“Why should the British,” ustaz Hakim demanded, “imprison an entire Arab town and search its every corner for a pocketknife when at the same time they are allowing the Zionists to train a whole army right here under our noses? Is this fair?”
“No,” the crowd responded.
“Why don’t they do something to the Zionists who hanged three of their policemen in Nathania only last week?”
“Yes,” the crowd shouted.
“These soldiers with guns in their hands must learn that no matter what they say or do we will defend our land, our homes, and our freedom. And we will not rest until Suhail Shammas—our own Rassass—and his friend George Pinkley are released from jail, the jail they went to because they dared to ask a soldier to pay the piaster he owed for a shoeshine.”
Before ustaz Hakim could go any further, two British soldiers pointed their guns at him and ordered him to step down. The crowd tensed. Soon the whole church was quiet. Ustaz Hakim seemed at a loss. Two soldiers stepped closer to him, motioning for him to step down. The teacher didn’t budge. One of the soldiers cocked his gun. Yousif waited. So did the whole crowd.
“Long live Palestine,” someone shouted, as ustaz Hakim stepped down from the pulpit.
Others echoed the cry.
A third man began singing “Mowtini,” one of Yousif’s favorite patriotic songs. Hundreds joined in. Faces were red and taut, eyes exhilarated, voices strong and compelling. Yousif joined the singing.
We, young men, will never get tired,
Our concern is to be either independent or annihilated.
We would rather drink death,
Than be slaves to our enemy.
A shot rang out above the voices. Then another. Yousif looked around to see who was firing. It was a soldier standing by the organ. The soldier cocked his gun again, but the crowd kept on singing. He fired a third shot, shattering a statue of the Virgin Mary into a thousand pieces. Still no one listened.
All the soldiers in the church scurried around, unslinging their rifles and pointing them at the people near the front door. Yousif did not know what that meant. Others looked confused. The women hid their faces, begging the soldiers to turn their guns away.
“Out, I said,” the soldier commanded, motioning with his gun.
Reluctantly, people began to exit. Yousif and his parents were among the first to breathe the fresh air. Several soldiers were already waiting to search them. The ninth or tenth to be searched was a woman named Miriam, whom Yousif did not know personally but had seen many times. She was in her late thirties, with silky black hair and marble-like neck. She crossed her arms against her chest as a tall thin soldier tried to search her. Her husband, whose wavy hair was parted in the middle, pulled her back.
“Don’t you dare,” the husband said to the soldier.
“All women are going to be searched,” the soldier told him.
“Not by you,” the husband insisted.
Another soldier walked up. His name was Swindle and he was known around town for his cruelty. There were many stories about him, all bad. It seemed he had a roving eye—for boys rather than girls. Consequently he had been beaten up by many fathers and transferred a number of times. The stigma followed him wherever he went.
“What’s going on?” officer Swindle asked.
Before the first soldier could answer, the husband interrupted. “Who’s going to search the women?”
“These soldiers,” Swindle replied.
“No they’re not.”
“Don’t be so brave,” the officer threatened him.
The husband wrapped his arm around his wife. “If they must be searched, then bring women to do the job. No man is going to touch them.”
Yousif admired the husband. So did all those around. The two men stood up to each other, eyeball to eyeball. But Miriam seemed frightened. She was pulling at her husband’s hand to restrain him.
“Lock him up,” officer Swindle said, flashing a contemptuous smile before walking away.
Instantly, two soldiers complied with the order. A third one tried to frisk Miriam. He put his hand on her chest and tried to explore her bosom. But she slapped him so hard he staggered and almost fell. But the soldier was determined. He tried to frisk her again. This time she buried her face in her hands, protecting her bosom with her elbows. She wailed so loudly that people began pushing their way out of the church to see what was happening.
The commotion seemed to displease the soldiers. They began to push away those who pressed around. The soldier tried to search Miriam again, though the imprint of her fingers was still on his face. But before he reached her, her husband grabbed him by the collar. Another Arab came to the husband’s aid and tried with both hands to yank the gun from the soldier.
