Recollections of a Dropout Volume One by Elias H. Tuma Appendix to Volume One AND THEN I BECAME A FARMER by Elias H. Tuma California Digital Library 2014 © 2014 Elias H. Tuma Tuma, Elias H. (2014) Recollections of a Dropout. Oakland: eScholarship. Online at http: //escholarship.org/uc/ucd_econ Contents Preface i Recollections of a Dropout 1 Appendix: And Then I Became a Farmer 196 Glossary 221 Preface The objective of publishing my RECOLLECTIONS is three fold: First, to encourage students to persist in trying to realize their educational goals; Second, to express my appreciation of the kindness and generosity of the American people; Third, to express my gratitude to the University of Redlands and to the University of California, both of which made it possible for me to come to the university, and continue to realize my educational goals, just by performing well, without paying any fees. In my appreciation of the role played by the University of Redlands, Redlands, California, and the University of California, I hereby request that my share of the royalties be divided between the two universities as follows: 30% to the University of Redlands, and 70% to the University of California. I am grateful to all concerned. The text material is based on my memory and my well-kept diaries. Elias Tuma, Professor Emeritus of Economics at UC Davis i 5 RECOLLECTIONS OF A DROPOUT 1 I was almost dead when the prophet Elijah came in a vision; his beard white as snow, and his eyes as clear as a mountain lake. "Fear not for your son," to my father he said. Neither medicine nor a doctor shall he need; your prayers have been heard, and he shall live. My father believed it. I was Two months old then, so I am told. That was in 1928 and I am still here, for I was spared. Poverty was felt, but not spoken of. Though to hide it one could not, when one was unable to pay the half a-piaster school fee to secure drinking water, Or dress like others on the team. How many times I wanted to run away, but except for once and only for less than 15 minutes, I did not. I just was too scared. My father was a priest: a Melkite Catholic priest, to be precise. His larger family members were either Orthodox or Protestant Christians. The priesthood brought him prestige. He founded the church in the village. That made him a hero to many and an outcast to others, though only for a short time. He certainly was a hero to my mother, whose faith he had by then to the village transplanted. Nevertheless, material poverty the priesthood had brought, and yet he dared. It took nine months for me to be born, and a third of that time to be recorded, from August to November, for I was born in Suhmata, a mountain village, while recording had to be in Acre, the district’s capital town. The safest way was to record the current date, as born in the home village, Kafr-Yasif. Both were wrong, and whether born under Leo or Scorpio, evidently no one cared. Crammed two to a mattress created warmth, with discipline and love intertwined, it was hard to tell one from the other. Probably that is why the number of children procreated reflected a medley of problems and achievements. Mother made decisions, but father made them known, as befits the home of a patriarch. In the long run, only we, the young, knew how we fared. Kk was my eldest sibling, a male born to my mother who had reached the age of 26 before being married. Thus she had vowed that if a male child were born to her upon marriage, his hair would not be touched until he visited mount Tabor. And so one day, with Kk and father off to Mt. Tabor we went, on a windy road and costly trip to honor the religious 2 vow. In a way it was too late, for by then Kk had been teased and tormented by his classmates, as effeminate. That, they said, is what his braided hair had portrayed. Kk’s problems had just begun. He suffered an even greater humiliation when to Terra Sancta College he was accepted, but was unable to register. He was prepared and on to Jerusalem with father he said good-bye. He was repulsed and to the village he returned. Father had mistaken acceptance for exemption from fees he could not afford. Neither the school nor the Church, nor my father's wealthy relatives, who resided in Jerusalem, would come to his aid. Back to the village they returned, Kk’s chance to complete secondary education he had to forsake, and he, for life, was thus presumably unprepared. Discipline was imposed: you respect the elders; listen and obey; or else you will be made to. That is what I remember. Asma, my older sister had disobeyed. Mother tied her hands behind her to the back door of the house. She sat on the floor, tears streaming from her eyes, stimulated by the fury of my mother. I did not know why. I wanted to untie her, but I did not dare because in her place I would have been ensnared. Father seemed more mellow, kind, and playful. He took me with him for walks, on quail hunt, until his shotgun, which he owned illegally was stolen. He could not publicly search for it because it was not licensed. He also took me to town where he explained to me the rules of the road and how cars avoided each other by following the rules. He also meted punishment, until one day I stood in front of him and said: you want to hit me, go ahead. He looked shocked, pulled back his already raised hand, and silently let me go, as if he knew that his silent anger I had heard. Three miles from the village an army lorry was blown up. British soldiers were the victims and Kafr-Yasif was the target of vengeance and collective punishment. The soldiers raided the homes and burnt eighty of them, while the people were rounded up in an open field under the hot sun and the watchful eyes of machine gunners. Our home was spared because of the sanctity of the priesthood and evidence of the attire, quite safe, it was declared. The 1930s were frightening and disgusting too. I recall the way Palestinians fought Palestinians, in addition to their struggle against the British and the Jews. Iy lay dead in the field for days before he was discovered; I was about 8 years old, but I still can see his broken skull. with worms making their way through it. Supposedly he was a collaborator, but he was killed before any evidence was obtained. Before he became a priest, my father was a teacher and before that he was a migrant peddler in Argentina. He had fled Ottoman oppression and the risk of serving in its army. He had an experience beyond the ordinary, but he knew not how to use it effectively. Evidently he did not seek riches. It was for honor, prestige, and for the love of my mother that he was ordained. In his priesthood he upheld the honor, which my mother no doubt shared. He served his congregation and others, truly as a man of peace. Peace between individuals, families, and towns. He had little else to give, he gave what he had, and he hardly ever complained. 3 Life in the village was simple but creative. I played with sticks and stones, built arbors and castles, and I served in the church. I still had time to do my homework, for it was expected that my good grades be sustained. School was not much fun: you had to cram, or marks will be left on your open hands, by sticks fondled by the teachers. Nor was serving in church satisfying either, for neither answered my inquisitive questions. My search for knowledge had started, though the results were yet too contained. I left school at 14 to avoid the enslavement of poverty, and the dullness of rote learning. I also wanted to avoid discrimination on account of religion, for the school and the community were hot beds for the same. Higher education and rational, independent thinking were truly the goals I already entertained. As I look back, flashes of my childhood come before my eyes: the few coins from the church plate that I had snatched, but only for moments before being caught and the coins returned. I remembered the bird that I declared had landed on my head while lying under a tree, as a sign of recognition. Worst of all, I remembered the jug of water my father drank from every time, after a guest had departed, that I had soiled! Yes these were memories in the back of my mind that I have retained. Learning, whether at school or at home, had much to wish for: we learned the three Rs. We learned to celebrate the birthday of King George. We learned how to respect, or fear the British for they dominated. Whatever it was, signs of friendship or respect of the British had to be maintained. The Jews you learn to hate. The Orthodox Christians you compete with. The Protestants you envy and despise because they were favorites of the rulers. The Druze people you befriend. Public matters they do not take seriously, for all they want is to survive.