The Flag of Honor and Dignity: A Gift Not for Sale
Editor’s note: The following is a true story from Walaa Ibrahim Hammoud, the mother of Martyr Hussain Hammoud and dear friend of Basira Press‘ editorial staff, of a memory of her son during his childhood on the first Day of Resistance and Liberation on 25 May 2000, marking the full unconditional withdrawal of “israeli” occupation forces from South Lebanon. This story was first published in 2009, before Hussain’s martyrdom, in the Kalam Rasas series of short stories published by the Risalat, Arts of Resistance Association.
Only Hussain Hammoud, five years old, noticed the absence of a yellow flag on the family car as they drove to the liberated villages.
He repeatedly asked his mother to stop to buy one. Unable to obtain one after their distance from Beirut, he pestered her every five minutes.
“Mom, stop and buy me a flag. I want to hold it from our car window.”
“I’ll buy it for you when we meet the first flag seller. Now contemplate the beauty of our wonderful south with us.”
“You contemplate it, and I’ll search the sides for a flag seller.”
As the car continued on its way, the radio blaring victory songs, while the family commented on the road scenes.
They commented on everything, on the convoy of cars preceding them, and the one preceding them, as they traveled between the mountains covered in green spring, making them seem like paradise, after the blood of the martyrs had bestowed upon them so many sacrifices of dignity during the winter.
On both sides of every crossroads, the longing for the south grew, and the children’s eyes grew more eager to see the plains, the valleys, and the slopes of the south.
As for Hussain, amidst all this splendor, he took refuge in a gloomy, angry silence.
Umm Hussain would sneak a look at him in the mirror, watching his eyes move in vain, searching for a flag seller.
Hussain fidgeted on the beautiful road, even though it was the first time he had crossed it, only because he hadn’t found what he was looking for, or rather, what he was looking for was impossible.
On that day, the yellow flag was a symbol of honorable affiliation. It was undesirable to walk without it in the liberation processions.
Hussain thought, “How strange! They forgot to bring it on the day of joy of victory and the memory of the martyrs.”
It was a grave mistake, one that Hussain would never forgive them for.
Beaufort Castle was their destination, the miqat1 of their long pilgrimage in the south. From there, they would set out, just as pilgrims perform the rituals of ihram at the beginning of their journey. From there, they would set out for Fatima Gate to hurl embers of wrath at the “Israeli” devil perched over Palestine.
Umm Hussain continued to ignore her little boy’s face, flushed with anger and sadness.
When she arrived at the castle, she got out with her children, where Hussain suddenly shouted: “Mother, mother, look, there’s a boy carrying a banner. Ask him to give it to me.”
“Enough, Hussain. Enough nagging. This banner is his, and he’s happy with it. Let’s go see the castle.”
Umm Hussain watched her other children, tightly gripping Hussain’s fist as he tried to break free, shouting, “Buy it from him, please. Maybe he’ll agree to sell it. It’s worth no more than 3,000 LBP [its value at the time was $2].”
The mother wasn’t convinced by her little boy’s words. How could she deprive another child of a banner he was happy to carry, proud of, and sheltered under?
Once again, Umm Hussain tightened her grip on her child’s hand and walked away. But Hussain managed to escape.
Hussain froze, refusing to continue walking.
The mother was utterly fed up with him. He had spoiled the joy of her first encounter with the liberated historic citadel.
Twenty-two years earlier, when the Zionist invaders occupied it, she hadn’t given birth to this mischievous little boy, she hadn’t even married.
That day, Hussain not only spoiled her feelings and the beautiful memories, but he also spoiled the beauty of acquiring a new, free memory.
Hussain ran toward the flag-boy, sitting on a stone in the citadel’s dirt courtyard. Hugging his yellow banner, the flag-boy seemed very happy with it.
Umm Hussain froze, watching the scene from a distance. Hussain kept begging him, while the flagbearing-boy seemed to refuse his request.
