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 from the Jewish Stern Gang were waiting for her arrival. When Raheel opened the door, they plastered her and my mother with a hail of bullets.”
Numbed by hearing so many such horror stories, Yousif remained visibly unperturbed.
“If you didn’t witness the killing, how did you come to know the details?”
“The Stern Gang claimed responsibility and bragged about it that same night on their underground radio. They meant it as a warning to any Jew who might harbor any sympathy with an Arab.”
Yousif nodded knowingly. “My mother used to tell me that in Jerusalem, where she was born, new immigrants always discouraged Jews from mixing with so-called ‘natives.’ But I’ve never heard of Jews killing Jews.”
“Your mother was talking about the 1920s. I’m talking about 1948. Things became a lot rougher. Jews killed Jews in Iraq to force them to leave and fight in the upcoming war. And to settle in the land of milk and honey.”
After a long pause, Hanna added: “Our experiences qualify us to be legitimate members in Basim’s Amana,” Hanna said.
“Our Amana,” Yousif said.
“I stand corrected.”
Hanna bought a pack of cigarettes from a young refugee with a badly damaged eye, perhaps from a sniper’s bullet. His tray of trinkets was strapped around his neck. They lit their cigarettes and jostled their way through the crowd in silence. When they were about to go their separate ways, they looked at each other, their eyes full of gloom.
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