Yasmine (10 page)

Before I left, the owner stopped me. “As you’re going to work with our cousins, let me tell you a story. My nephew commanded a battalion in the War of Independence. When they took Ramlah the Arab dignitaries came to him, trembling
all over. The oldest one said, ‘Commander sir, we want to know what you intend to do to us?’ My nephew looked at him and said, ‘We’ll do to you exactly what you would have done to us.’ They were terrified and burst into tears. You understand what sort of people they are?” he finished with a sigh.

“What can we do?” put in the salesman, and added a bit of advice: “There’s no trusting a goy, even after forty years in the tomb.”

I arrived late for the meeting at the military government headquarters. This time it was chaired by Amitai, not the Regional Commander. Speaking in his dry, pedantic manner, he surveyed the new political groupings and foresaw changes in the Palestinian leadership.

“They’ll kick out Ahmad Shukeiry,” he said.

Shamluk, representing the security service, reported on a new leader who was rising to prominence – Mohammed Yasser Abd al-Rahman Abd al-Rauf Arafat al-Qidwah al-Husseini, known as Abu Ammar; an unmarried engineer, educated in Egypt, a follower of Hassan al-Bana, the leader of the extremist revolutionary movement, the Muslim Brotherhood.

“They influenced his political outlook,” said Shamluk, adding that the man had again managed to escape from our security service.

“That slippery eel, he could swim on land,” muttered Harish, representative of the Ministry of Religious Affairs.

Abu George woke early. Having bathed and shaved he went into the kitchen and made himself early morning tea. He then filled his pipe, stuck it in his mouth unlit, and sat like this, in his dressing-gown, for some time, periodically removing the pipe to take little sips of tea. He was trying to understand the new reality, to follow the changes taking place before his eyes. The Israelis were euphoric, dancing on top of the world, their generals bragging that they could reach the steppes of the Urals, the whole world admired them, spoke of them as a major power, while his own people were still in mourning, unable to comprehend their downfall.

The human landscape itself had changed. The Jews Abu George used to know before ’48, Valero, Havilio, Mazursky, had good breeding and courteous manners, respect for people like himself, even an innocence and a genuine desire to live together in harmony. In the twenty years that had passed it seemed that strange Jews had displaced the older ones, or else a different spirit ruled them. Seeing the greedy eyes in the market, the rummaging hands, the eagerness, as if they were newly-freed prisoners frantic to make up for lost time, was more than enough. It could take a generation or two, perhaps more, he thought, before they calmed down and we get our feet back on
the ground, and all of us become mature enough to live as neighbours. Our people are keeping their eyes shut tight, he thought, they are clinging to denial. Even he, Abu George, went to bed every night hoping to wake up in the morning and find the occupier gone, disappeared. The occupation was driving him out of his mind, as if a stranger had invaded his bed and was making free with his wife.

He kept waiting and waiting, God only knew for what. Likewise with the newspaper. The skinny young man, the Minister’s advisor, had said they could start publishing again, but still he did nothing. He meant to do it, but recoiled at the last moment, again and again. What he needed before anything else was a break from the tension in this place. He thought he would send Um Zaki, the housekeeper, to his winter residence in Jericho, to get the place ready, but he kept forgetting to do so. Even for a rest you need peace of mind.

If only his health were better. If only this crazy cough would go away. It had been plaguing him since the night the Mudawara was shelled. The doctors at the Augusta Victoria Hospital thought it was asthma, then an allergy, they did all kinds of tests and found nothing. Told him to stop smoking – but how? They suggested he should consult specialists in Israel, and he refused. Um George said he was sabotaging his own health. “Why not go to the Jews? We used to go to Hadassah Hospital before the
Nakba
, didn’t we?”

He tries to maintain a measure of routine in this world that has turned upside-down. He has breakfast with Abu Nabil, but when his partner goes to sit in the editorial office, though the newspaper is shut down, he himself goes into the restaurant office, casts an eye over the accounts, checks the stores, chats vaguely with the employees, but feels empty inside. He wanders
restlessly about the streets, saunters into the shops, sits in their doorways drinking coffee, gazing at the passersby, exchanging meaningless remarks with the owners, and walks on.

Every morning he waits for the evening, and then for the twilight before he goes home. As soon as he enters the house he takes off his jacket and tie, puts on a dressing-gown, takes vodka from the freezer, pours himself a glass and goes out to the garden. There the sight of the water plants in the illuminated fountain, where the colourful fish glide about calmly, dissolves the lump in his throat. But then the memories he wants to discard come crowding back – the
Nakba
of ’48, the flight from the house in Talbieh, the temporary stay with relatives in Bethlehem, exploring the possibility of emigrating to America like his brother, and the
Nakseh
, the failure. The failures and catastrophes don’t let up. He sits in the garden on the edge of the fountain, waiting for Um George to return from her work in the restaurant, and prepares a mint and verveine tea for her. When she comes in she will kiss his forehead and he will embrace her and press his head into her bosom as if he were still a youngster.

