I was in the suite

That morning was when I first began to reappraise the "white man." It was when I first began toperceive that "white man," as commonly used, means complexion only secondarily; primarily itdescribed attitudes and actions. In America, "white man" meant specific attitudes and actions towardthe black man, and toward all other non-white men. But in the Muslim world, I had seen that men with white complexions were more genuinely brotherly than anyone else had ever been.That morning was the start of a radical alteration in my whole outlook about "white" men.I should quote from my notebook here. I wrote this about noon, in the hotel: "My excitement, sittinghere, waiting to go before the Hajj Committee, is indescribable. My window faces to the sea westward.The streets are filled with the incoming pilgrims from all over the world. The prayers are to Allah andverses from the Quran are on the lips of everyone. Never have I seen such a beautiful sight, norwitnessed such a scene, nor felt such an atmosphere. Although I am excited, I feel safe and secure,thousands of miles from the totally different life that I have known. Imagine that twenty-four hoursago, I was in the fourth-floor room over the airport, surrounded by people with whom I could notcommunicate, feeling uncertain about the future, and very lonely, and then _one_ phone call,following Dr. Shawarbi's instructions. I have met one of the most powerful men in the Muslim world.I will soon sleep in his bed at the Jedda Palace. I know that I am surrounded by friends whosesincerity and religious zeal I can feel. I must pray again to thank Allah for this blessing, and I mustpray again that my wife and children back in America will always be blessed for their sacrifices, too."I did pray, two more prayers, as I had told my notebook. Then I slept for about four hours, until thetelephone rang. It was young Dr. Azzam. In another hour, he would pick me up to return me there fordinner. I tumbled words over one another, trying to express some of the thanks I felt for all of theiractions. He cut me off. "Ma sha'a-llah"-which means, "It is as Allah has pleased."I seized the opportunity to run down into the lobby, to see it again before Dr. Azzam arrived. When Iopened my door, just across the hall from me a man in some ceremonial dress, who obviously livedthere, was also headed downstairs, surrounded by attendants. I followed them down, then throughthe lobby. Outside, a small caravan of automobiles was wailing. My neighbor appeared through theJedda Palace Hotel's front entrance and people rushed and crowded him, kissing his hand. I found outwho he was: the Grand Mufti of Jerusalem. Later, in the hotel, I would have the opportunity to talkwith him for about a half-hour. He was a cordial man of great dignity. He was well up on worldaffairs, and even the latest events in America.

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A servant brought tea and coffee, and disappeared. I was urged to make myself comfortable. Nowomen were anywhere in view. In Arabia, you could easily think there were no femalesDr. Abd-Al-Rahman Azzam dominated the conversation. Why hadn't I called before? They couldn'tunderstand why I hadn't. Was I comfortable? They seemed embarrassed that I had spent the time at the airport; that I had been delayed in getting to Mecca. No matter how I protested that I felt noinconvenience, that I was fine, they would not hear it. "You must rest," Dr. Azzam said. He went touse the telephoneI didn't know what this distinguished man was doing. I had no dream. When I was told that I wouldbe brought back for dinner that evening, and that, meanwhile, I should get back in the car, how couldI have realized that I was about to see the epitome of Muslim hospitality?Abd-Al-Rahman Azzam, when at home, lived in a suite at the Jedda Palace Hotel. Because I had cometo them with a letter from a friend, he was going to stay at his son's home, and let me use his suite,until I could get on to Mecca.When I found out, there was no use protesting: I was in the suite; young Dr. Azzam was gone; therewas no one to protest to. The three-room suite had a bathroom that was as big as a double at the NewYork Hilton. It was suite number 214. There was even a porch outside, affording a beautiful view ofthe ancient Red Sea city.There had never before been in my emotions such an impulse to pray-and I did, prostrating myself onthe living-room rugNothing in either of my two careers as a black man in America had served to give me any idealistictendencies. My instincts automatically examined the reasons, the motives, of anyone who didanything they didn't have to do for me. Always in my life, if it was any white person, I could see aselfish motive.But there in that hotel that morning, a telephone call and a few hours away from the cot on the fourth-floor tier of the dormitory, was one of the few times I had been so awed that I was totally withoutresistance. That white man-at least he would have been considered "white" in America-related toArabia's ruler, to whom he was a close advisor, truly an international man, with nothing in the worldto gain, had given up his suite to me, for my transient comfort. He had _nothing_ to gain. He didn'tneed me. He had everything. In fact, he had more to lose than gain. He had followed the Americanpress about me. If he did that, he knew there was only stigma attached to me. I was supposed to havehorns. I was a "racist." I was "anti-white"-and he from all appearances was white. I was supposed to bea criminal; not only that, but everyone was even accusing me of using his religion of Islam as a cloakfor my criminal practices and philosophies. Even if he had had some motive to use me, he knew that Iwas separated from Elijah Muhammad and the Nation of Islam, my "power base," according to thepress in America. The only organization that I had was just a few weeks old. I had no job. I had nomoney. Just to get over there, I had had to borrow money from my sister.
Par lilyschuhe le jeudi 24 mars 2011

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