The Secrets of the Sands: My Encounters with the Bedouin Culture
One of my earliest desert associations is with the Bedouins, the nomadic tribes of the Middle Eastern deserts. Their way of life—rooted in resilience, adaptability, and deep knowledge of the land—has fascinated me for as long as I can remember. Yet, despite my many encounters, I’ve only ever met Bedouin men, never women, as their society is deeply patriarchal and conservative.
Traditionally, Bedouins raised camels, goats, and cattle, constantly searching for water and grazing land. Camel nomads roam vast territories across the Sahara, Syrian, and Arabian deserts, while sheep and goat herders have stayed closer to the cultivated lands of Jordan, Israel, Syria, and Iraq. Meanwhile, cattle nomads are primarily found in South Arabia and Sudan. Throughout history, Bedouins have been both protectors and raiders, guiding trade caravans while, at other times, ambushing them.
But the Bedouin lifestyle is changing. Less rain, fewer grazing lands, and the pull of modernity drive younger generations to seek education and jobs in cities. The desert, once their sole domain, is becoming just one chapter in their evolving story.
My first close encounter with the Bedouin came during my military service. Every morning at dawn, our patrol unit would set out along the border fence, scanning for anything suspicious. We were armed with M-16 rifles, lightweight vests, and—most crucially—the guidance of the Bedouin tracker, known in Hebrew as the gashash.
The gashash, typically a Bedouin fighter in the Israel Defense Forces (IDF), is an expert in reading terrain—a skill honed over generations. He can look at the ground and immediately tell if someone crossed the fence, when they did, if they were limping, carrying weight, or even if they tried to cover their tracks. He can spot an improvised explosive device (IED) just by noticing 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”—to search for a path by feeling, with one’s hands in the absence of sight, typically in darkness or when blind. Interestingly, in modern usage, the word “grope” carries strong sexual and political connotations, but its original meaning reflects the deliberate, careful searching of the tracker. Language shapes thought, and I often wonder how many other words have drifted so far from their roots.
Terrorists and smugglers have devised countless tactics to conceal their tracks—tying sponges or sheepskin to their shoes or, more commonly, dragging branches behind them to erase footprints. But nothing gets past the gashash.
One story that still amazes me happened on the Egyptian border, a major infiltrator route. A Bedouin tracker spotted footprints and immediately knew they belonged to a terrorist, not a Bedouin smuggler. How?
The shoe size was too large—bigger than the typical Bedouin man’s.
The path was wrong—instead of moving through valleys, the intruder climbed hilltops, searching for lights in villages—a classic sign of someone unfamiliar with the terrain.
Within an hour, a large-scale military operation was underway, and the terrorist was in custody.
I once asked a Bedouin tracker, “What’s your secret? What do you see that I don’t?”
He smiled and said, “There is no secret—only experience. When I was six, my mother would send me to bring food to my older brother, who left early to herd the goats. To find him, I had to look for fresh footprints. Life in the desert teaches you to pay attention.”
Even today, with satellites and high-tech surveillance, there is no substitute for a Bedouin’s eyes and instincts.
My other close encounter with the Bedouin came during my time as a medic, escorting travel groups through the Sinai Desert on hiking and camel-riding expeditions. The highlight of these trips was visiting the Greek Orthodox Saint Catherine Monastery, tucked deep into the mountains at the foot of Mt. Sinai.
For centuries, the Bedouins have stood guard over this monastery, and in return, the monks provide them with food and essential supplies. It’s a rare symbiotic relationship—a blending of Christian monks and Muslim tribesmen—built not on faith but on mutual survival in the harshest of landscapes.
On one trip, I was alone with a Bedouin man and two camels, sitting around a small fire under the vast desert sky, 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, a testament to years of sun and wind. His mannerisms were nothing short of dignified and reserved. There was a hint of mystery about him, a sort of enigma that was 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 reached into his bag and pulled out a handful of flour, mixing it with water and salt to form a simple dough. He flattened it into a large, round disc, letting it rest. After a while, he raked away the hot coals and placed the dough directly on the hot sand, covering it again with coals.
Minutes later, he pulled the bread from the fire, brushed off the sand, and broke it in half. We dipped each bite into a can of tomato sauce—nothing fancy, yet it remains one of the best meals I’ve ever had.
Even now, decades later, I clearly remember that night. The warmth of the fire, the silence of the desert, and the quiet presence of a man whose ancestors had walked these lands for centuries. A reminder that even in the most barren landscapes, there is knowledge, connection, and life waiting to be discovered.