Читать книгу The Disinherited - Ibrahim Fawal - Страница 10

Several good things emerged out of the principal’s meeting two days later with the advisory committee. Yousif was among the few faculty who had been asked to attend. Ustaz Sa’adeh not only convinced four men and three women that the opening of the school was in the best interest of their children, but that ultimately it was in the best national interest as well.

“The decision to return home belongs to none of us,” he said. “It’s in the hands of governments and we all know how slow that can be. While waiting for the ministry of education to triple or quadruple the number of schools needed to accommodate the influx of refugees and the country’s natural growth, it would be a shame to let the children suffer more than they’re suffering already.”

From Yousif’s point of view, common sense reigned and quiet filled the room.

“Right now,” the principal added, “we should concentrate on what we can do and not on what we wish would happen. The minute we realize that returning home is imminent—or is an option—I’ll be the first to strike the tent, so to speak, and head back to Ardallah. Until then we should do what we can to educate our children. Wasting a mind is a crime.”

Yousif observed that the committee members were much nicer in private than they had been in public. Around the shoddy rectangular table in the faculty lounge, they listened and spoke as one family. Yes, they agreed, there was no need to let children miss school. The only thing that troubled them was giving the enemy the impression that they were willing “to settle” outside Palestine. As the principal spoke, the men nodded and the women tightened their lips or folded their arms.

“Personally, I’d like to apologize to you,” a thin woman in her forties said, removing her glasses and dabbing her eyes with a lacy handkerchief. “Instead of trying to find out what was on your mind, we rushed here as if we were storming the Bastille.”

“These are dark days,” the principal answered. “I understand your anxiety.”

Tariq Ayyash, the greasy little man with the oversized jacket, fidgeted in his seat. Everyone turned to look at him. Yousif was offended by the sight of black crud under Tariq’s fingernails.

“With all due respect,” Tariq said, “I still think opening the school at this time is unwise. It’s bound to upset whatever secret negotiations that might be going on. If I were a Zionist in Tel Aviv I’d be dancing in the street. I’d be thinking the Palestinians are already making adjustments to live outside their homeland.”

“They’re not that naïve,” a lady said, with a pale smile.

“It’s possible,” Tariq defended himself.

“That’s a good point,” Yousif argued. “But what if the hypothetical negotiations you speak of drag on for years? As I’m sure they would. What then?”

Tariq was not convinced. “Okay,” he said, gesturing to quiet the rising chatter. “What if someone else starts a big farm to teach families how to cultivate the land and grow crops to make a living while waiting. And what if someone else starts a vocational school to train men in some kind of trade? How would the enemy read or misread our intentions?”

Ustaz Sa’adeh decided to close the discussion. “Tariq has raised legitimate questions. However, each of us must do what he or she is qualified to do. We do what we know best. If I were a prime minister of long standing and privy to the high drama being played behind the scenes, I might think otherwise. Right now I’m primarily an educator and you are proud and responsible parents. In these capacities I feel it’s our collective duty to take our children off the streets to make sure that they continue learning. They need to know more than just how to read and write. Or to do math. Or to know basic history. Above all, they need to know how to think for themselves so that they can cope with the enormity of our catastrophe.”

“Amen,” Yousif said.

The rest solemnly nodded their heads or expelled a deep sigh. A robust man with a shock of white hair pulled out a pack of cigarettes but, seeing the disapproval in others’ eyes, quickly put it back in his pocket.

Questions began to fly. “What about books? What about a budget to run the school? What about a school for girls, not just for boys? What about . . .?”

“That’s where you can be of great help,” Ustaz Sa’adeh told them, flashing a forced smile. “We’ll discuss that in our next meeting.”

As a student, Yousif had often waited for the teachers to come to class and talk about politics. Now he was a teacher, meeting with the other teachers in the makeshift lounge and participating in their discussions. At the moment, however, his mind was on his first session with his seventh-grade students. There were twelve and he was ready to meet them. If only Salwa could see him now, he thought, as he opened the door to the classroom.

He started the session by introducing himself and giving them a brief summary of his background. Then he went around the room asking each one of them to do the same. One by one, they mentioned their place of birth and gave some information about themselves. All the while he was jotting down notes by which to remember them.

When they were through, he looked pleased and told them so.

“Now for our first assignment,” he said. “When you go home, I’d like for you to write an essay about yourselves. Simply expand on what you have just told us.”

