The Secrets of the Sands: My Encounters with the Bedouin Culture
One of my first desert associations is with the Bedouins, a nomadic, tribal society of Middle Eastern deserts. I’ve only ever encountered Bedouin men, never Bedouin women, as this is a patriarchal and conservative tribal society. Traditionally, Bedouins have raised camels, goats, and cattle, traveling from one spot to the next in search of water and grass. Camel nomads occupy large territories in the Sahara, Syrian, and Arabian deserts; sheep and goat nomads have stayed mainly near the cultivated regions of Jordan, Israel, Syria, and Iraq; and cattle nomads are found chiefly in South Arabia and Sudan. Bedouins have also provided protection for trade caravans and, at other times, been the raiders. Nowadays, the Bedouin lifestyle is changing due to less rain and grass, and as modernization creeps closer to the desert, young people are increasingly looking to urban areas for jobs and schools for their children.
I had my first close encounter with the Bedouin during my military service. Armed with a lightweight, protective vest and an M-16 rifle, our patrol unit would make its way along the border fence each day at dawn to check for anything suspicious. The leader of our unit was always the Bedouin tracker (in Hebrew, the gashash). The Israel Defense Force’s (IDF) tracker unit is mainly composed of fighters from the Bedouin community. The tracker is an expert at identifying footprints and unnatural changes in the terrain. With just one look at the ground, the tracker can determine if and when someone crossed the fence, whether they were limping, carrying any weight, and in which direction they had gone. They can even detect improvised explosive devices (IEDs) by an out-of-place rock. It’s remarkable how a whole world is revealed in a single footprint and how it can save lives.
The Hebrew word gashash originates from the verb “to grope,” which means to cautiously search for a path by feeling with one’s hands in the absence of sight, typically in darkness or when blind. Currently, the term grope has strong sexual and political implications, which I wish to steer clear of. However, I find it intriguing how the words we use can influence our thinking and perception of the world, but that is a topic for another discussion.
Terrorists and criminals use various tactics to conceal their tracks and evade detection. These methods can include using a sponge or sheepskin on their shoes, but the most common method is using branches. One notable incident occurred on the southern desert border with Egypt, where many infiltrators pass through. A Bedouin tracker immediately identified the infiltrator as a terrorist, not a fellow Bedouin smuggler. The tracker knew this because the infiltrator’s shoe size was larger than that of a typical Bedouin man, and their walking route showed they were unfamiliar with the area. The infiltrator was walking on top of hills, searching for lights in populated areas instead of navigating through the low areas like someone familiar with the terrain would. This led to a large-scale operation involving multiple military units along the border, and within an hour, the terrorist was in custody.
Once, I asked the Bedouin tracker, “What’s your secret? What do you see that I don’t?” His reply was, “There is no secret, just experience. When I was six years old, my mother would send me to deliver food for my older brother, who left early in the morning to herd the goats. To find him, I had to look for fresh footprints. Life in the desert taught me to pay close attention to my surroundings.” Even nowadays, when Israel launches high-tech satellites and sophisticated surveillance devices, there is no substitute for a Bedouin’s eyes and sixth sense.
My other close encounter with a Bedouin was in the Sinai Desert when I worked as a medic, escorting travel groups on hiking and camel ride expeditions. The trip’s highlight was a visit to the Greek Orthodox Saint Catherine Monastery, nestled deep in the mountains at the foot of Mt. Sinai. The Bedouins had stood guard over the monastery for centuries, and in return, the monks provided them with food and other necessities that were hard to come by.
On one of those trips, I found myself alone with a Bedouin man and two camels. We were sitting by a crackling fire, the warmth spreading through our bones. I couldn’t help but be struck by the man sitting across from me – his skin was a deep, leathery brown, and his mannerisms were nothing short of dignified and reserved. Despite his quiet demeanor, there was a hint of mystery about him, a sort of enigma that was both intriguing and challenging to decipher. Yet, despite his guarded exterior, he was nothing but hospitable, making us feel right at home. His Hebrew was better than my Arabic, but not by much. We did not talk much, yet I felt a sense of ease in his company. He pulled a couple of hands full of flour, mixed it with water, added some salt, and made dough. He then laid the dough on a grain sack fabric, flattened it to a large disc shape with an even one-inch thickness, and left it to rest. After some time, he raked away the hot coals and placed the dough on the hot sand where the coals had been sitting. He scraped the coals back on top of the dough and waited some more. Then, deciding it was ready, he carefully raked away the hot coals and removed the bread from the fire, careful not to burn himself, scraped off the excess sand, and shared it with me. We dipped each bite into a canned tomato sauce, creating a meal that was both delicious and memorable; even forty years later.
