On the Hills of God

by Fawal, Ibrahim

  Singing or dancing or clapping, everyone got involved. There seemed to be no stopping to the frenzy. The only two who did not join in the merriment were Anton Taweel and Yasmin. Anton was drinking; Yasmin was crying.

  Half an hour later, everyone was exhausted. Those who had stood up from excitement, collapsed in their seats. Those who had come in late and couldn’t find a place to sit, ended up sitting on the floor. All the time Jamal hadn’t stopped playing as though all the sweetness and agonies of his unrequited love had surfaced.

  Jamal could sense not only a need for a change of pace, but an insatiable hunger for ballads. The strings of his ‘oud hummed tenderly. The crowd hushed. Yousif watched Jamal fondle the strings like a man caressing the earlobes of a woman. The tune he was now strumming called for singing, but no one would volunteer. The music never ceased, but continued to flow, to yearn, to plead for linkage with a human voice. Soon Aunt Hilaneh responded, her voice warm and slithering like summertime water seeping out of a dark cave. Yousif could almost hear the hearts around him soaking up the feeling like a parched desert strip. A spring breeze from Ardallah’s mountains seemed to drift into the room. Picturesque Ardallah flashed in Yousif’s mind, with all its vineyards and all its greenness. Yousif could almost smell and taste its fruits and vegetables, and could almost hear his birds chirping. Ardallah lived for him—so did the whole of Palestine—and he could almost see the treetops moving and the rains pouring. If only Salwa were with him to share this Palestinian moment, as if she needed someone to remind her of what they were fighting for.

  From the forlorn looks on the others’ faces, Yousif could tell that their minds had been invaded. Aunt Hilaneh’s supple voice continued to roll, bathing them like the warm waters of the Jordan River. But soon she ran out of verses. Others came to her assistance, reciting a line or singing a phrase. She managed a bit longer, but then ran out completely. The ballad was long, and Yousif knew most of the lines. But he would not sing, out of respect for his mother. Yasmin seemed not to mind the way the night had turned out, but he could see a cast of sadness on her face. Abu Amin sang. Imm Amin sang. Fouad Jubran’s pregnant wife sang. The gentle song seemed to tickle the spine of all listeners. Amin and Izzat passed around more drinks. Hiyam and Maha brought out more maza.

  Psyched and conditioned like the rest, Yasmin jolted one and all. She began to hum—then, in trepidation and yearning, she started to sing. Faces bunched up. Lips puckered. Eyes became tearful. Yousif felt a lump in his throat. He pressed his mother to his side and kissed her left cheek. If only Salwa were there to see her shedding her grief for their sake.

  There wasn’t a hint of nationalism in the song, yet it aroused in Yousif a Palestinian fervor. Strange, he thought. The night before his wedding he ought to be feeling romantic. Yet the pulsating music seemed to transport him —to other places, other times. As the other listeners, who, like him, seemed floodedwith nostalgia, hummed along with his mother, he found Salwa and Palestine sharing his passion. He envisioned his people battling to save the simple life his mother’s song evoked. In his heart—in his marrow—he could feel the chill of a possible loss. The sights and sounds of Ardallah and Ramallah and Acre and Jaffa and Haifa and Gaza and Jerusalem and Jericho and Bethlehem and Bait Jala and Batoonia and Bireh and Birzeit and Baiteen and Lydda and Ramleh and Kufr Qasim and Karameh and Nablus and Tul Karim and Jineen and Kharbatha and Ni’leen and El-Khalil and Sarafand and Bisan and Shafa ‘Amr and Tabariyya and Halhool and Deir Yasin and all the cities and towns and villages and hamlets in between, with all their olives and all their figs and all their cactuses and all their berries and all their grapes and all their oranges and all their lemons and all their barley and all their wheat and all their farmers and all their hewers and all their shepherds and all their sheep and all their quails and all their pigeons and all their rabbits and all their fishes and all their gazelles, all in one and one in all—throbbed in his veins and streamed out of his consciousness like a river of sacred waters.

  St. George Catholic Church was packed, for many had come uninvited. Yousif’s valor a week earlier and his short but now-famous romance with Salwa must have caused the sensation, Yousif thought.

