The Homeland

by Hamida Na'na

  “Why don’t you just kill it?”

  “Are you mad? If I killed it what would I have left? I mean, what could I talk about? At least now it gives me something to chatter on about!”

  We agreed that the insect served an important function as a conversation piece, in my heightened consciousness, or rather my intoxication. Then it hits me like a bolt of lightning. A method to rid myself of the insect. I leave al-Bahi and the revolutionary oil sheikh and I go back to my room. I seek it out behind the radiator. There it is, still in its place. I reach down and pick it up. I put it in a small bag. I go to Saint Lazarre Station and get on board a train to Deauville. Down by the water, I lay down on the sand and release the insect so that it can run and jump and play in freedom.

  The sun is beating down on me and I close my eyes. When the insect sees what I am doing, it too stretches out and closes its eyes, copying me. After some hours, I open one eye and I see the insect is still lost in its world of dreams. My chance has come and I take it. I run back up to the railway station and I go back to Paris on my own.

  Just before I cross the threshold, I stop to listen for a moment. Nothing but the sound of my footsteps on the wooden floor. I look around in my bag for the key. I open the door. A noise from inside hits me like a thunderbolt: the insect is inside the house. It has not moved one inch from its position behind the radiator. I am shivering as I listen to the noise, it mixes with Abu Mashour’s voice and my homeland. Once again I see the faces of my comrades. They come to me and torture me in my loneliness. The smell of war and bodies, mutilated by explosives. The face of the River Seine and the prisons of Germany. The smouldering face of Harran. Ayntab asleep. Last of all comes the operation that I took part in there on the Northern Plains. In the depths of the Occupied Land. The action which separated me from my comrades for good.

  I returned to Harran via Beirut after I had been forbidden from ever entering West Germany again. I met with a group of comrades in the military wing of the Organization. I was convinced that there was no point in us continuing our external operations and that we should concentrate on hitting at the heart of the Occupied Land. Issam tried to ignore what I was saying. Saleh and Naif also pretended not to hear. Abu Layla said he was tired and so the discussion was adjourned until the following morning.

  They thought that I was still suffering the effects of the period I spent in prison. They assumed that I was not in my right mind after my failure and after being wounded during the last hijack. They told me I needed sleep, so I slept. The following day I returned to the subject with a clear head:

  “It’s no good going back to the old ways. Hijacking planes is getting us nowhere.”

  The comrades remained entrenched in their positions. I had become a stranger among them. It was the first time that I felt like that in their company. Where was Abu Mashour, so I could tell him about my change of heart and about my coming round to his point of view after all this time?

  He was doing active service in one of the encampments on the Northern Plains. He had refused to take part in any more of the external operations. Now he was in charge of our military wing up there.

  The comrades had come to their final decision regarding my future among them: I could not possibly take part in any further external operations and, since my face had become known to most of the European intelligence services, I could not participate in any public activity in the camps or in the military wing because I had become, or rather the newspapers had turned me into, some kind of symbolic, bogus heroine. Once again they decided that I should work on the publicity side of the struggle:

  “You shall meet the press and do interviews about what you have experienced.”

  I shouted angrily in Issam’s face:

  “You’re going to make me into a consumer product in other words.”

  “We are only doing what is required in the interests of the struggle.”

  “You mean I’m not going to fight again?”

  “I’m afraid we can’t allow it under present circumstances.”

  “But I want to join the camps. I still want to do active service.”

  “That is impossible. You have become a symbol of our struggle and we cannot afford to put your life in danger.”

  So, while we waited for the media outcry surrounding my release from prison to subside, I stayed in one of the Organization safe houses. I was the recipient of a number of visits from members of our women’s section, who kept me informed on the latest developments. At the time the Palestinian struggle was going through one of the most difficult periods of its history. The government in our host country had resolved to finish off our struggle and incidents started to occur in the camps. Things were beginning to take a nasty and bloody turn.

  Issam came to the house where I was incarcerated and informed me that the leaders of the Organization had decided that I should take up a position in the information office at Ayntab. I did not answer. I remained silent during his visit. What was there for me to say to him?

  The following day I was allowed to leave the house to visit Um Abed. Abu Mashour was with her. When I saw him I ran over to him and flung myself into his arms. He threw me up in the air and started to spin me around like a child. That day, I felt that I was his and that it could never be any other way. He talked to me about everything. I told him of the decision of the leadership regarding my future career as a guerrilla fighter. He told me about the guerrillas who fight in the Northern Plains. He told me of the fantastic morale which they had. I asked whether I could accompany him up there and spend a few days among the fighters – in spite of what my comrades in the military council had said. I was insistent, pleading, and in the end he took me with him.

