On the Hills of God

by Fawal, Ibrahim

  Yousif stared at her. “I don’t think we should. This town is terrifying. If we get stuck here we might not be able to make it home tonight.”

  “What about Makram? We told him to meet us at three o’clock. It’s not twelve yet.”

  “Knowing him I bet he’s waiting for us already.”

  But getting out of the old city was not as easy as they had thought. The British police had blocked Jaffa Gate.

  “What now?” his mother asked, still frightened.

  “They’re not letting anybody out.”

  “What for?”

  “There may be others carrying bombs.”

  “Talk to that soldier. Tell him I have high blood pressure. I can’t stand this.”

  “It wouldn’t do any good. We’ve got to wait in line.”

  “I wonder how many people were killed.”

  “Who knows.”

  “I should’ve listened to your father. We chose the wrong day to come.”

  “From now on every day will be the wrong day.”

  The soldiers began to search the line, one by one. There was lightning in the sky and then shattering thunder in the heavens. Most people looked startled, suspecting another explosion.

  While his mother leaned on his shoulder, Yousif inspected the scene. In front of him was the Citadel, which the Jews liked to call the Citadel of David, although it was built centuries after David was dead and buried. The Jews wanted the whole thing whether it was theirs or not, he mused, and that was the root of the whole problem. The citadel itself was an imposing fortress that had defied many conquerors. Next to it was a minaret. Beyond it were the Armenian and Jewish Quarters with more churches and synagogues than the rest of Jerusalem.

  Behind him was the Christian Quarter and the old Terra Sancta, where his father had gone to school before going to Columbia. Next to Terra Sancta was the Greek Orthodox Patriarchate, which was only two blocks from the Freres School. He had been enough times to Jerusalem, especially the old city, to know it like the back of his hand. And his mother was even more familiar with every brick and every cobblestone.

  The multi-faceted character of Jerusalem had always fascinated Yousif. Within that ancient wall were the Holy Sepulchre, the Wailing Wall, and the Dome of the Rock—holy monuments of Christianity, Judaism, and Islam—all proclaiming the same God. No wonder even the misguided United Nations had insisted on internationalizing Jerusalem. Truly, it was a legacy for all mankind. Yet, Yousif’s heart ached. He knew that for this Holy City doomsday had come.

  “I wonder who that man was?” Yousif whispered.

  “What man?” his mother said, her eyes searching the crowd.

  “The one with the bomb. What was he up to? Where was he taking it? Who’s behind him?”

  “Who knows. I feel sorry for his mother.”

  “Not for him? Not for his father?”

  “For them too. But mainly for his mother.”

  Soon, Yousif thought, the man who had carried the bomb would be called a martyr. What a euphemism for ugly death! Thousands of martyrs would follow. Mothers of Jerusalem, you might as well start crying. Your sons may be snuffed in their prime. Yousif took a deep breath. At that very moment, he thought, men on both sides were already stalking each other. Who were the Arab groups? Did Basim know them? Who was their leader? What plans did they have? What were the enemy’s plans? The word enemy sounded harsh. But, El-Quds, the holy city of Jerusalem, was rapidly becoming a battleground. Who would be the victim? Who the victor? His heart ached for both.

  Again, Yousif wondered what had happened to Isaac. He had not seen him in a few days. Could he be in Jerusalem right now? With whom . . . doing what? Yousif wanted to know. Above all, he wanted to know that he was safe. He also wanted to know if this was a precursor of a longer separation. Was their friendship doomed to be one of the casualties of war? Aunt Sarah had predicted it. And old people seemed to know.

  After about an hour, Yousif and his mother were frisked and allowed to go. Outside the gate, the mother, looking wan, thanked God they were still alive. The labyrinth of Old Jerusalem had been so claustrophobic and gloomy, they were glad to breathe the fresh outdoor air. She leaned against the wall for a moment of rest, her face ashen and her breathing heavy.

