PALESTINE Memories of 1948 - Photographs of Jerusalem | Page 203

he assured me that his group was getting ready to act.
It all turned out to be true.
My mother was a woman who wanted the best for her
children. When we went to Jerusalem to buy clothes, she
always asked to see ‘the best they have.’ For her, quality
was synonymous with being long-lasting. She wanted to
see me become a doctor: to be a doctor was to ensure
respectable work for oneself and long-term security for
all one’s family. So, internally, I was preparing myself
to study medicine at the American University of Beirut
(AUB), 35 whose reputation went far beyond Lebanon.
It was possible to enrol in Jerusalem, where the
AUB’s Faculty of Medicine had sent its representative,
Mr Flehan, in the early summer of 1945, to register can-
didates in an office in the King David Hotel. 36 To get
there, I had to take a bus at Bab Al Khalil, Jaffa Gate,
but when I arrived, it had just left. I had to wait half an
hour for the next one, and I arrived too late to meet Mr
Flehan. It is funny to think that a bus would turn my
life in a completely different direction from the one that
was expected: I could simply enrol with the American
University of Cairo (AUC), I suggested to my father. In
Cairo, I would take a course in journalism. My father
agreed. It was rare at the time to see a father agree to
the desiderata of his son: exceptions apart, a son had to
follow in his father’s footsteps or study what the fam-
ily wanted in order to ensure everyone’s survival. My
father’s reply showed that he was ahead of his time: he
said a Masha Allah kana, meaning that he was leaving
the thing in the hands of God, and gave me the impres-
sion that he was ceding me immense freedom as much
to face the present as to manage the future. He had
always taught me to take action while reflecting on the
consequences. I set off for Cairo with his teachings.
The Egyptian capital was a crossroads for cultural
meetings and a crucible for new ideas. My first contact
with it, as I got off the train, leaves me with the mem-
ory of being lost as if I were a Bedouin straight out
of the desert. Near Tahrir Square, I found a lodging
house run by a Syrian woman from Aleppo. The room
she rented to me was tiny, but had everything I needed:
a metal bed with a mosquito net, a table and a cup-
board. For a very cheap fare, the tram took me to the
university where I found myself plunged into the heart
of Egyptian high society. AUC was much like a club
where people, dressed in the latest fashion and arriving
in their chauffeur-driven saloon car, would meet up.
I went around the clothes shops, Omar Effendi and
Cicurel, and came out with a suit that I wore all the
time. The first day, the teacher of translation cited my
work as an example, then I became the editor of the
faculty newspaper Caravan, and I quickly found my
place in a small group of students consisting of Pales-
tinians like me, particularly from Gaza, Ahmad Shawa,
Majdi Abu Ramadan, and William Shaheiber, and also
Nicola Damiani, who was from Jaffa. We were like the
five fingers of a hand. To such an extent that, because
the fighting in Palestine meant that I was out of touch
with my father for a year and a half, and thus had no
money for daily necessities, they suggested that I join
their little community as the fifth tenant in their flat
in Heliopolis. 37 We would listen to Umm Kulthoum
and Beethoven while eating maklubeh 38 and pizzas.
In spite of everything, I was unhappy because I was
not in touch with my family, although I would hear
news of them indirectly here and there, but nothing
substantial. Then one day in 1947, an Egyptian that I
did not know accosted me at the university and invited
me to take breakfast with him in the cafeteria, during
which he gave me 40 Egyptian pounds in cash. He had
been given them by Salim, a close relative, who had
sent them to me on behalf of my father. I believed him,
given that Salim was coming and going between Pal-
estine and Egypt. It was a lot of money: for example, a
room cost eight pounds a month. I thanked him pro-
fusely and went to share the money with my friends.
Only much later did I learn that the man belonged to
the Tijaniya brotherhood: the money was his, and he
had made up the whole story so that I would accept it.
Whenever a Palestinian arrived in Cairo, we would
get some news and so we were aware of what was going
on. We followed all the battles fought by our hero ‘Abd
Al Qadir Al Husseini. His death in April 1948 and the
massacre at Deir Yasin 39 left us like orphans and crushed.
The feeling of powerlessness then gave way to the pressing
need not to remain idle. A group of about 60 boys and
girls, all influenced by the pan-Arab speeches of Michel
Aflaq, 40 decided to suspend our studies, at least temporar-
ily, long enough to get some training from the Egyptian
army. But the training, which was done in the desert,
only lasted a fortnight and consisted only of teaching
us to dismantle and reassemble guns and to march in
groups, all starting on the same foot. I was exasperated:
‘You’re joking! We are not training to be scouts!’
we shouted at the Egyptian officer before returning to
Cairo. We felt that we had wasted our time.
Mohammad
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