The Disinherited. Ibrahim Fawal

why he did it,” the man replied, nodding his head. “He just walked out of the tent while they were asleep and hanged himself.”

      The shocking news of the hanging spread throughout Amman. Yousif heard people describe the victim as a good man who simply could not cope with his children going to sleep hungry. A few were less charitable, calling him a coward. Two nights later a ten-year-old girl on the other side of town followed suit. She had seen her father break down and cry for lack of food to feed his family, and she in turn could not take it. She imitated the man who had hanged himself. People were now worried about a rash of suicides. Conditions, they all knew, were conducive to such behavior. But all agreed on one thing: suicides had to be stopped. They criticized any open discussion of it, especially in front of children. Many threatened to boycott any newspaper which would cover such tragic incidents.

      However, the next morning newspapers reported another violent act of different nature but of wider implications. An Egyptian had whipped out his pistol and fired its bullets into the heart of the prime minister. It was the first political assassination since the catastrophic war, and it charged Yousif and the whole Arab world with excitement. Who did it? What was his motive? Yousif followed the news with consuming interest, as did his colleagues and anyone else he met. He wished he could discuss it with Salwa.

      Soon the suspicions were confirmed. The assassin was a member of the Muslim Brotherhood which blamed the prime minister for the Arab defeat. “He surrendered Palestine to the Zionists,” the killer explained. Most people agreed, knowing that Egypt, the strongest and most populous Arab country, could have performed a lot better. But the felled prime minister had not been the only culprit. Corrupt King Farouk and his cronies, Yousif heard people talk, had been equally responsible.

      “Who’s the next target?” was the one question that echoed throughout the region.

      After spending another day out of town looking for Salwa, Yousif stopped at Basman coffeehouse to see Amin. Luckily the place was not as crowded as usual, and he was able to tell his friend about the endless and fruitless search for Salwa.

      “You’re gong to be more despondent when you hear what I have to tell you,” Amin said, on his way to serve other customers.

      When Amin returned with the empty brass tray in his hand, Yousif waited eagerly for him to unload on him the other bit of unhappy news.

      “I have accepted the offer from Kuwait,” Amin said.

      Yousif stared dejectedly at him. “When are you leaving?”

      “This afternoon.”

      “Now you tell me?”

      “If you had not stopped today I would have come to your house to say goodbye,” Amin said, biting his lower lip in apology.

      Yousif could not be more glum. “I’ll miss you, you know that. But I know it will be a good move for you. There’s no future here.”

      “There may be a future for both of us. I’ll stay in touch with you.”

      During breaks between serving new customers, Amin filled Yousif in on the particulars of his adventure. A customer had a good friend in Kuwait who was doing extremely well in the construction business. “He recommended me to him and this fellow, whom I have never met in my life, sent me a ticket to fly there as soon as possible. Can you believe it?”

      Yousif had mixed emotions. “I’m happy for you. Really I am.” And trying to inject a bit of humor, he added: “Who knows, you might find Salwa there. And if you do, I’m sure you’ll let me know.”

      Amin laughed. “And if you find another girl like Salwa, you let me know. I’ll marry her sight unseen. That’s how much I trust you—and your taste in women.”

      Amin set the brass tray on the next table and hugged his friend. Yousif hugged him back, and the two didn’t have to utter another word. Their eyes communicated a friendship from the cradle to the grave.

      At the bottom of the stairway as Yousif left, he ran into some acquaintances who were with others he did not know. Soon they were approached by a Gaza woman named Rabha. The tall, slender, attractive villager was dressed in black and cradled a baby in her arms. She was a familiar figure around town. Men at the coffeehouses and in their shops liked her and joked with her, for, ironically, she was always in good cheer. Many considered her a good omen in that dreary landscape and looked forward to her coaxing a smile out of them every day.

      “It’s been a bad day, shabaab,” she prodded them, stretching her hand. “Start digging in your pockets.”

      Yousif gave her a couple of piasters. Hikmat said he’d pass this time. Ustaz Murad stiffly shook his head.

      “As ancient as you are,” she told him, “you ought to be glad I included you among the shabaab.”

      That did not sit well with the curmudgeonly teacher. She mumbled under her breath and moved on. Others contributed as much as they could.

      “Come on, shabaab,” she urged them on with her open hand. “When I say I need help, it means I need help. Come on now.”

      “Why don’t you work for a living?” a stranger among them asked unexpectedly. “Most people do.”

      The smile on her face faded. His tone obviously offended her. “Work doing what?” she asked, glaring at him.

      “Anything,” the stranger replied.

      “Are you working?”

      “No, I’m not.”

      “Then why do you expect me to find work?”

      “It’s easier for a woman.”

      “How?”

      “It just is.”

      “Maybe your mother has some dirty linen she needs washed and ironed. Maybe she’s too fat and lazy to clean the dishes and make the beds. Is this what you’d like for me to do?

      “Why not?” the stranger persisted.

      “Because I’m not a maid. I need help, but I’ll be a servant to no woman.”

      “Why? Are you too good?”

      As the discussion began to heat up, Yousif stepped forward and stretched his arms between the two. “Enough,” he said.

      “No, I’m not too good to work,” Rabha replied, pulling down Yousif’s arm. “Give me a decent job, and I’ll take it, although I never worked a single day outside my home. But no man or woman should be a slave for the rich and lazy who won’t do their own dirty work.”

      Her temper was rising, yet Yousif thought she looked beautiful in her anger. She reminded him of a nun: her flushed iconic face draped by the silky black shawl. Other men turned their heads in her direction. It was a tense moment, and Rabha never took her eyes off her tormentor.

      “Some say the baby is just a pillow or a rag doll you cover under your shawl.”

      “Don’t be ridiculous,” Yousif told him. He and Hikmat and others had enough of the stranger and tried to stop his harangue, but the doubter ignored them.

      “Who is this man?” Yousif asked Hikmat. Shrugging, Hikmat said he did not know. Perhaps he was a friend of Ustaz Murad. The sour-faced teacher shot them an irritable look, pursed his lips, looked at his gold-chain watch and walked away.

      “It’s fake, I tell you,” the tormentor insisted. “Has anyone here ever seen the face of her baby?”

      “No, I haven’t,” Yousif replied. “But I’d take her word before yours.”

      Yousif had always disliked men with leathery faces or narrow eyes or thick necks as much as he disliked those who smacked their lips when they ate or chewed gum in public. He decided on the spot that Rabha’s obnoxious accuser had such offensive qualities.

      With her eyes fixed on the stranger, Rabha unveiled her baby’s face. It was