  Looking at new Jerusalem from where they were standing, Yousif could see Mamilla Street. Far above it, in the middle of the slope, was Mea Shearim. Every time he had come here with his mother to visit his grandparents or his aunt, she would buy him something from the Jewish shops on these streets. The best football he had ever owned came from one of them. So did the velvety yellow suit with the brown leather buttons he had loved so much.

  Those streets were now off limits for him and his mother, simply because they were Arabs. Only a fool would dare set foot in the enemy’s neighborhood. His eyes sweeping over the hills before him, Yousif could see a reminder of the violence to come. Right next to the YMCA was the King David Hotel, which the Zionist underground terrorist organization, the Irgun, had bombed fourteen months earlier, killing ninety-six innocent people, wounding many more, and shocking the whole civilized world.

  In front of Jaffa Gate were three dilapidated buses with great numbers of people waiting in line to go to Jaffa or Bethlehem or Hebron. Every time a taxi appeared, men, anxious to get their wives and children out of the city, ran to meet it. There was no sense fighting the crowd, Yousif decided. After all, the walk to Barclays Bank should not be too difficult. They would rest at Al-Amad Restaurant, then go on to meet Makram.

  “You don’t mind walking up the hill?” Yousif asked his mother.

  She looked dismayed. “I do, but there’s no sense waiting. Let’s go.”

  They started up the incline, walking parallel to the Old City’s wall. Just before they went around the bend, Yousif saw a van on Mamilla Street make a left. It stopped in the middle of the street—about a hundred yards in front of them. Two men opened the back of the truck: one stayed on top and the other got down. They seemed to be in a big hurry. Together they lowered a ramp, easing out two large oil barrels. Then the one already on the ground pushed them down the street, one after the other. Instinctively, Yousif pulled his mother to his side.

  “Something terrible is about to happen,” he predicted. “Look at these barrels rushing toward the bus stop.”

  “What do you suppose is in them?” she asked.

  “Dynamite! What else.”

  “Oh, God!” she said, clinging to him.

  As the barrels rumbled on the wet asphalt, Yousif panicked. Pedestrians were going about their business, unaware of what had taken place. Yousif screamed for them to watch out. Then he turned around to take down the tag number of the van that had deposited the barrels, but it had vanished. Men and women stopped to watch. Many more rushed inside buildings to hide. Customers from Al-Amad restaurant stepped out, napkins in hand. Shoppers coming out of Spenny’s with packages under their arms, looked bewildered.

  “What did you see?” they all wanted to know.

  Yousif pointed to the two barrels still rolling down the street between two lines of curiosity seekers who had gathered on the sidewalks.

  “They’re booby-trapped,” he said, excited.

  Fear spread like brush fire. People began to run.

  “If they are booby-trapped,” said a sullen man wearing a loose neck-tie, “they’ll explode on impact.”

  One barrel careened toward the sidewalk. They all gasped. Yousif saw some men put their hands to their ears and back away, expecting an explosion. Miraculously, the barrel straightened itself out and kept heading toward the unsuspecting crowd at the bus stop. The other barrel got caught between two vehicles trying to pass each other in order to avoid it. Crushed between the two cars, the dynamite within exploded with a deafening roar. The two cars were now pieces of metal flying in all directions. Spilled gas and oil quickly burst into flames. A bearded photographer who had been standing on the sidewalk snapping pictures was among the first victims. With the camera�
�s black, old-fashioned sleeve over his head, he was flattened against a wall. He had no idea what had hit him. When he finally removed the cloth from his eyes, he was aghast. Besides the mayhem in the street, he saw his camera twisted and felt tongues of fire lapping up his legs. An artist to the end, the old photographer tried to snap his last picture. Touched and horrified, Yousif shut his eyes and said a quick prayer. When he found the courage to open his eyes again, he saw that the man had already been charred. Fire was consuming him like a bag of bones. Tears flowed out of Yousif’s eyes. Where was the camera to photograph the cameraman for the whole world to see!

