|
On
cap of drought, the Sahara desert thirsts for Maiam, water
is its lifeline. A Tuareg is called to his country’s service to
defend a sacred blue oasis in a remote part of the western desert.
He is told in solid words to defend it with his life, so that no
enemy should desecrate it.
The
Tuareg sallies forth into the wilderness, his boots lift sand, his
tongue a hardened sponge.
Out
of the blue, a band of Mujahadeen springs from behind a dune with
drawn scimitars. The Tuareg laughs and disposes of them quickly.
Picking among their slain bodies, he fills his pockets with
trophies, and sings
warrior songs on his march throughout the noon. He feels happy to
reach the oasis at sunset.
To
his surprise, a Bedouin is already there, shooting with a long
rifle. The canyon explodes in sonic darts: Bam
Bam… Bam Bam.
The palms are seized, too scared to even tremble, and the Altai
falcons cover their head with ruffled wings. Flames come out of
the muzzle as the long-barreled rifle now pivots around-- aiming
to kill.
For
the first time, the Tuareg is caught unprepared, with his gun
still slung behind his back.
He is surprised and helpless and thinks, “I am going to
die!”
As
the moments become nothingness— the warrior thinks about his own
mortality. If only he could die with honor! He throws open his
robe, juts out his chest, eyes set to the Earth—The Tuareg is an
ample target ready for death. But no bullet finds him. He looks up
and sees spent cartridges plop into the pond, rippling an
otherwise tranquil pool of water.
Suddenly
he realizes that the bullets are only blanks! “What joke is
this?” he screams, flaring angrily at such treachery.
With
chaff emotion, he calls to the Bedouin to accept a challenge of
courage; for them to have a duel. “Let me draw my rifle while
you load your weapon with real bullets.” But the Bedouin
won’t oblige. The Tuareg asks again, this time with a soft
coaxing voice, “Won’t you please load your rifle?” The
Bedouin is silent. Then
the Tuareg pulls out his hair and shouts, “I cannot shoot a
disarmed enemy!”
The
Bedouin apologizes for having no real bullets and tells the Tuareg
that all he wanted was to scare him away. The Bedouin smiles and
begs humbly to dip his hands in the cool water of the oasis. If
the Tuareg would let him, he would soon be on his way.
The
speech stirs the Tuareg’s heart. He spits foul oaths but still
throws the Bedouin a clip of bullets. “Dip your tongue then. But
don’t pollute the spring with your filthy hands!”
The
Bedouin drops down to his belly at the edge of the pond but each
time he prepares to dip his tongue, the water withdraws. Though he
laps again and again, the water will not sit still. The oasis
teases the Bedouin’s patience for a while. After careful
waiting, he catches onto the seesaw game, then-- quick as a
falcon— thrust his neck into the counter-tide. The Bedouin’s
tongue finds the cool water and cherishes the first glint with the
joy of salvation.
Then,
the oasis ripples with a joyous fever, surrounding palm trees
rustle, shivering in ecstasy, the nectar-swollen dates burst, and
the sand heaves under his body. Suddenly, the Bedouin is floating
to paradise. And as he
looks down from heaven, he casts a last glance at the perfidious
Tuareg who brandishes a sword above his neck.
The
Bedouin is sad with pity for the man of war. But a merry crowd of
virgins gathers round, to fill his cup. He smiles though his
thirst and trust cost him life.
The
virgins were worth his
fate.
|
