Читать книгу The Disinherited - Ibrahim Fawal - Страница 12

With all the soul-searching and the anguish that had sent Uncle Boulus to the bottle, driven parents and children to suicide, made men like Tariq depend on sedition as a way of life, and compelled Rabha to bare her breast in public; with all the interminable talk about politics—at home, at school, at work, at coffeehouses, and, presumably, in bed; and with all the accusations and counter-accusations which flew around and which saw the Palestinian point his finger of suspicion at himself, at Arab kings and presidents, at the Ottoman Empire, at the West in general and Britain in particular, Yousif was a young man who could not swim across his troubled ocean.

And what a stormy ocean it was. Every time he attempted to float, the high waves crashed over him. To make bad things worse, the futile search for Salwa wrapped him in a shroud of despair.

Uncle Boulus, whose penchant to foretell was now spiked with liquor, once observed, “One day children will grow up and spit in their fathers’ faces.” Yousif thought often about that statement and wondered just how far off that day was. The night Uncle Boulus made that prediction Yousif had a dream. He saw himself straying into a room full of switchboard operators. Hundreds of hands were plugging and unplugging wires in and out of tiny sockets, and hundreds of foreign-sounding voices were overlapping each other into hundreds of microphones. Lost and helpless, he could not understand a word. He desperately needed someone who could talk to him in his tongue, someone who could guide him out of the maze.

It was revolutionary Basim who in the spring once again returned home, this time from Syria and Lebanon. And for the first time he seemed in no hurry to rush back out. Basim brought with him all his worldly possessions: two battered suitcases full of dirty laundry, two pairs of shoes, two belts, and a shaving kit. His suits and shirts, all in solid colors, were in an equally scuffed garment bag. That, to Yousif, was a clear indication that his cousin was home to stay. For how long he had no idea, and Basim would not tell. What Yousif did know was that Basim’s appearance made life at home quite interesting. The children clustered around Basim who showered them with hugs and kisses and never failed to pull out of his pockets two or three packs of gum or a handful of English toffee.

Uncle Boulus and Salman welcomed Basim’s return as a tonic for an existence that had grown stale and monotonous. Many close friends began to visit, although Basim did not yet want it widely known that he was back. As to the women of the house, they were beyond themselves trying to stretch their meager means to prepare him a favorite dish, although Yousif suspected the ambivalent Basim was like the enchanting hedonist who preferred “a loaf of bread, a jug of wine and thou beside me,” the “thou” here being a political animal like him or an embittered soul. On the other hand, his visit created vexing sleeping arrangements. In furtive looks and hushed voices the family members tried discreetly to give Basim and Maha some privacy. To avoid embarrassment and quell any concern, Basim would be the first to lie on the mattress laid out on the patio or the balcony, often with one of his children sleeping on his chest, leaving the opportunity to be alone with his wife to a remote chance.

One late evening, when Uncle Boulus had had one drink too many and Salman was already fast asleep, Basim was not only fully awake but seemed eager to have a private talk with Yousif.

“What time does the coffeehouse downstairs close?” Basim asked, glancing at his watch.

“It depends on business, I guess,” Yousif answered.

“Let’s go down for a smoke,” Basim said. “It can’t be too crowded at ten o’clock.”

They sat alone at the little coffeehouse below their apartment and ordered two nergilehs and two cups of coffee. A few men were playing cards or dominoes and arguing over who should pay. The radio was broadcasting a reading from the Qur’an, and the young waiter with suspenders and a soiled apron was bringing in straw chairs from outside and stacking them up against the walls. Yousif and Basim sat close to the door and watched refugees come in and out of the rows of tents on the other side of the street.

“I can’t imagine how they live,” Yousif said, expelling a deep breath. “Open sewage. No toilets or any place to bathe. I can’t imagine living like that.”

“All thanks to Israel.”

“The stories Mother tells about her visits to so many refugee camps are simply horrifying. You should hear her.”

Basim nodded, pulling on his water pipe. “I’ve been to too many of them and I know exactly what you’re talking about. That’s why I’m starting a political organization. And I want you to be part of it.”

