Читать книгу The Disinherited - Ibrahim Fawal - Страница 9

Money, which was so precious, melted like a bar of soap in their hands. The smaller it got, the more time Yousif had to spend reassuring his mother. The optimism he had to pretend almost made him puke. Yet every day he had to paint a less bleak picture. The job with Abu Mamdouh had yet to materialize, not for lack of trying. While waiting for the former tycoon in the orange grove business to line up a small fleet of trucks to haul citrus fruit from Jericho to Syria and Lebanon, Yousif worked a couple of weeks as a brick layer and less than a month as a house painter. The few pounds he earned pleased his mother, yet she cried. Had their circumstances been so reduced that her only son had to become a common laborer? What would his proud father say had he been still alive? No matter what Yousif told her, she cried. She was getting more edgy, her prayers more fervent, her fanning more frantic. And the suffocating heat did not help her blood pressure. Her face, Yousif thought, was often as red as a pomegranate.

Seated on a small settee in her bedroom, she told her son that the two hundred and eighty pounds they had when they reached Amman had shrunk by more than twenty-five pounds a month—not to mention the seventy-five pounds they loaned Uncle Boulus and Salman to start a grocery store. Even if they were more frugal, in three months they would be destitute. He reminded her of the seven pounds he had earned as a laborer and she shrugged it off as inconsequential. He felt agitated, yet he told her not to worry. He would do whatever it took to provide for both of them. No matter, she insisted, shaking her head. She needed to get a job.

“I need to apply for a job with the Red Cross,” she said, trying to summon her will. “That’s exactly what I’ll do. When I tell them who my husband was—they may even know about him—they’ll give me a job. Yes, that’s what I am going to do.”

“At your age?” Yousif said, searching for a better argument. “Why, you never worked outside the house one day in your life.”

“What of it? There’s always a start. And I have made up my mind. We’re in a dire need.”

What would people say, he wanted to tell her, then thought better than to utter such banalities. Anyone with common sense would respect her for it. Survival was at stake, was it not?

“No question about it,” she continued, almost to herself. “I’m no longer the wife of a prominent doctor living in the biggest villa in Ardallah. Now I’m a mere widow of a forgotten husband and a homeless refugee. Come winter we’d be as hungry as a fasting man in Ramadan.”

Sniffling, she reached for the handkerchief in her purse but couldn’t find it. Yousif opened a small drawer, pulled one out and handed it to her. Then he sat next to her, put his arm around her shoulder, and let her sob to her heart’s content.

He went to the bathroom not to relieve himself but to satisfy an urge to pound the wall. He did so until his knuckles ached and turned red. If he and his mother felt that desperate, he thought, how was Salwa coping? Yes, he could look for menial jobs here and there, but he also needed time and money to travel and search for his wife. Feeling suffocated, he opened the window to breathe fresh air. The sight of the rows upon rows of tents on the field facing him and the beggars on the sordid street below failed to impress upon him his good fortune. In comparison, he and his immediate family were living far beyond the means of those unfortunate tent dwellers. A prison was a prison, he told himself, no matter how clean or large. He and his mother were prisoners—they who had had more than ten thousand pounds in the bank, an expanse of fertile land, a villa that was the envy of anyone who saw it, a car in the gated driveway, and jewels under the bedroom floor. Should they not be able to pay their share of the rent, or Uncle Boulus or Salman not come to their rescue, they would end up in a dismal tent in one of those miserable refugee camps.

Maybe he should not object to his mother’s seeking a job with the Red Cross, he thought. Maybe that was one way to help him find Salwa. He himself should exert more effort to find whatever job he could be lucky to get—clerk, waiter, even errand boy. Whatever. Some of his classmates were shining shoes for a meager living. Some didn’t even have shoes to wear. He looked at himself in the mirror and hated his image. He hated himself. He was getting thinner. His long bushy hair badly needed cutting; instead, he drenched it with water and smoothed it down to postpone a trip to the barbershop. The humiliation of knowing that he could ill afford a haircut swelled and remained immovable in his chest; again, his fist pounded the wall.

