On the face of a broad spreading plain, encircled by green orchards on every side, in a clear and elevated place, stands a large group of people and measures manure. Commanding the entire group is the chief supervisor, the foreman of the large orchard, covering several hundred dunams, a Hebrew man approximately forty years of age, speaking Arabic well and versed in the manners of the country. He stands in the center and from time to time issues brief and stern commands. At his sides are two record-keepers: one Hebrew, writing in Hebrew for the orchard management, and the other Arab, writing in Arabic for the sellers. The manure measurer is an elderly fellah, nimble and experienced in his labor. His bony arms are bare up to the armpits. His thick gown is folded and tied at the top, revealing his hairy legs up to his knees and above. His face is most serious and his entire being is invested in the basket before him: filling it properly, proclaiming it aloud, and emptying it aside with lightning speed onto the heap, in order to fill it once more.
“One! One is Allah!”
“La allah ila allah wa-sayeduna muhammed rasul allah!” the members of the group answer the measurer in reverence of the divine.
“Two! Allah have mercy!”
“Three! Allah’s blessing!”
“Four! Allah is merciful!”
“Five!” The blessing is from Allah!”
The measurer continues his count, continues his proclamations, and continues his measuring, and the eyes of the entire group are fixed on the basket, gripped by the measurer’s proclamations, following every movement of his hands, lest his tongue should – God forbid – falter or his measurement – God forbid – miss the mark.
The group is quite diverse. On the one side are fellahin from all over the region, wearing the large, thick fezzes even in the hot days of summer, eaters of the thick karadish, baked in a taboon. Most of them are heads of households, and they wear whole gowns. Together with them are the Jabbaliye, the mountain-dwelling fellahin, wearing white keffiyehs with black agals. Most of them are of the poorer folk, their gowns are ripped and worn and made of patches. Their leather satchels are empty for lack of bread… It is only one day’s walk from their homes and back, and what matter is it if they do not eat for one day?
And on the other side are Bedouins. In front are those of the neighboring area, dressed in black cloaks, eaters of thin pita made from wheat flour and baked on a saj. The keffiyehs and agals on their heads are whole. Most of them are owners of herds and men of assets who engage in trade. And behind them – the sons of the south, of the desert and its tabernacles, from Be’er Sheva and Asluj and Hafir and Wadi-Al-Arish, three days walk. Only shreds of gowns cover their naked bodies and tatters of keffiyehs and agals sit on their heads that grow wild. And each one of them has some flour wrapped and tied at the end of the torn and dirty rag that hangs from his body, to bake pitas on the road come nightfall, to chew on to fulfill the obligation of eating…All day no food comes to their mouths, except for roots of sweet grasses that they find on the way and chew.
And as are the differences between the manure sellers, so are the differences between their beasts that carry the manure. The local fellahin and the neighboring Bedouin have large and well-fed camels. Some of them wear embroidery of colored wool and bells on their necks. The mountain men’s camels are small and thin, their bones exposed. The faraway Bedouin’s camels are mere shadows of camels, most of them very young, light females who have only just learned to carry a burden, and all of them are as hungry as their masters.
The sacks, too, the sacks of manure, are different. The faraway Bedouin have fair sacks, all of them wool woven on hand-looms by the women at home over the course of years… The mountain men’s sacks are handmade as well, sewn from clothing rags and sack rags, gathered from the refuse of the cities. Only the sacks of the nearby fellahin and Bedouin are not domestic product, but bought in the market.
Sometimes, when one of the distant Bedouin pours the manure out from his sack, a small packet falls from amidst the manure… In an ancient and dirty rag another bit of flour has been wrapped and tied… If the Bedouin’s spirit should not hold out and make do with the little flour in the corner of his garment, he could thrust his hand to retrieve this concealed treasure. And if his spirit should hold, he would take it back home with him as it was…
And the entire company, those about to measure the manure from their sacks, and those whose turn is a long wait yet, and passersby who had simply turned out of their way a short while to witness the spectacle, all stand crowded in a circle, enclosing the foreman with his record-keepers and the measurer, and oversee the measuring with seven eyes. And woe to the measurer if he misses the measurement and adds a few grains of manure to the basket. Immediately, a deafening roar kicks up:
“Fear Allah!”
“Haram!”
“My blood, my blood!”
