On the Hills of God

by Fawal, Ibrahim

  “Are you ready?” Hakim asked, his clear brown eyes expecting rebellion.

  “No!” several students responded.

  “I didn’t think so,” Hakim said, grinning behind his desk. “By the way, where’s Isaac?”

  “We don’t know,” Yousif volunteered.

  There was a moment of silence.

  “You don’t suppose . . .” asked Khalil, a handsome boy with short curly hair.

  “There’s nothing to suppose,” the teacher said, cutting him short.

  Ustaz Hakim looked at the blackboard, found it full of algebraic formulae from the previous class, then admonished Yousif with a look for having neglected one of his duties as a prefect. Yousif started to get up, but the teacher motioned for him to keep his seat.

  He cleaned the blackboard meticulously. Then he opened the window to dust off the eraser on the outside wall.

  “This morning,” he began, “I intend to depart from our text and speak on the crisis at hand.”

  The students breathed satisfaction and seemed eager to hear him out.

  “The Manchurian War of 1905 is good to know about,” ustaz Hakim said, “but the UN resolution to partition Palestine is more urgent, more relevant. It’s imperative that you should be well-informed.”

  Silence filled the room.

  “If you read the newspapers and listen to the news,” the ustaz added, sitting on the edge of his desk and wiping his hands off with his handkerchief, “you’d know that the situation here in Palestine is rapidly deteriorating. Both sides are stubbornly opposed to a compromise, and the world’s attempted help seems to be nothing but an irresponsible meddling that will help hasten the eruption.”

  The students cleared the tops of their desks, folded their arms, and sat soaking up every word uttered by their favorite ustaz.

  “Because man has not yet learned how to live with his fellow man,” ustaz Hakim continued, “wars are usually expected to occur, but the world never knows when or where. The Arab-Zionist clash is different.”

  “How different?” Yousif asked.

  “As soon as the partition plan was passed,” the teacher explained, “the whole world knew not only that war was going to happen, but the exact day. That day is steadily approaching and no one is able to stop it.”

  “The UN could’ve stopped it last Friday when it passed that damn resolution,” Amin blurted.

  “Watch your language,” the teacher said.

  “I’m sorry,” Amin apologized.

  “But you’re right,” ustaz Hakim agreed. “The UN could’ve, but it didn’t. And now we have to deal with a new set of realities. I predict the war will start one minute after the British officially pull out of Palestine and thereby end their thirty-year mandate. This they have repeatedly promised to do. According to the UN resolution, they must leave not later than next August. That’s only nine months from now. And for once the Arabs and the Zionists agree that that promise isn’t going to be broken like so many promises before. The historic moment, then, will take place at midnight when the British leave and the Zionists create their Jewish state in a land owned and inhabited overwhelmingly by Arabs. Ever since 1917, when Britain—”

  Mustapha interrupted. “How did the British get involved? What I don’t understand is why they’re here in the first place.”

  Ustaz Hakim waited for a signal from the class to see if the rest wanted him to go that far back. Several students agreed with Mustapha; they, too, didn’t know.

  “Well,” Ustaz Hakim said, seemingly shifting gears. “I’ll tell you, but remind me, Mustapha, to drop your ‘B’ to a ‘C’ for the course. You do well on world history but you don’t know your own.”

  “It’s not my fault,” Mustapha protested.

  The fog descending outside the window caught the teacher’s eyes. He stared at it, trying to sort out his thoughts. “I presume you all know,” he began, “that at one time the Arabs ruled most of the known world—from Asia in the east to Spain in the west—from the seventh century till the end of the fifteenth. Their empire-building began with the Prophet Muhammad, who in the seventh century led his followers and gave spark to the most brilliant series of conquests the world had ever seen.”

  Although Yousif was a Christian Arab, he was proud of all Arab history, even when it was dominated by Islam. Like most Christian Arabs, he considered himself Arab first and Christian second. He had been raised to believe that the Arabs of old were heroes, giants, supermen. And he had the highest admiration for their accomplishments. Sitting in class now, he wondered if the spirit of old would return and save the day for his generation.

