Chapter 10

            I thought back to the camping trips in the desert during the years my father worked for Aramco. On long weekends and Eid holidays, we would head out in our old Landrover to far-flung places like Scribner's Canyon, Mammoth Cave and the Umm al-Hadid meteorite field. Usually there would be two or three families, traveling in “caravans.” We would occasionally meet up with shepherds and Bedouin, and once in a while we would be invited to some desert family's bait al-shaar, or “house of hair,” the black, woven goat-hair tent that served as their home during nomadic migrations.

            Invited into the majlis, or sitting room, of the tent, we would settle down on Oriental carpets, bolsters and cushions, and would drink cardamom-scented Arabian coffee and sweet tea prepared over the campfire, and eat dates or other fruit. Usually we would not see the women; we could hear them giggling behind a tent divider. But the desert men would not mind a mixed crowd of Americans in their sitting room. Their kids, both boys and girls, were very curious about us, and would either peek at us from behind the tent wall, or would assist their fathers in serving us fruit and tea. We would sometimes be honored with a meal of sheep or goat, served on a huge platter amid a mountain of seasoned rice. We would sit with our hosts around the platter on the carpet and dig in with our right hands – the hand reserved for eating. The idea was to snare a piece of lamb and work it into a little ball of rice, then pop it into your mouth, all using only your right hand. The host would normally tear out chunks of the tenderest meat for his guests, and set it in the rice before them. A very social form of eating, if a bit messy. (The Bedouins had discovered that washing your hands with a little Tide detergent after the meal was the best way of removing lamb fat. If water was in short supply, there was always sand.)

            I tried not to think about one of our family caravans into the remote Rub' al-Khali. It was the time I first learned about the Sulayb. These were not Bedouins, or even Arabs. They were gypsy-like wanderers of unknown origin who worked as trackers, did repair work and blacksmithing, and kept their distance from the true Bedouins. The Sulayb – whose name has been interpreted as a diminutive of salib, Arabic for “cross” – were thought by some scholars to be the remnants of ancient Christian Crusader forces that had become lost or stranded in the desert. Some Sulayb had fair hair and blue eyes. They were also known as the very best desert trackers. But because of their murky origins, because they did manual labor – which was looked down upon by true Bedouins – and because in the old days they wore animal skins and rode donkeys instead of nobler horses or camels, the Sulayb had the misfortune to be considered the lowest social class in Arabia – virtual untouchables.

            I was about fifteen at the time. Our families were still asleep in their tents, when I went for a dawn trek in the dunes. I was looking for a secluded spot to pee. Behind me the sky was almost inky black, but in front a pinkish splash tinged the horizon, and it was growing steadily. I soon found a gully where I quickly did my business. On my way back to the camp, I climbed a sand hill and off to the right I saw a jerboa scurry into its hole. I loved being alone, in a purely natural environment like this. I breathed deeply. The universe seemed to be this amazing song, and I sang harmony with it. But the song was suddenly cut short, as someone grabbed my shoulders and spun me around.

            I gasped, almost screamed. I was staring into the face of a bearded man, not much taller than me but wiry and extremely powerful. He wore a dingy white robe and a red-and-white checked shemagh or headcloth wrapped around his skull, like a sloppy turban.

            “What do you want?” I said, in English, terrified but trying not to show it.

            He muttered something in Arabic, but I couldn’t understand it.

            He took off his shemagh, rolled it into a long strip and without warning bound my mouth with it. I began screaming, but the sound did not carry far under the cloth, which reeked of wood smoke and old sweat. He smacked my face, shouting “Uskuti!” -- “Shut up!” He reached around me, grabbed my buttocks and hoisted me up, facedown, onto his right shoulder. He then set off across the dunes.

            I knew what was about to happen. I felt helpless, outraged and ashamed. I struggled, but the man smacked me repeatedly to keep me still. Before long, we reached a small canvas tent, alone in a hollow amid the dunes. The tent was empty, apart from a rug and pillow. He threw me inside and followed me in. He made gestures to me, indicating clearly that I should take off my clothes. He knelt down beside me and shook a bony fist. He didn’t seem to have any weapons. But I knew he could overpower me. I began slowly to undress. I pulled my Gap sweatshirt over my head and set it beside me. I was not wearing a bra. The early morning air was still cool, and I shivered as I wrapped my arms around my bare breasts. He leered at my body, and began to hoist his filthy robe. He nodded toward his obscene erection, indicating I should touch him. The stench of his unwashed skin nauseated me.

            Suddenly, I sensed a shadow behind the man. It moved like another person. Then a blur surrounded the man and he fell backwards and seemed to be dragged out of the tent. He began howling, then screaming. The wind roared. Then he was silent.

            Puzzled, I grabbed my sweatshirt and slipped it over my head.

            Another man poked his head into the tent. He was younger, better looking, and much cleaner than my kidnapper. He wore a dark brown robe and his head was bare.

            “Are you okay?” he asked in Arabic. I knew enough of the language to respond.

            “Yes, I am fine,” I said. Relief washed over me.

            “He was from the Sulayb. Usually they do not do that. Do you know how to get back to your family?”

            I shook my head. “No.”

            He beckoned to me, but he would not enter the tent. “Come with me, I will show you.”

            My attacker had disappeared. My rescuer walked me back over the dunes to my camp. As we walked, he explained to me about the Sulayb, how they were outcasts of unknown origin. He told me had never heard of a Sulubi trying to attack a woman.

“What happened to that man?” I asked him. “Where did he go?”

The young man smiled. “He is far from here,” was all he would say.

When they reached the campsite, everyone was still asleep. As I stood beside my tent, I whispered “Shukran” – “Thank you” – and the young man smiled. I glanced away for a moment, and in that second he vanished.

In the cave, as I stared at Mubarak Awda posing like the crucified Christ, I remembered the horrifying abduction in the desert, I remembered so clearly the young man who had saved me. He was now standing before me, unchanged.

Mubarak lowered his arms and looked at me. Noting the change in my expression, he smiled broadly.

“Yes, Dr. Goddard, I am the one,” he said.

“But how – ”

He gestured for silence.

“We will speak of it later,” he said.

The others were caring for Mahmoud Bakhashaf, and didn’t notice our exchange.
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