One student in the back row raised his hand. “How long?”

Yousif told them to write as much as they could and to bring it in a week from that day. “As we go along,” he added, “we’ll take a good look at what you have written. Each paper will be considered a first draft. Then we’ll start the rewriting process. Or what some refer to as revision. We will enlarge on some points, and delete others. By the end of the term each of you will have six or seven segments on the same theme: yourselves.”

“Wow!!” many said.

“Is this a composition class?” one student wanted to know.

“Yes it is,” Yousif told him. “As you can see we don’t have textbooks yet. So reading will have to wait. For the time being, we’re going to concentrate on writing. Actually we have no choice.”

Most students seemed agreeable. Except one.

“We can read newspapers. They don’t cost much.”

“A good idea,” Yousif agreed. “We’ll try it. I might even bring some magazines and pass them around.”

The students’ approval was unanimous.

“As to the essay,” Yousif said, “here’s what I‘d like for you to do. I’d like for you to tell me all about yourselves, your families, your towns, your friends. But avoid generalities. I prefer details. I insist on specifics.”

A student with curly hair wanted him to explain what he meant.

“Draw me a word-picture and let me visualize what you’re talking about,” Yousif elaborated. “For me to get to know your father, I’d like to know his name, his age, and the kind of work he does. Or did. Tell me what town or village you come from. The number of brothers and sisters you have. Tell me what your parents are doing now. Name and describe your refugee camp. How congested is your tent at night? How many people sleep on the floor? Four? Six? Ten? Again, draw me a word-picture and let me visualize how you manage in that small crowded space.”

At the end of the session, Yousif commended their cooperation and frankness.

“Obviously, what unites us is our love for our homeland and our shared dreadful experience. Record your vivid memories. Write down your feelings and the feelings of those close to you, who made an impression on you. This will not only teach the art and craft of writing, but will be useful to you in other ways. In the future you’ll be able to share it with your children and grandchildren.”

The students snickered and began to whisper among themselves.

“Who knows, some of you might become writers who one day will shatter the eardrums of those who pretend to be deaf to our misery. Or prick the conscience of those who claim to have any, for allowing this unprovoked injustice to happen.”

He had them in the palm of his hand.

“One time I asked my father, what did we do to end up refugees?” said the boy from Ramleh.

“Excellent question,” Yousif replied, truly impressed. “What did he say?”

“He said he wished he knew,” the boy answered.

Yousif was delighted. “Your question and your father’s answer are at the core of the problem. We will discuss them later at length. For now, I’m simply proud of your probing. Your wanting to know. Your curiosity. Your search for the truth.”

At the sound of the school bell some students rose to leave, others raised their hands. There was no more time, and Yousif told them to ask them again next time.

But one question, shouted by the boy from Gaza, stopped him on his way out. “What’s the title of our essay?” the chubby boy asked.

Once again Yousif was impressed. “Call it ‘Lest We Forget.’”

“Lest we forget,” the boy grumbled. “What does it mean?”

His hand on the doorknob, Yousif’s smile widened. “It means so that we may never forget.”

The students felt amused and left the classroom, murmuring: “Lest We Forget.”

October was witnessing a new assault by the enemy. Now they were directing their attention to Egypt and launching a full-scale offensive against her. They captured Beersheba and surrounded Faluja in the Negev Desert.

“You’d think Jordan would be helping the Egyptians now,” teacher Hikmat Hawi said, turning the pages of the newspaper he was reading.

“Not a chance,” Yousif replied, leafing through a book of essays, “even though the Jordanian forces are still intact and in a position to attack the left flank.”

Teacher Hassan Mansour softly tapped the table with his pencil. “Jordan would not commit her forces in a serious battle.”

“We knew this when they abandoned Lydda and Ramleh, and when they failed to capture Jerusalem,” Hikmat added. “I know for a fact that when Lydda and Ramleh fell, a delegation from surrounding towns and villages came up to Amman to see the king. They were worried that he might withdraw his troops and leave them unprotected. His answer was shocking. And I heard this from someone who was in that room. The king told them he’d withdraw any time his army was endangered.”

Everyone around the makeshift conference table stopped whatever he was doing and was now in rapt attention.

“He couldn’t have been more honest,” Yousif said.

“Or more blunt,” Hassan corrected him. “That Englishman who heads his army, what’s his name?”

“Glubb Pasha,” Yousif told him.

