Ashes of a Lost Country: The Tragedy and Hope of a Countryless

By Ghassoub Sharif Mustafa

The author was born in a village in Palestine where he spent his childhood and part of his boyhood. This stage of his life was a mixture of joy, mischief, and misery. After his mother’s death, he was entered into a boarding military school in Jordan. In 1967, after the Israelis had swept his country, he became homeless. After secondary school, he was given a scholarship to study in Algeria. While living in Algeria, he befriended some French individuals who invited him to France, where he found refuge and deep friendship in the peasants’ French community.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Mar 31, 2022
• ISBN: 9789948834854

Ghassoub Sharif Mustafa

Ghassoub Sharif Mustafa holds an Ed.D. (Doctor of Education), an MA, a BA, and a Certificate in Management, and has attained the rank of an Associate Professor of English and he speaks three languages. The author has taught English and liberal arts for more than four decades to Arab and international higher education students. Ghassoub is interested in reviving the habit of reading in the Arab World, and in promoting a global community that shares the same basic human values and principles.

Book preview

About the Author

The author was born in a village in Palestine where he spent his childhood and part of his boyhood. This stage of his life was a mixture of joy, mischief, and misery. After his mother’s death, he was entered into a boarding military school in Jordan. In 1967, after the Israelis had swept his country, he became homeless. After secondary school, he was given a scholarship to study in Algeria. While living in Algeria, he befriended some French individuals who invited him to France, where he found refuge and deep friendship in the peasants’ French community.

Dedication

I dedicate this book

To my devoted parents, God bless their souls and dwell them in his heavens.

To my mother, whose shadow has never parted me and shaded me from the scorching sun, and her prayer protected me from the barbarous humans;

To my father, who shaped me the way I am and who taught me that the pen is mightier than the sword.

To my beloved wife, for her support, patience, and encouragement.

To my daughter, for the joy she has brought into our life.

To my lovely granddaughter.

To my two sons.

To all my family’s grandchildren.

To all my friends around the world.

To my French family.

Copyright Information ©

Ghassoub Sharif Mustafa 2022

The right of Ghassoub Sharif Mustafa to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with Federal Law No. (7) of UAE, Year 2002, Concerning Copyrights and Neighboring Rights.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to legal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

The age category suitable for the books’ contents has been classified and defined in accordance to the Age Classification System issued by the National Media Council.

First Edition Published: 2017 (Partridge Singapore)

Author Pen-named as Ghassoub Bani Kanaan

Book Titled as Hamda’s Ashes: The Story of a Palestinian Exile

ISBN 9789948834861 (Paperback)

ISBN 9789948834854 (E-Book)

Application Number: MC-02-01-6135540

Age Classification: 17+

Previous Edition Published 2019

AUSTIN MACAULEY PUBLISHERS FZE

Sharjah Publishing City

P.O Box [519201]

Sharjah, UAE

www.austinmacauley.ae

[phone]

Acknowledgement

I would like to acknowledge that without the infinite support of my wife, this book would not have been born. She kept the writing of this book as a secret from her friends, her family, and acquaintances, which provided me the ideal atmosphere to write at ease and with comfort. She also provided the right environment for me to carry on with my writing, uninterrupted and undisturbed. She even made more sacrifice when I disappeared in my solitude, leaving her alone for many hours. I am grateful for my wife and her unlimited patience.

A Birth Certificate

I was born in the month of September

On a very scorching sunny day.

My father named me Alghadanfar

And then went back to collect hay.

I was born on a very ancient holy land

That land issued my birth testimony

The midwife and everyone agreed and signed

The sun and the birds took part in the ceremony.

I, the sacred Palestine, have clearly testified

That Alghadanfar was born here

To this I have signed. Nothing can be denied.

I will be his home, his land, his heart, forever.

Your tampered records are written in the sand

They will be blown by the wind

Alghadanfar’s birth is engraved in every yard

Palestine is his homeland till the end.

Before the whole world, admit

This land, for millenniums called Palestine.

The Historical Court of Justice has given its verdict:

To change a country’s name is heinous and malign.

