The Disinherited. Ibrahim Fawal

so many. Smoke billowed out of some, and the sound of children crying penetrated the sound of the wind. Yousif carried a black umbrella as a cane, but was ashamed to open it. He handed it to the first mother he met with a child in her arms.

      The school building was teeming with families seeking shelter. The hallways and classrooms were filled with families. Desks were pushed against the walls, children and their parents were huddling to keep warm. Coal was burning in a brazier in the middle of the floor. Bedsheets were hung on a clothesline stretching from door to window to keep the wind and rain out. Soaking wet, Yousif stopped by the principal’s office. Standing at the doorway, he wiped his neck and face with a handkerchief.

      “Ah, Yousif,” Ustaz Sa’adeh, smiling and wiping the mud off his own shoes. “This is just November. The best is yet to come.”

      December arrived with other shocks of greater magnitude. Yousif read about them in the newspapers and understood their dimensions. The ineptness, the sloppiness, of the Arab leaders infuriated him. He was getting restless by the day, wanting someone other than Hikmat with whom to share his thoughts. Uncle Boulus and Salman had enough worries eking out a living at the little grocery store to worry about his desire for greater comprehension of national politics. Salwa would understand, but she might as well be on the moon for all he knew. The couple of times he had stopped at the coffeehouse, Amin was too busy to talk. Basim would be best, but where the hell was he? Yousif glued himself to the radio whenever he could and entered lengthy discussion with fellow teachers as well as with his students, whom he now admired and trusted.

      First, the war was dwindling down in most areas, except the south. There, it was escalating. In a final push, the enemy was launching a major offensive against Gaza from the sea and from the air. Initially, the Egyptians had put up a credible resistance and then began to crumble. What truly outraged Yousif was that while a fierce battle was raging, Jordan’s monarch was in the safety of his palace, watching his brethren getting smashed.

      Not so, Yousif soon learned. The monarch had the spoils of war on his mind and was busy carving his share. His emissaries were already doing his bidding: rounding up Palestinian notables to a historic meeting in Jericho. The avowed purpose: “to appeal to him,” “to plead with him,” “to beg him,” “to employ him,” and “to entreat him” to let them be his loyal subjects.

      To his credit, Uncle Boulus declined the invitation to join many from his hometown, such as the mayor and attorney Fouad Jubran, each of whom, no doubt, was angling for a position in the new government. Yousif was proud of his Uncle Boulus, and told him so. It was an act of patriotism which, in Yousif’s eyes, absolved him from the sin of not having participated even in a miniscule capacity in the defense of their homeland. Young and old, they all should have sacrificed. He wished others had not scurried to Jericho to rubber-stamp their own death certificate. With raised hands or a loud outcry they had sealed their own fate and denied themselves the Right of Return—the right to be free and independent.

      Out of “compassion,” certainly, the monarch rose to the occasion and did not fail them. He “humbly accepted” to be their lord and master. Three days before Christmas he answered their entreaties: sending his new subjects a gift in the form of an official declaration, annexing the West Bank to the newly named Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan.

      Young as he was, Yousif was enraged. Salwa, no doubt, would be fit to be tied. She was his girl and he knew how she felt. The unilateral action electrified the whole Arab world, especially the disinherited and displaced Palestinians. To understand the political ramifications of such a disastrous move, Yousif spent several hours with Hikmat, even a couple of times with Leena, trying to digest the present and dreadful future. Enough rumors and half-truths were circulating to fill a labyrinth with fog.

      In the teachers’ lounge, everyone was similarly preoccupied.

      “It’s laughable to think that states can be so instantly or easily created,” teacher Imad said, grading some papers.

      The fastidious teacher, Murad Allam, looked up, not in the least bit amused. “Who said it was created easily or instantly as you say?”

      “Was it not?” Imad defended himself, glancing around for support. “The Zionists give more thought to blowing up a railroad station than we give to establishing a state.”

      “Not so fast,” Yousif said. “What do you think they’ve been doing since the Balfour Declaration? How long has that been? Thirty years? And what do you think was the purpose of the British mandate? Was it not to fulfill Britain’s promise to the Zionists and create a national home for the Jews in Palestine?”

      Imad shook his head as if to put the pieces together. “What does that have to do with what we’re talking about . . .?”

      “What kind of bargaining do you think was going on behind our backs? Both sides must’ve balked and it took years to satisfy them.”

      “You think so?”

      Yousif eyed him with derision. “It’s been cooking for a long time.”

      Suddenly grim-faced Ustaz Sa’adeh appeared at the door. “Walls have ears,” he said. “I suggest dropping this kind of talk. Here and elsewhere. Unless you want the school to be shut down and some of you picked up.”

      When Yousif returned home in the early evening, he was amazed by an unfamiliar and unlikely sight. He saw a half-empty bottle of arak, two glasses relatively empty, and two men sitting at the kitchen table in an obviously jolly good mood.

      “Just one more drink,” Uncle Boulus insisted, trying to refill a resisting Salman’s glass.

      “What’s the occasion?” Yousif asked. “Christmas is still a few days off.”

      “Christmas!” Uncle Boulus repeated, giggling. “What’s the matter with you, boy? Where have you been? We Palestinians have two capitals . . .”

      “Not one, t-w-o,” Salman informed him, his tongue heavy.

      “. . . One in Amman and one in Gaza. What do you think of that? One ruled by Jordan, and one ruled by Egypt. Isn’t this a good reason to celebrate?”

      Yousif bit his lower lip and put his finger to his mouth. “Not so loud, Uncle. Not so loud,” he said, peering outside to make sure that they were not being overheard.

      His mother met him at the kitchen door. “Yousif, I’m glad you’re here.”

      “Glad!” he told her. “Why are you letting these two get drunk? Do you want the police to ring the house tonight?”

      The word police brought the other three women out of the inner rooms, each holding her breath.

      “Why the police?” Maha asked anxiously.

      “What’s wrong with them having a drink in their own home to drown their despair?” Aunt Hilaneh said.

      Yousif shot her a sharp glance. “Talking politics? And opposing annexation?”

      Abla’s face clouded with apprehension. “I’ll make coffee.”

      “Make it strong and bitter,” Yousif told her. “We need to sober them up before they get us in trouble.”

      Yousif turned to the kitchen table and reached for the drink in his uncle’s hand. “Come on, Uncle. Let’s have a chat.”

      “What kind of a chat?” Uncle Boulus asked, trying to hold on to his glass. “Pull up a chair. It’s time we had a drink together.”

      Yousif tried to coax him. “Not now. Please, Uncle, don’t give me a hard time. I want your opinion on something that can’t wait.”

      Yousif’s serious tone seemed to revitalize the sixty-five-year-old man. “You think I’m drunk?” he asked. “Don’t worry, I’m not. Tipsy maybe, but not drunk. But look at poor Salman—he’s falling asleep. That’s what happens to those who never touch the stuff—one drink and they’re out.”

      A pot of coffee later, Uncle Boulus was weary but coherent. He clicked