XI

During the long slow weeks of the winter season while the rain poured down, the streets were a sea of mud and little work was possible in the fields, Malak Wahab was determined to teach his son to read and write. He had gone to Gaza, borrowed from the Imam of the mosque his copy of Quran, where the print was large and clear, with all the vowel points essential for a beginner, a big wooden board where the completed leasons could easily be washed off and reused again and again, pen and ink.

Several times Malak Wahab called Ahmad Khalil to him but the eleven-year-old boy was too morose to respond. Then once more he called out to his son and demanded that he do as he ordered.

Ahmad Khalil stared at his father’s strong and determined face in bewilderment. What could he want from him?

“How would you like to learn to read and write? Now there is no other work to be done I have the time to teach you . . . .”.

Ahmad Khalil only stared back at his father in sullen silence, a trace of suspicion and even hostility in the gaze. He always knew his father 70 was ashamed of him to grow up to work with his hands on the land, that he dreamed of him to become a prosperous professional man in the city. And to do that, he would have to attend a modern school.

“I have always dreamed of sending you to school, not to the conventional traditional kind where the boys merely memorize Quran, mechanically repeating it like parrots without the least understanding of its meaning but a modern school where the best of teachers would introduce you to the treasures of all that is fine and beautiful. Only then could you escape from the dreary routine of drudgery and toil on this soil which is so barren even with the hardest labours, it requires a miracle to coax any crops to grow and you would come to know that life can be rich and full and not just a desperate struggle for bare subsistence. The latest scientific knowledge would be yours you would then understand as I have always known that the Quran and the teaching of our Holy Prophet is always in harmony with Truth wherever it is to be found. Oh, I wanted so much to find a school like this for you, Khalifa, Rashid and Asma.

No, I would not forget Asma, for education is the birthright for girls as well as for boys. How pretty she would look going to her classes in her brand-new shoes, starched white uniform, blue tie, with her hair combed and neatly tied with bright ribbons! Nothing but the best school for you in the city would satisfy 71 me. I could not be content with anything less than the very best. Oh, I wanted so much to find a school like this for you, Khalifa, Rashid and Asma.

Ahmad Khalil steadily gazed at the father in silence. He had no desire to fulfil his father’s ambitions. He did not want to leave the land to which he felt as intensely bound as did his mother and her people before her. He was not ashamed to dirty his hands with the cultivation of the soil, no matter how much contempt others may regard lowly menial labour for here on the land, carefully tending the green growing plants upon which his existence depended - he found the meaning of his life and the supreme satisfaction which his mother knew so well but his father could never appreciate of closeness to the very source of all life, to nature and to God.

But his father had education while he knew he was entirely ignorant and illiterate. Awakened by his father to the disadvantage of these deficiencies, he realized there were indeed many things he yearned to know and which his father was now ready to teach him. He wanted to be able to read the Quran for himself and achieve much deeper understanding of it on his own. He wanted to learn much more about his faith especially the teachings of the Prophet in the Hadith. He wanted to learn in detail about the Sahabah, the Companions of the Prophet, and why they were the best of all the Muslims.

He wanted to read about the wonderful and inspiring lives of all the great 72 Muslims in history, past and present. He wanted to know the history of his people. His father had even awakened in him a keen curiosity to learn about the Jews and the British. He wanted to be able to read the newspapers for himself to be informed about the important events happening now which he knew would directly affect his life and his future.

And to satisfy this thirst for knowledge, he must learn reading and writing.

The hostile and auspicious stare vanished, now that he was ready, willing and eager to learn what his father wanted to teach him. Malak Wahab urged him to come to him and for the first time since Abdul Aziz’s death, the boy’s face lit up with a radiant smile and he sat down crosslegged on the mat beside him while his father traced out on the wooden board the beautiful letters of the Arabic alphabet which he then showed him to combine into words and finally sentences. This required infinite patience for Ahmad Khalil was slow to learn and his father had to repeat his instructions and explanations several times over before he understood and although Malak Wahab was a gifted teacher who tried his best to make his lessons clear, progress was slow and tedious.

Little Khalifa, his great black eyes unnaturally bright, took an eager interest and watched everything, carefully tracing the letters of the alphabet under his father’s watchful eye on the wooden board after his brother had finished his work for the day.

73 Malak Wahab was astonished to see how quick and bright Khalifa was at his lessons; although he was scarcely older than a baby of four, his handwriting was so much better than his brother’s! Malak Wahab had wanted to teach Rashid too, only to find this child hopelessly uncooperative, unruly and stubborn.

