Travel Tales in the Promised Land (Palestine) — Key Ideas to Explore

Mustafa had left to his own devices. Mustafa's joy was as great as it was genuine. He greeted me with the customary bows and pulled me close to his heart: "What a comfort to see you today! Give thanks to Allah. Dearest friend, sit down with me; you know that you're always welcome here!"

Mustafa then bowed three times to my wife; but as he tried to speak to her, his voice broke down, and tears burst from his eyes. He placed both hands to his face and softly sobbed. Thar cried too, gripping the pleat of my wife's white traveling dress. He then wiped away his tears and rubbed off the Bedouin-brown paint from his face and arms as he offered her the following explanation: "He weeps today, because you're here now-yet, she can't see you." "Why is she unable to see me?" my wife asked, although she intuitively guessed that he meant his mother. "She is dead. Didn't you know this?" he answered. We were both startled. There simply were no adequate words; yet the boy continued on: "She so much looked forward to seeing you, because your Effendi [Turkish title for a noble man] whom we all love, had sung your praises. Unlike other men who talk about their harems and always complain about the wife, in truth, he never said a mean word about you. He and my father consistently refrain from that. The sickness came and closed her eyes. I personally witnessed this. They carried her away. Whenever he thinks about her, my father continually cries. As for me, almost all of my days must be filled with devising a new avenging-quest-which makes my father laugh again. However, he no longer laughs, nor does he have the will to fight. All of this is so wrong!"

At the close of his words, he let his eyes wander throughout the shop. There he focused on the customer who had taken off his round turban-skullcap, placing it aside as he tried on a tasseled fez. In the Middle East, such a flat-crowned hat has long been associated with many speeches and counter arguments. His head was completely bald, glistening a slippery-bright, as if it were waxed and shined. It was just forty-five minutes ago that Thar had happily worn his theatrical makeup. Across his newly-wiped face, there now streaked a prankish thought which he put into action: "Hold on; another avenging plot is coming to me. Please don't disrupt me; simply look over there-where presently I'm not!"

He wriggled towards the store's back corner, where they kept all kinds of gadgets, including the stove for cooking coffee. Back there was also the African's space which he had left in order to fetch a couple of fluffy bales of material, a piece of carpet, and a divan for my wife. To overcome his grieving, Mustafa Bustani helped Bem with these tasks; he was not aware that his son had told us about his difficult mourning. When the divan was ready, we sat down. Accustomed to our earlier times together, I took my place on the crate with the Turkish water-pipe nearby. If we hadn't learned earlier about the death of his wife, our conversation normally would have begun. The words simply did not want to come forth. Blessedly, the shop gave rise to somewhat of a stopgap. Unfortunately, Mustafa Bustani's inventory did not include saddles, so he invited us to return tomorrow. In the meantime, he planned to fulfill all of our requests.

At this point, the shopper interrupted us; he was a country gentleman from Ain Kahrim, the birthplace of John the Baptist. He had put on his old cap again, along with his headscarf. Then, he pointed to the new items that he had selected, wanting to know the price of the fez and a colorful turban-cloth. In the Middle East, such a minor transaction normally doesn't proceed quickly. However, in order to send the customer on his way, Mustafa gave him the price so fast that the buyer paid his money without reservation and hastily exited.

This disruption now had the effect of reclaiming more life in our conversation. Among ourselves, we sensed that something on both sides had transpired in that time-something which we had not seen. In the process, Mustafa had seized every opportunity to bring Thar back, all in order to praise him. We had not been speaking softly, so the boy must have been able to hear us. Thar was crouched down in the corner by Bem, and it seemed that they were undertaking a change of scenes, which for now was concealed from us. In the way of materials for transforming a setting, Mustafa's shop lacked nothing; for almost everything imaginable was available for purchase, old as well as new. After the boy and Bem had completed their grand scheme, Thar slowly came striding out of the corner, proudly presenting himself to us.

