A Lesson in Patriotism

He was sitting with his mother in the garden of their beautiful home in Berlin when he suddenly raised his eyes from his book and saw tears welling in his mother's eyes; she had let her needlework fall into her lap without heeding it, or even seeming to notice that it had fallen.

He asked her anxiously: What is the matter, Mother? Are you ill? Is something paining you? What is troubling you?

After wiping away the tears falling down her cheeks and heaving a deep sigh full of every shade of pain and bitter memory, she said, her gaze betraying a buried sorrow: My son... the time has come for me to tell you your father's story, now that you have reached your eighteenth year and I am assured of the strength of your arm and the firmness of your frame.

Hearing these words, the young man drew close and gave her his whole attention, saying with a certain eagerness and agitation: Does my father have a story? Tell it to me, I beg you.

She went on, gazing at the far horizon as though she were reading, on unknown pages, a story written across the sky that she knew by heart:

It was in 1929, when Yusuf (your father) came from Palestine to Berlin to study at its universities, where I was. We often studied our lessons together and went on outings, and we would scarcely part at night before morning found us longing more than ever to see each other. Our companionship soon turned into an overwhelming love, which we crowned that same year with marriage. I gave up my studies and went to work in a hat factory, while he studied by day and worked by night. The money we gathered was enough for us to live a contented, pleasant life, full of happiness and love. But hardly had the year 1930 come round when I gave birth to my firstborn — and that is you, Basim. How full of joy and delight we were at your coming, for you completed our happiness. We remained thus in our earthly paradise until he finished his studies and received his degree in 1936, and we began preparing to depart for Palestine, to live there with his family. On the evening of the day on whose morrow we had resolved to leave, a letter came to him from his father saying — as he told me — that he was happy his son had finished his studies, and how he wished he could see him to congratulate him on his success; but the disturbances between the Arabs and the Jews that were beginning to spread over Palestine compelled him to tell his son to stay in Berlin — perhaps the situation would calm down, and then he could come back.

But when I heard that, I said to him in a mocking tone: Is this what patriotism means among you Easterners? Does your father ask you to stay in Berlin until perhaps the situation calms down... while Palestine is calling her sons to defend her soil, standing at the gates of a grinding war and in need of working hands? Would it not have been more fitting for him to hasten your return, so that you might take your full share of the struggle and stand with your countrymen in their ordeal? By God, were I at the farthest end of the earth and some misfortune befell Germany, I would not hesitate an instant to come to her and do what duties I owe her, however narrow the limits.

No sooner had he heard these words than his face darkened, his expression changed, and his pride flared up. Then he said: Farewell, Linda... farewell, Basim... I shall not return except victorious, or a martyr.

In the morning he was waving to us from the train window, tears glistening in his eyes, while you cried: Papa... Papa, take me with you! As for me, I gave my tears free rein once he had passed from my sight.

Bitter and hard were the days I spent in his absence. I toiled and labored day and night to earn enough to secure us a bare living. From time to time his letters reached us, carrying word of what the rebels were suffering — fear and unsettledness, scarcity of food and of war materiel. The command was in the mountains, and they passed their days in caves and grottoes. Under cover of darkness, food and ammunition would reach them. They were in constant anxiety. They were fighting two enemies at once, the English and the Jews.

O God... how I grieved for him, and how I wished I could be with him to help him. But... it was too late!...

In some of his letters he gave me the address of one of his friends, in case I wished to inquire after him if anything should happen.

After several months his news suddenly ceased. I wrote to his father's address asking about him and explained everything. Then I wrote to his friend to ask about him — but I did not wait for the answer; I went to Palestine myself, taking you with me, for I was anxious about him. When we arrived I made for his friend's address and asked about him. He said to me, tears in his eyes: He fell a martyr two weeks ago... God rest his soul, he was a hero. I fainted on hearing this

news. When I came to, the first thing I said was: Show me his grave, I beg you. On the way I asked him: Do you suppose his father knows? He said: Yes... he came to ask me about him yesterday, and I told him.

I stood at his tomb and wept bitterly, with you at my side, knowing nothing of what was around you. How moved and pained I was when you said to me: Mother... where is my father? You told me on the train that we were going to see him.

