40

We reached Damascus around sunset. It was the first time Rabie and I had seen an Arab city of that size. There were streets, lights, buildings, and shops still open, while people sauntered about as if strolling for pleasure. The trees were tall and there was a river surrounded by cafés and lots of vegetation. Rabie and I were staring at everything, amazed and mesmerized by the peaceful ambience of the place and people’s happy mood. There was no rush and no anxiety; the merchandise was displayed on the sidewalk in front of the shops, while people were buying or eating and smoking water pipes in the cafés, behind glass windows. April was still in its first days and it was somewhat cold. Rabie lost his concentration, looking at everything around him, and almost hit a cart selling oranges. We would have hit it had it not been for our leader’s quick reaction: he grabbed the steering wheel. Then he took Rabie’s place and drove all the way to the house of his uncle, the honorable mufti. He asked us to go ahead to the hotel and gave us money to eat in a restaurant nearby. He asked me to get in touch with the journalists and invite them to a press conference to inform the Arabs of our situation, to warn them and seek their help—beyond verbal support—to continue our fight and ward off the danger that was threatening us and them.

We went to the hotel and booked two rooms, one for the two of us and a single room for the leader; then we went out looking for a restaurant where we could satisfy our extreme hunger. We hadn’t eaten since the morning, and we were cold and tired. We entered the first restaurant we found. It was crowded, filled with the smoke of water pipes and cigarettes; it was also noisy because of the backgammon and card players. The customers were drinking tea or coffee and eating local pastries, hummus, or fava bean paste. We sat in a corner near the glass window where we could see the passersby and admire the bright lights of Damascus. We ordered hummus, fava bean paste, and tea. We observed our surroundings, mesmerized by the friendly interaction of the people, an ambience quite different from the dire situation in our country. Here, people were eating, drinking, and playing games, strolling on the street; their life was peaceful, pleasant, and relaxed. Back in our country, fear and anxiety dominated, people were concerned about their future, and no one knew whether their day would end peacefully or with an explosion, making victims in his own family or someone else’s. Here, people were independent and free, while we endured the control of a foreign ruler and the presence of the Jewish settlements. Here, there was a national government, while we lived under a mandate that favored the Jews: while pretending to be neutral, it took from us and gave to them, favoring light-skinned people from the West. We ended up living in a state of utter confusion and surrounded by a mix of languages: Russian, Hebrew, German, French, Polish. We were in a sea of negation and exile in our own land, in our homeland, but we were still in control and we had encircled them. We were the strongest; even in our weakness we were stronger, and the siege of the settlements was the ultimate outcome. It would have the last word.

When the server heard us speaking Arabic with an accent, he inquired about our country of origin. When we told him that we were from Jerusalem, he cheered and greeted us, and said that we were a courageous and enterprising people, and that our successes made them proud and bolstered them. He pointed to a group of older men playing cards and backgammon. I saw familiar faces that I normally would have avoided and toward whom I had a natural aversion. They were politicians and party leaders, members of the Arab Council who had the final say in approving or denying petitions. They held conferences until they ran away, leaving their positions in Jerusalem and seeking refuge in Damascus. Before their departure, they had divided the country into multiple fronts, transforming us into a chessboard. Here they were, in a Damascus café, playing cards and backgammon, drinking tea, and discussing the problems of the homeland. They commiserated and showed impatience, expressing their disapproval but doing nothing; in reality, however, they held in their hands the strings that they pulled through their men. They had agendas and personal interests.

The server came back to us with a smile lighting up his face and told us, like someone announcing a happy event, that the “pashas” had invited us to join them for a cup of tea, to get to know us and be reassured on the situation in Jerusalem. Rabie was upset and angry, and said that he wouldn’t sit with them because he did not recognize their leadership. I told him that our present situation did not offer us this luxury, since our mission here in Damascus was to get all the help and support we could, from our Arab and Turkish brothers, from the Germans and the Italians, and from the devil himself. The help we sought should naturally come from the citizens of the country and the leaders of Jerusalem. They were the ones to approach for what we needed. That was the reason we overcame our aversion and accepted their invitation to tea and joined them.

There were ten out of the original twelve members of the Arab Council, a semi-national government struggling against the mandate and its policies. From afar, in this Damascus café, all of them represented well-known families, interests, and parties whose numbers did not exceed the total number of members of a single family. As far as the mandate was concerned, however, even for the Jews, they were the representatives, the leaders, and the commanders—those who organized the soft resistance in the country until it exploded in their faces. Then they ran away for fear of being hit with some shrapnel, and followed the venerable mufti. Rabie and I used to talk about them in front of the leader—I mean, our leader—but we never said anything against the mufti because he was the uncle of our leader—or rather, his uncle’s uncle, or his cousin on his mother’s side, or his mother’s aunt’s cousin. He was the only one among those who ran away who supported our leader al-Husseini, who backed him and found strength through him. It wasn’t because our leader represented a social or a religious trend that he was accepted and supported, but because he was an immediate member of his family and had now become a star, a source of pride, and his photo appeared in the newspapers in Damascus, Egypt, Lebanon, and Saudi Arabia.

