Prologue

The path you follow is a river—a river of life.

This journey will require a raft made out of planks of goodwill, tied with ropes of truth. While slowed down by eddies of unfolding history and boulders of obstructionist men, you must depend on a paddle of gentle persuasion and single-minded doggedness. Hope will be your guiding star. Anticipating danger will be impossible as it stares you in your face, threatening your livelihood and your very life. However, like a river, you should persevere, more like propel forward, until you succeed in overcoming all obstacles. Refusing to be silenced by brute force, you will be the human conscience, uprooting corruption and greed wherever and whenever you come across it, because it harms the soul, resulting in misery and despair. The cornerstone of civilized behavior is goodwill, human decency, and respect for others. With such an attitude, you will see the light of HIS creation in all of mankind, and for your work in liberating a soul from its dilemma, aligning it with a trajectory of righteousness, you will earn a place in the divine garden, a Garden of Bliss, where all who believe like you do and are guided by the universal truth will find a well deserved resting place. This is your reward at the end of the journey.

1

Egypt 1939

If we come to [a state of] anger and battle,

it is a reflection of His Wrath.

And if we come to [a state of] peace and pardon,

it is the reflection of His Love.

Rumi

Flight BAC 857 took off from London on time. It was September 1, 1939. The pilot announced the devastating news over the intercom:

Germany has invaded Poland. A large number of roads and bridges have been destroyed. There are hundreds and thousands of refugees on the road. The German air force has destroyed most of the Poland’s aircrafts, still sitting on the runway.

Wearing a black tunic with a white collar, a willowy and bespectacled man was assigned to seat 14A. Next to him sat a smartly dressed man, clean shaven except for a bushy moustache. A whiff of aftershave floated across the cabin. He stuck out his thick hand.

Major Ross. Well, we are now in war whether we like it or not, he said, introducing himself.

Reverend John Wilson, chaplain for the army base at Helwan and the parish of Giza and Al-Fayyoum.

Ah! We have a priest on board, declared Major Ross. You will pray for a safe flight, won’t you?

Of course. Not time yet to leave this good earth, the reverend answered confidently. We have battles to win and enemies to subjugate. Not time yet, John muttered this time to himself, his voice drowned by the engine noise.

As the plane gained momentum on the expansive runway, the two gentlemen discussed the war and colonies. At one point during the conversation they got animated. The debate drew the eyes of several passengers until they noticed subtle stares around them.

We need to control ourselves and keep our voices down, the reverend finally advised. The others are giving us a nasty stare. It is our war, you know, and we have no right to involve the Egyptians or anybody else not connected with the war. Moreover, our enslavement of other races in the name of colonization does not go down too well with the locals, and our looting of their cultural treasures is unethical. No wonder the intelligentsia of these countries is supporting the Nazis just to get rid of us!

Well, you know, we have a treaty with Egypt to protect the Suez Canal, to keep it open for traffic, and to ensure that the sea lanes to the East are kept open, the major rebutted. Our whole empire depends on us keeping Egypt from falling into German hands.

Egypt has declared itself neutral in this war, and therefore the Germans have no reason to attack it.

What makes you so sure? asked the major. They have attacked most of their neighbors in Europe and occupied them in more or less twenty-four hours. Moreover, it may not be Egypt per se they are after, but the Suez Canal. Once they control the canal, they choke our trade with the Far East.

Then why don’t you make an effort to treat the local population with dignity and protect their cultural treasure from looters? asked the reverend.

The major’s response was swallowed up in the engine noise.

As the reverberating grind of propellers muted their voices, they surrendered conversation and decided to read—the reverend his Bible and the major his maps of the Libyan Desert. The stewardess came around shortly after takeoff offering drinks and snacks.

Coffee? she asked.

With cream and sugar, replied the reverend.

What about you, sir? she offered the major.

Black. Just like the clouds forming outside. The clouds of war, the major added dramatically.

Shame we had to come to war—it is so mindless, the stewardess replied.

Mindless, but necessary, the major concluded.

You see, Reverend, injected the Major, taking a sip of coffee, the Germans will attack us from here, pointing to an area near Benghazi, in Libya. Then they will try and encircle us here, pointing to an area south of Benghazi.