“What was that?” his mother asked from behind the closed door. When he opened it, he found her standing anxiously just outside.

“I hit the wall,” he told her.

“Why . . .?”

“Because I’m sooo happy. Listen, Mother. Forget about the Red Cross. It’s volunteer work.”

“Oh, no!”

“Still, go and see them. They might have changed their policy. Besides I understand they’re trying to help refugee families reunite. I meant to go and see them myself. Now, you can ask about Salwa.”

Her face brightened. “And what are you going to do today?”

“Continue my search from town to town. Today it’s Zarqa.”

But before he boarded the bus, he stopped and had a haircut. He didn’t think his haggard looks would appeal to Salwa.

Zarqa was as dreary as any town he had seen in Jordan. It was warm and dusty and full of refugees: either in rows upon rows of tents or sitting on the sidewalks swatting flies. He moved from street to street, from shop to shop, from coffeehouse to coffeehouse. Though he did not run into anybody he had known back in Ardallah, he questioned anyone who would talk to him: “Have you seen Salwa Safi? Or her mother, the widow of Anton Taweel?” He even described their looks and mentioned the names of her two brothers, Akram and Zuhair. It was all to no avail.

Despondent, he returned to Amman. Against his better judgment, he stopped to see his closest friend, Amin, at the ramshackle Basman coffeehouse which had been opened above two or three stores. Climbing the outside steps to the roof, he debated whether he could afford three piasters for a soft drink or a cup of coffee. He might even get stuck paying for someone else’s drink. Amin looked very busy weaving between tables with a tray of coffee to serve customers. Yet he mouthed to Yousif that he had something urgent to tell him.

“Have you seen Ustaz Sa’adeh?” Amin asked on his way back to the kitchen. “He’s looking for you . . .”

The noise was too loud and Amin was at a distance, Yousif had difficulty hearing him. When Amin reappeared, he pinned Yousif against a wall for moment to tell him what was on his mind.

“He came here yesterday and this morning,” Amin explained, taking a deep breath. “He said he’s opening a school . . .”

Yousif looked surprised. “And . . .?”

“You’d have to ask him. He wanted to know where you live and I told him I didn’t know.”

Amin went to deliver the cups of coffee and then returned.

“Frankly I was a little hurt,” Amin confessed.

“Why?”

“He’s probably recruiting teachers but didn’t bother to ask me. I must not be good enough, although you and I were neck and neck in class.”

Yousif empathized with his friend, not only because of his amputated arm but also because he actually had been one of the poorest students in school.

“We don’t know what’s on his mind,” Yousif said, smiling.

“It doesn’t matter,” Amin said, “I plan to go to Kuwait where so many refugees are going. I’ll probably make more money than all the teachers in the school put together.”

In September Yousif became a teacher. He was assigned to teach the sixth and seventh graders Arabic, history, and sports, although the schoolyard was no more than a rocky, empty stretch of land between ramshackle two-story buildings that had been converted overnight into a new school. Wearing a recently purchased jacket but no necktie, he arrived half an hour early. The mustache he had grown since his appointment added a couple of years to his face. His was a headlong immersion in school life, a fact that made him less self-conscious. A mammoth job was awaiting him and the other teachers, strangers who seemed to share his awkwardness and uncertainty. Students still had to be registered, classes had to be shifted from room to room. They accepted students in the order they came, dropped the minimal tuition whenever questioned, and qualified students on word of mouth instead of school records. Confusion and chaos were rampant.

A week after the school opened, a demonstration broke out. Through the window Yousif could see a mob of men and women approaching. Fists were flailing and voices were rising, but he could not understand a word. As they got closer, he went downstairs to see what was happening.

Seething with anger, hundreds of men and women surrounded the faculty. “We want to go home,” the mob shouted. “We want to go home.”

Yousif failed to make the connection. Another teacher shrugged his shoulders, equally puzzled. Within minutes Ustaz Sa’adeh himself came down to face the outraged demonstrators. Women, both villagers and urbanites, were shouting louder than the men. Apprehensive, Yousif moved closer to his principal.

“We want to go home . . . we want to go home,” the mob repeated.

