The Haj - Leon Uris [53]
The old sheik slumped back into silence. The caravan could be seen inching against the skyline at a distance of a few miles. Horizons, it seemed, were made to showcase camels’ humps.
‘Uncle,’ Ibrahim prodded. ‘It must come down to a war between us and the Jews. It is inevitable.’
‘Yes, we must fight them,’ Azziz agreed, ‘because they are infidels and we are Moslems. No infidel can be allowed to rule one inch of land where Islam exists. However, fight the Jews very carefully.’
‘What do you mean, Uncle?’
‘All the rest of the foreigners have come to Palestine to exploit us. The Jews have come to stay. They have done well by the land. They can be trusted more than anyone else, including ourselves. In the end we will get a better deal from a Gideon Asch than from the Syrians, the Jordanians, the British, anyone. Of course, out in public, you must scream and rage about Jewish presence. However, when you pick up a gun against them, make sure your aim is bad and make sure they know you never meant to hit anything. Allah forbid I have to go back under Egyptian rule.’
The line of camels swayed toward them. The old man creaked to his feet, embraced his nephew, and mounted his horse. ‘We cannot function as nations. We never have been able to govern ourselves. Our way has always been men like you and me taking charge. Play with the Jews quietly. It is our best chance.’
He turned his mount and spurred off to join the caravan.
17
MY FATHER EMERGED FROM the war as an imposing figure. Not only had he survived the Mufti’s rebellion, he had administered an ignoble defeat to Kaukji’s Irregulars. His burning of Tabah’s fields, catching the enemy downwind, became a legendary battle that thousands, even millions of poems have been written about.
After my father’s initial onslaughts of lust for Ramiza had been blunted, he wanted to return to the familiar comforts that my mother’s large feminine body could offer and he summoned her back to bed.
Hagar did as she was bid, for she had no choice, but she made it clear, without using words, that Haj Ibrahim would never know her again with the same passion or share pleasures they had once known.
This enraged my father. His first threats were to divorce her and cast her out permanently. For a Moslem husband to rid himself of an unwanted wife was a very simple matter. However, Haj Ibrahim was pragmatic. Although Ramiza was beautiful, she was a Bedouin girl and much cruder than village women. She was inept and clumsy in running the kitchen and performing her duties. Haj Ibrahim said that one does not throw out the old cow until the new one starts producing milk. He wanted his comforts and meals properly administered. Therefore, my mother was allowed to remain.
At the end of the war I was nine years old. With my mother’s prodding, I had approached Haj Ibrahim and convinced him to let me go to school. By learning to read and write, I could become familiar with the village records and documents and make certain Kamal and Uncle Farouk were not still cheating Father.
The school in Ramle was basic and primitive. Yet I was very proud. I was the first child from Tabah since Kamal to go to an Arab school. Uncle Farouk had been taught to read and write by Christian missionaries.
The school consisted of a single, dark bare room, peeling and chipped, with smells from the outside toilet often settling in on the hot windless days. The school yard was not much bigger than the classroom and was of hard-packed dirt. It could not be called a playground because there were no swings or slides or any sporting equipment. I did not know that these even existed until much later. Most of the time recess in the yard was spent eating our lunches, sitting huddled with