Adama Read online

  1. The Baath Party was founded in Syria in 1947 by Michel Aflaq (1910–89), a Syrian writer and schoolteacher; it advocated a form of socialist, pan-Arab revolution, and eventually attained power in Syria and Iraq.

  2. The Setback (al-Naksa) refers to Israel’s victory in the Six-Day War of June 1967; it is both related to and distinguished from the Catastrophe (al-Nakba), an Arab term for the creation of the state of Israel in 1948.

  5

  Hisham stopped writing for the wall bulletins, which became less active and less political after the episode of the pamphlets and the introduction of strict censorship by the headmaster’s office. Instead he decided it was enough to have debates with his classmates, especially those who took part in the history society set up and supervised by Rashid al-Khattar, the history teacher. The rest of his time he spent either reading or in the company of his childhood friends, Adnan al-Ali and Abd al-Karim al-Duhaimani. The three of them used to meet up every afternoon with several other friends at Abd al-Karim’s house, drink his mother’s mint tea and talk or play cards until just before sunset or later. Hisham’s whole world consisted of reading and friendships, especially with these two.

  On Fridays, or whenever they felt the need to get away, they would make quick trips to the nearby beach or the desert by the Dhahran road, with its soft sands and gentle breeze in late autumn and early winter, which on long summer days changed into a searing blast of steam. Even in summer they would go, lighting a fire using the dry palm leaves they found lying about and sitting around it chatting until after sunset. They spoke about ideas, politics and art – Adnan had a remarkable gift for drawing. But what they liked best was to talk about sex and girls; occasionally they would get hold of some contraband pornographic stories and one of them would read aloud while the others listened attentively, ears pricked up, eyes gleaming, limbs tense and imagination in keen activity.

  Sometimes the boys would bring a metal pot and a jug to make black tea; it was almost undrinkable, but they would knock it back all the same. They might also cook kabsa stew, each of them bringing whatever ingredients he could from home. The only thing it had in common with real kabsa was its name: it was always either too salty or not salty enough, the rice undercooked or overcooked and the meat never properly done, when indeed they had any at all. But none of that mattered: they would wolf it all down with relish, licking their fingers noisily once finished and laughing together as they cleaned their hands by rubbing them in the sand. Then they would collect their things and head home, usually walking or, if pressed for time, taking a taxi for a quarter of a riyal each. (This they would do reluctantly, as it meant spending money and having to deny themselves something else they could have bought. Later, the transport problem was solved when Abd al-Aziz and two other ‘gang’ regulars, Saud and Salim, were able to convince their parents to buy them bicycles.)

  6

  The day soon arrived that would prove to be a turning point in Hisham’s life. During the break, he was leaning against a wall on the second floor of the school overlooking the main courtyard, waiting for Adnan so they could eat together as usual. Mansur Abd al-Ghani, one of his classmates and also a member of the history society, approached him. Hisham had had no special affinity for this boy since meeting him for the first time at one of the society sessions and discussing Marxism. Later, Mansur would behave amicably towards him, trying to strike up some kind of relationship. Even then Hisham had felt an aversion to him. Mansur was generally mild-mannered, despite his stern features and somewhat lordly gait, which gave an impression of arrogance and superiority. He appeared over-confident, fixing anyone who looked at him with a piercing gaze. Mansur was undeniably good-looking, despite the hardness in his features, and was tall and athletic. He did not wear the skullcap and headdress; in fact, he did not even wear the traditional thob robes, preferring a shirt and trousers instead.

  He approached Hisham, a broad smile playing on his lips and revealing large, white teeth. Mansur would not keep his smile up for long, however.

  “Morning, Hisham.”

  “Morning,” Hisham answered curtly, trying to convey that he had no desire for conversation.

  “I hope I’m not disturbing you?”

  “Not remotely, but I’m waiting for a friend. Sorry.”

