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  Fahd fell silent and lit another cigarette. An air of despondency had descended over the others, who began nodding their heads in agreement. Hisham also agreed more or less with Fahd’s analysis: it was this that had attracted him to Marxism in the first place. Yet another question began going round in his mind, although he was reluctant to ask it, particularly given that this was his first meeting with these people.

  “But Comrade Fahd,” he said after hesitating for a while, “wasn’t the Baath party in power in Syria before the Setback? How come it happened when the party was in government?”

  For a few moments Fahd was silent, frowning and looking into the distance with his chin between his middle finger and his thumb and his index finger on his cheek. “It was not the party that was in power in Syria,” he said, “it was that group of reactionary Aflaqites. The party has only been in power since 1966, that’s to say from less than a year before the Setback, and one year isn’t enough to put right the mess created by the previous opportunistic governments, which from March 1963 had used the party’s name as a fig leaf. And the conspiracy was greater than the party as well. All the reactionary forces and their agents were ranged against the party to bring it down, but in the end the party proved stronger than the conspiracy and managed to beat it – even though it had only recently come to power – only because the masses rallied round it. From another point of view, comrade, the rapid collapse of the Egyptian front and the treachery committed there, as well as the collaboration of the Jordanian regime with the Zionist entity, led to greater pressure on the Syrian front. Everyone wanted to bring about the downfall of the party in Syria. But it fought against all that and won, and this is proof that it is the party of the masses. Can you find an example of any other regime in the world, ancient or modern, able to struggle against Zionism, colonialism, imperialism, capitalism, the forces of reaction, treachery and conspiracies, and still remain firm, defiant and even victorious? This is our mighty party, and you will see, comrades, how Syria will transform itself into a model for all the Arab world to follow. It will be the Syria of the Baath, the region from which will come the spark of Arab unity, freedom and socialism.”

  Fahd went on talking almost throughout the session about the party and the nationalist and historic duties on its shoulders. He then read out several declarations and pamphlets from the regional and national leaderships for internal distribution among the cells, all on the same subjects.

  Once all that was over, Fahd asked the comrades whether they had any view or question they wanted to put to him. “You all know that the party is based on the principle of centralised democracy. Any opinion or query that you have you must raise, but once a decision has been taken it is binding on everyone, even those who may happen to disagree with it. For this reason our internal discussions must be completely free. Are there any questions?” Fahd began looking around at those present until he reached Hudaijan, who asked, “Comrade Fahd, we’ve talked a lot about the Arab nation, but what about our own part of it? How is it to be liberated? Isn’t the best thing for us to concentrate on our own country, rather than discussing the entire Arab nation with all its different regions, which their patriots are sure to take on themselves to liberate?”

  Fahd’s anger showed plainly on his face, and his expression one of utter repugnance. “This regional approach is completely unacceptable,” he snapped, spitting as he spoke. “We are one nation and we operate on that basis. The liberation of the whole will mean the liberation of every part, while the liberation of a part is only a single step towards the liberation of the whole. We must operate within the framework of the entire nation. For that reason we have a national leadership that co-ordinates our efforts and from which we derive the guidelines of our struggle. Our goal is the entire Arab nation, comrade, not any one particular country to the exclusion of another. And besides, they’re all false entities with artificial borders imposed by the colonialists. The truth is the Arab nation alone.”

  Fahd calmed down and Hudaijan bowed his head as Fahd asked again whether there were any other questions, once more looking round at the comrades’ faces. “Fine,” he said, when met with complete silence, “in that case today’s session is over. We meet again at the same time next week.” He got up and the others stood up after him, ending their meeting with another repetition of the slogan.

  “One Arab Nation.”

  “With an Eternal Mission.”

  For a few seconds they remained standing. Fahd addressed Hisham. “When leaving the building after a meeting,” he said, “we mustn’t go out all at once. Comrade by comrade.” They all sat down again while Hudaijan went out. A minute later Hasan al-Sabah followed, then Abu Dharr and finally Abu Huraira.

  26

  It was about six o’clock in the evening when Hisham left Fahd’s house. He headed towards al-Hubb Street and then to the centre of town, to Sheikh Mousa’s Mosque via the al-Adama clinic and finally Thamantash Street and then home. For some reason he had chosen this long way round, during which he considered his new experience and these unwillingly made acquaintances: he did not like any of them, least of all Fahd; he had felt annoyed upon first meeting him at Rashid’s house. The only one he had warmed to at all was Hudaijan; he had an endearing look about him and a good-hearted nature one could sense easily. There was an underlying innocence in his face that was absent from the others.

  When Hisham got home he went straight to his room and threw himself down on his bed, still reflecting on the events of the day. He was not scared. His fear had almost gone, and there was nothing to be afraid of after all: it was all just reading and talking, as he had concluded, with comrades instead of friends. The people he had met seemed unlikely to be capable of changing anything, especially when one took into account the power of their opponent, the government. He went on pondering until the sound of the doorknob turning brought him round and his mother’s face appeared in the crack of the door.

  “Hisham,” she said, staying by the door with her hand still on the doorknob, “where have you been for the last few hours?”