Prologue

I think to be in exile is a curse, and you need to turn it into a blessing. You’ve been thrown into exile to die, really, to silence you so that your voice cannot come home. And so my whole life has been dedicated to saying, I will not be silenced.¹

Ariel Dorfman

T

his is the story of Alghadanfar, an exile from Palestine who, since the time his foot stepped out of Palestine, has been condemned to live in diaspora. Alghadanfar has been deprived of the possibility of returning to his own country on account of one single pretext: being Palestinian. Alghadanfar, who is a peaceful man, decided not to fight his oppressors with the gun, but with the pen and the written word. He is a loyal disciple of his father, Shadad, who had implanted in him, when he was a child, the principle that the pen is mightier than the sword. Shadad, who himself was a great warrior at one point in his history and fought for the liberation of Palestine, concluded that the war was futile and the pen was the mightiest weapon in the world. He, with continuous preaching and teaching, succeeded in injecting his beliefs into his son, who absorbed his father’s teachings, as Alexander the Great had absorbed Aristotle’s teachings and ideas more than two thousand years ago. Coincidentally, Alexander and Alghadanfar rhyme.

After the spectacular defeat of the Arab armies in the 1967 war and the fall of the West Bank, Alghadanfar fled and risked his life to reach his boarding school on the eastern side of the river. He and others were running in the wheat fields and the dusty hills of Palestine under the scorching sun of June like fugitives, although they had not committed any crime except for being Palestinians. Then the United Nations, the crippled old grandmother of the oppressed nations, raised its finger, told the Israelis to leave the land they had occupied, and sent them a letter – sorry, Resolution 242.

Fifty years have passed and the message still has not reached the Israelis. This is because they have suffered hearing loss caused by an infection called the American veto. The overuse of this veto has caused a deafening tinnitus in the Israeli ear. By the way, tinnitus is chronic and has no remedy. Given this incurable deafening tinnitus in the occupier’s ear, Alghadanfar’s cause has been buried in the dumping ground of history.

Alghadanfar, who is a champion of all miserable exiles, had, unlike everybody else, suffered two diasporas instead of one. The first one was in his boyhood, when the heart that had given him full board clogged and he became an orphan, so he had to spend all his teenage years in a military boarding school. The second diaspora was when the Israelis seized his homeland and he became an exile. This military occupation of his homeland paralyzed his sense of belonging to a home, deprived him of an identity, and prevented him from returning to his own country.

If Algeria had not given him a shelter for seven years, he may have perished in the Mediterranean like those thousands of asylum seekers who meet their fate in the sea daily.

Alghadanfar’s exile had drifted him into a new magical world that he had never thought of, namely France and the French countryside. The French peasants gave him a home and opened their hearts to him. A family opened their arms to him and hugged him, and for the first time he had a sense of belonging. When some French peasants welcomed him warmly in the 1970s, some others cautioned them that they might be harboring a terrorist or a hijacker. But the far-sighted, educated, kind-hearted individuals, some of whom would go on to be Alghadanfar’s closest friends, dismissed that nonsense and ridiculed the others for their bigotry and short-sightedness. When his new French family adopted him, Alghadanfar was 23 years old. That made him, perhaps, the oldest adoptee in modern history. The French chapter was one of the greatest chapters of his life.

Recently, Alghadanfar had an interesting encounter with the bitter reality of his existence. After he placed his tray on the table and sat to join a colleague for lunch in the university canteen, the two of them exchanged some routine talk related to work. Then his colleague, Sally, asked casually, Alghadanfar, where are you going to stay after you retire? This question had opened a conversation – indeed, a wound that will never heal. Alghadanfar titled this conversation ‘The But Why Conversation’.

I don’t know, he answered, chewing his first bite.

Then Sally said jokingly, Alghadanfar, your name is too long. Do you mind if I call you Algha? He laughed and said that he did not mind.

She asked him, You mean, you don’t want to go to your country!

Which country? Algha replied.

Your country. Palestine. Aren’t you Palestinian?

Algha said, In theory, yes, I am Palestinian. But, in practice, I cannot go.

But why? Sally asked.

I am not allowed, Algha responded.

But why? It’s your country. This is the first time I’ve heard of such a thing.

I have just told you: it’s my country in theory but not in practice.

What? What is this strange theory? But why?

Don’t you know? Algha said. My whole existence is strange.

Know what?

Palestine is under occupation, Algha told her.

But why? Which occupation? Sally queried.

Israel. It is a long story.

Sally asked, Do you have a house and property there?

Yes.

