On the Hills of God

by Fawal, Ibrahim

  It was unnaturally quiet. Not a human being moved; not even a car or a bicycle or a stray cat. His eyes focused on a little house a few acres below him. He could imagine what was going on inside, for he had been there often. In the house was the Sha’lan family, Isaac’s family. Yousif could also imagine how they must be agonizing over their future.

  At the dinner table Yousif stirred the lentil soup before him. “What’s going to happen to Isaac and his family?” he asked, as if trying to read their fortune at the bottom of his bowl.

  “Nothing, of course,” his mother answered, and looked at her husband for assurance.

  Her husband drank his soup in silence, as if, Yousif felt, his wife’s naiveté sometimes were too much to bear.

  “Mama, you surprise me,” Yousif said, looking at her. “They live in an Arab town, don’t they? There’s going to be war. Will they be safe?”

  His tone upset her and color rose to her cheeks. “Well, they’re not involved. It’s a conflict between us and the outside agitators, the Zionists. The Sha’lan family are just like the rest of us—getting sick over what might happen.”

  “That’s not the way your average Arab is going to look at it,” her imperturbable husband predicted, without raising his eyes from his plate.

  Yousif broke off a piece of bread. “Don’t be surprised if the police come after me,” he said.

  Both parents were startled. “After you?” his father asked.

  “Yes,” Yousif replied.

  “What on earth for?” his mother wanted to know.

  Yousif told them what had happened after Basim’s oration.

  “What did you tell them?” his father asked.

  “That they can’t order us around anymore.”

  “That’s all?”

  “I also threatened them with a demonstration.”

  His mother gasped. “You threatened them?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “That’s the least of their worries,” his father said. “They just don’t want you to throw bombs or go around shooting people.”

  “Then why did they try to stop Basim from making a speech? Wasn’t that what a demonstration is all about?”

  “Right now they’re nervous. They’re afraid things might get out of hand.”

  His mother reached out to touch Yousif’s hand. “Please, son, stay out of it.”

  “One way or another, we’re all going to get involved,” her husband said, as he stopped eating, pushed back his chair, and rose slowly from the table.

  After dinner, Dr. Safi went out to make his nightly house calls. He had a number of very sick patients, he said, and might be out for a while. His wife helped him put on his jacket and heavy black topcoat and told him that she and Yousif would be waiting for him at her brother’s house.

  Five or six people were already hovering around a portable heater and discussing politics with Uncle Boulus. Soon other people from the neighborhood arrived. The living room—with its plush mahogany furniture and thick Persian rug—was almost full of bewildered men and women who had reached a crossroad in their lives and had no idea which way to turn. Some were dressed in native robes and red fezes. Others, like Uncle Boulus, were in modern suits with nothing on their heads. Some were rolling cigarettes; others were fingering worry beads. Most were staring at the medallion in the middle of the Tabriez rug as though it were an open casket. Abu Nassri wore large tinted glasses, like a movie star traveling incognito, and chain-smoked his cigarettes until the fire scorched the tips of his yellowed fingers. One old bearded man had only one tooth. They all wanted to know what had happened that afternoon, and Yousif tried to answer all their questions, finding himself slowly but surely slipping into the vortex.

  “Who fired the two shots?” Uncle Boulus asked. “Did anyone find out?”

  “One of the soldiers, I’m sure,” Yousif said. “Who else?”

  “If I had a gun I would’ve been proud to empty it in their skulls,” the old man fumed. “The sons of dogs! They shaft us and then expect us to like it. Dare we open our mouths?”

  “I bet they won’t stop the Zionists from celebrating all over Palestine,” Yousif predicted.

  “Hell no,” someone said. “They’re already dancing in the streets of Jerusalem.”

  “I bet the British soldiers are dancing with them,” Yousif said.

  “Well, of course,” said Abu Nassri. “You think they’d try to muzzle them as they tried to muzzle us? Hell no.”

