by Nancy Madore
Along with the camp, they appeared to be leaving all plant and other wildlife behind. A vast, hilly expanse of sand and rock opened up before them.
“This country must seem very different from yours,” Aabid remarked, echoing her own thoughts at that moment. His voice produced a pleasant distraction. “It will be helpful if you learn our ways. Allah makes our laws, and to go against Him is a crime.” He paused to allow Helene time to absorb this. “If you care to listen, I can instruct you as we go. It will help pass the time.”
Though their journey had only just begun, Helene was already tired. She wondered how long it would take to get to Tel Aviv. It had taken them the better part of a day to drive to Qumran in a car, but she had no way of knowing how much longer it would take on a donkey. She wasn’t particularly interested in Allah or his laws, but she found Aabid’s voice somewhat soothing and supposed that whatever he had to say would at least keep her mind occupied. She sighed, already shifting uncomfortably on the donkey. “I guess so.”
“That is good,” he said. “There is no strength but in Allah.”
“What about in Jesus?” Helene couldn’t help interjecting.
Aabid shook his head. “It is forbidden to seek any god besides Allah.” He looked up at her. “Perhaps you could simply think of your god as Allah.”
She huffed. “Don’t you even give people a choice?” she asked, recalling a conversation with her father—it seemed like years ago now—when she asked why the Jews didn’t just denounce their beliefs in order to save their own lives. It suddenly occurred to her why they might not be all that eager to do that. It was galling to be told what to think.
“No, there is no choice,” he replied, but he was thoughtful for a moment. “Are you a strong believer in your faith?”
“Not really,” she admitted.
“It will be easier for you then,” he said, dismissing the matter.
Helene ignored his tactlessness and tried to be philosophical about it. “I’m not sure I believed in anything until recently,” she mused.
“What happened recently?” he asked.
Helene had no intention of getting into the details of what happened, but she couldn’t resist putting him in his place by letting him know how much more knowledgeable and experienced she was than him. “I had a conversation with a djinn,” she replied in a tone of voice that said; ‘top that.’
Aabid stopped walking, and he forced the donkey and Helene to stop with him. “You what?”
Helene mistook his expression for incredulity. “Honest,” she said. “She’d been dead for about five thousand years. I talked to her. And she never even mentioned Allah. She w...,”
“You are mistaken,” he interrupted her.
“No, it really happened,” said Helene.
“You are mistaken,” he said more vehemently. There was something alarming in his strange insistence about it, and what’s more, there was genuine fear in his eyes. “To make supplication to one besides Allah represents the greater shirk. It is unforgivable,” he whispered the last part.
Helene was momentarily taken aback.
“You were mistaken,” he repeated again. He seemed to be waiting for some kind of agreement from Helene. When she didn’t respond he grabbed her by her khimar and jerked her toward him, nearly unseating her from the donkey, until her face was within inches of his.
Helene was confused. “But…”
Aabid jerked her khimar again, and this time she fell to the ground with a painful thud. He pulled her up and shook her savagely. “You were mistaken,” he screamed into her face. His expression was filled with rage. Helene’s anger flared in response but she was too shaken to act on it. Aabid shook her again. “Say it!”
“I…was mistaken,” she choked out the words, hating him. “But why…”
“Listen to me,” he demanded. “You will never mention this again, not to anyone, do you hear?”
“But…”
“Never!”
“But-we’re-the-only-ones-here-and-you-already-know-about-it!” Helene forced out the words in one long, rapid stream before he could stop her.
“No,” replied Aabid. He was suddenly calm again, although Helene could see that his anger still simmered just below the surface. “You just admitted that you were mistaken about it.”
Helene stared at him in astonishment. This was unfamiliar territory for her. She’d always been able to speak her mind, no matter what the topic. Her father would never have forced her to say something she didn’t believe just so that he could hear what he wanted to hear. This sudden thought of her father filled Helene with so much grief that her knees buckled and she would have fallen down if Aabid hadn’t caught her. “It is for your protection,” he said, helping her back onto the donkey.
They resumed their travels in silence. Helene’s hands were trembling, but her fear was quickly being replaced with anger. She didn’t like being handled in such a manner. The whole ugly scene was inexcusable. The worst of it was his forcing her to deny what she knew to be true. It was as if he was telling her what to think!
She was so wrapped up in her own thoughts that she actually jumped when he finally spoke again.
“It is my sworn obligation to protect you,” he said defensively. “But how can I, if you do not develop a healthy fear of Allah?”
Helene didn’t dare tell him what she thought of Allah, but neither could she just sit back and accept everything he was saying. “Can’t a person even question the rules?” she asked.
Aabid sighed. “Within reason, yes.” He gave her a quick, sideways glance and Helene sensed that he was embarrassed by his earlier outburst. “But we must trust in Allah even when we do not understand his reasons. Allah knows best.”
When she didn’t reply, Aabid resumed his lesson on Islam. Helene only half listened, still stewing over his mistreatment of her.