  He got up and sat on the edge of the bed. “Good evening, Mother,” he said, after a moment’s hesitation. “I was at Abd al-Karim’s house as usual.”

  “No you weren’t. He and Adnan came by and asked for you. They said they don’t see much of you these days. Where were you, Hisham?”

  He was at a loss. What could he say? His nerve threatened to fail him. “Really, Mother,” he stammered, after a short pause, “I dropped by Abd al-Karim’s house but I didn’t find him there, so I went round to some of the bookshops and after that to the public library, where I stayed until now.”

  His mother gave him a look full of doubt and suspicion. “And why didn’t you say so in the first place?”

  “I didn’t think it mattered to you that much. What difference does it make whether I went to Abd al-Karim’s house or the public library?”

  “I want you to be honest in everything you say. We’ve brought you up to be frank and truthful no matter what. Don’t let us down.”

  Hisham had a lump in his throat and felt unable to speak, but he pulled himself together and said, “That is what happened. Believe me, Mother.”

  She stood there scrutinizing him for a while, still holding on to the doorknob, then turned away. “I hope that’s the truth,” she murmured before leaving. “God preserve you, my child.”

  Hisham’s mother trusted and admired him at the same time. “There’s no one else like Hisham,” she often said. But she was afraid that at his age he might go astray, falling in with ‘bad boys’, becoming deviant himself and ruining his future. She trusted Adnan and Abd al-Karim because she knew their mothers, as well as the fact that they were Hisham’s peers. But Hisham could remember her instructions, when he was little and first going to primary school, not to make friends with children who were older than himself. She also used to forbid him to go on school trips on which the pupils spent a night or two away and likewise, later on, to go
to sports clubs, because she had heard a lot about the ‘bad things’ that went on in those sorts of places.

  When Hisham was little she was not simply afraid that he would go wrong; she used to worry that he would be kidnapped and sold into slavery somewhere else. (In those days kidnapping was one of the ways of maintaining supply for the slave market.) Hisham’s mother forbade him to accept a lift from anyone on his way home from school, even though the distance to the house was no more than two hundred metres. He remembered her warnings not to enter anyone’s car, even if it was his own father who asked, and that had actually happened: one day he was returning from school when suddenly his father stopped beside him in his white Volkswagen with its distinctive sound. He called to Hisham to get in, but the boy stubbornly refused out of obedience to his mother’s orders. His father smiled and drove off. When Hisham got home his mother praised him for the way he had behaved; his father was standing next to her with a pleased and loving smile on his face, and Hisham realised that his parents had planned the incident as a test to see how far he would obey their instructions. He, in turn, was delighted at having passed the test, and his reward was a copy of ‘Magic Carpet’ magazine which his father went out and bought.

  Hisham felt unhappy at having to lie, to his mother in particular; his relationship with her had always been extremely frank. When he reached puberty he had gone running to tell her without hesitation, instead of keeping it to himself or going to his father. He smiled as he thought of it, remembering what a fright he had got. He had returned from school on a stifling day, removed his clothes and had gone to have a quick shower to cool down a little. The shower head was broken and the water came down in a sudden jet, by chance hitting him hard in the groin; he felt a slight pain accompanied by a great deal of pleasure. He fought against the pain and stayed under the water until he was aroused; the pain – so like the sensation of needing to urinate – became so intense that he could no longer bear it. He moved away out of the water and discovered, to his horror, the mysterious white flow from his genitals. He was terrified, and quickly dried himself, put on his underwear and ran to his mother to tell her everything (except that he had deliberately sought to continue the pleasure of the water jet.) His mother smiled and very tenderly took him to her breast. “Congratulations,” she told him. “You’ve become a man.” At that his fears abated, and he felt a certain pride: he’d become a man. He remembered the event as though it had taken place the previous day, though in fact it had been when he was just under thirteen years old.

  He had only ever lied to his mother once before, but that occasion ended in confession, a plea for forgiveness and a promise not to lie again. When he was in the fifth year of primary school, during break one day he saw that one of his classmates had a bird; he liked it and asked the boy if he could have it, but the boy wanted a quarter of a riyal for it: his whole day’s pocket money. Hisham could not resist the sight of the frightened little bird, and gave over the money without hesitating, even though his mother had warned him only to spend it on food or drink. Carrying it home he began to fear the inevitable telling-off and the severe punishment his mother would mete out, which was normally matched only by her tenderness at the other extreme. As he entered the house he tried to think up a convincing story to explain why he had the bird with him; but the first thing he met was his mother’s gaze, drilling into his skull to expose his ‘crime’.

  “Where did you get that bird from?” she said, her voice making him tremble all over.

  “I caught it ... I caught it, Mother.”

  “And how did you manage that?”

  “I saw it sitting there on my way home from school and I picked up a stone and threw it at it and hit it.”

  “You hit it? First time? You certainly are a good shot. Let me have a look at it.”

  As his mother reached out and took the bird, Hisham felt scarcely able to stand up. She began turning the bird over in her hands. “That’s funny,” she said quietly, “I don’t see any sign of an injury! Did you hit it with a stone made of cotton?”