“Who doesn’t want to go home?” Ustaz Sa’adeh asked. “We all do. What does this have to do with opening a school?”

“It’s collaboration with the enemy,” shouted a tall, lanky man wearing a tarboush cocked to the back. He shoved his way closer to where Yousif was standing.

“If you don’t know what kind of signal you’re sending to the enemy,” hissed a slender woman in a blue dress, “you’re not fit to be a principal.”

Most people in the rowdy crowd were incoherent. Ustaz Sa’adeh climbed back to the upper step so that they all could see and hear him. He gestured to them to be quiet and listen, but they shook their fists and one insolent creep dared to call him a traitor.

“You’re legitimizing our forced exile,” protested a short man wearing a soiled jacket two sizes too large. Many seemed to know him, Yousif noticed, for they allowed him time to speak and gesture wildly with rolled-up newspaper in his hand. “It gives comfort to the enemy. It tells them we’re willing to start new roots away from home.”

“Y-E-S,” the mob roared.

“It’s like asking us to settle down and forget about Palestine.”

“HELL, NO. HELL, NO.”

“It’s like replacing the temporary tents with concrete houses. We want to go back to what’s ours.”

“I have a key to my own home. I want to go back.”

“We all have keys to our homes.”

“WE ALL HAVE KEYS TO OUR HOMES.”

Though in total agreement with them, Yousif felt the need to address their concern.

“You’re absolutely right, but . . .” Yousif started, before they cut him short.

“But what?” a lady wearing a blue dress snarled at him.

“Until we do go home, we need to get the boys off the streets. We shouldn’t let them waste their time. They need . . .”

“What they need is a lot better teacher than you.”

“I beg your pardon.”

“Like the rest of you. All you care about is your salary.”

The demonstrators were now shoving forward in earnest. With the principal and the rest of the teachers, Yousif retreated inside and shut the front door behind. The crowd grew more boisterous and unruly. Fists pounded the door, and a few window panes were broken. Someone alerted the police. In half an hour the crowd was dispersed.

No sooner had the first group of demonstrators vanished than a bigger group of protestors arrived. They came in trucks and buses, and on foot. They came down the barren mountain, and up from the valley. They came dressed in suits or dimayas, wearing tarabeesh or scarves or with bare heads. They came old and feeble, young and strong—until the schoolyard and the street beyond became impassable. They were high-strung and nervous, looking for a target to vent their anger on. It was as if the opening of the school doors had paradoxically shut out their last hope. Some had been in exile for five months; some were recent arrivals. Yousif could tell from their accents and motley attire that some were from Galilee up north or all the way down from Gaza. But that morning, with the bluest sky looking at them indiscriminately they spoke in one voice and their hearts seemed to beat in unison.

Now that the initial shock was over, Yousif stood by his principal, soaking up the people’s torment and filtering it through his own sensibilities. Ironically he sensed hope and felt joy. If the harmless opening of a school could unleash such a torrent of emotion, then his people would never surrender, would never accept defeat. They were ready to resist, and he loved them for it. In truth, they were protesting the wrong issue. But the act of protest in itself convinced him that they were misguided but not unaware. What they needed was a leader who would transform their untapped power, their wasted individual sparks, into one gigantic blaze.

Yousif had Basim in mind, but to his surprise the genteel and mild-speaking Ustaz Sa’adeh reappeared and suddenly the crowd fell silent. Yousif held his breath and hoped for the best. To his utter and most pleasant surprise, Ustaz Sa’adeh’s commanding presence proved that he was a man ready to lead.

“Let it be said,” Ustaz Sa’adeh said, his voice loud, “that the Palestinian is a learner, not an idler. A builder, not a destroyer. To us Palestinians, longing to return to our homes is more than a hope, more than a dream. It is the essence of our life. Life is not worth living if foreign forces decree that we are to be uprooted and to remain uprooted from our sacred land. Who should decide our fate but us?”

Yousif applauded and the restless mob seemed willing to listen. He could read softness in their glare.

Ustaz Sa’adeh paused to gauge their reaction.

