The Disinherited. Ibrahim Fawal

for our enemy to think that the opening of a modest school is a signal that we have resigned ourselves to living in exile.”

      “Y-E-S,” someone shouted back.

      “It would be a pipe dream for them to think that we Palestinians will languish in the sun and rest in refugee camps while they—the foreigners, the trespassers, the aggressors—plow our fields, pick our oranges and apples and figs off our trees, pluck the grapes off our vines, harvest our wheat, shepherd our flocks, and press our olives. Everything we left behind we either bought or inherited from our fathers or our ancestors. We are the owners of the land. And we have the titles and the deeds to prove it . . .”

      “And the keys to our homes,” many screamed in unison.

      “How dare they come after two thousand years and claim it as their own? How dare they bask in our gardens and live in our homes as if we had never existed.”

      “How dare they,” the crowd roared.

      “HOW DARE THEY!”

      The resounding applause was started by someone other than Yousif. It was started by the hateful, abrasive woman with the blue dress who had earlier belittled him. Yousif did not know whether to welcome her sudden conversion or to dismiss her as being gullible. He decided to give her the benefit of the doubt and to credit his principal with the power to persuade even the uncouth.

      “Let it be said,” Ustaz Sa’adeh continued, his voice pitched higher, “that we Palestinians do not feed on rhetoric, or cheap sentiment, or hot air. Our new generation will thrive on pragmatism, on practicality. And as a practical man I should tell you what needs our immediate attention.”

      “Tell us and we’ll do it,” someone shouted.

      “Thank you,” the principal told him. “And I will thank anyone else who’s willing to volunteer. You see that piece of land between the two buildings? Soon we hope to have it as a soccer field. But right now, as you can tell, it is full of stones and rocks. If someone has access to a pickup truck and wants to do something good for the rest of the community, I urge him to come forward and give us a hand hauling them away. All kinds of craftsmen are needed to make this place habitable for our children. The stone walls need mending. The walls inside the building need painting. The plumbing needs repairing. You name it—we need it. We certainly could use a couple of carpenters. We can keep them busy for a week or two.”

      “I’m a carpenter,” someone said. “When can I start?”

      “I’m a plumber,” another added. “And I am ready to work.”

      “I am an electrician. Can you use one?”

      The response was most encouraging and the principal beamed.

      “There’s one more thing I’d like to ask of you,” the principal continued, waving at a mob that was no longer hostile. “I’d like for you to form a committee of six or seven men and women, if you will, so that we may address our mutual interests and concerns. Those in favor of such an advisory committee let them please raise their hands.”

      The arms which had come to fight an hour earlier were now stretched high in total cooperation. The facial muscles which had tightened with suspicion and hatred were now relaxed. The eyes that had darted like daggers were now void of malice. Soon the throngs that had assembled to disrupt were now dispersing, with disruption the last thing on their minds.

      The funny little man with the soiled and oversized jacket was now clapping his hands enthusiastically and encouraging others to do the same. Many responded to his call.

      As the atmosphere turned friendly, and the crowd stirred to leave, Yousif had an idea.

      “One more thing, if I may,” Yousif shouted, taking Ustaz Sa’adeh by surprise.

      “Does anyone know a beautiful nineteen-year-old girl named Salwa Safi? Does anyone know where she lives? She’s my wife . . .”

      “Oh . . .!” one girl swooned mockingly. “You’re married?”

      “Happily married. But we were separated in the exodus five months ago.”

      “And you miss her, of course,” another girl teased him.

      “I miss her very much. Please let us help each other find our loved ones. Thousands of us are in the same boat.”

      The crowd began to depart with a glee on their faces. Yousif’s romantic appeal seemed to have drained the tension out of them. But the one thing Yousif did not anticipate was the unlikely sight of the lady in the blue dress approaching him.

      “If I were younger I’d wish you and I were in the same boat,” she whispered in his ear, smiling.

      The glint in her eyes revealed a charm he would not have expected.

3

      Several good things emerged out of the principal’s meeting two days later with the advisory committee. Yousif was among the few faculty who had been asked to attend. Ustaz Sa’adeh not only convinced four men and three women that the opening of the school was in the best interest of their children, but that ultimately it was in the best national interest as well.

      “The decision to return home belongs to none of us,” he said. “It’s in the hands of governments and we all know how slow that can be. While waiting for the ministry of education to triple or quadruple the number of schools needed to accommodate the influx of refugees and the country’s natural growth, it would be a shame to let the children suffer more than they’re suffering already.”

      From Yousif’s point of view, common sense reigned and quiet filled the room.

      “Right now,” the principal added, “we should concentrate on what we can do and not on what we wish would happen. The minute we realize that returning home is imminent—or is an option—I’ll be the first to strike the tent, so to speak, and head back to Ardallah. Until then we should do what we can to educate our children. Wasting a mind is a crime.”

      Yousif observed that the committee members were much nicer in private than they had been in public. Around the shoddy rectangular table in the faculty lounge, they listened and spoke as one family. Yes, they agreed, there was no need to let children miss school. The only thing that troubled them was giving the enemy the impression that they were willing “to settle” outside Palestine. As the principal spoke, the men nodded and the women tightened their lips or folded their arms.

      “Personally, I’d like to apologize to you,” a thin woman in her forties said, removing her glasses and dabbing her eyes with a lacy handkerchief. “Instead of trying to find out what was on your mind, we rushed here as if we were storming the Bastille.”

      “These are dark days,” the principal answered. “I understand your anxiety.”

      Tariq Ayyash, the greasy little man with the oversized jacket, fidgeted in his seat. Everyone turned to look at him. Yousif was offended by the sight of black crud under Tariq’s fingernails.

      “With all due respect,” Tariq said, “I still think opening the school at this time is unwise. It’s bound to upset whatever secret negotiations that might be going on. If I were a Zionist in Tel Aviv I’d be dancing in the street. I’d be thinking the Palestinians are already making adjustments to live outside their homeland.”

      “They’re not that naïve,” a lady said, with a pale smile.

      “It’s possible,” Tariq defended himself.

      “That’s a good point,” Yousif argued. “But what if the hypothetical negotiations you speak of drag on for years? As I’m sure they would. What then?”

      Tariq was not convinced. “Okay,” he said, gesturing to quiet the rising chatter. “What if someone else starts a big farm to teach families how to cultivate the land and grow crops to make a living while waiting. And what if someone