III

When the struggle between the colonists in Negba and the villagers of Iraq al-Manshiya grew more and more ferocious during the Arab rebellion led by the Mufti of Jerusalem, Hajj Amin al-Hussaini, 18 his mother’s father, Shaikh Isha’aq bin Ibrahim, became the most important person in his life. Indeed, Ahmad Khalil now spent much more time with his grandfather than with his parents.

Shaikh Isha’aq bin Ibrahim was the village chief with the power of life or death over the entire tribe. Although his real status as a serf was no higher than any of the other fellaheen, he behaved like an absolute monarch, expecting everyone without exception to assume that he was born to command and others to obey.

When the old chieftain died, Isha’aq bin Ibrahim took over the leadership of the tribe, not by any hereditary right but by the sheer strength of his personality. Soon afterwards in his dealings with the beduin, he met some Wahabi tribesmen from Arabia who had fought with King Ibn Saud to help him establish his kingdom and this soon transformed him from a mere nominal Muslim who practised a few rituals only because of habit, custom and tradition into a zealous crusader determined to wage a religious revival in the village.

The formerly careless and apathetic fellaheen who were so ignorant, they could not perform their Salat without mistakes, rallied enthusiastically behind him. He even tried to establish a village school to instruct both children and adults but to his dismay, the teachers he found in Gaza and other towns and cities, inflamed by the heretical nationalists, had nothing but contempt for Islam and its traditions. They scorned the fellaheen as if they were not as human 19 as themselves and refused to endure without tangible rewards, the isolation and hardships of village life. Through his vigorous preaching in the mosque, the Shaikh was able to rid his people of many superstitions, put an end to the practice of saint-worship, grave-worship, music, singing, dancing, smoking, loud lamentations for the dead, enforce the Hanbali school of the Shar’iah and inspire his people to the most devout strict observance of the prayers and fasts, but they remained as illiterate as before.

Now he was seventy years old but despite his age, his back was erect with pride. A heavy brown wool robe, patched in many places and torn at others, hung from his thin shoulders over a ragged white gown.

His head was wrapped in a kaffiyeh drawn across his gray beard and long hawk-like nose so that only two piercing dark eyes could be seen. But none who encountered him ever noticed the rags or the bare feet. Although very lean and below average in height, the frailty of his body was deceptive.

His strenuous unrelenting activities would exhaust a young man.

Khadijah never told her father about the quarrel or carried out her threat to denounce her husband in front of him. Because Malak Wahab was the only man in the village who was educated and had mastered the skills of reading and writing, he soon became of indispensable help as his secretary and interpreter.

30 Ahmad Khalil watched his grandfather pull out from his carved wooden chest, paper, envelopes, postage stamps, a reed pen and a bottle of fine black India ink.

He ordered Malak Wahab to sit at his feet while he paced to and fro across the room, his hands clasped behind his back, dictating letters to King Ibn Saud in Riyadh, Shaikh Hassan al-Banna in Cairo and Haj Amin al-Hussaini in Jerusalem, pleading for their help before the rest of the land belonging to Iraq al-Manshiya had been sold to the colonists by Mustafa Effendi and it was too late. After the letters had been posted by Malak Wahab, the Shaikh waited anxiously. There was no response from King Ibn Saud but Hussaini’s irregulars from the North and volunteer members of al-Ikhwan al-Muslimun from the south streamed into the village where he somehow provided them all with food and shelter.

Enthusiasm and morale rose so high that even the most docile and down-trodden fellaheen from the neighbouring villages clambered to fight under him.

After a furious battle, twenty youths belonging to the Haganah, the Zionist irregular army, trapped inside the village, finding escape impossible, surrendered their weapons and allowed themselves to be taken prisoner. Yusuf Malik wanted to kill them all immediately but the Shaikh decided to spare their lives. They were kept chained together in a secluded corner of the village square under 31 the vigilant guard of the Ikhwan, not only to prevent escape but also to protect them from any harm the enraged villagers might be tempted to inflict upon them.

