“No, just bask in it. And ponder the mystery of existence. Marvel at the butterfly and the giraffe. Make love. Harvest the field. Write poetry. Drink wine. Say a prayer. Heal wounds. Smell the roses, if you will. But for God’s sake—don’t shoot.”
They passed a blacksmith shop, full of soot and noise. The fire in the furnace was two feet high. At the anvil the short but powerful blacksmith was hammering and shaping a pointed fence.
“If I only could see Salwa and talk to her,” Yousif lamented.
“Not when you’re in this mood, I hope,” Amin told him.
“She should know how I feel. There are so many things we should be doing instead of killing each other. Isaac would’ve been a good musician. You should have the opportunity to complete your medical studies. Salwa and I should get married, have children, build a future—”
“First,” Amin reminded him, light-heartedly, “you need to get Salwa out of that engagement. You start talking to her about Nebuchadnezzar and Richard the Lion Heart at a time like this and you might as well be kissing her goodbye forever.”
“True,” Yousif agreed, nodding.
“Then you can join the seminary in Bethlehem and become a monk. Or you can kill yourself.”
By the time they reached the flour-mill, the sun was setting over Jaffa and the Mediterranean Sea. Yousif looked in awe. It was a tableaux of magnificent colors—a feast for the eye, the soul, and the mind. He stood silent for a long moment like a man in a cathedral, letting the stillness wash all over him, drinking the sunburst as though it were the elixir of life. But reality wasn’t far off. Children were riding bicycles and filling the narrow street with laughter. Lights were being turned on in windows. A mother was calling her son to come home. A shepherd was returning with his huge flock, bells tinkling around their necks.
Suddenly an idea occurred to Yousif that could perhaps assuage his conscience.
“Do you know what I’m going to do?” Yousif asked his friend.
“What?” Amin said.
“I’m going to borrow father’s car and put it to some good use. Maybe you and I can get some food to our fighters. Who’s feeding them? Who’s looking after their needs?”
Amin stopped walking. “That’s a good idea,” he said. “Let’s do it.”
“We’ll go to different shops and bakeries,” Yousif said, “and fill up the trunk with breads and fresh vegetables.”
Enthusiasm brightened Amin’s dark face. “We could drive to where the men are fighting. Maybe get in on some action.”
That prospect didn’t appeal to Yousif, but he didn’t show it. “At least,” he said, “we can take the wounded to hospitals.”
“What hospitals?”
“Jaffa or Jerusalem. And if we have to, we can take them to father’s clinic or to Dr. Afifi’s.”
“I bet there are a lot of casualties already,” Amin said.
That night Yousif convinced his father to let him use the Chrysler. He and Amin would start at Salman’s shop in the morning and make the rounds until he had his trunk and back seat filled.
“Then what?” his father told him, sitting on the balcony.
“What do you mean?” Yousif asked.
His father eyed him skeptically. “Do you know how to get to Kastal?”
Yousif didn’t, and he thought Amin didn’t either. But he refused to be discouraged. He turned around and looked at Salman, whose arms were folded in his lap. “Maybe Salman will show us the way. Will you go with us?”
Salman looked thunderstruck. “Who me? You must be kidding.”
“Why not?”
“What about the shop? I can’t close it.”
“Just for a few hours.”
Salman’s face turned red. “I’ve never been to Kastal in all my life. I don’t even know where it is.”
Yousif looked disappointed. “You’re not afraid, are you?” he asked, aware that he was beginning to sound like Basim.
“Don’t be silly,” Salman answered, his lips twitching. “I’m not afraid. I just don’t know the way. Let Amin ask his father to go with you. He can probably take you through the back roads blindfolded.”
Yousif woke early with every intention of cutting classes to proceed with his plan. But before he could get started, a curtain of doom fell upon the Arabs. During the night Kastal had fallen again. The fighting men would probably be scattered until they regrouped somewhere else. It was a major setback and Yousif felt battered. Besides, he was uncertain what the day would bring. How would such a defeat affect his immediate plans? Would his father change his mind about the car? Yousif would just have to wait and see.
