They realized that for thirty-five years these old men, my
comrades, had been struggling and suffering for their ideal--a
regenerated Palestine; now, in the dusk of their life, it seemed as if
all their hopes and dreams were coming to ruin. The oppressive tragedy
of the situation settled down on me more and more heavily as the day
wore on and heat and fatigue told on my companions. My feelings must
have been written large on my face, for one of them, a fine-looking
patriarch, tried to give me comfort by reminding me that we must not
rely upon strength of arms, and that our spirit could never be broken,
no matter how defenseless we were. Thus he, an old man, was encouraging
me instead of receiving help from my youth and enthusiasm.
At last we arrived at the prison and were locked into separate cells.
That same night we were tortured with the _falagy_, or bastinado. The
victim of this horrible punishment is trussed up, arms and legs, and
thrown on his knees; then, on the bare soles of his feet a pliant green
rod is brought down with all the force of a soldier's arm. The pain is
exquisite; blood leaps out at the first cut, and strong men usually
faint after thirty or forty strokes. Strange to say, the worst part of
it is not the blow itself, but the whistling of the rod through the air
as it rushes to its mark.
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