Another fierce struggle followed and the colonists of Negba begged for peace.

Shaikh Isha’aq bin Ibrahim agreed to conclude a truce. Then both sides exchanged their prisoners, their wounded and their dead.

Among the corpses, Shaikh Isha’aq bin Ibrahim found the body of a young Jewish girl, her clothes ripped off, her eyes gouged out, and her nose and ears amputated.

At once he began intense investigations and questioning.

Towards sunset the culprit was dragged to the village square, ordered to kneel and then the Shaikh raised his sword and struck off his head with a single blow. Six-year-old Ahmad Khalil who stood among the crowd cried out terrified as the blood spurted into the air and the body collapsed. Pointing to the corpse, the Shaikh addressed the people in his clear, resonant voice:

“We are not with the pagan nationalists who glorify any act of cruelty that achieves their end. We fight Jihad in the cause of Allah and Allah forbids those who wage Jihad to kill women and children. The law of Jihad forbids us to mutilate the corpses of the fallen enemy. Allah has cursed all warfare for selfish reasons.

32 The rule of the Shar’iah means absolute justice for Christians and Jews as well as for Muslims.”

Now Shaikh Isha’aq bin Ibrahim could concentrate his energy in organizing a great confederation of the tribes and villages surrounding Gaza to prepare for a combined attack on all the infant Jewish colonies in the area. His plan was to methodically isolate them, cut off their water supplies and grip them in a state of siege to force them to surrender.

Simultaneously no more Arab land would be allowed to pass into Jewish hands, but those colonists who submitted to Muslim rule and paid the stipulated tribute would be allowed to stay.

If they rebelled after their surrender, the men would be killed, the women enslaved and the children adopted into the tribe and raised as Muslims to fight for his people’s survival. Of course he knew that the mandate authorities would do all in their power to stop him. “I cannot control my fate”, he would say. “I can only try my best. The results of my efforts, whether I succeed or fail is according to the will of Allah”. But the fellaheen and the neighbouring beduin tribesmen believed in him and were eager to fight and die under his command. The rising hope that he might succeed in driving away the intruders gave him more influence than ever before. Constantly at his side was his son, Yusuf Malik and his two small grandsons, six-year-old Ahmad Khalil and eight-year-old Abdul Aziz, both of whom he prized like jewels.

23 Despite the severe training and deprivations they had endured, the scoldings and beatings for the slightest mischief-making or disrespect to their elders, how exceptionally sweet-tempered they were and so bright and affectionate that whenever his gaze met those two pairs of soft, wistful dark eyes, the Shaikh could not resist the temptation to take them with him wherever he went. Whenever little Ahmad Khalil grew too tired to continue on his journeys, the Shaikh would carry him astride his shoulders or on his back, still leading Abdul Aziz by the hand.

His travels on foot took him to neighbouring villages, to the black goats-hair tents of the beduin desert camps, to Negba and other Jewish colonies, to the headquarters of the district Haganah and even to the most dreaded Zionist terrorists—the secret underground offices of the Irgun. To deal with the British and the Jews, he learned broken phrases of Hebrew and English. Much of his time was spent with British officials who repeatedly threatened his arrest and imprisonment if he persisted in causing them more trouble and disturbing the peace.

When the district British Governor of Gaza first saw them in front of the door of his spacious residence, he looked at their bare feet, their rags covered with dust, the two naked children and shouted angrily: “No beggars are allowed here!”

34 “We are not beggars!” explained the Shaikh. “You wished to see me and I have come here on appointment”.

The Governor’s eye then fell on the richly inlaid dagger thrust into his belt, saw his proud, dignified bearing as regal as a king and then was convinced that this native was an important personality.

I am the Shaikh of Iraq al Manshiya…

The Governor’s manner changed completely. “Oh yes, of course, I have been waiting for you! Come right inside with me into the drawing room and take a seat here”. He pointed to the sofa.

Ahmad Khalil looked about him bewildered. He had never been inside a European home before. He squatted on the thick grey carpet, next to Abdul Aziz, his back against the sofa, his knees drawn up to his chin and his arms clasped around his legs. His grandfather looked stiff and very uncomfortable sitting on the chair.