  “The Arab Empire, which reached its zenith around the tenth century A. D., was the center of civilization,” ustaz Hakim continued. “Knowledge in every field flourished as never before. All history books will attest to that. But then the empire began to collapse. It was too big, too fat; both rulers and citizens grew apathetic, corrupt. It crumbled. Like everything else in life, it had a beginning, a middle, and an end. The end came in 1492—the same year Columbus discovered America—when the Arabs were finally driven out of Spain.”

  Yousif raised his hand and waited for the teacher’s permission to speak.

  “Didn’t Ferdinand and Isabella of Spain expel the Jews too?” Yousif asked.

  “You’re right, Yousif,” ustaz Hakim added, smiling. “Ferdinand and Isabella did throw the Jews out. But that’s another story—really. It has to do with how abominably the West has always treated the Jews. The West, mind you—not the Arabs. The truth is, the Jews never fared better than they did under the Arabs, in Spain or anywhere else. In Spain they actually flourished, and more than a few rose to the highest ranks of government.”

  “Some of them became wazirs,” Mustapha said. “Isn’t that true?”

  “That’s true,” the teacher said. “But to get back to the events that led directly to the current crisis, let me say this: by the year 1492, when the Arabs were expelled from Spain, the Ottoman Empire—with its seat of power in Constantinople, Turkey—was rising. Soon it was able to occupy most of the Arab world and to dominate it for four hundred years.”

  Here, Yousif thought, was a chance for Ustaz Hakim to answer a question that had always nagged him.

  “How did that happen?” Yousif asked. “It seems incredible that those who ruled the world for eight hundred years would fall apart so quickly. Why didn’t they revolt? Didn’t they crave freedom?”

  Ustaz Hakim got off the table and walked to the window. “That’s still another story. But don’t ever forget that the Ottomans were the worst thing that could’ve happened to us or to any people. They were unenlightened to say the least. Whereas the Arabs spread knowledge and light wherever they went—look at the advances they made in medicine, astronomy, philosophy, algebra, architecture, poetry—the Ottomans did the very opposite. They ruled by setting libraries on fire, closing schools, spreading fear, and creating an atmosphere of darkness and terror.”

  He slid his watch with the silver elastic band off his wrist and began to wind it. “Around the turn of this century, when the Ottoman Empire was reaching its end, it allied itself with Germany for security reasons. At the same time, Britain and France were eyeing it with interest—wanting to carve it up for themselves. That’s when the British sent in an inconspicuous little officer who was stationed in Cairo. This fellow knew archaeology and some Arabic. He tried to interest the Arabs in revolting against the Turks and helping the Allies—Britain and France—win the upcoming war against the Axis—Turkey and Germany. That was around 1915. The war to come was, of course, World War I. The officer was T. E. Lawrence, better known as Lawrence of Arabia.”

  “Well, then,” Yousif said, “did we help the Allies because we hated the Turks? Or was there more to it than that?”

  “We did it because we hated the Turks and loved what the British promised,” the ustaz said, again sitting on the edge of his desk, his hands under him. “We sacrificed thousands of men because the Briti
sh dangled before us the promise of freedom and independence. They told Sharif Hussein—spiritual leader of Mecca and the father of Jordan’s present King Abdullah—that if he would rally his people to fight on the side of the Allies against the Turks, he would be rewarded at the end of the war by being crowned king and having all the Arabs in the Middle East free and united under him. You can only imagine what his response was. Sharif Hussein put the men of his tribes under the command of his son Faisal and the British Lawrence. Together they stormed over the desert, from the Arabian peninsula all the way to Damascus, defeating the Turks at every turn.”

  The students were sitting on the edge of their seats and clutching their desks. Yousif felt his blood race with excitement.

  “Those poor Bedouins thought they were going to get independence at the end of the war,” the teacher explained. “Little did they know that the British were also going to promise the Jews a national home in Palestine. That came in 1917, only two years after the Arabs had entered the war on the side of the Allies. But obviously negotiations between the British and the Zionists must have been going on for some time—behind the Arabs’ back.