The night before she told him about a dream she had dreamed several times: Yasmine, wearing white slacks and a white shirt with a red kerchief around her neck, disembarks from a white ship and runs into her arms.

Five years earlier, when Yasmine left for Paris, Um George had said, “Maybe it’s for the best. Maybe it will be a change of air for her, where she can pick up the pieces after Azme’s death, study, meet young people from all over the world, get over her mourning, and leave behind the pitying looks she gets here in al-Quds.” But when Yasmine did not return and the years passed, Um George sang a different song: “Our girl is bold and
resourceful. She left behind a safe and cosy nest and started a career of her own, a journey of her own, an independent life. Patience! Soon,
inshallah
, our daughter will come back to us freed from all her fears and sadness. She needs her own time.” But time did not heal, and Yasmine was too afraid to come back. “Everything in al-Quds reminds me of Azme and the collapse of my world,” she wrote.

Life is a mystery. Who can tell how things will turn out? If he hadn’t fled from Talbieh in ’48 perhaps Yasmine wouldn’t have met Azme and they would have been spared all this suffering. But what is the point of such speculations, he thought, and what does this say about my state of mind?

After the wedding the young couple lived with them for a while, in the upper floor that was entirely at their disposal, until they decided to move to a flat of their own. “What do they lack in this house?” Um George lamented, and he agreed with her. But they came round when they saw how eager the young couple were to start living in their own home. They waited impatiently for the first grandchild, but instead there was tragedy – Azme died in the fullness of his youth, and the world turned dark.

Again he recalled the parting scene that he was unable to get over – Yasmine walking towards the departure lounge in Amman airport, her back to him. He wanted to say something but his vocal cords would not obey him, until at last a weak cry burst from his throat: “Look after yourself!” Um George hugged him: “Calm down, my dear. She’s not going to a refugee camp. She’s going to Paris, the world’s capital.” But he could not calm down. You bring up an only daughter and she abandons you. How could that be, oh Lord Almighty?

Five years have passed and the pain still stabs at him. If she
was here he’d have someone to consult. Perhaps through her he would understand the mind of her generation, perhaps she could have interpreted the new reality to him. After all, she could speak Hebrew as well as the young Jewish women, like Edna Mazursky. If Edna had been with her she wouldn’t have let Yasmine go abroad, she wouldn’t have abandoned her in her mourning. Her father, too, was a true friend. Why did he not listen to his urging not to leave Talbieh?

He breakfasted as usual with Abu Nabil. This time, he made up his mind, he would speak to him firmly about restarting the newspaper, but to avoid being overheard they held the meeting in the office. Abu Nabil leaned back in his armchair, holding a silk handkerchief in his hand, which was adorned with a signet ring set with a brown stone – like the Sultan’s seal – and sucked on the mouthpiece of the narghile.

“At long last, we’ll be getting back to work!” This was the first time he had responded favourably to the suggestion to restart publication.

“I would also like to change the contents,” Abu George went on. “I’d like to publish a series of articles of re-evaluation, open the paper to young talent, involve women, turn the defeat into a springboard for an examination of ideas and social concepts.”

“Why do we need to re-examine our ideas?” Abu Nabil asked dismissively. “It’s obvious enough, it was a Soviet plot against us.” Seeing his friend’s astonished expression he added, “Wasn’t Karl Marx, the father of the Russian Revolution, a Jew, and wasn’t his revolution a way of solving the Jewish problem?”

“You may be right,” Abu George said to avoid a pointless argument. “But we still need to re-examine our positions.”

“What are you talking about? Outside elements sabotaged us.
Otherwise, is it conceivable that little Israel could defeat us like this, like a stroll in the park? We were unlucky, that’s what it was! And after the Israelis’ sneak attack there was no other option. Abdul Hakim Amar, the Egyptian commander, had to retreat to the Suez Canal to save the army, just like in ’56, when the British, the French and the Zionists attacked together…”

“Come on, Abu Nabil, we’re always blaming others for our problems – the Ottomans, the British, the colonialists, the communists, and now the Jews. When are we going to accept responsibility for our own mistakes?” He leaned closer and continued in a low voice. “Look at Nasser. He promised social change, land redistribution – instead he ruined his army, involved the King and Syria in the mess, lost his lands and ours, and he still blames everyone but himself. We’re stuck in the past, brother, and we won’t move forward until we stop blaming everybody else. Look at how the Israelis have succeeded in combining the old with the new, modernism and religion. Look at their enthusiasm when they reached that Wall of theirs.”

