XIX

As Ahmad Khalil first walked the narrow worn streets of Medina hand in hand with his brother and his cousin, his wife following close behind, and merged themselves into the multitudes of people who had come in a flood from Mecca, the rest of Arabia and every country of the Muslim world, he knew at once this was the only city in the world where he would ever choose to live and make his second home, the only place where he could experience such joy and happiness.

Inspite of the crowds and the narrowness and congestion of the streets, there was no shoving, pushing or jostling, no hurried frenzy here.

They reached the main bazaar under the shelter of the great inner wall where vendors praised their wares with cheerful chants and the shops filled with an amazing variety of goods for sale from East and West ranging from camel saddles, silken embroidered Kashmir shawls, and Persian carpets to Swiss watches, Japanese-manufactured tape-recording machines and short-wave radio receiving sets.

Many people stopped to eagerly examine them and feast their eyes but Ahmad Khalil only 187 passed on without even seeing, never looking to the right or left, as he had no interest in purchasing any of these things, even had he the money to buy nor did the busy throngs in the market-place have the slightest fascination for him. His eyes were fixed straight ahead on the five minarets of the Prophet’s Mosque which rose as slim white tapered towers into the infinity of the cloudless blue sky above the luminous green dome.

It was mid-morning when they reached their goal, the Masjid an-Nabi and they entered the heavy arched gate into the interior of greenish twilight. Long rows of thick marble columns supported the roof, delicate blue and white tiles adorned the semi-circular niches pointed towards Mecca and richly decorated carpets covered the marble floor. The grave of the Prophet itself could not be seen as it was hidden from view by heavy brocades and enclosed in an ornate bronze grill. But his presence could still be keenly felt and as Ahmad Khalil drew near to offer his salutation of “peace” he thought he saw the Prophet in all his majesty as he preached his Farewell Sermon to the assembled multitude:

……… This day are those who disbelieve in despair of ever harming your religion ; so fear them not ; fear ME ! This day have I perfected your faith and completed My favour unto you and have chosen for you AL-ISLAM ! ………

Quietly Ahmad Khalil rose from his prayer to offer the benediction of “peace” to Abu Bakr and Umar who were buried at the same place. And in 188 the empty silence, he could hear Abu Bakr’s voice echo and re-echo down the ages:

……… Now O people, I am your ruler though I am not the best among you. If I do right, support me; If I commit any wrong, then show me the Straight Path. Obey me only so long as I obey Allah and His messenger ; If I disobey them, then you must disobey me. Know that I am no more than a man from among yourselves ………… “.

Ahmad Khalil then fixed an unwavering gaze upon the tomb of Umar who had strengthened the fledgling Islamic state to its heights of glory — Umar who ruled an empire and slept on a pile of

palm leaves ……..

He listened to the Imam summon the worshippers to the early afternoon Salat, but although the Adhan could be distinctly heard from one end of the great hall to the other, it came soft and muffled without any echo. He took so long and slow over his Salat he had kept his head prostrated on the floor for nearly a half hour, all sense of time lost, and perhaps he could have stayed there another hour when Khalifa tugged at his arm, plaintively begging for something to eat. Ahmad Khalil untied his bundle of provisions and took out a large nylon-plastic bottle filled with water from the sacred well of Zam-Zam in Mecca which he had carefully saved for Khalifa ; for this water was noted for its medicinal value as well as its Divine blessings and if Allah willed, could cure every malady.

He handed it to his brother who drank down part of it thirstily.

189 More pilgrims filled the sanctuary from every nation on earth but Ahmad Khalil took little notice of them. He sat and prayed on the thick, soft, exquisitely hand-woven Persian carpets and then gazed long at the hundreds of gold-embroidered Names of Allah and the Prophet which adorned the walls. Khalifa went quietly to the gate and reverently caressed the intricately engraved Arabic script with his fingers.

They stayed there the entire day, joining the congregation in every Salat. They forgot all about food and drink.

Night fell and after the last Salat of the day, they put their bundles of provisions in a corner of the courtyard, each ate a handful of dates, spread out their straw mats and lay down to sleep ……..

The following day Ahmad Khalil noticed several very black men dressed in spotlessly clean long white robes and turbans. They were the servants of the mosque whose duty it was to keep it cleaned and repaired. He could think of no higher ambition than to become one of them and spend his whole time here. He tried to talk to them but they were too reserved to confide in strangers. Ahmad Khalil and Rashid were then told that the Mosque had all the servants it required and that their employment was not needed.

