for Nu‘man Kanafani, Omar Abd al-Salam,             and Abd al-Latif Awad

In the latter half of my student days I chose for myself three Arab friends: a Palestinian, a Sudanese, and the third was a Moroccan. For two years we shared everything: food, araq, beds, girls, everything except our political opinions since each of us was also obliged —in order to square the circle— to be different from the others.

Omar Abd al-Salam was a dark stalk of sugarcane in the black-and-white checkered suit he wore all summer and all winter. He was silent and unsociable except when we teased him or, better, when we made him forget himself and he became a volcano of curse words and blasphemies. At some point I lost his address and now can hardly remember his face though I should mention what I do remember which is the time he argued with the examiners during his thesis defense and the only thing they faulted him for was the reek of wine on his breath.