  There I met Farhan once again. Together under the light of an old kerosene lamp, we studied the plans of an operation which was scheduled for the following day. Abu Mashour drew a sketch on paper outlining the military target of the assault; we were to attack the officers’ mess in one of the towns close to the border. There was also a political goal, however: to make the other Fedayeen groups recognize our military capability and to allow representatives of our organization to attend the meeting of the Palestinian National Council which was shortly to take place in Cairo. All night we studied the plans, considering every possible eventuality. It occurred to me that the reconnaissance side of the operation had not been satisfactorily completed and that there were grounds for a postponement to make sure that we were not being exposed to any unnecessary military risks, particularly since the moon was full and even the tiniest pebble would be fully illuminated at this time of the month. Farhan was against the postponement because it would mean missing the opportunity to impose ourselves on the National Council. Two hours later we received a call from the command in Harran requesting that we carry out the orders immediately because of the early commencement of the Cairo talks with the vote being taken on the following day.

  Abu Mashour divided us into four groups and assigned a specific area to each group. The first was made up of fifteen men who would cross into enemy territory and attack the officers’ mess, while a second group of fifteen would be in position on the Tarshiha side in a supporting role. A third group of ten fighters was to be stationed in the village of al-Mansoura, to create a diversion for a squadron of enemy tanks stationed in the area. That left ten fighters who were to remain in the camp. I was told to stay at the rear with the fourth group. I was instructed to look after a French journalist who was doing a story on the Palestinian resistance forces for a leftist French newspaper. We were to link up with the first group on their return from the occupied area, giving medical treatment to any wounded men and passing on any intelligence that we might have gathered during the operation and finally escorting the assault team back to base.

  The distribution of fighters among the various groups looked wrong to me. I told Abu Mashour that it was an unnecessary risk to have so many of our people in the village all at the same time. I also suggested that he did not put hi
mself at the head of the operation. After Geneva, Iknew that if there was one problem with Abu Mashour, it was that he was too courageous, and that he took too many risks. In urban guerrilla fighting, courage like that was something of a liability, and he would be a danger both to himself and to his comrades. But Abu Mashour felt that I was casting aspersions on his capabilities as a commander, and the harder I tried to convince him to pass the command to Farhan, and take charge of the al-Mansoura team, the more insistent he was upon leading the main assault group. I thought that at least he could count on the assistance of the Arab inhabitants of al-Mansoura if the incursion was not successful, but my arguments were wasted on them. They would not even agree to a postponement until such time as the issues of the reconnaissance and the redistribution could be resolved. It was decided that the teams should set off for their targets at midnight.

  I stood in front of the building which we were occupying and said goodbye to each of the fighters as they set off. I joked with one of them, whom we called Ali ‘Carlo’ after his favourite weapon, that I would not let him back in the camp unless he brought back a basket of the famous al-Mansoura apples. Abu Mashour came up to me and kissed me on each cheek without saying a word … no final requests. How futile our words are! All the words in the world could not convey what was in my heart at that moment. They went off into the dark. As the senior member of my team, I started organizing the men in their reconnaissance duties. Then the journalist asked me to give him an interview for his paper, but I told him it was out of the question. An hour later we could see that some of the tanks were moving through the village of al-Mansoura towards the higher ground. This meant that our comrades would not be able to strike at the main target. I had to warn them immediately. I took hold of the wireless set and tried to contact the advance assault team. I heard my voice saying over and over again:

  “Come in, Abu Mashour. Come in, Abu Mashour. Enemy tanks approaching from the south. You must pull back. You must pull back.”

  My voice was drowned by the sound of shelling. Explosions. Tracer bombs and flares lit up the whole area. I could see Arum everywhere, dressed up in her June livery, her face coming out at me from every corner. I threw myself onto my stomach near one of the walls and shouted to my comrades not to open fire so as not to give our position away. The Frenchman gazed at me with surprise and admiration as he scribbled notes. I shouted at him to get down. A flare crossed above the roof of the house and I felt the foundations being shaken. I could get no answer to the radio warning I sent. With bitterness I realized that my comrades were probably under a heavy attack and could not use the wireless. I decided that our group should head towards the target to try to reach them. I went out into the courtyard and summoned everyone to me. When they were all present we set off with our small arms. The French journalist came with us. The building behind us was plunged into darkness. A shell exploded close by. Everything turned to fire. I advanced a further ten yards when another mortar passed very close to our position. I leapt away in an attempt to get away from the explosion. One of my comrades was hit. I saw him being thrown to the ground, his face covered in blood. I shouted to everyone to get down, and we waited for the battle to subside a little before we moved off again. At that moment I heard the regular Arab artillery returning fire and we decided to pull back to our original position. I realized that to advance in such difficult circumstances was impossible. It seemed that the enemy already knew our position because their fire was landing frighteningly close to us. We picked up our casualty, who was still alive, and what weapons and ammunition we could salvage and retreated to a dug-out to the rear of our base.

  All through the night the artillery fire continued to pass over our heads and it only quietened down with the first threads of daylight. I tried to contact the assault group once more from the dug-out. This time I heard Farhan’s voice saying:

  “Try to save the comrades. We were ambushed.”