  As he walked down the aisle, his mother at his arm and his chest puffed out, Yousif exuded youthful confidence. He considered himself the happiest of men, and he wished all lovers the fulfillment of their dreams. Turning and looking at both sides of the aisle, he could see people whispering and craning their necks. Many women, either in hats or shawls, were dabbing their eyes, seemingly in empathy with his mother. He could see, sitting up front, Salwa’s mellowed cousin, Shafiq, who, only last Sunday, had threatened to tear him apart. He could also see Jamal next to ustaz Saadeh and his wife who were not far from the organ. To his right, Yousif could see Sitt Bahiyyeh, who was beaming at him. He nodded in her direction, making a mental note to invite her for dinner and to drink a toast for all her kindnesses. To his right, he could see his classmates, their eyes lit up with laughter and envy. In the middle of the church he could see Amin with his own parents, and next to them Fatima in her embroidered dress. How young and attractive she looked—and how happy. He could see the mayor (minus his cigar, for a change) and many council members. Even Ghanem Jadallah, the stutterer who had berated Yousif the week before, was there. Yousif could see acquaintances, strangers. Because Basim was not there, Salman had to substitute as the best man. Yousif snickered at seeing his sheepish cousin in suit and tie. Formal wear suited him like a bathing suit on a nun.

  Then she appeared. Salwa was more dazzling than the flood of light which ushered her in from the front entrance. Yousif’s heart pounded. Escorted by her father, she was a vision to behold. She was the only girl he knew whose breathtaking beauty was daily perfecting itself. He felt mystified, even now, at how much he loved her. His chest constricted when he realized how close he had come to losing her. That would have been tantamount to laying him in a casket. For a second he remembered visiting his father’s grave that morning, and he was glad he had. How he wished his father were there to see him getting married.

  Yousif glanced at his mother sitting in the front pew next to Uncle Boulus and Aunt Hilaneh. He appreciated her having exchanged her black shroud for a gray suit. The double strings of white pearls and white earrings seemed to soften her intense mourning. And the white carnation on her chest was, to him, the ultimate emblem of sacrifice. But, Mother, he wanted to tell her, look at Salwa! Wasn’t she beautiful? Too bad their honeymoon would be just for one night in town at al-Rowda Hotel. He wished they were going to Lebanon or Egypt for a whole month. He wanted Salwa to occupy his time—his bed—as much as she had occupied his thoughts. But what was wrong with him? He should be rejoicing not complaining. Seeing Salwa walking down the aisle and getting closer, closer, he felt the luckiest and proudest man on earth. A goddess (what else would you call her?) was walking toward him. Him.

  Two minutes later, Yousif and her father were staring at each other. A moment, charged with emotion, passed between them. Utter faithfulness, Anton’s eyes seemed to demand. Absolutely, Yousif’s eyes replied. What a watershed in their lives, Yousif thought. Yesterday’s enemies were today’s friends. As misty-eyed Anton Taweel handed Salwa over to him, Yousif shook his hand with undying gratitude and a silent promise to be worthy of his daughter. But when Salwa hugged her father and rapped his back fervently, Yousif could hear sniffling in the pews. He had to check his own tears.

  Minutes into the ceremony, Father Mikhail asked Yousif if he would take Salwa as his wedded wife. Yousif’s quick response, “I do,” caused a good-natured ripple of laughter. After all poor Yousif had gone through to get Salwa, the laugh seemed to say, you ask him such a question? Yousif and Salwa held hands and traded looks full of love.

  Much later, Father Mikhail was placing and switching on their heads two crowns. He did it three times. Then he led them and the best man, Salman, and the bridesmaid, Huda, into a procession around the altar. Yousif felt someone tugging
at the bottom of his jacket. He turned around and looked. Aunt Hilaneh had gotten up from her seat and was now “stitching” his tails with a threadless needle. No one had told him she was going to do it.

  “What is she doing?” Salwa whispered, surprised.

  Yousif grinned. “Haven’t you seen it before? It’s an old tradition.”

  “Yes, but what does it mean?”

  “I’ll tell you later.”

  When the wedding ceremony was over, Salwa and Yousif delighted the guests, and especially themselves, with a long kiss. Then they both bent down to embrace and kiss their parents and immediate families and to receive their congratulations. Instantly, all the pity and love and joy and suffering of all those attending burst out in an unprecedented round of applause. The newlyweds strode out glowing like two mortals who had been ordained by God and crowned by the Church for common destiny.