Many of the Islamic principles were similar to those that Helene grew up with in London. Muslims were taught to worship one God, to respect their parents and to be kind to others. Their ideas about sin were similar to those of the Christians, except that the Muslims had a lot more of them—especially when it came to women. And some sins, like adultery, were taken more seriously by Muslims, while others, like murder, could actually be excused if there was ‘just cause.’
“What would be considered just cause?” asked Helene, trying not to think of the brutal massacres of her father and Huxley. “And wouldn’t other sins, like adultery, also have just cause, then, too?”
Aabid sighed, an action that was now becoming a warning sign to Helene that she was treading in dangerous territory.
“Why do my questions upset you so much?” she wondered.
“Your questions make me fear for you,” he said.
“Why?”
“Because you always question those things that are haraam,” he replied.
“Haraam?”
“Forbidden—and therefore illegal—in this country.”
“I didn’t know I was doing that,” she said thoughtfully. “But does it matter, really? I mean, why do I have to know all this anyway? How long does it take to get to Tel Aviv?”
There was a long pause. “We are not going to Tel Aviv,” he said.
“But I thought…wait. Wait!” Helene tried to stop the donkey but Aabid kept stubbornly prodding it on. She grabbed hold of his robe but then jerked her hand back in alarm when he whirled around in anger. “Please…I want to know where you’re taking me!” she said.
She saw that he was making an effort to control his temper and struggled to keep her own in check. He turned away from her, clicked his tongue at the donkey and they were moving again. Helene’s lungs suddenly seemed too large for her chest as she waited for an answer. She looked out at the desert surrounding her and felt real terror.
“What did your father tell you?” Aabid asked, keeping his eyes straight ahead.
“He wasn’t my father,” she said through gritted teeth. “And he said you were taking
me home.”
“I will…eventually,” he said. “In the meantime you need my protection. Without it you would be raped and killed before the day is out.”
Helene gasped. “I don’t believe that.”
Aabid whirled around and his expression was just like that of a spiteful, petulant child. “Believe it!” he said, and suddenly she did. They rode in silence again for another long stretch.
After a while Aabid became remorseful again. “I do not wish to frighten you, but you must understand how things are in my country,” he said defensively. “In your ignorance you will bring danger to yourself and me.”
Helene didn’t reply. She was trying to look at her situation realistically. She had jumped at the prospect of going home—thinking of Edward and Mrs. Barnes—but after everything that happened, she suddenly realized that there was no going home. Nothing would be the same without her father. Mrs. Barnes was only a paid employee. She would take Edward and leave, and Helene would become a ward of the state—just another forgotten orphan of the war.
And all of this was her fault.
Riding on a donkey in the middle of the desert suddenly seemed the most fitting place for her to be. Their slow, steady pace over the bumpy little roads actually soothed the painful anxiety that flared up from time to time, and seemed a fitting companion to the despair that eventually took over when the anxiety finally went away.
“I’m hungry,” she announced when she couldn’t ignore it any longer.
“Me too,” Aabid agreed. He seemed strangely cheered by her declaration, as if it signified some kind of common ground between them. Yet they kept going, moving at the same slow pace on the same, endless road. Helene waited as long as she could—it felt like maybe twenty minutes or more—before she spoke again.
“I’m hungry!” she said more emphatically.
Aabid glanced back at her with amusement in his eyes. “Yes, I know.”
“Are we going to do anything about it?” she asked.
“Yes,” he replied calmly. “There is a camp up ahead.”
“How far?” she asked.
“Not far.”
She sighed. “What time is it, anyway?” she wondered. The warm sun was making her tired, but trying to keep her balance on the donkey forced her to stay alert.
“It is not yet zhuhr,” he said. “That is midday.”
Helene could tell that he was trying to be nice but his efforts were oppressive to her now. Yet she was shocked to learn that they hadn’t even made it half way through the day. “It seems like we’ve been on this road forever.”
Aabid threw her another amused glance. “It has not been nearly as long as that,” he said.
Helene was once again struck by the quirky maturity he exhibited sometimes—especially considering how childish he could be at others.
The donkey was becoming terribly uncomfortable. Helene couldn’t even change position with the khimar encumbering her. She began to fidget, but this seemed to amuse Aabid so she made a conscious effort to be still. She kept looking ahead, watching for the promised camp site. The moments dragged on like hours. She stared at the turbaned head in front of her, wondering about Aabid’s life and the strange, angry fear he exhibited whenever something haraam came up in conversation. His fear was contagious. She could feel it seeping in through her pores and settling inside her like a disease, infecting her with a kind of painful awareness of how dangerous resistance might be. She got the impression that all Muslims were just as dogged in their beliefs as Aabid. It seemed like they didn’t have much choice in the matter. Much as she hated to admit it, Aabid was probably as sympathetic a guide as she was likely to find here—a frightening thought. He did seem determined to keep her out of trouble, and she sensed that at least one of his motives was to keep her from suffering the same fate as her father.
