50

The drive back was difficult. We were like a handful of orphans thrown out in the cold. We were brokenhearted and overwhelmed by disappointment and humiliation. We felt as if we had no family and no friends, and we were rejected by the Arab countries. We had nothing left to fight with except, according to our leader, the skin on our bodies, our faith, and our will. Did he truly believe what he said about our bodies, our faith, and our will being able to save us? If he truly believed it, he would not be blowing steam and taking deep breaths and uttering the familiar religious formulas, advising people to rely on God and glorify His name. He would not be humming verses of poetry he had memorized or composed while living the life of a vagabond overseas, before returning home and enduring the tragedy of his homeland.

“Whose poetry is this?” I asked him after I heard him recite a poem, verse after verse, followed by the Bismillah or the takbir, as the words proceeded smoothly like the beads of a necklace coming undone, sliding from the thread.

He did not reply, but turned and gave me a mocking look and a pallid smile. He was a handsome man, even in his moments of sadness and defeat. His fair face had turned pale, while his black mustache highlighted his vigor. His soft, buoyant eyes were like those of a compassionate father, or a poet. There was nothing harsh or cruel about him. If I had not known anything about his past or present or his achievements, and I had met him in the street or in someone’s house, I would have said that he was the dedicated father of ten or even more children, and a contented husband, happily married. Every time I discovered a new face, I told myself that this was the original one, but two days later, or two hours later, or even two minutes later, I would discover a new face I did not know and had not imagined or dreamed about. The face of the military man, the face of the father, the face of the leader, the face of the scientist in his laboratory, and the face of an honest diplomat because, whenever he spoke, the words came out of his mouth and his conscience. He mingled with people and adopted any role without pretension and affectation, with the peasants, with modest members of society, with women’s delegations, with consuls and with journalists. And then there was the poet.

I heard him recite hymns as we were leaving Deraa and approaching al-Ramtha and the Jordan valley.

Talk to me about my country, talk to me.
Tell me how its masters became its enemies.
Tell me how they stepped on its sanctuaries.
Tell me, my country, tell me.

I asked him, with some trepidation, “Is it Abdel-Rahim Mahmoud’s poetry?”

He turned to me and smiled gently but did not reply. I had assumed the verses were Abdel-Rahim Mahmoud’s, I knew that our leader liked his poetry very much, but he continued reciting verses that were very different to his style. They were simpler and clearer. They used precise and direct language, as if trying to lift a depression of the soul.

I bear calamities with patience, like a high and mighty mountain. The frantic winds are destructive, but the towering mountain is still standing.
My soul is stronger when a catastrophe unfolds and expands.

I repeated the last verse in a sad and sarcastic tone, as if I were telling myself this was pomposity and pretension, and it was futile.

He turned and stared at my face, scrutinizing it. I saw in his compassionate eyes the look of a father scolding his son. I could not avoid expressing what I was feeling. I repeated the verse and I ended it with a question.

My soul is stronger when a catastrophe occurs and spreads?

He answered me with verses he might have written for his children, and here he was, talking to me as if I were one of them.

My children, listen to this father’s advice; one who experienced the multiple turns and changes of destiny.

Although destiny bends for the sturdy, when afflictions accumulate, they can also be beaten with determination.

 

I was certain then that the verses were his; I told him, “Dear leader, you are a poet.”

He shook his head and said, moved, “Son, who among us does not compose poetry?”

The word son was like a knife falling in my chest. It pierced my heart and moved me immensely, because I remembered his children and I remembered that I was younger than him—not only in years but in faith as well. He was sincere and a believer when he said, “I will fight with my blood and flesh, and that of my men.” I had doubted his words and my suspicious mind had whispered to me: “Is it conceivable that one would be able to fight planes, cannons, and tanks with one’s own flesh?” He did not have any doubts and believed that it was possible to defeat afflictions with determination.

“But how can we acquire determination, dear leader, how?” I said to him, opening my heart and admitting that I was a suspicious and inconsistent person. Sometimes I rushed in like a crazy person and sometimes I languished, wavered, felt weak, and pulled back. What could I do? Was I a bad person? He watched me and smiled, then said kindly, “We all have moments of weakness.”

“But you never experience weakness.”

“Who told you that?”

