Yasmine

This English edition sponsored by

Dr Naim Dangoor CBE

The Publishers would like to thank Sylvia Haim, Samir El-Youssef and Philip Simpson for their help with the translation of this book

At daybreak on Wednesday, the seventh of June, 1967, As-Sayyed Antoine Salameh, senator of the Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan, peered out of the window and saw a group of soldiers approaching slowly, wearily, as if scarcely able to walk. Their clothes were torn and dusty and no wonder, thought the senator, they’ve been fighting all through the night. He had heard the shells whistling overhead and glass shattering. When the shelling began he hurried to turn off the lights in the entrance to the villa and in the living room, and paced nervously through the rooms, searching in vain for a place of safety. Never before had he imagined that a time would come when he would need shelter under his own roof. His wife, too, wandered about the house, trailing him in silence like a ghost. The two pills he had given her, the ones he took when he couldn’t sleep, had not helped her. She was unable to relax and went on walking about in an old summer dressing-gown, her eyes wide open and her hair dishevelled. He could not help grimacing with distaste and pity at the sight of her.

He too, of course, had not closed his eyes all night. How could he sleep when the fate of al-Quds hung in the balance? He waited impatiently for the night to pass, and now the sun, as though it too was anxious for the welfare of the Holy City, rose
early and shed its bright light at exactly four thirty-four. The senator took another look at the soldiers down the street and felt relieved. This must be the vanguard of the Iraqi forces who had volunteered to come to the aid of the Arab Legion, as he had been informed by the court minister from the royal palace. Iraq, our sister state, land of the two rivers, was always the first to come to the aid of Palestine. These soldiers and the Legion troops were risking their lives to preserve the integrity of his city. They would wipe out the disgrace of ’48, they and the armies of Egypt’s Nasser and of the other Arab states.

Clouds of dust hung over Sheikh Jarrah, the garden suburb north of the city. Taking advantage of a break in the firing, the senator urged his Sudanese maid to take bottles of cold water to the soldiers to revive them. Suddenly, strange black crows, with outstretched necks and huge wingspans, flew over his spacious house, heading towards al-Mudawara. Their flight startled him.

The senator opened the doors to the wide terrace that overlooked the high road and was struck by the acrid smell of gun-powder and smoke. He went to the balustrade and saw the soldiers resting their heavy rucksacks and weapons on the ground. Some of them leaned against the garden wall, others crouched down for a moment’s rest. A few gazed at his
well-tended
garden, at the handsome villas in the vicinity and the luxurious Ambassador Hotel. As a representative of His Majesty King Hussein, he felt it his sacred duty to welcome the brave warriors and thank them on behalf of the entire Hashemite Kingdom. He raised both hands to greet them, and they turned to look at him with curiosity.

“
As-salaamu aleikum warahmatu’llah wabarakatuh
– peace upon you and the blessing and mercy of Allah,
ya guidan,
O
brave warriors,
ya mujahdeen
, O jihad fighters, O kinsmen of our glorious Arab family, O bold spirits and dear hearts. I, Antoine Salameh, member of the Senate of the Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan, feel honoured to bring you the thanks and admiration of King Hussein bin Talal bin Abdullah bin Hussein al-Hashemi. Your glorious fight recalls the battle of Khalif Omar ibn al-Khatab, conqueror of al-Quds al-Sharif. With your sword you have repulsed the despicable Zionist enemy, the cruel, contemptible, miserable and cowardly infidel, and with Allah’s help you will throw them into the sea.”

The soldiers stared at him in amazement. Perhaps they did not fully understand his speech since he addressed them in the Palestinian dialect, and Iraqis had a dialect of their own that he himself scarcely understood. He should address them in literary Arabic, which all Arabs understood, but let them first refresh themselves with cold water. He wanted to go down and clasp them to his breast and listen to their stories about the brave battle they had fought that night. But, as he turned, one soldier, his shirt torn and his left arm bandaged, stood up respectfully, took off his helmet, raised his reddish head and said:

“
Ihna yahud, min hon
– we’re Jews, from here, from Israel…”

“
Yahud? Min Israil
?” The senator was stunned. The blood drained from his face and for a moment his vision blurred and reeled. Abruptly he turned around and fled indoors, into his living room. For a long time he sat trembling on the edge of the sofa, like an unwelcome guest in his own house. What if the Jewish soldiers killed him, and his wife too? He should call someone. His knees trembled as he staggered to the telephone and for the fifth time since the shelling began phoned Abu George, his journalist friend and neighbour.

