Footprints in the Desert

by Maha Akhtar

  Leaning against the railing, watching Izmir recede into the horizon, Salah felt the first drops of cool rain hit his face. Now what?

  He had turned thirty that spring. Eight years before, he had moved to Izmir after graduating from the American University of Beirut. His father had just died and his mother had decided to return to Cairo.

  It was 1908 and the Young Turk Revolution, led mostly by young Turkish nationalists, had succeeded. A parliament had been restored in Constantinople and the Ottoman sultan had been forced to accept the changes that came with a constitutional monarchy.

  A talented engineer and a congenial fellow, Salah had gotten a job quickly with the Chemin de Fer Imperial and was assigned to work on the Hejaz Railway, which was being built from Damascus to Medina in the Hejaz region of the Arabian Peninsula. The route was part of the Ottoman railway network and meant to link Constantinople, the capital of the empire and the seat of the Islamic caliphate, to the Hejaz, where the holy city of Mecca was located.

  Salah was hired just as track construction reached Medina about two hundred miles short of Mecca. Hard work and dedication put him in good stead with his superiors and he was promoted to assistant chief engineer and finally to chief engineer for the narrow gauge railway line that began operating under his watchful eye. No one was prouder than Salah when he stood next to top Ottoman government officials at the ribbon-cutting ceremony at the Damascus Station in 1913. Salah had also suggested and spearheaded the construction of a branch that veered west to Haifa and the Mediterranean and had just begun track construction in Medina heading toward Mecca when World War I broke out.

  He had certainly never meant to become a spy. He’d always envisaged a rather tame, conventional life for himself: a good job, a pretty girl, marriage by the time he was twenty-five, a family … that sort of thing. He’d fallen into the espionage game by accident exactly a year before in Damascus when he met Prince Faisal bin Hussein, the son of Hussein bin Ali, the sharif of Mecca.

  May 1915

  There was a problem with the railway line between Kiswa and Deir Ali, just south of Damascus. The track gauge was too narrow and the heavier trains were derailing. Adding to the challenge was the terrain: it was mountainous and therefore rocky and unstable and Salah was in an office in the Interior Ministry in Damascus trying to find a solution.

  “Sayyidi,” a voice addressed Salah politely as he pored over a map, his eyebrows furrowed, a pencil stuck behind his ear.

  “Hmmm?” Salah said absently without looking up.

  “Sayyidi, it is almost eight o’clock,” the voice said. “May I please have your permission to go home? I will be back first thing in the morning.”

  “Hmmm.” Salah stood up, still frowning in concentration, pursing his lips.

  “Sayyidi?”

  Salah looked up and stared blankly at a man not much younger than himself.

  “Ah, Rabih!” he finally said, recognizing the architect from his team. “I’m so glad you’re here. Look, brother … I was thinking …” and he pulled the pencil out from behind his ear and pointed to a spot on the map. “If we can somehow go around this curve of the mountain, then I think we have a chance. The question is whether we can build a depot and a station in that spot. What do you think?”

  “Sir,” Rabih said apologetically. “Would it be possible to look at this tomorrow? It’s just that I promised my family that I would be home for dinner.”

  “You’ll get home for dinner,” Salah replied. “It’s only six o’clock.”

  “Actually, Sir, it’s eight.”

  “What … ?” Salah said, taking his pocket watch out of his waistcoat, staring at it, shaking it around to make sure it was working. He shook his head. “Where does time go?” he muttered.

  “Off you go, Rabih,” he added. “I’ll be right behind you. I have to run too.”

  Salah rolled up the map and put it back in a drawer before grabbing his jacket from the coat stand in the corner. He had half an hour to get home, change into black tie, and get to his friend Rafic Tabbara’s home for a dinner party.

