On the Hills of God

by Fawal, Ibrahim

  “Mother is taking a nap,” Sitt Bahiyyeh whispered, gently closing the door behind her. “Let’s talk out here.”

  Yousif looked around, out of customary precaution. Then he realized that he wasn’t a thief, for God’s sake, and he couldn’t care less who might see him.

  “I expected you sooner,” she began.

  “I couldn’t—” Yousif replied.

  “Well, of course,” she said, extending her hand. “Yislam rasak.”

  “Oo rasik,” he said, shaking it.

  An eight-wheeled truck full of refugees was going up the steep hill. The chatter of the men, women, and children riding above the bedsprings and mattresses and bundles of clothing filled the neighborhood.

  Sitt Bahiyyeh’s bosom heaved as the homeless paraded before their eyes.

  “There are a lot of sad people in this world,” she said, holding the railing.

  It was a bad omen, Yousif thought. The ending was embedded in the beginning. Was she preparing him for a blow?

  “Tell me,” he begged.

  “What’s there to tell?”

  “Did you talk to Salwa? In person? What were her exact words?”

  “My mind is cluttered these days,” she said. “I can’t even tell you what I had for breakfast. But I do remember her telling me that she did all she could on your behalf, but it was no use.”

  Yousif’s heart stopped. A young boy riding a bicycle downhill seemed to have lost his brakes and was screaming at the top of his voice. A mob of youngsters were running behind him, those coming up rushing out of his way. But Yousif’s eyes and ears were now glued on Sitt Bahiyyeh.

  “She’s getting married Sunday,” Sitt Bahiyyeh said, pursing her lips.

  “No, she’s not,” Yousif said, in disbelief.

  “I’m afraid she is.”

  “This coming Sunday?”

  Sitt Bahiyyeh nodded. “I’m afraid so.”

  “That’s three days after my eighteenth birthday!”

  “Ya haraam!” she said, shaking her head. “The scar will be reopened every year.”

  “What am I going to do?” Yousif moaned, kicking the wall.

  “I wish I didn’t have to tell you this, but you asked me and I’m not going to lie. That’s what she told me Friday. I happened to be in the principal’s office when she came and asked to be excused for the rest of the semester on account of the wedding.”

  Yousif was shocked. “That was the first time you talked to her? Didn’t you two have a private conversation earlier? Didn’t you tell her about my visit?”

  Sitt Bahiyyeh’s face contorted in sympathy. “Of course I did. I told her that the next day after you came. We had heart-to-heart discussions several times since. When I found out you weren’t making things up, I bent my own rules and got involved. So I can tell you with all honesty she did try to break off the engagement. She even got her mother to lean toward you. But when her father got wind of what the two of them were up to, he made Adel Farhat rush the wedding date.”

  “The father did?” Yousif asked, astonished.

  “I believe so,” she said. Then as if reading his mind, she added: “Masabbato iddini tasbihon bimatrahiha. At certain times, cursing religion is as good as saying a prayer. The fact remains: she’s getting married and there’s nothing you can do about it. Take my advice. On that Sunday, go out of town. If you can’t, get drunk, get a long night’s sleep. When you wake up in the morning you won’t feel any better, but at least it will all be behind you.”

  Yousif was in a daze. “Get drunk?”

  “If I weren’t supposed to be a lady, I’d say come over and we’ll get drunk together.”

  “You would?” Yousif said, still in a trance.

  “Why not? I am the expert around here on the pain that lingers.” She said the last words with a twisted mouth that mocked the whole East. “But scandal at my age would kill my mother quicker than the Zionists. And it would ruin the rest of my already inglorious life. Go on Yousif. I’ll be thinking of you while I’m tipping the glass in solitude.”

  Yousif’s legs were weightless, yet he had no energy to lift them. Her raw wounds aroused in him memories of Jamal. The blind musician wasn’t the only one who had not recovered from unrequited love. Wasn’t he still suffering even though the girl he loved had been married for twenty years and had three children?

  “I’ll do two more things for you,” Sitt Bahiyyeh promised.