Abu George listened impatiently. Was the elderly senator
losing his mind? Had he not explained to him, repeatedly throughout the night, that there was nothing to worry about – on the contrary! Once more he described the interview that the sector commander had given the press the week before at the Legion camp in al-Mudawara.

“Our forces are well prepared. The Jews know what they can expect here. They wouldn’t want to commit suicide, would they?” the commander of the fortified hilltop defending the north of the city had said. And it was precisely this restrained reply, spoken in his reserved British manner that had made the journalists smile. The commander also showed them the massive fortifications, the deep, concrete-lined trenches that twisted and wound around the whole of al-Mudawara, the forty bunkers with impenetrably thick walls, interspersed with observation posts, sniper nests, heavy mortars and cannons dominating every part of the hill. Underneath the bunkers was the vast command centre, carved out of the bedrock like an ancient cavern. The commander also showed them the stocks of ammunition. Who could possibly invade these hills? thought Abu George. The entire area was crisscrossed with landmines, and hundreds of trained Legion troops were only waiting to unleash a hail of fire on anyone who tried. “Who would dare to challenge us?” said the commander at the conclusion of the tour.

“
Yahud, min Israil
, believe me!” the senator insisted.

“
Shu Israil
, what are you talking about?” replied Abu George, pitying the delusional old man. He had been unable to sleep for several nights because of the war with the Zionists, and the past night had been the worst. The assault on al-Mudawara and the neighbourhood of Sheikh Jarrah had begun at midnight and continued uninterrupted. A barrage of fire, shells roaring,
bullets whistling – the very ground shook. He realised it was not enough to utter reassuring words.

“Senator, please come to us, you and your wife. We’ll be honoured to have you stay. You know my daughter Yasmine is in Paris, her suite is unoccupied – you can have the whole second floor to yourselves. I’m coming to fetch you.”

“Thank you, Allah protect your Yasmine. I’m staying here, and if I’m fated to die, let it be in my own house,” he replied in a broken voice.

After he replaced the receiver Abu George grabbed a pair of binoculars and climbed hurriedly to the roof of his house. He wanted to see for himself what was happening at the front, but a spreading
shajarat al-yahud
, a “Jews’ tree” – a eucalyptus – blocked his view of the hill. He went up to the edge of the roof and held the binoculars to his eyes. Looking north he saw, outlined against the grey sky, burnt-out vehicles with black smoke rising from them.

Suddenly the noise stopped, but strangely it was the silence that made him choke. He threw away the burning cigarette and spat on the floor. Damned cigarettes, they were no use whatever. A fear awoke in him and forced into his mind sounds and sights he preferred to forget. Vividly the memory came back of the shots that had rained down on his house then, almost twenty years before, fired from Katamon towards his house in Talbieh. He recalled hurriedly packing some valuables and urging Um George and little Yasmine to grab whatever they could and flee.

The firing began again, seeming to come from all around. Was history about to repeat itself? Would he have to flee again? No. Not this time. Never again would he abandon his house, flee, escape, get out, absent himself, desert, go missing, wander
away…
Sumood
, he said to himself, hold out, stay put, cling to the ground. He choked and coughed and kept repeating,
Sumood, sumood
…

What was wrong with him? Was he losing his mind too? And what was causing this strange cough? He took a deep breath, but instead of the crystal air of Sheikh Jarrah, his lungs filled with acrid smoke. Shaking himself out of a nightmare, he said to himself, Cheer up, they can’t break into the fortress of al-Mudawara. It isn’t the Jews who are firing but our people, the mortars and hand-grenades and machine-guns and rifles of the Hashemite forces. Maybe what the senator saw was some of their soldiers who had deserted out of fear, or a handful of them who had managed to sneak through the lines, or perhaps…But he didn’t want to finish this thought. He went downstairs and ran to the telephone. This time he phoned the senator.

“Are the soldiers still there?” he asked anxiously.

“No,
al-hamdu lillah
, thank God, as soon as the firing began they vanished.”

