Adama

by al-Hamad, Turki; Bray, Robin;

  After only a few days had passed, Adnan gradually began to approach him again. Sometimes he would greet him with a grin; other times he would sit next to him during break as they had always done. But Hisham was determined to avoid him. No sooner would Adnan sit next to him than he would get up and walk away, and he never returned any of Adnan’s greetings. Even when Adnan came to the gang meetings Hisham would keep his distance, shunning him conspicuously to the point where the others noticed this unusual behaviour and tried to patch things up, insisting that whatever they had fallen out over should not be allowed to come in the way of a friendship like theirs. But Hisham tried to convince them that there had been no estrangement or disagreement and that he was simply tied up with other things that were on his mind; though he did begin treating Adnan more warmly in front of the gang while maintaining his distance at other times.

  This was as much as Adnan could bear. Relationships with his comrades were no substitute for his friendship with Hisham. With them he could not discuss his worries and feelings, whereas in Hisham he used to find sanctuary, a refuge from the chronic tensions of a household shared with his father and brother. He missed Hisham’s interest in his pictures and way of painting, and came to feel desperately lonely. He needed encouragement and praise, things he only ever got from Hisham.

  One day, while Hisham was sitting in his usual place during the break, Adnan came up and sat down beside him. Hisham was about to get up, but Adnan pulled him by the elbow.

  “Hisham, I’m sorry,” he said. “I could bear losing anything except you. I’m sorry ...” And he began to cry.

  Hisham looked at him, and all feelings of hatred vanished in an instant. “I knew our friendship came before everything else,” he said with tremendous affection. He leaned towards his friend and they embraced.

  “You know I only joined the organisation for you,” Adnan said wretchedly after they had separated. With that they got up and headed to the classroom hand-in-hand, as the ringing bell marked the end of the break – and the end of their estrangement.

  Adnan’s apology restored Hisham’s feelings of superiority and importance. He felt as though he had recovered something that had been stolen from him, and in his mind that represented a victory over Mansur and Fahd and the whole organisation: he was stronger than them all. He had defeated them in the end, and they and their orders could go to hell.

  38

  During the course of the next few days the region was rocked by a series of momentous events. In Libya a military coup deposed King Idris al-Sanusi, and a republic was proclaimed. It was apparent, through the slogans they used and the principles they declared, that those behind the coup were of Nasserite leaning; Egypt followed with swift recognition of the revolutionary regime. The identity of this ‘Libyan Nasser’ was not yet known, but there was no doubt that the conspirators were Nasserites.

  The next session of the cell following these events was devoted to a discussion of them in order to define the party’s position. Fahd went through the usual formalities and opened the session, saying:

  “Comrades, we all know about the events that have occurred in Libya. The leadership wishes to ascertain your opinions so that the party may reach a clear position. What are your views?”

  There was a short silence, before Comrade Hudaijan spoke up. “I’m wholeheartedly behind the revolution,” he said. “It’s a revolution against colonialism, imperialism and exploitation, and we must support it with all our might. The revolution will reinforce the progressive forces in the Arabian Peninsula and throughout the Arab nation. I’m with it unreservedly.”

  Comrade Hasan al-Sabah was next to speak. “But it’s obvious that the people behind the revolution are Nasserites, and that will only lead to the strengthening of Nasser, especially given that Libya borders Egypt and has vast oil reserves.”

  “And what’s so bad about that?” asked Comrade Hudaijan, excitedly.

  “What’s so bad about that,” said Comrade Hasan al-Sabah with a flickering smile, “is that Nasser’s strength means the party’s weakness, because it won’t have the resources that Nasser will.”

  “But the party has been in power in Iraq since the July Revolution; that’s a rich country with unlimited resources –”

  “I’d like to correct you on one point, Comrade Hudaijan,” interrupted Fahd, sharply. “Those in power in Iraq are not the party. They’re a pack of opportunists and reactionary traitors with no relation whatsoever to the great revolutionary party. As we already discussed last year, when the movement of reactionary traitors was formed in Iraq. But it appears you have a short memory, comrade, or else you haven’t taken in the principles of the party.”