  “Oh, no!” Yousif yelled, running to the middle of the street to snatch up a little girl from the spreading flames. A wave of hot air enveloped him as he bent down to pick her up. She filled his ears with screams. Where were her parents? She was no more than two or three and beyond herself, beating on him with hands and arms, and kicking him with her knees and feet. What if her parents were already dead? he thought. He didn’t know for whom to cry. There were so many injured people. Both sides of the street were littered with bodies. Finally a young man in his late twenties yelled at them from a few yards away.

  “Lamia!” the man cried, weaving his way toward her with open arms.

  “Daddy!” the girl shrieked, throwing herself at her father.

  Yousif was relieved. But only for a fraction of a second. The stink of gas, rubber, cordite, and flesh filled the air. A human arm was lodged on the wrought-iron of a balcony on the second floor. Every window Yousif could see was shattered. People who had frozen in their places were now running.

  At his mother’s urging, Yousif and his mother hid in a nearby camera shop. Cameras, lenses, and light meters were scattered all over the floor. They watched the frantic proprietor trying to pick up his precious merchandise. It seemed almost indecent to worry about such things when hell had broken loose. People going in and out collided with each other. This time there was no doubt in Yousif’s mind that they had chosen the wrong day to come to Jerusalem. He agonized over not having thrown himself on the barrel before it got to the bus stop. But there had been two barrels. He might have been able to stop one; what about the other? No, there was nothing he could have done.

  He left his mother inside the store and stepped out. Cars were jammed as far as his eyes could see. He wondered whatever happened to the second barrel. The damage from the first one was bad enough. He could see fire in stores and apartment buildings, and black thick smoke rising from both sides of the street. A whole wall of an office building had been blown away. The stone, red marble, and steel had fallen to the pavement, reducing that part of al-Quds, the holy city of Jerusalem, to rubble.

  He rushed back in to take his mother out. But before they could escape, they heard the second barrel explode somewhere out of sight beyond the bus stop. It shook the whole area near Jaffa Gate. Of the two explosions it was the louder. Yousif knew it had to be the most damaging. He closed his eyes, wondering how many innocent people had lost their lives. This time he could hear screams. When he opened his eyes, he could see more billowing clouds of black smoke. A fire blazed above the Citadel.

  Ten minutes later, Yousif and his mother stood in front of Barclays Bank waiting for Makram to come and take them home. Both felt tired and dizzy. The two bombings had been so violent they must have shaken every window and broken every pane of glass within a one-mile radius. Crushing glass under their feet, the bank’s customers were rushing to do last-minute transactions. A heavy-set man wearing a white apron came out of the nearby delicatessen and began to close the tall iron door. His action spurred another stampede. People began to run and buy everything they could find in his store. Within minutes all the fruits displayed on racks up front were gone. Yousif was among those who were grabbing.

  “I’d like a couple of sandwiches,” Yousif said.

  “You’d better get them somewhere else,” the shopkeeper told him, ringing the cash register.

  Yousif had to settle for a sack full of apples and bananas. Then he joined his mother.

  “Who can eat at a time like this?” she asked, refusing to share any of it.

  Fifteen minutes later Makram arrived, famished. He ate a banana and was reaching for a red apple before they could get in his cab.

  “Where were you?” Yousif asked the driver. “We were worried about you.”

  “I was worried about you,” Makram answered, circling in front of the Municipality and going down by the French hospital toward Bab al-Amood. To their right were a Convent, the New Gate, and Terra Sancta.

  “Why are you going this way?” the mother asked, sitting on edge.

  “Better to get out of town through Arab neighborhoods,” Makram explained, munching on the apple. “It might take us an hour longer but it’s a lot safer, believe me.”

  He explained to them that going back the same way they had come, down Jaffa Road, was risky. It was much better to go by way of Ramallah—nine miles to the north.

  “This way we’ll run into only one Jewish colony, Nebi Yacoub, near Qalandia,” Makram said. “God willing, we’ll manage it.”

  “Inshallah,” the mother said.

  Makram turned the car left, passing Schmidt School, the British Consulate, and a cemetery believed by some to be where Jesus was buried. The American Consulate was a block away.

  They left al-Quds, the Holy City, with sirens screaming in their ears. Yousif’s mother, who was usually terrified of speed, urged Makram to drive fast. Just below Shaykh Jarrah, they were stopped by soldiers.

