Rafik Schami - A Hand Full of Stars

“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.