On the Hills of God

by Fawal, Ibrahim

  The appointment at Dr. Afifi’s office was at 4:00 but Yousif was fifteen minutes early. He couldn’t stand being late. Dr. Afifi was supposed to introduce him to Dr. Tuffaha, a classmate and now an exile from Haifa, to talk about the future of his father’s clinic. Nurse Maria had promised to join them. To Yousif’s surprise, all three were there waiting for him to arrive.

  Dr. Tuffaha had bushy white hair and freckles that covered his hands and face. But what struck Yousif most about him was his heavy breathing. Even when he was silent he sounded like a nergileh being sucked on by an addict.

  After the introduction, Yousif noticed something a bit unusual. Dr. Afifi’s small radio had been set conspicuously in the middle of his desk. Also, it was a bit loud for background music. Even while they talked about terms and conditions for leasing the clinic, the radio continued to make its presence felt.

  Yousif agreed to a month-to-month lease, at fifty pounds a month. Then he added one stipulation: the new management must keep Nurse Laila on the payroll.

  “She’s been with my father for over five years,” Yousif said, “and I don’t want her to start looking for a job now.”

  “We could probably use her,” Dr. Tuffaha said, looking at Maria. “What do you think?”

  “Most likely we’ll need her,” Maria said.

  At that point the music got too loud and Dr. Afifi had to turn it down a little.

  “We heard there’s going to be an important announcement on the Jewish station,” Dr. Afifi explained to Yousif, who seemed bewildered by the intrusion.

  Yousif looked at his watch. It was 3:50. They all expected David Ben Gurion to declare the establishment of a Jewish state. But that was to happen soon after midnight—right after the British had left.

  “What could it be?” Yousif wondered.

  “Only the Devil knows what the Zionists are up to now,” Maria commented, her purse in her lap.

  “We’ll soon find out,” Dr. Tuffaha said, putting out one cigarette and lighting up another.

  At four o’clock sharp they heard David Ben Gurion’s first few words in Hebrew, then a translation of the Jewish Proclamation of Independence. “The Land of Israel was the birthplace of the Jewish people . . .”

  “Israel?” Dr. Afifi said. “Is that what they’re going to call it?”

  “Could be,” Dr. Tuffaha said, shrugging his shoulder.

  “I was betting on Zion.”

  “They can call it Hell for all I care,” Dr. Tuffaha said, pulling on his cigarette.

  “But can they do that now?” Maria asked, looking at her watch. “Technically the British Mandate is still on.”

  It was Friday, Yousif remembered. The Jews were probably doing it eight hours early on account of their Sabbath. He tried to explain but was interrupted.

  “Shh,” Dr. Tuffaha said, leaning forward and listening.

  “The recent holocaust,” the translator continued, “which engulfed millions of Jews in Europe, proved anew the need to solve the problem of the homeless—”

  “Oh sure,” Dr. Afifi said, rolling his eyes, “you solve one problem by creating another one just like it. What are we going to do about our homeless?”

  The screams of those at the cafe below reminded Yousif of the anger that had followed the decision to partition Palestine.

  “Allahu Akbar,” someone hollered.

  A few bullets rang out and Yousif and all those with him rushed to the window. A tall, angry young man was standing in the middle of the clogged narrow street, pointing his revolver heavenward and still firing.

  “Listen!” Yousif said, back to the radio.

  “We hereby proclaim the establishment of the Jewish state in Palestine to be called Medinath Israel—The State of Israel—”

  I-S-R-A-E-L!!!

  The name scratched Yousif’s body and soul like a steel brush on a tin sheet. It burned his ears like acid. The sweetest name on earth, Palestine, was to be replaced—at least in half the country—by a name so alien to him, so indigestible.

  “In the midst of wanton aggression,” the translator went on, “we yet call upon the Arab inhabitants of the State of Israel to preserve the ways of peace and play their part in the development of the State, on the basis of full and equal citizenship and due representation in all its bodies and institutions—provisional and permanent.”

  “WHAT A LIE!” Maria and Dr. Tuffaha said in unison.

  “Tell it to the survivors of Deir Yasin,” Yousif said.

