Leon Uris (54 page)

Every day new delegates were announced from among the West Bank mayors, muktars, sheiks, clergy, and prominent Palestinians. These, too, were overwhelmingly Abdullah’s people. A carefully screened, small, and controllable opposition was permitted, to ‘prove’ to the world that the conference was to be democratic to the core.

Haj Ibrahim was among the opposition and set out to attend with a block of delegates from Aqbat Jabar and the other camps around Jericho. Although these compounds held over fifty thousand people, they were assigned a paltry twenty delegates.

Nonetheless, the scramble for seats was voracious. At first there was an attempt to hold elections, but no one knew how to conduct one or trusted that system. Selection of delegates came down to a traditional power struggle, with the strongest tribal leaders and those able to make the best alliances gaining the seats.

Despite Jordanian pressures, my father, the great Haj Ibrahim al Soukori al Wahhabi, emerged as the leader of the Jericho delegation.

With half the delegates pro-Abdullah from the outset, the Jordanian agents went to work on the other half. They were promised extra rations, cash, and future government jobs. When the agents had finished their ‘campaigning,’ Haj Ibrahim could count only a dozen men against the annexation of the West Bank. This number was further depleted when two of the most vocal anti-Abdullah delegates were assassinated and two others were taken off to Amman to face criminal charges for smuggling and black marketeering. The charges were transparent because these crimes were universally practiced, particularly among the Jordanian troops and their camp administrators.

When my father tried to replace his lost delegates, he was informed that the rolls were closed.

The prominence of the delegates was made apparent by their mode of transportation to Amman and the accommodations when they got there. The most important pro-Abdullah delegates were collected in private cars and assigned to villas and hotel suites and rooms. Others, like Father, all those living in the camps, were to be bused over the river and housed in a tent area of the Schneller Camp six miles beyond Amman. Although Schneller and Aqbat Jabar had the same populations, Schneller had a hundred delegates. It was a fact that some aspects of the conference would be less democratic than others.

Despite the deliberate humiliation of our being second-class delegates, I was enthralled with the entire trip. The ride over the Allenby Bridge through Salt, Suweilih, and into Amman at night was like a floating dream.

My father and I shared a small tent. When we were settled and fed, he called me close to him and told me to read him the agenda. He ordered me to stand before him, then he reached up and grabbed my ear between his fingers and shook it.

‘You must keep this close to the ground,’ he said.

‘I will, Father.’

‘First check the camp here,’ he said. ‘Abdullah’s major selling point among the exiles is that the camps in Jordan are much better off than the camps on the West Bank. I must have the true picture. He has also said that the exiles over here have access to jobs and schooling. What is the truth of that?’

‘I understand,’ I said.

‘You must move about and smell out other opponents of annexation, like myself. Carefully, carefully, carefully. Do not make contact with them, but let me know who they are.’

‘Yes, Father.’

‘And finally and most important, Ishmael: Keep on the alert for foul play.’

I awoke the next morning filled with anticipation of going into Amman. Nothing has ever disillusioned me more. Amman was pale stuff alongside Jerusalem. I could see my father’s point about who should be annexing whom.

At the center of the city, which was not much larger than Ramle or Lydda, stood an unimpressive little fountain sandwiched in between the mosque on one side and the antiquity of the Roman amphitheater on the other. Nearby, the Hotel Philadelphia headquartered the conference. A large banner straddled the street reading: WELCOME TO THE GREAT DEMOCRATIC CONFERENCE OF UNITY—PALESTINE AND JORDAN ARE ONE.

Other little trappings of welcome festooned the central area, but what was most prevalent was the presence of the Arab Legion. Attired in their renowned red headdresses with white polka dots, they were moustached mightily to a man and wore ankle-length tan and red riding robes and very angry expressions.

Intermingled with the legionnaires were the king’s other royal Bedouin. There must have been hundreds from the Beni Sakhr tribe with their pale blue and white robes trimmed in gold and bullet-filled bandoliers slung over their shoulders. The Beni Sakhr were known as the fiercest of all the Bedouin fighters, and their presence alongside the Legion bespoke the fact that, in Jordan, Abdullah was not to be taken lightly. It seemed there were ten armed Jordanians for every delegate.

