Bethlehem and Jericho
357
came down the trail, prodding his laden donkey before him.
"Sabah il-kher," I said. "Good morning."
"Sabah il-kher" he replied, and moved on.
A moment later another Arab came down the road. He
was an oldish man with close-set eyes, no brighter facially
than the donkey on which he was mounted. He rode on it
with his stubby legs astride, his sandaled feet sticking out on
each side, keeping step with the donkey's hopping stride.
"Sabah il-kher" he said.
"Sabah il-kher," I answered.
A talkative old man, he stopped the animal and jabbered. . . .
"Ana Inglisi. Mura'asif la ahki Arabie," I said. "Assalamu
aleikum. Peace be upon you."
He looked at me a moment, his eyes narrowing into slits.
"Yahoodi," he yelled, suddenly. "Yahoodi! Jew!"
"La, la, la. Ana mish Yahoodi. No, no, no. I'm not a Jew.
Armani. Inglisi. Armenian. English. Ana mish Yahoodi."
"Anta Yahoodi! Anta Yahoodil You are a Jew! You are a
Jew!" he screamed.
I whipped out an identification card, the one issued by the
Mufti's Arab Higher Committee in Jerusalem. He held it
upside down.
It dawned on me that the old man was illiterate.
"Yahoodi! Yahoodi!'" he screamed like a siren, in a voice
that carried deep into the mountain crags and the village below. He jumped off the donkey, snatched at his dagger and,
still yelling Yahoodi, Yahoodi, roared down at me.
I took to my heels down the trail. He was easy to out distance, but racing toward me was the young Arab I had met a
minute ago. He was brandishing his dagger above his head;
the sun's glare made it dazzle like a fiery sword. I felt for a
moment as though Damocles' blade was about to fall on me.
There was absolutely no escape! Below me was the chasm,
with precipitous sides. I'd roll to the bottom without stopping. Above me was the escarpment. I'd be overtaken easily