After their argument had been prolonged and fruitless, Hussain’s mother reluctantly walked over to them, followed by her other three children.
Upon arriving, Umm Hussain rebuked her son: “Hussain, stop begging. That’s not right, my son. He also wants to carry his banner. We are never allowed to take other people’s belongings without their consent. Come on, don’t ruin our trip.”
Hussain bowed his head, tears welling up in his eyes along the way.
On a day when even the grieving mothers of martyrs rejoice, the sight of Hussain crying pained his mother. Umm Hussain finally decided to ask the boy to buy the banner.
She convinced herself that the flagbearing-boy might need money. His simple, poor appearance suggested this.
She opened her wallet and took out 3,000 LBP. She offered it to the flag-boy, saying, “Won’t you sell us the banner? Here’s 3,000 LBP.”
Before negotiating the price, it seemed easy to convince him. However, the flagbearing-boy turned away from her and said, clearly nervously, “I won’t sell it, ma’am. I told your son so, but he seems very stubborn! May God help you with him.”
His confident tone astonished her. After speaking, the flagbearing-boy sounded much older.
Hussain’s mother thought the amount didn’t satisfy him.
The mother tried to resolve the situation in her own way, handing him 5,000 LBP.
Umm Hussain remembered that she was in a remote area, which meant the price of the yellow flag would be high. This was only natural.
But again, the flagbearing-boy shook his head in refusal: “I told you I wouldn’t sell it.”
“Well, if we were in Beirut, we would easily find it. Name the price you want. Ask for whatever you want!”
The flag-boy insisted on his refusal. His insistence had nothing to do with the price. He simply wouldn’t sell the flag, even if she raised the amount many times over.
When her attempts failed, Umm Hussain tried again to convince her son to continue walking to the citadel. But Hussain seemed “obsessed with the flag,” wanting it at any cost.
In an attempt to convince her son, Umm Hussain took a 100 LBP note from her wallet (worth $60 at the time).
Feeling the horror of risking the sum of money for a flag that cost no more than 1,000 LBP to make, Umm Hussain addressed the flagbearing-boy, “Here’s all of this. Just give me this flag so I can shut him up.”
The biggest surprise came when the flag-boy made up his mind, surprised by her: “Madam, spare yourself all this trouble. I wouldn’t sell the flag even if I were given all the money in the world. It’s a trust from my martyred brother. I swore to him that I would plant it one day on one of the sites when it was liberated. Keep your money, ma’am, and rest assured that I won’t sell it.”
Umm Hussain’s hand froze, amazed and impressed. Slowly, she put the money back in her wallet.
In the midst of her shock at the boy’s remarkable act, Hussain said, “Please, let me hold it for just five minutes. I’ll return it to you immediately.”
The mother found Hussain’s request an ideal solution to the dilemma, and she said to the boy, convincingly: “No problem, let him hold it for a little while. I’ll take care of bringing it back to you.”
The boy agreed and handed Hussain the yellow flag. Finally, Hussain’s wish was granted.
Hussain ran toward the castle, waving the yellow flag, chanting a song in his simple, faltering language.
At first, Hussain’s reaction seemed amusing and funny, but his sudden disappearance worried the flagbearing-boy, who blamed Hussain’s mother: “Do you like what your son did, madam? He tricked me and ran away with it.”
“Rest assured, my dear. Where is he going with it? He’ll carry it for a while and then come back. We are not from this area.”
They searched, but found no sign of Hussain. Fear gripped Umm Hussain’s heart.
“Madam, look at him. Call him. He’s over there. Look,” said the flagbearing-boy, pointing terrified at the steep slope below the castle.
“Look, the yellow banner is descending among the dense pines. Hurry, call him back before he steps on a mine and is blown away. This is a dangerous minefield.”
Fear gripped Umm Hussain’s heart. She sat on the nearest rock, her children surrounding her, shouting, “Hussain, come back, Hussain, now, come on!”
