On the Hills of God (11 page)

“I don’t know about that,” the doctor replied, reaching for his pipe. “I guess we could have tried to reason with the Zionists.”

“How?” Yousif pressed.

“I guess,” his father reflected, unzipping his black tobacco pouch, “we could’ve sat with some of their moderate leaders and said something like, Is this the way to come home again? Look, it’s unfortunate that you’ve been gone all these years, but it was the Romans who pushed you out, not us. Now that some of you want to come back, we want you to know that you’re welcome. Come and live with us and share with us what we have like so many of you have done before over the centuries. We can build the country together, run it together, live in it in peace together. But we can’t let you carve a state for yourselves in our midst, because that would be at our expense. The law of survival will tell you we can’t let that happen. One thing for sure, you can’t possibly love the land more than we do—”

“That’s for sure,” Yacoub interjected.

“—and if you think you can just come back and take it from us—some of us might get unhappy or downright angry.”

There was a long pause.

“Do you think they would have been persuaded?” Yousif wanted to know.

“It would’ve been worth a try,” his father said. “I don’t know whether it would’ve worked, but I certainly would’ve tried it.”

The sadness of all those in the living room seemed to deepen. They looked, Yousif thought, as though every one of them either had seen a ghost or at least was suffering from a terrible heartburn.

“What now?” Yousif again asked. “What if they try to implement the resolution? How can we stop it?”

“By war,” Yacoub said. “What else is there to do?”

“Who’s going to do the fighting?” Yousif questioned him, thinking of the spies who had mapped Ardallah’s countryside.

A long discussion ensued. It was clear to most that the security of Palestine depended on the defense provided by the surrounding Arab states.

“You mean Lebanon, Syria, Jordan, and Egypt?” Yousif asked.

His father nodded. “That’s what’s usually meant by the confrontation states. They are the ones that have borders with Palestine. They are the ones who would come to help us save it.”

“What about Iraq and Saudi Arabia?” Yousif inquired. “What about Arab countries in north Africa? Won’t they come to our aid?”

Uncle Boulus smiled. “I guess they might if we need them. But they’re too far away. Besides, unless the West intervenes directly or indirectly, this Jewish state, whatever they might call it, would prove no problem for us. History would record it as an aberration, as a futile attempt on the part of the misguided Zionists. Nothing else.”

Yousif could not believe his ears. “You mean we have no problem?”

“We do,” Uncle Boulus admitted, “but it’s nothing we can’t control.”

“I’m surprised you say that.”

“The Jews are not stupid,” Uncle Boulus explained, flicking his worry beads. “When they know the crunch is on, they’ll negotiate. They’d settle for a lot less than they’re asking for now.”

Stunned, Yousif pursued the argument. “But will a Jewish state be created?”

“They’re going to give it a try, that’s for sure. But nothing will come of it.”

“Uncle, how can you say that? We didn’t think the UN would pass the silly resolution. But it did.”

“It’s not the same thing. Nothing will come of it, I’m telling you.”

“What if they declare a state the minute the British pull out?”

“They can do that, for sure. And probably will. So what? The state will be stillborn. Take my word for it. It will die at birth as sure as I’m sitting here.”

All those in the room grumbled. Yacoub was so upset his face turned white.

“I hope you’re right,” Yousif said, not convinced. “What do you think, Father?”

The doctor leaned on his elbow and puffed on his pipe. “It will be a miracle if they don’t get their state,” he said, deep in thought.

Again Yousif heard the iron front door clang. Someone was walking down the marble hall. The steps got closer, and Yousif looked up. The sight of the new arrival made him gasp. Everyone turned and looked. Jamal, the blind musician, stood like an apparition at the door, his right hand resting rigidly on his cane. His black robe was wet, his sunken eyes and grim expression further electrified an already charged scene. For a moment no one said a word.

“I was so upset when I heard the news,” Jamal said finally, “I hated to stay home alone. I knew I’d find someone here.”

“I’m glad you came,” said Uncle Boulus, rising to greet him.

Everyone in the room, even the old man with the one tooth, stood up in deference to Jamal. They seemed disturbed by the sudden appearance of his ominous black figure and touched by his shaky voice. Yousif led him to a seat. Jamal seemed pleased to learn of Yousif’s presence. His cold hand clutched Yousif’s arm a bit tightly, and Yousif was certain that Jamal’s twitching lips were suppressing a cry gnawing at his heart.