  Yousif waited, convinced that the bile in her system was surfacing. “I’m listening,” he said.

  “I’ll compose a litany of curses for you—should you need them.”

  “And the other?”

  “I will not attend Salwa’s wedding—even though she is my favorite student.”

  Yousif began to thank her, then his mind blanked. A tidal wave had just crashed over him and he didn’t know whether he was being thrown off to the shore or was about to be swallowed by the deep dark waters.

  Darkness was beginning to fall. But no night could be as black as Yousif’s heart at this moment. Between his personal losses and the Arabs’ military defeats, he felt he was being sucked in by a vacuum. There was little he could do about the general situation in Palestine. But he swore to God and to all the angels and saints and demons who could hear him that Salwa’s wedding to Adel Farhat would never, ever happen.

  All the neighbors were in front of Uncle Boulus’s house, including Yousif’s mother. Some were sitting in the familiar semi-circle. Others were listening and leaning against the building. From a distance Yousif recognized the center of attention. It was Maria—the robust, red-headed neighbor’s daughter. She was a nurse who had worked in Jaffa. Her white uniform and the little white cap above her carrot-red hair filled his childhood memories. When she had visited her family and strode through the neighborhood, her round body and genuine smile made her look like a lovable snowman. Maria and Yousif’s mother were good friends, although Maria was many years younger.

  “Several months ago,” Maria was telling the group, “the British made me the head nurse at the hospital. I ran it as best I could. When they left they told me I was doing a wonderful job. Then one day this week, Dr. Ruttman told me that a ship was coming to take the Arab patients to Beirut. She’s a Jewish lady and a long-time friend. I couldn’t believe it. They’re too sick to be moved, I argued. But it was no use. She said they were doing it for humanitarian reasons. There was no sense in keeping them in a war-torn city, she said, when they could get better care somewhere else. I asked her: ‘Are you sending away the Jewish patients, too?’”

  “Good question,” Uncle Boulus said, flicking his masbaha.

  “She stared at me and said, ‘Just do as you’re told.’ But then I said, ‘If you’re scared being in an Arab town, don’t worry. You and the patients will be safe. We will all look after you. There are plenty of Arab doctors and nurses who would take care of all patients. But no patient must be moved.’ Dr. Ruttman would have none of it. I couldn’t figure her out. Then it hit me. She was acting on someone else’s orders. ‘Get them out,’ she said and walked away.” Maria paused to catch her breath.

  “Well, did you get the patients out?” Yousif asked again.

  “We had to,” Maria said. “She was chief-of-staff. Her word was final.”

  Here, too, Yousif was disturbed. He wanted to tell Maria that they did not have to leave just because a Jewish doctor told them to leave. The Arab nurses and doctors and orderlies and patients should have staged a rebellion and refused to let her push them around. Even if the Jewish soldiers had already occupied the hospital, the Arabs should not have let that woman intimidate them. What could the soldiers have done? Killed them? All of them? Were the Jews that bad? That strong? Then he remembered the massacre of Deir Yasin and realized that the Irgun or the Stern Gang might have slaughtered whoever resisted.

  “We moved the patients outdoors until the garden was full,” Maria continued, perspiring. “Some were put on stretchers. Others we sat in chairs. Many were
dying and those we tried to keep in their rooms. But again Dr. Ruttman insisted that there would be no exceptions. ‘Out’ she repeated, pointing her finger to the door. How that woman changed. All of a sudden she became a different person. When the ship arrived, the whole thing turned out to be a hoax.”

  Yousif was puzzled. “What do you mean?” he asked.

  “It wasn’t a rescue ship at all,” Maria explained. “It came full of Zionists from Europe. They wanted the hospital evacuated to make room for them.”

  “Aaaaaaahhhhh!!!!” many gasped.

  The rest were stunned.

  “They tricked you,” Aunt Hilaneh finally said, her hands folded.

  “That doctor knew all along the ship was full of Jewish immigrants,” Uncle Boulus added. “But what happened to the patients?”