He was now dressed as a famous hero, most likely ready to perform some kind of vendetta gain. Half of a clay water-crock served as his helmet, one that probably had been dug up and broken in the process. His breastplate consisted of a tin lamp shade, the kind that one places upright in front of the light. Onto his bare calves, he had fastened two gigantic knight's spurs, which possibly dated back to the medieval days of the Crusades. Into his rope-belt, he stuck the most outrageous weapons that one can imagine: three knives, two pairs of scissors, two corkscrews, and four candle-snuffers-all of which were arranged around his waist. Besides these, he added a mousetrap, a bow with quiver and arrows, and some left-over items which he carried in his hand: a corn-cutting sickle, a saber's sheath, and a shotgun barrel. His war paint consisted of two colors, precisely creating the exact impression that he intended. The right arm and the left leg were painted green; the left arm and the right leg were blue. On both cheeks and for a moustache, this skin too was blue. His chin had a grass-green hue. We laughed, as did Mustafa Bustani.

"Well then, who are you?" Mustafa asked the armed figure. As he rattled all of his weapons, Thar answered in a battlefield tone: "I'm Gideon, the hero." "Ever and always, he only takes his heroes from the Old Testament," his father explained. Turning to his son, he continued: "What is Gideon planning to do?" "I have slain Baal's priests in order to destroy the Midianites!"

Newer and more intense saber rattling! Unfortunately, it was impossible to learn anything more about his valiant purpose, because the scene was interrupted by the man from Ain Kahrim. At this moment, he came running back to the shop. Clearly in an urgent tizzy, this episode seemed to raise the man's agitation to its highest level. At first, he spoke so rapidly and indignantly that he could hardly be understood. We could only discern the words "fez - turban - barber - head - blue - soap - water - shame and disgrace!"

After we persuaded him to explain everything calmly and slowly, he did so; thus, we learned that he had been to the barber, just as he's accustomed whenever he comes to the city. For him, it was normal to see to the grooming of his beard and head, for this cleanliness of the head is prescribed by the Prophet Mohammed. This rite should only be performed by a licensed barber, not by any other man.

When he bared his head, all those present in the barber shop roared with laughter; for the hair of this old-timer was no longer white as usual. Instead, it had turned blue as the sky. As it turned out, the blue stain came from his headgear, which he had taken off at the barber's. Secretly, someone had poured blue dye into the hat. The barber had done his best to wash away the coloring, yet this had only made matters worse. The addition of water simply dispersed the heavens-blue pigment, which now more permanently corroded still deeper into his scalp. As he removed his skullcap and head scarf, he called out: "Allah have mercy! Here, look at me! Let the culprit step forward so that I can punish him!"

An entirely hairless skull of glistening heavens-blue hue? Include the fact that the man was not wearing the new fez; instead, he had again plopped the soiled cap on his head. One could hardly resist the giggles that came with the sight of this angry man. My wife was the first to burst out laughing. She found it impossible toy Mustafa and I. The hearty peal of laughter had a strange effect; instead of increasing the anger of this man from Ain Kahrim, it seemed to subdue him, probably through his own perception of his ridiculous appearance. Only the boy was not laughing. No train of thought stirred across his face. He stepped up to the man, loudly and seriously confessing: "I'm the one!"

"You?" the astonished man asked. "How can a child dare to do this, to insult the bare head of a Moslem!" "I didn't uncover it! I did it as a justified payback, all in order for you to know that my name is Thar." "Thar?" responded the bewildered man. "Yes, Thar! Didn't you yourself say that a believer may only allow a barber to bare his head? Yet you have uncovered it here, and you even showed it to us! For this offense, I've punished you; I poured blue-retaliation upon your head's uncovered hull." With the utmost astonishment, the blue-headed man asked us: "Is something like this possible? According to this boy, I'm the one who should be punished-not he! What does his father say about this?"

Mustafa would have answered the question, as best he could, but the boy spoke first: "If you require a father here, then fetch your own; for you may not borrow mine! I'm Gideon, the Hero of Manasseh. Good-bye!" In a dignified way, Thar nodded to the man, then proudly strode out of the shop. Still clad in his make-shift suit of armor, he climbed onto the stranger's donkey that was standing outside. From there, he trotted away on the animal. Everyone knows this: at a very young age, all Arabic boys regard the back of a donkey as the best of all playgrounds. It is rare to find a boy who lacks the courage to ride.