I don’t have a clue as to the stationing of German or Allied Forces, admitted the reverend. All I fear is that the war will spill into Egypt with its large urban population centers, and then we will not be able to contain the unfolding of the human catastrophe. Including killing and maiming of innocent civilians. The most affected, the most vulnerable, would be of course be women and children.

The heat of the argument rose as each defended his position. The reverend wiped several beads of sweat from his forehead as he pressed on. Do not forget, we occupied Egypt in 1882, having crushed their nationalist revolt led by Ahmed Urabi, who wanted all Europeans and the Ottoman Turks out of Egypt. The reverend’s face reddened with anger. Occupying other people’s land and grabbing their resources is thievery.

I don’t know anything about Egypt’s occupation, said the major, but that happened a long time ago. Protection could be offered if they didn’t want self rule, explained the major. Self rule would mean they could tear up the treaty on the Suez Canal and hand over the canal to the Germans.

They are not likely to do that, responded John. They need revenue from the canal and for that reason would allow ships to pass through. As for handing it over to the Germans, if we were to treat them fairly, we surely would be better respected and therefore they would have no reason to be bosom buddies with the Germans.

A voice over the loudspeaker announced their ascent, breaking up the conversation. As the plane soared upward, John leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes, thinking about the time he spent at the home office to renew his passport.

Good morning, Reverend, Nigel greeted.

Good morning, replied John.

So what brings you here? asked Nigel.

Visa for Egypt, replied John.

For how long?

Well, for now six months, but you never know - it may take longer to unshackle the soul from greed and corruption, John answered apprehensively.

I know, replied Nigel. Difficult to tell right now. You can always renew the visa at the consulate office.

Yes, of course, said the reverend, handing his passport to Nigel

Nigel was in charge of intelligence, along with his duties issuing passports to those traveling to the war zone. Major Ross, a fourth generation soldier, was seconded to the passport office as assistant to Nigel.

You will be safe if we can arrange the flight for you, Nigel assured.

That would be nice to know, replied John.

There is a flight next week, Nigel offered. Shall I put you on that flight?

That would be dandy.

The week couldn’t have flown by fast enough as the departure date soon arrived.

Oh, by the way, Nigel told me that me that you would be traveling to Egypt, the major interrupted as John’s eyes batted open. You do have an Egyptian childhood friend, don’t you? What’s his name? Uh…uh, Mustapha, isn’t it?

Yes I do, John replied. I don’t know where he is now. I have been away for more than ten years and the last time I heard of him was that he was somewhere in Cairo where he has an uncle. How does Nigel know him?

Well, let’s just say we have our sources, said the major cryptically. I believe that he is involved in some anti-British activities and therefore we have restricted his group’s places of worship. Anyway, I am glad we are on the same flight.

As the major’s word floated around in his head, Reverend John Wilson suddenly grew suspicious. He hadn’t expected a passport personal making the flight arrangements for him to inform the military about a pacifist priest traveling on a commercial flight full of soldiers. Yet information, however trivial, was always shared with the military intelligence. John remembered that from his parents, who were sent by the British Museum while the intelligence unit knew everything about their work, their associates, and their discoveries.

John’s parents were archeologists excavating a site near Giza where Sumerian clay tablets were discovered. Mustapha’s father had helped with the excavation work. John and Mustapha become good friends, playing and learning together. However, there was something an unusual about Mustapha. He possessed keen instinct regarding major events well before they happened. During the excavation work, it was Mustapha who told John’s parents where to dig in order to find buried archeological treasures of Babylon.

Among the clay tablets that had come from Ur in Mesopotamia were some drawings on papyrus depicting a wheel with both size and weight scribbled on it. An urban legend existed stating that the Egyptians hid spies in Ur and that the detailed drawings of the wheel were smuggled out of Ur to Egypt. The smuggling was cleverly accomplished. The spies made a small incision on the side of a camel, put the papyrus under its skin, and stitched it back. Various other discoveries, including a clay tablet letter addressed to the local vizier, led to the conclusion that the drawings were smuggled out of Ur, thus giving rise to the brilliant Egyptian civilization around 2900 BC. These clay tablets and the papyrus drawings that lay buried for thousands of years were now shipped through Cairo onto London, where they were sold through local antiques dealers. It was John’s mother who mentioned to his father about the missing clay tablets and papyrus drawings that were destined for the Cairo museum but ended up in London. However, his father did not pay much attention to this. As long as the grant money was coming from the British Museum, he did not care where the tablets or the papyrus ended up.

