Al Thyria

We are never tired so long as we can see far enough.

—Ralph Waldo Emerson, Nature

CAPTUS’s absence freed me for a couple of days. I liked getting away from my American colleagues and going native. I liked hearing what the Arabs thought, and seeing how they lived. I always had found that the life of an American official was much more constricting than my years abroad on my own had been. I informed COS that I was going out of town, and flew to a distant place, far from the city and the embassy, and from the mind-set of my routine with CAPTUS and my XXXXXXX colleagues.

I took my own trip “to the desert.” The irony did not escape me. I rented a car and drove and drove. On the road, I spent time in cafés, barbershops, restaurants, and modest roadside hotels where I was the only foreigner, walking the streets and asking directions as a pretext to start a conversation with the locals. The hit tune “Las Ketchup,” by three attractive Spanish women, played over and over on the radio as the kilometers and dust blew by. Sometimes I presented myself as a Frenchman, sometimes as a German or a Spaniard, whatever appeared simplest and least obtrusive. I let people decide where I was from and then often agreed with them. Everyone was hospitable to me, the rare tourist in their part of the world.

Early one afternoon, far out on a lonely road on which I had passed no cars in either direction for many kilometers, I picked up a thin and retiring young soldier on leave hitching to his home village. He was surprised to have been picked up by someone exotic, from glittering America. He did not even have a stock of stereotypical images of American life picked up from movies. He had little to say about his own country, or himself, and he was not very bright. But he was gentle and good-natured, nodding and smiling shyly to my dwindling attempts at conversation. An hour into our drive together we had settled into a pleasant silence, with only the noise of the wind through the windows accompanying the unfolding emptiness of rugged, pebble-strewn desert. I spotted a man a hundred yards off to the car’s left, crouching motionless on the ground. The sun still shone strongly. There was no cover anywhere near for him, and there was nothing whatsoever, from what I could tell, for miles in any direction except stones, dry earth, sun, and wind. He did not move.

“What is that man doing?” I asked my hitchhiking soldier, pointing my arm out the car window.

“He’s waiting.”

“Waiting? Waiting for what?”

“For the end of Ramadan.”

I was nonplussed at this senseless answer. “But Ramadan is forty days long!”

The soldier shrugged. “He is waiting.”

I drew in my arm. The lone man slipped from view, the car raised a billowing wake of dust behind us, and I drove with purpose through the desert toward some place I had never been.

Near the end of the day I stopped and approached a group of young men sitting on the side of the road, many kilometers from any place I could discern on the map, simply to see what would happen. They asked me to join them. They had gathered to break their fast at the setting of the sun. I spent a memorable hour and a half eating of their flat, doughy, salty bread, crouched on my haunches, saying almost nothing as we watched the growing darkness deepen on the sharp mountain peaks and the sky turn from blue to violet, then to black. They were mechanics, simple, guileless, and winning. I left them after it had become dark, three men placidly savoring the night air and calm around them, enjoying the warmth of silent camaraderie.

One innkeeper invited me after dinner for mint tea before a roaring fire. The two of us sat in plush chairs in the inn’s den. I was the only guest. The only electric light was behind us in the dining room. The firelight lit our faces in the dark as we talked. The only sounds were our voices, and the crackling of the fire. Every so often, the innkeeper poked the fire and added another log.

“Our business has dropped 90 percent, 100 percent since 9/11. No Westerners come anymore. It is terrible. You are one of the only ones to come through in months. But we have nothing to do with any of this! It is terrible. I built this inn for Westerners. You must tell people to come here. I traveled to America once. I want to move there. But I cannot. My business is this inn. I built a pool, and now it sits, a hole in the ground. I have no guests, I have no money to finish it. I have no money. Islam does not support this terrorism. It condemns it!”