  “The British made their promise to the Zionists in the form of what’s known as the Balfour Declaration. Some say the British double-crossed the Arabs because they wanted the rich Jews to help them finance the war. Some say it was because a Jewish scientist had developed poisonous gas as a weapon and the Allies needed it to win the war. Others say it was because the Allies wanted the American Jews to put pressure on Washington to enter the war on their side.”

  Khalil tapped his desk with the eraser of his yellow pencil. “What do you think the reason was?”

  “Personally,” the teacher said, “I think there were two other reasons. One, the British wanted a European outpost here to make sure that the Arabs would never rise again and be able to rebuild their empire. Two, they were already smelling oil under the Arabian sands and they wanted to corner it all for themselves.”

  “Then colonialism,” Yousif said, “was the root of the problem.”

  “Absolutely,” the teacher agreed. “That one word explains it all. Both Britain and France were colonial powers and they wanted to subjugate other peoples to their will. Why is France in Far East Asia, for God’s sake, if it weren’t for their greed for other countries’ resources? Why is Britain ruling India for that matter? Why is it in Ireland? Britain and France are two major colonial powers and they want to drain the wealth and resources of all countries for their own benefit. Anyway, what’s interesting is that while Britain was telling the Arabs one thing and the Jews another, she was conspiring with France behind the scenes to triple-cross both.”

  “Fine fellows these British,” Khalil said.

  Some students sneered; others shook their heads. The pimpled student to Yousif’s left muttered, “Sons of dogs.”

  “How did they triple-cross them?” Mustapha asked, chewing his lip.

  Again, ustaz Hakim smiled. “By reaching a secret agreement—known as the Sykes-Picot Agreement—according to which terms these two colonial powers would divide the region between themselves. Britain would take Palestine and Iraq; France would take Lebanon and Syria.”

  “What about Jordan?” Amin asked, shifting in his seat. “Weren’t the British there until three years ago when Emir Abdullah became king?”

  The teacher nodded, amused. “Jordan was carved out of the wild desert—in 1922, or three years after the Peace Conference in Paris—to appease Emir Abdullah, one of Sharif Hussein’s sons who is now King of Jordan. Abdullah had felt left out and was threatening to start another war of sorts. But that’s yet another story we don’t have time for now.”

  History was full of interesting drama, Yousif reflected, along with much bloodshed and misery. The British, the French, the Turks, the Arabs, the Romans, the Greeks, the Persians, the Mongols—they had all coveted other peoples’ lands. They had all been greedy, selfish, and unconscionable. And now the Palestinians were to pay the price.

  “In the thirties,” the teacher said, pacing the floor, “Britain almost went back on its promise to the Zionists.”

  “How?” Amin wanted to know, hugging his amputated arm.

  “It never expected our violent reaction to her Balfour Declaration. During the late twenties and throughout all the thirties—especially 1936 and 1937—we Palestinians waged guerrilla warfare against the British and the new Zionist settlers to the point that Britain was willing to renege on her promise to the Zionists. It issued what’s known as the White Paper, which aimed at curtailing the Jewish immigration into Palestine. And then external events—completely out of our control—took a sharp turn to the worse. In 1939 World War II broke out, and you know the rest.”

  The town’s clock, which was located on top of the Roman Catholic Church across the yard, chimed on the hour. Ustaz Hakim waited for the eleventh strike to be completed before he would continue.

  “War is man’s worst crime,” ustaz Hakim said finally, “but if there’s one war that can be condoned it’s World War II. Hitler needed to be stopped. He wasn’t only mad, he was evil. I’m not saying this because he was indirectly responsible for the predicament we’re in now. I’m saying it because anybody who could kill twelve million human beings—six million of them Jews—is evil. When the concentration camps were discovered and the extent of Hitler’s atrocities became known, there was a great swell of sympathy for the Jews and a feeling that they deserved a place of their own. Hence, we now have the UN resolution to partition Palestine.”

