354
CAIRO TO DAMASCUS
nian medallion and St. Christopher's medal (with the Jewish
mezuzah attached from the same chain) conspicuously on my
chest. I put a small Bible in the breast pocket of my military
shirt so that it protruded slightly. Learning the Arabic word
for "Christian pilgrim," haj Nosrani, I sallied forth, knapsack
on shoulder, every inch of me shrieking the stranger and the
Christian pilgrim from somewhere.
When peasants and villagers spoke first, I answered them
solemnly, first touching my heart, lips, and forehead with my
fingers:
"Ma salama. Ana haj Nosrani. Peace be with you. I am a
Christian pilgrim."
"Allah ma'ak," they said. "God be with you."
To those who wanted to carry on a conversation, I explained:
"Ana Inglisi. Muta'asif la ahki Arabic I'm English. I am
sorry I don't speak Arabic. Salam Allah aleikum. God's peace
be upon you."
Gangs of armed toughs challenged me often, appearing
suddenly from behind stone fences and buildings. My responses became a matter of instinct. Whenever I came to an
Arab outpost, I walked boldly into the compound, asked to
see the chief, told him I had just met with Colonel Azziz,
and demanded safe conduct through his lines. Inevitably I
found someone who knew English and acted as interpreter.
Finally I reached the last barrier before Jerusalem—the
military outpost at the Arab village of Sur Bahir, about two
miles from the Holy City. Perched atop a hill was a large stone
building literally teeming with the familiar wild-eyed volunteers. In charge was a surly Arab who spoke English. He scrutinized my credentials, then went through my knapsack,
finding only a few clothes and mother-of-pearl souvenirs
from Bethlehem. He ordered one of his men to search me
for arms. Then he leaned over and examined my medallions.
"What is this?" he asked, fingering the Jewish mezuzah.