  Hisham moved away in an attempt to bring to an end this little exchange, but Mansur caught him by the elbow and forced another smile, which again vanished quickly.

  “I know you don’t want to be friends with me,” he said. “Every time I try to get close to you, you turn away, even though I really like and admire you. I don’t know why.”

  Hisham stopped in his tracks, then turned to face Mansur, trying to smile. “Not at all. It’s not like you think. But I haven’t got time, and what with so much studying to do, you know,” he said, filled with an intense wish to end the conversation in whatever way necessary. But Mansur kept hold of his elbow.

  “No, it is like I think.” For a moment Mansur was silent. “But I don’t blame you: you’re free to behave however you like. It’s just that I want to talk to you about something important. When would be a good time for you?”

  ‘He’s such a pain,’ Hisham said to himself. He looked Mansur straight in his stern little eyes. “I really am waiting for a friend, and I don’t know when circumstances will allow –”

  “Cut out the excuses and pleasantries,” Mansur said, interrupting him sharply. “It’s genuinely important: we have to meet.”

  The look in Mansur’s eyes hardened and his lower lip began trembling, sending a strange shiver through Hisham’s body and forcing him to agree. “All right, all right,” he said, nodding. “When?”

  “Tomorrow, during break.”

  “Tomorrow it is, then.”

  Mansur took his leave, walking purposefully in the direction of the courtyard. Hisham watched him go, confused, suspicious and so lost in reflection that when Adnan arrived he did not even feel his touch nor hear his voice.

  7

  The next day at school, Hisham counted the hours and minutes until break time. The physics lesson ended and the biology and history lessons followed, all passing without Hisham’s taking in a word said in any of them; even the history lesson, in which he usually paid undivided attention, was far from his mind that day. ‘What could Mansur want?’ Hisham asked himself, ‘And anyway, what is there between him and me?’

  At last the bell rang, marking the beginning of the break: it was time for some answers. The pupils began making their way out, clustering together in groups and calling out to one another cheerfully. Adnan came up to Hisham with his innocent smile and placid expression, ready to proceed to the canteen together for a snack, followed by their usual unwinding in a remote corner of the courtyard where they sometimes met with the rest of the ‘gang’, far from the crowds. But Hisham excused himself gently, trying to force a friendly smile to his lips, and quickly left his best friend, who was taken aback at this strange and unprecedented behaviour.

  Hisham made for the school courtyard, where he began wandering about in no particular direction until he saw Mansur standing in a corner, looking quite calm and superior. He approached and greeted him, dragging the words out:

  “Morning, Mansur.”

  “Good morning. Let’s go for a walk around the courtyard.”

  Mansur set off without waiting for him to answer, and Hisham followed automatically, as though he were bound to Mansur by an invisible chain. They walked a short distance without speaking, when suddenly Mansur said, calmly and without looking at him,

  “What do you think of the government, Hisham?”

  It was a surprising question, one Hisham had not expected, and felt like a sudden bomb dropped on him. He felt uneasy and did not answer. But Mansur dropped another bomb, turning his piercing eyes directly on Hisham.

  “There’s no need to answer – I’ll answer for you. The government’s corrupt. All it cares about is its own interests and plundering the resources of the people
, who have no rights. The people are just slaves or subjects; at best they’re no more than –”

  Mansur stopped speaking and fell silent, but continued staring at Hisham, his face now sterner and his veins bulging conspicuously. Hisham, who likewise remained silent, was overwhelmed by surprise and agitation, a mass of questions spinning around in his head. What did this person want? Was he one of those spies his father had warned him about, trying to trap him? Or perhaps he was just a naive idiot who thought he had discovered something new? But Mansur broke the silence.

  “I know what’s going through your head,” he said, softly and confidently. “You’re suspicious of this person who’s approached you without any introduction and started speaking to you directly and openly about things no one’s supposed to discuss. You’re right. Your reaction is perfectly healthy and proper. But believe me, I admire and trust you completely, so I’m going to speak to you frankly in complete confidence.” Mansur paused for a few moments before continuing. “I’m inviting you to join an organisation dedicated to resisting oppression and establishing justice and freedom.”

