49

The third meeting for weapons took place on April 5, on the morning following the previous meeting. We had slept only a couple of hours when we were awakened by the news of the fall of al-Qastal and a large number of martyrs and civilian victims, either dead or wounded. I rushed with Rabie to the dining room, hoping to find our leader, but he was not there. We went to his room and found the door ajar and the leader in his military garb, as if he had not slept or had slept in his clothes, but without the hatta. His hair was uncombed, and he was pacing the room like an agitated tiger. When he saw us, he began rumbling and fuming, saying that this was the beginning of the end. He was swearing, threatening, and promising punishment. We listened in total silence, as we were torn by grief and sadness ourselves. He stood before me, his face extremely red, his eyes swollen. I bent my head out of fear of him or for him.

He roared at me: “Call the mufti and the secretary general and make arrangements for a meeting, any way you can.”

I rushed to the phone and started making calls, and in less than an hour I was able to set a time for a new meeting. I whispered to the mufti that the leader’s condition was very worrying. I begged him to call the leader and help calm him down, lest he did something rash and dangerous. The mufti asked to talk to him and warned him against any rash action because the situation was too delicate. He told him that we needed to win the others to our side, and reminded him once more of the familiar proverb: “We want the grapes, not a fight with the guardian.” He reminded him that our people there needed leadership that took its time to manage the situation, that our fighters were facing very difficult conditions after the fall of al-Qastal and, above all, that the country needed our wisdom and patience. He ended the call by reciting a Qur’anic verse, and we saw the leader shake his head with tears in his eyes, whispering, “Amen, amen.”

I knew that he was enduring deep sadness, despite his apparent calm. He was sad for the people and for al-Qastal, and extremely frustrated by what we had endured here in Damascus. Neither Rabie nor I knew what to do: should we beg him to come with us to the dining room to help him calm down and lessen his sadness? Or should we bring him breakfast to his room? Or should we remain with him and find out what he wanted us to do?

After a few minutes of silence that seemed endless, he stood up and said to us, “Let’s go, young people. Let’s go eat breakfast. We need energy to continue the fight. This is a decisive day.”

He went ahead but we caught up with him. We ate a few bites and drank tea, then went to a new meeting, a new struggle for weapons and for survival.

The meeting began as usual, with the same faces around the same table and with the same mood. There were coffee and tea and herbal drinks. There were the same smiles and greetings that usually ended with kisses, as if they had not seen each other in a long time. The general commander appeared with a cheerful face, his hair combed with Brylcreem. Colorful ribbons decorated his chest, indicating his position and his accomplishments. He had taken special care on this day to showcase his medals, obviously trying to impress us and convince us of his importance. He wanted us to ignore his shortcomings and bow our heads to him, expressing our thanks and praise.

The meeting began after coffee and tea were served. The general commander presided, sitting at the head of the table. He was relaxed and obviously cheerful, as if the defeat of al-Qastal had been a victory for him and a total loss for his adversary, who should now kneel before him, humiliated and defeated.

He began the meeting with poisonous words and vindication, saying, “Now that al-Qastal is lost, tell us, Mr. Abdel-Qader”—he used “Mr.” not out of respect but out of spite—“tell us if you think you will be able to recapture it, because, as you said, it is the most important and the strongest among the higher villages. Tell us clearly if you plan to take it back, or should we do it for you?”

Our leader blushed, but remained in control of his temper and turned his eyes away from the general commander, addressing the other members in the room. He said, “Al-Qastal, dear sirs, is a word derived from the word castle and it means a fortification. It was built by the Romans for their protection. The citadel is still standing and it is not easy to recapture it with the Turkish, Italian, and German rifles I bought on the black market and from the western Libyan desert. This is the situation for us, but for those who are not familiar with the geographical nature of the country and the roads that lead to the summit, it would be difficult to reach the castle. However, for the inhabitants of the country, and especially the mujahideen who live in the region, it would be easy to creep into it from the belly of the mountain and cut through the back roads. I pledge to regain it immediately if you give us guns and weapons from your warehouses. I promise to occupy al-Qastal and all the colonies and present them to you before May 15. If I fail, put me on trial and hang me here in Damascus, in the largest square of the city, and let me be a sight to behold for all the Arabs and the Muslims.”

The general commander quickly sniped back, with words that were sharper than the edge of a dagger: “People of Palestine, all you are doing is asking for is weapons. You say that you do not have money and weapons—do you want us to create them for you?”

Our leader replied casually, without turning around, “It is your duty, as our leaders, to lend us weapons when we ask for them or need them. Lend us the weapons, simply lend them to us. We will return them to you after the liberation, and we will kiss your hands as an expression of our gratitude. We are defending ourselves, and you too. And the weapons you have were meant for Palestine.”

The general commander was trying to play to the audience, to distract them from listening to our leader. He began moving his hands like an acrobat, pretending to catch the air with his fist, saying jokingly, “Here are tanks, take them, help yourself.” Raising his left hand in the air, he said, laughing, “These are cannons. Help yourself, friend, take them. You want weapons? We do not have weapons. You want money? We do not have money. We know our duty and we know facts and we have sufficient information.”

Our leader looked at him in disgust, frowning as he said, “What is this? Playing games with people’s fates and that of the nation! Aren’t you ashamed of yourselves? Am I begging for what is not yours? Am I begging for the wealth of the people? What have you done with eight hundred rifles, and one hundred and twenty machine guns donated by our Lebanese brothers, to be handed to us, to me personally, and not to you? Your warehouses are full of all kinds of weapons. Why do you confiscate what does not belong to you? You have weapons in your warehouses that would suffice two armies, even ten armies. I saw them with my own eyes.”

“I need those weapons for the new detachments I am creating. Oh sky, rain mortars for Abdel-Qader!” The general commander’s stupid reply surprised the audience, who lowered their gaze and whispered among themselves.

Our leader did not reply. He ignored the general commander and addressed the group, saying hoarsely, desperately, “If you don’t give me weapons from your warehouses, at least suggest to the Rescue Army to lend me cannons to help the fighters in the mountains around Jerusalem.”

The general commander said, “You want to borrow the cannons? What if the Jews capture them?”

Our leader turned to face him and asked a question to bring him back to reality: “What is more important, Jerusalem and Palestine or your cannons?”

He replied hesitantly, as if he were concerned with cost and wisdom, “What if the Jews win and get hold of the cannons?”

“Of what use would the cannons be if they win?”

He was at a loss, and said angrily, “No more! No more guns, no more weapons, no more money, and no more grenades.”

Our leader lost control of his nerves and began shouting like an enraged tiger: “History will hold you accountable for the loss of Jerusalem and what remains of Palestine! You are responsible for what will happen to us and to you! You are conniving with Britain. I would rather die than surrender. I will conquer al-Qastal with my own blood and that of my men, but I will never surrender. History will record your actions. You are collaborators, you are traitors!”

He took the map that was open on the table, shook it in the air, and threw it into their faces, shouting, “I am resigning from your administration!”

He left the room and banged the door behind him so violently that the building shook. He strode past us so rapidly he was almost running. We caught up with him when we got out of the building and stood on the sidewalk, under the sky. We were out of breath. After a few seconds of silence, anger, and deep breathing, we heard him say, “Listen to me, comrades. This is the beginning of the end. All that is left for us to do is commit suicide here in Damascus, or go to Baghdad and hide, or return to Palestine and die there. What do you think?” Without waiting for an answer, he said, “We go back to Palestine and die there.”

He went ahead of us and we rushed to catch up with him.