“Will you get involved in politics, Midhat?” asked Wasfi Kamal.
“I am already involved,” said Midhat.
“Really?” said Jamil, knocking him on the shoulder with the back of his hand.
“In Paris, of course, there were a number of political activities. Discussions, conferences. Many people there in exile. Al-Fatat—”
“You’re a member of Al-Fatat?” said Wasfi.
“No I wasn’t a member. But my good friend Hani Murad was one of the original founders, ya’ni, and he writes to me sometimes. He is the emir’s secretary at the Conference.”
“Oh, very nice. Very impressive,” said Wasfi.
At that piece of news, Abdallah Atwan spoke up for the first time since the group had relocated to their new table.
“And what is the news, then, if you are so well connected? Has Faisal made a deal with the French or not? Will Syria be independent? I should think Hani Murad has told you the latest, unless you are exaggerating your friendship.”
“Calm down Amo, give him a chance,” said Qais Karak.
“It’s fine,” said Midhat. “Well, the general picture from Hani’s letter—”
“So there’s only one letter.”
“—was that the French and the British have already made their deals. That’s what the British man Lawrence has been saying. So it was either … well, he had to make a deal with the French, or suffer their armies.”
“I knew it,” said Munir Murad.
“He’s already made a deal?” said Wasfi. “Ya Allah, this is precisely the worst that could have happened.”
Bodies bent away from the table at the impact, but Munir Murad bent even further towards Midhat.
“And Palestine? Did he say anything about Faisal’s position on Zionism? The newspapers say nothing, only ‘rumours are circulating,’ blah blah blah.”
Abdallah knocked his head back in displeasure and crackled the broadsheet in half, as though he were not only a subscriber to the paper but had written it himself.
“No,” said Midhat, “he didn’t say. My feeling is that Palestine should be part of Syria, because unity is stronger than independence.”
This was not what he had consistently argued in Paris. But the tenor of the questioning suggested that it would be an opinion favourable to Nabulsi ears. And the refrain, “unity is stronger than independence,” had been sounded out frequently in Faruq’s apartment and was easy to parrot.
“Habibi, of course we should be part of Syria,” said Munir Murad. “Remember you’re in Nablus. That’s not a feeling, that’s a fact. All the oldies in Jerusalem who say otherwise, they’re only worried about their tarabish. Pathetic. Who is more likely to knock off your tarbush, Emir Faisal or Lloyd George?”
“And what about you,” said Midhat. “Are you all involved in politics?”
Munir and Basil Murad exchanged glances. Munir cocked his head.
“We are members of Al-Fida’iya, the Self Sacrifice Society.”
Now it was Qais Karak and Adel Jawhari’s turn to exchange a glance, and Adel rolled his eyes.
“What is that?” said Midhat. “I haven’t heard of it.”
“It’s new,” said Basil.
“It’s a Jaffa society,” said Tahsin Kamal.
“Yeah, well now it’s a Nablus society too,” said Basil.
“They work with the fellahin,” said Burhan.
“Are you an authority on the subject?” said Basil.
“Basil, come on,” said Qais Karak.
“Really? Like farm work?” said Midhat.
Jamil kicked Midhat under the table.
“No,” said Munir. “We want to enlist the whole of Palestine.”
“They have to take an oath that if someone is a traitor, then that person should be killed. Even if he is your own friend,” said Tahsin, breathlessly.
Burhan Hammad clamped his teeth together and widened his eyes.
“Tahsin,” said Munir. But he did not protest. If anything, he sat up a little straighter at the description.
“The problem with these societies,” said Adel Jawhari, “is that they want money. And because Nablus is the richest city, we end up paying, and no one else does their share.”
“I’m not sure that’s true, Adel.”
“It is,” said Adel. “These societies are meant to be countrywide, but not everyone does their bit. As usual we have the most qawmiyyeh, and the others … I mean, the societies send petitions, they buy arms, I mean, little pistols, not exactly German rifles. Not that German rifles did the Turks much good, but the British have a ton of stuff and we’ve got nothing.”
“As long as the Jews don’t have anything, it doesn’t matter if we don’t have anything either. Fair is fair,” said Tahsin Kamal.
“Fair is fair? Are you out of your mind?” said Munir Murad. “The Jews in England, do you know how much money they have? They have an empire. They’ve started colonizing here, they’re messing with the peasants in the north, that’s why there’s no money—it’s all going to the Jews. You can say it’s the war, but the war has been over for more than a year now, and what has changed?”
Now, Abdallah Atwan took the reins.
“We must resist all of the Jews,” he said. “Even our own Jews, the ones we have here.”
“We only have about ten Jews in Nablus,” said someone, “and they’re Arabs.”
“What about the Samaritans,” said someone else.
“The Samaritans aren’t Jews,” said a third.
“Yes they are,” said Abdallah.
The truth was that very few of the men sitting in Sheikh Qassem that day had ever met a European Jew. The Yishuv settlements were mostly quite far from Jabal Nablus, and as a result their only conception of European Jewish men and women was based on those devout incumbents of Jerusalem who were not even Zionists, and on the Samaritan Nabulsis, who claimed to be the original Israelites, and considered Mount Gerizim the sacred summit upon which Ibrahim was called to sacrifice his son.
But Abdallah Atwan’s rage was general and his prejudice limitless. He was capable of seizing the hot zeal of indignation and, through a few words that reasserted his wisdom as an elder, impressing upon it the shape of tribal fury, that cared not for such subtle distinctions as those that existed between Jew and Jew.
When they left Sheikh Qassem it was already five o’clock, and darkness was beginning to rouse the evening winds that collected in the valley. Midhat raced back to the khan with numb cheeks. He reached the corner of the shop, and although the tailor’s office was shut for the night he could see the glow from Hisham’s oil lamp on the counter. He prepared an expression of friendly nonchalance, which he had honed for the craft of discarding vexed women. It was a technique based on the insight that an injured party will most likely forget the wrong done them if you pretended it had never happened, or that it was a trifling mistake
“Hisham, ya Amo! It was difficult to tear myself away,” he said, stepping inside. “I was in a conversation with young Salim something or other, he was thinking of purchasing from us the fabric for his daughter’s kiswa, it would be a big order, he said. Anyway, we were discussing for a long time outside Sheikh Qassem, and … he might come by tomorrow. Then again, perhaps he was only saying he wanted to purchase because he had not seen me in so long.” He shrugged with mock humility. “But I guess that is the problem with being new in town, everyone is especially polite to you. Don’t worry, I will soon become old news.”