Mahmud suggested that we abduct a general from the nightclub and demand Habib’s release in exchange. Not a bad idea, I thought, and tomorrow I’ll go there and look the club over. Mahmud can offer me a free drink.
My boss found out from some big shot that Habib is beyond help. The guy claimed he could spring any pimp, hashish smuggler, or knifer, but he wouldn’t touch a political prisoner; he didn’t want to get his fingers burned.
The Journalists’ Association also rebuffed my boss. “Habib,” they said, “is sick and irresponsible.”
July 11 — Nadia thinks our idea stinks. She bawled us out for being so stupid and naive as to believe any one general could be so important. She laughed scornfully and yelled at me, “Who knows, maybe you’ll get a medal for having spared the government the trouble of getting rid of a general it wanted to dispose of and didn’t know how to. But Habib won’t come out of it alive.”
July 12 — Last night I went to the club. I told my mother, and she’s supposed to invent something if my old man asks about me. But I promised her I would neither spend money nor have anything to do with the women there. I would only visit Mahmud and see how he does his job.
The club is sheer madness! One can scarcely believe anything like it exists in Damascus. Outside, the women we come in contact with refuse even a kiss, and inside they sit and indulge in the wildest Parisian life.
Mahmud pointed out the minister of justice and then the air force general who took so long to accept the government. These guys don’t look the least bit frightening. The general was a rather small and emaciated man of fifty, dressed in civilian attire. I could have taken him for a cattle dealer or the keeper of a small shop. Uniforms really do make all the difference!
A somewhat fat blonde performed an Oriental dance. That really was something to see! It simply couldn’t be called dancing; it was nothing but a waggling of fat. Still, the men cheered each time she bent over and showed her breasts. After two drinks, the general was drunk and ostentatiously spoke English — but so badly that I commiserated with his English teacher. The guy had no idea what he was saying; he translated his Arabic exclamations into English word for word. What is lovely in Arabic is macabre in a verbatim translation.
“Oh, my eyeapple,” he cooed enthusiastically. “You bury me, you sweet bee,” he called to the dancer while rolling his eyes.
Nadia is right. Any government would love to be rid of such an idiot. They can easily replace him with a similar dope. This evening I will talk to Mahmud and Nadia again.
July 13 — Today I was in the cemetery, at Uncle Salim’s modest grave. It does not distinguish itself from the earth that bore him and to which he has returned. I set five red roses on it.
My sadness for Habib is nearly choking me, but I want to live and laugh. I don’t want to give up hope. My old friend Salim taught me this.
“Everything grows,” he said to me one day. “Everything grows, except for catastrophe. It is largest at birth, and then it shrinks from day to day.”
July 14 — We spoke for a long time together. Mahmud also became pensive when Nadia asked him, “What do you think Habib would most like to do now?”
“Make another newspaper,” we whispered as if with one voice.
“Exactly, the newspaper. These murderers ought to know that if they kill Habib, many Habibs will spring up in his place.”
Nadia wants to collaborate. She wants to report on the women of Damascus; Mahmud is writing about some of the secrets of the last coup. I am writing an article about Habib, the bravest journalist in Syria; Mahmud and Nadia decided this, since I am the one who knows Habib best.
Mahmud has spent two hundred pounds of his savings on a mimeograph machine and a typewriter. And I contributed a hundred for paper, ink, and balloons.
It took some time to find a hideout where we could set up our “press.” Here Mariam was a great help. She has an old friend who rents rooms to students. Because the term is over, an attic room has been vacant for a week. It’s very cheap, and young people are constantly going in and out of the house it’s in. The woman who owns the house lives a couple of blocks away in a nice neighborhood; she doesn’t care who her tenants are. The main thing is that the rent be paid each month in advance. Mariam is taking care of this for us and for Habib.
Tomorrow I’ll go with her to visit the woman and pick up the key. I’ll pretend to be a freshly baked student and that my father is a rich farmer up north. Three months’ rent will convince her.
Habib needs the newspaper. We will show the military just how many Habibs the imprisoned journalist has brought into the world.
A Hand Full of Stars
The Hand is the hand of Uncle Salim, always there to guide the narrator; in the saddest moments, it points the way out of despair. Like the stars that illuminate the dark night sky, the Stars in the hand stand for hope.
— R. S.