“Yes, him,” Hikmat continued. “Glubb, nicknamed Abu Hnaik, wouldn’t stand up and fight to the last man. Never. He’d test the enemy, and at the first sign of danger he would order his soldiers to stop.”

“And carry out England’s wishes.”

The teachers had heard stories like this before and seemed nonplussed. Most were Yousif’s former teachers, except Hikmat Hawi and Murad Allam. Murad was an older man, dressed in crisp pants, with an air of dignity that bordered on fastidiousness. He was, Yousif had been told, a man with dashed hopes. After two years in England pursuing a medical education, he had been recalled by his family for lack of money. In the subsequent thirty years in the classroom, he never once was a real teacher. His bitterness over not having been able to become a doctor stood in the way.

Of all his colleagues, Yousif felt closest to Hikmat Hawi. Hikmat was in his early twenties, born and raised in Haifa, and educated at the American University of Beirut. He had studied mathematics but at the end of his third year he had to rush back home to be with his family as the troubles escalated throughout the country. His circumstances reminded Yousif of Izzat Hankash, who just before the forced exile had been a tenant in Yousif’s home in Ardallah. Hikmat was of stronger build, and his nostrils were slightly more flaring. He and Yousif had taken an immediate liking to each other, and in less than a couple of weeks they had become fast friends. They visited each other’s “homes” and were introduced to their families. Their dwellings were so inferior to what they had been accustomed, neither could tell who was less fortunate.

To Yousif, Hikmat’s family had a diversity of looks. Hikmat was handsome but with a flaring nose. Fareed, the older brother, was fat and had a glass eye. Their mother was of medium height and must have eaten a lot of starch in her life. Their sister, Ghada, was flat-chested and homely. She looked older than her brother Hikmat, although she was three years younger. Fareed’s wife, Leena, was more seductive than beautiful. Leena caught Yousif’s eye, not for her good looks and fanciful ways but because she looked out of place in this impoverished neighborhood. Her walk and talk spelled trouble.

Over several weeks Yousif noticed that Leena was never seen casually dressed or without heavy makeup. Her wardrobe was extremely limited, yet the few pieces she owned were of good quality and in good taste, and she never wore the same outfit on the consecutive days. Her knack was to combine and switch sweaters, blouses, and skirts that gave her the look of a relatively well-to-do woman. On her own she was attractive; among the other women in the neighborhood she was stunning. The most noticeable quality about her was her moodiness. Not blending with the others, she seemed to find comfort in Yousif’s company. And vice versa, for in some odd way she reminded him of Salwa. And she indulged him in talking about how he could find her.

Whenever he arrived with her brother-in-law Hikmat, Leena would disengage from the women sitting in the shade, and would attach herself to the two young teachers. More and more, Yousif began to enjoy walking Hikmat home. And more often than not they tended to walk together in front of other women sitting in the shade or on doorsteps knitting or gossiping or nursing their babies. One particular phenomenon always overwhelmed him. A devout Muslim woman who covered her face with a black veil did not find it in the least peculiar to expose her ample breast to nurse her infant. To his utter shame and guilt toward Salwa whom he adored, he nurtured a secret wish that Leena had a baby so he could watch her pull out her magnificent breast and nurse it.

“I’d love to see Salwa’s picture,” she once told him as they strolled in their customary short walks together. “She must be gorgeous.”

“The only picture I have of her is in my head,” Yousif answered.

Leena was astonished. “You mean it?”

“Yes,” he answered, nodding. “The enemy soldiers rushed us out of the house at gunpoint with only the clothes on our backs. They didn’t give some of us time to get out of their pajamas. Besides, we thought we’d be back by Christmas.”

As they strolled back and forth, reminiscing and commiserating with each other, Yousif told her about the rape of Hiyam, the bride of his friend Izzat who had rented a room in their house. He told her how the enemy soldiers even blasted many of the birds in his aviary, and how they threatened to blow his head off if he tried to resist.

Yousif exhaled deeply and allowed painful memories to flood his mind.

“One soldier put his gun to Mother’s waist and shoved her out, saying, “Go to Abdullah . . . Go to Abdullah.”

Yousif exhaled and remained as quiet as the other two.

“Well, here we all are,” Leena finally said, “in King Abdullah’s country.”

“Indeed we are,” Yousif said. “That soldier knew what he was saying.”

“For sure,” Hikmat concurred. “He was following orders . . .”

