It was o'clock six in the morning and it seems that sleep had taken me for a little while when I heard a newspaper seller shouting: “Antoine Saadeh's execution today.”
That was the cursed morning of July 8, 1949. I went out to the living room to find that the tailor relative was there alert, and with open eyes. I begged her to buy all the newspapers for me. She called the man and went down and brought all that he had for me to read.
She was reading the front pages when my eyes caught a picture of Antoine Saadeh behind bars at the military court. I instantly understood that the man was sentenced to death. It was for the first time in my life that my nerves gave in. I passed out on my bed. The relative tried to wake me up by sprinkling some cologne on my face. I got up broken. I did not believe that Saadeh was executed and killed…
Saadeh is dead and I am still alive?
The great person dies while we still walk the earth. How can a political person be executed and the law prohibits that?
I don't believe…
But I read and believed…
I came to my senses. I am like this always. Serious events exhaust me. It happens for seconds and not even minutes. Then I retake control of my situation.
Yes, the stress of the situation made me pass out. It happened because the event was something I could not handle even though I was seeing nightmares all night. I came back to my senses. I come back as a person who is used to strenuous situations. I return to continue the struggle…
I asked Francis's relative to get me some lemonade and biscuits before the female workers arrive. I asked her to lock my door until the next morning. I told her I don't want to se anybody. Not even my wife. Let Francis go and tell her about my decision. I want to be alone with myself. I wanted to live that day with the martyred Antoine Saadeh…
I drank a glass of lemonade and some paper and started writing a eulogy for our leader. I titled it “The Death of the Eagle.” I felt that a volcano was exploding inside me. I felt that sulfur and fire were coming out of my mouth. I felt like totally hysterical. This was the hysteria of revenge for the blood of my martyred leader. I wish I had a fighting commando group with me at that moment. I wish I had guns. I would have killed any person wearing the military uniform. The army killed my leader. Of course my thinking was not clear but rather euphoric. What had the army to do with this? The army only did its duty. It's not the army. It's who rules the army!!!
I wrote 129 pages in 24 hours. I kept this writing because it reflected my raw feelings of the moment. I kept it until the second revolution of 1961. It was found by those who were sent to look into my papers. It was taken away and put in the depot of the military court. Even my good friend Michele Abu Shaqra could not find it for me even though he was the head registrar of the court.
If one day I find it. I would have published it as part of these memoirs. I started with Socrates…then with Jesus…then Galileo, then all the important thinkers of the world who were killed because they rebelled. Then and only then those who killed them absorbed their vision and thinking…
I said in that writing that the era of Bishara al Khuri and Riyad al Sulh is an extension of 14th century witch-hunting. I was not exaggerating. I looked at all the laws of the time concerning the defense of individuals in front of military tribunals. I didn't find anything that could even distantly explain what was done on that cursed day. I was writing with a pen of fire and the ink of blood…
What could we expect of a person who announces a revolution? What else is there for a leader of a defunct revolution except certain death…?
What happened to Zapata in Mexico?
What happens to the eagle when it delves down on vicious animals?