  For the next half hour, and in the shadow of the church, Yousif and Salwa stood in line with their parents and a few close people, to shake hands with the well-wishers. Most of the gifts were of money tucked inside wedding cards or plain envelopes. A few were loose bills. Abla stood behind the bride and groom with a large purse in which she stuffed all gifts. Maha, Basim’s wife, handed out pieces of chocolate and sugar-coated almonds wrapped in twill and tied with a blue ribbon. Were things normal, Yousif thought, there would have been a fancy reception and a seated dinner at a hotel garden. Had his father been living and Palestine at peace, well . . .

  “Mabrook,” everyone said, shaking Yousif’s hand.

  Yousif thanked one and all. But he mainly thanked God—over and over again—that Salwa was his bride.

  That night, Yousif and Salwa drank champagne, compliments of the owners of Al-Rowda Hotel. Al-Andalus Hotel was bigger and plusher, but Yousif deliberately avoided registering there. He didn’t have the heart to check in a hotel managed by Adel Farhat.

  Glasses in hand, Yousif and Salwa stood at a window on the third floor, looking down on the garden below. It was the scene where the fund-raising meeting had been held, where the bombs from the Jewish air raid had fallen. During that raid, Yousif now remembered, the proprietress’s fiancé had been killed. Yousif did not mention it now. Neither did Salwa.

  “That’s where you were knocked down,” Yousif told Salwa, pointing his finger.

  “You mean where the branch almost crushed my back,” Salwa said, smiling. “How can I forget! Especially your lying flat on top of me.”

  “Good thing I did,” Yousif said, savoring the memory.

  “How sweet,” she teased him. “You were simply rescuing me, weren’t you? Like you always do.”

  He put his arm around her. Once more they touched glasses. Once more they kissed, their lips barely open.

  “Tell me about what your aunt Hilaneh was doing at the church,” she reminded him. “What does a needle without a thread going in and out of a garment signify?”

  Yousif smiled but avoided her eyes.

  “Why are you smiling?”

  “It’s what you said. In and out.”

  Salwa looked confused. “I don’t understand. It’s not a religious symbol?”

  “Not really,” he answered.

  “Don’t be so coy. And tell me what it means.”

  “You really want to know?”

  “Would I be asking if I didn’t?”

  “It symbolizes love-making.”

  Salwa blushed. “I don’t believe it. You’re making it up.”

  “No, I’m not. Imagine the act. Then compare it to the motion of a needle without a thread . . . going in and out . . .”

  Salwa seemed to concentrate. “You’re embarrassing me,” she said, walking away from the window.

  “I didn’t mean to. The tradition simply says we wish you lots and lots of sex and lots and lots of children.”

  She put the glass down on the dresser and hurried toward the bathroom. On her way she picked up and carried with her a silk gown she had lain on the edge of the bed. Yousif laughed and poured himself another glass of champagne. They had hardly eaten their dinner, and he shouldn’t be drinking on an empty stomach. But he needed something to steady his nerves. If Salwa only knew, he thought. He was as nervous as she was.

  Then he began to undress, wondering what to do next. Should he keep his underclothing on and wait for her in the middle of the room? Should he get completely naked and wait for her in bed? Well, that depended on how long she would take getting prepared. He removed his shirt, shoes and socks and sat in a chair, contemplating his fortune. The sight of the mountains in the distance made him think of Basim and his men. What was Basim up to that he couldn’t come to his cousin’s wedding? Were they anticipating an attack on Ardallah? Thinking of war made Yousif again wonder how long tonight’s happiness would last. The real honeymoon would have to wait until after the war. But he tried not to get depressed. After all, this was his wedding night. He shut the curtain and turned off the lights. Except one. If Salwa insisted he would turn it off later. But first he had to see her in all her glory.

  He heard the bathroom door open and saw a light. He waited, transfixed. Salwa appeared, wearing a white silk nightgown. He felt a rush in his heart—an explosion of happiness. When he recovered his senses he put his glass down. One of her straps had fallen down her long arm (was it on purpose?) exposing a part of her he had never seen. Her eyes were full of the mystery of an older woman. Her wavy auburn hair was below her shoulder, her skin creamy. Yousif could only imagine how she smelled. He could only imagine how she must feel in his arms. Soon he would know, he kept telling himself. She was his for life. Quickly he shed his pants. He moved toward her like a pilgrim on holy ground. Slowly she dropped the other strap, unfolding before his eyes like Salome. Her breasts beckoned him, like two goblets full of milk and honey. Was he dreaming?