“People, people, come quick!”
The noise grew and the clamor increased and from afar you would think a blood feud had broken out… But the foreman knew the souls of his public, and he orders the measurer to remove the extra grains and add or remove some other amount… And in an instant the storm has abated and cries of gratitude and praise are heard from every side:
“By Allah, there’s a man!”
“There’s none like the Jews!”
“The Jew is better than the Muslim!”
“Allah Akbar!”
_____
“Salam aleykum, servants of Allah!” a new seller of manure called out loudly, approaching the group with slow and measured steps, as he led a young camel along by a rope, a lean baby camel whose hump was loaded with two small sacks of manure. The camel was sick with fear, crying bitterly with its mouth open and tugging its master back.
“Aleykum as-salam!” many of the group called out loud and made room for him among them. A few of the Bedouin, from among the distant, hungry and naked ones, who stood aside on the edge of the group on the other side, seemed shaken by the call. They cast a glance at the newcomer and lowered, seemingly unintentionally, the edge of the tattered keffiyehs they wore on their heads, covering their mouths and the tips of their noses, leaving only their eyes exposed.
A slight shudder passed over those who noticed this. Something was up. Who knew what? Was this the matter of a gum? Soft whispers passed from mouth to ear. Those who had still not measured their manure began to press towards the measurer, and those who had finished began to load their empty sacks onto their camels for to be on their way again…
The new guest, a lad young in years, upright, thin and pale, with shining black eyes and black curls was also, it appeared, from among the distant, hungry Bedouin. Over his naked, completely gownless body, hung a piece of a black cloak that only partially covered his nudity. He wedged himself in among the crowd and stood next to the measurer.
The eyes of the experienced foreman, too, did not miss how some of the Bedouin had received this new arrival. He decided to quickly be rid of the new seller, and whispered in the ear of the measurer to measure for him right away and not wait for his turn.
“What is your name?” the Arab record-keeper called to him, in order to write his name down in the measurement ledger. A light, good-natured laughter passed over the lad’s lips and he said:
“Jindi!”
And again something of a shudder passed through the group. The Bedouin name reinforced the suspicion. It is true that the faraway Bedouin are not accustomed to being called by their real names when on foreign ground, for fear of “the evil eye.” Each one makes up an assumed name, one is “Nada” (dew), another “Matar” (rain), this one is “Nijm” (star), that one “Rabih” (spring pasture)… But all these names are obvious. The name “Jindi” seemed to be keeping something back, concealing something…
And the young manure seller, known as Jindi, opened wide the two small sacks that he took down in the flitter of an eye from the hump of his baby of a camel, and said:
“Here is mine before you!”
And again a good-hearted light laughter graced his lips.
And his manure was “top of the line”: clean, separated sheep droppings, with not a trace of admixture of grass or straw or sand; as sifted as kernels of wheat.
Looks of pleasure and satisfaction crossed the faces of the foreman and of the record-keepers, the measurer, and the members of the group. The measurer measured generously. The record-keeper wrote with a light heart, and the foreman right away counted out the meagre coins into Jindi’s hands.
And again the light and good-hearted laughter crossed the full breadth of his face. He tied the coins with a tight knot to the end of his piece of cloak, gathered up his sacks, and tied them to his camel… But the young Bedouin was not thinking as the supervisor expected. He gathered up the ends of his piece of cloak, folded his legs beneath him, and sat on the ground, among the group, and looked on as the measuring proceeded
He watched with wide-open eyes. At times his hands moved, as if of their own accord, and their movements testified that that he knew the job well.
The day was a blessed one for manure. Group after group arrived from all directions, from the nearby villages and from the south and from the desert. The measurer’s arms grew weary from measuring, and his tongue too tired and faltered time and time again. And a thundering of shouts and protestations and cries of anger burst forth on every side with each of the measurer’s failings. The foreman feared a real fight would break out and called an end to the measuring. And here, Jindi jumped up from his place, turned to the foreman, and said:
“If I have found favor in your eyes, let me stand in the measurer’s stead that he may rest awhile…” And the young man’s face aroused trust in the foreman’s heart. He was sorry to lose the buying of manure and acceded to his request.
