He is not one of the men that Prince Faisal knows.
He does not bear himself with reverence for the sharifs of Mecca, even though they are the custodians of that holiest city--his salaam is hard, like a salute, like something that he has taught himself to do. His skin is darker than even that of the darkest Bedouin, and he wears his elegant robes as though the cloth is foreign to his skin.
He does not like the desert at all, and it is shown in his every movement, his every downward glance.
Faisal cannot tear his eyes away.
He is still a young prince, and not yet the man who will defend Wadi Yenbo and Medinah. He is not yet the statesman who will speak with the English and the French and the Americans in Paris. He is only Faisal, prince in the court of the sharifs, and he is fascinated by this strange man who rails at the Turks and the British alike.
This man tells Faisal's father that the Arabs--for he calls them Arabs, even though no one else does yet--must throw off the oppression of the Turks, but also that they must not trust the British.
This man says that he, too, had trusted the British, and that his nation has suffered greatly for its trust. His nation has become a nation of slaves.
There are fabulous stories that Faisal can barely believe, too--there are stories of guns and technology and discovery, and most of all there are stories of the sea. This strange man who is not an Arab--Faisal savors the word--this man loves the sea beyond all else. He says that there are great and wonderful beasts that live in the sea, and that there will never, ever be an end to the study of nature and of man that can be conducted through the ocean.
The sea. If he had not seen it himself on the journey to Cairo for schooling, he might have imagined it a fable.
Sometimes, when Faisal's father has grown weary of talking but the stranger has not, Faisal will sit comfortably across from the man and smoke or drink coffee while his father abandons the conversation. It doesn't seem to trouble the stranger, that Faisal is the only one who listens.
It doesn't trouble him, because Faisal listens.
They will take places cross-legged on the antique rug, their legs folded carefully and their eyes meeting in challenge. The stranger will tell of his kingdom, long since lost to the British. He will tell of his attempts to work with his sworn enemies, and how again and again he was given nothing although he gave everything. Faisal nods solemnly.
He talks of the kingdom that is to come.
There will be a land for Arabs, they agree, ruled by Arabs and made in the image of the great Persian empires, but held up on the framework of modern technology. They discuss telephones and electricity for every city; they whisper of modern repeating rifles to guard the holiest of cities; they shout-shout-shout that the Turks shall never again take free men captive!
The stranger will grow quiet at these times. He will say, in his odd and accented Arabic, that a nation is not free unless it is comprised of free men. He asks Faisal gently if he will rule his people as a tyrant, as a law-giver, as a parent. He asks if Faisal will love every man he rules as a son and weep at his death like a father.
Faisal tells him that he cannot answer that until he is ruling.
The stranger turns away in disgust.
Soon, they will be talking of the British again--of their empty promises and their harsh retribution against those they consider unfaithful. Of their faithlessness and the way that they make smaller nations their playthings.
The stranger hates the British.
He is not afraid of them, but he hates them like a man afraid.
no subject
He does not bear himself with reverence for the sharifs of Mecca, even though they are the custodians of that holiest city--his salaam is hard, like a salute, like something that he has taught himself to do. His skin is darker than even that of the darkest Bedouin, and he wears his elegant robes as though the cloth is foreign to his skin.
He does not like the desert at all, and it is shown in his every movement, his every downward glance.
Faisal cannot tear his eyes away.
He is still a young prince, and not yet the man who will defend Wadi Yenbo and Medinah. He is not yet the statesman who will speak with the English and the French and the Americans in Paris. He is only Faisal, prince in the court of the sharifs, and he is fascinated by this strange man who rails at the Turks and the British alike.
This man tells Faisal's father that the Arabs--for he calls them Arabs, even though no one else does yet--must throw off the oppression of the Turks, but also that they must not trust the British.
This man says that he, too, had trusted the British, and that his nation has suffered greatly for its trust. His nation has become a nation of slaves.
There are fabulous stories that Faisal can barely believe, too--there are stories of guns and technology and discovery, and most of all there are stories of the sea. This strange man who is not an Arab--Faisal savors the word--this man loves the sea beyond all else. He says that there are great and wonderful beasts that live in the sea, and that there will never, ever be an end to the study of nature and of man that can be conducted through the ocean.
The sea. If he had not seen it himself on the journey to Cairo for schooling, he might have imagined it a fable.
Sometimes, when Faisal's father has grown weary of talking but the stranger has not, Faisal will sit comfortably across from the man and smoke or drink coffee while his father abandons the conversation. It doesn't seem to trouble the stranger, that Faisal is the only one who listens.
It doesn't trouble him, because Faisal listens.
They will take places cross-legged on the antique rug, their legs folded carefully and their eyes meeting in challenge. The stranger will tell of his kingdom, long since lost to the British. He will tell of his attempts to work with his sworn enemies, and how again and again he was given nothing although he gave everything. Faisal nods solemnly.
He talks of the kingdom that is to come.
There will be a land for Arabs, they agree, ruled by Arabs and made in the image of the great Persian empires, but held up on the framework of modern technology. They discuss telephones and electricity for every city; they whisper of modern repeating rifles to guard the holiest of cities; they shout-shout-shout that the Turks shall never again take free men captive!
The stranger will grow quiet at these times. He will say, in his odd and accented Arabic, that a nation is not free unless it is comprised of free men. He asks Faisal gently if he will rule his people as a tyrant, as a law-giver, as a parent. He asks if Faisal will love every man he rules as a son and weep at his death like a father.
Faisal tells him that he cannot answer that until he is ruling.
The stranger turns away in disgust.
Soon, they will be talking of the British again--of their empty promises and their harsh retribution against those they consider unfaithful. Of their faithlessness and the way that they make smaller nations their playthings.
The stranger hates the British.
He is not afraid of them, but he hates them like a man afraid.