reflected on the proceedings in the other room. He was struck by the challenge facing them. Defeating a sworn enemy that had been scheming and plotting for half a century—backed by America and the major powers of Europe—was like a child trying to climb the highest Giza pyramid. He had once heard his pacifist father say that evil begat evil, and wondered what he would say to him now. “Son,” he would probably say, “it’s a daunting task indeed, but what’s the alternative? Injustice must be confronted.” Basim, of course, was intent on answering thunder with thunder. Considering the tremendous odds against them, Yousif thought, a tooth for a tooth and an eye for an eye was more like it. If only they could, he told himself; if only they could.
“Tell me something about Ali,” Yousif asked when Ustaz Sa’adeh returned to the kitchen. “He’s itching to fight.”
“His father and Basim were together during the 1936 revolt,” Ustaz Sa’adeh explained. “They fought the British and the Jewish underground and finally went into hiding in Iraq. They didn’t return until after World War II, when the British Mandate exacted promises from them to lay down their arms. You should know all this from Basim’s own history.”
“Where’s Ali’s father?”
“Apparently either the Irgun or the Hagana had a special grudge against him,” Ustaz continued. “Soon after they entered Lydda, they waited for him to come out of the mosque after the Friday prayer. When Ali’s father saw a dozen soldiers with guns at the ready, he knew what to expect. He raised his hands above his head and tried to negotiate with them. He said he’d be willing to leave town with all the people they were expelling. In answer, they riddled his head and chest with bullets. The casualties around him were countless. How Ali escaped unharmed was a miracle. Now he’s out for revenge.”
“Wow,” Yousif said. “I didn’t know that.”
When both rejoined the rest, the discussion underway was about what to call their fledgling organization. Many words were bandied about, including “movement” or “revolution” or “liberation” or “institution” or “institute”—or even “jihad.” The last word was unanimously rejected because of religious connotations. The conflict was complex enough, they all thought, and there was no need to broaden it. Finally they settled on something simpler and catchier.
“At least for now,” Basim suggested, “let’s call it Amana. Amana as a vow. Amana as a sacred trust to keep Palestine alive in our hearts. Let’s test it on the people. I have a feeling it will resonate with them.”
A new debate arose as to whether or not they should go public with the creation of the organization.
“The less we say about it the better,” Yousif argued.
“I agree,” Hanna added. “No sense in alerting the authorities to our existence. God knows they’ll be infiltrating us soon enough.”
Ali nodded. “Also, new recruits would be intrigued by belonging to an organization that operated in total darkness.”
“In secrecy,” Raja suggested instead. “In total darkness might be misconstrued. They might think of us as the blind leading the blind.”
After agreeing that initially it would serve them best to run their affairs clandestinely, they began to address the important question of recruiting. This issue occupied them past lunchtime. They went round and round trying to identify the characteristics of the thousand-member force they wished to recruit.
The idea of recruitment led to another subject that was unanimously agreed on: to open up several youth clubs in the major cities. Ostensibly that was to keep the idle youth off the streets, but in reality it was to keep an eye on those who might one day qualify for membership.
“We need all types of men,” Basim said, “and not just freedom fighters ready to shoot or throw bombs. Before we admit anyone, he or she must have two qualifications. One, they should come from families that lost more than just property. They must’ve been injured in their guts. They must’ve lost someone dear to them at the hands of our sworn enemy. They will be the ones itching to get even. Two, not a single one of them would be officially admitted into this organization until they have been meticulously scrutinized by a reviewing committee. Checking the recruits’ backgrounds diligently is a must. We need to make sure that they are not lying. This might take weeks, even months. Which is as it should be. The important thing is to guard against having a mole working on somebody else’s behalf. If one manages to slip in, he’s mine. I’ll deal with him personally.”
Switching the conversation, Yousif wanted to know about the political aspect of Amana. How would it be organized? And, what would it entail?
It was the signal for Raja to rise, ready to leave. “That’s another story for another day,” he said. “If it took God seven days to create this wicked world, how long do you think it should take us to plan the liberation of beautiful Palestine? A few hours?”
On that note, the meeting was adjourned. On his way out, Yousif found himself walking with Hanna Azar. Hanna was the only enigma among the group. Yousif wished to ask about his background but did not want to seem too inquisitive. Luckily it was Hanna who wanted to hear about Yousif’s background.
“I know you’re Basim’s first cousin,” Hanna began. “But tell me, are you one of those injured souls Basim wants to recruit? What have you lost beside your home?”
Yousif tried to be evasive. “I lost most of Palestine, isn’t that enough?”
“We all did. But what in particular did you lose to qualify you to be a member of Amana? Your kinship to Basim notwithstanding.”
On the sidewalk, they ran into Rabha, her palm forever open. She flashed Yousif a smile of recognition and gratitude. Yousif smiled back, gave her a coin and introduced her to his companion. By reflex, Hanna reached in his pocket and handed her whatever he could afford.
As they continued their walk, Yousif told Hanna about the incident with the jerk who had doubted that the poor woman was carrying her own baby. And how she had pulled out her breast on the sidewalk and, in front of many onlookers, squirted her motherly milk in her accuser’s face.
“Good for her,” Hanna said, incredulous.
“He was so outrageous I wanted to punch him in the nose.”
“I would’ve. But tell me, what did you lose in the war?”
Yousif did not know where to begin. He told him how his father had been killed during an incursion by the enemy on top of a hill in Ardallah. He had gone there to treat Basim who was wounded but would not leave the battle scene. He also told him about Salwa’s father’s death in the open desert during the treacherous journey on foot to Jordan. The sun was merciless on that day and they had to leave his body prey to wild animals. One couldn’t imagine the pain the family had to endure. Furthermore, he told him how he and Salwa got separated, and what agony it had been looking for her.
“What else would you like to know?” Yousif asked, “Oh, yes. I also lost one of my dearest friends, a Jewish boy I grew up with and went to school with from first grade through high school. His name was Isaac Sha’lan.”
The circumstances of Isaac’s killing clouded Hanna’s face.
“We seem to have much in common,” Hanna began, weaving his way around the congested sidewalk. “One of my distant uncles was an Orthodox priest. His oldest son was married to Raheel, a Jewish woman. In those days marriage between faiths was not uncommon in the big cities.”
“I know,” Yousif said. “Nablus has a number of such marriages.”
“When the hostilities intensified, the Zionists who had emigrated from Europe wanted Raheel to end her friendship with the natives. That’s what they used to call us. But Raheel refused. As the situation heated up, and our neighborhood was being bombarded, my mother sought refuge at her friend’s house. She called her up and Raheel told her to come over, she would be waiting for her. My mother did exactly that. She went straight to Raheel’s house, but apparently terrorists