Malak Wahab sat crosslegged at his feet as interpreter for he could speak and understand English fluently.

The Shaikh demanded and received the same treatment from the Governor as a high-ranking diplomat according to the rigidly strict etiquette of protocol.

A large framed portrait of Sir Winston Churchill with a pipe in his mouth hung above him on the wall.

25 Other British officials entered and joined the Governor while Shaikh Isba’aq bin Ibrahim argued with them in the most polite manner and modulated voice the entire afternoon why it would be expedient for them to enforce the White Paper forbidding further Jewish immigration and sale of land to the Jews without Arab consent and that it would be in their best interest not to interfere in his work. Malak Wahab interpreted dutifully.

But Ahmad Khalil was not listening to the conversation.

He was staring at the wife of the Governor. He had never before seen a white woman so close. He stared at her short drab brown hair streaked with strands of grey set into a stiff permanent wave, at her new beige tweed suit, her nylon stockings which exposed her thick white legs to the knee, and her high-heeled shoes. He stared at her bulky body, her ample bosom, the flabby flesh of her pasty white freckled face.

A servant wearing a white tunic and a tall red tarboush brought in a large tray of refreshments for the guests and placed them on the polished mahogany coffee table in front of the sofa.

When the Shaikh declined to take any of the forbidden liquors, he was offered coffee. But he only set the porcelain coffee cup quietly back on the tray and helped himself to the bread, cheeses and cakes. Since he had had almost nothing else to eat for two days, he had to exert all his will and 28 self restraint to chew them slowly, delicately and daintily.

The trappings of the white woman no longer interested Ahmad Khalil. He turned his eyes from her face and fixed his gaze steadily on the plate of food in her lap. He waited expectantly but nothing was offered to him. Impatiently he waited for her to finish.

Finally she set the china plate filled with crumbs of half-eaten cakes and pastries back on the table and called the servant to throw them away into the garbage. Unable to control himself any longer, he grabbed the plate off the tray and devoured the left-overs as fast as he could.

The English woman was visibly mortified. Her mouth, reddened with lipstick, turned down into a hard line. With pale blue eyes as cold as ice, she looked at him as though he were some loathesome insect fit only to be trampled upon. The child burst into hysterical tears and cries.

“I think I have taken more than my share of your valuable time”, pleaded the Shaikh.

“Now I may have your permission to go”?

The Shaikh picked up his small grandson and carried him in his arms, crying and sobbing the entire way home.

“But Father, why did she have to look at me like that?” he sobbed.

“You should not have taken anything unless it 27 was offered to you first”, reprimanded Malak Wahab. “It was not for you.

“This was your punishment for your bad manners!”

One night several months later, a special guest came to his door—a poorly-clad youth who introduced himself to the Shaikh as a farmer from a distant village in the north.

“When I heard everybody praising you for your courage and bravery, I wished only to fight the enemy under your command. I belong to the same clan as Haj Amin al Hussaini. But I have no arms to contribute. Tell me what I should do?”

“Do not worry”, replied the Shaikh. “We will provide you with everything you need.”

“But I would not come to you with empty hands.” He held out a sack of flour.

“Take this as a token of my admiration for you. Now I beg your permission to go. Inshallah, I will return in the morning.”

“Oh no! You must stay and eat with us and spend the night here!”

He turned to Khadijah and ordered her to prepare the bread quickly.

The strange youth went to little Ahmad Khalil and Abdul Aziz who were squatting together naked on the bare floor, quietly playing with piles of empty cartridges.

“Are those your boys?”

28 “My grandsons”, replied the Shaikh proudly. The strange man picked up Ahmad Khalil and sat him on his lap.

He felt the sharp bones, the swollen belly, and saw festering sores all over his unwashed body.

“How long has it been since this child has eaten?