If anyone in the room could feel pain in the depth of his heart and soul, it was Jamal. He lived alone and made a living weaving baskets. How many times had Yousif and his two friends been touched and inspired by him. About ten o’clock every night, Jamal would play the violin for an hour before he went to sleep. During that hour, many neighbors would open their windows or sit on their doorsteps, listening to his disquieting, haunting music, unlike any other they had ever heard. They were grateful.

If anyone loved the land of Palestine and its people, Yousif knew it was Jamal. It had taken Isaac months to convince Jamal to teach him how to play the
‘oud
. Yousif recalled when Jamal, who had become comfortable after a while with Isaac and his two friends, actually picked up the violin and played for them. It was a rare privilege none of the three friends was likely to forget. But it wasn’t only the music nor the manner of playing that stuck in Yousif’s mind. It was the words Jamal used to describe the music that swelled within him but which he felt he could not express—a failure, he said, that frustrated him to the point where he had “destroyed four violins—and my life.”

Yousif looked now at the small, pale, piteous man sitting beside him. His eyes seemed to have been sealed by a surgeon. He dressed in total black like a man in mourning. Yousif recalled the exact words Jamal had used: “Did you ever hear a shepherd on top of a mountain play his flute to his sheep? Or the farmers sing when harvesting their wheat and plowing their fields? Have you ever heard the women sing when their men return from across the ocean? Or the men and women sing at weddings? Did you ever hear women wail and chant their death songs?”

“When I was young, before I lost my eyesight,” Jamal had added, “I used to sit among them and cry. I wanted to write a symphony of these hills—the hills of God. I wanted to write about their glory and everlasting meaning. I wanted to write about the people who lived and still live on them. I wanted to write about their deaths, for here a divine human conquered death with death.”

It was this kind of love for the land and its people that gave Yousif hope. No one in the room, he knew, could express himself as well as Jamal, but deep in their hearts they all felt the same. If a blind man, Yousif thought, could fall in love with these hills and valleys, what about those who grew up looking at them everyday?

Let the UN pass resolutions. Let the Zionists dream of taking Palestine from its rightful owners. None of it would come to pass. This Yousif resolved—as he watched and pitied the men in the room who only sighed and complained. His generation would put up a fight and he, Yousif, would be a part of it.

By ten o’clock the next morning, Isaac had not shown up at Yousif’s house for their regular weekly study, so Yousif and Amin walked down the hill to find out why. Isaac’s modest stone house with its yellow window shutters looked like all the houses around it. They stepped onto the porch and Yousif rang the bell.

After a minute, Isaac’s mother opened the door. She was short and plump and her graying hair was wrapped in a white scarf. Her round, kindly face was pale and she looked hesitant. She held the door only slightly ajar. Then, seeing who they were, she let them in.

“What’s wrong, Aunt Sarah?” Yousif asked, surprised at her hesitation.

“I didn’t think you’d come today,” she said, still holding the door open.

“Why not?” Amin asked, looking at Yousif.

“I just wasn’t sure,” she said, embracing them. She looked outside, shook her head, and shut the door.

Yousif could read her mind. “We’ve got nothing to do with what’s happening.”

After an awkward pause, she led them to the living room and motioned them to sit down. On the far wall Yousif could see several pictures of old women and men, one of whom looked like a rabbi. On a table in the corner was Isaac’s
‘oud
, covered in a maroon velvet jacket. It reminded Yousif of Jamal’s agony the night before.

“Do you think there’s going to be war?” Amin asked.

Aunt Sarah wrung her hands and remained standing. “I’m afraid so,” she answered. “You’re too young to know what real suffering means. If war does break out we’ll all suffer.”

“But why war?” Amin pressed. “You’re happy here, aren’t you?”

“It’s not the native Jews, Amin. You know as much as we do who’s starting the troubles.”

Isaac came out of his room carrying his books. His friends involuntarily stood up as if they were about to meet a stranger. Aunt Sarah looked at them, biting her knuckles.

“What’s for breakfast?” Isaac asked, trying to sound cheerful.

Aunt Sarah stared at him and his two friends. “The three of you could split up,” she said. “Before it’s over you could be fighting on opposite sides.”

As when Yousif had suggested the pledge, Amin looked shocked. “We won’t,” he told her.

“But you will,” she said, nodding. Tears began to fill her eyes. She hastened out of the room.

After a short pause, the three friends sat down.

“We waited for you,” Yousif told Isaac. “Why didn’t you come?”

“Studying was the last thing on my mind,” Isaac answered, his voice low. “Last night, mother was so worried she couldn’t sleep. In her lifetime she cried a lot for the Jews. Now she’s crying for the Jews and the Arabs.” He waited a moment and then added, “She’s going to ask you to have breakfast. Please agree.”