So why can’t you go there?

Because I am Palestinian, Algha answered matter-of-factly.

What? But it’s your country. You are from Palestine. Why?

It’s the code and the language of the occupiers. Everyone can travel to Palestine except Palestinians.

Sally said, I am shocked.

Anyway, I can apply for a visitor’s visa and go there for seven days only.

What? You need a visa to visit your country? And seven days only? This is ridiculous, Sally said. But why?

Yeah. Imagine if you needed a visa to go to New Zealand even though you were New Zealander.

Yes. I can imagine. That is insane.

You don’t seem to know the situation of Palestine.

No. Not much.

I will give you a book.

Soon thereafter, Sally began reading the 450-page memoir of Ghada Karmi, a Palestinian who was exiled from Palestine at the age of 9 in the year 1948. But Ghada was much luckier than Alghadanfar, because she ended up in the UK, where her father was working for BBC Arabic. After exactly fifty years, Ghada was able to visit Palestine, supposedly her homeland – as a British tourist with a British passport, of course. If she had tried to enter as a Palestinian, she would not have been welcome because Palestine is the only place in the world where a country does not welcome its own citizens.

With the help of a Hebrew-speaking Arab friend, Ghada located her house in Jerusalem, which was almost the same as it had been when she fled in 1948. When she knocked at the gate, the dweller, who turned out to be an American woman tenant, spoke no Hebrew at all. At the gate, the name Ben Porah was written – an Israeli landlord, of course. The American tenant allowed Ghada to have a quick tour of the house, which was almost the same with some cosmetic changes. Ghada told the tenant that this had been her house fifty years ago and she wanted to know how the present landlord had gotten ownership of it or if she could have his telephone number. The American woman said, Let me call my husband. After leaving and then coming back, she looked a bit agitated and said to Ghada, My husband says we do not want anything to do with it. Can you please leave?

Alghadanfar hoped that Sally, by reading Ghada’s book, would come to grips with the plight of him and his people. Ghada’s story is the sad story of how a whole nation was pumped out from its homeland and pumped into another nation. Displacing the Palestinian people will one day be seen as a stigma on the forehead of the world.

Coincidentally, a US citizen who had just arrived in the Middle East to settle met Alghadanfar and became his friend. Just like Sally, Christopher had a blurry image of the unending conflict between Alghadanfar’s people and the Israelis. Christopher had shown keen interest in knowing the truth. Alghadanfar spared no effort in demystifying the misperceptions and revealing the reality.

Because Alghadanfar’s voice had gone hoarse, he decided to give Christopher a book, this one written by an Israeli historian, Ilan Pappé, with the title The Ethnic Cleansing of Palestine. Pappé had decided to tell the truth in spite of the fact that he himself was Jewish. What he wrote puts the Jews in the defendant’s box at the International Court of Justice for crimes against humanity. Pappé said on BBC’s HARDtalk in 2014 that he admits that the Jews have been victims of racism, ethnic cleansing, and extermination, but unfortunately they themselves have turned into victimizers and now apply the same methods the Nazis used against them to other innocent people. In other words, they gave themselves the license to victimize others.

Edward Said, a professor of literature at Columbia University and a Palestinian intellectual, reminded the Israelis in exactly the same manner as Pappé had. He said, You cannot continue to victimize someone else just because you yourself were a victim once – there has to be a limit.

While he was reading the book, Christopher said to Alghadanfar in a message on WhatsApp, This book has been eye-opening. It is so sad. I’m about one-third of the way finished and slowly making my way through it. It is very helpful for me to read it. This delighted Alghadanfar.

Feeling some success from his efforts, Alghadanfar started waging a war of mass attention – WMA – using two main weapons, the first being books, and the second, the only weapon that his father had left him, being the pen. Alghadanfar did not want to victimize anyone, not even his oppressors. All he wanted was to go back to his usurped home peacefully, a home that he was willing to share in coexistence with anyone.

This might be achieved only if people began to think. But the dilemma is as Thomas A. Edison stated it: Five percent of the people think; ten percent of the people think they think; and the other eighty-five percent would rather die than think. Let the people in the first category listen to Alghadanfar’s song.