Hour after hour as his father read to him from the Quran, the strange black characters gradually became familiar.

At last came the day when the inert signs suddenly sprang to life!

Then Malak Wahab turned to the back of the Quran to a Surah he was certain his son did not know. He pointed to the place. “Go ahead, Ahmad Khalil”, he urged. I think you can do it now without mistakes. READ”!

And his black face glowed with pride and joy when he heard the verses read aloud slowly and haltingly but without any errors …….

“When the sun is overthrown, And when the stars fall And when the hills are moved, And when the camels big with young are abandoned. When the wild beasts are herded together; When the seas rise; And souls are reunited; And that girl-child who was buried alive is asked for what sin she was slain - And when the sky is torn away; When Hell is lighted and the Garden is brought nigh - Then every soul shall know its fate ………… “.

74

XII

“Allahu Akbar”!!

The melodious Adhan from the mosque awoke Ahmad Khalil. He stretched his arms and sat upright.

Then he peered down at his little brother and cousin who were still sleeping soundly beside him.

When he threw aside his father’s woolen robe that covered them, the cold desert air awoke them immediately. Needing no reminders from their parents, the three children obediently performed their ablutions with a mixture of sand and dust and after they finished their Salat, they squatted against the wall, three pairs of expectant dark eyes intently watching Halimah stir the pot of lentils on the fireplace.

At last she took the pot off the fire and set it on the floor before them. “Bismillah”, they murmured and then hungrily scooped up handfuls of dried beans with pieces of stale unleavened barley bread, scraping the pot and licking their fingers until not a trace of food remained. “Al-hamdulillah”! exclaimed Mansur. “Praise be unto Allah who has given us to eat and to drink and has made us Muslims”! Halimah then extinguished the little fire and shoved the empty cooking pot into a corner.

Suddenly turning to his elder son, Malak Wahab ordered: Before you go to the fields, you must 75 fetch water from the well.

Halimah is too busy with other work to go today. Here is the jug. And take Khalifa.

I have too much work to do so I cannot watch him. And he is too small to look

after himself ….. “.

Ahmad Khalil glared at his little brother angrily and with bitter resentment as if he meant to say that he wished Khalifa had never been born. When he had prayed to Allah to send him a brother or sister, he wanted a playmate, companion and friend.

Instead he received only this annoying burden. The responsibility of his care since he had been weaned fell heavily upon him.

More than seven years separated them. Ahmad Khalil was now a rapidly growing boy of eleven, almost twelve, as tall as his aunt Halimah. Khalifa seemed to him hardly more than a baby who looked and acted even younger than he was. The little boy stared back at his brother, impassively, almost indifferent. He did not seem to mind his brother’s hostile glance as at this time, they appeared to have little feeling for each other.

Khalifa went to his corner of the room, squatted down on his heels and took out from a box his playthings. Khalifa was the only child in the village who owned any toys and all the toys he had he made for himself. From the scraps of clay his aunt gave him, he would cleverly model sheep, goats, donkeys, horses, camels and airplanes like those he often saw flying overhead before setting the crude little figures to dry in the sun. Then his 76 aunt would bake them hard and durable in the mud oven along with her pottery. Still shunned by the other village children, Khalifa was a solemn, withdrawn boy who always played alone.

Khalifa stubbornly refused to go with his brother to the well and at last Malak Wahab had to let him have his way and stay alone inside the house.

When the crowd of village women at the well saw Ahmad Khalil coming towards them with the heavy pottery jar balanced carefully on his head, they burst into derisive laughter, jokes and ridicule at the incongruous sight.

Drawing water from the well was women’s work but Ahmad Khalil felt angry at them for humiliating him and teasing him when they saw him in place of his mother.

The well was heavily guarded day and night by more than a dozen fierce-looking tribesmen, their rifles always in hand, their kaffiyehs wrapped around their heads so only their piercing black eyes could be seen. They stood silent with their backs to the women, peering across the desert horizon in the direction of Negba for any sign of danger.

Ahmad Khalil stood apart from the women, trying to ignore their jibes while they pulled at the ropes with all their strength until the huge bucket of water rose to the top. Then he shouted and struggled among them until he managed to receive his share.

77 He had just set the heavy jar against the wall and was about to call Halimah when he found an emaciated dog blocking the doorway, panting with his dry cracked tongue out in an agony of thirst. Quickly Ahmad Khalil filled a cracked discarded bowl of water for it to drink. Then he searched the room until he found some scraps of stale bread and a few bones flung on the floor the previous night and threw them to it. The dog clung to the food with its paws and stared up at the boy with wet sad eyes before he grabbed the heavy shovel against the wall and ran outside towards the fields. Khalifa ran after him.

