"Donna Lettow - Highlander - Zealot" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lettow Donna)

Allahu Akbar!

The tinny sound of the tape recording rang through the narrow streets of
the ancient village of Hebron. The sound echoed from the uninspired
facades of government housing built by the Israelis after the
occupation. It echoed from the remains of massive granite walls built
by invading Crusaders a millennium earlier. Wherever it went, it called
the Muslim devout of Hebron to their Friday midday prayers.
Allahu Akbar! God is the Most Great!

The Akhirah Mosque just south of the Old Quarter wasn't the best mosque
in Hebron. That honor fell to the majestic alHaram al-Ibrahimi
al-Khalil, a splendid edifice of gold and mosaics rising high above the
cave where Abraham, Beloved of God, and his wife Sarah were buried, a
site sacred to aB of the People of the Book-Muslims, Jews, and
Christians alike.

Allahu Akbar!

It wasn't even the second-best mosque in Hebron. Many in Hebron were
larger, more elaborate, or simply more ancient than the Akhirah Mosque,
which was a fairly new and nondescript block of utilitarian concrete at
one end of the open market on the road to Jaffa. It was built near the
site where a far grander mosque had stood for over five centuries before
it was accidentally destroyed during the Six Day War. Only by its dome
and minaret could the new mosque be distinguished from the shops and
offices surrounding it.

Allahu Akbar! God is Most Great resounded from the loudspeakers in the
minaret. The modest Akhirah Mosque couldn't even claim a live muezzin
to climb the tower and issue the traditional call to prayer.

Ash-hadu an la ilaha illallah, the tape crackled. I bear witness that
there is no God but AHah.

What the Akhirah Mosque had in its favor was its location.

This Friday, like any Friday in Hebron, the Jaffa Road market teemed
with Arab buyers and sellers, haggling over the price of a lamb, arguing
over the quality of a crate of lemons fresh picked from a nearby
orchard. Women hurried to finish their shopping before the market
closed at midday, their heads and bodies covered despite the hanain
winds blowing hot off the desert, making a normally gentle spring feel
like the blasting heat of summer. Old men, their dark faces wrinkled by
the sun, filled the nearby coffeehouses, content to watch the constantly
changing scene, while a few young men in crisp uniforms-members of the
newly formed Palestinian police patrolled the market as had their
Israeli predecessors not too long before. At times the din of the
market could nearly drown out the call to worship.