---

Pamposh Raina and Neha Thirani Bagri, ‘A Conversation With: Author Ariel Dorfman’, India Ink [blog] (9 April 2013). accessed 11 July 2017.↩︎

I Long For

An Exile’s Everyday Song

I long for…

Palestine, my ancestors’ cradle,

The land of honey and milk.

I long for…

My father’s sharp reed pen

Sliding on paper, thirsty for ink.

I long for…

The merry shepherds and their sheep,

Roaming the meadows and hills.

I long for…

My mother’s most beautiful eyes,

The fascinating bluebells.

I long for…

A stolen home I am crying to see,

Under the sun that was taken from me.

I long for…

Sitting in the shade

Of the immortal olive tree.

I long for…

My cat’s purr in my ear

On a winter’s night.

I long for…

My father’s stories told

Under the dancing light.

I long for…

The warm, salty, and

Uncompromising Dead Sea,

And the English lady saying,

"Oh, boy! Do you know the verb to be?"

I long for…

The days when I had a home

Like everyone else.

I long for…

The happy times before

I fell into the exile’s abyss.

I long for…

The great times when

I had childhood dreams so profound,

When I always returned home

And I proved the world was round.

But when Palestine

Was ripped off the world’s map,

I changed my view, and the world

Became flat, like a mousetrap.

I think the whole world is conspiring

Against this Palestinian, who is me.

Why does everyone want me to spend my whole life

Condemned as a refugee?

I have been deprived of my home, of my identity,

Of my rights. What is my crime?

I have been waiting for an answer

From the UN, from the US, from the EU, my whole lifetime.

Many innocent people have lost their lives.

And how many more will be killed? And still we

Have condemned ourselves to fight till the end.

This war will cease to exist

If we fill our hearts with justice, not just pretend.

Peace is engraved on my heart.

I have all my life been oppressed,

But I want my oppressor to be my friend.

Finally, Your Honor. If you listen to me,

I can state my profile, and my case to thee.

I have not killed anyone, nor invaded anyone’s land

I’ve never usurped even a grain of sand.

Why have you ripped me out of my home country

And offered it to a gang on a golden tray? Be fair,

Admit your injustice, and end my calamity, or you

And history, will descend into decay.

Chapter 1

The Hay Trusser and the Bluebells

I inherited that calm from my father, who was a farmer. You sow, you wait for good or bad weather, you harvest, but working is something you always need to do.²

Miguel Indurain

I

t was autumn time in Palestine. Some birds were raiding and picking at the grain, but people threw stones at them to scare them off. It was the sowing season for barley and wheat, in Tishreen al Awal (which comes from the Assyrian calendar that has existed since 4750 BCE), which stands for October, and the birds, the trees, the little wind, the men, and the women were celebrating this ceremony of nature like they did every autumn. As the young man paced slowly along the furrow in the freshly ploughed field, sowing seeds with his hand along with other men, something attracted his attention and he paused. Turning his eyes towards the noise, he could see a group of women coming to the fields carrying straw platters on their heads – of course, a sign of food coming. That young man never imagined that one of the young women among them would change his life forever.

As most of these hired workers came from nearby villages, the landlord took it upon his shoulders to feed and lodge them for the whole seed-sowing season. It was a heavy burden, but the harvest was going to be good this year.

The men could not stop working. They had to resist the aroma of the food, as they had to finish sowing the furrow and then leave a mark where they had stopped. Otherwise, they would lose track of where they had sowed seeds, and that could bring the landlord’s wrath, which was something they had to avoid if they wanted to get their wages.

As the men gathered under the tree, the women with the straw food platters on their heads slowly set the platters on the ground. The men sat in a circle around the platters and began to eat. The platters contained little bowls and plates of fresh green and black olive pickles, zaatar, which is ground thyme mixed with sesame, olive oil, cut tomatoes harvested from this year’s garden, boiled eggs, white goat cheese, home-made yogurt shaped like ping-pong balls swimming in olive oil, eggplant pickles, home-made grape jam, and of course, a heap of fresh barley loaves baked in the earth oven. The penetrating fragrance of zaatar, especially the freshly ground thyme, reminds you, as an observer, that you are in Palestine.

