THE CAMEL'S NOSE

A slightly different version of the story told to me.

I first heard the Arab story about the Bedouin and the camel in Cairo in 1984. The son of my host, whom I will name here as Mustafa, and I were seated opposite one another in the back of a white stretch limo. My elderly host was a cousin of the reigning King of Saudi Arabia. I was in their employ in my capacity as a consultant on a psychiatric matter concerning another family member of my host. 

Mustafa at that time was a rotund and congenial man of about twenty-eight. He was dressed in an expensive Italian suit which put my cheap American suit to shame. We sipped imported French water as the limo zipped along a relatively new expressway which linked Cairo to its outskirts along the Nile. The imposing driver and other bodyguard were separated from us by tinted glass. Mustafa assured me the limo's windows were all bullet proof.

Mustafa was an Oxford and Stanford grad. He gained a Stanford MBA in anticipation of inheriting his father's hotel empire. He punctuated this monologue on his past by saying. "I loved California. So much freer. I miss the States." 

The brief silence was interrupted by the pervasive call to prayer, emanating from hundreds of mosques across the edges of Cairo on each side of the highway. The sound stimulated discomfort in me. Its wailing intensity was unavoidable. Mustafa was studying me closely. 

"Religion," he said. He turned to look out at the orange evening sand fog approaching from across the Sahara. "We use it to control the people, the rabble. There is no other way." When I asked if he was a religious person, he laughed and offered me a cold beer from the small refrigerator to replace my water. I declined. "Why do you think we spend most of our lives here in Cairo?"

He squinted at me and said, "Let me tell you something. Our religion will spread all over the world eventually because those who wish to rule over huge populations will see its usefulness."

I couldn't help smiling as I sipped my water. I went out on a limb and said, "Do you actually think Americans will subscribe to your religion willingly? You lived in California. Think about it. Sex, drugs and rock-n-roll aren't exactly on the menu of your religion." His grin was worldly and cynical. 

"Let me tell you an Arab story," he began. "A Bedouin rode his camel across the desert until night approached. He dismounted and pitched his tent, a small affair suited for light travel. He staked his camel nearby. The cold desert night came upon them."

"The Bedouin was nearly sound asleep," Mustafa continued, "when he felt a nudge at his feet. It was the nose of his camel, poked under the hem of the tent. The Bedouin gently kicked the camel's nose and said, 'Go away. I am sleeping.' The camel replied, 'Master, please let me keep my nose in the tent for warmth.' The Bedouin considered and said, 'Fine. No further. Do not disturb my sleep again.'" 

"Slowly through the night, the camel gradually advanced his head, his neck, his whole body under the hem of the tent, until his sheer mass slowly inched the Bedouin out through the opposite hem of the tent onto the sands. The Bedouin slept so soundly he was unaware until he woke to find the camel now occupied the entire tent while he himself had spent the night outside in the cold elements." 

Mustafa sat back and looked out as Cairo's center loomed around us. After a moment, he said, "And that is how our religion will conquer The West."