Yousif listened and waited for more information.

“At first I hesitated to ask you because I knew your mother wouldn’t want you to follow in my footsteps. In a way, I don’t blame her. Look where all those years have gotten me. Besides, when you find Salwa, your mother will expect you to settle down and give her grandchildren.”

“That’s natural. After all, I’m her only son.”

Basim nodded his head. “But if we don’t all sacrifice, we might as well bid Palestine farewell.”

“You can’t possibly mean that.”

“Not forever, for sure. But for at least a generation or two. I can tell you this: if we want to liberate it, and we all do, each of us must be willing to face the challenge. To put his neck and pocketbook on the line. No other way.”

Yousif was in total agreement. “Palestine is worth it.”

“Damn right Palestine is worth it. And a lot more. That’s why I want you to join me.”

A five-year-old boy appeared out of the dark and approached them with an open hand. Both Yousif and Basim handed him a few coins, feeling sorry for him.

“Go home, son,” Basim told the young beggar. “You ought to be in bed.”

The boy did not answer, and made the rounds to other tables. Soon another destitute followed, this time a middle-aged woman. She did not ask them to give her anything, and did not thank them when they did. She just moved before them like an apparition.

“There’s nothing a mother won’t do to feed her children,” Basim said, motioning to the waiter for another piece of charcoal.

There was a long pause during which the garcon pushed the ashes of the nergileh aside and placed blazing pieces of charcoal atop the tobacco.

“Why me?” Yousif asked, his voice deliberate and even.

Basim took time to read his thoughts. “I need you. As simple as that.” The water in the nergileh gurgled.

The garcon returned with another pot of coffee, refilled their cups and left.

“I’ve watched you grow and mature politically far beyond your years,” Basim told him. “I saw in you leadership potential.”

Though disinclined to flattery, Yousif appreciated the compliment and said so. “High praise coming from you.”

“However I must warn you,” Basim told him, holding his demitasse cup in mid-air. “Politics is a serious—even dangerous—business. If you have any reservation, back off right now. But, if you do join the organization, I’m going to lean heavily on you and give you a lot of responsibilities.”

“Doing what?”

“To start with, I’d like for you to be our recording secretary.”

Yousif looked disappointed. “I’d like for you to think of me differently. A spokesperson for my unlucky generation would be more like it.”

“What?”

“I’m not a stenographer. If I join, I’d like to be an activist.”

“You’re jesting.”

“No, I’m not.”

Basim uncrossed his legs, pleased. “That’s one of the things I like about you. You know your mind and you stick to it.”

“How else would I have been able to marry Salwa?” Yousif reminded him.

“Stopping her wedding in church was quite a coup.”

“It’s the best thing I’ve done,” Yousif said. “I’ve been looking for her everywhere. I even left a message for her on radio. On the program for people trying to reunite. Still can’t find her. Any ideas?”

Basim assured him that in time he would find her. And that he would, of course, help him in his search. However, for the time being Basim was not to be distracted from his main mission: to build a liberation organization.

“Will it be strictly political or diplomatic?” Yousif inquired. “Electing candidates to the Parliament and influencing policies?”

Seconds after he had uttered the words, Yousif felt he had misspoken. He did not show sufficient grasp of what his cousin was contemplating.

Their long stare at each other was poignant.

“It would be both,” Basim assured him. “Political and military. With emphasis on the latter.”

“I thought so,” Yousif said.

“Mind you,” Basim continued, “we can’t possibly be the only ones planning to start a resistance or liberation movement. Others are doing just that right now. I’m sure of it. I only hope they won’t try to lure you away from us.”

“You have nothing to worry about, unless . . .”

“Unless what?” Basim said, amused.

“. . . you insist on my being a recording secretary.”

Basim’s face relaxed. “Do you prefer carrying a gun?”