Jindi cast the piece of cloak off of him and with lightning speed tied it around his loins to cover his nakedness, thrust his hands towards the basket, and stood on his knees. He cast the measurer’s hoe away from him and began filling the basket with his two hands and measuring…
Here was a master of measurement. His hands worked quickly and with unbelievable lightness and never missed the measure, not one grain more nor one grain less… His tongue spoke with utmost clarity and his mouth declared loudly and his tongue did not falter; a measurer by divine grace. And a miraculous thing that surprised even the orchard foreman who was accustomed to the Bedouin of the desert: no sooner had the Bedouin measurer opened a sack and poured the first grains into the basket – than he declared the manure’s origin, its location and the tribe that owned the sheep… Jindi knew them by the color and size of their droppings.
“From the manure of the sheep belonging to the tribe of Tarabin…”
“From the manure of the sheep belonging to the sons of Tiyaha…”
“From the sheep belonging to the children of Dhullam…”
“This is from the tribe of Ma’aza…”
“Brought from the sons of Azaziye…”
“From the sheep belonging to the tribe of Al-Qudeirat…”
And the fellahin and the mountain men listen and marvel, their faces radiating amazement. The Bedouin are silent, as if they are vexed by their fellow countryman who shows off in vain for these wimps… the fellahin!
And now a large gang of new fellahin arrives. It is their turn for measuring. A shadow of consternation crosses the young measurer’s face, as if it is difficult for him to decide in his heart what to do: should he measure for them or should he stop? They are fellahin, and he – a Bedouin! With a forceful movement, as if seeking to banish his doubts from his heart, he gripped the basket and began to measure. A spark of ridicule, like rejoicing in the misfortune of another, shone in the eyes of the Bedouin sitting on the sidelines with their mouths and noses covered… It was now their time for measuring and they did not move from their spot to offer their sacks.
The measuring work had reached its end. Most of the sellers had already emptied out their sacks and sat checking and counting their money again. It was now the turn of the evader Bedouin, the last turn. The foreman calls to them to hurry up, because he has had enough of measuring today. Sluggishly the Bedouin got up from their place and very slowly began to offer their sacks to the measurer, as if forced to do so by a demon… The measurer’s glance fell upon them… Suddenly he jumped from his place as if bitten by a scorpion, cast the basket away from him, turned to the foreman and cried:
“These, let the fellah measure for them!”
His voice was besotted with contempt and anger. A black shadow fell on the faces of those present. The edges of the keffiyehs fell away from the mouths and noses as if of their own accord. This time the eyes did not chuckle to themselves with ridicule and scorn, but raged with anger and insult.
“But you measured for the fellahin… You are the servant of ‘Abu-Ahmed’!”
The insult was too much to bear. For he, the Bedouin, really had measured the manure of the fellahin and had served them in the sight of his rivals… Jindi’s face whitened and then reddened in turn from shame and pain.
“And you… Are you Bedouin? You don’t know how to greet a guest under the shadow of your roof!”
They, the Bedouin, sons of the desert, don’t know how to greet a guest under the shadow of their roof?! What Bedouin could hear himself put to such disgrace, and in the presence of strangers, and look the other way and remain silent?
Sounds of shouting and yelling, of protestations and abuse burst forth from the mouths of the Bedouin and reached the heavens. After the shouts, hands were raised, gaunt, trembling, powerless hands… The hands were directed at Jindi… And his hands twisted in the hands of his rivals.
The mountain fellahin and the nearby Bedouin, who had not yet left with their camels, hurried to saddle their bags and make their exit. God forbid they should end up in a messy situation as witnesses and be summoned to court… The fellah measurer and the Arab record-keeper tried to separate the adversaries, but their words of reconciliation were swallowed up in the sound of shouting… The foreman was at his wits’ end and knew not what to do.