  Hudaijan lowered his gaze and bowed his head silently. Once Fahd was quite sure that the message had got through he calmed down. “Traitors to the party who nominally belong to it are more dangerous than those who are openly hostile to it,” he said.

  “You’re right, comrade,” said Hasan al-Sabah. “And anyway, I don’t trust military adventurers and their coups ... unless they belong to an organised party.”.

  “That’s true,” said Fahd, “but we mustn’t forget that the only way revolution will ever come about in the Arab nation is through the army. There’s no possibility of a popular revolution happening here as in France, Russia or China. The army is the vanguard and all our hopes are pinned on it, as long as it belongs to a genuinely progressive party; and the only one in the Arab nation is our party and our movement, the movement of the Arab awakening.”

  Hisham and Abu Dharr had been silently following these remarks, when suddenly Fahd turned to Hisham.

  “Comrade Abu Huraira,” he said, “we haven’t heard your opinion yet.”

  Hisham nodded. “The truth is that any movement opposed to colonialism, imperialism and oppression is a genuine revolution we must support, regardless of whomever’s behind it and their political leanings,” he said. “And anyway, it’s better to have Libya governed by Nasserites than for it to remain under the control of imperialists and their reactionary traitor henchmen.”

  “You’re wrong, comrade,” snapped Hasan al-Sabah, raising his voice a little. “That’s a naive attitude. It’s better for the party that colonialism and its agents do remain.” He leaned forward, his prominent ears seeming to stick out even further and his eyes bulging as he pointed his finger at Hisham. “Colonialism and its servants are an overt enemy that the party can rally the revolutionary masses and their leadership against. But now! Now the enemy is a covert one, because the party cannot oppose a movement that claims to be revolutionary, progressive and pan-Arabist while in reality it’s the opposite.” Hasan al-Sabah fell silent and sat back with a faint smile on his lips.

  Hisham was insulted by the description of his attitude as naive, but remained calm.

  “And how do you know that the movement in Libya isn’t genuinely revolutionary and progressive?” he asked.

  “That’s another naive point, comrade. It’s perfectly clear. There’s only one revolutionary party in the Arab nation and only one progressive movement: our own. Anything else is different, without question. Do you understand that, comrade?”

  Hisham’s face turned blood red; he felt the volcano erupting inside him and would have liked to slap this insolent wretch who was piling insult upon insult. But he kept his composure and was just about to reply when Abu Dharr broke in, saying,

  “I agree with Comrade Abu Huraira. Every revolution against injustice and oppression is part of the Arab revolutionary movement, whoever’s behind it.”

  “The party and the movement – our principles and ideals – are a means to an end, not the other way round,” remarked Hudaijan. “If it can be shown that a certain movement really serves the things we believe in, why don’t we support it, regardless of the name of the party behind it?” He smiled briefly at Hisham and Abu Dharr as he spoke, and Hisham reciprocated warmly. He had always liked Comrade Hudaijan, as much as he had loathed Hasan al-Sabah and Fahd since firs
t setting eyes on them. Fahd, meanwhile, followed the exchanges with close attention.

  “You must be aware, comrades,” said Fahd, “that the party comes before everything.”

  “Even our principles?” asked Hudaijan.

  “The party is our principles, comrade. Without it, there are no principles,” came Fahd’s stern reply, bringing the discussion to an end. The session continued for a while longer as Fahd read out some internal party directives. Then he asked the comrades to write an analysis of regional events for delivery to the provincial leadership, which would adopt a position accordingly and report in turn to the national leadership; thus would the party’s position be defined at the level of the Arab nation as a whole. Comrade Fahd added that this was genuine democracy, and went on to attack “bourgeois democracy” as false class consciousness and an expression of bourgeois interests alone.