Bitterly disappointed, they left and searched the city for shelter until they finally found room on the ground floor of an old three-storied house 190 The room was large enough to give them all enough space. Two small barred windows below the high ceiling let in air and light and during bad weather, the shutters could be closed.

From the bazaar, Ahmad Khalil and Rashid bought more straw mats to cover the cold cement floor and since they had no bedding, they slept with their long robes wrapped tightly around them. When the cold grew more intense, they huddled together for warmth. During the summer they slept outside in the small walled courtyard and when the heat became unbearable, neighbours on the top floor would allow them to share the roof.

Since the house had no running water, Asma would go out heavily veiled several times daily to fill her jug from the public tap a short distance up the street. When the erratic supply of water failed at the tap, Ahmad Khalil and Rashid would each take a big bucket to fill with water at the nearest neighbourhood mosque, carrying it home gracefully on their heads. For the first time, they could enjoy the luxury of an out-door latrine and kitchen space all to themselves without the ordeal they had to endure in the refugee camp of being compelled to share with so many other families.

Ahmad Khalil used the last of his savings to pay rent. Soon he and Rashid managed to find work in one of the oasis gardens on the outskirts of the city, tending the date-palm trees and harvesting the vegetables.

Although the pittance they received as wages was just enough to pay the 199 owner of the house their monthly rent and buy flour and lentils, they were allowed to take home for themselves an additional bounty of fresh vegetables and delicious dates so they were content because they never lacked something to eat.

No sooner had they become settled in their new home when Asma gave birth to a son, the new baby small and rather thin but healthy and perfectly formed.

Ahmad Khalil gave it the name of “Ismail” after the son of the Prophet Abraham and as the months passed and the baby grew larger and thrived on his mother’s milk, Ahmad Khalil wondered whether or not if it be the will of Allah that his future was destined he would be of credit to his illustrious name?

The immigrant quarter where they lived was in the poorest and most dilapidated district of the city. Indeed, the refugees who had taken shelter here were known as the most destitute of all the inhabitants of Arabia.

But Ahmad Khalil was happy with his new neighbours who were kind, friendly and helpful. He spent many absorbing hours sitting with them, listening to the harrowing tales of persecution they had endured in their native lands.

He was especially drawn to the natives of Russian and Chinese Turkestan.

In the camp, there had been a great deal of talk among the youth about Communism, Socialism and Karl Marx. It was considered the height of fashion among the “progressive” younger men to 192 incline towards these trends of thought. He was told by more than one of them that the aim of Communism was to enforce the equality of all men, to end all class distinctions and take from the rich and give to the poor. Communist agents in the camp had never ceased to emphasize the warm friendship of Russia and the lands under her domination for the Arabs—that she stood ready to help the Arabs in all ways against poverty, misery and foreign exploitation, that Communism and socialism was the panacea for all social and economic evils. He had heard this propaganda repeated many times over the Arabic-language broadcasts of Radio Moscow.

One of the men in the tent he shared had owned a short-wave radio receiving set and kept it on for hours at a time beamed to Moscow. But he repudiated the whole idea as soon as he discovered the fanatical hostility of the Communists against religion, that they did not believe in God or Hereafter and persecuted all who did and then he found out that Marx had been a Jew. But he had never heard of what Communists did to Muslims until he saw right before his eyes the victims of Stalin’s reign of terror. Like the Palestinians, the natives of Turkestan had to combat the encroachment of the Slavic white intruders who were determined to settle on their lands and drive them away from their ancestral homes or make them prisoners of foreign tyranny. Under threat of death in exile, they were prohibited to practice Islam or teach it to their children who 193 were compelled to accept the indoctrination of atheism in the public schools. They were prohibited to perform Haj and the borders to adjacent lands where they might seek asylum were closed.

By the tens of thousands they attempted to escape

and then were captured and killed in the most brutal ways. Among Ahmad Khalil’s neighbours and friends on the upper stories of his house were some of these survivors who, after losing all their property and most of their families, had sought refuge in Medina and consolation from the near-presence of the holy places.

In the company of those refugees from Soviet Russia, Communist China, India and various parts of Africa who spoke Arabic, Ahmad Khalil felt much more close kinship than with any of the rich Saudi Arabs who had reaped the benefits of the oil industry. In the entire district set aside for the immigrants, he was the only Arab. He never met a single Palestinian like himself.

