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I remember the situation well. I was in the second grade. The classroom walls were jam-colored, the seats beige. We had just returned from recess, the lights were still off, and my friend Fuad had done something to wrong me.
I'm not sure what he did, but I recall a vague sense of betrayal. It was with hesitation that I pondered ending our friendship. It would've been simple. Us seven-year-olds had an idiosyncratic language system for the occasion: you ended a friendship by raising the pinkie to say خاصمتك. Alternatively, you began a friendship by raising the thumb to say صاحبتك. These were the decisive signifiers, sealing or rupturing bonds in that primary school in Amman. The effects were as concrete as they were immediate. We used those fingers like a judge did a gavel.
I eyed Fuad, mulling over the best move. I had to act before the bell rang and class began. I called his name and stood up in my chair. I was about to give him the pinkie and end our friendship then and there. The air was still. The other seven-year-olds turned their heads. I glanced around. The teacher glared impatiently.
Fuad looked back at me, alarm in his eyes. My hesitation intensified: maybe the pinkie would be extreme… Besides, I didn't want to cause a scene and be bad. Maybe there was something to preserve about my friendship with Fuad. I'd just go halfway, something in the middle between friend and foe, between thumb and pinkie. The middle finger it is.
The teacher shrieked:
“Aziz! What in the world are you doing?”
“What did I do?”
“Shame on you. Where did you learn that?”
“What? It means half-خاصمتك, half-صاحبتك.”
“You know exactly what it means!”