Читать книгу The Tribes Triumphant: Return Journey to the Middle East - Charles Glass, Charles Glass - Страница 12

THE AFTERNOON SHIP from Sinai carried four tourists: an old Australian woman, her grown son, a Japanese man with a red backpack and me. The rest of the passengers were Egyptian workers, a few with wives and children, bound for Jordan, Iraq or Saudi Arabia. They were the Arab world’s gleaners, who collected the leavings of oil potentates, gun sellers and concrete spreaders. They washed Saudi dishes, painted monuments to dictators and provided the muscle to erect alien forms on Oriental landscapes. After a few years, or a lifetime, working in the Arabian sun, they returned home to Egypt with enough Iraqi dinars or Saudi riyals to open a shop selling Coca-Cola beside the Nile. They smelled of happiness, these moneyless but smiling young men. They waited hours without complaint for the ship to embark. Before that, they had stood in long queues at embassies for work permits and visas. In the dingy embarkation hall, a warehouse with a coffee stall and some broken benches, Egyptian policemen made them wait before taking their passports, stamping them and, at the quay, returning them in confusion. Aboard a bus that carried us from the departure building to the dock, the workers jumped up to offer their seats to the Australian matron.

Neither the heat nor the prospect of near-slavery in the desert suppressed their laughter. The Egyptian fellaheen, the peasants, had laughed at Pharaoh. They built his pyramids to quell his terror of death, and they got the joke that he did not. Two things mocked Pharaoh’s dogma of eternal life: real, undeniable death without end, without immortal soul, without reincarnation; and the fellaheen’s laughter. When Pharaoh’s mummified corpse lay dormant within gilded chambers, they robbed his grave and laughed. They laughed at Egypt’s conquerors – Alexander the Great, the Vandals, the Caliphs and the British – and still they laughed at its modern dictator, Hosni Mubarak. They called him, for his resemblance to a processed cheese logo, ‘la vache qui rit’. They laughed even more at fat Saudi princes whose vanity required them to waste their countries’ fortunes on drugs, alcohol, prostitutes, palaces and physicians to deny their mortality. If the fellaheen had known why I sailed with them to Aqaba, they would have laughed at me too.

Our ship cruised out of Egypt’s Nuweiba harbour past vacant beach chairs, umbrellas and thatched bars. This would be another year without tourists. North of the luxury beaches that Israel had occupied in 1967 and tried to keep until 1988 lay the apartment blocks, many-storeyed and unlike anything an Egyptian had ever conceived or wanted. The six- and seven-storey boxes might have blended into an American federal housing project in a cold urban ghetto, but they defaced the Egyptian shore. Architects misunderstood Egypt and its soil, its most eminent contemporary architect Hassan Fathy wrote fifty years before. They needed to design in the vernacular with bricks made of Egypt’s mud-rich earth. Egypt’s architects, however, mostly studied in the West or worked for Western firms. Contractors made money with cement and nothing from mud-brick. The last structures I saw in Egypt were cement monuments to American immortality.

The ship moved north-north-east, Africa to Asia. Arabia’s ochre hills sliced into the water to form half of an invisible chasm that emerged in the north as the Jordan and Bekaa Valleys and in the south as the Great Rift. The sun was casting Africa’s half of the valley into shadow, while the desolate, treeless slopes of the Arabian side shone against the coming darkness. A cartoon in white rock on the Saudi slope pointed our way. It was an open book perched atop a scimitar as large as England’s prehistoric chalk horses and overendowed men. In the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia, it could have been only one book, the book, the Koran. The sword of religion, Saef ed-Din, protected, as in the past it had delivered, the Word of God. From the middle of the Gulf of Aqaba in the northern Red Sea, I could almost touch four countries – Egypt, Israel, Jordan and Saudi Arabia. To my left were Taba in Egypt and Eilat in Israel. To my right, only a stroll away, was the Saudi desert. And ahead, in the middle, was the town with the fortress that had been my destination when I set out from Turkey fourteen years before.