  Salah walked out into a beautiful spring evening. The sun was just setting and the air was cool and refreshing after a day in the office. He breathed deeply, inhaling the fragrance of the jasmine bush he passed by. He was looking forward to seeing Rafic, Wissam, and Khaled, his three best friends from university. It had been a few years since he’d seen Rafic and Wissam, and despite Khaled having moved to Izmir to work on the Chemin de Fer Imperial as a lawyer, he had seen very little of him, mainly because of their respective schedules, the irregular hours Salah kept, and the frequent trips he had to take to the Hejaz. He had seen more of Khaled’s wife, Noura. Ah! Noura … her perfume, her hair, her eyes … The last time he’d seen her, she’d come laden with fruit and cakes, claiming that Salah was not eating properly. They’d sat and had tea and talked and laughed. And he remembered the silence that followed after she’d left and how empty the apartment felt without her.

  Stop it, Salah. She’s married to your goddamn best friend.

  It was almost nine o’clock when Salah rang the doorbell of Rafic’s home in Bab Tuma, a neighborhood in the old city.

  The door opened and a servant bowed respectfully. “Masa al khair.”

  “Masa an nour,” Salah replied.

  “Sayyidi is in the garden with the other guests. If you would follow me, please?”

  Salah looked around as he walked through. It was a lovely old Damascene house that gave on to a courtyard open to the sky. A fountain in the middle spouted fresh spring water, and the surrounding gardens were filled with citrus trees and fragrant jasmine bushes. The archways, columns, and doors were intricately painted and the floors were tiled.

  As he approached the courtyard, Salah saw four men standing in a circle talking, while waiters with trays of different kinds of juices and mezze stood off to the side waiting to be summoned. He knew all of them except for one who was dressed in typical Arab dress: a long white tunic, black cloak, and a white scarf on his head held in place with a black and gold braided rope. The three others, Rafic, Khaled, and Wissam, were, like him, in black tie.

  Salah smiled when he saw his friends. Seeing them made him realize how much he’d missed them. Rafic was Syrian. He was short and had always been prone to being stout. He had curly black hair and dark, laughing eyes. He was an outgoing fellow with a sensitive nature and had, when they were at university, ambitions of being a poet, but had recently decided to become a cleric.

  Wissam and Khaled, both Lebanese, were of average height. At five foot eight inches, Wissam was the best looking of them all, with a headful of blonde curls and sparkling blue eyes and a spirited, impassioned personality. For as long as Salah could remember, a long line of girls had always followed him around and when he finally married his wife, Samar, he’d left behind a train of broken hearts. He was a writer and ran a newspaper called Al-Minbar that had recently been shut down for its harsh views of the Ottoman treatment of the empire’s Arab people and as a result, Wissam had spent some time in jail.

  Khaled was surprisingly shy and reserved, given his vocation as a lawyer. Slender in physique, he had dark skin, and a brooding, serious face with fine black hair and dark eyes.

  Salah grinned mischievously when his host turned to look at him.

  “Well, well!” Rafic broke away from the group and came to greet Salah. “Brother Salah! You decided to join us. I’m so glad!”

  “I am sorry for being late,” Salah apologized, warmly shaking hands with his friend before enveloping him in a hug. “I was in the office and forgot the time.”

  “No matter,” Rafic replied congenially. “Come! I think you know these two,” he said, referring to the two men who came toward them.

  Salah laughed heartily, enveloping each of them in his arms, ruffling their hair, and kissing them on the forehead. “Wissam! Khaled! So good to see you!”

  “Good to see you too, brother!” Wissam playfully punched Salah on the arm.


  “I was delighted to hear that the two of you were here,” Salah said.

  “Salah!” Rafic walked back over. “Let me introduce you to our guest of honor, Faisal, the son of Hussein, the sharif of Mecca,” he said, taking him by the elbow to guide him to the middle of the courtyard.

  “Salah Masri, this is Prince Faisal bin Hussein … Your Highness, Jalaltak, this is Salah Masri.”

  “Jalaltak.” Salah put his hand on his heart and bowed reverently.

  “Come, come.” Prince Faisal came forward, his arms open to embrace Salah, kissing him three times on the cheek as was customary. “We are all brothers here.”

  “Thank you, Your Highness. You do me a great honor.”

  “Shall we sit down to dinner?” Rafic suggested, pointing toward a round table that had been set up in the garden just off the courtyard.

