Off for the Holy War!
145
(I counted myself among them, as distinguished from the
Followers of Truth.) We were more Europeanized. Our clothing (except mine) was mostly United States army surplus, or
parts thereof, with Green Shirt insignia. We didn't chant
about Allah protecting us from harm. Nearly all spoke some
English. In addition to Moustafa, there was Captain Zaki,
wearing an Egyptian army uniform, who was now "on leave,"
like hundreds of others. There was Sabri, Moustafa's closest
friend, and Mahmoud, the most dapper amongst us. I found
myself with these four most of the time.
"Let's eat," Moustafa said.
While Captain Zaki and Sheikh Azaayim haggled with the
customs officials, seven of us climbed a near-by sand dune and
sat down to breakfast. It consisted of black olives, raw onions,
and stale kmaj—thin, brownish, round-shaped bread, a half
inch thick. We spread the food on a newspaper and devoured
it in record time. Captain Zaki and the sheikh met us with
long faces. The customs officials were adamant. They had received special orders from the Ministry of Interior not to let
us through.
"Is it because I, an American, am with you?" I asked
Moustafa.
"No, Artour. There are other reasons. We will camp at
Ismailia, and sneak into Palestine in small groups. Yallah!"
"Yallah! Yallah! Yallah!"
The call served as a bugle cry. Nothing had been unloaded,
so we clambered into the trucks, drove through Ismailia's business district, and on to an outlying mud-built village that
comprised the native quarter. This was to be home for the
next four days, while we devised plans to steal into