At the end of the seventies of the twentieth century, I was given the job of building a sulfur grinding plant at Ramat Hovav (a place near Be’er Sheva), from the ground up. In Ramat Hovav of those days, there was one sickening factory at the end of a road that led from the Be’er Sheva-Mitzpe Ramon road, to nowhere. The rest of the area was completely deserted. It was there in this wilderness that I began to set up the array for the construction site – a small trailer to store equipment and also to be used as an office, radio transceiver as a means of communication with the concrete supply company, and a night guard.

I found the guard, or rather, he found me. He was a Bedouin from the nearby al-‘Azzameh tribe. Lutfi appeared in ” By chance” as soon as the trailer arrived at the empty field. He came out of nowhere, like the other things that happened in those days. A Bedouin guard seemed to me at the time to be the right solution to keep the equipment from escaping to the Bedouin encampments in the area.

To understand the whole picture, you need to close your eyes and imagine a desert. A plane that extends from horizon to horizon, with nothing in it. Not a tree nor a bush. The sun dazzles the eye. It is hot in the day and the sun is blazing on your head. Every now and then you could hear the noise of a car passing by on the nearby road, disturbing the silence of nature.

And here a factory will be established. A surveyor marked the location of the foundations, and the daily laborers I brought from the workers’ market in Be’er Sheba began digging the pits. Within about a week, the place began to look like a construction site. I transferred the job of managing the workers to a foreman sent from the company.

I loved the peace and quiet and the unspoiled scenery of the wilderness. but most of all I loved the mornings. In the chill of the desert morning, before the arrival of the workers and the noise of the construction bustle, I could sit with the guard, sip the bitter tea he had prepared and think about the day’s agenda.

One morning, while we were sitting on the sand in front of a small fire in the center of which stood what was called in Hebrew, (erroneously) Finjan (and it is actually called Ibrik) tea, I saw that Lutfi was getting ready for breakfast. He asked me if I would join him and I told him that I had already eaten before leaving for work and tea would be great to share the lovely morning atmosphere with him.

On a small mat placed on the sand lay pita bread and next to it a can of sardines. Two glass cups were waiting for tea to be brewed on the fire. As I sat back on the sand, I saw a blurry black spot on the horizon that was slowly growing. Time seemed to recede. It popped up out of nowhere and initially looked like a ghost. The warm air rising from the sand, that the chill of the night could not cool down from yesterday’s heat, distorted the figure that was slowly taking shape. For a moment she hovered in the air and for another moment she seemed planted in the ground. As she approached, we saw the image of a Bedouin who had apparently walked from nowhere to somewhere, and only he knew what was here and what was there. Without saying a word, he came over and stood in front of us. Lutfi, with a slight finger movement, moved the can of sardines a tad in the guest’s direction. The guest understood and sat down across from him. I moved back a bit so I could see better what was happening.

Lutfi gently grabbed the sardine can and began the work of opening the lid. He did so with calm and skillful movements. He used a kind of key that was attached to each box. He threaded the tongue that protruded from the lid of the box into a gap at the end of the key, and in circular motions a gap opened up at the top of the can. He kept rolling the lid over the key. When the rolled lid reached the end lip of the can, he placed it on the mat.

Lutfi pulled out a plastic jug of water with a long nozzle. He dripped water on his fingertips. He handed the jug to the gust for the same act to follow. Lutfi grabbed the pita and split it in half. He placed one part beyond the open can, next to the guest. A third cup popped up and he poured the tea from the Finjan into the cups. Steam rose from the glasses and the smell of tea spread through the cool air. I looked at them both with great interest. They wore black robes that were open in front, revealing more pieces of dark brown clothing over a white gallabiyah. Both had Arabic dagger with a gemstone-studded handle, planted in a sash that was stuck in the leather belt. They both wore plastic sandals. They were both adults and to my eyes looked ageless, but the same age. In my eyes all the adult Bedouins I saw, looked the same age.

They sat and ate quietly, dunking pieces of pita bread that they held between their two fingers in the sardine can, picking up bits of fish and helping it to their mouths. While sipping from the cups of tea, they made soft slurping sounds to emphasize the feeling of satisfaction from the meal. Slowly it was over.

The guest got up to his feet, bowed in our direction and left.

The way it started, that’s how it ended. Without saying a word.

He went to the east, toward the rising sun leaving behind only footprints in the sand and a memory etched deep in my mind of a culture that may have already gone from us, never to return.

The site in its early days

The site is nearing completion

The key that was attached to the sardine can