The Disinherited. Ibrahim Fawal

probably wearing the same wrinkled shirt he had on the day they were expelled out from Ardallah.

      A family “reunion” of sorts was within reach, if only Yousif could find Salwa. What had happened to her and her mother and her young brothers, Akram and Zuhair? He hoped they were together, but hastily built camps throughout the Middle East “housed” half a million families that had been torn asunder. Finding one’s loved ones would be a miracle in a land that obviously had run out of miracles.

      Meanwhile, crowded living conditions occupied their minds. Then one night Abu Mamdouh announced he had located some friends and was about to move closer to them. Did they want his room, or should he rent it to others? They had no choice but to agree promptly to take his room, even if they worried over how to afford the fifteen pounds rent. Next day, Abu Mamdouh and his wife and three children packed their few possessions and were about to leave.

      At the door, Abu Mamdouh paused and looked at Yousif. “Before long I’ll have a place of business,” he said. “I don’t know exactly what it will be, but I’ll do something. You can be sure of that. When I do, I’d like you to come and see me. You are a bright young man, and I’ll have a job for you. At least for a couple of days a week. God knows we all need income.”

      Caught by surprise, Yousif could only thank him.

      “Promise you’ll come and see me.”

      “I promise,” Yousif said, shaking his hand.

      Yousif’s mother was filled with gratitude and showered Abu Mamdouh and his family with God’s blessings.

      Within a couple of days Salman and his family, Uncle Boulus and Aunt Hilaneh, and Basim’s wife Maha and their children all moved into the cramped apartment; Basim himself rarely came home. The first evening together reminded Yousif of life in Ardallah, except now they were cheerless. Before long, they hoped, when their “residence” became known to some of their friends and acquaintances, they would gather on the patio and sit till past midnight, reminiscing and commiserating with each other.

      Salman was no longer the life of the party. He sat subdued in a mental fog. The radio was turned on and they anxiously waited for the 9 o’clock news. They were shocked to hear that unoccupied Ramallah was bombed by an Israeli air raid, the announcer said. So was Jericho. Caught in the line of fire was a group of Palestinians still staggering out of their occupied villages.

      “They have a new name for us,” Uncle Boulus said, flicking his amber worry beads. “We’re now refugees.”

      “I’ve heard it on the radio,” Yousif agreed, sitting on the floor.

      “I’ve read it in the paper,” said Wajeeh Abu Hadi, a neighbor from the refugee camp up the street. He was an outsider from a nearby village who had lived in Ardallah but with whom they had never socialized. Prior to the expulsion, he always traveled the countryside to inspect water wells. He used to wear a khaki uniform with a wide, shiny brown belt and parade through town riding a horse. His erect posture on that magnificent horse was always a figure to behold.

      In most gatherings, the subject of the lack of participation in the fight to save their homeland was often discussed. Yousif was the first to broach the subject.

      “It’s amazing how little fighting we Palestinians did,” he said. “Were you surprised?”

      Wajeeh drew on his cigarette and looked at Uncle Boulus as if to elicit support. Resting on his left elbow, a cigarette dangling from the side of his mouth and constantly clicking his worry beads, Uncle shrugged his shoulder.

      “No, I was not surprised,” Wajeeh answered.

      “I know we were no match for the invaders, but . . .”

      Wajeeh tapped his cigarette in an ashtray, seemingly irked by the implied criticism.

      “Let’s hope your generation will do better,” Wajeeh answered.

      “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to blame anyone. I’m just curious.”

      “You recall, I’m sure, that we were under British mandate for thirty years.”

      “And before that four hundred years under Ottoman occupation,” Uncle Boulus reminded his nephew.

      Wajeeh nodded toward Uncle Boulus and then turned to address Yousif’s impertinent question, rather condescendingly. “Do you recall how they hauled us all off to churches, mosques, and empty school buildings and locked us there for a whole day while their soldiers searched our homes for weaponry? And you ask why we didn’t fight? Fight with what? Besides, we had no army, no resistance movement, not even a band of guerillas to join.”

      Yousif was in an argumentative mood. “What about the Revolt in the 1930s? Our guerilla fighters hunted the British and the Zionists all over the country.”

      “Yes, there was a revolt,” Wajeeh agreed. “And it lasted for a few years. The best and worst part of it was the general strike throughout Palestine in 1936, which lasted for six months.”

      Intrigued by the paradox, Yousif waited for an explanation.

      “The fighting was the good part because it deepened our sense of honor and heightened our hope. That’s when our people had few arms to fight with.”

      “It also showed the whole world the threat we were facing.” Yousif added. “What’s bad about that?”

      “Ah, don’t forget that it also galvanized the British authorities to ignore that honor and crush that hope. They lost no time to clamp down on us, disband our guerilla fighters, and send the organizers into exile. Mostly to Iraq.”

      Uncle Boulus chimed in. “And that’s precisely when they began locking us up and searching any cave they could find, even our homes, for armaments.”

      “Exactly,” Wajeeh added. “By 1947 or 1948 we were in worse shape than in the 1930s. On top of that, from the start you knew that if you fought and got killed there was no one to look after your widow or children. Even if you were wounded while performing your patriotic duty, there was no doctor to treat you. You couldn’t afford medical attention because you were out of a job and had no money. No organization, no general command, no support, no financial or medical security. The Jewish underground had everything. We had nothing. So, my dear young man, it was a lose-lose proposition.”

      Yousif knew all this, but his hunger for background information egged him on. “In other words, we were had from the beginning.”

      “Long, long before the beginning.”

      Cousin Salman spoke up for the first time. “It’s a done deal,” he said morosely, with his hands clasped between his knees. “What’s the use? As they say: big countries decide; small countries obey.”

      Wajeeh expelled a deep breath and lit another cigarette. “And some of us think we’ll be back by Christmas!”

      “What a joke,” Yousif said.

      Another round of coffee, some idle talk, frequent sighs, lots of cigarette smoke, more worry-bead clicking, and the visit came to an end.

      But to Yousif it was the beginning of his nightly brooding. He viewed the grotesque situation in colloquial terms: the menu was planned, the meal cooked, the table set, and the feast made ready to be served to the aliens. The hands of the big powers were there to see. And yet the pangs of not knowing enough to understand all the political currents unsettled him. At such moments he wished his father were still alive to guide his probing. There was so much to study and learn he wished there were a huge library for him to devour. And how he wished Salwa were there to alleviate his mental anguish.

      After the visitors left, Yousif and his uncle and Salman slept on the balcony overlooking the street. The nights were usually hot and humid, but they did not mind the outdoors. The three bedrooms were for the women and children and occasionally to accommodate friends who had no place to stay. Congestion was the least of their worries. Yousif and the other two men went inside only to use the bathroom, stepping around the mats and sprawling children. Many a night