  The blood pounded in my head. I was incapable of doing anything. I asked more questions about the ambush, but the signal had gone and the only sound was my voice repeating anxiously:

  “Hello … Farhan … Come in. Are you able to retreat? Hello.”

  The morning sun fell on our dug-out. We heard voices approaching us. I put the wireless aside and I picked up my rifle. Over the edge of the dug-out I could see the al-Mansoura team returning. They were carrying two wounded men. The artillery from the enemy side had fallen silent. I ran out to help the wounded comrades into the building and there, with the help of the French journalist, I dressed their wounds. Their silent faces looked like wax, as if death itself had taken over their features. We all knew that Abu Mashour’s party would not be returning. I felt a searing pain. Never again was I to see his face. Never again would I see the faces of Ali Carlo or Farhan. But I could not let myself be overcome by these thoughts. I had an important task to carry out. I had to relocate our base as soon as possible. Not only did the enemy know of our position but the fact that fifteen of our comrades had fallen into their hands made matters considerably worse. We did not know what the circumstances were under which they succumbed. Would they hold out under interrogation or would they confess?

  I gave the order for us to begin moving our weapons and vehicles. We all helped load things onto the trucks and when we had finished we headed towards the interior. On our way back to the south-east we were stopped by a regular army patrol who asked us to accompany them to a nearby army encampment. I tried to draw the patrol leader on what the reasons were for our being detained, assuring him that there was no need for it. It transpired that our incursion had been made without permission, in other words without getting prior permission from the Ministry of Defence. This was a bone of contention between the regular army and the guerrilla fighters. What we were meant to do, according to the agreements made between the Palestinians and the government, was to submit out request for permission to carry out a military operation a fortnight in advance of the date of the action. Previously, this had caused our organization all kinds of difficulties because the enemy positions which we needed to target would be there one day and gone the next. Therefore, our comrade leaders in the north had been forced to launch a number of attacks without having obtained the correct permission. Those attacks had been on a small scale and could be overlooked, but the previous night’s operation had resulted in the intervention of the regular army, and that broke the cease-fire agreement which followed the Fifth of June hostilities.

  We went into one of the regular army camps where we were met by a Lieutenant-Colonel who asked us to get down from the vehicle and go into one of the tents. Then he requested that the head of the operation come for a talk with him in his tent. As the most senior person left in the group I followed him into his tent. When he realized who I was he jumped to his feet and stared at me with astonishment.

  “You!”

  He must have seen my picture in the papers in the wake of the last operation that I had carried out in Germany. I had been all over the press after that. Every front page had carried my picture, calling me ‘the courageous leopardess’, ‘a legend’, ‘a star’, ‘fanatical female terrorist’, and so on. Abu Mashour had been right when he told me that day in Geneva that heroism was a matter of daily life for those comrades who fight and die in silence. I could feel that the officer was hesitating, so I took the lead:

  “We are grateful for your support in yesterday’s operation.” He said nothing, so I went on:

  “We regret that we did not have the opportunity to wait for permission from the Ministry. Our reconnaissance showed that the target was on the move.”

  Again he remained silent.

  “It is hoped that we will be able to relocate our base, given that a number of our comrades fell into enemy hands. There is a very real danger to us if we remain where we are at the moment.”

  He shook his head silently and tapped his foot on the ground. Finally he spoke:

  “As you well know, there is great danger attac
hed to any incursion made without notifying us and waiting for a report based on our studies of the conditions of the area. It’s for your own safety. You must realize that there are no other circumstances in which the Ministry would withhold its permission.”

  With that, the official voice of authority fell silent. It reminded me of June in Arum when the town was just about to fall to the enemy. That day I kissed hands. I begged and pleaded to each and every one of them to give me anything to defend myself with, even if it was only a knife. They refused. I didn’t know what to say to them at the time. My comrades’ blood was seeping into the earth on the hill which we had abandoned. I just wanted to know what our position was. I put my questions as directly as I could … whether or not we could relocate our base; whether or not we could go to Harran to tell our leaders what had happened. After an hour of negotiations, he decided to contact his superiors and await their answer.

  Slow hours passed while we waited. My comrades sat around as the sun climbed up the sky and sent its powerful rays down onto our bodies. I turned to one side and moved the needle of the wireless to one of the enemy stations to pick up the midday news broadcast. My suspicions, that Abu Mashour’s team had been discovered before they got anywhere near their target, were confirmed; the broadcast reported that the fighting had resulted in the capture of all guerrillas apart from the three who had been killed.

  The news went on to say that there was confirmation of the presence of saboteurs camped near to al-Mansoura. That meant that our comrades had confessed, but we still didn’t know which ones, or under what circumstances. The enemy station did not disclose the names of those who had died, nor did they give any clue as to their identities. This made me suspect that Farhan and Abu Mashour were still alive. If they were among the dead then surely the enemy radio would have announced the fact, to demonstrate their success over the local leaders of our organization. But then again, perhaps the comrades who survived the ambush had not told their captors the names and positions of those who had fallen. So nothing was certain in the matter.