John realized that his every move was watched and every word spoken was made a note of; therefore, he decided to keep his opinions to himself. He was living in a farcical democracy where the official line was freedom of expression, but privately it was watch what you say—we are listening and making notes. This hypocrisy was meant for the naïve to swallow as fed by the controlled media, then marketed to rest of the world as a democracy that believed in free speech. The state expected its citizens to comply with its official thinking while promoting free speech to the outside world.

Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, John dabbed at his face. It was stifling hot in the plane. Moreover, salty sweat intertwined with a pungent smell of beer, making John nauseated. Soldiers were feeling the heat too. Some had removed their heavy khaki shirts and were stripped from the waist up. The major revealed beads of sweat running down his face, which he wiped from time to time with the back of his hand. The stench kept the reverend awake for most of the flight, along with some choice conversation. Racial slurs and profanities flowed like a keg at a party. The reverend ashamedly blushed at what he heard.

For Christ’s sake, stop! John screamed at the troops when the language simply couldn’t get much worse. Turning to Major Ross, he added calmly, Someone better keep control of your boys. It is unnecessary to toss around racial slurs and profanities. We are using their territory to conduct our war. It seems to me we don’t treat humanity with respect. It is our arrogant self again coming to the forefront.

Boys will be boys, like the saying goes, the major replied, waving off the reverend’s request.

We seem to have immature boys, retorted the reverend.

Silence separated the two men.

A thought of death and destruction hung heavy on John’s mind. Peace was like a distant memory—long forgotten and seemingly eons ago. He was among the warriors of a nation and wondered how many of the Europeans tribes would go into battle, filled with hate and revenge, to punish the German aggressors. Wherever he turned there were men in uniform. Nevertheless, there was an exception. Two portly men sitting at the back of the cabin, one dressed in short sleeved blue striped shirt and khaki pants while the other was wearing a khaki shirt and pants. They aggressively fanned their faces with a The Times of London newspaper.

Who are those two men sitting at the back? asked the reverend.

Journalists from The Times of London sent to cover the war, the major replied.

The rest of the flight was somewhat uneventful. The reverend and the major said little, since the major was asleep most of the time and the reverend busied himself reading the Bible. The flight was long and bumpy. The heavy noise of the engine and the constant chatter of the passengers made the cabin sound like an overworked factory. Accompanying the excessive babble were the snores of the major and a few others on the plane. The sounds of wheezing mixed unpleasantly with the military songs and the unruly behavior of men with alcohol added to their bloodstream.

The reverend could only sleep for a few hours at a time, restlessly tossing and turning. The major ended up on asleep on John’s shoulder. He gently pushed the major’s head off his shoulder. This made the major wake up.

I am so sorry, he said. I am a terrible sleeper on flights; you will have to excuse me.

No harm done, John replied.

The flight was fairly smooth, except when passing over the Mediterranean. The plane began to roll and pitch and the thumping sound of loose baggage in the overhead bins signified that it had not been properly secured. Personal belongings flew all over the place. One soldier was grazed by a razor blade, which left a two-inch gash on his right cheek. Another was hit by a toothbrush, while a third soldier ducked from an oncoming bar of soap. The reverend’s Bible landed in his face, then plopped on top of his lap. He picked it up and turned it over. It was open to the gospel of Mark (15.10-20):

It is what comes out of a person that makes him unclean. For from the inside, from a person’s heart, comes the evil ideas which lead him to do immoral things, to rob, kill, commit adultery, greed, and do all sorts of evil things.

He showed the passage to the major, pointing to the word kill and greed.

Well, isn’t war a killing machine and colonies as part of our greed? asked the reverend. They are connected, aren’t they? Don’t you see that? According to Rumi, the great Persian poet, war is God’s wrath on man due to greed. Moreover, the Bible condemns greed.

There are men who believe in the Bible as the gospel truth, while others look at it as a historical document, open to interpretation, retorted the major.

The end is near, the reverend muttered to himself. The nightingale will sing soon.

You said something, Reverend? asked the major.

No, nothing. Just talking to myself, and he continued to read.

Hours passed before a jarring thud indicated the plane hit the runway. A wave of relief passed over the passengers as they knew they had arrived. A cheerful roar bounced throughout the cabin