educated and everybody in the group looked up to them.
“We have a busy agenda,” the
mukhtar’s
wife said, as she opened the meeting.” I want to start with the two major propositions we received from the headquarters of the British Army stationed in Palestine as well as from His Excellency, the British High Commissioner.”
The ladies nodded. They were familiar with the subjects.
”We’ll have to vote this evening if we agree to have our daughters, or even some of us, help the British Army. They’ve been successful in pushing back Rommel’s German Army at Tobruk in North Africa. We can now breathe easier. The Germans will never fight us here in Palestine.”
“Hear, hear,” the ladies told one another. They applauded. They sat on the ottomans, in groups of three or four around the low Turkish coffee tables.
“Let’s vote for the first item. Those in favor of our working for the Red Cross and for the war effort, raise your hands.”
The two Christian ladies raised their arms, then the Lebanese ones; Fatima was the last. Amina, her daughter, who had just entered the room with a tray filled with ice water glasses in which rose petals floated, looked triumphantly at her mother.
The only person who abstained from the vote was the cleric’s wife. “You are sending your daughters on the way to perdition,” she said, a crooked smile appearing at the corner of her mouth.
“Thank you, ladies. We’ll move to the next item,” continued the mukhtar’s wife.
“The British High Commissioner is asking us to recommend educated young Arabs for positions in the government. Even though we don’t like to have the British here, my husband thinks that cooperating with them at this stage would only benefit us. For example,” she turned toward Fatima, “Musa, our hostess’ son, would only bring honor to his family and to us all if he received a respectable position within the government.”
Samira, who had entered bringing trays of baklava dripping with honey, and sugar-coated almond pastries, caught Fatima’s glance. They looked at one another. Samira saw Fatima nodding imperceptibly.
Following Samira were Amina and Rama carrying trays of small cups filled with Turkish coffee, and glasses with nana tea. Fatima clapped her hands.
“Ladies,” she said, “let us take a short break. Samira has worked hard for you. It is my pleasure to invite you to taste her pastries.” A murmur of approval ensued.
“So, are you going to send Musa to Jerusalem?” the mukhtar’s wife pressed Fatima.
“He’ll have to make that decision,” answered a noncommittal Fatima.
She got up and as a gracious hostess moved between the different groups and heard snippets of conversation. The two teacher sisters said they had been asked to join the British women’s sports club. They wanted to table the proposal and spread the idea among the other members of the League. At another table the cleric’s wife was adamant about a woman’s need to return to wearing the veil in public.
The Lebanese ladies were eager for the League to encourage women to attend Jaffa’s new cinema unaccompanied.
“As they do in Cairo, or Beirut,” added the youngest.
“That will never happen!” Fatima heard the shriek of the cleric’s wife, who had just heard the last comment. Two other Muslim women nodded.
“It’s a shame,” one of them murmured.
The League started from the premise that all Arab women were sisters driven by the same ideal, Fatima recalled. But was this still holding true? Her thoughts were interrupted by the mukhtar’s wife calling out, “First, I hope all of us agree to say a big
Shukran
, thank you, to Mrs. Fatima for her hospitality.”
Fatima heard murmurs of approval.
“And now, my dear ladies,” the mukhtar’s wife continued, “As we resume our meeting, it’s time to take a strong position about what the Jewish call their
aliya
, their immigration. Our newspapers warned us that they have infiltrated our land;
“We have a busy agenda,” the
mukhtar’s
wife said, as she opened the meeting.” I want to start with the two major propositions we received from the headquarters of the British Army stationed in Palestine as well as from His Excellency, the British High Commissioner.”
The ladies nodded. They were familiar with the subjects.
”We’ll have to vote this evening if we agree to have our daughters, or even some of us, help the British Army. They’ve been successful in pushing back Rommel’s German Army at Tobruk in North Africa. We can now breathe easier. The Germans will never fight us here in Palestine.”
“Hear, hear,” the ladies told one another. They applauded. They sat on the ottomans, in groups of three or four around the low Turkish coffee tables.
“Let’s vote for the first item. Those in favor of our working for the Red Cross and for the war effort, raise your hands.”
The two Christian ladies raised their arms, then the Lebanese ones; Fatima was the last. Amina, her daughter, who had just entered the room with a tray filled with ice water glasses in which rose petals floated, looked triumphantly at her mother.
The only person who abstained from the vote was the cleric’s wife. “You are sending your daughters on the way to perdition,” she said, a crooked smile appearing at the corner of her mouth.
“Thank you, ladies. We’ll move to the next item,” continued the mukhtar’s wife.
“The British High Commissioner is asking us to recommend educated young Arabs for positions in the government. Even though we don’t like to have the British here, my husband thinks that cooperating with them at this stage would only benefit us. For example,” she turned toward Fatima, “Musa, our hostess’ son, would only bring honor to his family and to us all if he received a respectable position within the government.”
Samira, who had entered bringing trays of baklava dripping with honey, and sugar-coated almond pastries, caught Fatima’s glance. They looked at one another. Samira saw Fatima nodding imperceptibly.
Following Samira were Amina and Rama carrying trays of small cups filled with Turkish coffee, and glasses with nana tea. Fatima clapped her hands.
“Ladies,” she said, “let us take a short break. Samira has worked hard for you. It is my pleasure to invite you to taste her pastries.” A murmur of approval ensued.
“So, are you going to send Musa to Jerusalem?” the mukhtar’s wife pressed Fatima.
“He’ll have to make that decision,” answered a noncommittal Fatima.
She got up and as a gracious hostess moved between the different groups and heard snippets of conversation. The two teacher sisters said they had been asked to join the British women’s sports club. They wanted to table the proposal and spread the idea among the other members of the League. At another table the cleric’s wife was adamant about a woman’s need to return to wearing the veil in public.
The Lebanese ladies were eager for the League to encourage women to attend Jaffa’s new cinema unaccompanied.
“As they do in Cairo, or Beirut,” added the youngest.
“That will never happen!” Fatima heard the shriek of the cleric’s wife, who had just heard the last comment. Two other Muslim women nodded.
“It’s a shame,” one of them murmured.
The League started from the premise that all Arab women were sisters driven by the same ideal, Fatima recalled. But was this still holding true? Her thoughts were interrupted by the mukhtar’s wife calling out, “First, I hope all of us agree to say a big
Shukran
, thank you, to Mrs. Fatima for her hospitality.”
Fatima heard murmurs of approval.
“And now, my dear ladies,” the mukhtar’s wife continued, “As we resume our meeting, it’s time to take a strong position about what the Jewish call their
aliya
, their immigration. Our newspapers warned us that they have infiltrated our land;
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