Yousif could not believe that unarmed men could be so brave. The threat to the soldier brought back officer Swindle. With two quick cracks of his whip, he made the husband and his friend let go of the collar and the gun. Then Swindle hit the husband again on the side of his face and neck. But suddenly, in a flash of black fury the likes of which Yousif had never seen in his life, the hundred or so Arabs around pounced on the six soldiers in sight, until Yousif could only see a big pile of entangled bodies. Yousif was certain that the soldiers underneath would be buried alive.
“Stop, stop,” Yousif screamed, trying to hold back another man from jumping on top of the others.
The doctor was worried. “They’ve gone berserk,” he said.
Father and son began to untangle the pile of flesh. Even the women got involved. Yousif could hear some of them urge the men on as they tried to tear the soldiers limb from limb.
“If they kill one more soldier, may God help us,” Yasmin said.
“Enough, please, enough!” Miriam cried.
Other soldiers rushed out of the church. One blew a whistle. Another fired several shots in the air. A minute later the fight was over. Those who had been buried underneath were visibly shaken. Swindle looked like a sick dog.
“Lucky they didn’t suffocate,” Yousif said to his mother.
The doctor moved to the middle of the circle. He looked around, letting the Arabs know he had something to say. There was silence.
“Listen, Captain . . .” the doctor began, addressing officer Swindle.
The husband again put his arm around his wife. “Go ahead, Doctor. If I could speak better English I’d tell the heathens off myself.”
“Tell them,” urged a man in Arabic, “they’d have to kill every one of us before they can go through with this.”
Yousif motioned with both hands for the men to be quiet and give his father a chance to present their case.
“You’ve been in this country thirty years,” the doctor said, looking around at all the soldiers, “and one would think you’d know by now how we feel about our women. About their honor. You either bring women to frsik the women, or I’m afraid there’s going to be more violence.”
“Imbeciles,” the husband shouted in Arabic.
Again, Yousif moved to restrain the man. “Keep calm, please,” he urged.
“Nothing could inflame us more than dishonoring our women,” the doctor warned in his own reserved way.
There was dead silence. The angry soldiers waited for Swindle to give them the signal to resume their search. The Arabs waited for a single move to renew their attack. Yousif stood still, apprehensive. Would the cornered officer swallow his pride, acknowledge defeat, and reverse the order? Would he ignite another riot?
“The search will continue,” Swindle finally said, “but the women will be excused.”
The Arabs sighed with relief. Some of the soldiers looked disappointed. Yousif reached for his father’s hand and squeezed it. The women returned to their places inside the church and the frisking of the men continued. But now everything was calm and the soldiers’ search seemed perfunctory. Within ten minutes Yousif was back in the crowded church.
About three o’clock in the afternoon the soldiers se
t the people free. It was raining and many wanted to wait until the downpour had stopped. But the soldiers would not let them. They pushed them into the street as further punishment. By the time Yousif stepped out into the square before the church, the rain was torrential. He offered his mother his arm, and his father suggested they stop at his clinic because it was so close. But his wife said no. They were already drenched, and she was anxious to see what the searchers had done to her house.
As she opened the door of their home, she let out a scream. Both her husband and her son were right behind her. Muddy footsteps were all over the Persian rug in the foyer. They walked in, afraid to look. To their left, the living room was in complete disarray. Armchairs were turned over. Cushions were slashed and emptied. To their right, the dining room was also demolished. The fine linen tablecloth was piled up on the floor with the flower vase spilled over it. The drawers in her china cabinet were open and emptied on the bare dining room table. They were stunned. They stood still, tongue-tied. Then she began to cry.
The doctor trembled. Yousif ran to check on the rest of the house. The bedrooms were chaotic. Mattresses were ripped open, closets emptied onto the floors, clothes trampled on. Every mirror was smashed. He ran from his bedroom to his parents’ and then to the kitchen. He felt sick in the pit of his stomach. Flour and rice sacks were spilled onto the floor. Porcelain jugs of oil and glass jars of butter were broken on top of each other.