The men devoured their food in the twinkling of the eye. An observer would be able to see how hungry they were as the little bowls and plates began to shake and dance on the straw platters and the food began to disappear. Within a very short time, the plates were shining and they did not require any washing! While the men lay down to rest and take a break, they chatted about the sowing season and other related farmers’ tales. The women who had brought the food were busy kindling a fire in a portable clay stove to make tea for the men. Without a cup of tea in the old times, in Palestine, men would either fall asleep or go astray, as this was an indispensable daily drink. Almost no one could do without it.

One of the women who had been making tea came carrying a tray with glass cups. Her nervousness was obvious as the cups were dancing on the tray, which also held a very big soot-covered metal teapot. Just before she could set the tray on the ground, a man’s hand reached for the tray and took it gently from her. The woman, who did not expect this, was startled. She looked very nervous when her eyes met the man’s eyes, something that should not have happened in those days, as it was considered a sin for a woman to look into a man’s eyes. As their eyes met, never mind the sin, the man who took the tray stood stupefied, mesmerized by the woman’s wonderful blue eyes, the color of bluebells, with long eyelashes that had penetrated deeply into his heart. The young woman, in her twenties, blushed, which fascinated him more. Reaching to adjust her headscarf that had fallen onto her shoulder, she rushed away to join the other women.

Shyness was a valued trait in a woman and a quality that qualified her for marriage. On the other hand, if a woman was described as being as brave as a man, this would tarnish her reputation and jeopardize her chances of getting married and may bring disgrace to her family. As the shy woman turned her back, the man could observe her slender, elegant, shapely figure, and her feminine attractive walk with that wasp waist, which wreaked havoc on his brain. He was dazzled by that creation. In his daze, he whispered, "Ma sha Allah, a phrase uttered by Muslims to show appreciation, admiration, and gratitude to God, and then he added, God bless the creation," as if he had just been charmed by a masterpiece. That night, like every night, the men sang and danced and their voices reached the stars.

Oh! One of an elegant height.

Stop so I can tell you,

You are going abroad and your country is better for you.

I am afraid you will get established there

And find someone else and forget me here.

Because it was early October and the air around them was cold, they huddled by the fire and chatted. Shadad’s mind was somewhere else. Someone had stolen his mind, but he did not mind, because the thief was so beautiful. One of his friends came and shook his shoulder and said in a loud voice, Hey, Shadad. I pray that the one who stole your mind shall not enjoy it – a very common popular comment addressing one who seemed to be in love. Everyone roared, laughing.

Shadad’s mind was fixed on that young woman. Her bluebell eyes had left him motionless, and she had tormented him with her gazelle-like walk. He wondered, Is she from the landlord’s family? Or a relative? Or a hired girl to help in feeding the workers? Who is she? he kept asking the workers, but no one had an answer, as they had not even noticed her. That night, Shadad gazed at the stars, thinking of the woman whose scarf had fallen on her shoulder. Her brown hair had fascinated him. He was already enthralled.

The second day, as the workers were sowing the seeds and were almost at the end of the furrow, they could hear some singing in the far distance. Then from behind the hill, the same group of women appeared, carrying the straw platters on their heads. They were singing as follows:

Oh Laya! Oh Laya! You, girl,

Treading to the water spring,

Your parents have told me

You are mine.

The women were singing in unison so loud that their voices echoed in the nearby hills and valleys. The men paused, feeling elevated and delighted by the singing. The men dropped their tools and hurried towards the tree, where the women put the food platters on the ground. One of the women shouted, Hey, men, come and eat your breakfast. Each man left a mark where he had stopped, and then strode to the tree towards the fragrant food.

Shadad, the man who had just fallen in love, was thinking of his girl and was looking for her, but she was not there. He shivered, asking himself, Didn’t she come today? Did someone from her family discover that her scarf had fallen and a stranger saw her hair? Or, because she had committed the sin of looking a man straight into his eyes, was she detained? As he was in the middle of all that thinking, he saw his girl near the fire stove trying to light the fire. He approached her and asked the squatting girl if she needed help. Too shy to utter any words, she said nothing. Obviously she had trouble kindling the fire, and apparently it was her turn to make tea for the workers today. He stood looking at the same woman, the same eyes, and the same fallen headscarf, which she did not bother to adjust today, and he felt in heaven. What’s your name? he asked.

With some hesitation, and avoiding his eyes, she stuttered, Hamda.

The best of names, he commented – a customarily polite statement people sometimes say when they meet someone for the first time. And are you from here?

Yes. I am AbuFayed’s sister.

