The Disinherited. Ibrahim Fawal

      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