“Eventually I may have to. But not yet. Right now I want to prepare myself for the period of transition we’ll be facing. On the one hand I see Uncle Boulus and cousin Salman and thousands like them who, for reasons of their own, did one big zero to save our country. They are what I call the losing generation. On the other hand, I see the students in my class who have gone through hell. Each has lost a father or a brother or a sister. You should see the pain in the stories they tell. We’re the unlucky generation. We were ambushed and expelled before we had a chance to grow up. In my opinion, we’re your hope, the main force you can count on. We’re the future generation that will lead us to victory.”

“And to al-awda to our homeland.”

“Inshallah.”

Basim seemed impressed. “Quite a visionary, I must admit.”

“If that’s the organization you have in mind, I’m ready.”

“Welcome,” Basim said, shaking his hand. “I’ll have more faith in you when you find Salwa.”

Yousif smiled. “I have a new strategy for finding her. So far I’ve been looking for her in refugee camps on every Friday, my day off from school. But apparently not many Christians live there. I guess because they had a little more money on them when they were kicked out.”

Basim nodded. “And in exile they could afford to rent an apartment. As we did. Or build a shack.”

“Now I’m going to start looking for her on Sundays in churches. She’s not a churchgoer but somebody might know where she is.”

“Good idea,” Basim said, wrapping the cord of his nergileh around its neck and getting ready to call it a night. “Have you gotten used to the idea of not having school on Friday?”

“Not really. But it’s the Muslims’ Sunday. And I respect that. Say, Basim, next time you go to Beirut or Damascus will you please bring me some books to read? I’m starving for information.”

“What kind of books? Romantic comedies?” Basim asked, winking.

“You know exactly what I need. Arab history. Jewish history. Biographies. Anything on colonialism or whatever the West calls their evil empires.”

The garcon appeared and Basim paid the bill and tipped him.

“How about The Arab Awakening? Would you like that?”

“I didn’t know there was an awakening.”

Basim put an arm around Yousif’s shoulder and squeezed. “It’s okay to be skeptical, but not cynical. You hear?”

“I’ll try.”

To Yousif’s surprise, the first organizational meeting was held at Ustaz Sa’adeh’s apartment on the third floor of a building just off the business district, facing the post office and the telephone and telegraph buildings. It was small but considerably more comfortable than his and Basim’s dingy and crammed dwelling. Two or three families, according to Ustaz Sa’adeh, were squeezed in each apartment, and children were constantly running up and down the stairway. Their noise, coupled with the sound of traffic on the street below, made it rather safe for the conspirators to debate the issues with relative ease.

Yousif was immensely surprised to discover that his first cousin and his principal were so close. He had not been aware that the two were in cahoots for months. When he confronted them with his disbelief, they laughed and told him that they had kept him in the dark on purpose. They wanted to impress upon him that the essential quality in revolutionary work was secrecy.

“Never trust anyone,” Basim told him.

“Not even your shadow,” Ustaz Sa’adeh concurred.

Soon the attendees began to arrive. The first was Hanna Azar, who had worked at Haifa’s seaport. Basim embraced him, led him inside and made the proper introductions. Yousif judged him to be around forty, although his hair was almost completely gray. He was nervous, sitting first on a chair with his back to the door, then getting up to look out the window, then sitting back down, this time facing the door. His handshake with Ustaz Sa’adeh, however, was long and friendly. The link between the two, obviously, was Basim, who was also the link between these two and the tall balding young man who arrived ten minutes later. This was Ali Bakri, the youngest of the guests—and only six or seven years older than Yousif. Ali still had that college exuberance even though he had graduated from law school several years earlier. He sat on the edge of the seat with his hands clasped between his legs, ready to immerse himself in whatever activity they were about to undertake. Yousif liked him instantly.

Within minutes, the room grew conspicuously quiet.

“Let’s get started,” Hanna said to Basim. “We’re all here, are we not?”

Basim shook his head and took out a pack of cigarettes and passed it around. “One more is coming,” he said, placing an ashtray between him and Hanna.

“Who might that be?” Hanna asked, leaning on his elbow.

“You’ll see,” Basim said, smiling. “While waiting, let me tell you the latest political joke I’ve heard. A Bedouin soldier in Jerusalem was ordered by his lieutenant to take down the numbers off the cars involved in traffic violations. Guess what he did? He went out and literally pulled down the tags off those cars until he had a sack full.”