  39

  When Hisham left the session on that hot, humid September day, he considered going up to al-Hubb Street and hanging around there for a while before going home, as he had no desire to see the gang that day. He began wandering about in no particular direction, peeking at women’s large behinds in the market as they swayed to and fro with the slightest movement, their erotic lines clear beneath the folds of wraps pulled tightly around their bodies. He looked at the shops selling fabric and women’s items, especially underwear and nightdresses, until he ended up at a café near Thamantash Street. It was a small place where labourers, unemployed people and loafers were sitting and drinking tea with milk, eating sandwiches filled with egg, tomato and red pepper or cheese with watermelon jam.

  The only times Hisham could remember having been to a café had been during the Eid festivals, when he and Adnan would go to al-Khobar and eat in a restaurant on Prince Khalid or al-Suwaiqat Streets, then sit in a café and have coffee with milk as part of their Eid celebrations. When he was in Syria or Jordan during the summer he would often sit with his father in the cafés in al-Midan and al-Marja in Damascus, and Ras al-Ayn, Misdar Hill and King Talal Street in Amman. There his father would spend time with old aqilat friends, smoking hookah pipes and talking, while Hisham enjoyed a coconut milk drink and sometimes a plate of Nablus kunafa or harisa decorated with almonds. Apart from those occasions, his experience encompassed only school, the gang, his room and, now, the organisation.

  Hisham was just about to turn into Thamantash Street on his way home when he happened to notice Hudaijan and Abu Dharr sitting in the café. They noticed him as well, and smiles were exchanged all round. Hisham continued on his way, but soon felt someone pulling him by the shoulder and saying, “Please join us, brother; you must have something to drink with us. If that’s all right with you, that is.” It was Hudaijan, who gave him no time to think about it, dragging him into the café by his arm and sitting him down in the chair where he had been sitting and then drawing up another one for himself.

  “So,” Hudaijan cried, clapping his hands, “what’ll it be? A tea, or something cold?”

  “Tea ... tea, please,” Hisham stammered in reply. The word ‘brother’ that Hudaijan had used when calling out to him was still ringing in his ears; he had almost forgotten it of late, instead having got used to ‘comrade’, a word that had made him laugh when he first heard it but which had since come to repel and then finally frighten him. Hudaijan was wearing the same clothes as always: a black suit – this despite the heat and the humidity – with a white shirt and black sandals without socks. Abu Dharr was dressed like Hisham, in a white robe and plastic sandals. Hisham did not know how Hudaijan could bear such clothes in such suffocating weather: from late May to mid-October, the weather in Dammam was unbearable. The rest of the year it was lovely, except for a few days in January and February when the cold could be bitter.

  The waiter brought tea in a glass with marks all over it just as Hisham was trying to swat away the flies buzzing incessantly around his face. The tea had been mixed with condensed milk and a lot of sugar that had settled at the bottom of the glass. Hisham preferred his tea with only a little sugar and no milk, but he began drinking it without objection while Hudaijan munched an egg sandwich and drank a Coca-Cola and Abu Dharr sipped a glass of ‘Super’ orange. They all simultaneously fought off the flies, so determined, it seemed, to irritate them as much as possible by stubbornly sticking to their clammy skin.

  It was evident to Hisham that Hudaijan and Abu Dharr knew each other from outside the organisation, as they had been talking and laughing together in confidence when he first noticed them. Hudaijan swallowed the last bite of his sandwich and swigged a big gulp of Coke.

  “Let me introduce myself,” he said, trying to swallow at the same time. “I’m Marzuq Ibn Didani al-Mitrani. And this,” he went on, nodding at Abu Dharr, “is my friend Zaki Baqir Abd al-Nabi.”

  He fell silent, looking at Hisham meaningfully and narrowing his small eyes as he finished his drink. Hisham realised that he was inviting him to identify himself in turn.

  “I’m Hisham Ibrahim al-Abir,” he said without hesitating. “I’m in secondary school.”

  “We work at the Dutch bank ABN in al-Khobar,” said Hudaijan. “We come here afterwards, you know ...” He broke off and looked around before continuing, “to pass the time while we’re waiting for the minibus home.”

  Throughout all of this Abu Dharr was extremely tense, and the anger on his face was quite obvious as he looked at Hudaijan. But the latter paid no attention.