  “Even when they quote the Balfour Declaration they lie,” the freckled doctor said, hissing like a punctured tube. “After it says ‘His Majesty’s Government views with favor the establishment in Palestine of a national home for the Jewish people,’” Dr. Tuffaha elaborated, “it goes on to say ‘it being understood that nothing shall be done which may prejudice the civil and religious rights of the non-Jewish communities in Palestine . . .’ And what do our civilized, compassionate, moral, innocent, new Jewish neighbors do? They massacre a couple of villages and chase out tens of thousands from Jaffa and Haifa. That’s what.”

  “God knows what else they have in store for us,” Maria wondered.

  Yousif wondered, too, feeling chilled.

  Next day everybody was reading the newspapers. Yousif bought Falastin from old man Mussroor, who was carrying a big bundle of newspapers and shouting, “Last day of British Mandate . . . Last day of British Mandate.” Izzat scurried with others and got Ad-difaa’ from a younger peddler standing in front of Cinema Firyal screaming, “Earth-shaking events. Read all about them.”

  With hearts pumping, Yousif and Izzat sat at Zahrawi’s Cafe and devoured the news. Yousif read about the Jewish meeting which had been held the day before at a museum on Dizengoff Street in Tel Aviv, where Ben Gurion had read the declaration for the establishment of a provisional government. He read about the British commissioner, Sir Alan Cunningham, who had left last night one hour before schedule. The reporter commented, “Instead of leaving at midnight, the commissioner miscalculated the time, bungled the last British act in Palestine, and left one hour early. It is a fitting close to a sorry mandate—one clouded with one mistake after another.” He read about the Arab Armies which had begun to slip into Palestine during the night. He read about the Egyptians’ raid on Tel Aviv. His heart pumped even faster, begrudgingly recalling an Arabic proverb, in ma ‘ikret ma sifyet, meaning that things had to get worse before they got any better.

  Yousif looked for statistics. He could find no new breakdown in numbers summing up Arab and Jewish strengths. The newspaper rustling in his hands, he recalled estimates that had left him unsettled. Whereas five Arab countries were lining up together in the fighting, each of them was willing to commit only a portion of her troops. These five Arab countries (Egypt, Jordan, Lebanon, Syria, and Iraq) would be engaging an army the Zionists had built under the eyes and nose of the British Mandate.

  Yousif knew that Egypt was ruled by a corrupt playboy who cared more about his belly dancers than his armed forces. Lebanon was too tiny and fragile to make much of a contribution. The few hundred men she would post at her borders with northern Palestine would be only symbolic. Syria (like Lebanon) had only become independent from the French two years earlier. Her total armed forces were no more than three thousand men. The one battle-ready army that could make a difference was Jordan’s Arab Legion. But how many of its ten thousand men would its British commander, Glubb Pasha, be willing to send to the front? That was the question most people asked. That was the question to which Yousif, and Salwa for sure, wanted an answer. Of all Arab regimes, Jordan and Iraq (ruled by the same Hashemites) were the “friendliest” to Britain. Would they oppose her policies? Could they even if they wanted to?

  Bearing these facts in mind, Yousif felt uneasy as he turned over the pages of his newspaper. The Arabs were putting on a show the world would view as high drama. Egypt’s Prime Minister, Mahmoud Nokrashy Pasha, had wanted to stay out of the war altogether. In reality the Arab regimes were ratt
ling sabers to please the masses—but reluctant to fight. A case of a drum without sound. Or a sound without fury.

  One item in particular caught Yousif’s attention. It was Truman’s swift recognition of the new Jewish State.

  “Six minutes after Ben Gurion finished reading his speech. Can you believe it?” Yousif asked, putting down the paper.

  “Even against the advice of his own State Department,” Izzat answered.

  “He wants to win reelection so bad he can taste it. What does he care about you and me?”

  Similar sentiments were being expressed all around them. Men cursed. Others swore. One player shut the backgammon box with a bang.

  Suddenly there was an excited roar and then the sound of gravel like bones being crushed under the feet of running men. Coming down the street before them was the first convoy of Jordanian soldiers, all of them wearing on their heads red and white hattas. They were riding in a score of Land Rovers and army trucks. Everyone, including Yousif, jumped to his feet and stood on a stone wall to watch the happiest sight in years. Palestinians clapped. Jordanian soldiers, mostly Bedouins—short, lean, dark, dressed in ankle-length desert robes, and wearing long hair or goatees—waved back. But where were the tanks and half-tracks, Yousif wondered? Where were the cannons?