“I know because I see how strong you are, as strong as a rock. You do not falter.”

“Who told you that?”

“You confront ignoble people and you never give up.”

“Who told you that?”

“You continue to declare that catastrophes are overcome with perseverance.”

“That is my heart talking.”

“I thought it was your mind.”

“The mind doubts, the mind puts matters to the test, the mind analyzes. But when the heart believes, it does not budge; it stands strong like a rock.”

“But I am younger than you are.”

“Of course you are.”

“I did not mean in age.”

“Don’t be modest. I trust you—you are the keeper of my secret. Your brother is my companion and my friend, and your sister took care of my wounds and saved my life. Do you remember?”

“I am the keeper of your secret, but I confess—and I say this with sadness—that I do not keep my own secrets. I always have doubts, and I waver. I do not hold on to one idea for even a day. I have changed my party affiliation many times.”

“Is there a reason for that?”

“I am looking for a party that convinces me, a party that fills my heart and answers my questions and my doubts. I want to find something that would fill me up like a great love, like a mother’s love, unshakable, unchangeable, like a mother’s compassion. You know how it is.”

“No, I do not. I was orphaned at a very young age, but my grandparents prevented me from feeling the absence of a mother. I was surrounded by their warmth and they might have spoiled me with their extreme indulgence.”

“You were spoiled? Who would believe it!”

“Yes, I was. I got everything I wanted, very generously and without even trying. They wanted to compensate for the lack of a mother’s love and ended up making of me a spoilt, reckless, and boastful young man. I had money, high social status, and youth. I was very rich, arrogant, and macho. I was proud and extremely conceited. My youth led me down a perilous path. I was a handsome young man then.”

I said enthusiastically, “You still are a handsome young man.”

He shook his head like an eighty-year-old and said regretfully, “Those were the days! I was young, and then I discovered that all this was elusive. I saw my father, the respectable, authoritarian sheikh, being beaten with a stick like a slave. Then I said to myself, if this prominent and important rich man is beaten like a slave or an animal, and his wealth and his position did not help him, how would they treat those who are weak, humble, and needy? We used to express our opinion in a peaceful manner during the demonstrations and we never resorted to violence. Yet they stepped on us with horses and hit us with bayonets and the butts of their rifles. Then the bullets would come raining down on us. My father had fallen to the ground after the beating, and they had showed no mercy despite his age and his weakness. I was a teenager then. I began rebelling and I became arrogant, and at the university. . .”

“At both universities?”

“At both universities, as you probably know.”

“I heard about you from other people.”

“My honorable father died a few days after he was beaten. I continued to be defiant and arrogant, stepping outside the social norms and traditions. I was accused of being frivolous and reckless, but the revolution grabbed me, and Abu Kamal adopted me. The great, generous, affectionate, and ascetic Abu Kamal gave me everything and got nothing in return.”

“You are like him.”

“I learned from him. What is the use of money and prestige? What is the use of property and real estate? The worldly pleasures are a fleeting delusion. Abu Kamal sold his lands, one lot after another, and took nothing for himself. He gave up worldly matters and forgot his family and his children and devoted himself to the struggle for justice. How can I forget that man, that great man?”

“Despite all this he was not appreciated, and he was not respected. He was treated the way we were treated.”

“Maybe even worse. We have the holy struggle and our victories. There is no newspaper in the world that has not mentioned and glorified us. We have not lost a single battle. And after the battle of Bani Naim we did not suffer a single defeat, and we learned from it. We are the heroes by their own admission, and the winning card is in our hands. We have a hundred thousand people, and they praise our leadership and trust us. We taught them the meaning of trust. We proved ourselves to them and they were generous with us, giving us all they had. But the weapons remain a problem—they are the main problem. Abu Kamal faced what we are facing now. He went to them for help, and you see now what they have done to us.”

“He committed suicide?”

“They say he committed suicide. Maybe he did. What would you have done in his place?”

“I might have run away.”

“Run? Where to? The revolution had become corrupted: the leaders, mayors, and sheikhs fought among themselves. He went to Damascus for help, as we did, and came back saddened, as we did. He had no hope left. He might have felt that he was encircled. He did not flee; he faced his destiny.”

“People say that if he had fled, it would have been more honorable for him.”