  Then, Yousif heard the heavy iron door open and footsteps cross the long marble corridor. Salman appeared and sat on the sofa nearest the door, followed by Yacoub Khoury, a man in his late twenties whose hair was parted in the middle and slicked down. Yacoub was a house painter who was ashamed of his trade. At sunset, he would throw away his work clothes and dress up like a civil servant. He was also a high school drop-out; to compensate for his lack of education, he would read all the magazines, listen to all the news, and try to engage in serious discussions. He lived with his mother and two older sisters and refused to get married lest his wife mistreat them. Poor Yacoub, people said. He was misery personified. But Yousif liked him.

  “What do you think of the Philippines?” Yacoub asked as soon as he sat down, pulling up his sharply creased trousers at the knees.

  “That’s Truman for you,” Uncle Boulus answered, crossing his legs.

  “But General Romulo was so eloquent, so positive,” Yacoub persisted.

  “He wasn’t the only one who had to swallow his pride and buckle under American pressure,” Abu Nassri said. “Truman probably told him, either come across with the vote or there will be no more foreign aid to the Philippines.”

  “Sure,” Salman commented. “Washington dealt us a dirty hand.”

  “Not Washington, only Truman,” someone corrected him.

  “Same thing,” Yousif said.

  Silence enveloped them like steam in a hot shower. Yousif wondered what happened to Basim. Did he leave, did he stay in town? Did the police know who he was? Were they now searching for him? He needed to find out, so he got up suddenly and headed for the door without an explanation. A few doors down he ran into Maha, carrying one child in her arms and walking another beside her. She too was on her way to spend the evening at Uncle Boulus’s house to catch up with the latest news.

  “Where’s Basim?” Yousif asked her, standing under the street light.

  Maha shook her head. “You should know more than I do. Is it true that he made a speech and you both defied the police?”

  Yousif nodded. “Haven’t you seen him?”

  “No. Don’t look so surprised. I’m used to it by now.”

  Her pretty face was long that night, and Yousif could detect the sadness in her voice. He wondered what kind of a family life someone like Basim had; he wondered also what kind of a life he himself would have with Salwa if he were lucky enough to marry her. Salwa, he knew, would not settle for just being a housewife waiting for him to show up whenever he could.

  Yousif walked Maha back to Uncle Boulus’s house, with Yousif carrying the baby. An hour later his father came in from his nightly visits and the conversation again gained momentum. All those present wanted to hear the good doctor’s views.

  “Only a few weeks ago, Truman came out against the partition plan,” he reminded them, his eyebrows knitted. “Twenty-four hours later he changed his mind. Someone must’ve sat him down and said, ‘Do you want the election or don’t you?’ Now you can see what his answer must’ve been.”

  “Then it’s not a matter of conviction, is it, doctor?” the grizzled old man with the single tooth asked. Yousif looked at him, surprised by his probing.

  “Expedience is more like it,” the doctor replied, smiling benevolently and reaching for a cup of coffee. “At least Truman was honest. He said he didn’t give a damn where they put Israel so long as they didn’t put it in Missouri.”

  “What’s Missouri?” the old man asked, flicking his ivory worry beads with his bony fing
ers.

  “His home state,” Yacoub answered, proud that he could recognize the name.

  “That’s it,” Salman concluded, smacking his lips and folding his hands like an old woman. “It’s the Jewish vote.”

  “No question about it,” Abu Nassri added, his big abdomen resting almost on his knees. “Money and votes talk—especially in America.”

  Yousif sat and listened, impatient with the men’s calm frustration. He wanted them to be angry, restless—even in their probing of what had brought them to this point.

  “How should we have handled it?” Yousif asked his father.

  Everyone in the room turned and looked at him.

  “Handled what?” his father asked.

  Yousif’s eyes met his father’s. “What should we have done to prevent this from happening?”

  There was silence. Men exchanged looks. Some expelled streams of breath.

  “I’m not sure we could’ve,” Uncle Boulus offered. “The West seems set on paying old debts to the Jews. Nothing we could’ve done would’ve mattered.”

  “Do you agree, father?” Yousif asked. “We did all we could?”

  “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.

  8

  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.