to the essay,” Yousif said, “here’s what I‘d like for you to do. I’d like for you to tell me all about yourselves, your families, your towns, your friends. But avoid generalities. I prefer details. I insist on specifics.”
A student with curly hair wanted him to explain what he meant.
“Draw me a word-picture and let me visualize what you’re talking about,” Yousif elaborated. “For me to get to know your father, I’d like to know his name, his age, and the kind of work he does. Or did. Tell me what town or village you come from. The number of brothers and sisters you have. Tell me what your parents are doing now. Name and describe your refugee camp. How congested is your tent at night? How many people sleep on the floor? Four? Six? Ten? Again, draw me a word-picture and let me visualize how you manage in that small crowded space.”
At the end of the session, Yousif commended their cooperation and frankness.
“Obviously, what unites us is our love for our homeland and our shared dreadful experience. Record your vivid memories. Write down your feelings and the feelings of those close to you, who made an impression on you. This will not only teach the art and craft of writing, but will be useful to you in other ways. In the future you’ll be able to share it with your children and grandchildren.”
The students snickered and began to whisper among themselves.
“Who knows, some of you might become writers who one day will shatter the eardrums of those who pretend to be deaf to our misery. Or prick the conscience of those who claim to have any, for allowing this unprovoked injustice to happen.”
He had them in the palm of his hand.
“One time I asked my father, what did we do to end up refugees?” said the boy from Ramleh.
“Excellent question,” Yousif replied, truly impressed. “What did he say?”
“He said he wished he knew,” the boy answered.
Yousif was delighted. “Your question and your father’s answer are at the core of the problem. We will discuss them later at length. For now, I’m simply proud of your probing. Your wanting to know. Your curiosity. Your search for the truth.”
At the sound of the school bell some students rose to leave, others raised their hands. There was no more time, and Yousif told them to ask them again next time.
But one question, shouted by the boy from Gaza, stopped him on his way out. “What’s the title of our essay?” the chubby boy asked.
Once again Yousif was impressed. “Call it ‘Lest We Forget.’”
“Lest we forget,” the boy grumbled. “What does it mean?”
His hand on the doorknob, Yousif’s smile widened. “It means so that we may never forget.”
The students felt amused and left the classroom, murmuring: “Lest We Forget.”
October was witnessing a new assault by the enemy. Now they were directing their attention to Egypt and launching a full-scale offensive against her. They captured Beersheba and surrounded Faluja in the Negev Desert.
“You’d think Jordan would be helping the Egyptians now,” teacher Hikmat Hawi said, turning the pages of the newspaper he was reading.
“Not a chance,” Yousif replied, leafing through a book of essays, “even though the Jordanian forces are still intact and in a position to attack the left flank.”
Teacher Hassan Mansour softly tapped the table with his pencil. “Jordan would not commit her forces in a serious battle.”
“We knew this when they abandoned Lydda and Ramleh, and when they failed to capture Jerusalem,” Hikmat added. “I know for a fact that when Lydda and Ramleh fell, a delegation from surrounding towns and villages came up to Amman to see the king. They were worried that he might withdraw his troops and leave them unprotected. His answer was shocking. And I heard this from someone who was in that room. The king told them he’d withdraw any time his army was endangered.”
Everyone around the makeshift conference table stopped whatever he was doing and was now in rapt attention.
“He couldn’t have been more honest,” Yousif said.
“Or more blunt,” Hassan corrected him. “That Englishman who heads his army, what’s his name?”
“Glubb Pasha,” Yousif told him.
“Yes, him,” Hikmat continued. “Glubb, nicknamed Abu Hnaik, wouldn’t stand up and fight to the last man. Never. He’d test the enemy, and at the first sign of danger he would order his soldiers to stop.”
“And carry out England’s wishes.”
The teachers had heard stories like this before and seemed nonplussed. Most were Yousif’s former teachers, except Hikmat Hawi and Murad Allam. Murad was an older man, dressed in crisp pants, with an air of dignity that bordered on fastidiousness. He was, Yousif had been told, a man with dashed hopes. After two years in England pursuing a medical education, he had been recalled by his family for lack of money. In the subsequent thirty years in the classroom, he never once was a real teacher. His bitterness over not having been able to become a doctor stood in the way.
Of all his colleagues, Yousif felt closest to Hikmat Hawi. Hikmat was in his early twenties, born and raised in Haifa, and educated at the American University of Beirut. He had studied mathematics but at the end of his third year he had to rush back home to be with his family as the troubles escalated throughout the country. His circumstances reminded Yousif of Izzat Hankash, who just before the forced exile had been a tenant in Yousif’s home in Ardallah. Hikmat was of stronger build, and his nostrils were slightly more flaring. He and Yousif had taken an immediate liking to each other, and in less than a couple of weeks they had become fast friends. They visited each other’s “homes” and were introduced to their families. Their dwellings were so inferior to what they had been accustomed, neither could tell who was less fortunate.
To Yousif, Hikmat’s family had a diversity of looks. Hikmat was handsome but with a flaring nose. Fareed, the older brother, was fat and had a glass eye. Their mother was of medium height and must have eaten a lot of starch in her life. Their sister, Ghada, was flat-chested and homely. She looked older than her brother Hikmat, although she was three years younger. Fareed’s wife, Leena, was more seductive than beautiful. Leena caught Yousif’s eye, not for her good looks and fanciful ways but because she looked out of place in this impoverished neighborhood. Her walk and talk spelled trouble.
Over several weeks Yousif noticed that Leena was never seen casually dressed or without heavy makeup. Her wardrobe was extremely limited, yet the few pieces she owned were of good quality and in good taste, and she never wore the same outfit on the consecutive days. Her knack was to combine and switch sweaters, blouses, and skirts that gave her the look of a relatively well-to-do woman. On her own she was attractive; among the other women in the neighborhood she was stunning. The most noticeable quality about her was her moodiness. Not blending with the others, she seemed to find comfort in Yousif’s company. And vice versa, for in some odd way she reminded him of Salwa. And she indulged him in talking about how he could find her.
Whenever he arrived with her brother-in-law Hikmat, Leena would disengage from the women sitting in the shade, and would attach herself to the two young teachers. More and more, Yousif began to enjoy walking Hikmat home. And