Some laughed, some rolled their eyes, the rest shook their heads.

“Hard to believe,” Ali said, still laughing.

“It’s absolutely true,” Basim told him, chuckling.

“May God help us,” Hanna said, his fingers tapping the armrest.

“These are our liberators no less,” Basim added, walking toward the window to look out.

“What do you expect from a camel rider who had never been out of the desert?” Ustaz Sa’adeh asked,

Still standing by the window, his hands locked together behind his back, Basim turned and spoke to Ali. “Haven’t you heard one lately? You always have a political joke tucked away.”

“As a matter of fact I have,” Ali said. Then facing the others he began: “Have you heard about the Lebanese who asked a Palestinian refugee to describe what happens in war?”

They all shook their heads and waited.

“Well,” Ali continued, “the Palestinian refugee could see that this particular Lebanese was naive, so he told him: ‘It’s like this. You take a gun and I take a gun. You stand there and I stand here. You aim at me and I aim at you. Then we both shoot.’ The Lebanese was shocked. ‘You mean we shoot for real?’ he asked. ‘Yes,’ the Palestinian told him. ‘Mon Dieu,’ the Lebanese shrieked in his affected French, ‘to hell with that game.’”

Amidst the laughter they heard another knock on the door. This time Yousif was seated closer to the door than anyone else, so he was the one to open it. To his surprise, Raja Ballout was standing outside. Basim rushed to greet the mournful-looking, emaciated and famous journalist from Jaffa whose popular editorials often stung readers and authorities alike. His buttoned-up gray jacket with his left hand thrust in his pocket made him look sickly and in pain. The tightness of his lips and the sour expression on his face more than hinted at his derision of the world.

Yousif knew a lot about Raja for reasons other than his journalistic skills. It was said that Raja had suffered brutally at the hands of the invading army.

Before the forced exodus, the stories went, Raja was visiting his sick sister in their hometown, when suddenly the house was surrounded by military jeeps. Five or six soldiers jumped out and demanded that Raja and the rest of the family evacuate the house. Raja told them that his sister was bedridden and desperately needed medical attention. Her two young teenagers could testify to that. The soldiers could come in and see for themselves. She had a gallbladder attack and ought to be hospitalized, he repeated. He even led them to her bedroom to prove his point. Her face was pale and contorted, and her hands were clutching her right side.

“It will be most kind of you if you would help us move her to the hospital in one of your jeeps,” Raja appealed to the soldier, with his nephew and niece moving closer to their mother’s bed. Other soldiers, also with guns at the ready, were standing behind him and to the side of the room.

“You must be crazy,” replied the first soldier, his gun pointed at him and his finger on the trigger. “Hurry up and take her with you.”

“How am I going to take her?” Raja pleaded. “I don’t have a car. I can’t call a taxi. And look for yourself, she simply can’t walk,”

“Then I’ll help you out,” the soldier said

With mystifying nonchalance, the soldier pulled out his bayonet and walked toward the bed. With one master stroke, he slit her throat. It was like a flash, so electrifying, and so particularly wild, that the poor woman didn’t have a moment to blink her eye or make a peep.

A blast of horror filled the house. The children howled. Raja froze in place, his eyes glazed.

“Now you don’t have to worry about taking her to the hospital. Get out.”

Between looking at his dead sister with the blood oozing on the bed sheet, and with her hysterical children throwing themselves on her feet and chest, Raja felt utterly helpless. What could he do with the killer giving him a murderous look? Raja blamed himself for not having defended her. But he couldn’t have, he told himself. Defend her with what? With his bare hands? His impotence, anger, despair, and indescribable shame consumed him. The world was closing in on him. Suffocating him. Suddenly he pictured the room as Hades, with a huge monster at the gate licking its chops, ready to swallow them.

“Church . . . simple funeral,” Raja blurted, his well-known eloquence escaping him. “. . . cemetery . . . burial.”

“No problem,” the soldier assured him. “We’ll bury her for you here and now.”

