The Disinherited. Ibrahim Fawal

questions. However, each of us must do what he or she is qualified to do. We do what we know best. If I were a prime minister of long standing and privy to the high drama being played behind the scenes, I might think otherwise. Right now I’m primarily an educator and you are proud and responsible parents. In these capacities I feel it’s our collective duty to take our children off the streets to make sure that they continue learning. They need to know more than just how to read and write. Or to do math. Or to know basic history. Above all, they need to know how to think for themselves so that they can cope with the enormity of our catastrophe.”

      “Amen,” Yousif said.

      The rest solemnly nodded their heads or expelled a deep sigh. A robust man with a shock of white hair pulled out a pack of cigarettes but, seeing the disapproval in others’ eyes, quickly put it back in his pocket.

      Questions began to fly. “What about books? What about a budget to run the school? What about a school for girls, not just for boys? What about . . .?”

      “That’s where you can be of great help,” Ustaz Sa’adeh told them, flashing a forced smile. “We’ll discuss that in our next meeting.”

      As a student, Yousif had often waited for the teachers to come to class and talk about politics. Now he was a teacher, meeting with the other teachers in the makeshift lounge and participating in their discussions. At the moment, however, his mind was on his first session with his seventh-grade students. There were twelve and he was ready to meet them. If only Salwa could see him now, he thought, as he opened the door to the classroom.

      He started the session by introducing himself and giving them a brief summary of his background. Then he went around the room asking each one of them to do the same. One by one, they mentioned their place of birth and gave some information about themselves. All the while he was jotting down notes by which to remember them.

      When they were through, he looked pleased and told them so.

      “Now for our first assignment,” he said. “When you go home, I’d like for you to write an essay about yourselves. Simply expand on what you have just told us.”

      One student in the back row raised his hand. “How long?”

      Yousif told them to write as much as they could and to bring it in a week from that day. “As we go along,” he added, “we’ll take a good look at what you have written. Each paper will be considered a first draft. Then we’ll start the rewriting process. Or what some refer to as revision. We will enlarge on some points, and delete others. By the end of the term each of you will have six or seven segments on the same theme: yourselves.”

      “Wow!!” many said.

      “Is this a composition class?” one student wanted to know.

      “Yes it is,” Yousif told him. “As you can see we don’t have textbooks yet. So reading will have to wait. For the time being, we’re going to concentrate on writing. Actually we have no choice.”

      Most students seemed agreeable. Except one.

      “We can read newspapers. They don’t cost much.”

      “A good idea,” Yousif agreed. “We’ll try it. I might even bring some magazines and pass them around.”

      The students’ approval was unanimous.

      “As to the essay,” Yousif said, “here’s what I‘d like for you to do. I’d like for you to tell me all about yourselves, your families, your towns, your friends. But avoid generalities. I prefer details. I insist on specifics.”

      A student with curly hair wanted him to explain what he meant.

      “Draw me a word-picture and let me visualize what you’re talking about,” Yousif elaborated. “For me to get to know your father, I’d like to know his name, his age, and the kind of work he does. Or did. Tell me what town or village you come from. The number of brothers and sisters you have. Tell me what your parents are doing now. Name and describe your refugee camp. How congested is your tent at night? How many people sleep on the floor? Four? Six? Ten? Again, draw me a word-picture and let me visualize how you manage in that small crowded space.”

      At the end of the session, Yousif commended their cooperation and frankness.

      “Obviously, what unites us is our love for our homeland and our shared dreadful experience. Record your vivid memories. Write down your feelings and the feelings of those close to you, who made an impression on you. This will not only teach the art and craft of writing, but will be useful to you in other ways. In the future you’ll be able to share it with your children and grandchildren.”

      The students snickered and began to whisper among themselves.

      “Who knows, some of you might become writers who one day will shatter the eardrums of those who pretend to be deaf to our misery. Or prick the conscience of those who claim to have any, for allowing this unprovoked injustice to happen.”

      He had them in the palm of his hand.

      “One time I asked my father, what did we do to end up refugees?” said the boy from Ramleh.

      “Excellent question,” Yousif replied, truly impressed. “What did he say?”

      “He said he wished he knew,” the boy answered.

      Yousif was delighted. “Your question and your father’s answer are at the core of the problem. We will discuss them later at length. For now, I’m simply proud of your probing. Your wanting to know. Your curiosity. Your search for the truth.”

      At the sound of the school bell some students rose to leave, others raised their hands. There was no more time, and Yousif told them to ask them again next time.

      But one question, shouted by the boy from Gaza, stopped him on his way out. “What’s the title of our essay?” the chubby boy asked.

      Once again Yousif was impressed. “Call it ‘Lest We Forget.’”

      “Lest we forget,” the boy grumbled. “What does it mean?”

      His hand on the doorknob, Yousif’s smile widened. “It means so that we may never forget.”

      The students felt amused and left the classroom, murmuring: “Lest We Forget.”

      October was witnessing a new assault by the enemy. Now they were directing their attention to Egypt and launching a full-scale offensive against her. They captured Beersheba and surrounded Faluja in the Negev Desert.

      “You’d think Jordan would be helping the Egyptians now,” teacher Hikmat Hawi said, turning the pages of the newspaper he was reading.

      “Not a chance,” Yousif replied, leafing through a book of essays, “even though the Jordanian forces are still intact and in a position to attack the left flank.”

      Teacher Hassan Mansour softly tapped the table with his pencil. “Jordan would not commit her forces in a serious battle.”

      “We knew this when they abandoned Lydda and Ramleh, and when they failed to capture Jerusalem,” Hikmat added. “I know for a fact that when Lydda and Ramleh fell, a delegation from surrounding towns and villages came up to Amman to see the king. They were worried that he might withdraw his troops and leave them unprotected. His answer was shocking. And I heard this from someone who was in that room. The king told them he’d withdraw any time his army was endangered.”

      Everyone around the makeshift conference table stopped whatever he was doing and was now in rapt attention.

      “He couldn’t have been more honest,” Yousif said.

      “Or more blunt,” Hassan corrected him. “That Englishman who heads his army, what’s his name?”

      “Glubb Pasha,” Yousif told him.

      “Yes, him,” Hikmat continued. “Glubb, nicknamed Abu Hnaik, wouldn’t stand up and fight to the last man. Never. He’d test the enemy, and at the first sign of danger he would