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^JL ancient Arab custom is always to shelter whomever
comes to your door: feed them, take care of them with-
I D€r out ever asking where they come from. This is a sur
vival mechanism from the old days in the desert, to protect even
your enemies from dying of thirst, and it has been incorporated
into the Muslim religion and entire way of life.
Today the closest thing to the original Arabs are the Bedouins,
desert nomads who can be seen all over the dry rangelands of the
Middle East, with their herds and flocks of goats and sheep, their
tents, camels, donkeys and, today, trucks. Being a Bedouin is a
point of pride, as they are considered the purest form of Arabs.
Throughout travels in Muslim countries, I
always reel welcomed, and on a recent visit to
Jordan I got to experience the hospitality of
the Bedouins firsthand. Jordan is a smallish
country in the Middle East noted for its political
moderation and ability to survive strife despite
bordering some of the globe's hottest spots:
Israel, Palestine, Syria and Iraq. Bedouins com
prise approximately five percent of the popula
tion of the country, and Jordanian Bedouins
spend 10 months of the year in the Badia, the
arid portion of the country that constitutes 80
percent of its land mass—all of the eastern
and southeastern areas. For two months of the
year—July and August—Bedouins move to the
western part of Jordan (Jordan Valley), the por
tion that is wet enough to grow crops. Field
crops are harvested in late June, leaving behind
plant stalks that sheep and goats can utilize
effectively. Consequently, at this time these
nomadic Bedouins are scattered all around the
outskirts of Irbid and Amman—Jordan's two
largest cities—with their herds and flocks and
large, brown, flapping tents.
I was in Irbid as part of a World Bank program, based at Jordan
University of Science and Technology, to develop collaborations and
work to expand animal health infrastructure and enhance food se
curity. On the way to the university one morning, my host, Dr. Nabil
Hailat. Dean Emeritus and long-time colleague and friend, sug
gested we stop and have coffee with some Bedouins. I thought he
was kidding until we pulled off the side of the tuad, drove through
a field and stopped at a big brown tent. Two men came cut. Nabil
greeted them, introduced himself and explained that I was a vet
erinary doctor from America and wished to meet some Bedouins.
The men were all smiles and called back into the tent. The whole
family came out, and soon we were ushered into their home. The
dirt floor was hard packed, partially covered by plastic sacks, with
cushions scattered about. I was given the seat of honor, on a stack
of cushions. Ar awning made of stitched plastic sacks was quickly
attached to the fourth side of the tent to protect us from the sun.
Three generations were present in this tent—the grandfather
and grandmother, several sons, one of whom is married and lives
with them, his wife, their four small children, three other grown
sons, and a cousin.
As they were explaining the kinship, they joked and said this
cousin was somebody they had never seen before, he probably
came from bin Laden! Later on, the cousin got a phone call on his
cell phone and we all laughed that he was talking to bin Laden
and telling him about the American visitor.
Someone called to the next tent to bring fresh coffee and
shortly a girl of about six or seven showed up with a thermos
of coffee. Bedouin coffee—served in one small cup that we all
shared, passed around from person to person. It was strong and
bitter, with hunks of cardamom pulp. As soon as the cup is set
down, it is refilled, unless you shake the cup as you set it down.
That is the signal you have had enough.
The children gathered around with wide eyes—the four from
the family plus one or two from another tent, very curious, aged
from two to seven. The children were covered with dirt, had snotty
noses and tangled hair. They crowded around me, seeming to want
to get very close and stared continuously. But
whenever I looked directly at them, they would
look away—very shy but most definitely in
tensely curious.
Their mother wore a full-length embroidered
maroon robe and a loose scarf over her head.
Their father wore a full-length spotless gray
garment and had a red and white checkered ker
chief on his head, the traditional head covering
for Jordanian men. His brothers wore Western
clothes—jeans, t-shirts—and one had a red and
white checkered headdress. One of the brothers
is married. We did not meet his wife. Another
brother is in the army, and this is his day off.
The grandfather had a black robe and also a
red and white kerchief. The grandmother wore
full-length black and an embroidered black scarf
that fit tightly around her head. She had a black
tattoo extending down her chin and along one
side of her lower lip.
The grandfather claimed that he had long
life because every day he drinks a whole pot of
Bedouin coffee. Nabil asked him his age; he said
more than 70, but how many more, he didn't
know. I asked about school. The little girl, who
is seven, goes to school during the year (this
»s summer and so she is on vacation now). Her
famdy spoke to her in Arabic, and she respond
ed by counting to 10. My first reaction was big
deal—any seven-year-old ought to be able to count to 10. Then I
realized she was counting in English. A younger boy came out from
behind a tent flap and brought his goat for me to admire—the
goat was three days old. I expressed great interest and sat with
the goat on my lap for a while. When the goat got up and moved
away, the boy grabbed it and ran to another part of the tent. The
adults explained that he was very close to his goat and had been
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