Off for the Holy War!
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American Indian fashion. It is a native custom called zaghareed. An old man with fierce features brandished a thick
cane and yallah'd us on. The trucks started their grinding
motors, adding to the racket. And now, like a cacophonous
orchestra, came the noise of rasping horns, followed by children screaming, and mothers squealing to get them into the
doorways. The six roaring motors sounded like a squadron of
B-29's. Clouds of dust swept up, hiding the houses, the
women, and the children from view. Our send-off was nothing
short of triumphal. I wondered, fleetingly, if the Followers of
Truth would return the same way.
We rode through narrow, twisting streets and then our
cavalcade of trucks turned into a broad boulevard. Banners
flying, the Followers of Truth broke into a chant: "We are going to fight for Allah, and Allah will protect us from harm."
They kept it up, word for word, as we roared toward the heart
of Cairo, speeded on by deafening cheers from the crowds. We
stopped all traffic at every intersection. The trucks screeched
to a halt in a highly congested area. A crowd collected. Men
broke through to the front and began to deliver impassioned
speeches. "We want to come with you. . . . Kill them till the
ground is red. . . . Bring Palestine back with you. . . ."
"Artour, Artour!" It was Moustafa waving me off the truck.
"I've been recognized," was my first thought.
"Hurry up," Moustafa called. "They want you."
I began clambering down.
"Hurry, Artour," I felt a violent tugging. "They want you
to take pictures!"
I almost hugged Moustafa. ... I saw that we were in
front of the office of EI Ahram, a Cairo daily. It was dusk. A
satisfactory photograph would be difficult. I called a chunky
Follower of Truth, and made him bend over to serve as a tripod. Green Shirters, Followers of Truth, Hussein, Azaayim, a
policeman, and people off the sidewalk lined up in the usual
jumble. My reputation as a photographer was at stake. "Hold
these people still for just one second," I begged Moustafa.