The Palestinians in Arabia were nearly all from the cities or trained in the vocational schools of the United Nations agency who worked for the oil companies in Dhahran or Kuwait. Few of them cared to go to Mecca or Medina, least of all, to live there.

Each year Ahmad Khalil would plead with the Government authorities at their offices to allow him to prolong his stay in Medina indefinitely; he promised not to be of any burden or make any trouble for them, that he worked for his living and never resorted to begging. Yet he stubbornly refused to 194 adopt Saudi citizenship lest this formality deprive him of his right to return to Palestine. Although Saudi Arabia was an absolute monarchy, he found none of the tyranny and oppression so characteristic of the rule of the Egyptians. No spies, secret police or armed police anywhere in evidence. Here life and property were almost completely safe. Murders and robberies were almost unheard of and there was probably less crime than anywhere else on earth. Now he no longer needed his knife for a weapon, he carefully put it in its sheath, safe at the bottom of a locked tin trunk. Here he eagerly breathed the air of freedom like one who had just emerged from jail. There were no restrictions on his movements and his letters to his father were not censored.

After work, he would roam the quiet narrow streets of Medina with his brother and cousin hand in hand. The cool evening breeze gently caressed their faces. Although it was laden with sand and dust from the desert, they found lovely gardens of flowers and date-palm trees everywhere and the dates which grew in Medina were the very finest in all the world. Despite the vast range of peoples from every part of the world and the variety of their dress, they did not appear as any random medley of types. It seemed to him rather that all its inhabitants and even temporary visitors very soon fell into a community of mood, a sameness of behaviour and even of facial expression reflecting a common sobriety, serenity, tranquility and inward 195 peacefulness as if none could resist the unseen presence of the Prophet.

All of this Ahmad Khalil tried to express as best he could when he wrote to his father. But his father did not reply. The newspapers were filled with accounts of the Israeli invasion of Gaza and Sinai and the British and French bombardment of Port Said and the closure of the Suez Canal. When the Jews were finally forced to evacuate the occupied territories by order of President Eisenhower, several months later, Ahmad Khalil was horrified to read in the newspapers that his father was among those arrested by the Egyptian authorities and scheduled to stand trial in military court charged with having collaborated with the enemy, the penalty of which was death by firing squad.

The weeks passed and the months. Ahmad Khalil waited anxiously. Then one night when he returned late from the fields, Rashid ran to him with great excitement.

“Look, Ahmad Khalil! Look! The letter has come!”

Ahmad Khalil’s face lit up when at once he recognized his father’s handwriting on the envelope. Eagerly Rashid ripped it open. He held the letter close to the kerosene lamp and examined it closely.

“You are holding it upside down!” chided Ahmad Khalil, impatiently. “Rashid! Give it to me!”

196 “Tell me what your father says!” demanded Rashid.

And slowly and haltingly Ahmad Khalil began to read it aloud…

… It was through the mercy and compassion of Allah that during the trial I was able to prove my innocence and shortly afterwards, was released. Now that I have been given my freedom, I am teaching again and the school is my whole life…

I wish you could understand why there could be no greater satisfaction than to be part of the teaching staff of this school. Never was I so happy than on that day just before the war broke out when we were at last able to move our classes out of tents into a real school-house. The older students especially are so proud. They helped build it themselves…

I teach my class of ten-year-olds arithmetic, elementary science, Islamic-Arab history, the rudiments of Arabic grammar and literature, the English primer and the holy Quran. I do not merely wish my students to memorize and recite. I want them to understand. I try to awaken their curiosity enough to ask questions. I want to encourage them to think for themselves.

But sometimes it is so difficult I reach the point of despair. There are not enough teachers. I instruct over a hundred children; half who come in the morning and the remainder in the afternoon. Sixty boys, clad in an odd assortment of ragged cast-offs, crowd a room meant for only half that number and two at a desk intended only for one. They must share the books because there are not enough to go round. Few of the books are without missing pages. I feel so frustrated that I have too many children. I cannot possibly know all of them as I should and devote to each, 197 the attention he needs.

I must be patient when they are listless or one of my children falls asleep in class. Without enough to eat, they cannot do their best work.

They are not strong enough for their lessons.

