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CAIRO TO DAMASCUS
armbands. As we walked on the platform they maneuvered
me into the middle position so that if anyone asked questions
there would be many to answer in Arabic. We trooped past a
gauntlet of inspectors; one of them halted Moustafa, and
asked about us. He was joined by another who made a random
check of our knapsacks. He chose to dig into mine. Happily
it contained nothing but clothing. He spoke to me in Arabic:
Moustafa and Captain Zaki quickly volunteered the answers.
The man waved us on. . . . We had passed the last Egyptian
checkpost and were free to go on to Palestine.
"He wanted to know if you have a camera," Moustafa said,
when we were out of earshot. "It is forbidden in a military
zone."
"From now on," Zaki added, "tell no one you are from
America. Forget you are an American/ You are an Armenian
from Turkey. Speak only Armenian and Turkish to strangers."
We headed toward a shanty town on the outskirts of Rafa,
to make arrangements for transportation to Beersheba, Arab
headquarters at the gates of the Negev, the great southern
desert of Palestine. Rafa itself had boomed in the last few
months, and served as an outpost for volunteer fighters, gunrunners, and Arab refugees already fleeing from Palestine. As
early as the end of March 1948, C