“I’ve already had breakfast,” Amin said.

“Have another one.”

Ten minutes later, Aunt Sarah came in and announced that breakfast was ready. She seemed to take it for granted that they would eat together. The three boys exchanged glances, and followed her to the small dining room without saying a word. She had made a special dish of chick peas with fried lamb meat and pine nuts, and served large rings of bread with sesame seeds. There were black olives, sliced tomatoes, white cheese, and irresistible olive oil and thyme. Of all the breakfast foods, the last two items were Yousif’s favorites.

The three broke pieces of bread, dunked the tips in the olive oil, and then dipped them in the small bowl of thyme. They chewed heartily, as though relishing a gourmet meal.

“How do you like your eggs?” Aunt Sarah asked no one in particular.

“I pass,” Yousif told her. “This is more than enough.”

“I’d be disappointed,” she said. “Do you like them scrambled or sunny side up? Tell the truth now. Don’t be bashful. You’re like Isaac to me.”

“I know that,” Yousif said. “But honestly I don’t care for any.”

“How about you, Amin? How do you like your eggs?”

“None for me, please. Oil and thyme is all I want.”

“Come on now,” she said, bringing out a wicker basket full of eggs.

“Mama!” Isaac implored.

She seemed to remember something. “Just run out,” she told her son, “and get me a handful of mint and parsley from the yard. I’ll make you omelets.”

She reached for a white bowl and began to crack some eggs. Isaac’s rolled his eyes. Then he got up and went out, resigned to let her have her way.

Minutes later, she hovered around them, breaking more bread, filling their cups with hot tea, and telling them to eat more. In her loving care she looked flustered. They ate and talked, and pretended to enjoy the meal. Yousif felt such a lump in his throat, he could not swallow. Sitting at one table and breaking bread together was good, but the world would not leave them alone. A steady roar filled his ears, from which he knew they could not escape. From now on, he said to himself, things would never be the same.

After breakfast they went back to Yousif’s house to attend to their studies. All their books were there and there were no children to disturb them. They had vowed not to allow politics or anything else distract them. The cause of their seriousness was the London Matriculation. That crucial international examination would be held next March or April, and it was never too early to start preparing for it. It was a great honor to pass it and a greater shame to fail it. The names of those who passed would be published in the national newspapers, and the morning the announcements hit the stands, the whole town would read the list.

The thought of failure filled Yousif, Amin, and Isaac with apprehension. Unless they passed, all their achievements over the last eleven years would be forgotten. Moreover, in the eyes of their parents the “Matric” was the yardstick by which their fitness for college was measured. All three boys wanted to continue their education. Amin, in particular, was hoping for a scholarship. Without one he wouldn’t be able to afford college, but with the “Matric” to his credit he stood a chance.

For that reason, Yousif and his two friends had obtained published copies of old tests on the six subjects (Arabic, British, History, Mathematics, Chemistry, Physics) out of which every senior had to sit for five. They had set aside every Saturday morning to study for the “Matric” and nothing else. They resolved to answer every question, memorize every equation, and solve every problem. And they were making good progress.

Today was no exception. At one point, Yousif’s mother brought them a pot of Arabic coffee. Half an hour later Fatima tiptoed in with a plate of peeled oranges. The three boys read, discussed, and reviewed. But on the hour, Yousif would interrupt his studies to fiddle with the radio set. He was anxious to hear the latest news. Or he would glance at the morning newspaper, which his father had left in his armchair.

The headline, in bold red letters, screamed, the shock of the ages. On the front page was a large map of the recommended division. To Yousif’s chagrin, northern and southern Palestine and most of its coastline would be allotted to the Zionists. A corridor would connect Arab Palestine with Jaffa and Gaza.

“This is bizaare,” Yousif said, shaking his head and picking up the newspaper.

Both Isaac and Amin looked up, frowning.

“Are you going to study or not?” Amin asked.

“I can’t help it,” Yousif answered, the paper rustling in his hands.

Isaac bit his lower lip and stared at his friend. “Maybe it won’t come to pass. Now that both sides know that the threat of war is real, maybe they’ll come to their senses. No one wants war. Not really.”

For the rest of the review session, the three read in silence.

They had lunch at Yousif’s. They ate sardines,
tabouleh,
and fried potatoes cut like small moons. Then they went out.

They passed the market place and saw the damage done by the explosion late yesterday afternoon. Scores of windows had been shattered, several corrugated iron doors mangled, and the nearest wall charred. The mutilated jeep, however, had been removed, and the streets had been cleared of glass.