At seven o’clock, Kol-Yisrael, the Zionist radio station, claimed that Abd al-Qadir himself had been killed. Dream on, Yousif scoffed, slipping on his pants. He dismissed it as Zionist propaganda, yet frantically switched the dials to Arab stations for confirmation or denial. The Palestinians’ Sowt Falastin, a new underground station, spoke of a fierce battle the night before. It admitted a major setback but said nothing of Abd al-Qadir’s fate.
But by the time Yousif drove his father to his clinic, the rumor was spreading like a gust of yellow fever. Men on the sidewalk were shaking their heads. Faces were etched with fear.
“Have you heard?” nurse Laila said, meeting them at the curb.
“Don’t believe it,” Yousif told her, his elbow resting on the open window.
“I bet it’s true,” she said, alarmed. “My brother was one of the men who went with Basim yesterday. He came back early this morning after they had been driven out. He said all the Arab fighters were worried about Abd al-Qadir. They hadn’t seen him all night.”
“He probably slipped away to recruit more men,” Yousif offered, uneasy.
The doctor pursed his lips and shook his head. “Abd al-Qadir wouldn’t leave the battle scene. If it’s true he’s been killed or captured, God help us.”
“Were there a lot of casualties?” Yousif asked. “Did your brother say?”
Laila nodded, her eyes moist. “He says both sides lost plenty.”
“You might not need the car after all,” the doctor told his son, stepping out.
“I could help pick up the wounded,” Yousif suggested.
“And take them where?” the doctor asked, dismayed.
“Jaffa or Jerusalem,” Yousif answered. “Where else? Unless you want me to bring them to your clinic.”
The doctor shook his head, his brows furrowed. “That’s exactly why we need a hospital in Ardallah. No, leave it parked here until we see what’s going on.”
“I’d like to keep it, if you don’t mind,” Yousif insisted. That his father could brush him off made his skin tighten.
The doctor looked surprised. “Not after all this. Anyway, I need it more than you do.”
“Laila just said there were lots of casualties,” Yousif argued.
“That was last night,” his father explained. “Do you think they’re still lying on the ground waiting for you to pick them up?”
“I’d like to find out,” Yousif insisted.
“No,” the doctor said. “Hand me the key.”
The fact that Laila was still on the sidewalk listening to this exchange made Yousif angry.
“You promised I could have it today,” Yousif said, frustrated.
“Listen, Yousif, I don’t have time for this.”
“Then let’s go together. They need medical help.”
The doctor towered over his son. “Have you heard the saying, The road to hell is paved with good intentions? What you want to do is good, honorable. But it’s too dangerous. Too late. The Jaffa-Jerusalem road is impassable with all the caravans trying to go through. The Kastal area is probably swarming with Zionist soldiers now that it’s under their control. You’ll be shot on sight. You want to help, fine. You’ll have plenty of opportunities, believe me. But right now it’s too hopeless. So give me the key and go on to school.”
Yousif’s anger nearly overwhelmed him. He rolled up t
he window, locked the car, and handed the keys back to his father. They parted without saying a word.
Crushed and humiliated, Yousif continued his walk, stopping here and there to hear what men were saying. They were all wearing mournful looks and whispering the same thing. Abd al-Qadir was missing! By the time he got to school, the rumor was chiseled in rock. Teachers hit the walls with their fists. Students cried. Yousif felt his head spinning.
Within minutes, the church bells were tolling—not only for the distinguished martyr, Yousif thought, but for the Palestinians’ best hope.
Next morning, Palestine was rocked by another tragedy. Again the seven o’clock broadcast crackled with bad news. Still in his pajamas, Yousif tried to shake the sleep from his head. He couldn’t be hearing right.
“Deir Yasin,” the Arab announcer was saying, his voice choking, “a village four miles south of Jerusalem, seems to have been invaded last night . . .”
Yousif motioned for his father to hurry up, but kept his ears glued to the radio set. The doctor crossed the room, stepping in and out of the bright morning sun that had slashed the floor.