  “I’m from the al-Artawiyya settlement; you must know of it if you’ve heard of Ibn Dawish. I’m sure you do,” said Hudaijan, his eyes glowing with pride at the mention of the tribal leader and rebel against Ibn Saud, founder of the Saudi kingdom. “I was born there, but my father came to the Eastern Province when I was going on five years old to work for Aramco in oil drilling and exploration.”

  Hudaijan raised his empty glass to his lips, in search of any drop of Coke that might be left, then set the glass back down in the table, smacking his lips audibly.

  “I left school after getting my middle school qualifications to work in the bank,” he said. “But I go to evening classes. When I get my high school diploma I’m going to leave my job at the bank and go to military training college; I want to be an officer.”

  Hudaijan fell silent as Hisham watched him inquisitively and Abu Dharr looked on, still obviously angry. “Waiter, bring us another cold drink,” Hudaijan called out, clapping his hands again. “Will you two have anything?” he asked, looking at the others. They both shook their heads. Abu Dharr frowned and leaned back, folding his hands over his chest.

  “And what about you?” said Hudaijan, crossing his legs and sitting back with his hands behind his neck. “From your accent it sounds like you’re from Qusaim.”

  “True,” said Hisham. “My father’s from Qusaim, but I was born and brought up here. So I’m really an Easterner,” he added with a brief smile.

  “But the way you talk makes you sound like you’ve just moved here from Qusaim. You don’t use a single word of the Eastern Province dialect.”

  “Says you with your Dammam accent! The first time I heard you I thought you were fresh from the depths of the Empty Quarter.” They both laughed, and a faint smile even tried to make its way even onto Abu Dharr’s lips.

  “They say people from Qusaim never change,” said Hudaijan, grinning with his white teeth showing. “Wherever they are, their accent and their customs stay just the same. And as traders they’re always moving from place to place, so much so that some people call them the Jews of Nejd,” he added, laughing.

  “Why not say the Jews of the Peninsula?” said Hisham, laughing along. But Hudaijan shook his finger.

  “No, no; that title’s reserved for Yemenis from Hadhramawt.”

  They all laughed again, including Abu Dharr this time, who got up when their laughter had died down. “I’ll go on ahead to the bus stop,” he said, looking at Hudaijan. “Don’t be long.” And he slipped out of the café and disappeared down al-Hubb St
reet.

  The other two remained silent for a moment as they looked towards the door of the café, and then Hisham said, “What about your friend? He is your friend, isn’t he?”

  “Yes,” said Hudaijan causally. “I met him at the bank. He’s a good-natured guy and kind, too, but he’s extremely suspicious and he won’t trust anyone easily. Once he does come to trust someone, they’ll find him the gentlest soul alive.” Hudaijan paused to finish his Coke in one gulp. “He’s from Safwa,” he continued, burping. “His family lives in Rahima, and he comes to evening classes with me. He wants to get a degree in accounting and business administration. I mustn’t be late or he’ll get even angrier with me,” he added quickly as he got up. “Waiter, the bill please,” he called out. But Hisham refused to let him pay, and Hudaijan left hastily and vanished among the women and labourers on al-Hubb Street.

  After that they saw one another again on a personal level, meeting up on the beach nearby after the cell sessions, not far from the Imara building. The beach was a peaceful place far away from the crowds and noise. At that time of year a foul smell rose from the sea where the water mixed with sewage and rubbish, but one got used to it and the sea was still beautiful despite everything. At first it was only Hisham and Marzuq who would meet, but later they were joined by Zaki, who really was quite different from Hisham’s first impression in the café: he was mild-mannered and gentle, and altogether unlike the Abu Dharr Hisham saw in the cell. The three of them would meet on the beach after sunset, sit and stretch out, shoeless, facing the sea. Then they would begin to talk about anything and everything, albeit most of the time about politics. Hisham found out from Marzuq that Zaki had reproached him for the way he had behaved in the café that day, but Zaki was later to feel extremely glad about what he called the “happy coincidence” that had led him get to a new friend. Friendship was the highest form of relationship, as he later put it when speaking of the bond between them.