  He tried to say something, but could not. His mother threw aside the bird, which began audibly flapping around the room in joyous surprise, until it found a way out. An instant later Hisham felt his mother’s palm hit his face with a slap that sent his whole body rocking. He burst into tears, but his mother paid no attention and instead took hold of his shoulders and squeezed them tight as she gave him a hard shake.

  “Hisham,” she said angrily, raising her voice, “tell me the truth. Where did you get that bird?”

  He wished his father were there to protect him from his mother’s tyranny, but he was still at work; so, in broken words between sobs he confessed that he had bought the bird with his whole day’s pocket money, and solemnly swore he would never do it again. His mother calmed down, her anger dissipating just as suddenly as it had descended. “Is that the truth?” she began repeating over and over, still holding him by the shoulders, “Is that the truth?” He promised her again that it was really so, and she drew him near and began wiping away his tears. “I want you to be honest with me no matter what,” she said, “no matter what. Understood?”

  “All right, Mother, all right,” he repeated, still sobbing. His mother told him to go and wash his face; when he got back she gave him another quarter of a riyal that instantly erased all trace of the slap. He went straight out and bought a copy of ‘Magic Carpet’.

  And here he was, lying once more with no idea how often he would need to do it again. But there was no little bird this time; it was a giant griffin. Yet what else could he tell her? That he was an activist in a clandestine organisation? At the thought of his mother and the organisation together his stomach tightened in the now familiar way, and at the same time he felt contempt for himself. But he soon regained some peace of mind: he hadn’t lied. He hadn’t done anything wrong. It was part of the struggle, and one day his mother would be proud of him ... Hisham got up and went to the bookcase on the other side of the room and rummaged through the books. He found what he was looking for and sat down near his desk on the floor. For the umpteenth time he began reading Mother, immersed before long in the sorrows of Pelageia Nilovna.

  27

  The weekly meetings of the comrades at Fahd’s house continued. Nothing new transpired there, only discussions of the sensitive nature of the current historic turning point through which the Arab nation was passing, as well as readings of declarations and pamphlets. Whenever they had no particular subject to discuss, everyone would take part in a general political debate of current affairs. There was no shortage of topics, beginning with the War of Attrition fought by Egypt along the Suez Canal and its effects. They also discussed the commando operations of the fedayeen in Jordan, and the transition from conventional warfare to a popular, guerrilla war that had lifted the confrontation with imperialism and Zionism to new levels in the form of direct participation. Most of their debate, however, was taken up with al-Saiqa, the Palestinian guerrilla group established in Syria, how it alone brought hope for the future while neither Fatah, with its bourgeois colouring and its lack of ideological clarity, nor the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine, with its puerile left-wing posturing, were capable of leading the Arab nation. They argued that only al-Saiqa and the Baath Party, with its new principles, could assume this role.

  Hisham began to get tired of these meetings with people with whom he had no emotional ties; he missed Adnan, Abd al-Karim and his other friends, Salim and Saud and Abd al-Aziz. He went back to joining them at their daily meetings at Abd al-Karim’s house. Everyone made a great fuss of welcoming him back the first afternoon he turned up, but Adnan and Abd al-Karim were happiest, embracing him as though he had returned from a long voyage. The moment he sat down Abd al-Karim put himself next to him.

  “Where have you been, man?” he whispered, offering Hisham a cup of tea. “Did you come across some buried treasure, or did Noura make you forget your friends?”

  Abd al-Karim chu
ckled as Hisham looked at him without comment and smiled with genuine love. He was as fond of these friends as they were of him. Affection was forbidden in the organisation and friendship was non-existent; the bond between comrades was everything, but it was a cold, dry relationship with none of the warmth of life. Life was here where his friends were, and love was there where Noura was. He smiled as thoughts of Noura came to his mind, and felt a kind of gentle soothing inside every atom of his being.

  Noura: a raindrop on parched earth, a cool breeze on a hot night. She had a bronze-coloured complexion and was about two years younger than Hisham. Her family was from Nejd and even though all they knew about Nejd was its name, they retained a strong Nejdi accent and kept up old customs of the region which even families who still lived there had abandoned. Noura’s father was one of the leading dealers in building materials in the Eastern Province who did business with Aramco. He was as rich in values as wealth, nothing in his appearance or demeanour betraying his moneyed status. His house was much the same as that of any middle-class person; the family had only one car, similar to the Peugeot Hisham’s father drove, and they had no servants even though they could have afforded many. Noura’s appearance was utterly traditional: she wore a long, shapeless, full-length dress with long sleeves, her pitch-black hair hanging down her back in two long plaits half-way down her bottom, which was round and pert and full of the simmering heat of youth. She was rather short, but that only made her seem prettier; as for her face, its most distinctive features were her big black eyes. She had a fine nose and a small mouth with full, rather dark lips, and white teeth that were uneven, especially the upper ones; yet their unevenness made her mouth still more beautiful. Her chin seemed almost to slumber beneath it, so delicate and fine it made one afraid it might break if touched. Noura always wore a black veil over her head, its edges hanging down over her chest and making her face and the bare parts of her neck and upper chest – which had begun to develop when she first caught Hisham’s eye – even more compelling.