On the Hills of God

by Fawal, Ibrahim

  The crowd grumbled. One man refused to be silenced.

  “Why don’t you lock up the Zionists?” he shouted. “They hanged three of your fellow soldiers in Nethania.”

  The soldier pointed his gun at the crowd. “Who said that?”

  No one answered. The crowd resumed walking.

  Even children, Yousif noticed, were gripped by fear. Their faces were pale; their quiet unusual.

  “What did he say, Mama?” a little boy asked his mother who was carrying him on her shoulder. “What did he say?”

  “He said,” his mother answered, “when a foreign nation occupies your country, kick and fight and never stop. Because when you do, then it’s time to lie down and die.”

  “We’re not going to die, are we? Are we, Mama?”

  “No son. We’re just going to practice living in hell.”

  Yousif felt his spine tingle. The rest of the crowd mumbled, groaned, and muttered their grievances.

  The Roman Catholic Church in which Yousif and his family were imprisoned was by far the largest in town. It had a seating capacity of about three hundred, but was so overcrowded today that Yousif estimated two thousand must have been packed inside it.

  “Do they think we are sardines?” Yousif asked.

  “Shhh,” his mother admonished him.

  “The hell with quiet,” Yousif said, sitting in the middle of an aisle.

  Yousif searched about for Salwa but could not find her. People sat everywhere: on the choir balcony, around the altar, in the pews, on each other’s laps, wherever they could squeeze themselves. Some seemed to enjoy the warmth of cuddling and nestling so close together on a cold winter day in a church without a heating system. But soon it became suffocating. The church was as foul smelling as a barn.

  “Why couldn’t they search our homes when we’re there?” Yasmin asked her husband. “No one would’ve stopped them. Not when they have these awful guns pointed at us.”

  “We’d be too comfortable,” the doctor said, feeling his bruised left shoulder.

  “Remember what the officer said?” Yousif reminded her. “We’re here to pay for the death of that policeman.”

  The doctor exhaled. “Just pray they don’t hang that fellow Rassass. The only thing that might save him is that an Englishman was arrested, too. If they hang one they’d feel obliged to hang the other. So Rassass might be safe after all.”

  “Don’t bet on it,” Yousif said. “Most likely they’d hang the Arab and let their own go free.”

  A baby began to cry. The baby’s mother held him close, covered herself with her orange shawl, and took out her breast to feed him.

  Yousif looked around the church with some nostalgia. This was his church, the one with which his school was affiliated. Here he had spent every Sunday and religious holiday, not only kneeling and praying, but singing in the choir or serving as an altar boy.

  “I can still hear Father Saliba,” Yousif said to his parents, “standing in that corner telling us about the meaning of Communion—how to open our hearts and accept Christ.”

  “If Father Saliba were alive,” his mother said, “he’d have a heart attack to see his church today.”

  “I remember this church differently,” the doctor said, taking out his pipe and looking around to see if others were smoking. They were, so he opened his pouch to fill it.

  “You’re not going to smoke, are you?” Yousif asked, shocked.

  “God will forgive me,” his father said.

  “I don’t think you should,” his wife admonished.

  “I need something for my nerves,” her husband insisted. “As I was saying, back in World War I, the Turks used this place as a hospital. Their casualties were mounting, so they demanded from us mattresses, pillows, and blankets. But who had such things to spare? One was lucky to have a couple of mattresses for a whole family of six. People were poor. But what could we do? When the occupying power says do something, you do it. A week later, a British plane circled above this church, suspecting that it was being used for other purposes and dropped a couple of bombs. They went through the roof and blew the whole thing up—wounded and all.”

  “Are you serious?” Yousif asked, fascinated. “I’ve never heard that.”

  “The whole thing,” the doctor repeated, opening his right hand and blowing at his palm to show how the church-hospital had gone up in smoke.

  “Oh,” his mother remembered. “I had forgotten about that.”

  “They rebuilt it in 1922,” the doctor continued, striking a match and applying it to his pipe.