“Amazing no one was hurt,” Yousif said.

“Someone will get hurt if they don’t fix that balcony,” Isaac said, pointing his finger.

Yousif looked up. The balcony right above the street was still hanging—but teetering, on the verge of collapse.

They backed off to the other sidewalk.

A woman carrying her shopping in a wicker basket on her head stopped, gaping at the damage. She murmured something and made the sign of the cross.

The three boys resumed their walking. The shops were mostly empty, with the owners sitting behind their counters wrapped up in scarfs or wool sweaters. On the wall between the site of the explosion and the nearest grocery store, the slogan “Down with Zionism” was painted in black. Not far from it was painted another one. It read, “Down with Britain.” On the green wrought-iron gate of the Greek Orthodox Church was a third. It said, “Down with Truman.”

“Somebody must’ve been up all night,” Yousif commented.

“Where did they get all that black paint?” Amin asked.

“Look,” Yousif said, pointing his finger. “It’s not all black.”

Across the wall of the public lavatory was a huge arrow painted in red, pointing toward the edge of the door. Above it were words, also in red: “Herzl Lives Here.”

Yousif had no love for the Austrian Jew who had founded Zionism at the end of the last century, but the vulgar slogan embarrassed him.

“Whoever wrote that doesn’t know history,” Yousif said. “Herzl died years ago. Like Moses, he never set foot on Palestinian soil.”

“This scares me,” Isaac said, turning pale.

“It’s shitty,” Yousif apologized.

Amin jerked his neck. “Words don’t kill, though,” he said. “It’s the bullets and bombs that worry me.”

“Words are powerful enough,” Isaac said. “They could lead to real violence.”

Amin’s face reddened. “I guess you’re right.”

They were nearing the Fardous Cafe where Basim had made his speech the day before. Yousif was worried for Isaac. Would the Arabs remember that he was Jewish? Would any of them make a snide remark or try to hurt him?

As usual, the cafe was crowded. Some customers were reading newspapers, or staring blankly. Several, however, had gone back to old habits: playing pinochle or checkers, gambling for a cup of coffee, and smoking
nergileh
. It was an overcast day, but it was warm and dry enough for many to sit in the yard under the canopy.

There was nothing abnormal about the way the Arabs looked at Isaac or talked to him. They accepted him as though nothing had happened the day before. To them he continued to be an inseparable part of the trio. Yousif was relieved.

“Let’s go to the movies,” Yousif suggested, rubbing his hands.

“What’s playing?” Amin wanted to know.

“I don’t care,” Yousif replied. “We haven’t seen a film in two weeks.”

Isaac slowed down. “You go ahead. I can’t.”

“And why not?” Yousif asked, waving to someone across the street.

“I need to be with my father,” Isaac explained. “He can’t even go to the rest room unless someone minds the store for him.”

His two friends did not seem convinced. They exchanged looks but did not argue with him.

“I’ll see you later,” Isaac said, leaving.

Yousif and Amin stood motionless, each wrapped up in his own thoughts. Then they began to walk again and ended up at the movies. Salwa usually came to Saturday or Sunday matinees, so Yousif spent more time looking for her than watching the screen. Today she never showed up, and Yousif made Amin walk out of the theater with him, even before John Wayne finished kissing Maureen O’Hara. How could he sit through an American film? No more would he like anything from the land of Truman.

Yousif would never again dream of going to the United States. Nor would he let his father speak so fondly of his years at Columbia University. The America his father had known in the 1920s might have been great, but since then she must have changed. How could she call herself the leader of the free world when she was conspiring to deny him and his people their freedom? Yousif would never watch another cowboy defend
his
West, when that same cowboy was insisting on giving Palestine away to the Zionists.

The plaza in front of the cinema was full of peddlers: one selling
falafel
sandwiches, and another
shish kabab
. A third one, a ragged-looking old man, was waving a newspaper.

“Long live Arab Palestine,” he shouted. “Read all about it.”

Men on both sidewalks headed in the old man’s direction. Yousif was afraid the big bundle under the peddler’s arm would be gone before he got to him. Yousif squeezed through the crowd and managed to purchase three papers. The Egyptian and Lebanese tabloids were very popular and Yousif wanted to read what the Arabs’ reaction was to the UN vote. “time for holy war,” shouted
Falastin
. “once again the crusades,” shouted
Ad-Difaa
. “the west gangs up on arabs,” shouted
Al-Ahram
.