“. . . Residents of Lifta and Karyet Abu Ghoush, two neighboring Arab villages,” the announcer continued, “report extraordinarily heavy shelling and bombing, coming from the direction of Deir Yasin. The British army would neither deny nor confirm the reports. But they promised to investigate immediately. So did the Red Cross. For further details, stay tuned to this station.”
The doctor pouted and knit his eyebrows. Yousif watched him nervously switch the dial from Damascus to Cairo to London and back to Jerusalem. The two were soon joined by his mother, who must have heard snatches of the broadcast and tiptoed into the room, her face white. The three sat enveloped in gloom.
Yousif ran to school. Students and teachers were in the schoolyard talking about Deir Yasin. The radio set from the faculty lounge was placed on the window sill for everyone to hear. A big crowd gathered to await the latest news. All morning reports were sketchy, but ominous.
By noon, new editions of the newspaper were sold and devoured. Yousif and Amin ran out to the street to get a copy. The square around the bus terminal was crowded with people rushing to buy the few left. Yousif elbowed his way through and purchased one. He unfolded it and was immediately surrounded by many onlookers. The headlines were big and screaming red: massacre at deir yasin.
“Read,” commanded a hunchbacked old man wearing a fez.
“Read, read,” others echoed.
Yousif began reading aloud. His voice was low, shaking. He felt someone touch his arm. When he looked up he saw a villager, with delicate features and a well-trimmed beard, begging him with his eyes to raise his voice. Yousif read loud enough for the man to hear. The crowd grew bigger.
“According to the residents of Lifta and Kiryat Abu Ghoushe,” Yousif read, “something terrible must have happened last night in nearby Deir Yasin, a village four miles south of Jerusalem. For four hours they could hear shelling of unprecedented intensity. A sixty-year-old man, Ali Abu Ridda, who rushed out of bed and stood on the roof of his house to see what was going on, said, ‘It sounded like a gigantic invasion. In the quiet of the night I could hear explosions and I could see the sky ablaze. It was glowing so red I’ve never seen anything like it.’”
Men and women pushed around Yousif, wanting to see as well as hear him.
“Fear is mounting,” Yousif continued, “that of the population of about five hundred, no one was spared to tell the tale. So far the British police have been barred from entering. It is generally believed that the Zionist invaders were, in the words of a high official, ‘still mopping up.’ They needed time to remove the litter and wreckage they have wrought for this peaceful, defenseless Arab village.
“What gives rise to genuine concern is the fact that all hospitals in Jerusalem reported that no casualties were brought in during the night. Obviously there was too much shelling, too much military activity for no one to be hurt. Where are the wounded, who must be in desperate need of immediate medical treatment?
“The question everyone is asking is this: What exactly has happened? It may be sometime before we find out. One can only hope and pray that Deir Yasin has not been turned into a graveyard—literally overnight.”
Yousif looked up at the sea of red eyes, feeling whipped by his own emotions. The cessation of all sound and all movement was unnatural. Nobody seemed capable of breathing. Then commotion started, like a trickle that led to a flood.
“May they never enter the gate of Heaven,” the midwife Najla cursed, her voice shrill.
“May they never see the face of God,” the widow Martha responded.
“May all their children be orphans,” the dressmaker Julia echoed.
Yousif decided to go home and listen to the news on the radio. There he could have control over the dials and switch them as he pleased. Besides, his mother shouldn’t be left alone at a time like this.
But by the time he reached Zahrawi’s cafe, the radio was blaring more ominous news. The crowd in the terraced garden numbered over a hundred. All looked mesmerized. Yousif stood at the outer edge, listening.
“Slaughtering a whole Arab village must not have been satisfying enough to the invaders,” the announcer was saying. Hushed silence enveloped the men and women present. The unmistakable voice of Abu Walid, of the radio station, was distraught.
“Women’s torn underclothing and naked sprawled bodies,” the announcer added, “bespoke of the terrible shame and suffering to which the residents of Deir Yasin must have been subjected before they were disfigured and ultimately murdered.”