  Mansur paused again, leaving Hisham feeling acutely embarrassed, suspicious and afraid all at once. What was this person on about? This time he had dropped a nuclear bomb. Was he being sincere? Where had he got this nerve from? Where had he learned to read people’s minds? Was he really only twenty years old, as he had told the history teacher once, or were appearances deceptive?

  Mansur’s voice broke in on the swarm of queries in Hisham’s mind. “Why so silent?” he said, his voice somehow sounding as though it came from far away. “Perhaps it’s that you’re scared. Still feeling suspicious? I told you that was only natural. But since I’ve shown that I trust you, you can trust me too.”

  Hisham looked at him foolishly. ‘There he goes reading my mind again,’ he said to himself. “What do you want me to say?” he said aloud, stammering noticeably. “Do you expect me to react any other way?”

  “Not really,” said Mansur calmly. “You’re not the first person I’ve spoken to about this, and you won’t be the last. They almost all have the same reaction. I’ll leave you to think it over for a few days and then meet up with you again. Till then.” Mansur strutted off without looking at him or waiting for a reply, leaving him rooted to the spot in a kind of vacuum, for how long he was unable to tell. That day he did not go to any more lessons.

  8

  During the following days Hisham was unable to sleep and withdrew from his friends. All he could think about was what Mansur had said to him ... An organisation? Against the government?! God, this was serious. The government was merciless when it came to that sort of thing. How often had he heard about people who disappeared without a trace the moment they merely breathed a word of criticism of it? He had frequently heard stories like that from his mother, warning him what would come of talking politics, and from his father and his friends and Adnan’s grandmother, with her endless tales about ‘the ancestors’ and what had happened to them. But what Mansur was proposing was not just talk, it was action – and serious action at that. True, Hisham loved reading about politics, but he loved philosophy and literature, too. Loving something did not necessarily mean acting on it, especially when that thing was politics, the clandestine sort in particular. When his thoughts – or, rather, his misgivings – reached this point, the image of his mother and father came to his mind. Why had he not considered them before, he wondered ... What would become of them if their only son were sent to prison, the son in whom they had placed all their hopes, their entire future? A shudder went through him and he had a painful sinking feeling in his stomach. He was terrified; afraid of prison, afraid of what could happen to his parents if anything were to happen to him: his mother might die from the shock, his father would be shattered. No, he would never agree to Mansur’s proposal. He would tell him he was sorry, he wanted to be a free thinker, not a political activist in any organisation. His mind was made up, and he was determined to tell Mansur his decision at the first opportunity the following day.

  He set off early the next day: perhaps he would meet Mansur before the register was taken and be able to get all this off his chest. He looked for him everywhere he could think of, but did not find him and decided to put off his search until the break. At break time he set off once more to look for Mansur, to the surprise of Adnan and the rest of the gang, but again he could not find him. He began to feel a little frightened. Could he have been put in prison? But surely if anything like that had happened the whole school would know by now. No, no doubt he was absent for some mundane reason. Hisham smiled ironically to himself. Amazing! Was this really the same person he’d been completely indifferent to, the person who only the day before he couldn’t stand? Yet here he was today, worried to bits about him. How strange!

  The bell rang, marking the end of the seventh and final lesson of the day, and still there was no sign of Mansur. Hisham gathered his books together and made his way out of the classroom, paying no attention to Adnan, who was trying to keep up with him so they could walk home together as usual. As he was walking along the pathway to the exit gate he heard a voice whispering to him from a distance: “Hisham, Hisham ... over here.” There was Mansur, standing behind one of the trees planted along the path. Once again he shuddered and felt his stomach contract painfully. He looked at Adnan walking beside him and asked him not to wait as he went over to Mansur, ignoring Adnan’s inquiring glances.

