and they wanted to subjugate other peoples to their will. Why is France in Far East Asia, for God’s sake, if it weren’t for their greed for other countries’ resources? Why is Britain ruling India for that matter? Why is it in Ireland? Britain and France are two major colonial powers and they want to drain the wealth and resources of all countries for their own benefit. Anyway, what’s interesting is that while Britain was telling the Arabs one thing and the Jews another, she was conspiring with France behind the scenes to triple-cross both.”
“Fine fellows these British,” Khalil said.
Some students sneered; others shook their heads. The pimpled student to Yousif’s left muttered, “Sons of dogs.”
“How did they triple-cross them?” Mustapha asked, chewing his lip.
Again, ustaz Hakim smiled. “By reaching a secret agreement—known as the Sykes-Picot Agreement—according to which terms these two colonial powers would divide the region between themselves. Britain would take Palestine and Iraq; France would take Lebanon and Syria.”
“What about Jordan?” Amin asked, shifting in his seat. “Weren’t the British there until three years ago when Emir Abdullah became king?”
The teacher nodded, amused. “Jordan was carved out of the wild desert—in 1922, or three years after the Peace Conference in Paris—to appease Emir Abdullah, one of Sharif Hussein’s sons who is now King of Jordan. Abdullah had felt left out and was threatening to start another war of sorts. But that’s yet another story we don’t have time for now.”
History was full of interesting drama, Yousif reflected, along with much bloodshed and misery. The British, the French, the Turks, the Arabs, the Romans, the Greeks, the Persians, the Mongols—they had all coveted other peoples’ lands. They had all been greedy, selfish, and unconscionable. And now the Palestinians were to pay the price.
“In the thirties,” the teacher said, pacing the floor, “Britain almost went back on its promise to the Zionists.”
“How?” Amin wanted to know, hugging his amputated arm.
“It never expected our violent reaction to her Balfour Declaration. During the late twenties and throughout all the thirties—especially 1936 and 1937—we Palestinians waged guerrilla warfare against the British and the new Zionist settlers to the point that Britain was willing to renege on her promise to the Zionists. It issued what’s known as the White Paper, which aimed at curtailing the Jewish immigration into Palestine. And then external events—completely out of our control—took a sharp turn to the worse. In 1939 World War II broke out, and you know the rest.”
The town’s clock, which was located on top of the Roman Catholic Church across the yard, chimed on the hour. Ustaz Hakim waited for the eleventh strike to be completed before he would continue.
“War is man’s worst crime,” ustaz Hakim said finally, “but if there’s one war that can be condoned it’s World War II. Hitler needed to be stopped. He wasn’t only mad, he was evil. I’m not saying this because he was indirectly responsible for the predicament we’re in now. I’m saying it because anybody who could kill twelve million human beings—six million of them Jews—is evil. When the concentration camps were discovered and the extent of Hitler’s atrocities became known, there was a great swell of sympathy for the Jews and a feeling that they deserved a place of their own. Hence, we now have the UN resolution to partition Palestine.”
“But we had nothing to do with what happened in Germany,” Yousif said.
Ustaz Hakim nodded. He looked tired. His voice had gotten softer and more strained. Again he glanced at his watch and went back to his desk as though ready to pick up his books and papers to leave. “That’s where we are now,” he added, “and that’s why the stage is set for another war—right here, right before our eyes. The Zionists are determined to carve a state for themselves out of Palestine, and we Arabs are equally determined to stop them. So when the British leave by next August, blood will flow down the street.”
Ustaz Hakim picked up his books and waited for the bell to ring.
“My father says,” Khalil said, “that the Zionists have raised enough money to get all the weapons and manpower they need. What do we have?”
“The support of the Arab regimes, ostensibly.”
There was a long pause.
“Why ‘ostensibly’?” Nadim asked.
“Because it may or may not materialize,” ustaz Hakim answered.
“Let’s assume it did materialize,” Nadim pressed. “Would it be enough?”
“We’d have to wait and see,” the ustaz answered. “Frankly I think we’ll be outmatched. Our man on the street thinks we could stand up to all the Zionists, but I have my doubts. You see, we won’t be fighting the Zionists by themselves. When big powers such as Britain and France and the United States throw their weight behind our enemies, what chance do we have? You know they’re going to do whatever it takes to make the Zionists come out on top.”
“So you’re predicting our defeat?” another boy behind Yousif asked.
“In a way. But don’t go around saying I said that. Listen, unless we shut down all the coffeehouses and kick everybody’s ass and make them train and smuggle arms and get massive help from outside and get the whole Arab world on war footing—I’m afraid it’s going to be too late.”
“Why don’t you start a movement?” Mustapha asked. “We’ll all join you. I know I will.”
“Me too,” several voices echoed.
Yousif watched and listened, having resolved to work with Basim. An idea occurred to him. Shouldn’t ustaz Hakim and Basim get together? Perhaps he should arrange it.
“It’s going to take a lot more than a few of us,” ustaz Hakim said, already at the door. “Just remember this: he who has the gun has the upper hand.”
That night, in the middle of dinner, the phone rang at Yousif’s house. His mother, who was sitting closest to the foyer where the telephone was placed, got up to answer it. Yousif could not see her, but he could hear every word she spoke.
“Hello, Rasheed,” she said. “How’s the family? Oh! Widad? Oh, dear! When did it happen?”
The doctor and Yousif stopped eating and perked their ears. Yousif could tell she was talking to her brother-in-law, Rasheed Ghattas. He got up and went to the door between the dining room and the foyer.
“What is it, Mama?” he asked, holding the napkin.
She cupped the receiver and told him that her sister Widad had had a gallbladder operation. “Now you tell us?” she complained to her brother-in-law. “What if something had happened to her during surgery? You know I would’ve come to see her before she went in for the operation. Poor girl! How’s she now? Is she all right? What pathology test? Why? Do they suspect something else, God forbid? Well, here’s Jamil. You tell him and he’ll explain it to me. In any case, I’ll be there tomorrow.”
Father and son looked at each other, skeptical. Then the doctor spoke on the phone for a few minutes. When he returned to the table, he was optimistic. The likelihood of a malignancy was very small. Normally cancer would develop in the gallbladder only after a long
