The Disinherited. Ibrahim Fawal

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