“You’ll do what?” Raja screamed, his eyes bulging.

“Just take the kids with you and get out before I kill all of you. Out, I said. Out, out.”

Raja couldn’t fathom how a human being could be so cruel, so cold-blooded. Traumatized, he led his niece and nephew out of the house onto the main street, and the boy and girl never stopped sobbing and clinging to him. After walking less than fifty yards, they heard an explosion. Their hearts sank. With sheer terror gripping their heart and soul, they slowly turned around to look. What they saw engulfed them in a higher level of panic. Their house was tumbling down. The body of their slain mother/sister was literally buried beneath the rubble.

“The bastard kept his word,” Raja muttered, over and over again, enfolding the orphaned niece and nephew in his arms and leaning against a lemon tree. As the youngsters sobbed uncontrollably and kicked whatever was before them, Raja found himself too outraged to even cry. Dry-eyed and with all the solemnity he could muster, he made a silent vow to whomever or whatever or whichever was listening that the death of his slain sister would be avenged. So help him God, her death would be—most emphatically must be—avenged.

All of this Yousif had known already not only from stories that circulated about the famed journalist, but mainly from an article he himself had published under the title “Slain Mother / Slain Sister.” Yousif still recalled the power of his words and the chilling effect it had on him and the multitudes of readers. Now he was in the presence of that same man, that same chronicler of Palestinian pain and suffering. He felt fortunate, even proud, to be associated with any group that included Raja.

“We all know why we are here,” Basim began. “And I trust we are in agreement on what needs to be done. For the sake of clarity, let me repeat what I have told each of you in private, so that there will be no misunderstanding or secrets among us. What we’re planning to do is build a political and military organization for the sole purpose of liberating our homeland. The real war is on the horizon, and we must be ready to fight on many fronts. Our organization and many other organizations like it, that are being established as we speak, will be the new factor in the equation. The winning difference. There’s no other way left for us to redeem ourselves. I’m convinced, as all of you are, that our forced exile is meant to be permanent. Many of us thought we were going to be allowed to return home before last Christmas. We all know how naïve that expectation was. Many Christmases and many Easters and many Ramadans will come and go and our refugees will still be rotting in camps.”

Yousif looked around and found everyone rapt in silence.

“The Zionists,” Basim continued, lighting a cigarette, “did not work for the last fifty years to walk away from a victory that must’ve surpassed their wildest dreams. Not a chance. What they occupied they want to keep, make no mistake about it.”

Raja was the first to offer an opinion, “The first president of so-called Israel reportedly cried when the conflict ended before they could occupy the whole country.”

“For sure,” Hanna added. “The head of their underground wants Palestine and Trans-Jordan for a start. The boundaries of his Eretz Israel stretch from Iraq to Egypt. His record is clear on that.”

Basim returned to his interrupted introduction. “You are both correct. But how many of our so-called leaders have taken all these questions seriously? If the leaders are a lost cause, it is our job to awaken the masses to the enemy’s grand design. Ours is a monumental job—no question about it. But start we must.”

The discussion began and Yousif felt the urge to make his views known, if only to justify his youth among older men. But he considered it sensible to bide his time.

“The first thing we need to do,” Ali said, “is to forget once and for all that there are Arab regimes and Arab leaders. They are all a sorry bunch.”

Raja eyed Ali with a smile that seemed to attribute his sweeping generalization to immaturity. “I understand what you’re saying,” he said, “but governments and rulers have armies. They have tanks and planes and rockets and all kinds of armaments. And we don’t have a single hand grenade—not yet, anyway.”

Suddenly Ali was on the defensive. “But they hardly committed themselves or much of the equipment they did have. What’s the use of having it if you don’t use it?”

“Some did, maybe not as well as we had hoped, but they did. There’s no denying that there were some heroes in those battles.”

“And a lot of traitors in high places, if you ask me.”

“That’s the reason we are refugees,” Basim said, eager to stop the early and unsuspected wrangling. “That’s the reason we are meeting today. That’s the reason we need to form this organization. To address all these issues.”