  “But we had nothing to do with what happened in Germany,” Yousif said.

  Ustaz Hakim nodded. He looked tired. His voice had gotten softer and more strained. Again he glanced at his watch and went back to his desk as though ready to pick up his books and papers to leave. “That’s where we are now,” he added, “and that’s why the stage is set for another war—right here, right before our eyes. The Zionists are determined to carve a state for themselves out of Palestine, and we Arabs are equally determined to stop them. So when the British leave by next August, blood will flow down the street.”

  Ustaz Hakim picked up his books and waited for the bell to ring.

  “My father says,” Khalil said, “that the Zionists have raised enough money to get all the weapons and manpower they need. What do we have?”

  “The support of the Arab regimes, ostensibly.”

  There was a long pause.

  “Why ‘ostensibly’?” Nadim asked.

  “Because it may or may not materialize,” ustaz Hakim answered.

  “Let’s assume it did materialize,” Nadim pressed. “Would it be enough?”

  “We’d have to wait and see,” the ustaz answered. “Frankly I think we’ll be outmatched. Our man on the street thinks we could stand up to all the Zionists, but I have my doubts. You see, we won’t be fighting the Zionists by themselves. When big powers such as Britain and France and the United States throw their weight behind our enemies, what chance do we have? You know they’re going to do whatever it takes to make the Zionists come out on top.”

  “So you’re predicting our defeat?” another boy behind Yousif asked.

  “In a way. But don’t go around saying I said that. Listen, unless we shut down all the coffeehouses and kick everybody’s ass and make them train and smuggle arms and get massive help from outside and get the whole Arab world on war footing—I’m afraid it’s going to be too late.”

  “Why don’t you start a movement?” Mustapha asked. “We’ll all join you. I know I will.”

  “Me too,” several voices echoed.

  Yousif watched and listened, having resolved to work with Basim. An idea occurred to him. Shouldn’t ustaz Hakim and Basim get together? Perhaps he should arrange it.

  “It’s going to take a lot more than a few of us,” ustaz Hakim said, already at the door. “Just remember this: he who has the gun has the upper hand.”

  That night, in the middle of dinner, the phone rang at
Yousif’s house. His mother, who was sitting closest to the foyer where the telephone was placed, got up to answer it. Yousif could not see her, but he could hear every word she spoke.

  “Hello, Rasheed,” she said. “How’s the family? Oh! Widad? Oh, dear! When did it happen?”

  The doctor and Yousif stopped eating and perked their ears. Yousif could tell she was talking to her brother-in-law, Rasheed Ghattas. He got up and went to the door between the dining room and the foyer.

  “What is it, Mama?” he asked, holding the napkin.

  She cupped the receiver and told him that her sister Widad had had a gallbladder operation. “Now you tell us?” she complained to her brother-in-law. “What if something had happened to her during surgery? You know I would’ve come to see her before she went in for the operation. Poor girl! How’s she now? Is she all right? What pathology test? Why? Do they suspect something else, God forbid? Well, here’s Jamil. You tell him and he’ll explain it to me. In any case, I’ll be there tomorrow.”

  Father and son looked at each other, skeptical. Then the doctor spoke on the phone for a few minutes. When he returned to the table, he was optimistic. The likelihood of a malignancy was very small. Normally cancer would develop in the gallbladder only after a long illness. But Widad had never had any problem with hers. So there was nothing to worry about.

  “I hope so,” his wife answered, suddenly drained of energy.

  “But, my God, Yasmin,” her husband chided her, picking up a drum-stick, “you berated Rasheed as though he intended to keep your sister’s surgery from you.”

  “All he had to do was pick up the phone,” she said.

  “And?” Yousif said.

  “I would’ve taken a taxi and gotten to the hospital before they wheeled her into the operating room. Jerusalem is a forty-minute drive, you know.”

  Husband and son stared at her.

  “What are you looking at me for? I haven’t lost my mind, have I?”

  “No,” her husband answered, chewing. “You just seem to forget there was a curfew.”