It was a memorable day, the day Gabal received his people’s share of the estate. He seated himself in the courtyard of the house—the scene of his triumph—and summoned the Al Hamdan to him. He counted the number of individuals in each family and distributed the money equally among them, and he did not treat himself any differently.
Perhaps Hamdan was not completely content with this equality, but he expressed this feeling indirectly. “It is not justice to cheat yourself!” he told Gabal.
“I took two shares, mine and Shafiqa’s,” said Gabal, frowning.
“But you are the leader of this neighborhood.”
“A leader should not rob his people,” said Gabal so that everyone could hear.
Daabis looked as though he were waiting anxiously for an argument, then said, “Gabal is not Hamdan and Hamdan is not Daabis and Daabis is not Kaabalha!”
“You want to divide one family into masters and servants!” Gabal objected angrily, but Daabis stuck by his view.
“We have among us a coffeehouse owner, a wandering peddler, and a beggar—how can they be equal? I was the first one to defy the siege, and was chased by Qidra. I was the first to meet you in your exile, and the first to support you after that, when all our people were hesitant!”
“A man who praises himself is a liar,” shouted Gabal, whose anger was mounting. “By God, people like you deserve the suffering they get.”
Daabis wanted to keep arguing, but saw the fiery anger in Gabal’s eyes and desisted, leaving the courtyard without saying another word. That evening he went to bleary-eyed Itris’ hashish den and joined the others where they sat in a circle, smoked and mulled over his problems. He wanted to find a diversion, so he invited Kaabalha to gamble. They played ticktacktoe, and in less than half an hour he had lost his share of the estate money.
Itris laughed as he changed the water in the hashish pipe. “Bad luck, Daabis! It’s your fate to be poor, whether Gabalawi wants it or not.”
“Riches aren’t lost as easily as that,” Daabis muttered darkly; losing had obliterated his drugged daze.
Itris drew a breath through the pipe to check the amount of water in it, then said, “But they’re gone now, brother!”
Kaabalha carefully smoothed out the bills, then raised his hand to tuck them inside his shirtfront, but Daabis prevented him with one hand while gesturing with the other for Kaabalha to return the money.
“It’s not your money anymore,” snarled Kaabalha. “You have no right to it!”
“Let it go, you trash!”
Itris watched them uneasily and said, “Don’t fight in my house.”
“This trash isn’t going to rob me!” shouted Daabis, grasping Kaabalha’s hand even more tightly.
“Let go of my hand, Daabis, I didn’t rob you.”
“You earned it doing business, you mean?”
“Why did you want to gamble?”
Daabis slapped him hard and said, “My money, before I break your bones.”
Abruptly Kaabalha pulled his hand away, and Daabis, maddened with fury, jammed his finger into Kaabalha’s right eye.
Kaabalha screeched and jumped to his feet, covering his eye with his hands, leaving the money to fall into Daabis’ lap. He staggered with pain, then collapsed and began to writhe and wail in agony. The seated smokers looked around at him, while Daabis gathered the money and stuffed it back into his shirt.
Then Itris came close to him and spoke in an appalled voice. “You put his eye out!”
Daabis was frightened for a moment, then got up suddenly and went out.
Gabal stood in the courtyard of his triumph surrounded by a crowd of the men of Al Hamdan, anger pulsing in his eyes and the corners of his mouth. Kaabalha squatted with a bandage swathed tightly over his eye, and Daabis stood to bear Gabal’s fury in silence and fear.
Hamdan spoke softly to Gabal to soothe his anger. “Daabis will give the money back to Kaabalha.”
“Let him give him back his eyesight first!” shouted Gabal at the top of his voice.
Kaabalha wept.
“If only it were possible for sight to be restored,” said Ridwan the poet plaintively.
Gabal’s face was as dark as a thundering and flashing sky. “But it is possible to take an eye for an eye.”
Daabis stared apprehensively into Gabal’s face, and gave the money to Hamdan. “I had lost my mind from rage. I didn’t mean to hurt him!”
Gabal watched Daabis’ face wrathfully for long moments, then spoke in a terrible voice. “An eye for an eye, and the criminal loses.”
Looks of consternation were exchanged. Gabal had never been seen angrier than he was today, and events had proven the force of his anger, such as his outburst the day he had left his privileged home, and his fit the day he killed Qidra. Truly his wrath was extreme, and when he was angry nothing could deter him from satisfaction.
Hamdan was about to speak, but Gabal spoke first. “Gabalawi did not choose you for his love so that you might fight one another. We will have a life based either on order or on chaos that will do away with everyone; and that is why you are going to lose your eye, Daabis.”
Daabis was consumed with terror and shouted, “No one is going to lay a hand on me, even if I have to fight all of you.”
Gabal made for Daabis like a wild bull and struck him so hard in the face with his fist that he fell and lay motionless. He picked him up, still unconscious, and clasped him from behind, grasping him around his arms and chest. He turned to Kaabalha and spoke in a tone of command. “Get up and take your rights.”
Kaabalha got up but stood uncertainly. Screams could be heard from Daabis’ home. Gabal watched Kaabalha sternly and shouted at him. “Approach, before I bury you alive.”
Kaabalha moved toward Daabis, and drove his index finger into his right eye until it flopped out; everyone saw it happen. The pitch of the screams from Daabis’ home increased, and some of Daabis’ friends, such as Itris and Ali Fawanis, began to cry.
“You cowards and evildoers!” shouted Gabal. “By God, you only hated the gangs because they were against you. As soon as any of you get the least power, you lose no time in harassing and attacking others. The only cure for the devils hidden deep inside you is to beat them unmercifully—pitilessly! Either order or ruin!”
He departed, leaving Daabis with his friends. This incident had a profound effect. Before, Gabal had been a beloved leader; his people thought of him as a gangster who did not want that title or the outward trappings of gangs. Now, he was feared and dreaded. People whispered about his cruelty and oppression, but there were always others to turn their words against them and remind them of the other side of his cruelty: his compassion for those who had been injured, and his genuine desire to establish an order that would safeguard the law, justice and brotherhood among the Al Hamdan. This last view found new support every day in the things that the man said and did, so that even people who had an aversion to Gabal came to like him; those who had feared came to believe; those who turned away from him were inclined to him; and everyone jealously guarded the order he had set up, and abided by it. Honesty and security prevailed in his days, and he remained a symbol of justice and order among his people until he left the world, without having ever deviated from his path.
This is the story of Gabal.
He was the first to rise up against oppression in our alley, and the first to be honored by meeting Gabalawi after his isolation. He attained such a degree of power that no one could contend with him, yet he shunned bullying and gangsterism and self-enrichment from protection rackets and drug dealing. He remained a model of justice, power and order among his people. True, he did not concern himself with the other people of our alley. Perhaps he secretly despised them or scorned them as the rest of his people did, but he never wronged them or harmed them, and he set an example for all to follow.
Good examples would not be wasted on our alley were it not afflicted with forgetfulness.
But forgetfulness is the plague of our alley.