  Yousif had to find Salwa. He had not seen her since the announcement of her engagement. He wondered what his reaction would be should they come face-to-face. Should he speak to her, ignore her, or tell her off? Could he find out why the wedding was postponed till next July? A suspicion lingered in his mind that she was stalling. He needed to know the truth so he could plan his next move. Would he ever see her—alone? He stood up and looked around. Too many people were standing and the church was packed.

  Finally he spotted her by the right side door, not too far from the organ. She must have seen him first, for she was up on her feet looking at him. Taller than anyone around her, she scanned the scene and fiddled with her earrings. Yousif felt she was nervous . . . eager . . . anxious to know how he felt. She stood with her parents and a few relatives, including her barrel-chested cousin Shafiq who braved the January weather in a short-sleeved white shirt. Luckily, Adel Farhat was not at her side.

  Yousif felt a lump in his throat. God, how much he loved her! He glared at her, trying desperately to stop his hand from waving. Seconds later she smiled like an aggrieved Madonna. But before her smile faded, her father must have grown suspicious, for he turned around and ordered her to sit down. Yousif watched her obey in quiet resignation.

  Father Mikhail was holding Mass. To keep his mind off Salwa, Yousif watched worshipers make the sign of the cross and close their eyes piously. But the temptation to have a better look at her was too strong for him to stay still. A marble column was obstructing his line of vision. He rose to find a more suitable spot.

  By chance Yousif was sitting in the back, near the main door. Salwa was sitting in the middle, on the other side of the aisle. To see her better, he’d have to walk down the middle aisle, go past her, and join someone as a pretext. Then he could turn around and look at her all he wanted—her father be damned.

  Salwa was now talking to her mother, her back to him, having shifted in her seat in deference to her father. The pews and aisles were so crowded that Yousif had to be careful as he made his way across the church not to step on those squatting on the floor. He brushed against a man’s cigarette and knocked off its ashes. He looked behind him to make sure he hadn’t burned a hole in his pants. Before he reached the aisle that crossed the church from right to left, he was no more than ten feet from her and her family. He felt the back of his neck tighten as he was determined to look straight at her—in explicit defiance of her father.

  “Yousif,” a young voice shouted from her side of the aisle.

  Yousif turned around, surprised. It was Akram, her twelve-year old brother.

  “Hi,” Yousif said, making sure that Salwa saw him.

  “I did well in school,” Akram told him, beaming. “The teachers can’t believe the change in me. I didn’t tell them you were my tutor.”

  “You’re a good student,” Yousif said, smiling. “Keep it up.”

  “My report card was just as good,” ten-year-old Zuhair volunteered.

  “I’m not surprised,” Yousif said. “I’m proud of both of you.”

  Salwa fidgeted, her face crimson. Her father’s eyebrows were knit. Salwa’s mother was deliciously uncomfortable: glad to see him, but definitely aware of her husband’s restraining look.

  “How are you enjoying this ordeal?” Yousif asked, eyeing them one by one, including cousin Shafiq, who looked too dim-witted to be a relative of theirs.

  All eyes were on You
sif—except Salwa’s. She looked at her hands, her neck bent, reminding him of paintings of the Virgin Mary at the foot of the Cross.

  “Can’t say we’re enjoying it,” her mother said, exploring his eyes for a hint of how badly he had been hurt. “Where are your parents?”

  “Over there,” Yousif answered, pointing his finger.

  “Well, how are they taking all this?” Salwa’s mother asked.

  Yousif hesitated, hoping Salwa would look up.

  “As well as can be expected,” Yousif answered. “With all this going on, who knows what will happen next. The best-laid plans can turn topsy-turvy.”

  His veiled threat did not escape the father, whose face turned pale and eyelids appeared to stretch. Yousif’s ears seemed to filter out all the hubbub around him. It seemed as if he and Salwa and her parents were alone in the room. The rest of the church began to look unreal, almost a vacuum. During the long pause, Salwa looked up—her eyes sending shivers down Yousif’s spine. She looked disturbed.

  Then Yousif moved on, unable to speak further. What words, what poetry, he thought, could express the hopes, the pain, the hungering that were mounting dizzily in his heart and mind.