When Captain T. E. Lawrence invaded in 1917, there were no Eilat, no Taba, no Saudi Kingdom. Apart from the invisible demarcation between British-occupied Egypt and the Ottoman Empire that the Bedouin ignored, borders were unknown. ‘For months,’ Lawrence wrote in The Seven Pillars of Wisdom, ‘Aqaba had been the horizon of our minds, the goal: we had had no thought, we had refused thought, of anything beside.’ Modern Aqaba lacked any characteristic to make it anyone’s horizon. It was, like Eilat next door, a minor beach resort with large, empty hotels and palm trees dropped in for decoration. Yet it had obsessed Lawrence, and it had eluded me in 1987. I had attempted and failed to reach it that July for the seventieth anniversary of Lawrence’s triumph. Halfway between Alexandretta in southern Turkey and Aqaba, my Beirut oubliette was as much a legacy of Lawrence’s military campaign as the mini states born of the myth of his Arab Revolt. Out of the 1917 fall of Aqaba came flag-swinging little Syria, Lebanon, Israel and Jordan, whose squabbling and land grabs had led to the wars and mayhem and kidnappings that blocked my way in 1987 – an inconvenience compared to the tragedies imposed upon the natives.

The last words I read before disembarking at Aqaba, painted in black on the wheelhouse of the cargo ship Al Houda, were ‘Safety First’. A Jordanian officer – Jordan’s police and soldiers are the best dressed in the Middle East with their starched tunics and regimental headgear – took our passports and instructed us to board an old bus. On the quayside, Jordanian flags dropped from dark masts, the red – green – white – black motif replicated like an Andy Warhol portrait series, the shade of each depending on the way it caught the sun, how weathered it was or how it dangled from its lanyard. In Jordan, as in Egypt, flags were outnumbered by only one other artefact: pictures of the leader. When we set sail from Sinai, I was relieved that a giant effigy in Nuweiba port of President Hosni Mubarak, the air force officer whose luck had made him Egypt’s vice president when soldiers assassinated his predecessor in 1981, would be the last for a while. In Jordan, young King Abdallah’s visage proved as ubiquitous. It greeted me at the dock, welcomed me on the bus, invited me into the immigration hall, watched with unaffected lack of interest while an official stamped my passport, looked up at me from the ten-dinar banknote that I used to buy a Jordanian visa with his family coat of arms upon it and smiled as I walked through several interior checkpoints where soldiers of different units examined my documents. Outside, the young king hovered over our long taxi queue.

An old Toyota taxi took me half a mile to the next portrait of the king at what turned out to be the real taxi stand for cars going to Aqaba town. Here, we admired more images of the monarch in costumes that signified his many roles: father, soldier, tribal chief, descendant of the Prophet, bridge builder, peacemaker, Bedouin warrior, businessman, friend of the people. Like Mubarak and every other Arab leader, Abdallah was Ram ad-Dar, head of the house. In all traditional Arab houses and shops, the head’s picture – usually retouched in black and white, of an old man framed under glass on a wall above door height – dominated the most important room. President Mubarak, King Abdallah, Saddam Hussein in Iraq, Bashar al-Assad in Syria and King Fahd in Saudi Arabia translated to the public sphere the senior male’s leadership of the family. I would see them in Israel, the modern society that created itself to cast off the old ways of the ghetto and of subservience at foreign courts: the same patriarchal portraits in the same positions, alone, high on a wall, old, wise and revered, a father, a grandfather or a rabbi – the Lubavitcher rebbe, a long-dead Talmudic scholar or, in some settlements in occupied territory, the American killer rabbis Moshe Levinger and Meier Kahane. Photographs of prime ministers, who came and went, sometimes in disgrace to return later, were to be seen only in government offices. No one blamed the father, the king, the president for mistreatment by his minions. If the leader knew what was done under his portraits, he would bring to justice all sergeants, bureaucrats or ministers of state who abused the leader’s trust.