On the Hills of God

by Fawal, Ibrahim

  “Hurray for the Arab Legion,” Basim shouted, wobbling above the uneven shoulders of those carrying him.

  The valley resounded with shouts of joy.

  “This is the best news yet,” Basim continued. “We need good news.”

  “YEEESSS,” the crowd roared.

  “Cheers for the brave,” Basim shouted, his arms up in the air, “the liberators of Al-Quds—the Holy City.”

  Yousif could see his cousin was whipping up the crowd to a frenzy.

  “But I have a question to ask,” Basim continued, his mood now serious. “If the Arab Legion can occupy Old Jerusalem overnight, why has it been playing for the last two weeks? For the last two weeks both sides have been locked in a tug-of-war. Suddenly—boom—and Al-Quds is in our hands. What does this tell us?”

  Like the rest of the five or six hundred men and women, Yousif waited in total suspense. Again, Salwa squeezed his hand.

  “Two things. First, that someone has been holding back the valiant army from carrying out its sacred duty. Could it possibly be the one nicknamed Abu Honake, the Englishman who heads the Arab Legion? An Englishman commanding one of our armies is an abomination. Is Abu Honake taking orders from London itself? I smell a plot—a collusion. Someone is bargaining behind our back.”

  “For sure,” Salwa screamed.

  “Second,” Basim went on above the sound of the crowd, “it should tell us that the Arab Legion is a strong army, capable of dealing the Zionists a heavy blow. Let it get on with its work. Let al-battal Abdullah Tell have a free hand. Let him lead his brave men and occupy the whole city—old and new. Don’t you agree?”

  Clenched fists went up in the air. “YEEESSS!” the crowd screamed.

  Basim waved his arms for the crowd to settle down and hear him out. “The message we want to send to Amman is this: Victory can be ours. The great Arab Legion can win. Either stop playing politics or stop those who are. Whoever is playing games must stop. Don’t hold back the army. For Allah’s sake, for the sake of our national honor, and for the sake of our security—capture and hold all of Jerusalem.”

  “YEEESSS!” the crowd screamed again.

  “And when the Jews start begging for a truce—for a lull in the fighting—don’t listen.”

  “NO TRUCE,” the crowd howled.

  “Don’t let the Jews trick us. Let their appeal to the United Nations for a halt in fighting go unanswered. Or better still, answer it with the sound of cannons. Pound them until they surrender.”

  “YEEESSS!” the crowd shouted.

  “If we agree to a truce, they’ll use the time as a breathing spell to retrench, to rearm, to come back at us with fury. And we’re not majaneen.”

  “No, we’re not majaneen,” the crowd echoed. “We’re not crazy.”

  “Go on winning,” Basim exhorted, “until total victory is ours.”

  “YEEESSS!” the crowd responded as Basim got down and disappeared.

  Holding Salwa’s hand, Yousif pushed his way through the crowd trying to get hold of his cousin. There were things he wanted to discuss with him, things to tell him. But Basim had vanished.

  28

  The fighting raged on around Gaza, Galilee, and Jerusalem. But the truce Basim had alluded to did in fact turn out to be in the works. The United Nations’ Count Folke Bernadotte was trying to arrange for a thirty-day cease-fire. The Arab masses were horrified. Yousif, however, was ambivalent. On the one hand, he was for a truce if it might lead to negotiations and peaceful solution. On the other hand, he could find no hint that the combatants would actually sit down and talk.

  Day after day Yousif became more convinced that the Jews seemed poised to accept. The Arab leaders, however, were staunchly and—for once—unanimously opposed. News bulletins from Cairo, Baghdad, Amman, Beirut, Damascus, and all Arab capitals were shrill in warning against any kind of truce.

  A week after Basim’s oration in the marketplace, Yousif sat down to eat lunch. As he scooped a tablespoon of rice and fassoolia, one of the first meals his bride had attempted under the supervision of his mother, his eyes devoured the editorial page of Al-Jihad newspaper. He read:

  We will be the biggest fools on earth if we fall for a gimmick they are calling “truce.” The so-called-Israelis are realizing that they have no staying power against our valiant soldiers. Now they want a “breathing spell.”