Before long Yousif concluded that Leena’s relationship with her family was strained at best, for she seemed to get along well only with him and Hikmat. One afternoon she was in a rare good mood and Yousif asked how and where she had met her husband. Suddenly her mood changed. Her face became noticeably drawn, and she excused herself and went inside her apartment and did not come out. Another time she was joking and laughing with Yousif and Hikmat when her husband arrived. The poor slovenly one-eyed man felt the conviviality of the moment and tried to put his arm around her waist. She brushed it aside and walked away.

Yousif and Hikmat glanced at each other without saying a word.

Midnight often passed with Yousif lying wide awake thinking of Salwa and their whole dreary existence. Uncle Boulus and Salman were more accustomed than he was sleeping on the back patio. What would they do, he thought, when winter came? They would have to move inside no matter how congested their quarters became.

One night, Yousif was sleeping on the balcony when he heard a car stop on the street below and a door open and close. As the driver shifted gear and drove off, Yousif heard a knock at the door. He stood on the patio debating whether to wake one of the men. On the second knock he saw his mother already out of her bedroom and standing in the middle of the foyer clutching her robe.

“Who could it be at this hour?” she wondered in a low voice. “What time is it?”

Yousif did not know and did not answer. The third knock was louder, and the men and women stirred on their mattresses.

“Who’s there?” Yousif asked, weaving his way around sleeping children.

“It’s me, Basim.”

The name had a magical ring and pulled the men onto their feet and Aunt Hilaneh and Maha out of their rooms. But Yousif beat them to the front door and was the first to see Basim in the doorway, his necktie loose, his white shirt open at the collar, and his jacket hooked over his shoulder. Yousif was also the first to embrace him. The last one to embrace him was Maha, his diffident wife.

“Go on,” Yousif coaxed her. “Just once I’d like to see you two kiss.”

“Never mind,” Maha told him, putting her arms through the sleeves of her kimono.

“It’s good to be home,” Basim said, his soft eyes shining with happiness.

“You call this a home?” Yousif teased. “I’m shocked.”

Basim paid him no attention, and knelt to kiss the children on the floor. He woke everyone up, shaking a slender shoulder here and pulling a tiny foot there. The children jumped on him, their eyes still half-closed.

Because electricity was often turned off at irregular hours during the night, they all sat on the patio. At one o’clock in the morning they snacked on oranges, white goat cheese, and taboon bread. The children went back to sleep, except Basim’s youngest daughter, Reem. She wound herself around her father like a grapevine around a wooden post. Salman was tired and sleepy; Uncle Boulus was now in a talkative mood, full of opinions and questions. When he reached for his pocket and pulled out his masbaha and began clicking, Yousif headed inside to light a kerosene lamp, for he knew that his uncle was settling down to meet the dawn.

“Jordan’s Arab Legion,” Uncle Boulus began, reclining on his elbow and making himself comfortable, “is thoroughly trained by the British. One can see it by the way they’re occupying what’s left of Palestine. People sense what’s going on. The last time I went to Jerusalem, I saw with my own eyes how friendly the Bedouin soldiers were. They went around chatting and smiling so as not to antagonize anyone. Not heavy-handed, not obvious—just clever.”

Basim lit a cigarette. “The king learned well from his masters,” he commented under his breath. Then he seemed to stop listening to what the old man was saying.

The women, now fully awake, were noisily but happily busy peeling oranges and tiny cucumbers, slicing bread, and filling a small dish with black olives.

“Anyone up for coffee?” Maha asked

“Please,” Basim told her.

“This late at night?” Yousif remarked, already aware of the answer. He watched Basim enjoy the food, without letting go of his daughter. He kissed her cheeks between bites, and she hugged him and kissed his forehead.

“There are rumors,” Uncle Boulus continued, undaunted by the lack of attention, and clicking his worry beads, “that King Abdullah will soon annex what’s left of Palestine to Jordan. Is it true?”

“I’ve heard the rumor,” Basim said indifferently, wiping his mouth and pecking Reem on the cheek and purring in her ear: “That orange is sweet, but your kisses are sweeter. Much, much sweeter. How can that be? Let me kiss you once more to see if I have made a mistake.”

“Oh, Baba,” Reem said, giggling and nestling against his neck and letting him smother her with more affection.

Uncle Boulus’s barrage of questions did not seem to interest Basim in the least, but they dragged Salman into the discussion.