As she said that, Shadad went dumb, as if a heavy rock had fallen on his head and he was now staggering. He realized that he was now talking to the landlord’s sister. AbuFayed, he whispered to himself, the landlord himself. Perhaps this would be the end of a beautiful dream!

That evening was the end of the seed-sowing season. The men spent the night and in the morning they received their wages from AbuFayed, the landlord. He praised their hard work and told them that he would like them to come back in Huzairan – the Assyrian name for the month of June – for the harvest season. Hearing that, Shadad’s heart leapt out of his chest and danced. It kept dancing for a while, because the news was a great joy to his heart and he could not keep it inside his chest.

Then he shivered when he realized that it would be almost eight months until harvest time, and during that period he would die a thousand times while thinking of Hamda and what fate held in store for him. How could he wait all those months away from the bluebell eyes and the brown hair? How could he forget her and how she walked? How could he go to the landlord and tell him, I love your sister and I want to marry her? He shuddered when he imagined AbuFayed summoning his tall Achilles-like brothers and ordering them to dump the scum and make Shadad never again turn his face towards this place! That would be unthinkable.

AbuFayed bid the men goodbye as he walked with them to the edge of the village. He thanked them and reminded them to come back in the summer for the harvest. Shadad and the other men started the journey back home to nearby villages. Some were riding their donkeys, others were on foot. As it was the first quarter of the twentieth century, automobiles were very rare in Palestine and the most common means of transportation were donkeys, mules, sometimes camels, rarely horses, and mostly number 11 vehicles – as walking on foot was referred to figuratively. Those who could afford to buy a donkey were much luckier. The journey would take them a day, and then in the evening they would be home. Those married ones were going to bring joy to their families with the money they had earned from the ploughing and sowing season.

Shadad now had one main thing on his mind. Day and night he dreamed of Hamda. His goal was to marry her. As he settled in his village, Assara, almost twenty kilometers from Touras, Hamda’s village, after a season of roaming, he began to summon all his strength and all his mental capabilities. At the top of all his list was to begin to save so he could achieve his dream of marrying AbuFayed’s sister. He started consulting friends and relatives, asking them how he could ask for her hand. Many of his friends and relatives advised him to wait until the harvest season was over.

Some pessimistic individuals mocked him, saying that his dream to marry AbuFayed’s sister was a dream like Satan’s dream of entering heaven. But, Shadad thought, what if I approach Hamda’s eldest brother asking for her hand? He is her guardian because her father is dead. According to social custom, it is the eldest brother who decides the fate of the women of the family. What if the brother disagrees? Then Hamda cannot resist, besides, AbuFayed does not know if she is in love with me, and her brother has the final word. Unfortunately, Shadad’s mother had died and his sick father, oblivious of everything, spent most of his time by the window ledge rolling cigarettes, smoking, coughing, and farting, as Shadad used to say. There was no use talking to him. Shadad had to sort things out by himself.

Shadad did not possess money, neither gold nor silver, but he possessed something more valuable, one quality that distinguished him from most men and made him stand out in the crowd and caused everyone to look up to him in that era of ignorance: he was educated and had the ability to read and write. In the first quarter of the twentieth century, if you were somewhat literate and could spell the Arabic alphabet, you were seen as the best of all men and everyone would envy you. Schools in the modern sense did not exist in villages. Very few men, like Shadad, managed to learn how to read and write by attending the teaching circle of the Imam – Preacher – at the mosque, where they would learn to recite the Quran, read and write Arabic, and do some arithmetic. Once Shadad was asked how much money they had to pay the Imam in those days. He laughed, saying, We paid him an egg or two, some wheat, and some barley. And if he demanded more eggs, he would have caused a crisis in the house.

Having acquired the ability to read and write, Shadad had access to reading great old Arabic literature like One Thousand and One Nights, or as it is known in the west, the Arabian Nights. Another famous book he was reading was Kalila wa Dimna, One of the most popular books ever written… a bestseller for almost two thousand years, and a book still read with pleasure all over the world. It has been translated at least 200 times into 50 different languages.³ Above all, Shadad had read and understood the Holy Quran and memorized most of it. His Arabic cursive handwriting was unmatched, so beautiful it was. Shadad was considered very educated by early 20th century standards.