  If we allow them to have it at this crucial time, we will be facing a formidable enemy when the fighting is resumed. But if we continue to fight for a few more weeks, they will be hollering “ya khali, ya ‘ammi”—as our man on the street would say.

  Common sense will tell you that you do not take your foot off your enemy’s neck until he “cries uncle.” If we have patience, if we give our commanders and soldiers a free hand to fight in the tradition of our mighty warriors, we will savor victory.

  And the Zionists will have learned never again to make the preposterous claim that Palestine is theirs but not ours.

  But if we let the United Nations bamboozle us into accepting what they are tooting as a respite, we will deserve to be defeated. The fact that so-called Israel instigated the “truce” should tell us something. It should tell us that she is in trouble and we should not let her off the hook. Not until Palestine is free of her aggression.

  Reject the truce we must. After all, who would want to listen to the counsel of the West, which is responsible for the Balfour Declaration? Who would want to dignify what the United Nations says—that body of ignoramuses who dared to partition our land?

  Arabs everywhere, beware! Ring the alarm bells!

  Leaders—are you listening? Say no to truce. Say yes to victory. Future generations will either bless you or curse you for what you do now. Let not the West—that unchallenged master of deceit—rob us of a victory that any blind man can see is within our grasp.

  Yousif finished gulping his lunch, anxious to get out. He needed to talk about the prospect of a truce with someone who knew more than he did. Besides, Salwa was busy with his mother, trying to learn how to be a homemaker.

  Passing his high school, he decided to drop in on the principal, ustaz Saadeh. One of the best-informed men in town, the principal just might be able to explain the ramifications of the rumored truce.

  “For us, it would be a colossal disaster,” the principal predicted.

  Ustaz Saadeh was watering the jasmine pot on the window sill of his office, overlooking the soccer field, when Yousif walked in. Now that he was through caring for his plant, he went back to his desk and sat down.

  “What puzzles me is that the truce is not coupled with negotiations,” Yousif said. “If they’re going to talk about hammering out an agreement then it’s okay. But—”

  Ustaz Saadeh smiled a thin smile. “That’s not what it’s intended for.”

  “What then?” Yousif asked.

  “To improve the Jews’ chances,” ustaz Saadeh answered, picking up his briefcase and putting it on his lap. “They still control Haifa and Jaffa, but on the whole the Jews aren’t winning. They’ve been repulsed at Lydda and Ramleh. They’ve been repulsed at Latrun. They’ve lost Dejania in the north, not to mention Old Jerusalem. And don’t forget that New Jerusalem, the largest Jewish population outside Tel Aviv, is still under siege. Their loudspeakers can be heard every day, begging for help. They seem to be running out of food and water. How long can this go on? If the war continues a few more weeks, Jerusalem is certain to fall. And so will the rest of Palestine. And it will all be ours.”

  Yousif waited for a different punch line. “So?” he said.

  “It’s not in the script, my boy,” ustaz Saadeh said, emptying his brief case on his desk. “The script calls for the biggest plum in the pudding to go to the Jews. It’s not happening. So stop the cameras and reshoot the scene.”

  “And we’re going to fall for it?” Yousif asked. “If we continue to have the upper hand maybe the Jews will come to their senses and negotiate.”

  The principal shook his
head, his smile as sunny as his office. “Yousif, listen to me. This piece of theater has been written over the last half century. Who gets what is preordained on paper. Now they must put it on the ground. No matter what it takes.”

  “You mean the Jews?”

  “No, I mean the West. Listen, Yousif. Jews were murdered in Germany by the millions. Now Jews are vulnerable in Palestine. You think the world is going to sit by and let them lose?”

  “The West persecuted the Jews. We didn’t.”

  “Well, of course. And not only the Germans. The Russians, Spanish, French, and British before them. Britain threw them out for centuries. America won’t even let them join her country clubs. Your father and I were in America and we know all about their gentlemen’s agreement. Now they’re all saints—lecturing us on how to behave. If rescuing the Jewish state means stopping the war and resupplying the Haganah with arms, under the guise of a truce, then there is going to be a truce.”