Now, the man from Ain Kahrim really didn't know what he was supposed to think. His mouth hung open. Without saying a word, he glanced towards the spot where he last saw the boy. Speaking in German and still laughing, my wife asked me: "Is this possible?" I had no time to answer her. The scene had changed.

The owner of the donkey was mostly concerned about the distance between him and his animal. He had figured out whom the strangely outfitted boy belonged to; from the neighboring shop, he now walked over to us. Whether by civil means or through a complaint to the police, he was determined to come closer to settling matters. "Who among you is Mustafa Bustani?" he inquired. As my friend slid off the trunk and bowed low, he answered: "I." "Do you know me?" "Yes. Who wouldn't know you? You are Osman Achyr, the Ferik- Pasha of our Sovereign. May Allah bless him!" "Your son has stolen my donkey!" "He has not stolen the animal-just borrowed it. Thar will bring it back safe again!" "Do I run a rent-a-donkey business? If I did, I would expect a person to ask me first!" "I ask your pardon, sir!"

By official title, this man's ranking was that of a general. Even though he chose to wear unassuming, civilian clothes instead of a uniform, he carried himself like a nobleman. Now that he had to deal with yet one more infraction, he steadied his voice as he renewed his dogged determination to assert his authority: "No, I do not excuse him. The boy has stolen from me, and he has dishonored me. I demand that he be punished!" The Pasha now drew closer to Mustafa and asked: "Who are you? In your mind, what did he-?"

When the General saw the blue-skulled man, he halted in mid- sentence- the Pasha's eyes began to glisten and grow wider. Taking just the right amount of time to pause, the Blue-one began to narrate the boy's misdeeds-but he could go no further. Appealing to the stern General and to us, the heavens-blue man now cracked up, laughing like we had done earlier. His laughter was so contagious that we could not help but join him. In the middle of our merriment, the boy came riding back with a mass of children following him. The adults readily recognized him, but they were no longer concerned about Thar's outlandish pranks.

The boy brought the donkey back to the same spot where it formerly stood. In the same way he had left us, he returned to us with the same style of majestic dignity and seriousness. This made such an irresistible impression upon all of us, that our laughter momentarily turned to silence. Just as suddenly, it broke loose and doubled its intensity, as if it never wanted to end. Laughing with us too was the Blue-one. Once he began, he laughed the longest and was the last to stop.

Thar also recognized the General. Right away, he positioned himself directly in front of him, smartly stood at attention, then sharply saluted just like he had seen soldiers whenever they met an officer. The Pasha then asked him: "Do you know who I am." "Yes," he answered. "Then who am I?" "You are Benaja, the Commander-in-chief of King Solomon's army!" The General laughed: "Bravo! You're still playing your role. What are your weapons for?" The Pasha pointed to the scissors, corkscrew, and candle-snuffers. However, the boy was not ready to step out of character. His mouth still contained countless numbers of stories.

Better than any German boy's knowledge of his home city's chronicles, Thar knew all the legends and tall tales of Jerusalem's past. He was even consciously aware of his weapons' symbolism. He quickly answered, taking no time to reflect: "These are the 'Scorpions' wherewith the King of Judah pinched and pulled the ears of the people whenever they didn't want to obey him. I'm Gideon, the hero who hails from my ancestors of Manasseh. I borrowed your warhorse because I needed your steed to carry out my vendetta against the Midianites, the sons of Abraham. Your mount is too fat and has no endurance; so for this reason, I turned around and brought him back to you. I appreciate your loaning him to me, but he is really of no use."

Thar repeated his salute. The Pasha laughed so hard that tears streamed from his eyes. Without question, he seemed to be a very congenial gentleman. Mustafa hurriedly capitalized on the Pasha's good mood and seeming willingness to forego punishment of his son: "For what he has done, please forgive him! He's exceptionally bright and greatly gifted." Yet his words accomplished just the opposite of what he had intended. In a flash, the face of the Pasha became serious again, almost threatening: "No speech of yours can gain the boy's pardon. Your son has doubly transgressed- against me and against him over there." The Pasha pointed towards the man from Ain Kahrim: "For this, he deserves punishment instead of a reward; and by my own hand, I will personally administer his whipping. Is there a switch nearby which suits this purpose?"

