The Disinherited. Ibrahim Fawal

. . .”

      The noise was too loud and Amin was at a distance, Yousif had difficulty hearing him. When Amin reappeared, he pinned Yousif against a wall for moment to tell him what was on his mind.

      “He came here yesterday and this morning,” Amin explained, taking a deep breath. “He said he’s opening a school . . .”

      Yousif looked surprised. “And . . .?”

      “You’d have to ask him. He wanted to know where you live and I told him I didn’t know.”

      Amin went to deliver the cups of coffee and then returned.

      “Frankly I was a little hurt,” Amin confessed.

      “Why?”

      “He’s probably recruiting teachers but didn’t bother to ask me. I must not be good enough, although you and I were neck and neck in class.”

      Yousif empathized with his friend, not only because of his amputated arm but also because he actually had been one of the poorest students in school.

      “We don’t know what’s on his mind,” Yousif said, smiling.

      “It doesn’t matter,” Amin said, “I plan to go to Kuwait where so many refugees are going. I’ll probably make more money than all the teachers in the school put together.”

      In September Yousif became a teacher. He was assigned to teach the sixth and seventh graders Arabic, history, and sports, although the schoolyard was no more than a rocky, empty stretch of land between ramshackle two-story buildings that had been converted overnight into a new school. Wearing a recently purchased jacket but no necktie, he arrived half an hour early. The mustache he had grown since his appointment added a couple of years to his face. His was a headlong immersion in school life, a fact that made him less self-conscious. A mammoth job was awaiting him and the other teachers, strangers who seemed to share his awkwardness and uncertainty. Students still had to be registered, classes had to be shifted from room to room. They accepted students in the order they came, dropped the minimal tuition whenever questioned, and qualified students on word of mouth instead of school records. Confusion and chaos were rampant.

      A week after the school opened, a demonstration broke out. Through the window Yousif could see a mob of men and women approaching. Fists were flailing and voices were rising, but he could not understand a word. As they got closer, he went downstairs to see what was happening.

      Seething with anger, hundreds of men and women surrounded the faculty. “We want to go home,” the mob shouted. “We want to go home.”

      Yousif failed to make the connection. Another teacher shrugged his shoulders, equally puzzled. Within minutes Ustaz Sa’adeh himself came down to face the outraged demonstrators. Women, both villagers and urbanites, were shouting louder than the men. Apprehensive, Yousif moved closer to his principal.

      “We want to go home . . . we want to go home,” the mob repeated.

      “Who doesn’t want to go home?” Ustaz Sa’adeh asked. “We all do. What does this have to do with opening a school?”

      “It’s collaboration with the enemy,” shouted a tall, lanky man wearing a tarboush cocked to the back. He shoved his way closer to where Yousif was standing.

      “If you don’t know what kind of signal you’re sending to the enemy,” hissed a slender woman in a blue dress, “you’re not fit to be a principal.”

      Most people in the rowdy crowd were incoherent. Ustaz Sa’adeh climbed back to the upper step so that they all could see and hear him. He gestured to them to be quiet and listen, but they shook their fists and one insolent creep dared to call him a traitor.

      “You’re legitimizing our forced exile,” protested a short man wearing a soiled jacket two sizes too large. Many seemed to know him, Yousif noticed, for they allowed him time to speak and gesture wildly with rolled-up newspaper in his hand. “It gives comfort to the enemy. It tells them we’re willing to start new roots away from home.”

      “Y-E-S,” the mob roared.

      “It’s like asking us to settle down and forget about Palestine.”

      “HELL, NO. HELL, NO.”

      “It’s like replacing the temporary tents with concrete houses. We want to go back to what’s ours.”

      “I have a key to my own home. I want to go back.”

      “We all have keys to our homes.”

      “WE ALL HAVE KEYS TO OUR HOMES.”

      Though in total agreement with them, Yousif felt the need to address their concern.

      “You’re absolutely right, but . . .” Yousif started, before they cut him short.

      “But what?” a lady wearing a blue dress snarled at him.

      “Until we do go home, we need to get the boys off the streets. We shouldn’t let them waste their time. They need . . .”

      “What they need is a lot better teacher than you.”

      “I beg your pardon.”

      “Like the rest of you. All you care about is your salary.”

      The demonstrators were now shoving forward in earnest. With the principal and the rest of the teachers, Yousif retreated inside and shut the front door behind. The crowd grew more boisterous and unruly. Fists pounded the door, and a few window panes were broken. Someone alerted the police. In half an hour the crowd was dispersed.

      No sooner had the first group of demonstrators vanished than a bigger group of protestors arrived. They came in trucks and buses, and on foot. They came down the barren mountain, and up from the valley. They came dressed in suits or dimayas, wearing tarabeesh or scarves or with bare heads. They came old and feeble, young and strong—until the schoolyard and the street beyond became impassable. They were high-strung and nervous, looking for a target to vent their anger on. It was as if the opening of the school doors had paradoxically shut out their last hope. Some had been in exile for five months; some were recent arrivals. Yousif could tell from their accents and motley attire that some were from Galilee up north or all the way down from Gaza. But that morning, with the bluest sky looking at them indiscriminately they spoke in one voice and their hearts seemed to beat in unison.

      Now that the initial shock was over, Yousif stood by his principal, soaking up the people’s torment and filtering it through his own sensibilities. Ironically he sensed hope and felt joy. If the harmless opening of a school could unleash such a torrent of emotion, then his people would never surrender, would never accept defeat. They were ready to resist, and he loved them for it. In truth, they were protesting the wrong issue. But the act of protest in itself convinced him that they were misguided but not unaware. What they needed was a leader who would transform their untapped power, their wasted individual sparks, into one gigantic blaze.

      Yousif had Basim in mind, but to his surprise the genteel and mild-speaking Ustaz Sa’adeh reappeared and suddenly the crowd fell silent. Yousif held his breath and hoped for the best. To his utter and most pleasant surprise, Ustaz Sa’adeh’s commanding presence proved that he was a man ready to lead.

      “Let it be said,” Ustaz Sa’adeh said, his voice loud, “that the Palestinian is a learner, not an idler. A builder, not a destroyer. To us Palestinians, longing to return to our homes is more than a hope, more than a dream. It is the essence of our life. Life is not worth living if foreign forces decree that we are to be uprooted and to remain uprooted from our sacred land. Who should decide our fate but us?”

      Yousif applauded and the restless mob seemed willing to listen. He could read softness in their glare.

      Ustaz Sa’adeh paused to gauge their reaction.

      “But how can we escape the darkness without using our heads?” he asked, his face crimson with emotion. “Education should become our motto. Our battle cry. There is no liberty without education. No liberation without education.