They sat around two tables pushed together; some were playing cards and two were playing backgammon. Only two were discussing the political situation while following the games. When things heated up among the players, they would stop their conversation to follow the game, then return to their discussion with the more or less enthusiasm, depending on the result of that round of cards or backgammon game. They were all drinking coffee and tea, except one who drank quinar, because it was still cold and the weather in Damascus was cooler and drier than in Jerusalem.

The two who were having a political discussion moved in their chairs, each raising his behind a few centimeters above the seat, while stretching their hands to greet us. They seemed to consider raising their behinds slightly a sign of respect or welcome, for their countrymen, who brought with them the latest news.

I truly did not expect more than that: they were older men and we were young; they were leaders who participated in the negotiations and the conferences, while we were unknown; they were exiled of their own free will, while we were still living in the homeland, without the halos of exile and immigration and the generosity of the Arabs and their banquets. Moreover, and this was very important, we were wearing khaki fatigues, and our heads were covered with the traditional hatta, while they were dressed in light colors and wore fezzes and were holding prayer beads.

They asked us where we were from and we said Jerusalem. When we pronounced the word Jerusalem, the players raised their heads and looked at us, examining us for a split second, not more. One of them shook his head, another smiled a cautious smile, and a third winked at me, expressing his approval. They went back to their games with more enthusiasm because the word Jerusalem must have stimulated them, or possibly they wanted to prove to us that they were skilled players, and no one was able to beat them at backgammon and cards.

They asked us to which group we belonged. We told them that we were with al-Husseini’s group. They asked, with great interest, which al-Husseini—the mufti or Abdel-Qader al-Husseini? We said, of course, Abdel-Qader. There was total silence. Some faces turned gloomy and hands stopped throwing the dice and shuffling the cards. The players raised their eyebrows and looked at us suspiciously, as if we had said that we hailed from the Palmach or the Histadrut. Rabie pinched me and said some words I could not hear over the noise of the café. Someone muttered “Abdel-Qader!” as if he were saying, “There is no power and no strength save in God.”

They asked us, curious, but in a tone that sounded more like an interrogation, what we were doing in Damascus. Rabie did not answer. His silence was an expression of his disapproval and annoyance. However, due to my position in the media and the press, I showed plenty of patience, and I explained at length what was at stake. I told them about the siege of the settlements, the only situation in our favor. I told them about the Nakhshun plan, the assassination of the leaders, and the emptying of the country through massacres. I told them about the ammunition the Jews had and what they got from the British camps, and our dire need for modern weapons and cannons in order to continue encircling them and resisting. After all this explanation and ample details, one of them said in a reprimanding tone, “May God put wisdom in Abdel-Qader’s brains! Why did we have to divide the country into different fronts? The Rescue Army represents us. It will defend us, and it is the most capable.”

I did not want to remind them that they were the ones who had suggested partitioning the country into different fronts. Because I was on an official mission, semi-diplomatic, I had to act with a great deal of patience and caution in order to win supporters—whoever they were, from any country and any nationality—without mentioning the Jerusalem leaders or members of the Arab commission. I told them that we were the sons of the country and we knew better its ins and outs, especially Jerusalem. It was the key city and its siege would be the determining factor. Our leader had never undertaken a battle without winning it. The way the Arab press was following his battles and news and printing his photo on their front pages was a testimony to the readers’ admiration of him.

One of them said mockingly, “It is because they like the way he looks.”

Another added, “With the American mustache of Douglas Fairbanks.”

A third one said, “He is the product of the American University.”

Rabie got upset and shouted at them: “It’s as if you are talking about an actor or a singer!”

One of them threw two dice in a way that gave the impression he was throwing a grenade, and said laughing, “An actor or a singer? Quite possible!”

Rabie got up and shoved the man from the back, causing him to shout, then said, “Our leader is a hero! He has never been defeated. He never hid or ran away.”

One of them intervened and said with a malicious smile and a hissing sound in his voice, “What about the battle of Bani Naim?”

Someone else commented, “He was saved by a Bedouin carrying him on his camel. He was helped by an Arab nurse from Nablus who is from the Qahtan family. Do you know her?”

Rabie tugged at my shoulder; I was shocked and frozen, unable to breathe or move. When he saw that I could not move, he pushed his chair, which hit the backgammon board. The tea spilled, and the dice and the cards were mixed up. Some of the men stood up to avoid having the tea spilled on their clothes. One of them shouted, “What is wrong with this one?”

Another commented, “What insolence.”

They all looked at me, angry and upset. I stood up and said swiftly, “Please excuse us. He is a freedom fighter and he is hotblooded. He is on his way back to Jerusalem to resume the fight.”