My father and I made for the Hotel Philadelphia, where he was given credentials and assigned to a committee. Most of the committees were meaningless and had been invented to give many of the delegates something to do and a feeling of importance. My father’s first act was to heatedly reject a place on the Committee for Islamic Values.

We were hustled off to a side room where a ferocious-looking Colonel Zyyad sat behind a desk.

‘Ah, Haj Ibrahim, I see you found your way back from Qumran,’ he said in a voice filled with sarcasm.

My father did not blink.

I felt my knees were going to collapse in fear. I saw my end in a terrible Jordanian prison. Colonel Zyyad tapped away at the desk as though he were trying to reach a decision in code.

‘You are a fool, a terrible fool,’ the colonel said.

I could see alternatives swirling through his mind and I suppose I must have prayed audibly, for Father shook my shoulder to be quiet.

‘This is a democratic conference,’ Zyyad said. ‘I will reassign you to another committee.’ He shuffled through his papers, found a particular one, wrote in my father’s name, and scribbled out an order. ‘You will attend the Committee on Refugees,’ he said.

‘I object to the very use of the word “refugees,” ’ my father retorted.

‘Then take that up with your committee ... and thank Allah that we are a democratic people.’

My father had been saved by the fact that Abdullah wanted no chaos or disruptions at the conference, and at this point it was a small matter to pacify us. However, I was still shaking when we all assembled in the courtyard of the Great Mosque, where the Mufti of Amman, the country’s Moslem leader, opened the conference.

After prayers the Mufti shouted down from the pulpit the words of Surah 57, which dealt with the punishment of the unbelievers.

‘We have adorned the nearer heaven with lights, and have made them projectiles for the satans; and We have prepared them the punishment of the Blaze.

‘For those who have disbelieved in their Lord is the punishment of Gehenna—a bad destination.’ When they are cast into it, they hear from it a roaring, for it boils,

‘And almost bursts asunder for fury. Whenever a crowd is thrown into it, its keeper shall ask them: “Did there not come to you a warner?” They shall say: “Yes! there came to us a warner, but we counted him false and said: ‘Allah hath not sent down anything.’

‘ “Verily, ye are in great error.” And they shall say: “If we had heard or understood we should not have been amongst the fellows of the Blaze.”

‘So they shall confess their sin: “Away with the fellows of the Blaze.” ’

After a bloodcurdling sermon on the burning of the Jews, the Mufti of Amman beseeched Allah for blessings and divine guidance for the delegates.

When the prayers were done, we crossed over to the Roman amphitheater and listened to a three-hour welcoming speech by the Mayor of Hebron, a West Bank city. He was Abdullah’s most ardent supporter in Palestine. His first hour was devoted to the coming vengeance against the Jews, while the last part of the speech proclaimed the glory of Islam and the beauty of Arab unity and brotherhood.

The Mayor of Hebron was followed by a half-dozen more welcoming speakers, each pounding home an aspect of the coming annexation. A single opposition speaker was democratically drowned out by the others after only a few moments. This enraged Haj Ibrahim and the handful of dissidents, who started to riot and scream anti-Abdullah slogans. We were subdued by a massive force of legionnaires, who had the amphitheater surrounded. No one was hurt and the meeting went on.

When the welcoming session was done, we were taken up to the Jabal al-Qal’ah, the dominant hill holding the ancient Roman citadel. The ruins of the Temple of Hercules stood in a great court where our afternoon meals were to be served by dozens of waiters. Abdullah knew how to entertain with British money, my father noted. From this splendid vista we could see the Hashemiiya Palace of the king, as well as the surrounding hills.

Now was a time for careful mingling. As we washed our hands in a fountain before a meal, I saw a delegate in traditional desert robes deliberately work his way alongside Father. I moved in close to listen.

‘I am Sheik Ahmed Taji,’ the man said softly. ‘My people and I are in the Hebron Camp.’

Picking up on his lowered voice, my father introduced himself quietly.

‘I know who you are,’ Sheik Taji said. ‘I saw both of your performances today, at the Hotel Philadelphia and at the amphitheater. You are mad, truly mad.’

