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And also of the son of the bondwoman will I make a nation, because he is thy seed.
— Genesis 21:13
They were in Erfoud, and, as they entered a restaurant shortly after nightfall, they bumped into a sweating, burly Italian who said scusi, then introduced himself as Gianni. From kindergarten on, the kids had called Isaac by a nickname he still went by. “Call me Izzy,” he said, shaking the massive hand of the smiling hulk of a man. “Izzy Solomon. And this is my friend Gretchen,” he added, with a polite nod. There was a momentary silence. “I’m from New York, she’s from Bavaria. We’re here to see the Sahara.”
“Please join me for dinner,” said Gianni. And they sat down at a metal table on the edge of the patio, where a gentle breeze brought some relief from the day’s unrelenting heat. Gianni ordered a large bottle of red wine and they took turns making toasts. They shared two long barbeque spits, with chunks of beef, lamb, chicken, and liver. Gianni told them that he had little chance to speak Italian there in the wastes of the northern Sahara, but he enjoyed the occasion to speak English with the occasional traveller. Half intoxicated, he took the time to teach them one of his favourite sayings: Se hai un nemico, non pensare alla vendetta, ma siediti sulle rive del fiume sacro e aspetta che il suo cadavere arrivi galleggiando. If you have an enemy, do not think of vengeance, but sit upon the bank of the sacred river and wait for his cadaver to come floating by. Gianni liked that Izzy laughed at his jokes. He also liked Gretchen’s long golden hair and her turquoise blue toreador pants. Izzy and Gretchen liked Gianni for his broad shoulders, friendly paunch, hairy arms, and ready smile.
Over dinner, they discovered that Gianni was a cartographer working for King Hussan. The King had no idea how many people lived in the shifting villages on the edge of the Sahara, how many villages there were, how many hectares of desert sand belonged to each village, or who the chief was overseeing each clan. He needed Gianni to quietly discover the details for his ten-year census and, more importantly, for the guidance of his tax collectors. So Gianni did his job. He enjoyed the work, he told them, but at times he regretted that his research would cost his genial hosts much money when tax time came around. Despite his uncomfortable moral dilemma, it was a good job with good pay, and most of all he loved the desert, and so he stayed.
“Tomorrow,” said Gianni, “tomorrow I will take you to a desert village where no one goes. No one even knows the village is there, built of sandstone and adobe it blends into the desert sands. The chief is a friend of mine, he will invite us to tea in the desert. You will enjoy it.” Izzy and Gretchen, sipping their third or fourth glass of wine each, nodded in agreement and, when the bottle was empty, they staggered off to their room, while Gianni lingered on the patio beneath the bright desert stars. He sipped the last of his wine and hummed a tune from childhood without realizing he was doing so. Then he too stood up, stretched in the cool night air, and went inside to go to sleep.
The next morning, he joined them for coffee at their pension. Then they all piled into his sturdy old Land Rover and headed off. The sun was climbing in the spotless sky and the breeze that swept over them in their open car was already warm with the gathering day. Gianni repeated his favourite aphorism of Confucian origin and Izzy dutifully parroted it back. They both burst out laughing and Gretchen chuckled. It was going to be a good day.
After close to an hour of driving, with featureless flat land to the right and encroaching sand dunes to the left, Gianni slowed down and, though there was no signpost or any other indicator, made a sharp turn off the asphalt and onto the hard-baked, cracked and arid land. There seemed to be nothing there at all, but after a meandering path of perhaps half a kilometre, out of nowhere, some sand-coloured low-lying structures began to take shape. They came to a stop and Gianni said, “We have arrived.”
The babble of children surrounded their car. Almost immediately, a tall Amazigh strode forth from the shadows of what seemed to be a street covered with a thick awning of palm fronds. “Bienvenu” he said, and held his two palms flat together, as if in prayer. Moving forward effortlessly in his white robes, he led the three visitors down the narrow twilit lane. After several turns, he led them into a square room with a high ceiling and an open space where a skylight might have been. There was a brief burst of giggling from the rooftop, but then someone shooed the little children away.
