I had been chosen to marry an Arab woman who belonged to a wealthy Arab family living in Egypt. I had been selected because my father was a doctor and I also derived from a well-to-do family. With my entourage and an Arab guide I had traveled to the distant village in Egypt where my bride-to-be and her family lived. The splendid setting almost seemed like a Bedouin camp, although some permanent adobe structures – three or four stories tall – could also be seen. As lavishly dressed Arabs circulated around us, my companions and I sat on the ground, taking care to tuck our feet under us, as seemed to be the custom.

My future wife was led into the encampment; since I had never seen her, I was highly curious. She also seemed intrigued and she was looking in my direction. At first I couldn't clearly discern her features; only her deep dark hair was plainly visible. Finally, however, when she sat near me, I was able to view her more closely and we began talking. We spoke in French. Everyone in this area spoke French, and another reason I had been chosen for this marriage was my ability to speak French. As I spoke to my future wife, I expressed some concern about the political turmoil which had roiled this area. The family into which I would be marrying were pure Arabs whose ancestors had moved to Egypt and had never intermingled with the Egyptian stock. These pure Arabs were now in conflict with poorer, lower-class Arab-Egyptians who had intermarried with native Egyptians. I was particularly concerned we might be attacked at night as we slept; prudence might dictate sleeping atop of one of the surrounding adobe buildings. I began asking, "Qusiera…," but abruptly I realized I was speaking Spanish and I changed to, "Vous voudrez dormir en haut?"

My future bride's father walked over to me and began talking. He and I began walking along a river or canal. We were strolling on a walkway fashioned of logs, when suddenly the father slipped and started to tumble into the stream. I grabbed him; but in the process I also slipped and began to tumble. In turn, a third person grabbed me, so I was left hanging in mid-air, holding onto the father, and being held by someone else.

As we hang, the father began talking. He pointed to a group of people standing on the bank, and he said he thought he saw Sigmund Freud among them. Was the father not even aware Freud was dead? I answered, "Well, he must have come back from the grave then."

The father made another statement about Freudian thought. I would have liked to discuss Freud with the father; but this hardly seemed the time. If we were going to talk about someone, perhaps Karl Marx might be a more apropos subject, given the political situation here. Upper class Arabs probably knew little about Marx; they probably considered Marx irrelevant. But I considered Marx to be highly relevant. If the upper class Arabs were being confronted by the lower class Egyptian-Arabs, an understanding of Marxist thought might become invaluable. The father and I should sit down later and talk about both Freud and Marx.

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