  “How phony,” Yousif said.

  “The whole world is phony,” the principal said, growing solemn.

  “But our leaders are against the truce,” Yousif argued.

  “So what?”

  “The UN can’t make us accept the truce if we don’t want it.”

  “Then it will be imposed.”

  “We’ll resist.”

  “Be realistic. We’re in no position to do a damn thing. Remember, we’re not fighting the Jews. The Jews we can handle. It’s the big powers we have to worry about. They’re strong and we’re weak. For example: what can King Abdullah do when his government’s entire budget comes from Britain? The salaries of his soldiers, his post office clerks, his teachers, his cabinet—all these salaries come in a package of twenty-five million pounds a year. And don’t forget his army. All his guns and all his ammunition come from Britain. Even his top officers and the head of the army himself are British. Without this subsidy, the king will be running his kingdom on empty. If Britain wants him to have a truce—and it does—then he’ll have a truce. As simple as that.”

  Yousif’s throat went dry. “Then the Mandate isn’t over,” he said.

  “The Mandate is over—but not Colonialism. Or even the Crusades. So-called-Israel will be the new European outpost.”

  “I thought it was the Jews who are using the West,” Yousif said.

  “Maybe they are. And maybe the West is using the Jews. Time will tell. What’s clear is this: no matter who is using whom—we are being had. In plain Arabic, Palestine as we know it is doomed. Who knows—maybe one day a strong Arab will rise and unite us. Maybe then, and only then, will we be able to redeem ourselves.”

  Yousif was impatient. “We can’t sit and wait. We have to organize.”

  The principal seemed to scrutinize his face. “Maybe we can—and I commend you for thinking that we should. But right now I’m afraid we’re whistling in the wind.”

  Yousif’s Adam’s apple rose up and down. “Then you expect the truce to come about?”

  “It’s a given,” ustaz Saadeh said. “I expect an announcement any day. But here’s the rub: while we’re sitting on our butts and gloating over our few minor successes, the Zionists will take advantage of the truce. They’ll break the blockade of Jerusalem ‘for humanitarian reasons.’ And their European allies will send them one arms shipment after another.”

  Yousif felt jolted. “Maybe we’re losing round one,” he said, coming out of a mental fog. “There’s still hope. Men like Basim and Abdullah Tell and Fawzi al-Qutub and Jmai’an and al-Rousan and ustaz Hakim aren’t going to lie down and die. They’ll find a way to fight back. Basim said so, and I believe him.”

  Ustaz Saadeh moved a piece of candy in his mouth, his round face ruddy. “It’s not a matter of patriotism or courage. I’ll put any Arab soldier, not just the ones you mentioned, against a dozen Jews any time. One on one the Jew doesn’t have a chance. But there’s a lot more to it than that. Our numerical superiority and our staying power will have no bearing on the outcome.”

  “Because of the international conspiracy?” Yousif asked.

  “Which is nothing to sneeze at,” the principal explained, nodding. “Important matters are being discussed behind the scenes—in chambers and corridors and across polished mahogany tables. The real battles have been fought and won in foreign capitals. Your father understood all this.”

  Suddenly Yousif was thrown back in time. He missed his father, who had fallen victim of such convictions.

  No sunlight could penetrate the gloom that hovered over their heads.

  “That’s why I’m sorry you’re not going abroad to complete your education,” the principal said, reclining in his swivel chair.

  “Why?” Yousif asked.

  “Because you need to be ready for round two, to use your own words,” his teacher told him, leaning on his elbow and chewing his lower lip. “Oh, I’m sure we’re going to put up a resistance of some sort. But such things could go on for years. You need to get your education first. Then you can come back and fight the Zionists with your brain—not your muscle. Not your gun. That’s how they fought us and that’s how they’re still fighting us. By using their brains.”

  Yousif rose to his feet. “You’re beginning to sound like my father.”