Seated on an elegant thick carpet of rich carmine hues was the village chief with a smile of welcome on his face. To his left stood an official of some sort, a kind of adjutant. They shook hands with the official and bowed their heads to the chief. Gianni whispered to them that the standing dignitary was the wise man, the sage of the village. The chief gestured broadly, suggesting they join him on the carpet. He continued to smile but averted his eyes from Gretchen, that bold blond figure in her turquoise toreador pants, something no doubt, he had never encountered before in all his life. Taking their cue from Gianni, the tourists nodded their respect and folded themselves down upon the carpet. Their host welcomed them in French and said he would be serving them tea. He called out an order and, in the silence that followed, he looked expectantly at Gianni. The two newcomers gazed curiously at this host from another world. Meanwhile the wise man took up a rusty old insect sprayer and pumped away at the flies congregating around their gathering. It was clear that the wise man was enchanted by the modernity of his ancient atomizer.
As they awaited tea, there was the sound of hurried footsteps and suddenly a young man burst in, sweaty and triumphant. He was carrying a large, solid square of salt wrapped in brown paper. He had bicycled a long way through the desert to get this essential product, important for every family in the clan. He was pleased to have succeeded in his quest and, the chief, his father, beamed with pleasure at his son’s success. The lad shook hands with Gianni and the two newcomers and took his seat on the deep plush of the carpet. The chief clapped his hands, indicating that now they were six, and a servant brought in six delicate silver teacups and saucers, and a bowl full of sugar cubes.
As they continued to wait, Gianni leaned over to Izzy and murmured, “You should see his scimitar. You wouldn’t believe it. Its handle is filled with jewels and its blade is inscribed with ancient texts. I have offered to buy it many times, but he refuses to sell it.” The astute chief, comfortable in French, had overheard him and retorted: “Sell it? Of course not. I would never sell it. However, I would be happy to give it to you, Gianni, my dear friend, as a gift. But I cannot. I must save that scimitar for the Holy War against the Jews.”
Izzy stiffened. He was astonished. The chief had been so friendly, so warm, so welcoming. Even now, a servant was pouring mint tea into everyone’s cups. A bowl of sweet dates was making its way around the circle. Isaac wondered what would happen if he stood up and simply announced to the gathering, “Mes amis, nous sommes deja arrivés.” My friends, we have already arrived. He assumed that his host would look back at him astonished, as if in the presence of bad manners, an ill-timed joke. It was clear that this dweller in the desert had never seen a Jew in his life. He probably assumed they could be recognized by their tiny goat horns, as tradition suggested. To him they must be mythic creatures, perhaps like dragons in Scandinavia. And Isaac felt a deep sympathy creeping into his astonishment. This man was, after all, his brother in the desert, descended from Abraham’s first son, Ishmael. Ishmael, reluctantly cast forth into the wilderness with his equally innocent mother Hagar, by the patriarch himself. Cast forth because Sarah was now the jealous protector of her own son, Abraham’s second born, who had come so unexpectedly from God, into her womb and into this world. And so she insisted. A mother’s love. How strange, indeed, are the ways of the Lord.
Sipping his mint tea, nibbling on a sweet date, complimenting his host on the elegance of it all, Isaac wished he could leap up and embrace him as a brother. But prudence suggested otherwise. And so the tea in the desert continued in peace and harmony, neither marred by blind hostility nor blessed by an embrace delayed for almost four millennia. Gretchen from Bavaria also sipped from her hot tea, innocent in her turquoise toreador pants. And Gianni sat there silently, still pondering if he could somehow convince the chief, his friend, to part with that spectacular scimitar. The village elder sipped quietly from his cup, unaware of the tangled complexities lying beyond his purview. The son, too, sipped from his cup, proud still of the heavy square of salt he had brought on his bicycle to the village from afar. And their host, the benevolent chieftain, looked kindly upon them all and was grateful for the opportunity this visit gave him to show foreign guests the age-old treasure of his people, desert hospitality.
