PREFACE IT seems to me there are two ways, generally speaking, to pre- pare a book, take a trip, or, for that matter, to live a life. One may go at it dilettante fashion, as a tourist-nibbling at ex- perience, titillating the emotions yet emotionally starved, stimulating oneself with ambition yet forever tortured by frustration. Circumstances and temperament, however, may conspire together so that, with the freedom of a nomad, one can escape the straightjacket of everyday boredom, hurdle fences of space and time, and consume life at its sources. Prop- erly directed, such an earthly life may give wing to one's imagination, clarity to one's thinking, strength to one's convic- tions, and even bring one nearer to the simple, eternal truths of God and spirit. This book, I feel, belongs in the second category-the cate- gory of the primitive. I left my country quite as uninformed, I am afraid, as are most Americans with respect to other peoples and other shores. But everywhere I went I sought to touch reality-always honestly, and always at first hand. Everywhere I clung close to the smells, the flora and fauna of native existence. In that spirit I have written of the Arabs among whom I lived. I found much good and much evil-evil acquired through a feudal order that, in my opinion, remains the Arab's greatest enemy and his greatest barrier to emergence from the dark ages. I am grateful for Arab hospitality and the kindness I was shown, but a reporter, like a physician, must not remain blind to the ills plaguing his subject. With no desire to attribute to myself or my writings any viii Preface preface ix exaggerated importance, it is my fervent hope that the many After my book was completed, I asked a Syrian Christian Armenians living in the Arab Middle East will not suffer at (who must remain anonymous because of possible retaliation the hands of fanatics because an American of Armenian descent against his relatives abroad) and the Reverend and Mrs. Karl happened to write this book. To them I can only say that I M. Baehr to read the manuscript critically. My thanks also go have told the story honestly, as I saw it. And to my Arab to these Christian and Arab friends for their suggestions. How- friends who asked only that I "tell the truth," I can say in all ever, it must be pointed out that the responsibility for this conscience that I have told the truth. Let me assure them that book-text and illustrations-is entirely mine. I speak in this book as an American, and purely in an individual capacity, with no ties to or membership in any Armenian- April 9, 1951 American body save the church into which I was born. Any retribution against the Armenians-a minority island in a Moslem sea-would be an unwarranted and senseless cruelty. I have written this book with the hope that it will bring both Arabs and Jews into truer focus for the reader; that it will help reveal what they are and what they are not, what may be ex- pected of them and what is impossible. I pray that these ancient Semitic peoples will reconcile their differences, that Palestine refugees who, in the main, left their homes because Arab leaders urged them to do so-expecting a short war and a quick victory-will be resettled. The only alternative to peace is disaster for Arab, Jew, and Christian, for none may hope to prosper alone. Together they may ultimately build a prosperous and democratic Middle East. To remain apart, at dagger's point, means only that Communism and anarchy can be the ultimate victors. This book could not have been written without the faith and love of friends. It would never have seen the light of day without the help of those who stood by steadfastly through the four stormy years of its preparation and writing, 1947-51. To Harold Strauss, my editor, and Paul Reynolds, my literary agent, I am grateful for their continuous faith and patience since they took me on four years ago. To the Reverend L. M. Birkhead I am equally thankful for his continued understand- ing and kindness. To Gerold Frank, who helped enormously in the editing and in clearing up a vast amount of the under- brush of writing, I especially owe a lasting debt of gratitude. CONTENTS Prologue: The Tree Bears Fruit BOOKI I: London: The Odyssey Begins 11: Cairo: The King's Jungle I11 : Green Shirts and Red Fezzes 1v: The Moslem (Black) Brotherhood , v: Behind the Correspondent's Curtain v1: World of the Koran: Islam Uber Alles v11: The Marxist Underground VIII : Off for the Holy War! 1x: The Holy City x: Gun-Running! XI: Return