Ali, patience,” Hanna counseled. “That day will come sooner than you think.”
In an effort to shift from the argument that teetered on becoming heated, Yousif posed a question to the famed journalist, hoping to engage him. “What should our first priority be now: the pen or the gun?”
“What do you think?” Raja responded.
“Both,” Yousif said. “It depends on the situation. From what I hear most of our real battles were fought in the halls and chambers of governments here and abroad. Congresses, senates, parliaments, palaces, embassies, and the rest. The military outbreaks were an aftermath.”
When Yousif finished, he was surprised to find all eyes were focusing on him, as if they had not expected such analysis from an upstart. A moment of silence lingered, which threw Yousif in deeper thought. Maybe he should not have been so presumptuous as to speak so readily to people who supposedly knew a lot more than he did. Maybe they thought he was too young to speak of warfare as a result of failed diplomacy. Or to say that diplomacy or the failure of diplomacy was a precursor to the clash of arms.
Abide your time, he chastised himself, and don’t be so rash. So pompous. You would alienate potential friends. To his relief, he heard Hanna say to the principal, “Ustaz Sa’adeh, I congratulate you for having taught Yousif so well. I wish more adults knew half of what he knows.”
“The credit is all his,” Ustaz Sa’adeh said. “He’s always been our top student, and now one of our best teachers.”
“He was also raised well,” Basim added. “His father, Dr. Jamil Safi, who was also my uncle, was a rarity: a healer, not just a physician. And his private library was the best I’ve seen.”
It was Yousif’s turn to deflect the attention away from himself. “I didn’t mean to be a distraction. I truly apologize.”
With that, the meeting proceeded as Basim had planned. He divided the priorities under different headings: fundraising, recruiting, training within the country or abroad, buying or smuggling arms, buying a printer to publish their own newspaper and occasional leaflets. Then he asked those gathered to express their opinions on each heading, one by one. The money issue was the most dominant, and everyone wondered where it would come from. Basim mentioned Palestinians who still had money stashed in foreign banks, Arab states already awash with oil revenues, the millions of Arabs living in the Diaspora: South America, United Sates, Canada and countries as far away as Australia. Not to mention Muslim countries (stretching from Morocco to Indonesia) that were chafing at the loss of Al-Aqsa Mosque, one of the three holiest shrines in Islam. The possibilities were limitless, he said, and moved on to the subject of recruiting.
Here he emphasized and everyone agreed that a small force of a thousand men and women who were well-chosen, well-recruited, well-motivated, well-trained, and well-equipped could deliver more than a blow to their sworn enemy. Over the years, of course, they could double or even triple the size of that force. By that time they would have most likely merged with other liberation groups to make their sworn enemy realize that hijacking a whole country would never be tolerated.
After directing Hanna to the bathroom, Ustaz Sa’adeh motioned to Yousif to follow him to the kitchen. Yousif marveled at the preparation that had been done much earlier. On the spotless counter was a tray of six tall glasses and a pitcher of iced water. Next to it were a kerosene burner with a box of matches, another tray of demitasse cups, a large brass coffee pot, a small sugar container, a jar of coffee—even a small spoon with which to scoop the grinds.
“Do you know how to make coffee?” Ustaz asked. “Frankly I don’t. I’ll take the tray of water to the other room and I’d appreciate your making the coffee.”
While waiting for the coffee to percolate, Yousif could see from the small undraped window over the sink the mud huts and the rows of tents in which some of the refugees lived. He could also hear the sound of a truck groaning and screeching from old age, and the voices of children playing in the dusty street. If only the truck driver and the children knew, Yousif thought, that Basim and fellow patriots were at that moment conspiring to change their destiny.
Watching the coffee boil, Yousif 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.