  “Ahlan . . . ahlan,” Yousif heard the crowd cheering. “Most welcome.”

  “At long last!” Izzat screamed.

  Yousif was uncertain. The prospect of a full-scale war did not thrill him. But he did hope it wasn’t too late to recapture Haifa and Jaffa. Perhaps there would be no more Deir Yasins. Perhaps no more cities would fall. Yousif hoped for a quick solution; otherwise, it could get bloodier.

  Izzat slapped him on the shoulder, grinning. Yousif was nervous, but he grinned back. Maybe there was something to cheer about, he thought. Soon the Syrians and Lebanese and Iraqis and Egyptians would enter. Maybe their arrival would sober up the Zionists. He couldn’t wait for peaceful life to return to Ardallah. Then he and Salwa would live in a normal world.

  The following week, Yousif observed, was the most eventful in the history of the Arab-Jewish conflict. Now that the Arab armies were actually on the ground engaging the enemy, the Palestinians were buoyed by high hopes. Ben Gurion just might have to tear up that piece of paper and forget about Hertzl’s cockeyed dream. But the optimism did not last long.

  Seventy-six hours after the creation of Israel, Russia shocked Palestinians by recognizing Israel. The Arabs were trapped, Yousif heard people say. To make things worse, the fighting was not going well.

  During the day, Yousif would spend his time reading, listening to the radio, and hearing people exchange information and rumors. Late in the afternoon, he would gather the provisions and head for the mountains to feed the watchmen. In the evening, he would visit his Uncle Boulus’s house where the whole neighborhood would gather to rehash the news of the last twenty-four hours. Sometimes he and Salwa would hold court at his own house, as his parents had done. Izzat and Hiyam were always there, and so was Amin. Occasionally new arrivals from Haifa and Jaffa would join them—those who were now renting in the neighborhood.

  “The Egyptians are really pushing,” Izzat said, as they sat one starry night on the balcony. “They’re about twenty-five miles south of Tel Aviv.”

  “The Iraqis are about to cut off Tel Aviv from Haifa,” Hiyam added, clinging to her husband. “If they keep it up we should be all right.”

  Yousif was not convinced. “But the Lebanese and Syrians aren’t doing much in the north.”

  “They captured Dajania in Galilee,” Izzat argued. “And almost captured Acre. That’s not bad.”

  “Not enough,” Amin said. “And then the Jordanians? What have they done?”

  “So far nothing,” Yousif admitted.

  “What do you mean nothing?” Hiyam said. “Glubb Pasha has his headquarters at Grand Hotel in Ramallah. He and his British commanders are drinking scotch and soda.”

  Several laughed. Yousif had not realized that Hiyam had a sense of humor.

  “Hiyam and Amin are right,” Salwa said. “When are they going to start? After all, the Arab Armies are all under King Abdullah’s command. How can he order other armies around when he isn’t committing his own?”

  An uneasy silence hovered over the balcony. “He must have his reasons,” Yousif offered. But deep down he knew that any excuse was a lame one.

  So far the Jordanians themselves had not achieved any victories to speak of. But suddenly, a few days later, the Arab Legion began for the first time to unleash power that the so-called-Israelis had not seen before or even anticipated. The Arab masses, including Yousif, were elated. Yousif believed the quicker the victory the shorter the war. That meant fewer casualties on both sides.

  The Jordanians’ barrage terrified Jerusalem. Yousif and Salwa and their friends could not believe the sudden change. The whole of Arab Palestine was feverish with hope. Unexpectedly King Abdullah’s Arab Legion tightened the grip on Jerusalem to the point of strangling its Jewish inhabitants. One newspaper account after another spoke of Jordanian artillery pounding Jewish strongholds. Photographs of Jordanian soldiers riding Jerusalem’s ancient walls and aiming their guns on Jewish targets thrilled Arab readers. After a week of letting the Jews have their way, and leaving the defense of the Holy City to the Mufti’s irregulars, the Jordanian army dealt the Zionists one blow after another. For a start they recaptured Mandelbaum Gate and Notre-Dame Hospice, then they seized kibbutz Kfar Etzion.