The African Bem heard this request. From his corner of the room, he brought out a thin, knobby walking-stick which had been used for all kinds of educational procedures. When the boy saw this, he began to talk- instead of prudently staying silent. The General grabbed the cane and air-lashed it several times as he tested it to and fro. Satisfied with the reed, the Pasha nodded his head and slyly squinted his eyes as he looked sideways at the boy: "Of course, you understand that your offenses will be punished?" Thar nodded and quickly answered: "Yes." "Should I then pronounce judgment by using your given name?" "Yes." "And also carry out the punishment in your name?" "Yes." "So be it. By my own hand, the boy shall receive ten blows: five for injuries to me and five for you!" The General pointed to the blue-headed man from Ain Kahrim. Disappointedly, the man asked: "Isn't that too few?" The Pasha snapped at him: "Be silent!"

"Who receives this corporal punishment-you or me?" the boy asked. "You!" In deference to the Pasha, Thar turned and said: "Surely you see that this is neither too little nor too much. Are you serious in your judgment of only ten lashes?" The General confirmed his decision: "Yes. For Gideon, this is actually not a great honor to be beaten with a cane!"

The boy agreed: "I think so too! However, I now have this misfortune-not merely to retaliate once, but to collect vengeance again! So I plead with you; at least grant me permission to put aside my hero's garb." His wish was granted, so he made his exit to the coffee-corner. He took off his warrior-weaponry, then returned in order to get on with the improvised administration of justice.

"Hold him!" the Pasha commanded the father. Mustafa obeyed. In the manner that all readers know full well, the father leaned forward, stuck out his left knee, and placed the Guardian-of-Blood- Feuds across his lap, thereby causing the back side of the Transgressor to be exposed. Without saying a word and without struggling, Thar allowed all this to happen. The Pasha positioned himself, took a swing with the cane, and counted the strokes: "One- two."

He continued no further. The execution could not go forward, because my wife had sprung from her chair, placed herself squarely between the competitors, and appealed for mercy. The Pasha asked who she was. She told him. For a moment, he reflected, then bowed to her and replied that he would grant her request-but not before the count of ten which he had dictated. Under all circumstances, he was obligated to uphold his word; therefore, he was unable to rescind his order. Admittedly, he could not mitigate the two strokes that he had already given. In regard to the outstanding eight which she now wished to administer, and rightly so, the Pasha would grant her heart's desire.

At this point, he handed her the cane, stepped back, and beckoned her to proceed. Since we were all in sympathy with the Delinquent, we were pleased that she accepted his offer. When she turned towards the Pasha, she no longer saw him. In the meantime, he had gone back to the shop next door. Just when the man from Ain Kahrim prepared to lodge his objection to a lighter sentence, Mustafa Bustani invited him to come back in one hour and pick out a present for himself. With just a few more words here and there, the gentleman left, for the time being.

Meanwhile, the boy whispered so that his father would not hear him: "He laughed- oh how he laughed! Did you see it? Oh how that makes me happy!" His good-hearted, loving-eyes lit up. Then he kissed my wife's hand and said: "I thank you for the 'eight' which you have given me. They were tender and mild as pepperless home-baked cookies. For this, I'll never forget you. As you know, I'm a hero. Whenever you're in need, please call on me to rescue you."

On this note, Thar once again withdrew to the coffee-corner. With the help of African Bem, he somehow managed to change into a new outfit. His father once more took his place upon the crate in order to pick up the conversation where we had left off. Laughingly, he closed the matter with words about his darling Trickster's capers: "He was his mother's 'chosen one.' She saw everything in him! Whether the Pasha wants to believe it or not, he really is greatly gifted." I wanted to know how the boy had acquired his strange love for colors: "Was it also present in his childhood?"