Now that your daughter has already prepared the bread, delicious, hot and fresh, give it to him……”

“No! Wait until I taste it first!” The Shaikh’s mouth watered; several drops of saliva dripped to the floor. He looked to Ahmad Khalil as if he were about to faint as he tore off a huge chunk and bit into it eagerly.

“That was the finest flour I could buy in the market……”

The Shaikh collapsed, writhing in agony on the floor and holding his stomach.

“This food is poisoned!” he gasped.

Ahmad Khalil watched terrified. It seemed to

him as if everything had turned into a black unreal horror as his mother shrieked, Yusuf Malik caught hold of the assassin and Malak Wahab rushed to him, a knife in hand. Moments later the room was packed with neighbours, relatives, scores of fierce tribesmen, friends and enemies of the Shaikh.

Yusuf Malik wanted to kill the assassin on the 39 spot but Malak Wahab took him, chained and handcuffed under heavy guard to the Gaza police station.

Since the family was frozen into immobility by the shock, the Ikhwan conducted the burial, as the Shaikh would have wished—the women were not permitted any loud wails or lamentations, no tearing out hair, slapping the cheeks, renting of clothes or beatings on chests.

Ahmad Khalil stood beside his mother at the door holding on to her hand while the procession of several hundred tribesmen silently passed down the street. The Ikhwan bore the bier on their shoulders to the village burial grounds and a grave of the most austere simplicity, marked only by a mound of earth.

Later the family learned during the course of the police investigations that the assassin had been identified as a cousin of Mustafa Effendi who owned the village and was also involved in the conspiracy. Among his papers was found a neatly typed letter from the Jewish Agency in Tel-Aviv, offering him a reward of five hundred pounds, English sterling, if he would put an end to “the Terror of the Desert”. The method was left to his discretion.

After ten days of confinement, the British Governor of Gaza ordered the police to release him. The assassin fled north to the city of Haifa and was never seen by the villagers again.

30

IV

“And did we shoot all the Jews?” questioned Ahmad Khalil, his eyes wide.

“Yes, my son,” responded Khadijah.

“We drove them away again and again and we killed many of them too and captured their weapons. For fifteen years they tried to build their settlement here, steal our land, deprive us of water and our animals and crops and drive us out but my father and my seven elder brothers united the fiercest tribes of the desert behind us and we chased them out every time. When I was a young girl, life was good.

My father kept our platters filled with roasted meat, great mounds of rice with melted butter and dates and milk for the constant streams of guests who sought our hospitality. The floor of our house was piled high with the bright rugs that my mother had woven herself; we had cushions against the wall, stuffed mattresses to sleep on and heavy quilts to keep us warm on cold nights. My brothers always kept the house in good repair, cleaned and freshly white-washed.

My mother would cover my dresses with colourful embroidery and my brothers had fine striped robes to wear. We were blessed by Allah with health and strength. Sickness in our tribe was rare then and our numbers were growing fast but now each year we are fewer and fewer……”

31 Afflicted with inconsolable grief after her father’s death, Khadijah found solace only with her small son with whom she would spend many long hours telling him all she could remember about him when she was a little girl and seeing his mother comforted, Ahmad Khalil also found comfort in listening to her tales which made him appear alive again.

She told of his love for his camels, his most prized possessions and then she remembered when she was very small, to her supreme delight, he had several times perched her alone high on top of the camel’s hump and promised to teach her how to ride.

“What a sight,” she exclaimed, “was my father and my brothers as they raced across the desert on camel-back, their long robes whipped behind them in the breeze, their weapons gleaming in the sun! They could ride, shoot and fight as well as any of the beduin, so much so that he was known to the Jewish colonists and the British not by his real name but only as ‘the Terror of the Desert’.”

“And my father captured from the enemy all kinds of weapons……”

And as Khadijah related vivid tales of her past, Ahmad Khalil could imagine how she had spent so much of her childhood among these implements of war, squatting on the floor, busy cleaning, oiling and polishing his collection of captured rifles, revolvers and pistols. Under the 32 watchful supervision of her brothers, she would sharpen her father’s swords, daggers and knives, “And when he had no bullets, he could use his spear and shoot deadly poisoned arrows.

