Bethlehem and Jericho
353
I chose this moment to break the news to Moustafa that I
was leaving.
"Where are you going, Artour?"
"I want to see the rest of the Arab countries, Moustafa."
I found it hard to take leave of my friend. Once again, in
the face of Zaki's vile charges, he had saved my life. I could
easily have been disposed of otherwise, for Captain Sidki and
his fellow fanatics were sole custodians of law and order in the
area. We walked together down the road—the big shaggy
Arab and the American journalist. Culturally and intellectually we were worlds apart. Yet we had much in common. It is
difficult to explain, perhaps because it was a thing of the
spirit: the bond between one human being and another, the
common heritage of a common birth, the oneness of a common brotherhood. How superficial and petty are the artificial
distinctions of religion and race when God, in His infinite
wisdom, and Nature with her immutable laws, have created
one universal race of man from which we have all stemmed.
"Good-bye, Artour."
"Good-bye, Moustafa."
TO JERICHO
TO REACH Amman, capital of Jordan, one had to return
to Jerusalem. I learned of a route back to the Holy City more
direct than that over which I had been driven so recklessly.
It was largely a wild donkey path, skirting the Wilderness of
Judea, and snaking its way between towering hills. As most of
it was unguarded, it was also used by smugglers in trafficking
with the Jews. Several small Arab villages lay on the way.
I started out in late afternoon when donkey and cart traffic
was heavy. To meet any emergencies, from a piece of rope I
fashioned something that looked—or was supposed to look—
like a cross. I hung it around my neck. I pinned the Arme-