But no teacher could ask for better pupils. They are so enthusiastic and eager to learn. To preserve discipline and order is no problem. For them, education means no less than survival and their only hope to escape from the misery of the refugee camp. I know of one refugee boy (his father an illiterate unskilled labourer) who earned one of the scholarships and is now studying engineering at the American University of Beirut. When I think of this, obstacles become challenges and I am content to work hard and watch the children progress from day to day…

“Wait, Ahmad Khalil,” interrupted Rashid, “I want to see if Khalifa is sleeping soundly.”

“Rashid, why aren’t you listening? Aren’t you interested? Listen, here is something about your father”:

… Just after the Jews withdrew their troops from Gaza, Halimah died in the hospital of advanced tuberculosis. She had been very ill for a long time. So Mansur has come to live with me and even though he has no work and only his ration-card, I am supporting him…

Left alone in the darkness lit only dimly by the kerosene lamp, Ahmad Khalil pondered over the closing paragraph:

… How can I adequately express to you in words my great joy when you told me about the birth of your son? I hope he is healthy and I pray to Allah that he enjoy a long and happy life. I feel so sad when I think that I may never see little Ismail or any of my other grand198 children. But that will not make them any less dear to me. Please write me everything you can about them…

A week later, Ahmad Khalil sat down to write the reply to his father. He could only write and express himself with much difficulty and even to complete a page took more than an hour. His handwriting was that of a seven-year-old child just beginning his schooling—awkward and clumsy and barely legible in crooked lines. He was so ashamed, he hoped his father would not show his letters to anyone. He told of Khalifa’s miraculous recovery during the Baj, his dramatic improvement, and how he was now working alongside of him and Rashid in the oasis garden and supporting himself. When Khalifa saw Ahmad Khalil sitting crosslegged on the floor with the pen in his hand, he begged for permission to write to his father himself. The letter was so long that Khalifa took half the afternoon to finish it. In respect for his brother’s right to privacy, Ahmad Khalil did not read it. Only once he peeped furtively over his shoulder to admire the elegance of his writing, his hand as sure and steady as one gifted in the art of calligraphy. Surely his father should feel proud of that and proud to show what his son could do to his fellow teachers at the school. Ahmad Khalil addressed and sealed the envelope and then took it to the post-office.

A month passed before his father’s reply arrived. In the midst of the usual news about the school and his students and assuring Rashid of 199 Mansur’s continued good health despite his age, Ahmad Khalil’s face grew pale with shock when he read the concluding lines:

“I received Khalifa’s letter and it filled me with unbearable pain and sadness. You could not have read it or you would never have claimed any improvement in his condition. The boy is hopelessly ill and belongs on the disturbed ward in a hospital. As Saudi Arabia is such a rich country, it should not be difficult to institutionalize him there. He is like a vegetable. He exists on a level that is hardly human. I try to think of him as dead and for me, he is. Please, I beg of you not to cause me any more torment by ever mentioning him in your letters to me again……..”.

Ahmad Khalil wrote back at once, begging his father not to worry about Khalifa; that Khalifa was to remain at home with them and assuring him that he and Rashid would care for him and assume all the responsibilities. Quietly he put the letter in a box along with all the others from his father and placed it on a high shelf which he hoped would be inaccessible.

The mid-afternoon of the following day, Ahmad Khalil came home from work to see Khalifa standing all alone in the middle of the room. When he entered the door, Khalifa did not move or give him any sign of recognition. He stood frozen to the spot, as petrified as stone, his face drained of all colour. The box had been taken down from the shelf and papers were strewn all over the floor. The letter was in his hand! How did he find it? How could he know? But he did as he had obviously 200 read it all. When Ahmad Khalil took it from him as gently as he could, he began to tremble. His body shook convulsively from head to foot.

Ahmad Khalil took him in his arms and held him close against him. “But we left Father behind and now he is far, far away. He can do nothing to you now. Only I am here and Rashid is here. We shall protect you and never let anyone hurt you.”

Ahmad Khalil tried to comfort his brother and make him forget by taking him to the library each day after their work was done.

Single-file they entered the winding alleys of the oldest district of Medina, so narrow in places that two people could barely pass one another until they found themselves before the grey stone walls of the Shaikh Mahmud Library built centuries ago by a Turkish sultan. Very quietly the two brothers stepped into a white-washed domed hall lined with glass-covered bookcases filled with thousands of hand-written books on religion, philosophy, law, science, mathematics, history, geography and literature - among them, some of the rarest manuscripts known to the Islamic world.