I left my host about midnight. I stepped onto the balcony of my room, staring into the night at the few buildings jostled together that formed the village where I was staying, small against the empty hills and mountains only a hundred meters beyond. Nothing moved and the only sound was the whistling of the wind through the eaves of the inn. I started to look at the stars, glittering and dazzling by the thousands. The Milky Way splashed across the sky. Stars have always had a special importance for me. They link us to the enriching and consoling myths of the deep past. They humble by their aching remoteness, so frail in an implacable black sky, yet hopeful, too, that at some points, at least, the light can prevail. Wherever I am they remind me of my father, who as a boy wanted to become an astronomer, who first turned my eyes to the sky and taught that the promise of the stars was always to ask critical questions, to realize that most questions had multiple answers, and in so doing, to move closer to a truth that can never be reached, and perhaps to lift one’s spirit to the heavens.

I wanted to find several constellations. I studied the sky for a minute or two, and started with the Little Dipper and the North Star. But in the clear night the temperature was quickly dropping toward freezing. The wind whipped down off the mountains and I started to shiver. It was too cold for me to stay outside and search. I retreated to my room, closed the shutters, and went to bed disappointed that I had been defeated in my solitary stargazing, sad that I was the only tourist who had passed through in months, but pleased that I was the one who had.

My host approached me at breakfast.

“My friend. I am going to do you a service. I am going to ask of you a service.”

I anticipated that he was going to suggest I visit someone to look at their fine rugs.

“I would like to offer you the hospitality of my brother. He works just down the street. Perhaps he will be able to help you to find something beautiful. He will wish to offer you tea.” My host put his hand on his heart. “You will do this for me, yes?”

“Yes, I’ll go, of course,” I said, trapped by his hospitality and preceding night’s melancholy kindness, but telling myself that I would stay for only five minutes and then be off on the road.

The innkeeper’s brother was about forty-five, roughly the same age as CAPTUS, with a similarly thick middle and stubby, fat hands from soft living, and slow, gracious movements. He had a neatly trimmed beard, which he stroked reflectively as he spoke. He wore a djellaba of blue, its hood forming a high cowl around the back of his neck. For thirty minutes he did courteously and gently show me his Oriental rugs, which covered almost the entire floor of the shop. From a side room, his servant silently brought in large rugs, carrying them on his shoulder like a duffle bag. The servant tossed them onto a large pile of unfolded rugs on the floor. They landed hard, with a dull thud.

Finally the innkeeper’s brother smiled in acquiescence to my persistent polite demurrals.

“Please, I would like you to come in the back for tea. Will you?”

We sat on piles of rugs in a windowless room. Rugs hung like tapestries covering all the wall space. The rugs isolated us from all sound or connection with the outside world. The only light was from an overhead bulb, hanging uncovered on the end of a cord from the ceiling. A ventilator hummed softly, blowing cool air from the top corner of one of the walls.

We spoke of our families. We spoke briefly of religion. He told me, as so many Muslims do, with unconscious condescension, that he respected and liked Christians, for “Christians are People of the Book.” He asked me what I did for a living. I spoke vaguely about my work as a diplomat.

The tea tasted sweet, with a sludge of sugar covering the bottom of the cup.

“I am trying to go into the desert,” I said.

The innkeeper’s brother savored a last sip of tea, puckering his lips slightly to taste its sweetness. He thought a moment, stroked his beard, slowly set his teacup down on the pile of rugs before him, and placed one hand on each knee.

“You are my brother’s friend. I am going to do you a service. I am going to ask of you a service.”

I waited, slightly apprehensive that I was going to have to fend off another cloying sales pitch. The innkeeper’s brother spoke softly.

“To find what you seek, you must go far beyond the road.” He looked up from his hands, into my eyes. “You must . . . go to meet Hamid.”

Another “friend!” I thought. They were sucking me in too far.

“I think I’ll just drive on alone. Thanks. I’ll jus—”

The innkeeper’s brother quickly flashed anger at me.

“You think I am not to be trusted? My brother sent you to me. If you do not trust . . .”

