152
CAIRO TO DAMASCUS
Captain Zaki threatened to leave, depriving the Followers of
Truth of military leadership. The sheikh insisted they must
remain. "After all, I brought you here. I've paid you. I've fed
you and housed you in comfort." The Green Shirts countered
by saying they had left Cairo to fight the Jew in Palestine, not
stagnate in a pigsty. The atmosphere was charged with tension. East and West henchmen rarely spoke now, except in
anger, hands on revolvers or daggers. I tried to be friendly to
both sides, and keep out of the family quarrel. One reads about
"explosive" situations. This was it! If anything blew up, I
knew I'd be in the middle of it, for the Arab temper, usually
quiescent, once aroused becomes blind in its passions.
That night once again I heard the chant: "We are going to
fight for Allah and Allah will protect us from harm." As we
weren't going anywhere, I wondered why the war cry this time
of night. It continued for an hour and was driving us to
desperation.
"They don't know any better." Moustafa said. "They are
fanatics!"
I decided to investigate.
"Don't stay away long," Moustafa warned. "They don't like
us—and especially they don't like Americans. Don't go inside
their tent."
I walked past their sentry. "Assalamu aleikum. Peace be
upon you," I said.
"Wa aleikuin salam," he grunted. "Upon you peace."
I opened the tent flap. The sight was common enough.
Against a background of colored canopies and rugs, the
fellaheen fighters, crosslegged on mats, were swaying rhythmically, in perfect accompaniment to the weird chant. Their eyes
were half-closed as if under trance, their faces feverish. This
was Jehad, in the making. I had no doubt that some of them
had taken hasheesh. The leaders were reading responsively to
the chant from dog-eared copies of the Koran. Some Followers
of Truth were in their American army surplus khaki, in full
battle dress, with steel helmets, cartridge belt, daggers and all.