  “By the time we knew what was happening,” Maria said, “things were moving pretty fast. When the Zionists occupied Al-Manshiyyeh and Hassan Bey Mosque we knew it was all over for us. Some of us wanted to stay and ride out the storm, others didn’t. Two nurses and one patient had been raped the week before, and if that wasn’t bad enough they remembered Deir Yasin. So we all pitched in. The Arab doctors and nurses and orderlies helped—even some of the British soldiers helped. We put the patients in ambulances and cars and sent them home. Some were even moved as far as Lydda and Ramleh. And now listen to this: in my confusion I forgot the payroll in my desk. No one has been paid. I don’t know what to do.”

  “What can you do?” Yousif asked. “You might as well forget it.”

  “I’m thinking of going back just in case the money is still there. God knows we all need it, especially now.”

  “What makes you think they’d let you in?” Yousif’s mother asked, looking very pale without make-up.

  “You’d find Jaffa ringed with soldiers,” said an old man disconsolately.

  Maria’s audience fell silent. They all seemed frightened. Helpless. The seamstress said she and her husband were seriously thinking of going to Amman. Aunt Hilaneh said that it had crossed their mind. Uncle Boulus squirmed. His sharp nose looked pinched and yellow at the same time.

  As though to get them off the quarrelsome track, Yasmin said, “If you do decide to go to Amman, Yousif and I will go with you.”

  Yousif was shocked. “What makes you think I’d go?” he asked his mother. Without waiting for her to answer, he turned to the others, adding, “This kind of talk is irresponsible. What if we all left? Do we want the Zionists to walk right in? We might as well send them an invitation. I can’t believe my ears. I thought you wanted the hospital money to buy arms and fight. Now I see that you’re a bunch of quitters.”

  The fear of another Deir Yasin dominated the heated debate. All of them, except Yousif, were scared and did not mind admitting it. The Zionists were winning, they argued, and they would not put it past them to repeat the massacre wherever they went. What Yousif feared most, however, was losing Salwa. That was his biggest worry.

  By English period the next day, Tuesday, when they were supposed to discuss Charles Dickens’s Tale of Two Cities, Yousif’s mind was in turmoil. He was thinking of what to do about Salwa, when the principal, ustaz Saadeh, announced that school would close a month earlier.

  “That means,” he added, “the graduation ceremony will be on April 29, not on May 25 as it was originally scheduled.”

  Like most students, Yousif began to count in his head. “You mean this coming Friday?” he asked. That was only two days before Salwa’s wedding day.

  “I mean five days from now,” the principal informed them. “It will be held at Cinema Firyal, three o’clock in the afternoon. There’s no time to print announcements, but each of you can invite ten people.”

  “Ten?” Nadeem objected. “There are eight in my immediate family. And I know I need a dozen more for my aunts and uncles.”

  “I do, too,” Radwan concurred.

  “This is only high school,” the principal explained. “Not the university. Wait until you come back as doctors and lawyers and engineers. Then you can throw a big party and invite the whole town if you like.”

  “But that could be ages from now,” Husam protested.

  “Okay, okay,” the principal said, waving his hand to calm them down. “I’ll see what I can do. What we need to do now is decide on a valedictorian. According to school tradition, it’s simply a matter of grades. The first in class is automatically chosen—unless there’s a grave charge against him. I suspect there’s no grave charge against Yousif.”

  There was a burst of applause. Yousif smiled and thanked the principal and his classmates for the honor.

  Then Adnan raised his hand. “If Yousif had continued to behave the way he did after Isaac’s death—”

  “Or during the debate about the hospital money,” Mousa interrupted, presumably reading Adnan’s mind.

  “—many of us would’ve opposed his selection. But he’s okay now.”

  Caught by surprise, for his mind was on Salwa, Yousif bit his lip and nodded. “Let bygones be bygones.”

  Now Yousif had two things to worry about: his speech and Salwa’s wedding. Both lay heavy on his shoulders. He knew he could scribble something to please the crowd—but what about the wedding? His future with Salwa was slipping away from him. This turned his mind away from his graduation.