“Allahu Akbar,” shouted Arif, the bookstore owner.
“Virgins were raped in the presence of their parents,” the announcer continued, his voice hoarse, strident. “Pregnant women were slit open and embryos were scattered on the floor. One woman was cut by a bayonet from her womb to her mouth. Babies’ heads were crushed like chestnuts. Eyes were knocked out and left hanging like large marbles. One man was burned to ashes in his sleep. His bones and right foot were the only parts which had escaped the blaze. Children were dissected and their young flesh mercilessly scraped off their tender bones.”
A waiter smashed a glass against the building. But the eyes and ears of the crowd remained riveted on the radio set.
“The Red Cross observers,” the announcer said, “were shocked . . . mortified. Some cried unabashedly. Others recalled the holocaust. According to eye-witnesses, the ghost of Nazism could be found in every street of Deir Yasin, nay, in every home. Shocking evidence is there for the whole world to see. Hitler’s victims have turned into victimizers. At their hand Deir Yasin has become a crematory, a cemetery, and a blot on the Jewish conscience forever.”
The earth moved under Yousif’s feet. He could see women in the crowd shutting their ears with their palms. Others were leaning against their husbands, crying. Men were chewing their lips. All stared. All seemed visited by a nightmare.
The announcer returned. “God,” he agonized, “what is the meaning of this cruelty? When, when, O God, are the Arabs going to wake up and face the horrible facts? Save us, O Lord, from our heartless enemy. Save us from ourselves.”
A woman with a big wicker basket on her head and a baby in her arms began to cry. She sobbed so fitfully that the baby slipped out of her arms and fell to the ground. The crowd rushed to pick up the infant. Yousif saw a man leaning against a wall, retching.
At the end of the broadcast, Yousif’s taut fingers crumbled the paper he was holding. His chin trembled; his teeth cut a wound in his lower lip. Through his blurred eyes he now saw the cafe garden and the street below swarming with people. The atmosphere was electrified. Live wires hummed. Wild angry voices rose from the crowd. Shrieks punctuated the air.
Yousif knew they felt helpless in this new dilemma. The scope of the catastrophe awaiting them deepened their fears. To whom could they turn now? What should they do? How could they meet the Zionist ferocity tha
t threatened their very existence? Yousif trembled with them. Again he was awakened to the true and shocking meaning of real danger.
The throng seemed strung on one cord, pulled by one force. Yousif heard all kinds of cries, all stressing one point: something must be done before it was too late. The Zionists had set Deir Yasin as an example of the terror the Arabs should expect. It would be disastrous if they were not checked in time. One man called for a general strike, others for reprisals.
“This is a jihad,” cried a vegetable vendor. “The gates of heaven await those who defend themselves.”
Ardallah shut down. People walked aimlessly, lurched drunkenly. Others poured out from everywhere. Hundreds of students carrying their books under their arms hurried to ask questions. From the other side of the street ran a large group of schoolgirls, all donned in blue. From around every corner, every street, every alley, Yousif saw individuals and groups arriving.
“Dear God!” Yousif thought. “Not another demonstration.”
Everywhere he saw people beating their chests, slapping their cheeks, biting their own fingers. Anger, bitterness, frustration gripped them. Not in their wildest dreams, some muttered, did they expect anything so cruel, so blasphemous.
“Where is this Deir Yasin?” Yousif asked Elias Kanaan, a habitual gambler. He was leaning against the wall, holding his black suspenders with both hands, and viewing the scene with the sobered look of a man who had bet on life and lost.
“Never heard of it,” the gambler answered, shaking his head.
“Why do you think they did it?”
“A war of nerves,” the gambler muttered and walked away.
Church bells began to toll mournful tunes. The muezzin, atop a minaret a mile away, could be heard reciting from the Qur’an.
“We need arms,” shouted someone Yousif couldn’t see.
“YEEEEES,” the crowd echoed.
“To hell with the aggressors,” screamed Fouad, a cinema usher.
“May God send them the plague,” another shouted.
“Damn the British!”
On the Hills of God Page 29