  “Let’s wait while the pupils leave,” Mansur said in a near-whisper when Hisham got to where he was standing, far from the path. They remained quiet, eyes darting about in expectation and anxiety, watching the groups of schoolboys surging from the gate. When at last the chattering and laughter of the pupils were out of earshot Mansur jumped up, taking Hisham by the hand, and without a word the two of them headed towards the exit gate which the porter was about to lock, having made sure everyone had left.

  Walking down Education Department Street, the one that led to his house, Hisham’s resolve slowly began to melt under the burning rays of the sun and the stifling humidity found only in Dammam during the summer months. Summer really began there halfway through spring and went on until mid-autumn, according to the sequence of seasons in the rest of the world. The sweat brought on by his nervousness mingled with his perspiration from the heat and the stickiness of the humidity to give his body a distinctive smell like a fresh, slimy fish; he felt a wave of nausea and wished he could somehow be free of his body.

  “Well, what do you think?” Mansur asked quietly and firmly, after they had walked in silence for several minutes.

  Hisham did not need the question spelled out. He stammered a little, not knowing where to begin, even though he had made up his mind to reject Mansur’s proposal.

  “No doubt you’re still afraid,” Mansur went on, without waiting for an answer to his question. “Like I said, that’s perfectly natural. But there’s really nothing to be afraid of.” Mansur gave him one of those penetrating looks, but then quickly looked straight ahead again, saying, “If we patriots don’t fight for our country, who will?”

  “Yes, but ...”

  “It isn’t just our people who’ll be liberated by our efforts: the whole Arab nation will; in fact, the whole world.”

  “True, but ...”

  “The only way the slave will be liberated is through revolution. The only way the oppressed will be liberated is through revolution. History itself consists of revolution and the work of revolutionaries.”

  “Sure, but ...”

  “We mustn’t fear death or anything else. All of us are going to die one day, but there’s a world of difference between dying for a cause and dying like a dumb animal.”

  “You’re right, but ...”

  “Believing in a cause or an idea doesn’t mean simply being convinced of it, it means fighting for a better world. Haven’t you read Marx? ‘What matters is not to explain the world, but to change it.’”

  “Yes, I have re
ad him, but ...”

  Mansur had spoken quickly and passionately, the words shooting from his mouth like bullets. Suddenly he stopped walking and looked at Hisham, a furious expression on his face and an even harder look in his eyes than usual.

  “What’s the matter with you?” he said harshly, taking Hisham by the shoulders. “I’m sick of all your ‘buts’. What are you trying to say? Are you so indecisive and cowardly that you’d deny your duty when it calls you? I thought you were much better than that! Intellectual, sharp, enthusiastic you may be, but the most useless worker, the lowliest peasant is better than you. You’re just a sham only interested in getting a reputation for yourself – you haven’t got a single idea or a single principle, not one cause. We don’t want you. I had the wrong impression of you. Just forget everything – we don’t need the likes of you.”

  Mansur finished speaking and, glancing left and right, let go of Hisham’s shoulders and strode off without looking back, leaving Hisham stirred up by his remarks. Was he really a coward? Was he really just a sham who didn’t believe in what he said? Mansur’s comments had touched a nerve, making him sweat even more profusely and accelerating his heartbeat. No, he began telling himself, he wasn’t a coward, he wasn’t all appearances and he would prove it to this conceited prig. In the heat of the moment he began running after him, calling, “Mansur, Mansur ... Wait.” But Mansur did not wait, and instead walked on without paying the slightest attention. Finally Hisham caught up with him and took him by the elbow; Mansur stopped and looked at him icily, his face a picture of pure cruelty.

  “I’m sorry, Mansur,” he said, his voice quavering. He swallowed with difficulty and went on, “You didn’t get what I meant. I wasn’t hesitating or afraid or being cowardly, I just had a few questions –”

  “In revolution there are no questions, only action,” said Mansur, interrupting him sharply.