“Allah be blessed,” sighed Abu George, his spirit restored. He sat down to listen to the radio. The Voice of Damascus broadcast yet again the song “
Idbah, idbah, idbah
” – “Slaughter, slaughter, slaughter”, while Radio Amman described the valiant fight of the Legion and its conquests in the Kingdom’s West Bank and in Jerusalem, including the UN headquarters occupying the old British High Commissioner’s mansion on the Hill of Evil Counsel. “The bodies of the Zionist soldiers are scattered on the battlefield, preyed on by black crows,” the announcer declared. Abu George wiped the sweat from his brow and, in spite of himself, could not resist turning the dial to the Arabic-language service of Israel Radio. The Zionist
announcer calmly listed the positions the Israeli army had captured. The scene painted by his statements and the interviews from the front was utterly unlike the one broadcast from Amman. Doubts festered in Abu George’s mind. They’re all liars, he grunted. Psychological warfare, that’s what it is – who can tell what’s really happening?

He felt trapped in his house, cut off from events. Should he again call his partner Abu Nabil, at the Al-Wattan office, ask him for the umpteenth time what was happening, and listen to another recitation of Nasser’s great victories over there and King Hussein’s over here? Shame on him for doubting his friend and the mighty Arab nation. These calls made him look faithless and cowardly. He should have spent the night at the newspaper’s office. He looked into the kitchen and saw his wife sitting there quietly, hunched, blowing her nose. Seeing him she tried to smile, and he knew that at this moment she was tormented by her longings for Yasmine. How could he leave her and go out? But he had to go into town.

Abu George sat beside his wife and she got up to bring him a pot of coffee and a jug of water with mint leaves. Then she stroked his head and pressed it to her bosom, as she always did in bad times, to subdue his inner demons. But now he shook free impatiently, quickly drank the coffee and the water and stood up. The coffee had scalded his throat.

“Why are you rushing off, my dear?”

“I’ve got to be at the office.”

“
Ya Adhra
! O Virgin Maryam, can’t you hear the shelling?” She stared at him in alarm.

“I’ve got to get to the teleprinter, I must find out what the news agencies are saying, Reuters, United Press. See the headlines in the newspapers.”

“Isn’t it enough that the radio is on all the time, and the phone keeps ringing? Bad news moves fast.” She stopped, wondering how to detain him. The previous night he had come home after midnight, at the height of the firing and the explosions. Several times she had called the Al-Wattan office to urge him to come home, and when he set out she counted the minutes, wondering what was keeping him, then went and waited by the gate, listening with one ear for the engine of the Dodge coming up the narrow lane, and with the other for a possible phone call from Yasmine. The firing and the falling shells terrified her. She did not remember such a barrage even when they fled their house in Talbieh in ’48.

“Don’t go,
behiyatek
, on your life, I beg you,” she pleaded.

“I must get some air,” he snapped and went out into the garden. The volleys of gunfire and the reek of burning buffeted his head. The walls of the house trembled. The fish in the small pond flitted and hid under the rocks at the margins. He went back inside and stopped to look at Yasmine’s portrait on the wall, his heart aching with longing. How was she, what was she doing now? He wished he could hug her, wished she were with them at this difficult time. The ringing of the telephone interrupted his thoughts.

“Abu George, I need you here urgently.” Abu Nabil’s voice was uncharacteristically hesitant. “It’s to do with the Governor.”

“I’m coming,” he replied and replaced the receiver.

“But it’s
harb wadarb
, battles and war, out there!” Um George protested.

“It is war,
ya ruhi
, my soul, and Abu Nabil doesn’t get on with the Governor. He needs me. What should I say, that I’m afraid? Shame!”

“At least eat breakfast first.”

“I couldn’t swallow a thing.” He kissed her on the cheek and turned to go. At the last moment he took his camera bag and added his binoculars.

“Phone me when you get there,” she said behind him.

He turned around. “Close the gate and make sure I locked the roof door. Don’t let anybody in!” he added and immediately regretted frightening her needlessly.

When he started the Dodge and emerged from the parking lot his heart was melting as he reflected on his good fortune at having the love and support of such a woman.

As he drove down Ragheb al-Nashashibi Lane, the sound of the firing grew louder, but Abu George couldn’t tell from which direction it was coming. It sounded as if it was coming from all around – but where were the soldiers?