“There are millions of good and patriotic people in those countries who are as angry and bewildered as we are over what happened,” Ustaz Sa’adeh volunteered. “One of the aims of this organization is to keep an eye on all of our leaders, and to sort out the trustworthy from the corrupt. To support those who share our agenda and oppose those who don’t.”

“And when will we defeat and expel the enemy?”

“Patience, Ali, patience,” Hanna counseled. “That day will come sooner than you think.”

In an effort to shift from the argument that teetered on becoming heated, Yousif posed a question to the famed journalist, hoping to engage him. “What should our first priority be now: the pen or the gun?”

“What do you think?” Raja responded.

“Both,” Yousif said. “It depends on the situation. From what I hear most of our real battles were fought in the halls and chambers of governments here and abroad. Congresses, senates, parliaments, palaces, embassies, and the rest. The military outbreaks were an aftermath.”

When Yousif finished, he was surprised to find all eyes were focusing on him, as if they had not expected such analysis from an upstart. A moment of silence lingered, which threw Yousif in deeper thought. Maybe he should not have been so presumptuous as to speak so readily to people who supposedly knew a lot more than he did. Maybe they thought he was too young to speak of warfare as a result of failed diplomacy. Or to say that diplomacy or the failure of diplomacy was a precursor to the clash of arms.

Abide your time, he chastised himself, and don’t be so rash. So pompous. You would alienate potential friends. To his relief, he heard Hanna say to the principal, “Ustaz Sa’adeh, I congratulate you for having taught Yousif so well. I wish more adults knew half of what he knows.”

“The credit is all his,” Ustaz Sa’adeh said. “He’s always been our top student, and now one of our best teachers.”

“He was also raised well,” Basim added. “His father, Dr. Jamil Safi, who was also my uncle, was a rarity: a healer, not just a physician. And his private library was the best I’ve seen.”

It was Yousif’s turn to deflect the attention away from himself. “I didn’t mean to be a distraction. I truly apologize.”

With that, the meeting proceeded as Basim had planned. He divided the priorities under different headings: fundraising, recruiting, training within the country or abroad, buying or smuggling arms, buying a printer to publish their own newspaper and occasional leaflets. Then he asked those gathered to express their opinions on each heading, one by one. The money issue was the most dominant, and everyone wondered where it would come from. Basim mentioned Palestinians who still had money stashed in foreign banks, Arab states already awash with oil revenues, the millions of Arabs living in the Diaspora: South America, United Sates, Canada and countries as far away as Australia. Not to mention Muslim countries (stretching from Morocco to Indonesia) that were chafing at the loss of Al-Aqsa Mosque, one of the three holiest shrines in Islam. The possibilities were limitless, he said, and moved on to the subject of recruiting.

Here he emphasized and everyone agreed that a small force of a thousand men and women who were well-chosen, well-recruited, well-motivated, well-trained, and well-equipped could deliver more than a blow to their sworn enemy. Over the years, of course, they could double or even triple the size of that force. By that time they would have most likely merged with other liberation groups to make their sworn enemy realize that hijacking a whole country would never be tolerated.

After directing Hanna to the bathroom, Ustaz Sa’adeh motioned to Yousif to follow him to the kitchen. Yousif marveled at the preparation that had been done much earlier. On the spotless counter was a tray of six tall glasses and a pitcher of iced water. Next to it were a kerosene burner with a box of matches, another tray of demitasse cups, a large brass coffee pot, a small sugar container, a jar of coffee—even a small spoon with which to scoop the grinds.

“Do you know how to make coffee?” Ustaz asked. “Frankly I don’t. I’ll take the tray of water to the other room and I’d appreciate your making the coffee.”

While waiting for the coffee to percolate, Yousif could see from the small undraped window over the sink the mud huts and the rows of tents in which some of the refugees lived. He could also hear the sound of a truck groaning and screeching from old age, and the voices of children playing in the dusty street. If only the truck driver and the children knew, Yousif thought, that Basim and fellow patriots were at that moment conspiring to change their destiny.