to Jerusalem XI1 : With the Arabs in Jerusalem BOOKI1 XI11 : Medinat Yisrael Is Born 245 XIV : Life in the Besieged City 260 xv: A Week of Agony: A Consul Is Murdered 279 XVI : "Escape" to the Arabs 294 xii Contents XVII : Arabs, Armenians, Catholics XVIII : The Last Exodus xIX: Bethlehem and Jericho LIST OF PHOTOGRAPHS xx: Philadelphia Is in Jordan XXI : Damascus: Jewel of the Orient XXII : Das Arabische Buro: Der Grossmufti XXIII : Beirut: Farewell to the Arabs (immediately following this list) XXIV : Israel, and Going Home All Photographs by John Roy Carbon Appendix: Arab-American Liaison Network Index follows page Followers of Truth being briefed for the Holy War (1.) AHMED HUSSEIN and SHEIKH MAHMOUD ABOU EL AZAAYIM (2.) Followers of Truth leave for the Holy War (3.4.) SHEIKH HASSAN EL BANNA ( 5.) FAWZY BEY EL KAWOUK JY (6.) MAHMOUD NABAOUI (7.) ABD EL KRIM ( 8. ) Behind the native curtain in Egypt: Ismailia (9. lo. 11.) Street scenes in Gaza (12. 13. 14. 15.) In the Old City of Jerusalem: CAPTAIN FADHIL RASHID BEY (16.) SHEIKH ISMAIL EL ANSARY (17.) Jewish Quarter burning (18.1 The funeral of an Arab chief (19. 20. 21.22.) In the besieged New City: The Pantiles (23. ) Hadassah clinic (24.) Funeral of two Americans (25.) PATRIARCH GUREGH 11 ISRAELIAN (26.) With the Armenians (27. 28.) Looting of the Old City Jewish quarter (29. 30. 31.) XIv Illustrations Surrender of the Old City Jews: RABBI BEN ZION HAZZAN IREQ (32.) Haganah prisoners (33.) Ruins of Hurvath Syna- gogue ( 34.1 Amman (35.36.) KING ABDULLAH and priests ( 37.) HA J AMIN EL HUSSEINI, the Mufti (38.) MAROUF DAWALIBI ( 39.) SALAH FATTAH EL IMAM (40. ) CAPTAIN HERBERT VON FURST (41.) MOUSTAFA EL ARISS (42.) PIERRE GEMAYEL (43. ) Smoking the josie (44.) Israel: The port of Haifa (45.) Children at Kibbutz Afikim ( 46. ) My birthplace in Akxandropolis (47. 48.) MAPS @' (by Rafael Palacios) The Middle East from Cairo to Damascus PAGE 16 Jerusalem and Its Environs PAGE 244 (PROLOGUE) THE TREE BEARS FRUIT Our roots, transplanted from Europe, bear fruit here. On free American soil we have the opportunity to achieve all the great dreams, all the great resolves, all the promises of human dignity which are so of- ten stifled and destroyed in the Old World. ONE night in the spring of the year, when seed in the earth breaks sharp through the crust, I left my bed quietly, locked the door, and walked into the night. The rain-a full-bodied, lusty rain, driven by a furious wind-beat hard against the pavement, formed into rivulets, and flowed down slopes into the gutter. It slashed at the tops of trees and beat down the saplings and young shoots till they seemed to become one with the earth. It was past midnight as I walked, drenched, in old clothes and old shoes. Sleep? I was beyond sleep. For days now some- thing had been boiling and churning within me, seeking to come through. Solitude wouldn't bring it out, nor long walks in the country. Meditation in the back pew of a church didn't help. It was in the nature of things that the inner storm would subside only in the atmosphere of a storm outside. There was no other way of quieting me down. I had no idea where I was going. I remember only that my head was bent to break the fury of the rain against my face. I kept staring at my feet, watching first one then the other shoe splash into a puddle and pull out, dripping, and ever be- 4 CAIRO TO DAMASCUS The Tree Bears Fruit 5 fore me the dark pavement, sleek and glistening with the "Thanks," the man said. spring rain. It was a warm rain, a lush, fertile rain, holding I felt the pelting of the rain grow stronger as I approached within it the magic to germinate whatever wanted to sprout. the docks and came nearer the waters of the Hudson. The Taxis passed, splashing New York7s mud and water on me. Jersey shore was invisible. I could see scarcely fifty feet ahead I walked for a long, long time. Eventually my feet led me to of me. There was no sound except the fury of the rain beating the dock area of New York's West Side. down on the ships and tugboats tied to the piers, striking their I stopped under a trestle and leaned against one of the sup- metal sides in a soft, purring staccato. ports. Then I shook my head and body like a poodle in from The rain seemed to bring out the myriad odors of the water- the rain. Up the road was an all-night diner. I dug my hands front, stirring up what had been pulverized under the wheels back into my pockets, bent my head, and began to cross to the of trucks and stevedores7 boots.