His instantaneous surge of anger surprised me and I felt an immediate pang that I had unintentionally dishonored him by my fumbled attempt to extract myself from the web of obligation that had started the night before in front of the fire in the inn.

I decided as suddenly as he had angered. I could see that the man was honorable. This was an adventure. Just as Arabs stand closer than Americans when conversing, making us ill at ease, so their gestures of friendship or kindness can overwhelm, too intimate almost for American lovers to do for each other, even. The warmth and the anger were so sudden, so intense, so real, and, it seemed, so lasting. My New England Yankee reserve simply had to appear bloodless, shallow, rude. My detachment and effort not to allow partings to hurt too much, because they are so frequent, must appear heartless and selfish. What did such a man offer of himself to others? And if he did not, had the man no feelings? Such a man must be hollow, or ruthless. But sharing tea with the innkeeper’s brother, seeing inside his and his culture’s heart, feeling as others felt, was the point of my many years abroad, and of my career. I interrupted him mid-sentence.

“No, no. I do not mean that. I am sorry. I spoke poorly. Please excuse me. I am honored by your interest in what I am trying to do. Hamid can take me to the desert? Yes, how do I find him?”

The innkeeper’s brother’s anger dissipated as quickly as it had come, an expression of relief and pleasure crossing his face. He stroked his beard to calm himself, then folded one hand inside the other on his lap.

“You must drive very far. The service I do for you is to send you toward Hamid, in the desert. The service I ask of you is to seek for Hamid.”

The innkeeper’s brother rose. He took my hand and then placed his hand on his heart.

“You have a very long journey. You will find Hamid at the dunes. . . .”

I left fifteen minutes later.

I drove all day but stopped along the road a number of times. The people I met often talked of current events. Most spoke freely. I tried to listen and let the conversations go where they wished.

I stopped for gas and to stretch at a tiny oasis hamlet. I struck up a conversation with the two men working at the station. There was no traffic or business and they were happy to talk to a surprising stranger, appeared from nowhere and so far from where one usually would expect foreigners:

“No Muslim would do the September 11 attacks. Therefore, the American CIA did it to make Americans hate Muslims.” “The Jews did the World Trade Center attacks, to justify and win American aid. The proof is that all the Jews had cleared out of the World Trade Center before the attacks.” “No Arab or Muslim is really safe in America since September 11. We all had to leave.” “The Jews control America. What difference is there between Israel and America? There is none. Therefore, the Jews control America.”

I stopped for a late lunch many kilometers down the road. I struck up a conversation with the restaurateur, as I ate a salad. He, too, wanted to speak with the rare “European” tourist, and after standing over me as I ate, invited himself to sit down with me, apron on, but happy to converse with an American, come from the center of power and living amidst the latest trends:

“Usama Bin Ladin would never do the World Trade Center attack.” “He is the creation of the Americans.” “He works for the CIA, therefore the CIA committed the World Trade Center attacks.” “There is no such thing as al-Qa’ida. It is propaganda by the CIA.” “Whenever America wants to solve a problem, it does. But it does nothing in the Middle East. Therefore, America wants Israel to kill Arabs. Therefore, America wants al-Qa’ida and Usama Bin Ladin to exist, to justify American aggression in the Middle East.”

These conversations were typical of what I heard during my explorations.

The roads grew smaller. The few cars or trucks faded behind me, so that I drove on alone, long past the last road or habitation, the last man on earth, racing the setting of the sun to reach my destination before I lost all sense of direction to the darkness. All vegetation had ceased long behind me. For dozens of kilometers the land had been a vast plain of scattered rubble and baked earth, extending to the horizon in every direction. Finally, just as the last light disappeared, as my senses lost the ability to discern depth or distance, direction or detail, and as total black covered the land, I found what I sought—vast dunes of sand rose before me, looming shadows in the gloom. My headlights shone on a lone figure standing before the first building I had seen in several hours. He wore a djellaba and a tagelmust—a turban and veil—which covered all his face but his eyes. I stepped out of the car into a stiff, cold wind and approached him.