That night, when Shadad had the entire evening to himself, he sat in a corner. His father had fallen asleep, so his coughing had stopped. The cow’s moos in the shed below had died down. Shadad took out his precious diary, his straw pen, and his ink bottle, and sat down at his little handmade coffee table to write. It was very rare to see someone keeping a journal in those days, and Shadad was exceptional. The first thing on his mind was his first encounter with the young woman who had stolen his mind. He wanted to put the experience down in writing so it stayed eternal as one of his fondest memories. He wrote, ‘An angel treaded into my world. Her face eclipsed the moon, her eyes challenged the blue sky on an August day, her walk lit fire in men’s hearts, and her hair framed her white face like a full moon on a dark night.’

As the months passed slowly, Shadad patiently waited, doing some jobs here and there, and saving money to marry AbuFayed’s sister. Being far away, he found that the distance and the days tormented him, as he had no chance of seeing Hamda, not even once, unlike the girls in the village, some of whom went out to work in the fields and did some errands, giving the men a chance to glance at them. And if a man liked a girl, he would rush to his mother, who would investigate her background and might ask for her hand.

In the village, everyone knew everyone else, so looking for a bride was not a daunting task. But Shadad’s destiny had dragged him to fall in love with a woman who lived a day’s walk from his village and descended from an affluent family. The divide between him and her was very wide. Besides, marrying a woman from another village was a more complex matter than marrying a local woman. Women’s families did not trust strangers and needed time to investigate the man’s background. Being from another village, Shadad stood little chance of marrying the woman of his dreams, the bluebell-eyed beauty. He whispered to himself with agony, "God have mercy on me and prevent a repeat of Layla and Majnun" – an Arabic version of Romeo and Juliet.

June (Huzairan) was approaching and the harvest season would soon begin. Shadad’s heart was filled with joy and expectation as finally he was going to meet the woman of his dreams. Reapers and hay trussers in the village, after getting ready, travelled in a convoy to Touras, Hamda’s village, to work in the vast wheat fields that stretched as far as the eye could see. Everyone carried their tools in baskets dangling on their backs that contained a sickle, a small hoe, and a leather apron to protect their thighs and lower body while tying the stalks in sheaves, as stalks have thorny points and can hurt the skin.

As the men arrived in Touras, AbuFayed welcomed them, slaughtering a sheep. The men enjoyed a traditional meal of meat and rice before they started their hard task of reaping under the hot sun of June. Touras’ wheat plains lay in the valley of the River Jordan, where the sun beats hard and sometimes the heat soars to high records in the reaping season.

The reaping season being tough, men, children, women, donkeys, and some camels all labored hard to get the crops out of the fields and to the stone threshing floors adjacent to the fields. Men sang at the top of their voices. Singing while laboring was a feature of Palestinian peasants’ life. One of the common ballads that was passed from generation to generation was this one:

Hey, tall and good-looking lad.

Wait, stop, let me tell you,

Going abroad to a strange land:

Your country is better for you.

In those days, workers were hired and paid in two distinct fashions: they either got their wages on a daily basis or agreed with the landlord to complete the job within a specified period of time and then got a lump sum of money. This latter fashion had the advantage that if the team of men finished the job faster, they could move to another landlord and get more money. Otherwise, they would take a loss. So, everyone on the team had to work hard. But by the end of the day, men, women, animals, and even the birds were sweating in the heat. All thanked God when the sun set and they all returned home or to the camp.

Shadad had more than one chance to see Hamda and exchange looks with her that told him she liked him. She even giggled a little sometimes whenever she and Shadad crossed paths while Hamda was rushing to join the other women. Because of traditions, they had never been able to talk or chat. That might bring suspicion and Shadad could lose his job. The situation would spin out of control and tribal mentality would force him to abandon his dream. This is why he kept his distance and settled for revealing his emotions to his closest friends from his village. One of these men told Shadad he was interested in Hamda’s sister.

Returning to his village at the end of the reaping season, armed with wages that he collected from his hard work, Shadad began to make plans to ask for Hamda’s hand. After consulting with some of the village elders who possessed more wisdom than he in such matters, and with his closest friends, the conclusion was reached that Shadad should wait a little while longer, considering the financial gap between him and Hamda’s family. Shadad worried that someone else with a better financial and social status would come forward and that AbuFayed would force his sister to marry such a man. An old man kneeling on his rosary and looking at the ground commented on Shadad’s fears, saying, "Everything is maktoob, my son – that is, destined by God. Whether you fly to the seventh sky or swim the seven seas, you will only get what has been maktoob for you." With those powerful words, Shadad gained faith. He submitted his case to his God and waited.