In turn, the flagbearing-boy stood on a high rock and called out, “Hussain, stop where you are. Don’t go any further. The ground here is planted with mines. Go back the same way so that a mine doesn’t explode under your feet.”
When they noticed the flag stop, they were certain that Hussain had heard them.
Umm Hussain’s face had turned yellowish as the flag. She asked the boy to repeat his call.
“Hussain, don’t be afraid. Go back to where you came down. Don’t turn right or left. Go straight. Here, we are waiting for you. Come on, come back in peace. I promise to give you the flag, come on.”
Hussain’s older sister suggested that the boy get down to fetch it, and he agreed without hesitation.
But Umm Hussain shouted, “No, I won’t let you come down. I won’t accept for you what you refused for my son. Come, stand close to me. Continue talking to him. God will take care of him.”
“I will come down. Perhaps fear has confused him. I am older than him and there is nothing to fear for me.”
“You might make a mistake too. Step on a mine. I won’t let you go. Continue your instructions to him, and I will be grateful.”
Then the flagbearing-boy continued to guide Hussain.
The yellow flag was sticking out from among the trees, its yellow colour sometimes glinting in the sunlight, sometimes obscured by the green of the intertwined branches.
As the yellow flag was advancing in a straight line toward them, Hussain asked the boy, unconcerned by the danger or his mother’s fear: “Are you really going to give me the flag?”
“I promised you,” he replied without hesitation. “Now continue advancing carefully.”
The last few minutes were slow and filled with fear for Umm Hussain.
Finally, Hussain returned, safe and sound, laughing, carrying the yellow flag.
The flagbearing-boy whispered to his mother, “What a wonderful brat!” He hugged Hussain, congratulating him on his safe arrival and the yellow flag.
But Umm Hussain approached her reckless son, snatched the flag from him, and this time reprimanded him harshly.
Umm Hussain handed the flag to its owner, “It’s yours. We’re not allowed to take it under any circumstances. Thank you for everything you’ve done for this rowdy-dowdy.”
As Umm Hussain called her children back to the car, the flag-boy hurried after her, pleading sincerely, “Madam, hold on a minute. Please, let him have it. Please, this is my gift to him. I’d be delighted if you accepted it, and sad if you refused.”
Hussain looked the happiest of his life. His tears dried quickly. Umm Hussain didn’t dare open her wallet to reimburse him for the banner, because doing so would be insulting a hero—a man, not a child.
She held back and asked, “Tell me how you would like me to repay you. To reciprocate, because I have to.”
The flagbearing-boy bowed his head in thought, his eyes brimming with tears: “Hussain, your promise to protect it is my reward. This yellow flag is a memorial to a precious Shaheed, a symbol of victorious resistance.”
“Do you promise me that? You won’t sell it, will you? Would anyone sell something so dear to their heart?” he asked Hussain.
Umm Hussain was deeply moved: “Come on, Hussain, you must promise him that, and keep your promise.”
“I promise you that, my friend. Now I love you and the flag.”
“I love you too. I love this hand that insisted on carrying my flag. Take it as a souvenir from me. Never forget that the banner of resistance is given as a gift, it is not for sale.”
The two boys embraced for a long time, and after they parted, Umm Hussain became convinced of Hussain’s maturity and principles. She knew that Hussain had gained from the great day of liberation something more sublime than a leisurely tourist trip.
Hussain [the future martyr] had met a resistance fighter who hadn’t given up his flag for a lot of money.
This incident was the most precious gift Umm Hussain had received from God Almighty, a reward for her patience during the long years of separation from her beloved South, on the day of its liberation and the years of her bitter grief for the south’s martyrs and prisoners.
THIS STORY IS DEDICATED TO THE MARTYRS OF LEBANON ON THE OCCASION OF THE FIRST RESISTANCE AND LIBERATION DAY SINCE THE MARTYRDOM OF SAYYED HASSAN NASRALLAH
[1] Miqat refers to the geographic boundary where pilgrims must enter the state of Ihram (a state of ritual purity) before proceeding to perform the Hajj