Down upon hands and knees, Ahmad Khalil and Rashid loosened the hard cracked earth around each plant, fertilized it with dried manure and then uprooted the numerous weeds. The sky was a clear blue without any trace of clouds. The sun shone upon them bright and very hot. Now and then the two cousins paused to wipe dry the perspiration that streamed down their dark faces.

Halimah brought them both skins of water and they drank it down thirstily. Then Ahmad Khalil looked down with pride and happiness at his handiwork. The plants he was tending every day were growing straight and tall, their green leaves crisp, bright and thriving with health and vigour. Inshallah, the harvest would be good this year. He stooped low and scooped up a handful of earth and slowly let it crumble between his fingers. It was moist beneath the surface, black with fertility and rich with 78 worms, ants and other creeping creatures. Iraq al Manshiya was on the very edge of the desert beyond which stretched as far as the eye could see, the most arid desolate land, yet the fellaheen knew how to coax their crops to grow where the stranger would not believe that anything could live, for any soil that could yield even the most meagre sustenance, was guarded by them with the most meticulous care. To his father, the work on the land meant only dreary drudgery, dirt and back-breaking toil in addition to being scorned with contempt by all society outside the village.

Malak Wahab could never understand why Ahmad Khalil preferred the work in the fields above anything else.

Suddenly the roar of a motor car startled them. At the sight of the automobile, Khalifa ran screaming in terror to his aunt and clung to her skirts. Open-mouthed, Ahmad Khalil stared as the old and battered car stopped at the edge of the fields and a short, fat man in a rumpled English suit and a red fez, approached his father.

Malak Wahab at first did not notice. He was too absorbed in digging a ditch. Not until Mustafa Effendi called out to him with the loud, demanding voice of a man accustomed to giving orders and receiving instant obedience, did he look up from his work, his face filled with a mixture of embarrassment, hostility and shame.

Malak Wahab climbed out of the ditch, his torn gown covered with dirt, his hands and feet caked with mud.

79 “I understand, Effendi, that you never wanted to see me again, that you forced me to live here and work for you in this wretched place because you no longer were willing to maintain me as your slave. Well now, are you pleased with what you have done to me? What more trouble have you come here to inflict on us. Are you not satisfied?”

“You could at least be civil, Malak Wahab, but then it seems to be your nature to be rude even to your blood relations.”

I have been informed that you have two sons.

He pointed to Ahmad Khalil with a pudgy finger. “That must be the elder one,” he said contemptuously. “Not much to look at, I admit, but he seems healthy enough….”

Moments of strained silence followed.

Ahmad Khalil stared at the Effendi, and at first sight hated him instantly and thoroughly. He stared at the yellow-pock-marked face, the jaundiced, blood-shot eyes filled with guile, greed and cunning, the hooked nose, the fleshy sensual mouth, the double-chin. Never before had he seen a man so ugly—an ugliness both repulsive and fascinating. He continued to stare as though hypnotized.

The Effendi stared back—his gaze both hard and cruel.

He stared at the boy as if he deserved no better treatment or consideration than vermin.

“What do you want with my children?” demanded Malak Wahab fiercely.

“I need another servant, a servant to clean the 80 house, scrub the floors—he looks strong enough for the work…

“Then you must look for one elsewhere! I will not permit you to enslave my son! You forget that the Turks have gone and the Mandate has outlawed slavery! You dare touch him and I send word to the police in Gaza and you will be thrown into prison!”

Mustafa Effendi smiled complacently. “The British officials in Gaza are my personal friends. As for the police, I can always bribe them to silence. This village, this land and all the fellaheen on it are my property, with whom I can do what I please. You forget that your mother was one of my father’s slave-concubines. You make him do as I say or I double the taxes of grain that must be paid to me from here and nobody but you will be to blame!”

“No!” shouted Malak defiantly. “I won’t let you do this! I will kill you first!”

Terrified, Ahmad Khalil tensed, poised to flee for his life, but before he could run away, another pair of hands gripped him by the shoulders, hands obviously unaccustomed to physical labour but nevertheless powerful and tenacious.

Then he saw the two other men who had emerged from the car, huge and muscular.

“Arif! Auni!” called Mustafa Effendi. “Put him inside the car!”

The boy tried to struggle. “None of that!” a strange gruff voice threatened. “You stop that or we’ll tie you up!”

“Father! Father!” screamed Ahmad Khalil.

81 A big hairy hand covered his mouth and then he was roughly shoved under the seat.

The car drove away…