One morning, the village witnessed unusual activity when the muezzin, the man who calls for prayer and who also serves as the news announcer – equal to social media these days, was shouting from the top of the mosque, "Hey, people of the village. Those who can hear me, tell those who cannot. If any man above the age of eighteen wants to join the army, then he should proceed to the mukhtaar’s [head of the village] house and bring with him his birth certificate or any other identification documents. Those present, please tell those absent. The men, after hearing that, whispered to each other and wondered, looking puzzled. What army is the muezzin talking about? The war is over and the Turks have fallen and are gone forever," someone said.

One man said, Let’s go and see.

Outside the mukhtaar’s house, there was a large crowd of men, but the main attraction that everyone was gazing at was the black Ford automobile that was parked there with a soldier who was holding a rifle and standing next to the car. Everyone wanted to touch that strange object, but the soldier looked grim and unfriendly. Thinking that he might empty his magazine into their bodies, they stayed away from the Ford. Suddenly, the mukhtaar came out and yelled at people to keep quiet. Then he said that those who could read and write very well should come to the front, that those with some literacy should stand behind them, and that everybody else should stand in the very back. Shadad’s chance has finally come; he would be able to marry Hamda. He stood in front of everybody else with confidence. If God wills, everything in the world will support you to make your dreams come true.

As Shadad entered the room for his interview, he found himself facing two officers; one looked English, and the other had an Arab look. To his amusement, the English officer started speaking in Arabic. The Arab officer asked Shadad to read a paragraph from a book, which he did very well. Both officers asked him many questions about his past, his knowledge of history, and even his knowledge of politics, which he answered very well. The officers were impressed because they had landed on someone who could be a teacher and a military coach instead of a typical soldier. They finally asked Shadad to read a statement expressing his allegiance to the king, which Shadad did just before he signed up. A week later, the whole village was bidding goodbye to Shadad and the others who had been recruited by His Majesty’s army, which made the recruits the envy of the whole world. Whether you fly to the seventh heaven or swim the seven seas, you will realize the destiny that has been written – maktoob – for you.

For three months, no one had heard anything from Shadad, but then one afternoon, an automobile – a taxi – arrived in the village and stopped in the middle of the village square. The sight of an automobile was something very rare. It drew everyone’s attention because only VIPs could ride in those machines. Shadad emerged, wearing his military outfit and looking very handsome. There was a rapturous welcome from the onlookers. Everyone wanted to shake hands with him. Young men were begging him to help them join the army. All the village notables came to welcome him, and then they all walked in a procession to the village common guest house, where young and old came to shake hands with the returning hero, and women ululated from windows and rooftops.

As Shadad was talking about his life in the military, everyone paid attention and wondered how that was different from the village routine, which did not consist of anything but taking the sheep to graze in the morning and returning with them in the evening. Shadad talked about the complex weapons he had been trained to use and his everyday training, and said he had even shaken hands with His Majesty, which made everyone gasp. Someone exclaimed, You shook hands with the king himself!

A few days later, Shadad, in his shining well-ironed military uniform, and some notables from the village were sitting with AbuFayed, Hamda’s eldest brother, in his guest room so that Shadad could ask for Hamda’s hand. In Shadad’s culture, there were some rituals involved in asking for a woman’s hand, and is still the case now. First, both families investigate each other’s background and dig deep into each other’s history by asking their friends, neighbors, relatives, and so on. If the woman’s family members are satisfied and have no suspicion after the man has proposed, they give their approval. The bridegroom’s family has to send a delegation to the bride’s family to formally ask for her hand. The delegation – called Jaha in Arabic – typically consists of the bridegroom’s father, some male family members, clan notables, and village notables. The delegation might be very big, depending on the family’s status.

The bigger the Jaha, the more impressive the members are. The delegation typically appoints a spokesman who is the most eloquent in the delegation, knows some of the Quran by heart, and is a respected figure in the community. However, if the bridegroom’s father meets these conditions, then he becomes the spokesman. The bridegroom does not talk at all; he just