started, before they cut him short.
“But what?” a lady wearing a blue dress snarled at him.
“Until we do go home, we need to get the boys off the streets. We shouldn’t let them waste their time. They need . . .”
“What they need is a lot better teacher than you.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“Like the rest of you. All you care about is your salary.”
The demonstrators were now shoving forward in earnest. With the principal and the rest of the teachers, Yousif retreated inside and shut the front door behind. The crowd grew more boisterous and unruly. Fists pounded the door, and a few window panes were broken. Someone alerted the police. In half an hour the crowd was dispersed.
No sooner had the first group of demonstrators vanished than a bigger group of protestors arrived. They came in trucks and buses, and on foot. They came down the barren mountain, and up from the valley. They came dressed in suits or dimayas, wearing tarabeesh or scarves or with bare heads. They came old and feeble, young and strong—until the schoolyard and the street beyond became impassable. They were high-strung and nervous, looking for a target to vent their anger on. It was as if the opening of the school doors had paradoxically shut out their last hope. Some had been in exile for five months; some were recent arrivals. Yousif could tell from their accents and motley attire that some were from Galilee up north or all the way down from Gaza. But that morning, with the bluest sky looking at them indiscriminately they spoke in one voice and their hearts seemed to beat in unison.
Now that the initial shock was over, Yousif stood by his principal, soaking up the people’s torment and filtering it through his own sensibilities. Ironically he sensed hope and felt joy. If the harmless opening of a school could unleash such a torrent of emotion, then his people would never surrender, would never accept defeat. They were ready to resist, and he loved them for it. In truth, they were protesting the wrong issue. But the act of protest in itself convinced him that they were misguided but not unaware. What they needed was a leader who would transform their untapped power, their wasted individual sparks, into one gigantic blaze.
Yousif had Basim in mind, but to his surprise the genteel and mild-speaking Ustaz Sa’adeh reappeared and suddenly the crowd fell silent. Yousif held his breath and hoped for the best. To his utter and most pleasant surprise, Ustaz Sa’adeh’s commanding presence proved that he was a man ready to lead.
“Let it be said,” Ustaz Sa’adeh said, his voice loud, “that the Palestinian is a learner, not an idler. A builder, not a destroyer. To us Palestinians, longing to return to our homes is more than a hope, more than a dream. It is the essence of our life. Life is not worth living if foreign forces decree that we are to be uprooted and to remain uprooted from our sacred land. Who should decide our fate but us?”
Yousif applauded and the restless mob seemed willing to listen. He could read softness in their glare.
Ustaz Sa’adeh paused to gauge their reaction.
“But how can we escape the darkness without using our heads?” he asked, his face crimson with emotion. “Education should become our motto. Our battle cry. There is no liberty without education. No liberation without education. No resurrection, no redemption without education. Speak of it in your tents and huts. Instill it in your children’s hearts and minds. Sing it to your babies as you suckle them or hold them in your arms. It would be the height of folly for our enemy to think that the opening of a modest school is a signal that we have resigned ourselves to living in exile.”
“Y-E-S,” someone shouted back.
“It would be a pipe dream for them to think that we Palestinians will languish in the sun and rest in refugee camps while they—the foreigners, the trespassers, the aggressors—plow our fields, pick our oranges and apples and figs off our trees, pluck the grapes off our vines, harvest our wheat, shepherd our flocks, and press our olives. Everything we left behind we either bought or inherited from our fathers or our ancestors. We are the owners of the land. And we have the titles and the deeds to prove it . . .”
“And the keys to our homes,” many screamed in unison.
“How dare they come after two thousand years and claim it as their own? How dare they bask in our gardens and live in our homes as if we had never existed.”
“How dare they,” the crowd roared.
“HOW DARE THEY!”
The resounding applause was started by someone other than Yousif. It was started by the hateful, abrasive woman with the blue dress who had earlier belittled him. Yousif did not know whether to welcome her sudden conversion or to dismiss her as being gullible. He decided to give her the benefit of the doubt and to credit his principal with the power to persuade even the uncouth.
“Let it be said,” Ustaz Sa’adeh continued, his voice pitched higher, “that we Palestinians do not feed on rhetoric, or cheap sentiment, or hot air. Our new generation will thrive on pragmatism, on practicality. And as a practical man I should tell you what needs our immediate attention.”
“Tell us and we’ll do it,” someone shouted.
“Thank you,” the principal told him. “And I will thank anyone else who’s willing to volunteer. You see that piece of land between the two buildings? Soon we hope to have it as a soccer field. But right now, as you can tell, it is full of stones and rocks. If someone has access to a pickup truck and wants to do something good for the rest of the community, I urge him to come forward and give us a hand hauling them away. All kinds of craftsmen are needed to make this place habitable for our children. The stone walls need mending. The walls inside the building need painting. The plumbing needs repairing. You name it—we need it. We certainly could use a couple of carpenters. We can keep them busy for a week or two.”
“I’m a carpenter,” someone said. “When can I start?”
“I’m a plumber,” another added. “And I am ready to work.”
“I am an electrician. Can you use one?”
The response was most encouraging and the principal beamed.
“There’s one more thing I’d like to ask of you,” the principal continued, waving at a mob that was no longer hostile. “I’d like for you to form a committee of six or seven men and women, if you will, so that we may address our mutual interests and concerns. Those in favor of such an advisory committee let them please raise their hands.”
The arms which had come to fight an hour earlier were now stretched high in total cooperation. The facial muscles which had tightened with suspicion and hatred were now relaxed. The eyes that had darted like daggers were now void of malice. Soon the throngs that had assembled to disrupt were now dispersing, with disruption the last thing on their minds.
The funny little man with the soiled and oversized jacket was now clapping his hands enthusiastically and encouraging others to do the same. Many responded to his call.
As the atmosphere turned friendly, and the crowd stirred to leave, Yousif had an idea.
“One more thing, if I may,” Yousif shouted, taking Ustaz Sa’adeh by surprise.
“Does anyone know a beautiful nineteen-year-old girl named Salwa Safi? Does anyone know where she lives? She’s my wife . . .”
“Oh
