The Disinherited. Ibrahim Fawal

tents. Above all, she prayed for an early return to their homes. Sometimes Yousif would hear Aunt Hilaneh praying too. But never did he hear Maha pray for her own husband. Nor would she sigh whenever Basim’s name was mentioned. She was too reserved, too modest, to admit her longing for him.

      Each morning Yousif struck out on foot to look for Salwa. One day, he came across a hotel, a substantial old building on the edge of town, built of stone grayed with age. It was situated opposite what must have been a spectacular flight of steps on the slope of a hill. He was told that those steps were a remnant of the great Roman theatre which had been built in the third century B.C. The city of Amman, he soon learned, had been called Philadelphia after a Roman general—a name which had been later adopted by the Palestinian founders and owners of the best hotel in the country.

      Yousif walked between the broken columns and up the steps to view the amphitheatre from a high point. The relics were relatively well-preserved, except for the inevitable cracks through which weeds were growing. The seating capacity must have been hundreds, he thought. From where he was standing, he could see atop another hill the king’s imposing white palaces. But immediately to his right were clusters of mud huts and little shacks for the Jordanian poor—and now for the “luckiest” Palestinian refugees. Anything was better than a pathetic tent, he thought. He also remembered from history books that until the 1920s, this capital was no more than a desert outpost.

      The light traffic in the courtyard emboldened him to venture inside the hotel. Perhaps Salwa and her mother were among the privileged guests. With a sudden burst of energy he crossed the street and climbed the short flight of steps up to the large front veranda. The dozen or more men and women sitting or standing around shared the same anguished look. And none of them had heard of Salwa.

      The same was true in the crowded lobby. And the busy clerks behind the front desk were equally of no help. As he started to walk out, he looked inside the spacious and heavily carpeted sitting room to his left. Against the back wall and right in the middle of a big sofa was none other than burly Adel Farhat, whose arranged wedding to Salwa had been recklessly and bravely stopped by Yousif in the name of love. Yousif froze in place. The two rivals locked eyes but neither moved. Not a nod. Not a word. Even a national catastrophe, Yousif realized, could not override personal grudges or heal open wounds. Yet Adel’s piercing stare was full of curiosity but no apparent rancor.

      Bewildered by his morning encounter, and with no leads to finding Salwa, Yousif walked listlessly back to the business district, bought a newspaper, and headed home. The congestion had not abated, for more tattered refugees were still arriving. Headlines spoke of a second truce to be policed by UN troops. He found Uncle Boulus sitting just inside a warehouse not too far from the apartment. Two of the men sitting with him were from Ardallah, but the others he did not know. Except for a few burlap sacks lying near the front, the cavernous store was empty and dark. And not a customer in sight.

      He did not need an advanced degree in psychology to read the gloom on their faces.

      “The way we Arabs do things,” the apparent owner, with rolled-up sleeves, was explaining, “there’s no way of knowing when we’ll go back. I thought I’d better try and have some income before we run out of the little cash we have.”

      Those around him pondered his predicament and nodded.

      Yousif could only admire the Palestinian men who had lost no time looking for something to do. The merchants among them, like the proprietor of this store, had rented warehouses in hopes of building up a trade.

      “It’s better than sitting at a coffeehouse,” another stranger remarked, puffing on his rolled-up cigarette.

      “I never sat at a coffeehouse more than once or twice in my entire life,” the wiry, high-strung proprietor added. “I never had time. I’ve worked all my life, and I can’t stop now.”

      Yousif was introduced to the strangers. He shook their hands and remained standing, for there was no extra chair. The August sun was hot, and he was uncomfortable, even in the shade. He noticed that except for himself and the Ramallah man, Abu Fahmy, all were wearing native, ankle-length robes. Abu Fahmy was wearing a tailored brown suit, dark sunglasses, and a short red fez. To many he was known for his modest wealth, but to those who knew him well he was better appreciated for his sharp wit and sense of humor.

      “What I love most are the rumors,” Abu Fahmy said, removing his fez and wiping his forehead which was half pale and half sun-tanned. “We Arabs love to spread rumors. We collect them, we embellish them, and then we believe them. We believe our own lies. First, Jewish cowardice. Then, Arab bravery.”

      “Then people would start demanding invasion,” one of the men said.

      “Imagine that!” Abu Fahmy added. “It’s too damned presumptuous of us to even use the word. We’re as capable of carrying on an invasion as a camel is of turning into a canary.”

      They all snickered. Other men, Yousif thought, could say these things and sound like traitors; Abu Fahmy could say them and sound funny. It was his smile and his tone. He looked at Yousif affectionately, took the newspaper from his hand, and began to read. An item caught his eyes and his smile widened. Glubb Pasha, the Englishman who headed the Arab Legion, was in London asking for a two million pound subsidy for Trans-Jordan.

      Abu Fahmy chuckled. “We’re not only weak—we are destitute. A nation of bare feet. Hooffa. And listen to this: ‘Moshe Sharrett of so-called Israel—ha!—is saying that ‘the phenomenal Arab exodus would change the course of history.’”

      “To hell with that,” one man said, pitching his cigarette in the middle of the street.

      “Exodus? Forced exile is more like it,” Uncle Boulus echoed.

      Abu Fahmy was calm. “The whole world is full of lies and liars. You expect the Jews to admit they threw us out? Hell, no. The thing is: they lie and back their lies with action. We lie and think that’s good enough.”

      Yousif watched the men purse their lips, click their worry beads, and nod their heads. Abu Fahmy, still reading the paper, stopped and handed it to Yousif.

      “Here. Read us what the poet says. The Jews fought us with ten thousand guns and we fought them with ten thousand lines of poetry. Tell us who won. Read us the poet’s verdict. Maybe he knows something we don’t know. Maybe we won after all.”

      Yousif did not read the poem. Instead, he folded the paper and rolled it. His lips felt tight against his teeth.

      “You disagree?” Abu Fahmy asked. “You think poetry is proper at a time of war?”

      Yousif stood his ground. “There’s always a need for good poetry.”

      Sensing a reservation on Yousif’s part, the store proprietor pressed on. “But . . . ? Go on.”

      “Each of us has a role to play. And poets are fighting the best way they know how.”

      Abu Fahmy was quick to redress his earlier position. “You’re right about that. I’m not ridiculing the poet. I’m ridiculing—even condemning—our Arab nation in general. We should be tired by now from allowing foreign powers to keep kicking our asses one century after another.”

      Yousif returned the smile. “Amen to that.”

      As he started to walk away, he heard Abu Fahmy tell his uncle, “Your nephew is a bright young man. I’m sure you’re all proud of him.”

      “Yes we are,” Uncle Boulus replied.

      Walking home, Yousif thought about Abu Fahmy’s cynicism. At times, he admitted to himself, poetry (especially bad poetry) did sound pretentious, or superfluous. It even seemed indecent when front-page atrocities were staring one in the face. Yet he wanted to confront all those jokers who had done nothing to protect their homeland. How dare they sit now and criticize and blame and belittle! What the hell did they do themselves? He knew of one poet who was relevant, a Jordanian, living in Amman. Ah, he would love to meet him. Almost as much as seeing Salwa again, or finding out where Basim was. He knew of this particular poet from his own father, not from school.