He could hear his parents’ footsteps.
“Oh, my God!” his mother shrieked, biting her knuckles. She sobbed, tears streaming down her face. He embraced her, letting her lean against his chest and cry again.
“What in hell were they trying to do?” Yousif said, in disbelief.
“They wanted you to know they were here,” his father replied, disgusted.
“Who would hide a gun in a jar of oil?” Yousif asked.
“It’s a thorough search,” the doctor muttered.
“May all their life be a nightmare,” the mother prayed, raising her arms in an appeal to God.
His father led his mother out of the kitchen. Yousif stayed behind, gazing at the mess. After a long moment, he made his way out, stepping over the wet spots, brushing his back against the wall. He headed for the bathroom, took off his pants and shorts and sat down. When he flushed the toilet two minutes later, Yousif was convinced that the world was as filthy as the swirling contents of the commode.
His parents were in the living room. His mother looked like someone who had escaped from the crypt. His father was pacing the floor, looking ashen. Yousif felt anger and pity. They had been caught in an ever-widening tragedy.
It had stopped raining. Yousif opened the front door and walked to the front veranda. Other neighbors opened their doors, stepped outside, and stood motionless. Then everyone, including Yousif, was pulled as if by a magnet to the clearing in front of Uncle Boulus’s house. The neighbors were drawn together, as if in a dreamy slow motion. They gathered and stared. Yousif knew that their hushed silence was not natural. But then, gutting a whole town—every house, every room, every drawer—was not a natural act.
16
Death came again to Ardallah at dawn a few days later. It struck two men riding a bus on their way to Jaffa, even before the roosters crowed. One was a Christian from Ardallah proper, the other a Muslim resident of Ardallah who was originally from Jindas, a village five miles northwest. A couple of miles out of the city limit, bullets ripped into the bus, riddling windows and shattering glass. The twenty-one passengers threw themselves into the aisle or into each others’ laps.
Mitry Freij, the shoemaker from Ardallah, was carrying a large box of custom-made shoes for delivery. The box trapped him in his seat and a bullet exploded in his head. Hani Mahmoud, from Jindas, was a tall man in his fifties, lived alone, and was known to be somewhat retarded. When the ambushers sprang out of nowhere in front of the bus, the driver shouted for the passengers to hit the floor. Not comprehending, poor Hani said he wasn’t sleepy. He was the only one sitting up when he got a bullet in the neck.
How the bus driver, the diminutive Abu Ziad, managed to escape with the rest of the passengers astounded Yousif and the rest of the townspeople. Some called it sheer luck. Others called it an act of courage. But on the hills of God, many preferred to call it a miracle.
That same day there were two funerals, and half the municipality council went to each. At two o’clock, Yousif walked in the funeral of Mitry Freij. As a gesture of community and respect, Yousif’s father was among those who went to Jindas to attend the funeral of Hani Mahmoud.
The procession to Ardallah’s cemetery was again a spectacle. Most of the merchants had closed their shops and joined the thousands of mourners. The march itself was orderly, save for the women’s high-pitched lamentations that only the Boy Scouts’ band could surpass in volume. Heading the Scouts was their leader: an accountant in his late forties—short, solidly built, and sporting a formidable mustache. Behind him were two men hoisting the Scouts’ flag and the Palestinian flag. The band itself consisted of young civil servants and artisans, who marched in four rows of fives. Then came the hundred or so teenagers who marched in unison, their chins jutting and their expression grim. The entire group was dressed in khaki shorts, white shirts, red scarfs, and the traditional Arab headgear of hatta and iqal. The band players beat their enormous drums and blew their shiny horns with gusto, as though they were in a triumphant procession. The casket was carried on men’s shoulders. Yousif could see the draped white-green-black-red Palestinian flag bobbing above the marchers’ heads as patriotic villagers scurried to share the honor of accompanying the corpse to its grave.