And also of the son of the bondwoman will I make a nation, because he is thy seed.
— Genesis 21:13
They were in Erfoud, and, as they entered a restaurant shortly after nightfall, they bumped into a sweating, burly Italian who said scusi, then introduced himself as Gianni. From kindergarten on, the kids had called Isaac by a nickname he still went by. “Call me Izzy,” he said, shaking the massive hand of the smiling hulk of a man. “Izzy Solomon. And this is my friend Gretchen,” he added, with a polite nod. There was a momentary silence. “I’m from New York, she’s from Bavaria. We’re here to see the Sahara.”
“Please join me for dinner,” said Gianni. And they sat down at a metal table on the edge of the patio, where a gentle breeze brought some relief from the day’s unrelenting heat. Gianni ordered a large bottle of red wine and they took turns making toasts. They shared two long barbeque spits, with chunks of beef, lamb, chicken, and liver. Gianni told them that he had little chance to speak Italian there in the wastes of the northern Sahara, but he enjoyed the occasion to speak English with the occasional traveller. Half intoxicated, he took the time to teach them one of his favourite sayings: Se hai un nemico, non pensare alla vendetta, ma siediti sulle rive del fiume sacro e aspetta che il suo cadavere arrivi galleggiando. If you have an enemy, do not think of vengeance, but sit upon the bank of the sacred river and wait for his cadaver to come floating by. Gianni liked that Izzy laughed at his jokes. He also liked Gretchen’s long golden hair and her turquoise blue toreador pants. Izzy and Gretchen liked Gianni for his broad shoulders, friendly paunch, hairy arms, and ready smile.
Over dinner, they discovered that Gianni was a cartographer working for King Hussan. The King had no idea how many people lived in the shifting villages on the edge of the Sahara, how many villages there were, how many hectares of desert sand belonged to each village, or who the chief was overseeing each clan. He needed Gianni to quietly discover the details for his ten-year census and, more importantly, for the guidance of his tax collectors. So Gianni did his job. He enjoyed the work, he told them, but at times he regretted that his research would cost his genial hosts much money when tax time came around. Despite his uncomfortable moral dilemma, it was a good job with good pay, and most of all he loved the desert, and so he stayed.
“Tomorrow,” said Gianni, “tomorrow I will take you to a desert village where no one goes. No one even knows the village is there, built of sandstone and adobe it blends into the desert sands. The chief is a friend of mine, he will invite us to tea in the desert. You will enjoy it.” Izzy and Gretchen, sipping their third or fourth glass of wine each, nodded in agreement and, when the bottle was empty, they staggered off to their room, while Gianni lingered on the patio beneath the bright desert stars. He sipped the last of his wine and hummed a tune from childhood without realizing he was doing so. Then he too stood up, stretched in the cool night air, and went inside to go to sleep.
The next morning, he joined them for coffee at their pension. Then they all piled into his sturdy old Land Rover and headed off. The sun was climbing in the spotless sky and the breeze that swept over them in their open car was already warm with the gathering day. Gianni repeated his favourite aphorism of Confucian origin and Izzy dutifully parroted it back. They both burst out laughing and Gretchen chuckled. It was going to be a good day.
After close to an hour of driving, with featureless flat land to the right and encroaching sand dunes to the left, Gianni slowed down and, though there was no signpost or any other indicator, made a sharp turn off the asphalt and onto the hard-baked, cracked and arid land. There seemed to be nothing there at all, but after a meandering path of perhaps half a kilometre, out of nowhere, some sand-coloured low-lying structures began to take shape. They came to a stop and Gianni said, “We have arrived.”
The babble of children surrounded their car. Almost immediately, a tall Amazigh strode forth from the shadows of what seemed to be a street covered with a thick awning of palm fronds. “Bienvenu” he said, and held his two palms flat together, as if in prayer. Moving forward effortlessly in his white robes, he led the three visitors down the narrow twilit lane. After several turns, he led them into a square room with a high ceiling and an open space where a skylight might have been. There was a brief burst of giggling from the rooftop, but then someone shooed the little children away.