I looked at you and saw your innocent face, your gentle eyes, your smiling mouth; I clasped you to my breast and kissed you and said: He is here, Basim. But you began to cry and shout: I don't see him... where is he... I want to see him.

Then a hand fell on my shoulder. I turned in alarm, and knew him at first glance for his father, because I had once seen a photograph of him with your father. I hurried to him and threw myself on his breast, weeping aloud. Moments passed in which I saw nothing around me, and I did not come to myself until he said to me in English: Won't you come home with me? I do not know how much time had passed over me, but I looked up at him in a daze and stared at him with wandering eyes, as though I did not understand what he was saying; then I nodded my head, yes.

I stayed with them about a week, honored and cherished, then asked their leave to depart. They granted it, on condition that I come back to visit them.

I returned to Germany with grief in my heart and anguish in my soul, and I began to struggle anew for an honorable living. And when I thought of going to visit his family in Palestine, war broke out in Germany, so I could not go. I chose to stay and serve my country.

Ah... how bitter and how cruel were those days, the days I passed during the war. The prices of necessities rose outrageously because of their scarcity.

Only with the greatest difficulty could I obtain enough to keep body and soul together for you and me, often at the risk of hunger. How many nights we spent on empty stomachs without finding anything to eat — this besides the fear and the unsettledness. "Ah yes... we have grieved much in the war, but the days will turn, and glory will return to dear Germany" — that is what we always said. But!!...

Here she put her head in her hands and burst into sobs. Sorrow spread over Basim's face and his voice trembled as he said, trying to comfort her: Do not weep, Mother. Then she raised her eyes to him and said: I see now that history repeats itself. Here we are in the year 1948, and I have read in the papers that war has broken out between the Arabs and the Jews in Palestine, so the field must not be left empty of one of us. Follow your father's example and be a hero like him. The homeland of your fathers is calling you, and I hope you will answer its call.

Here the mother fell silent, and a deep silence settled between them, in which each was thinking alone. Then he rose and walked with heavy steps toward the house, his heart filled with sorrow and care, his tears all but betraying him. He made for his room, lay down on his bed, and began to turn over what he had heard from his mother. Two forces were contending within him... He loved his mother so intensely that he could not bear to part from her or be far from her; while at the same time his father's homeland, Palestine, was calling him, summoning him to fight for its sake, after his father's example. These anxieties robbed him of rest; he began pacing the room back and forth, only to stop and sit on a chair; then presently he would rise from it and go back to lying on the bed.

He spent the whole of that night tossing on his bed without closing an eye. It was hard for him to leave his mother, from whom he had never once been parted; and it was just as hard — his manly honor refused — to hold back from the rescue of his father's slaughtered homeland. Now he would fix his resolve to remain near his mother and stay in Germany, the only homeland he had known; then he would break that resolve and assure himself that duty required him to go to Palestine. And at last... at last he made up his mind.

Early in the morning his mother came to wake him as usual. When she knocked at the door she heard no answer. She knocked again, twice, three times; at last her anxiety grew so great that she burst into the room. How great was her astonishment when she found it empty. A letter on the table caught her eye; she opened it with a trembling hand and a pounding heart, and read in it a few brief lines:

"Mother, farewell... I am going to Palestine; I could do nothing but answer the call of the homeland of my father and my forefathers to fight. I will be a hero like my father, and I will avenge him. If I come back to you, I will come back victorious; if not, then martyrdom is better.

I wished from the bottom of my heart to bid you farewell, Mother, but I feared my courage might betray me at the last moment, and I would give up going to Palestine and taking part in its holy war."

His letters came to her one after another from the field of battle, carrying news of the engagements he was fighting, while she in turn sent him letters full of encouragement, urging him onward in the struggle.

Until there came a day when his news ceased. She began sending him letter after letter, in the hope of hearing something of him to cool her heart and ease her breast. But every time, the letters came back to her unopened.

And to this day she remains prey to forebodings. And doubt... killing doubt still torments her and poisons her peace. For she does not know whether he is alive, or numbered among the immortals.

Nablus — Palestine