“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 re
d, 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.
As soon as they were away from the heavy traffic, Yousif handed Amin one newspaper, put one under his arm, and began to read the third. Both read in silence, then aloud to each other.
Everything in the papers stirred their blood. The reports of the Jews singing and dancing throughout Palestine the night before infuriated them. Then there was the battle cry. It had been sounded from Yemen to Iraq, from Kuwait to Morocco. Much of it was Arab rhetoric; that Yousif knew. But the neighboring Arab states did seem eager to deliver on their promise to save Palestine from the aggressors who were converging on them like waves of locusts bent on swallowing everything in sight.
On top of a high hill that overlooked Jaffa and the Jaffa-Jerusalem road, Yousif stopped and stared. The distant, brown, rolling hills were clustered and elongated. They looked like a basket full of Easter eggs, dyed the color of onion skin. To his left was the hill on which they had often caught birds; to his right was the slope where they had followed the Jewish spies and Amin had fallen. Below them was a deep valley already engulfed in darkness.
“We’re not too far from the Zionists,” Yousif said, thoughtful. “Tel Aviv itself is less than twenty-five miles away. They just might make a grab at Ardallah.”
Amin stared at him, shaking his head. “Not a chance,” he said.
“I wouldn’t put it past them,” Yousif said.
“They could try but they would fail.”
“What if they didn’t? What if Ardallah fell into their hands.”
In his wildest dreams, Amin had never considered the possibility. “If that happened,” he said, looking astonished, “then it’s something bigger than all of us. Something we couldn’t help.”
“But we can stop it.”
“If it can be stopped, it’s going to take Arab armies to do it.”
“But you and I can help.”
“How?”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” Yousif said, kicking a pebble with his foot. “Who are the people making decisions on our behalf? Where do they come from? Who elected them? No one I know has ever been consulted about what’s going on. You and I don’t want war. Isaac and his parents don’t want war. So why are we all being ignored? I feel trapped, left out, condemned without a trial. The destiny of Palestine belongs—or should belong—to the people. So why—”
“It’s politics,” Amin interrupted. “That’s how it’s done.”
“Well, look where it’s taking us. We need to get involved. There must be thousands of Arabs and Jews living beyond these hills who share our feelings. Why can’t we all get together and tell the politicians to go to hell?”
They walked in silence. “Everyone we passed today had a long face,” Yousif said. “Well, damn it, long faces don’t save the country.”
“What do you expect them to do?”
Yousif got angry. “They can get off their butts for a change. The country is going to be torn apart while they’re swatting flies.”
“Oh, Yousif, the Arab regimes are not going to sit back and let a bunch of Zionists steal our land. If that ever happens there’ll be hell to pay. Every Arab king and president would be scared to death of his own people. The masses would turn on every one of them. I wouldn’t be surprised if there was a revolution.”
From the depth of his heart, Yousif wanted to believe Amin. But he couldn’t. It sounded like wishful thinking more than anything else.
“I don’t care what happens afterwards,” Yousif said. “The main thing is to prevent the Jewish state from getting established. They must not get a foothold here at all. If we lose one Arab village now, it will take us a generation to get it back. Father says we Arabs have too many so-called governments, too many factions within each country. The West can play us one against the other. For them it would be like splitting wood. It’s true.”
Amin looked at him quizzically. “Since when are you so cynical?”
“Basim is right,” Yousif answered. “Now is the time to stop the Zionist takeover or we’ll be lost.”
A shepherd passed behind them with his flock of sheep. Again Yousif was reminded of the simple life on these hills that Jamal had called the hills of God. But now Yousif was worried about the future. When they rea
ched the flour-mill, they parted. It was already dusk.
On Monday, Arab Palestine went on strike. The doctor stayed home as did Yousif. They read newspapers, listened to the news, and spoke of nothing except the impending crisis.
While the Jews danced and blew their shofars in the streets, the Arabs rioted, especially in large cities such as Jerusalem, Jaffa, and Haifa. Multitudes of angry citizens rioted in the Arab capitals of Damascus, Beirut, Baghdad, and Cairo. They turned their vengeance on foreign embassies, especially those of the United States. They shouted “Down with America” and “Down with Truman.” They burned British vehicles and looted Jewish stores.
What was more important, from Yousif’s perspective, was not knowing Isaac’s whereabouts.
Next morning, Yousif and Amin did not find Isaac waiting for them by the flour-mill. Nor was he at school when Yousif, as the prefect of the senior class, rang the bell at 10:15 to end the recess. Teachers and students hurried from the playground toward the building. It was a chilly, cloudy December morning, and all were bundled in topcoats or woolen scarves. Yousif rang the bell again and again for the benefit of the tardy and those at the far end of the field.
Knowing what the country had gone through the last few days, Yousif’s class of twenty-two students did not really expect to be tested in the next period. The history test had originally been scheduled for the day before, but the school had been shut down on account of the strike. Most of the students were still cold, and sat now rubbing their hands, wondering what their teacher would do. Some buttoned their sweaters and leafed through their textbooks for a last-minute review, but most thought he would postpone the test. As prefect, Yousif stood at the head of the class and tried to keep it quiet.
Then the teacher, ustaz Rashad Hakim, opened the door briskly and closed it behind him. He moved toward his desk, energizing the whole class with his mere presence. He was short, compact, sleeveless even in the dead of winter. His gum shoes gave him an extra bounce.
On the Hills of God Page 11