  Now that the war was on, Yousif wanted to win. He followed the news with hunger. He read about the Jordanians who without the benefit of an air force were rendering the enemy helpless. From Shaykh Jarrah they blasted Jewish homes in Musrarah and convoys to Hadassah Hospital. From Mount Olive they hit the Jewish fortifications on the campus of Hebrew University on Mount Scopus. From the Muslim Quarter inside the old city they bombarded the Jewish Quarter. From Zion Gate they devastated Shamma’a. In many instances hand-to-hand fighting spread from street to street, from door to door. Soon the old walled city was well within the Jordanians’ grasp.

  Everywhere Yousif went he heard about new heroes. At the baker’s shop where he picked up a hundred loaves of pita bread, he heard about Fawzi al-Qutub, born and raised in Jerusalem, the private citizen who with the help of a few friends blasted the Jerusalem Post, bombed Ben Yahuda Street, and leveled the Jewish Agency.

  “Long live Fawzi al-Qutub,” said the flour-covered Abul Banat.

  At the grocery, where he picked up bushels of cucumbers, tomatoes, and apples, Yousif heard about Abdullah Tell, the Jordanian colonel, who was dealing havoc to the Jews of old Jerusalem.

  “We need a few more like him,” the grocer Abu Husni said, helping Yousif load up his car.

  That night on one of the hilltops where Basim was staying, Yousif heard the men talk about the defenders not only of Jerusalem but of Latrun—where the Trappist monks had their monastery. But the Jordanian army was there, too, punching with all its military power.

  Basim seemed to know many of the Jordanian officers. When he spoke of them his face was aglow. “Emile Jmai’an and Mahmoud al-Rousan repulsed the Jewish invaders three times,” he boasted. “They are writing history with unbridled courage.”

  On another hill Yousif learned that Rassass and his British friend, George Pinkley, had gone to join Abdullah Tell in the attack on Jerusalem. Two days later they had been joined by ustaz Hakim. The hills of Ardallah were too quiet for those three.

  But could the Arabs keep up the momentum, Yousif wondered? After all, Sarafand and its military camp had fallen into the hands of the Zionists, as had Acre after a long siege. Also, northern Palestine and the coastal areas were firmly held by the enemy.

  During one of their walks, Yousif and Salwa crossed the marketplace. The little square was jammed with people, many more than usual. The newlyweds looked at each other, puzzled. What had happened? People were gathered in front of Darweesh Cafe listening to the radio. More
people joined the crowd.

  “Jordan’s Legion Army has occupied East Jerusalem,” the newscaster told them.

  The crowd went crazy. Fists went up. Headdresses were thrown in the air.

  “Shh,” they told each other so they could listen.

  “King Abdullah’s valiant army has conquered the old city of Jerusalem. It has fiercely battled on the rooftops and in the blind alleys, and methodically destroyed the last pockets of Zionist resistance.”

  The crowd cheered. Even the announcer’s voice became more ecstatic.

  “Two rabbis were seen walking through the dust and smoke carrying the white flag of surrender. The Zionist remnants have been flushed out. Many of them have been seen fleeing outside the walls of the Old City. King Abdullah’s brave army has cut off the supply lines to the Jewish underground in Jerusalem. The Tel Aviv-Jerusalem road has been blocked, making the Jewish surrender in the holy city of Al-Quds highly imminent. The leader of the Jewish Quarter himself, Rabbi Mordechai Weingarten, will sign the documents of surrender before al-battal Abdullah Tell.”

  The crowd cheered in unison. “Al-battal Abdullah Tell . . . Al-battal Abdullah Tell,” shook the valley.

  “Wow!!!” Yousif said. “Abdullah Tell might pull us through.”

  “I always knew there’s a god,” Salwa said, squeezing his hand.

  Suddenly, Yousif heard Basim’s voice. But he could not see him. Momentarily, Yousif saw him being carried on the shoulders of four or five men. The crowd hushed in anticipation. The memory of Basim’s speech on November 29, the year before, flooded Yousif’s mind. On that black day, the United Nations had passed the resolution to partition Palestine.