  But when Yousif rose to the challenge and touched them, then drank to his fill, he knew that his mind and body were awake. He also knew that magic had touched his soul.

  27

  War had not been a respecter of Yousif’s wedding. It had even gotten hotter while he and Salwa were on their brief honeymoon. But no progress for either side was discernible on the ground. The crunch was yet to come.

  Eight days after he had been married, Yousif was on his way to Dr. Fareed Afifi’s clinic to see about his father’s clinic. But he ran into a distraction of major proportions. He had to see it, even though he didn’t want to be late for the appointment. He stopped at the Saha, the five-point clearing at the entrance of town. Standing almost on the same spot where he, Amin, and Isaac had watched Jewish spies descend from a yellow bus, Yousif saw now a caravan of army jeeps and trucks overflowing with remnant British soldiers make its last exit from Ardallah.

  Britain’s gradual departure from Palestine had been unceremonial. Over the last few months they had been shutting down camps and transferring authority—almost always in favor of the Jews.

  Now it was May 14—with nine hours left to the British Mandate. Some of the soldiers waved their hands wearily, but the people on the crowded sidewalk cafes paid little attention. Most ignored them, Yousif noticed, except for an elderly man who spat at the sight and a school boy who hurled a stone that fell short of its moving target. The incident caused Yousif to shift focus. Beyond his world was another world “out there” that was just as real, just as tragic.

  Yousif wished Salwa were with him, not at home with his mother, to watch the momentous event unfolding before his eyes. This was the kind of moment they would be telling their children and grandchildren about. History was in the making; cataclysmic changes were in the offing. He was witnessing an end and a beginning—a death and rebirth. He looked up at the blue sky, wondering what the gods had in mind. The din of heavy traffic in his ears, Yousif crossed his fingers, closed his eyes, and offered a silent prayer.

  “Go to hell,” a man shouted, shaking his fist at a departing British wagon full of soldiers wearing shorts. He was a hollow-eyed shopkeeper sta
nding on the sidewalk in front of his newspaper and magazine racks.

  A pastry vendor passing by grunted, “What’s the use!”

  The shopkeeper viewed him angrily. “What did you say?”

  “Shaking a fist now is a bit too late,” the vendor answered, clanking his castanets to draw attention to his piping hot hareeseh.

  “The sight of them makes me sick.”

  “Have no fear,” the peddler said, smirking. “Our brethren Arabs will save the day.”

  “That’s a laugh,” the shopkeeper replied, walking toward his counter.

  Yousif recognized the irony of the unobtrusive folding down and pulling out of the British. It contrasted dramatically with the end of World War I when they’d been welcomed as conquerors who helped the Arabs liberate their land from the hated Turks. Then Arab men and women had met them at the outskirts of towns—singing, dancing, throwing flowers. Yousif had heard about General Allenby’s entry into Jerusalem—and of the Arabs’ regard for him as a hero. People still talked about his humility and depth of faith. He had refused to enter Jerusalem on horseback and would not wave any sword like a conqueror.

  Yousif could remember other happy days for the British in Palestine. How could he forget the mile after mile of British armored tanks passing through Ardallah during World War II when he was still in elementary school? Students had lined up for several days along the highways to watch the olive-colored tanks rumble past. Yousif smiled now as he recalled an Arab gamine, about thirteen years old, who had scandalized her family and the whole town for winning so many rides from soldiers only too eager to have her sit in their laps. Whatever happened to that family? Yousif now wondered.

  Yousif also remembered the white horse on which young Princess Elizabeth—or was it Margaret?—had ridden in Ardallah during one of the Royal Family’s visits. Oh, how the people had talked then of the splendor and majesty of this young girl who was in line to the British throne. They were particularly fond of a rumor—neither confirmed nor denied—that the teenage princess had fed her horse nothing but chocolate. Those days of British glory were eclipsed by the dismal present. Now Arabs shouted and swore openly at their former rulers. How times had changed, Yousif thought.