  Conversation at dinner turned toward the war and the recent British land attack launched on the Gallipoli Peninsula in Turkey a few days earlier.

  “What do you think of this latest British move, Masri?” Prince Faisal asked Salah, staring at him through narrowed eyes.

  Salah put down his knife and fork and took a sip of wine, wiping his mouth with a starched white napkin before putting it back on his lap. “Well it was inevitable, I suppose, once the naval attack on the Dardanelles was repelled.”

  “Do you think they might actually reach Constantinople?”

  Salah shrugged. “Hard to say, Your Highness, but I think the British are underestimating the fighting ability of the Ottoman soldiers. Besides, the terrain is rugged and there aren’t many suitable landing beaches on the Peninsula. I think they may run into logistical difficulties in addition to being fired on by the Ottomans.”

  Prince Faisal did not reply. Expressionless, he nodded and turned his attention back to his plate.

  “So you think they will lose?” he asked carefully.

  “I’m not saying that,” Salah replied. “I’m just saying that perhaps they are being a little overconfident.”

  “Yes …” Faisal closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “They can be that.”

  As the conversation continued around him, Salah looked at the Arab aristocrat: of average height and slender build, he looked quite fragile. He had a swarthy complexion. His face was long and egg-shaped, his nose shaped like a long slim beak of a bird, and he wore a perfectly trimmed goatee and moustache. He was a serious-looking man, with dark penetrating heavy-lidded, almost hooded eyes that were impossible to read. The heavy bags under them, which reached the top of his cheekbones, added to the look of worry that enveloped him.

  Understandably, Salah thought. Things were not going well. The Turks had gone back on their word and promises of reform and greater local autonomy for the Arabs had disappeared into thin air. The Arabs were being “Turkified.”

  Constantinople had declared a jihad on Britain, France, and Russia, and urged Hussein, Faisal’s father, whom the Arabs considered their true leader, to support the call with his troops. They looked toward the Arab jihad as essential in winning the war against the British. But Hussein refused to commit.

  And now Hussein was in danger of being deposed, or even, so rumor had it, of being executed on trumped-up charges, in favor of his dispossessed cousin, whom the Ottomans thought more malleable.

  As a counter move, Hussein now seriously contemplated an Arab revolt.

  The idea had first arisen prior to the outbreak of the war when a secret dialogue began between the British and Hussein about mutual support in the face of Turkish aggression. Around the same time, Hussein had been approached by a small group of men, including Rafic, Wissam, and Khaled, who represented Al-Fatah and Al-Ahd, two of many Arab nationalist societies, to lead the Arabs in a revolt against the Ottoman Empire. At the time Hussein and his three sons, including Faisal, were skeptical about Arab unity and the strength of the Arab movement to fight the Ottomans.

  But now, as the situation with the Turks worsened, the British promised to support the revolt with money, arms, and officers and recognize and support an independent Arab state. In light of this development, Hussein changed his mind and sent Faisal to Damascus to revisit the idea of an Arab revolt with the nationalists.

  “Brother Masri.” Prince Faisal came and sat down next to Salah as the group of men enjoyed coffee and pastries in the garden. “It is very nice to finally meet you. I have heard a lot about you from Rafic and the others.”

  “Thank you … and indeed it is an honor to meet you, Prince.”

  “Tell me, Masri, why is it that you have not joined your friends in their adventures in Arab nationalism?”

  “They tried their best to persuade me, Prince,” Salah replied. “But I am not political. I am a simple man who wants to live a simple life.”

  “Are you not proud of being an Arab?”

  “Very much so, Jalaltak. But I’m not interested in going to meetings to endlessly debate and discuss issues that I don’t know much about.”

  Faisal did not reply.

  “Prince, I will support Rafic and the others as their friend, but I … am not an intellectual, or an ideologist,” he said, weighing his words carefully.

  “So you think that Arab nationalism is an ideology? That it does not really exist? Or cannot exist?”

  “Prince … the Arabs are a political mosaic. We are tribesmen, loyal to the tribe or to our religion. We have a clan mentality and I think we always will.”