  He tore up every draft he wrote. One approach was to attack Britain, Truman, and the Zionists. Another was to call for revenge against the murderers of Deir Yasin and the invaders of Haifa and Jaffa. The principal, ustaz Saadeh, found the draft Yousif finally showed him still unacceptable and asked him to go home and rewrite it.

  “It’s the same old platitudes and slogans we’ve been hearing for years,” the principal told him, sitting behind his desk. “People are literally suffocating from all this rhetoric. It would be a nice change if someone would tell them the truth.”

  “And be ostracized like my father?” Yousif asked.

  “That’s the challenge,” ustaz Saadeh said, “to please and offend at the same time—without getting killed.”

  Back in his room, Yousif discovered that the challenge was greater than he had realized. He could do it if his mind weren’t so preoccupied with Salwa. But she consumed every minute of every wakeful hour, and sometimes invaded his dreams. How could he think straight when he was about to lose her forever? By the same token, what would he tell a people who had already lost half of their country before the war even began? What hope could he give them? How could he stir them up to action when thousands had become homeless while the rest were unarmed and on the verge of being stampeded? Where would his pitiable generation fit in such a leaderless, defeated society? How long, he asked himself, would it take them to pick up the pieces and face the uncertain future?

  In these hours of desperation and loneliness, Yousif missed his father intensely.

  The graduating class of twenty-two students sat on one side of the stage. The faculty on the other. There were no caps and gowns: only blue suits, white shirts, and red ties. Some of the clothes were new. Because of the hard times and short notice, most, however, were faded. Some were even borrowed. In the middle sat the principal and the main speaker, Raja Ballout, the famed journalist from Jaffa, and Father Mikhail representing the Catholic Church. The main auditorium was nearly full, which surprised Yousif. It was the same theater where Salwa had told him of Adel Farhat’s intentions. Unconsciously winding the watch he had inherited from his father, he spotted the seats where they had had that heart-wrenching conversation. Too bad she was not there now. How he ached to see her. But none of her relatives or friends were graduating, and he could not have invited her.

  His thoughts of Salwa were suddenly interrupted. The principal had just introduced him. Yousif walked to the rostrum and faced the audience. The nervousness he had felt at his father’s graveside did not plague him now. His opening sentence was shocking, and he could not wait to deliver it.

  “I’m looking for someone to arrest me,
” Yousif began.

  Hushed silence descended on the audience.

  “I’m looking for someone to handcuff me,” he resumed, “and to throw me in jail—should I let my country down. Where is my jailer? Nay, where is my leader who beckoned and I refused to follow, who exhausted himself in search for peace and I opposed his quest? Where is my jailer, and the jailer of every graduating senior in Palestine who can look us in the eye and say we did not do our duty, that we have failed our motherland? Is there no leader to inspire and lead men to the trenches, to the roofs, and to the gates of the enemy? Is there no leader who, with wisdom and diplomacy and tenacity, is trying to clear our adversary’s vision, to compel him to negotiate and compromise? Is there no leader who can charge us for having failed to commit ourselves and execute his master plan? No, there is no leader, no jailer, no charge—and no master plan.”

  The audience was deep in thought. Yousif’s tirade, which he delivered without stridency, lasted only ten minutes. He complimented his people on their steadfastness in the face of tremendous odds, and berated them for having sat on their haunches for all those years.

  “My generation and future generations will charge and will convict,” he thundered in conclusion. “Woe to him who will be found to have trespassed against us. Woe to him, for the day of judgment is as inevitable to come as for the snow to thaw, as for the sun to rise from the depth of darkness.”

  The audience broke out in applause. They stood up, cheering. The lanky, pale commencement speaker, Raja Ballout, rose impulsively and shook Yousif’s hand warmly. Yousif himself didn’t think much of his own rhetoric. He thought even less of those who were so easily satisfied with words.

  There was nothing he could do to change the outcome of the war. But there was something he could do to stop Salwa from slipping out of his hands. The loss of Salwa would be much more than either his heart or mind could bear. As he stood on the stage bowing in gratitude for the warm response he was getting, his mind was already on the personal battle ahead.