Her stomach was grumbling noisily by the time Aabid finally led them off the main road and onto a small pathway that disappeared at the top of a hill. Helene heaved a sigh of relief. Her muscles were stiff and she desperately wanted off the donkey. As they cleared the hill she was momentarily distracted by the view, which overlooked a lush valley bearing a surprising variety of plant life, including, even, a few small trees. A stream meandered through the camp, flanked on both sides by silvery-green weeds. Sheep dotted the countryside, making the camp seem more welcoming somehow, as did the smoke rising up from a fire just outside a large, gray tent that sat in the very center of the valley.
Anticipation of food replaced all other considerations as they descended the hill and approached the Bedouin camp.
Chapter 39
Helene couldn’t help noticing that the Bedouin camp—which had a kind of charm from the top of the hill—grew much less appealing the closer they got. The enormous, multisided tent was constructed from random patches of light and dark wools. The area all around it was littered with all kinds of household items that had been left scattered about in disarray. Bedouins emerged from the tent as they approached, dressed in layers of dusty clothing. There were three men, all just as somber-looking as Aabid. The women were covered from head to toe, leaving only their eyes, which were shaded and unreadable. But the children, at least, were smiling. Their large, white teeth glinted in the sun like smooth pearls.
Before the donkey even came to a stop Helene was already sliding off of it.
“Assalamu alaikum,” one of the men said to Aabid. Helene recognized the greeting, which her father told her meant “peace be upon you.” And then suddenly all the men seemed to be talking at once. Only the women, like dark, ominous phantoms, hung back and watched the event in silence. Helene did the same.
After this initial exchange the men turned to the women and issued orders in Arabic, and the women rushed off behind the tent. The men walked together toward the tent, speaking more calmly to one another now. Helene followed unnoticed. The women returned with four basins of water, which they placed on the ground near the men’s feet. Then they scuttled back into the tent, casting curious glances at Helene as they went.
The men sat on stools over the basins of water and began to wash. The children were called inside. Helene was tired, hungry and fed up with all the strange Arab customs, but something warned her—some inner instinct—that to cause a scene would be disastrous.
As she silently fumed, Helene couldn’t help noticing that the men were all acting in unison as they washed, moving fluidly together, almost like dancers. They began by saying, “bismillah,” and then proceeded to wash their hands three times. Next, they cupped water in their hands, lifted it to their mouths, swished it around and then spit it out on the ground—repeating this three times. Then they brought the water to their noses, sniffed it into their nostrils and then blew this, too, out on the ground. Helene’s face scrunched up in disgust as she watched them repeat this three times. After this they washed their faces three times—dipping their hands in the water frequently—and then their arms. Then they ran their wetted hands over their head and ears. Finally, they washed each foot three times. The water in the basins was then poured out onto the ground and the men rose up and moved to an open section of the tent. Helene groaned inwardly when she saw them assembling in a line, all facing the same direction as if preparing for yet another custom. Her stomach, which had been rumbling for a while, was now making very loud, screeching noises. Normally she might have found this little display interesting, but at that moment every word and movement only irritated her more. Aabid, meanwhile, seemed perfectly at ease, as if completely unaware of her discomfort.
In spite of her irritation, Helene couldn’t resist taking a few steps closer to the tent so that she could watch what they were doing.
The men stood with both hands raised up to their shoulders and murmured what sounded like a prayer in perfect unison. Then they lowered their hands and recited another prayer. Then they bowed and prayed again. They spoke in Arabic, so the only word Helene recognized was ‘Allah,’ which was in almost every phrase. After bowing the
men stood straight again, then they went down on their knees and placed their heads on the floor, then they sat up, then they put their heads on the floor again. With every change in position they paused to recite another prayer. As Helene watched she grew more and more infuriated so that by the time they finally turned to each other in what looked like a final salutation Helene had decided she would refuse to eat.
She was scowling when Aabid finally approached her, but then she remembered that he couldn’t see her face, so she snapped—“What the bloody Nora was all that?”
Aabid shot her a disapproving glance. “You must address me respectfully!” he exclaimed in a low voice. “And swearing is haraam for women.”
She was really starting to resent the word haraam. She ignored his comments and waited for him to answer her question.
“That was zhuhr salah,” he explained. “It is our mid-day supplication to Allah. Salah is prayer.”
She figured as much. “And all that…business with the water?”
“That is wadhu,” he said. “It is so that we are clean when we offer salah to Allah.”
“You do all that every day before lunch?” she asked, surprised.
He smiled. “We do it at least five times a day…sometimes more.”
“What!” Helene stared at him, incredulous. “Are you kidding me?”
“It is fard—our obligation—to offer salat at these times; fajr, which is dawn, shurooq is sunrise, zhuhr is noon, asr is afternoon, maghrib is sunset and eshaa is nightfall.”
“What happens if you don’t?” she asked.
“Observing salat is the obligation of all Muslims,” he said with a shrug. “To not observe would render one without faith—an infidel. Allah deals most severely with these.”