Not long ago I read a book about Martin Buber. Jewish Philosopher. It involved the author in a war in the middle east. He was in a first aid station as the soldier caring for the wounded. There was an old man who was not a soldier, who was wounded with a brokenarm. He took off the dirty red and white cloth and dressed the cracked arm. It was a bad fracture, but with care it would heal in a few weeks. While he was doing this, he did not think of him as an Arab, as someone belonging to the town and country we had occupied. To me he was simply a man with broken arm; and he had to set it. As he finished the bandaging, two young soldiers from his unit, Moroccans of 18-19, came past carrying Sten guns and drunk with victory. One of them noticed the old Arab lying on the bench and said something to his mate. They laughed and came over.

“What are you doing?” the bolder one asked. “What you see. His arm’s broken.” 

The young Moroccan sneered, "And you’re fixing it. I’ll show you what to do with Arabs. He took the old man by the collar” and began pulling him to his feet. The author forced him away firmly. “This is a first aid station. I am in charge. Please go away." The soldier look at him more surprised than annoyed. It seemed to dawn on him slowly that for some reason I objected to his taking the Arab away and shooting him in the dunes. This puzzled him, and as he couldn't understand it, he spat at me like a cat. m "We want to have some fun with him. What’s that to you?”

“Yes,” the other one shouted. "What that difference?  Is he your father or something. Give him to us."

The author moved in front of the old man as the two came toward him. He pushed the old man into the ambulance and closed the door. The two Moroccans yelped at the sudden way he had gone. "Give him to us., "the older one snarled, "Else we'll fix you instead." He stood in front of the ambulance and said nothing.

The older, taller one cocked his rifle and looked at the younger curly haired one uncertainly. They muttered something in Arabic, glaring at me with black eyes filled with hatred and frustrated greed to kill.

Finally, they rushed off. In a few minutes they were back with their sergeant--a short-coiled up, intense man, born somewhere in Europe, I thought, Austria, perhaps.
He began quietly. "I hear you have a prisoner here.”
“He is a civilian.”  “Let me see him.”  “No, he is old and wounded and not involved in the war.”
“I want to question him.”
“How do I know you won't hand him over to them?”
He shook his head impatiently and changed his tactics, becoming tougher, steelier. “Look, these men here have done a good job. They’ve been fighting and won a big battle. Now they feel like a bit of sport. He’s an old man, you say. And wounded, So what do you care? Why’re you sticking your neck out. The soldiers just want to let off steam. Okay, why not. Bring him out.”

“No,” I said quietly. “This is a first aid station, and I'm in charge here. Besides, since when do we shoot unarmed civilians?”
“Bring him out, I tell you, That's an order.”
“No, I won't.”
He turned red and sputtered.” Move away from the ambulance. Else you’ll get a bullet in the head.”

He could not and would not move. He knew that he was not going to be shot. He had lost. The Moroccan boys looked dejected  “All right, he shouted, You’ve asked for it. Now there’ll be a court-martial. And you’ll pay for this.” They went off arguing among themselves.

To give mercy requires courage and conviction. The Samaritan had the courage to give mercy and compassion. Religion that does not have any sense of mercy is not related to Jesus.