Watching the coffee boil, Yousif reflected on the proceedings in the other room. He was struck by the challenge facing them. Defeating a sworn enemy that had been scheming and plotting for half a century—backed by America and the major powers of Europe—was like a child trying to climb the highest Giza pyramid. He had once heard his pacifist father say that evil begat evil, and wondered what he would say to him now. “Son,” he would probably say, “it’s a daunting task indeed, but what’s the alternative? Injustice must be confronted.” Basim, of course, was intent on answering thunder with thunder. Considering the tremendous odds against them, Yousif thought, a tooth for a tooth and an eye for an eye was more like it. If only they could, he told himself; if only they could.

“Tell me something about Ali,” Yousif asked when Ustaz Sa’adeh returned to the kitchen. “He’s itching to fight.”

“His father and Basim were together during the 1936 revolt,” Ustaz Sa’adeh explained. “They fought the British and the Jewish underground and finally went into hiding in Iraq. They didn’t return until after World War II, when the British Mandate exacted promises from them to lay down their arms. You should know all this from Basim’s own history.”

“Where’s Ali’s father?”

“Apparently either the Irgun or the Hagana had a special grudge against him,” Ustaz continued. “Soon after they entered Lydda, they waited for him to come out of the mosque after the Friday prayer. When Ali’s father saw a dozen soldiers with guns at the ready, he knew what to expect. He raised his hands above his head and tried to negotiate with them. He said he’d be willing to leave town with all the people they were expelling. In answer, they riddled his head and chest with bullets. The casualties around him were countless. How Ali escaped unharmed was a miracle. Now he’s out for revenge.”

“Wow,” Yousif said. “I didn’t know that.”

When both rejoined the rest, the discussion underway was about what to call their fledgling organization. Many words were bandied about, including “movement” or “revolution” or “liberation” or “institution” or “institute”—or even “jihad.” The last word was unanimously rejected because of religious connotations. The conflict was complex enough, they all thought, and there was no need to broaden it. Finally they settled on something simpler and catchier.

“At least for now,” Basim suggested, “let’s call it Amana. Amana as a vow. Amana as a sacred trust to keep Palestine alive in our hearts. Let’s test it on the people. I have a feeling it will resonate with them.”

A new debate arose as to whether or not they should go public with the creation of the organization.

“The less we say about it the better,” Yousif argued.

“I agree,” Hanna added. “No sense in alerting the authorities to our existence. God knows they’ll be infiltrating us soon enough.”

Ali nodded. “Also, new recruits would be intrigued by belonging to an organization that operated in total darkness.”

“In secrecy,” Raja suggested instead. “In total darkness might be misconstrued. They might think of us as the blind leading the blind.”

After agreeing that initially it would serve them best to run their affairs clandestinely, they began to address the important question of recruiting. This issue occupied them past lunchtime. They went round and round trying to identify the characteristics of the thousand-member force they wished to recruit.

The idea of recruitment led to another subject that was unanimously agreed on: to open up several youth clubs in the major cities. Ostensibly that was to keep the idle youth off the streets, but in reality it was to keep an eye on those who might one day qualify for membership.

“We need all types of men,” Basim said, “and not just freedom fighters ready to shoot or throw bombs. Before we admit anyone, he or she must have two qualifications. One, they should come from families that lost more than just property. They must’ve been injured in their guts. They must’ve lost someone dear to them at the hands of our sworn enemy. They will be the ones itching to get even. Two, not a single one of them would be officially admitted into this organization until they have been meticulously scrutinized by a reviewing committee. Checking the recruits’ backgrounds diligently is a must. We need to make sure that they are not lying. This might take weeks, even months. Which is as it should be. The important thing is to guard against having a mole working on somebody else’s behalf. If one manages to slip in, he’s mine. I’ll deal with him personally.”

Switching the conversation, Yousif wanted to know about the political aspect of Amana. How would it be organized? And, what would it entail?

It was the signal for Raja to rise, ready to leave. “That’s another story for another day,” he said. “If it took God seven days to create this wicked world, how long do you think it should take us to plan the liberation of beautiful Palestine? A few hours?”