  “Here we go again . . .” Makram said.

  “They’re searching people,” Yousif observed.

  “Relax,” the driver added, turning his motor off. “We’d be lucky to get home in three or four hours.”

  “Get us home soon, and I’ll give you bakhshish.”

  “I wish I could. The one thing I can’t do is rush soldiers. They take their time. But they always do their searching after the damage has been done.”

  “I wish we could call father.”

  “He must be worried sick,” his mother answered.

  About a hundred cars were ahead of them, and the search was slow. It began to rain. Because of the fog, it began to look like night. His mother leaned her head against the window, drained of all energy. It distressed her to realize how close they were at that point to her parents’ house.

  “Let’s go back and see them,” she suggested to her son. “They live less than five minutes from here. If it gets bad we’ll spend the night with them.”

  Yousif was sympathetic, but Makram would have none of it. He was sorry but he needed to get home. He had family to worry about, and if they stayed he would have to go and leave them on their own.

  “It could be days before we get home,” Yousif explained.

  “Days!” she said. “Impossible!”

  “Don’t say impossible,” Makram told her, looking at her in the rear view mirror. “What if there’s a rash of incidents? What if they slam on a strict curfew?”

  None of them said anything. They just sat and waited for their turn to come, for someone to let them go. It was a long wait. But four searches later, they were on their way to Ardallah.

  At the outskirts of their hometown, they ran into a raging storm. Those trees that had given the town a reputation for the gentle breeze were now swaying and threatening to fall down. The rain was so heavy, the windshield wipers couldn’t keep up. Makram had a terrible time navigating them through the last few miles.

  They finally arrived at five minutes after eight. Half the neighborhood was with the doctor in their living room, waiting for their return.

  “Why didn’t you call?” the doctor asked, hugging wife and son at the same time.

  “Call how?” his wife asked, wiping her face. “From a taxi?”

  The nine o’clock news gave the first grim details. The radical underground Jewish group, Irgun, which had bombed the King David Hotel fourteen months earlier, claimed respo
nsibility for the two big bombings at the bus stop. There were sixteen known dead and fifty injured. And the searchers could still hear voices under the rubble.

  10

  Next morning, half of Ardallah was awakened to the terrible news from Jerusalem. The number of victims had risen from sixteen to twenty-seven dead and sixty-two injured. One of Ardallah’s own sons, George Mutran, was among the fatalities.

  Yousif knew of George Mutran but did not know him personally. His mother, however, knew him well, having at one time tried to match him with one of her old classmates in Jerusalem. The two had come close to getting engaged and then the whole thing was called off because he had accused his intended of eating too much. At the time of his tragic death he was forty-five years old and still unmarried. He was known for wearing suede shoes, attending church regularly with his mother, and falling asleep during the sermon.

  As eye-witnesses to the bombing, Yousif and his mother understood why it had taken so long for the town to hear of the tragedy. Bad news traveled fast, but first the facts had to be established and next of kin notified. Clearing the rubble, uncovering the bodies, and identifying the mutilated victims must have been a horrible job. It was remarkable that it had been accomplished in such a short time.

  Yousif spent all morning at school corroborating and embellishing on what was in the morning papers. It was still pouring outside. Teachers and students huddled in classrooms and corridors, waiting for a break in the weather so they could go to the funeral.

  “With my own eyes I saw a human arm stuck on a second-story balcony,” Yousif said, still unable to shake himself of the previous day’s horror.

  “Whoever did it must’ve packed tons of TNT into those two barrels,” Amin said.

  “It was awful,” Yousif agreed.

  They were all gripped by fear and wintry bleakness.

  As a rule, Yousif knew, the dead were buried the same day they died. This time was no exception, even though it was rumored that some people favored postponing the funeral at least another day to give it more significance. Nevertheless, the town converged on the victim’s house to share the sorrow with the bereaved family. In spite of the bad weather and short notice, Ardallah witnessed one of the most spectacular funerals in its history.