And how often I would help my brothers making more weapons of our own at home until one by one they were slain ……”

“Our landowner, Mustafa Effendi, is wicked and evil. He cares nothing what happens to us as long as he gets his profit. He is so greedy for gold, he will sell our village land for whatever price the Jews will pay.

Do you know that the new sale took from us nearly half our fields and that is not the end. They will never be satisfied until we are no more.”

“But why do the foreigners come here?” asked Ahmad Khalil. “Why do they want to take our land?”

“They say they have no country. They say that they were forced to leave their homes and that they were persecuted and driven out. They tell us they must possess this country as their own because once it belonged to their forefathers ……”

“But why do they come here? Why don’t they go to some other place?”

“They say that other countries don’t want them, that they have nowhere else to go.

This is in our Holy Quran—the entire story of the Bani Israil and how Allah punished them for their sins and condemned them to suffer persecution, homelessness and exile”.

33 “But are the Bani Israil the same people as the Jews today?” questioned the child, his curiosity to know more about them growing keen.

“Don’t you listen to your father when he recites the Quran? Allah tells us in the Quran that the most important of the Prophets before Muhammad (peace and blessings of Allah be upon him) were all from the Bani Israil. They are the People of the Book, the Ahl al-Kitab—their origin is the same as ours. We revere the Prophets of the Bani Israil as much as the Jews do, nay, much more than they:

“…… Say (O Muhammad): We believe in Allah and that which is revealed unto us and that which was revealed unto Abraham and Ishmael and Isaac and Jacob and the tribes and that which was revealed unto Moses and Jesus … from their Lord. We make no distinction between any of them and unto Him have we surrendered . . . .”.

“When my father had his horse and his camels, he was able to travel. When he was a young man, he travelled everywhere in Palestine. He told me of his journey to Jerusalem to the sacred Bait-ul-Muqaddas to visit the magnificent Aqsa Mosque, the Dome of the Rock where our Prophet ascended to Paradise, to the cemetery behind it where many of our Patriarchs and saints lie buried, to the mosque of Abraham al-Khalil in Hebron and the tombs of his wife Sarah, and his daughters and grand-daughters-in-law, Rebecca, Rachel and 34 Leah. He had been to Sinai where Allah revealed the Torah to Moses and then again to the North where the village and town people enjoy their gardens with trees, grass, flowers and abundant pasture for their flocks, fruit orchards and rich olive groves . . . .

“Long, long ago when the Torah was revealed to Moses, the Bani Israil were very much like us. They looked like us, dressed like us and farmed the land and herded their flocks very much as we do.

Allah favoured them above every other people. They were the People of the Scriptures. They gave birth to most of the Prophets about whom the Quran tells us. But then they changed. They rebelled against Allah, the sacred laws and commandments.

They grew more and more corrupt and sinful until Allah cursed them with exile and expelled them from this land. They migrated to distant countries where they mingled with foreigners and adopted their ways until they lost all resemblance to us. Now there is nothing to choose between them and the British.

I cannot see how the Jews of Negba differ from the British at all. They are just as arrogant, cruel and godless. They have no respect for any religion, not even

their own ……

“Why?” asked the boy.

“Only Allah knows. My father and my brother told me what happened to them when they went 85 to Negba to negotiate a truce. This happened not only once but many times. When the time for prayer came, they performed their Salat. Immediately they were surrounded by crowds of children who ridiculed and insulted them, threw handfuls of dust on their heads when they prostrated themselves on the ground, jeering, “But there is no God ! We don’t believe in God here” !

The pangs of loss and grief stabbed Ahmad Khalil more painfully than the beating his father had dealt him for misbehaviour the previous day. He did not have any desire to play with his cousins. He only squatted against the wall, listless and apathetic, wondering why Allah did not punish them. Not until the following morning did he find comfort from his father’s recitation from the Quran:

“ …. And thou (0 Muhammad) will see each nation crouching, each nation summoned to its record. And it will be said unto them, this Day a.re ye requited for what ye used to do . . .. “.