“Sabah al Khayr,” I said, my voice strong in the dark, which means “Good evening” but literally means “By the light of the sun.”

“Anta Hamid?”—Are you Hamid?

“Sabah al Nur,” replied the man in a voice almost lost to the wind, “Good evening”—“By the light of the moon.”

“Na’am, ana Hamid”—Yes, I am Hamid. He was a nomad.

We shook hands. He was short, slight, quick-moving, and silent. The innkeeper’s brother had pointed me to a rendezvous none of us had planned. With gestures and nods we arranged to travel deeper into the desert.

My camel and I cast a gray shadow against the sand in the moonlight, my body swaying with each step he took. On each side I saw sometimes evanescent glints of light along the crests of dunes, which soared massively hundreds of feet above me and on all sides rising, fading, undulating as far as I could see; where depths were hard to determine; shadows were dark, hinting at crevices to one’s side, or perhaps simply a small fold of hard sand, but where it was impossible to fathom which was the case; where the horizon receded to nothing and land merged with sky; a world where the only certainty was the pommel of my camel’s saddle, onto which I held tight as a proof against slipping completely into a world beyond principles, knowledge, or judgment. Hardest was descending the vast, steep dunes, the camel’s knees locking and bending with erratic jerks, over and over, throwing me far forward each step, making me fear the humiliation of pitching into the sand and rolling down the dune. After hours of teetering unsure on the camel’s hump, we camped in a depression amidst the towering mounds of sand, during a freezing night in a tent that kept out the sharp wind. The moon set, taking with it the last, ethereal gray. Hamid sat almost always silent, almost unseen. The only sounds were the sporadic wheezing rasps of the camels and the increasing howl of the wind.

We ate outside, on a rug the nomad had laid on the sand, by the light of a small lantern Hamid lit. “Kel,” the nomad said, pointing at my plate. Eat. He looked at me. I did not know what he had put on the plate. The nomad was stern. I ate. “Ehhh,” he said, impassive.

We sat, silent and unmoving. He pointed to a constellation. Thousands of stars shone in the black, cold air, brilliant, glittering points that shimmered if I looked at them one by one. “Al Thryia,” he said. His voice was soft. “The Pleiades,” I replied. He pondered my answer. “Al Korsy,” he said, pointing to another. “Cassiopeia.” “Ehhh,” he said. “Baard,” he said. “Cold.” “Ehhh,” I replied. “Baard.” We sat under the stars, silent once again, for a long time. “Masa’al Khayr,” he said, rising. “Good night.” He walked into the blackness around us. It was freezing. I was alone. The wind howled outside my tent until I fell asleep.

I returned to the opaque, gray world of interrogation and espionage—so far from the sand, the stars, the wind, and the chill of a nomad’s desert night—refreshed, and ready to carry on trying to handle the conflicting imperatives of the CAPTUS case honorably and effectively.

“You did what?!” the COS said upon my return, perplexed that I was always going off among the locals, out of town, alone, this time in the desert with illiterate nomads. He shook his head.

Miserable CAPTUS awaited me, in his starless cell, also alone.

I described my trip to my liaison colleagues when I met with them the day following my return to the capital. I related some of the comments I had heard about who had carried out the 9/11 attacks, fishing for their reactions. I did not expect much from Big Guy. Little Guy surprised me, though.

“We, too, have heard in the ministry that the Jews committed the World Trade tower attacks. We received reports that the Jews had been given advance warning to evacuate the buildings before the attacks. The Jews have great influence on your government; this is true.”

Little Guy was open-minded and bright, but I realized as I listened to him that all of our thoughts are circumscribed by the perspectives of those around us and by what is conventionally considered “true” or “right.”

I did not say much in response.