  Near the vestry, he came upon Dr. Fareed Afifi and his wife, Jihan, her hair tied back in a bun. With them were Uncle Boulus and Aunt Hilaneh, both looking dour. Next to them were their neighbors: the massive barber with the handlebar mustache and his snuff-snorting wife who cackled like a hen. Yousif had a strong feeling Jihan was bored stiff with her company.

  “Aunt Jihan,” he said, standing behind her.

  Jihan was startled, then delighted. “Yousif, can you believe this? We’re all prisoners. Fareed, look who’s here.”

  “Well, hello,” Dr. Fareed said, extending his hand.

  Yousif shook hands all around. Aunt Hilaneh motioned for him to bend down and give her a kiss. Jihan’s eyes were moist and her lids red, apparently from crying. But the tension had also made her giggly. Uncle Boulus went on clicking his masbaha, faster and louder than ever.

  The barber’s wife, whom he called Aunt Imm Marshood, took out her snuff box and asked about his parents.

  “They’re over there,” he pointed with his finger, casting an eye in Salwa’s direction. They were on opposite sides of the aisle, but at least they could still see each other. Her father was huddling with Shafiq.

  “I heard about your bravery last night,” Dr. Afifi told Yousif.

  “How?” Jihan asked, curious. “What did he do?”

  “He tried to stop the fight at Zahrawi’s cafe,” her husband explained, “and all he got for it was a bang on the leg.”

  “It still hurts too,” Yousif said, hiking his pants leg to show them the bruise.

  “Aaaah!” Jihan exclaimed.

  “You should’ve heard the interrogating officer,” he told them.

  “What did he say?” Jihan asked.

  “He was an idiot,” Yousif replied, watching Salwa watching him. “But what’s the use. Here we are like sheep obeying their commands.”

  “It burns me up to know they’re getting away with it,” Jihan said, looking at the soldiers with contempt.

  “Astonishing,” Yousif said.

  They seemed to run out of anything to say. Yousif took the opportunity to watch the speaker at the pulpit and steal another look at Salwa. To his surprise her big almond-shaped eyes were darting from him to her father, then back to him.

  To break the silence, Yousif told them about the church having been bombed to the ground during World War I. Painful memories seemed to catapult the older men and women to three decades earlier.

  “I remember something else,” Dr. Afifi said, lighting a cigarette. “One winter, the Turkish soldiers tore down our wooden doors and window frames and burned them in the middle of our floors to make fire.”

  “Fire?” Jihan asked, surprised.

  “Yes, to warm themselves,” her husband continued. “In the middle of our floors. There were no chimneys, and no ventilation of any kind. The smoke filled the rooms. The walls and the ceilings were covered with soot. It was heartless. They burned the wood but kept the hinges and bolts.”

  “What for?” Yousif asked, keeping an eye on Salwa.

  “Iron was scarce then, and they could sell it,” Dr. Afifi explained, putting the burned-out match in the cuff of his pants. “They even tried to sell it back to us. Imagine!”

  Yousif shifted on his feet again, but his posture was getting awkward. Even at a distance, Salwa seemed delighted by his discomfort. To please her further, he sat on the floor.

  “The Mutran house,” Dr. Afifi continued, “the one on top of the hill—not too far from your house, Yousif—was used as a school. It was one of the biggest homes in town at that time. Six spacious rooms and a magnificent corridor that could hold a hundred people. You can still see where the Turks had their fire. In the middle of that beautiful marble floor there’s a black spot this big,” he said, motioning with both arms to indicate the enormous circle.

  “That’s what happens when your country is occupied,” said Yousif.

  Yousif walked off, uncertain. Jihan must’ve noticed him staring in Salwa’s direction. Perhaps it was foolish of him to show his emotions so openly. And Salwa herself was a puzzle. How should he read the way she looked at him? She seemed ambivalent about her father. Was she regretting what she had done? Was she miserable because the unwanted engagement had taken place, or because he had failed to prevent it? He was worried that she perhaps thought less of him now.

  But she wasn’t married yet, he told himself. There was still time to salvage the situation—to rescue both of them from a lifetime of disappointment. Could she help him out? Could he count on her to break off the engagement?