Rows of turbaned bearded scholars, clad in long white robes, squatted on cushions and bent over their books, resting on low mahogany benches instead of tables, taking notes and sometimes they discussed them together in hushed voices too low for their neighbours to hear.

There were no foreign books and only a few in print and they spent many happy hours alone with the two library assistants, browsing among them, fingering 201 the ancient yellowed pages with reverence.

Most of the books were far beyond the understanding or experience of a man as unlettered as he but one book which the librarian brought him attracted his special interest - a copy of the Muqaddimah by the great Tunisian historian, Ibn Khaldun who lived over six hundred years ago. The librarian explained that this book was faithfully copied over by hand in the finest calligraphy by an anonymous Turkish scholar in Istanbul just before printing came into vogue. To help him understand it better, he also gave him a short, simple biography on Ibn Khaldun:

“Abu Zaid Abdul Rahman Ibn Khaldun was born in Tunis. His family claimed to originate from the Hadramaut in south Arabia and migrated to Spain in the early days of the Islamic conquest. During the next four centuries, the Khaldun family was established in Seville; they were always among its ruling elite.

But the Christian re-conquest was driving many Arab-Muslims across the Straits of Gibraltar to Africa and just before the capture of Seville by Ferdinand III of Leon and Castille, the Khaldun family migrated to Tunisia.

The refugees from Spain were far more cultured and educated than the natives of north Africa and the historian’s grandfather soon obtained the post of the Minister and devoted himself to the study of the sacred Law, theology and letters until he fell victim to the Black Death.

After his son, Abdul Rahman, had received his education, consisting of memorizing Quran by heart, Arabic grammar, poetry and jurisprudence, he made his entry into public life at the age of twenty, becoming Secretary to the 202 Sultan of Fez in Morocco.

Some years later, Ibn Khaldun went back to Spain where he entered the service of the Sultan of Granada who sent him as his ambassador to Pedro the Cruel, king of Castile. In Seville, he was moved to tears when he saw “the monuments of the power of my ancestors”. His genius so much amazed the Christian king that he offered to restore to him all his ancestral estates if he would enter into his service. Ibn Khaldun refused, saying: “I will always be faithful to my ancestors, their traditions, my people and to Islam. I will never become a Christian nor do I want my children or my grandchildren to grow up as Christians.”

He thus returned to North Africa with his family and retired in seclusion in Tunisia for four years to write the Muqaddimah and his Universal World History, simultaneously engaging himself in study and delivering lectures at the Zaituna University mosque in Tunis.

Ibn Khaldun then decided to go to Mecca when the greatest tragedy of his life struck; the shipwreck in a storm at sea which was carrying his family from Tunis to Egypt and deprived him with one fatal blow of “riches, happiness and children”. He sought consolation in prayer and recitation of the Quran and after serving three years as the Chief Justice of the Maliki law courts in Egypt, he pursued his interrupted Hajj. Then he returned from Arabia to Egypt, intending to lead a quiet life.

But fate reserved for him one more encounter, the most dramatic of all. When Damascus was threatened by the savage Mongol invasion, Ibn Khaldun was one of the notables who were let down by long ropes over the walls of the city to negotiate terms with Tamerlane. The terrible conqueror was astonished by the historian’s appearance and most impressed when Ibn Khaldun read him passages in 203 his Universal History concerning his savage exploits, asking him to correct any mistakes he might have made in the Chronicle! He even offered Ibn Khaldun a post in his service, which the historian skillfully declined. When the Mongols sacked Damascus, he was able to save many lives.

On his return to Egypt, Ibn Khaldun was once more appointed Chief Justice of the Maliki-Shari’ah courts in Cairo, a post he still occupied when death overtook him at the age of seventy-four.