“But how can we escape the darkness without using our heads?” he asked, his face crimson with emotion. “Education should become our motto. Our battle cry. There is no liberty without education. No liberation without education. No resurrection, no redemption without education. Speak of it in your tents and huts. Instill it in your children’s hearts and minds. Sing it to your babies as you suckle them or hold them in your arms. It would be the height of folly for our enemy to think that the opening of a modest school is a signal that we have resigned ourselves to living in exile.”

“Y-E-S,” someone shouted back.

“It would be a pipe dream for them to think that we Palestinians will languish in the sun and rest in refugee camps while they—the foreigners, the trespassers, the aggressors—plow our fields, pick our oranges and apples and figs off our trees, pluck the grapes off our vines, harvest our wheat, shepherd our flocks, and press our olives. Everything we left behind we either bought or inherited from our fathers or our ancestors. We are the owners of the land. And we have the titles and the deeds to prove it . . .”

“And the keys to our homes,” many screamed in unison.

“How dare they come after two thousand years and claim it as their own? How dare they bask in our gardens and live in our homes as if we had never existed.”

“How dare they,” the crowd roared.

“HOW DARE THEY!”

The resounding applause was started by someone other than Yousif. It was started by the hateful, abrasive woman with the blue dress who had earlier belittled him. Yousif did not know whether to welcome her sudden conversion or to dismiss her as being gullible. He decided to give her the benefit of the doubt and to credit his principal with the power to persuade even the uncouth.

“Let it be said,” Ustaz Sa’adeh continued, his voice pitched higher, “that we Palestinians do not feed on rhetoric, or cheap sentiment, or hot air. Our new generation will thrive on pragmatism, on practicality. And as a practical man I should tell you what needs our immediate attention.”

“Tell us and we’ll do it,” someone shouted.

“Thank you,” the principal told him. “And I will thank anyone else who’s willing to volunteer. You see that piece of land between the two buildings? Soon we hope to have it as a soccer field. But right now, as you can tell, it is full of stones and rocks. If someone has access to a pickup truck and wants to do something good for the rest of the community, I urge him to come forward and give us a hand hauling them away. All kinds of craftsmen are needed to make this place habitable for our children. The stone walls need mending. The walls inside the building need painting. The plumbing needs repairing. You name it—we need it. We certainly could use a couple of carpenters. We can keep them busy for a week or two.”

“I’m a carpenter,” someone said. “When can I start?”

“I’m a plumber,” another added. “And I am ready to work.”

“I am an electrician. Can you use one?”

The response was most encouraging and the principal beamed.

“There’s one more thing I’d like to ask of you,” the principal continued, waving at a mob that was no longer hostile. “I’d like for you to form a committee of six or seven men and women, if you will, so that we may address our mutual interests and concerns. Those in favor of such an advisory committee let them please raise their hands.”

The arms which had come to fight an hour earlier were now stretched high in total cooperation. The facial muscles which had tightened with suspicion and hatred were now relaxed. The eyes that had darted like daggers were now void of malice. Soon the throngs that had assembled to disrupt were now dispersing, with disruption the last thing on their minds.

The funny little man with the soiled and oversized jacket was now clapping his hands enthusiastically and encouraging others to do the same. Many responded to his call.

As the atmosphere turned friendly, and the crowd stirred to leave, Yousif had an idea.

“One more thing, if I may,” Yousif shouted, taking Ustaz Sa’adeh by surprise.

“Does anyone know a beautiful nineteen-year-old girl named Salwa Safi? Does anyone know where she lives? She’s my wife . . .”

“Oh . . .!” one girl swooned mockingly. “You’re married?”

“Happily married. But we were separated in the exodus five months ago.”

“And you miss her, of course,” another girl teased him.

“I miss her very much. Please let us help each other find our loved ones. Thousands of us are in the same boat.”

The crowd began to depart with a glee on their faces. Yousif’s romantic appeal seemed to have drained the tension out of them. But the one thing Yousif did not anticipate was the unlikely sight of the lady in the blue dress approaching him.

“If I were younger I’d wish you and I were in the same boat,” she whispered in his ear, smiling.

The glint in her eyes revealed a charm he would not have expected.