“More honorable? More honorable? And go where? The revolution was trapped; it was in disarray. There were thefts, assassinations, corruption, discontent, and highway robbers like al-Zaybaq and Abu Jildeh, who had a field day. The result was obvious: he had no hope whatsoever. If he had run away and hid, then what? He would have been caught and hanged in front of the people. He, the leader. He would have been humiliated and dragged through the dust; he would have given the worst example to the people. He lived a dignified life and he died with dignity. Even the British bowed before him and admired his courage and his pride. The British leader of the campaign stood before his body and performed the military salute. Is there a greater honor?”

“Do we need their acknowledgment to be more honorable, to be great? Did he have to commit suicide?”

“It was the only thing left for him to do. He faced his destiny as a believer.”

I fell silent. I remembered what he had said when we left the meeting, humiliated and heartbroken. He told us: we commit suicide here in Damascus, or we go hide in Iraq, or we return to Palestine to die there. Are we going there to die? What he had said then about “my soul’s strength increases when a catastrophe occurs and spreads” is no more a push for the determination against discouragement. However, the truth of the matter was that we faced the same reality that Abu Kamal had encountered when he was surrounded. He did not run away; he faced his destiny.

I said, reminding him, “What do we do with our loved ones? If we die, who is left to look after them?”

“They have God,” he said despondently. “May God have mercy on us and on them.”

He turned toward the window as we were approaching Jerusalem and saw groups of farmers carrying bundles, hatchets, and hoes, walking slowly, dragging their feet, accompanied by a few donkeys and sheep, and a hungry dog running with its nose to the ground searching for a bone or a piece of bread. The women were carrying the bundles, the children, and the piles of straw, while the men carried sticks and hoes, and rode donkeys carrying blankets, carpets, mattresses, and sheaves of green wheat that was not ready to be harvested; it had been pulled out by the roots when it was not yet ripe. He pointed at the people and said sadly, “Do you see them? That is what will happen to us if we abandon the siege of the colonies. If the siege fails, they will encircle us and we will become like those people, without a home, looking for work and something to eat. We will eat green wheat; we will become like the Circassians and the Armenians, without kin, without a land and without shelter.”

I was moved by his words and said, objecting strongly, “But the Circassians and the Armenians were without . . .”

I did not finish my sentence and I looked out the window a second time; I saw the sight unfolding before me and behind me, and whispered sadly, “Like the Armenians!”

Spring had covered our land with green. After a moment of silence, still looking out the window, he said, “This is April, the beginning of the spring season and the circle of life. I am the first sign of the zodiac.”

“You must be an Aries!”

He smiled. “Do you know how to interpret the zodiac signs? What do you know about Aries?”

“It is the sign of leadership, strength, love, passion, and impetuosity. It is the sign of impulsiveness, confrontation, and energy, and the sign of passionate love.”

“An Aries is not, therefore, mild-tempered and innocent?” he asked mockingly.

“An Aries is innocent, Leader; he is calm and adapts easily to his environment, like a pigeon—but when it pecks, it becomes like an eagle, like an ogre.”

He broke into muffled laughter and said, “Do you see me like an ogre—like a sharp-tongued man?”

“More like a lamb on Christ’s chest!” I said emotionally. “Don’t you see how the Europeans portray Him? They mean that Christ is the lamb.”

He looked at me sideways. “And they killed him. They killed the lamb!”

I said, speaking in riddles, “But our lamb will not be killed because it is like an eagle in its own spheres, above its land and over its spring. This is April, Leader. It is the beginning of spring and the start of a new cycle of life.”

He bowed his head, reflected, then said, “Or the beginning of death.” He added, while keeping his face pressed against the glass of the window, “Is there life except in death?”

He turned to me and said, “If April passes without any problem, we can say that we are out of the danger zone, and we would forget death.” Turning away, he went on slowly: “And if it does not, take your lamb, poet, and bid us farewell.”

He fell silent, and I did too. I did not say anything because the sentence he uttered came as a shock to me and made me suspicious. What if he disappeared and bid us goodbye? What would we do? What if April did not end peacefully and the lamb was gone and bid us goodbye? What would we do? What would happen to us? Would we be subjected to the fallout of Nakhshun?