Because of the constant intrigues and jealousies that surrounded him and frequent changes of allegiance from one ruler to another, certain modern critics have accused him of an utter lack of patriotism. But the reader must be reminded that patriotism as modern Europe understands is unknown in Islam. To one Fatherland, Ibn Khaldun always remained true — Darul-Islam — or the area of Muslim civilization…

“… His agitated life had brought him encounters with King Pedro the Cruel in the West and the terrible Mongol, Tamerlane in the East. It had taken him into the huts of savages and into the palaces of kings; into the dungeons with criminals and into the highest courts of justice; into the illiterate and into the academies of scholars and the lecture-halls of universities, into the treasure-houses of the past and into the turmoil of the present, into deprivation and sorrow and into affluence and joy. It had led him into the depths where the spirit broods over the meaning of life…”

As Ahmad Khalil with the assistance of the librarian was pondering over the three volumes of the Muqaddimah trying to gain some measure of understanding it, one chapter-heading drew his keenest attention:

212

IMITATION OF THE CONQUERORS BY THE VANQUISHED

“The vanquished always seek to imitate their victors in their dress, manner, mode of life, customs and beliefs. This is because men are always inclined to attribute perfection to those who have defeated and subjugated them. Men do this either because of the reverence they feel for their conquerors makes them see only perfection in them or because they refuse to admit their defeat could have been brought about by ordinary causes and hence they suppose that it is due to the perfection of the conquerors. Should this illusion persist long, it will change into a profound conviction and will lead to the adoption of all tenets of the victors and a close imitation of all their characteristics. This blind imitation may come about either unconsciously or because of a mistaken belief that the victory of the conquerors was due not to their superior physical might and material strength but because of the inferiority of the customs, beliefs and mode of life of the conquered. Hence arises the further delusion that such an imitation will remove the causes of defeat….

Notice how in all countries, the native population almost always adopts the dress and habits of the royal garrison stationed in their midst because the latter has imposed its rule upon them. In fact, every country which has powerful conquering neighbours tends to a large extent to imitate those neighbours as we see among the defeated Spanish Muslims today in respect to their Christian neighbours. For today in Spain, the Muslims are imitating the Christians in their dress and ornaments and indeed changing many of their customs and habits, even to the extent of having pictures and statues adorn the walls of their homes and shops. And in this, the careful observer will mark a sure proof of weakness and inferiority, 213 And here in a book written six centuries ago, he had found the answer to the question which had perplexed him all his life and which he knew was for his people and indeed for all Muslims no less than a question of life or death!

How he wished his father and his friends from the refugee camp could be here beside him now so he could read this aloud to them, shout it loud enough for everyone to hear this truth to the whole East about the West if only people would listen and take heed before all was lost forever and it would be too late!

It was not long before the librarian’s assistants, Abd-ur-Rahman and Inamullah became Ahmad Khalil’s constant companions. In order to be able to spend more time with them, he found work tending the flowers, the lawn and the date palms in the garden beside the nearest local mosque. Abd-ur-Rahman, a convert from Hinduism, had come to Medina from Delhi on Hajj with his three wives and seven children. Disowned by his father and brothers as an untouchable because he had married beneath his caste, he decided to stay permanently. Inamullah’s aged parents had journeyed from Sumatra to Medina for the privilege of dying on such holy ground and by the time the boy reached manhood, he could scarcely remember he ever had another home. Even though his wages were even less here than in the oasis garden where Rashid and Khalifa continued to work, he was happy.

Here he could work out of doors all the 206 time at his leisure in the open pure fresh air with the cool green grass beneath his feet amid the company of the bright flowers and the shade of the palm trees filled with many kinds of birds. Of course he would have preferred to serve in the great Masjid-an-Nabi but since this mosque was still within the precincts of the City of the Prophet, he had to be content with the second-best.

In the afternoons, he liked to sit in the warm winter sunshine of the courtyard absorbed in plaiting new sleeping mats for himself and Rashid to replace the old ones that had become worn out and torn while Khalifa helped him, carefully picking out the longest reeds from the pile on the floor and handing them to him one by one.

All was peaceful and quiet and in the silent companionship of his brother beside him, he felt complete happiness and contentment.

One afternoon after his work for the day at the mosque was done, Ahmad Khalil found the keeper of the library waiting for him. He was awe-struck at the dignity and reserve of the gray-bearded old scholar in his long white robes.

“I want to speak to you about your brother. I have looked carefully at the handwriting and his drawings you have given me. Already it is clear to me that he is a gifted artist. I never met a child like him before. If you give me permission to teach him calligraphy and design, I am willing to pay him while he is learning more than he would earn working in the fields…”

207 Twelve-year-old Khalifa sat cross-legged on the richly-decorated carpet in the opposite corner of the room, listening eagerly while pretending to be absorbed in a book. The keeper went to him and knelt beside him and when he put a gentle wrinkled hand on his thin shoulder, his face lit up for the first time since the War with a radiant smile.