“Bravo, Abu George! That’s exactly the point. Soon their madmen will start talking about their Temple, and our loonies will declare a jihad, and that will be it…Just what we need!
Al-jihad
, brother, is the Muslims’ finest invention.” Abu Nabil slammed the table as he used to do in the days when he played ping-pong in the students’ union. “Nasser understands this. Look at the cable he sent the King: ‘We believe in Allah. It is not possible that Allah will abandon us. In the future Allah will bring us victory. He will help us, and we must be guided by His will.’”

“And this is the man you’re counting on? A revolutionary who appeals to Allah when he’s beaten?” asked Abu George.

“Abu George, you’re a proud Arab, but you’re
nasrani
, a Christian, you don’t understand Islam.” This was a delicate subject. “You don’t understand that it is necessary to speak of Allah, that it’s the key to unity, to victory. Re-examination? What for? You want us to become a cheap imitation of America? The backside of the West?” he protested, stressing every word. “We must cling to Islam. We’re the offspring of one of the greatest, most glorious civilisations in history. For more than a thousand years we were at the forefront of all human endeavours – science, economics, the arts, medicine, philosophy, politics. We laid the foundations of astronomy, algebra…It was from us that Europe learned the decimal system, Ibn Khaldun was the father of sociology, Ibn Sinna was the greatest physician and philosopher who ever lived…”

“And now what?” Abu George broke in gently, though he was growing impatient. “You’re lecturing me as if I were a total ignoramus. How long can the bankrupt cling to his past glory?”

“Only until the war. The third round,” said Abu Nabil, blowing smoke rings.

“How many wars must we fight?”

“As many as it takes. We carry on until we win.”

“I suggest we translate and publish the leading articles of the main Israeli newspapers,” Abu George returned to his theme.

“That way we’ll understand them better.”

Abu Nabil leaned back in his armchair and laughed aloud. “I neither want his sheep nor wish to see him,” he quoted the familiar saying.

Abu George felt weary. It was so discouraging to find that behind the facade of the intellectual and sophisticated editor was a Muslim in full regalia who showed no inclination to free himself from the primitive reins of his heritage.

I can’t change Abu Nabil and I don’t want to hurt his feelings, he thought. In the absence of a river, settle for a stream. But he decided to drop his second bombshell: “Tomorrow afternoon I’m going to call a meeting of the tourist board to discuss the Israelis’ request to restart the tourist business.”

“I can’t stop you from doing what you think best, my friend, but be careful, I expect you’ll encounter tremendous anger.”

Abu Nabil was uncharacteristically late for the board meeting in the spacious conference room in the Al-Wattani hotel so Abu George had to start without him. He read out the letter he had received from the Minister’s advisor, Nuri Imari, asking the participants to help with the restoration of normal life and when he finished, there was a storm of protest.

“Restore normality? That’s treachery!” declared Abu Masoud, the cinema owner. “They want us to accept their domination and their laws. To put it bluntly, it’s nothing less than a call to collaborate with the Zionist enemy!”

Abu George breathed more easily when he saw his friend enter the hall, mount the podium slowly and importantly, to take his seat among the leading members.

“
Mukawamah
– resistance, blood, sweat and tears, as Churchill said. You cannot defeat a vicious and treacherous enemy by sitting still,” stated Abu Izzat, the owner of a large textile plant.

The argument raged. Abu George had hoped that Abu Nabil, who was popular with the extremists because he had supported the rebel Izz al-Din Al Kassam against both the British and the Zionists, would intervene and try to cool things down, but he remained silent, smoking and twirling his moustache. Abu George threw him pleading looks, and at last he spoke.

“If we co-operate with the occupier, we shall be releasing our people and the Arab states from their duty to wage war. We must pull out the thorns stuck in our flesh with our own hands, die like lions rather than live like sheep,” he concluded, held his head up like a peacock and twirled his moustache.

Bourguiba was right, thought Abu George. The Tunisian president had said that rhetoric was the Arabs’ best possession, as well as their misfortune. The discussion went on late into the night. He realised that he was on his own and he had no choice but to adopt an unequivocal position.

“Gentlemen,” he began. “Let’s be honest. If the businesses remain closed, then we, who are sitting in this room, will not be without resources. Furthermore, Amman will continue to pay the wages of the officials and senior functionaries. But please tell me this: who will feed the children of our employees? I am well aware that the Zionists are pulling a dirty trick – they seem to be asking us nicely. But so what? You know the saying, if you crave everything you will lose everything. The facts are hard and admitting them is even harder, but brothers, we lost the war! We lost, and now we can extend our legs only as long as the blanket that covers us. Why not play their game, perhaps on one or two conditions? Is that not better than military orders that will take away all our initiative and offend our honour? Will taking care of our workers make us criminals? Did not other nations in history do the same in similar situations?”