Seated on an elegant thick carpet of rich carmine hues was the village chief with a smile of welcome on his face. To his left stood an official of some sort, a kind of adjutant. They shook hands with the official and bowed their heads to the chief. Gianni whispered to them that the standing dignitary was the wise man, the sage of the village. The chief gestured broadly, suggesting they join him on the carpet. He continued to smile but averted his eyes from Gretchen, that bold blond figure in her turquoise toreador pants, something no doubt, he had never encountered before in all his life. Taking their cue from Gianni, the tourists nodded their respect and folded themselves down upon the carpet. Their host welcomed them in French and said he would be serving them tea. He called out an order and, in the silence that followed, he looked expectantly at Gianni. The two newcomers gazed curiously at this host from another world. Meanwhile the wise man took up a rusty old insect sprayer and pumped away at the flies congregating around their gathering. It was clear that the wise man was enchanted by the modernity of his ancient atomizer.
As they awaited tea, there was the sound of hurried footsteps and suddenly a young man burst in, sweaty and triumphant. He was carrying a large, solid square of salt wrapped in brown paper. He had bicycled a long way through the desert to get this essential product, important for every family in the clan. He was pleased to have succeeded in his quest and, the chief, his father, beamed with pleasure at his son’s success. The lad shook hands with Gianni and the two newcomers and took his seat on the deep plush of the carpet. The chief clapped his hands, indicating that now they were six, and a servant brought in six delicate silver teacups and saucers, and a bowl full of sugar cubes.
As they continued to wait, Gianni leaned over to Izzy and murmured, “You should see his scimitar. You wouldn’t believe it. Its handle is filled with jewels and its blade is inscribed with ancient texts. I have offered to buy it many times, but he refuses to sell it.” The astute chief, comfortable in French, had overheard him and retorted: “Sell it? Of course not. I would never sell it. However, I would be happy to give it to you, Gianni, my dear friend, as a gift. But I cannot. I must save that scimitar for the Holy War against the Jews.”
Izzy stiffened. He was astonished. The chief had been so friendly, so warm, so welcoming. Even now, a servant was pouring mint tea into everyone’s cups. A bowl of sweet dates was making its way around the circle. Isaac wondered what would happen if he stood up and simply announced to the gathering, “Mes amis, nous sommes deja arrivés.” My friends, we have already arrived. He assumed that his host would look back at him astonished, as if in the presence of bad manners, an ill-timed joke. It was clear that this dweller in the desert had never seen a Jew in his life. He probably assumed they could be recognized by their tiny goat horns, as tradition suggested. To him they must be mythic creatures, perhaps like dragons in Scandinavia. And Isaac felt a deep sympathy creeping into his astonishment. This man was, after all, his brother in the desert, descended from Abraham’s first son, Ishmael. Ishmael, reluctantly cast forth into the wilderness with his equally innocent mother Hagar, by the patriarch himself. Cast forth because Sarah was now the jealous protector of her own son, Abraham’s second born, who had come so unexpectedly from God, into her womb and into this world. And so she insisted. A mother’s love. How strange, indeed, are the ways of the Lord.
Sipping his mint tea, nibbling on a sweet date, complimenting his host on the elegance of it all, Isaac wished he could leap up and embrace him as a brother. But prudence suggested otherwise. And so the tea in the desert continued in peace and harmony, neither marred by blind hostility nor blessed by an embrace delayed for almost four millennia. Gretchen from Bavaria also sipped from her hot tea, innocent in her turquoise toreador pants. And Gianni sat there silently, still pondering if he could somehow convince the chief, his friend, to part with that spectacular scimitar. The village elder sipped quietly from his cup, unaware of the tangled complexities lying beyond his purview. The son, too, sipped from his cup, proud still of the heavy square of salt he had brought on his bicycle to the village from afar. And their host, the benevolent chieftain, looked kindly upon them all and was grateful for the opportunity this visit gave him to show foreign guests the age-old treasure of his people, desert hospitality.