“I’ve heard,” Salman said his arms wrapped around his knees, “that they’re courting prominent Palestinians for more surprises.”

“Sure,” Yousif said, “wantonness must seem justified.”

For the first time that night Basim looked at Yousif with special regard. “Not bad,” he told him, and went back to teasing his young daughter.

It seemed obvious to one and all that the seasoned revolutionary Basim was not about to divulge any news. He did not tell them where he had been or what he had been doing. All he said, with characteristic nonchalance, was that Palestine had been sold and delivered. He pitied the refugees who thought they would be going home for Christmas. Yousif paid attention to the tone as well as the words. Ultra secretive by nature and hardened by underground experience, Basim was hinting, not informing; happier to be with his family than with the discussion.

“Salman, where’s your flute?” Basim asked. “I want to hear you play again.”

“Flute . . .!!!!” several voices exclaimed.

“You’re lucky to hear his voice,” Abla said. “He’s not the Salman we all knew. Just ask them.”

They all agreed that Salman had changed most of all.

“I’m not so sure,” Basim said, looking around. “From what I can tell there’s been a significant change in Yousif . . .”

“That’s because he still can’t find Salwa,” Maha said.

“Poor Yousif,” Abla said, her eyes twinkling. “He’s heartbroken.”

“I should be,” Yousif said, going along with the humor.

They all laughed.

“That can’t be it,” Basim said. “Look at the mustache. Listen to his political awareness. And I hear he’s now a teacher. I’m impressed . . . But tonight I want to hear Salman play.”

Silence descended upon them like an unseasonable mist. Basim ran his fingers through his daughter’s long, soft, brown hair, humming a well-known folk song. The girl was now fast asleep on his chest, and her mother tried to carry her back to her room. But Basim shook his head and held onto her.

It was an unusual scene, Yousif reflected. Basim’s low, hushed voice flowed like balsam, soothing and yet lifting the scabs off old wounds. The humming turned into melancholy singing, first by Basim alone, then by Yousif’s mother. She matched him verse by verse, and they alternated in a duet of infinite sweetness. How enchanting and genuinely touching, Yousif felt, tears welling in his eyes. Scenes of Ardallah and fragments of his past, particularly those of the night before his wedding, flooded his mind. Salwa haunted him and would not leave him alone, nor would he let go of her image. He looked around and found the others rapt in their solitudes, their own memories. The two singers segued from song to song each emotion giving rise to a deeper one. The balmy night was quiet, except for two tormented voices, too fragile to take wings and soar.

Only after the coffee had been served was Basim willing to let them carry his daughter back to bed. The coffee seemed to wake him up and to shift his mood back to reality.

“Our Jordanian brethren have chosen the name,” Basim told them, taking another sip from his demitasse cup. “The war is technically still on and they have already picked out a name for the new country. Soon the Arab parts of Palestine will be annexed to Jordan . . .”

“By popular demand, of course,” Yousif commented.

“. . . The new country will be known as the Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan. Very few people know this, but take my word, it’s official. Only the signatures are still to be affixed.”

The silence was deafening.

Yousif and Basim exchanged looks, while the others looked as if dynamite had been detonated in their midst.

“What if we leak the story to the newspapers?” Yousif suggested. “What if we circulate a rumor? Would that slow the last-minute negotiations?”

Yousif’s mother was aghast. “The only thing it would do is lock you up in jail. Please, habibi. Please don’t get involved. Please, Basim, don’t listen to him. Sometimes . . . sometimes, I just don’t know what to think. His ideas worry me.”

Yousif concealed his anger and tried to lighten the deadly serious moment.

“Why, Mother!!!” he said. “I didn’t realize how badly you want to be a Hashemite citizen. Well, I’ll be . . .”

His mother would not be placated. “Stop fooling, will you?”

“Where did they get the name?” aunt Hilaneh wanted to know. “What’s a Hashemite?”

“Named after the House of Hashem—descendants of the Prophet,” her husband explained to him. “The king’s ancestors.”

Between the European Zionists and the Jordanian Bedouins, Palestine was lost, Yousif thought. A line from the New Testament struck his mind: “They parted my raiment among them, and for my vestments they did cast lots.”

At that moment, as if the heavens had been listening, the electricity was turned off all over the city. Only a lamp was burning in a far corner of the house.

Yousif and Basim stared at each other, their eyes fixed and glowing in the dark.