The sheik slipped something to my father that appeared to be a talisman made of black rock. Father pocketed it quickly.

‘We should meet after this conference,’ Sheik Taji whispered. ‘When I receive the talisman from you with a note, I shall come to you.’

Father nodded, and as briefly as the two men had met, they went off in separate directions. I indicated to Father that I had gotten the man’s name and drifted off to gather information on him.

That evening we were taken to the Hashemiiya Palace to meet the king. Never having been to a palace or seen a real king, I was genuinely impressed, even though it was Abdullah. Both Father and I were well dressed, having borrowed clothing from anyone who had anything decent left in our section of Aqbat Jabar. However, many of the delegates were in rags. The line inched into the throne room.

My knees rattled for the second time that day. Well, he certainly had a nice place. It was the only thing of beauty I had seen besides the Roman amphitheater and the citadel. Although the palace wasn’t as magnificent as the things I had seen on my journey to paradise, it was suitable enough for Abdullah and Jordan.

And there I was before the very king! I think I was disappointed. His throne was only a large chair on a platform painted gold. He had stepped down to receive the line of delegates; he was encased by his Circassian guards. They were not real Arabs but Russian Moslems who had come here centuries ago. They wore fur hats with a silver replica of the king’s crown and appeared like pictures I had seen of Cossack horse riders. Advisers wearing Western suits with Arab headdresses flanked the king and whispered in his ear as each delegate passed.

Abdullah was very short for a king and his robes were not ornate, but he had the shiniest black shoes I had ever seen. He was very jolly, and that surprised me because I had expected him to look sinister like Colonel Zyyad, who was close at hand. The colonel whispered to the king as we approached. Abdullah broke into an abnormally great smile, embraced my father and kissed both cheeks, then patted my head, even though I was almost as tall as he was.

‘Welcome, welcome, welcome to my humble kingdom, Haj Ibrahim! May my land be as your home. We are blessed by your presence. May Allah’s wisdom guide you through the next days.’

‘Your Majesty, no words can adequately describe the ecstasy of this moment,’ my father responded.

‘Whatever you want, now or later, is all within your grasp,’ the king said, then turned to me. ‘Your name, my son?’

‘I am Ishmael,’ I proclaimed majestically.

We were nudged slightly to keep the line moving, and ended up outside in the greatest tent I had ever seen, one that held the entire delegation. It was not difficult to ascertain who was a refugee and who was among the wealthy and affluent of the Palestinians as a show of rags and gold thread mingled in brotherhood.

The feast that followed was even greater than those my father had given when he was Muktar of Tabah. Many of us had not seen food like that for so long that we ate until we became bloated and ill, then kept on eating. Music and dancers added to the atmosphere of love and harmony. Hashish was slipped to us by the cadres of servants so our bliss would not wear off too quickly.

After the feast we witnessed camel races, demonstrations of horsemanship and falconry, and more music and dancing. We heard on the radio later that the king had slipped quietly from Amman because he did not wish to influence the conference by his presence or upset the democratic nature of the meeting.

Next day Father went in to his committee, which began and ended as a shouting match through his attempt to expand the agenda and not merely pass resolutions that had already been drawn up. He voiced objection to the use of the word ‘refugee’ but was shouted down. I soon left to collect the information he told me to get.

That evening I gave Father my findings. Sheik Taji was the leader of a semi-nomadic tribe that had occupied an area north of the Gulf of Aqaba and the outpost of Eilat. In the beginning of the war with the Jews, the Egyptians ejected them from their homeland for military purposes and they fled to Hebron. The end of the war found the Jews conquering the Negev Desert and leaving Sheik Taji to wonder why he had left. Other Bedouin had remained and were left in peace by the Jews or cooperated with them by supplying trackers and intelligence.

While Sheik Taji regretted his mistake, he found himself in an impossible situation in the Hebron Camp. The mayor of the city was an Abdullah stalwart and had turned the camp into one of the king’s strongholds on the West Bank.

My father showed me the little talisman Taji had passed to him, a black jasper pendant with an abstract carving. I recognized it as a common Bedouin talisman to ward off jinn.