers were stationed with the Sheiks and that, on both occasions, they had taken my name. We continued our journey back to Horns.