  He waved a general goodbye to Jihan and the rest, and exchanged one more glance with Salwa.

  By mid-morning, the church was like a carnival. People were eating, laughing, coughing, and, Yousif was willing to wager, farting. Babies cried, and men smoked while the priest delivered a homily.

  Sitting in the aisle next to Yousif and his parents were a woman and her five-year-old boy. Suddenly the boy got up and threw his arms around his mother’s neck. He whispered in her ear something that must have been shocking, for the expression on her face was mock horror.

  “Now?” she asked, her eyes widening.

  “Yes, Mama. I’ve got to . . .”

  “Oh, dear . . . oh, dear,” said the mother, then turned around and told the others. “Hold your stomach,” his mother told him. “Control yourself.”

  “I can’t, Mama. My stomach hurts.”

  “Yes, you can,” his mother snapped, looking agitated.

  A soldier appeared and she waved for him, indicating that she had something important to ask him. The soldier ignored her. A minute later, another soldier passed by.

  “Mister,” the mother pleaded, “my son is ill. Please let me take him out. Please, mister.”

  “Everybody’s son is ill,” the soldier replied and walked away.

  Yousif saw the pitiful look in the boy’s eyes, and felt sorry for his mother, who was on the verge of tears.

  “This is an emergency,” Yousif pleaded with the soldier. “Let her take him out.”

  “Sit down,” the soldier ordered him.

  “Common decency . . .”

  “I said sit down,” the soldier insisted, raising the butt of his rifle.

  Yousif felt his mother’s hand pulling him down, and heard her remind him how they had hit his father.

  “Where is your friend Captain Malloy?” Yousif asked. “Only a month ago he came to wish us Merry Christmas.”

  His father faltered. “He may be out of town.”

  “May he rot in hell,” Yousif said.

  The little boy began to cry. A few seconds later nature had its way. Yousif saw fingers go up to tighten noses. Some laughed, some frowned. The boy’s tears began to fall. He didn’t seem to like being the center of attention.

  “D
id someone break a bottle of perfume?” an old lady jested, holding her nose and laughing.

  To Yousif’s amazement, Father Mikhail was still preaching. He was speaking of Heaven and Hell. His words sounded hollow.

  “Stop the singsong, Father,” one man shouted.

  “Don’t waste your breath,” a second interrupted.

  When the priest finished his sermon, a young man went up to the pulpit and began to recite a long, stirring political poem. Yousif knew him as a good student, but hadn’t realized that he was a poet. Yousif listened carefully. The words were melodious, the imagery provocative. People applauded several times and asked the poet to repeat a certain line. He obliged with a flourish.

  “What do you think?” Yousif asked his father.

  The doctor looked grim. “It will not defeat the Zionists,” he answered.

  “But is he another Al-Ma’arri?”

  The doctor raised his brows.

  Soon another speaker was addressing the crowd. This one was a young attorney who had not been in practice for more than five months.

  “When our capitals—Cairo, Damascus, and Baghdad—were the centers of knowledge and enlightenment,” the wiry speaker shouted, “the kings of Europe couldn’t read or write. When Europe was in the Dark Ages, our libraries contained millions of volumes and our scientists were making gigantic strides in all branches of science. When our people were taking luxurious baths, Oxford University considered such customs dangerous.”

  The speaker had the audience in his palm. He was followed by ustaz Hakim.

  Yousif nudged his father. “He’s good,” he said.

  The short bouncy teacher clutched the pulpit with both hands. “All my life,” Hakim said, “I’ve been hearing too much talk, too much poetry, too much oration. I’m sick of it.”

  Yousif led the applause. Hundreds of people joined.

  “How long,” ustaz Hakim asked, “will all the poetry you’ve read and heard last in the face of the enemy’s guns?”

  As usual, Yousif found ustaz Hakim articulate, sincere, and less sentimental than the poet who’d painted the same rosy picture other poets had painted a thousand times before—and less infatuated with a past that was a thousand years old. Ustaz Hakim was a man of his time—with both feet on the ground. The crowd seemed to listen with respect.