But here enlargement and deliverance came from an unexpected source. It was now lunch time, and the bell that was next to the pump-house in the center of the orchard began to ring loudly, calling the workers to eat and to rest from their labor… From all sides of the large orchard, dozens of young men began jumping out from among the trees, hurrying towards the central area. Near the storehouses, not far from the manure pile, the ringing of the bell, the faces of the workers, their large numbers, and their quick walk, cast fear and terror on the group of half-naked Bedouin who were charging one another uttering strange shouts… Their anger dissipated and they sobered from the intoxication of their loathing. The hands disengaged from each other. Each man hastened to his camel and his sacks, his face trembling with fear…
The fear of the bell and of the yahud workers passed as well. The workers passed by them, looked at them with light-hearted laughter, some greeting them, and hurried towards the water pipes to wash up. After washing, they sat down in groups in the shade of the avenue of trees that bisected the orchard, took out their baskets, and ate their meal. The fear was gone, and wonder struck the hearts of the naked and hungry desert men. What was this feast in the middle of the day, in the orchard, in the place of work? Each one of the workers had a loaf of bread in his hand, the size of which the Bedouin had never seen in all their days… And the bread was white…Was this really bread? And there were even “dips” besides the bread: one held an egg in his hand, one had cheese, another had halva, the sweet kind like in the medina…
The most affected and the most excited of them all, truly wonder-struck, was Jindi. This was the first time that his feet had had brought him to the moshavot of the yahud, because he had heard that sustenance could be obtained there from the sale of manure… And this was the second day since he had left his tent in the south that no food had come to his mouth. He had not even taken a handful of flour along with him to eat on the road… At first his thinking could not comprehend that this thing that these strange people were holding in their hands and chewing on, was bread… Was something like this the bread that people ate? … Until he heard the whisper travel from mouth to mouth on the lips of the Bedouin: bread, bread… And without thinking to, without wanting to, and with no premediated intention, he pushed his way up to the first group and remained standing before them, his mouth gaping and his eyes wide… And these people looked at him with good will and also spoke to him words that he did not understand – and one of them, who was sitting closest to him, cut of his bread a large slice and extended it to him…
Jindi was startled somewhat and stepped back, as if he didn’t understand the young man’s intention. But the man’s face was goodly, and something powerful drove Jindi back towards the piece: he grabbed it in both his hands and delivered it to his mouth. It had a fragrant smell… and was soft and tasty… And while it was still between his two hands, he swallowed it and did not sense that it had reached his insides… He remained rooted to the spot, excited and amazed, as if he didn’t understand what it had been or what had happened.
Jindi’s success drew in after it one by one the entire gang of Bedouin… Slices of bread were offered to them from every side… The orchard foreman added himself to the group, as did the supervisors and the mechanics, and all granted the Bedouin of their bread with a gracious hand.
And as the hearts of the guests were good upon them at the feast, they were inclined to tell the foreman of the matter of the quarrel between them and to present their grievances before him.
Jindi was the plaintiff:
It happened as he made his way in the desert, going on foot on a necessary errand, that he happened upon Bedouin tents, those of his current foes. He was tired from the long journey and thirsty, and asked for water to drink. They served him cold water, he drank, and he thanked Allah and His servants…
They also asked him to dine with them on the bread Allah had given them… But to spend the night under the shadow of their roofs they did not ask him! And the hour was eventide… And it vexed him unto death, and he refused to eat with them, but bid them farewell and went off… Can this be how things are done among tent-dwelling Bedouin?!
And his rivals buried their faces in the ground… They apparently admitted, in their hearts, that the fault had been theirs… But the pride of their tribe did not let them admit publicly that they acted in error… And the largest among them, an elderly man, took up the defense for the men of his tribe.
They had not done this out of wickedness, and not because they took lightly the traditions of their ancestors and brethren. An impure thing had occurred that day in the camp… The sheikh’s wife had borne her husband a daughter, for the third time… And all hopes that the sheikh and the tribe would have a son were shattered… Their hearts were bitter upon them. The Sheikh sat in his tent angry and despondent and their hearts would not let them inform him that Allah had chanced a guest to their tents… And a stranger, a passerby, could not spend the night with the tribe if the sheikh has not been asked… And before they could consult and before anything could be done, the guest took insult, did not tarry, and fled… And when the men of the tribe set off after him to ask his forgiveness and to bring him back with them, they did not find him… He must have hid among the sands and spent the night there, and brought down shame on their tribe…
Once the matter was out, that had been locked up in their souls for many days, the hearts became easier to appease. They acceded to the words of the foreman and forgave each other. Each man touched the edge of his fellow’s shoulder; lips kissed each other at a distance through the empty space. They had become reconciled.
When the workers had returned to their places, the Bedouin gathered up the breadcrumbs and food remains that were left after them on the ground, saddled their camels, hailed the foreman for the good he had showed them, and joyful and with a glad heart, left the orchard to once again take their journey.
▄