  “Therefore a single unified Arab state that would extend from Aleppo in Syria to Aden in the Yemen, is not something you can envision?”

  “If it is your dream, Prince, then I pray it becomes a reality.”

  “You are a diplomatic man, Brother Masri,” Prince Faisal said.

  “Not really, Prince, just a practical one who likes to find real solutions to real problems.”

  “There are many of us who think the situation of the Arabs under the Turks is a real problem,” Prince Faisal said. “And the real solution is to get out from under the yoke of the Ottomans.”

  “Yes, Prince!” Salah laughed. “But I am an engineer who uses science, mathematics, and ingenuity to solve problems. If I could solve the Arab problem using science, I would!”

  “You are right. Neither science nor mathematics can help us, but … ,” he paused briefly. “We could use your ingenuity, Brother Masri,” Prince Faisal said, staring at Salah from his expressionless hooded eyes.

  “How so?” Salah asked.

  “I understand you have full access to the Hejaz Railway … and count many Turks and Germans among your circle of acquaintances.

  “Please … we need your help.”

  And that was how it had all begun. At first, Salah gave Faisal information about the railway, its strengths and weaknesses, and the scheduled military and civilian supply trains up and down the Hejaz. It was important information, all of which had either crossed his desk or he’d overheard during the course of a meeting with his superiors. But he had never done anything like he’d done tonight. It was something Faisal had asked him to do the last time he’d seen the prince in Mecca a couple of months before.

  “My brothers and my father and I are planning the revolt, Salah,” he’d said. “We need to know Turkish and German troop concentrations. Please … this is the last thing we will ask of you.”

  Salah leaned forward on the railing and pulled a cigarette out of his jacket. He lit it and took a deep drag. Slowly he let it out. He caught a whiff of a cigar. Seconds later, Musa Nusair came out and joined him. There were several minutes of silence as the two enjoyed their tobacco.

  “Beautiful night,” Musa remarked.

  Salah nodded.

  “That is why I love it out here … the stars, the open sky, the sound of water and the occasional dolphin. No matter what’s happening out there,” Musa pointed abstractly toward land, “out here, you can always find peace and tranquility.”

  “How did I end up here, Musa?” Salah asked. “I don’t like unce
rtainty or living on the edge and I’m not fond of danger.”

  “You could have said ‘no.’”

  “How does one say ‘no’ to friends?” Salah rubbed his forehead with his thumb and forefinger. “I have known them since we were at university.”

  “They didn’t ask you, Faisal did.”

  “Semantics, Musa,” Salah said.

  “Do you regret your decision to help?” Musa asked.

  Salah took a deep breath. “I don’t know.” He flicked the cigarette butt overboard. “Not all Turks are bad. I liked my superior … and his wife. They were wonderful, warm, hospitable people. He took a chance on me, Musa. Without him believing in me, I would not have become the chief engineer.” He sighed deeply. “There were many nights I fought with my conscience over what I was doing.”

  “Your loyalty is commendable, Masri.”

  “Yes, but I pay a high price.”

  “You think this Arab Revolt will work?”

  Salah lit another cigarette. “Is there Arab unity? Is there an Arab identity? We will see if the sharif of Mecca’s flag can accomplish that.”

  Musa puffed on his cigar, making the ash on the tip glow.

  “You think the British will keep their word to Hussein?”

  “There is only one of them I trust.” Salah stared broodingly out at the dark sea. “Thomas Lawrence … he used to be an archaeologist.”

  “An archaeologist?”

  “Yes.” Salah nodded. “I met him just before the war in Izmir. He said he was headed toward the Negev Desert to do some research. After the war broke out, I received a letter from him saying that he was in Cairo and had been conscripted into the British Army.

  “Anyhow, we stayed in touch and I recently heard he’s lobbying the British general to become the liaison between Faisal and British Army.”

  “Why do you trust him?”

  Salah shrugged. “He really believes in the Arab Revolt. He really believes the Arabs should have their freedom and he thinks he’s going to be the one to give it to them.”

  “He’s mad.”

  Salah nodded his agreement. “Yes, he is.”