Schools had shut down, and students—from the third grade up—were also marching, as though in an Easter parade. Nuns with fresh-scrubbed, smooth-skinned faces walked beside the fifty or sixty young girls in blue tunics. Yousif would’ve joined his teachers and classmates, but he was escorting Jamal. He could see Amin assisting ustaz Hakim and the principal, ustaz Sa’adeh, in keeping order among the nearly two hundred students, who marched as if they had all lost brothers.
The crowds at the Christian cemetery flowed on both sides of the narrow dirt road. They spilled over the three sections: Greek Orthodox, Catholic, and Protestant. Yousif and Jamal stayed with hundreds outside the gate, where the old yellow bus, riddled with bullets on both sides, was on display. For two hours, he watched mourners surround Abu Ziad, the driver, and question him about the tragic incident. Yousif smelled incense, heard women crying and priests praying for the souls of the departed, and listened to speakers calling them martyrs destined to heaven. He heard strangers weep, watched men scratch their chins, and saw women tear the fronts of their dresses and beat their bosoms. Feeling a lump in his throat, he wondered who would be the next victim.
“Half the town is here,” Yousif said to Jamal. He was craning his neck to see if Salwa was with Adel Farhat, whom he saw no more than a hundred feet ahead. Happily, she wasn’t.
“That’s no good,” Jamal said, tapping his cane.
“Right now,” Yousif whispered, “the Jews could walk in and capture Ardallah with no trouble.”
Jamal seemed absorbed, his sealed eyes twitching. “I hope we’ll learn to use our heads and not just our hearts.”
Yousif thought of Basim and his plan to protect Ardallah. Could the doctor now, in good conscience, say no to the demand for the hospital money? All around him, men were huddling and talking about one thing—the need for protection.
“We can’t go on like this,” said Yacoub, the house painter.
“I agree,” a choir leader answered. “It’s getting to be too dangerous.”
Yacoub smacked his thin lips. “Something must be done,” he said.
A round of bullets ripped the air. For a moment everyone was startled. Then they all realized that the shots were fired at the graveside—as a gesture of farewell to the victim.
“They’d better save their ammunition,” Jamal said.
“I have a feeling,” Yousif said, “that Palestine is falling apart.”
A week later, Yousif lay in bed at six o’clock in the morning. His first thoughts were of Salwa. He had seen her in a kaleidoscopic dream which was nothing but torture. Like the Grecian Urn lovers, like Tantalus and the dangling bunch of grapes, he and Salwa were inches apart yet could never touch. What should he do, Yousif thought, to win her back? Should he unload his problem on her Greek Orthodox priest, Father Samaan, and ask for help? Should he beseech her favorite teacher? He thrashed about, wondering.
He looked outside, thinking what a glorious day it was. Early spring had arrived. Despite the torturous dream, he was glad he had slept with the window open. Ardallah’s air was cool and invigorating. The sky was bluer than Salwa’s silk dress and the tree tops were as motionless as unlit candles.
He wished his thoughts were as calm, as peaceful. He had gone to bed troubled by his mother’s fretting over the expense and time it was taking to replace all in their house that had been damaged by the British soldiers. Night visitors were still shocked by the attack on the bus. But where was Basim? they all asked. With all the fighting at Bab al-Wad, Yousif knew, it wasn’t likely that Basim would spend any nights at home.
In five weeks the British would be gone—completely evacuated. Instead of moving out in August, as the UN resolution had stipulated, they decided to step up their withdrawal and be gone by May 15th. And the battle for the control of Jerusalem was already raging. For weeks the Zionists had been trying to secure a safe passage for their military convoys to Jerusalem. But the Palestinians, led by their ablest commander, Abd al-Qadir, had repeatedly pinned them down at the bottleneck at Bab al-Wad.
On the Hills of God Page 25