On that note, the meeting was adjourned. On his way out, Yousif found himself walking with Hanna Azar. Hanna was the only enigma among the group. Yousif wished to ask about his background but did not want to seem too inquisitive. Luckily it was Hanna who wanted to hear about Yousif’s background.

“I know you’re Basim’s first cousin,” Hanna began. “But tell me, are you one of those injured souls Basim wants to recruit? What have you lost beside your home?”

Yousif tried to be evasive. “I lost most of Palestine, isn’t that enough?”

“We all did. But what in particular did you lose to qualify you to be a member of Amana? Your kinship to Basim notwithstanding.”

On the sidewalk, they ran into Rabha, her palm forever open. She flashed Yousif a smile of recognition and gratitude. Yousif smiled back, gave her a coin and introduced her to his companion. By reflex, Hanna reached in his pocket and handed her whatever he could afford.

As they continued their walk, Yousif told Hanna about the incident with the jerk who had doubted that the poor woman was carrying her own baby. And how she had pulled out her breast on the sidewalk and, in front of many onlookers, squirted her motherly milk in her accuser’s face.

“Good for her,” Hanna said, incredulous.

“He was so outrageous I wanted to punch him in the nose.”

“I would’ve. But tell me, what did you lose in the war?”

Yousif did not know where to begin. He told him how his father had been killed during an incursion by the enemy on top of a hill in Ardallah. He had gone there to treat Basim who was wounded but would not leave the battle scene. He also told him about Salwa’s father’s death in the open desert during the treacherous journey on foot to Jordan. The sun was merciless on that day and they had to leave his body prey to wild animals. One couldn’t imagine the pain the family had to endure. Furthermore, he told him how he and Salwa got separated, and what agony it had been looking for her.

“What else would you like to know?” Yousif asked, “Oh, yes. I also lost one of my dearest friends, a Jewish boy I grew up with and went to school with from first grade through high school. His name was Isaac Sha’lan.”

The circumstances of Isaac’s killing clouded Hanna’s face.

“We seem to have much in common,” Hanna began, weaving his way around the congested sidewalk. “One of my distant uncles was an Orthodox priest. His oldest son was married to Raheel, a Jewish woman. In those days marriage between faiths was not uncommon in the big cities.”

“I know,” Yousif said. “Nablus has a number of such marriages.”

“When the hostilities intensified, the Zionists who had emigrated from Europe wanted Raheel to end her friendship with the natives. That’s what they used to call us. But Raheel refused. As the situation heated up, and our neighborhood was being bombarded, my mother sought refuge at her friend’s house. She called her up and Raheel told her to come over, she would be waiting for her. My mother did exactly that. She went straight to Raheel’s house, but apparently terrorists from the Jewish Stern Gang were waiting for her arrival. When Raheel opened the door, they plastered her and my mother with a hail of bullets.”

Numbed by hearing so many such horror stories, Yousif remained visibly unperturbed.

“If you didn’t witness the killing, how did you come to know the details?”

“The Stern Gang claimed responsibility and bragged about it that same night on their underground radio. They meant it as a warning to any Jew who might harbor any sympathy with an Arab.”

Yousif nodded knowingly. “My mother used to tell me that in Jerusalem, where she was born, new immigrants always discouraged Jews from mixing with so-called ‘natives.’ But I’ve never heard of Jews killing Jews.”

“Your mother was talking about the 1920s. I’m talking about 1948. Things became a lot rougher. Jews killed Jews in Iraq to force them to leave and fight in the upcoming war. And to settle in the land of milk and honey.”

After a long pause, Hanna added: “Our experiences qualify us to be legitimate members in Basim’s Amana,” Hanna said.

“Our Amana,” Yousif said.

“I stand corrected.”

Hanna bought a pack of cigarettes from a young refugee with a badly damaged eye, perhaps from a sniper’s bullet. His tray of trinkets was strapped around his neck. They lit their cigarettes and jostled their way through the crowd in silence. When they were about to go their separate ways, they looked at each other, their eyes full of gloom.