  “Allah yirhamu,” ustaz Saadeh said, his voice low. “One of the regrets of my life is having opposed him over the hospital money. He wasn’t only good—he was wise.”

  Yousif smiled at his father’s vindication. But as he left, his heart was heavy.

  Late that afternoon, Yousif was telling his mother and Salwa and Jihan about his principal’s dispassionate appraisal. While the three were enveloped in uncertainty, Izzat and Hiyam returned, their arms entwined. Yousif’s heart leaped. But Izzat’s face was paler than usual. Instead of greeting those in the house, Izzat stood at the door of the living room, looking like someone who had just lost his brother.

  “What is it?” Yousif asked.

  Izzat’s lips twitched. “Both sides have accepted the truce.”

  Though expecting it, Yousif felt suddenly drained. “It really happened?” he asked, turning on the radio. “Where did you hear it?”

  “On the news. The whole town is talking about it.”

  “Did they set a date?” Salwa asked, worried.

  “June 11 through July 9,” Izzat answered. “It starts this coming Friday at 10 o’clock.”

  “Jesus!” Yousif exclaimed.

  “What did we do that for?” Jihan Afifi asked, her face blanched. “The Jews were losing. Now they could rearm.”

  “We didn’t accept it just because we’re foolish,” Yousif’s mother said. “God knows what threats and promises the big powers used to turn us around.”

  Jihan put out her cigarette and got up. Her husband would be very upset, she said. She picked up her navy-blue purse and left, as if her departure would ward off an oncoming disaster. Salwa saw her to the door, then returned, biting her fingernails. Yasmin stared out the window. Hiyam and Izzat sat on the sofa like two statues. The words of ustaz Saadeh rushed to Yousif’s mind. Maybe they were watching a play. The curtain had just come down on Act I. The suspense during this intermission would be taut, chilling.

  On June 11, both sides honored an agreement to stop fighting for thirty days. Long before Abdullah Tell signed for the Arabs and David Shlatiel for the Jews, the Arabs—including Yousif—were highly suspicious of each other’s motives.

  Again, Yousif read and heard about Arabs demonstrating against the truce. Again he began to read about unilateral violations by the so-called-Israelis.

  One evening, two weeks later, Yousif and Salwa were sitting with Hiyam and Izzat on the balcony.

  “What I want to know is this,” Salwa said. “Since Israel is violating the truce, why do we have to honor it? Opening a new road and sending convoys to Jerusalem is clearly a violation. Why do we let them do it?”

  Because that was not in the script, Yousif wanted to tell her. But he was too overwhelmed by the e
vents to answer. His thoughts were interrupted by Izzat, who was turning the pages of a newspaper he was reading.

  “The harbors of Haifa and Jaffa,” Izzat read, “are buzzing with Zionists unloading arms shipments. They are not wasting a minute resupplying themselves. Loads and loads of mortars, machine guns, Sten guns are being shipped every day. Enough dynamite is being brought in to blow up Palestine over a hundred times.”

  Hiyam crossed her legs in anger. “In the meantime we’re napping.”

  “Says who?” Yousif asked, sacrastic. “The Egyptians in Gaza are reading al-baakooka—the comic strips.”

  “Enough to make one puke,” Salwa said.

  Thirty days later, on July 9, the truce ended. It ended, Yousif knew, because Count Bernadotte’s attempt at further mediation had failed. The Swede had drawn a new partition map which both sides rejected. The Arabs rejected it because partition by any other name was still a partition. To them the concept was unfair. The idea of establishing a Jewish state on Arab land was unthinkable. For their part, the Israelis rejected it because the count had parceled out the Negev and Jerusalem to the Arabs.

  Now, Yousif knew, the Zionists were anxious to resume fighting. Why shouldn’t they, he thought, now that they had tripled their strength? During the last month, they had enough time to train another army and to equip it with the best Europe and America had to offer. Within days, the Zionists broke through the blockade of Jerusalem. Now Ramleh and Lydda, two Arab strongholds near Jaffa—only fifteen miles west of Ardallah—were threatened.

  One morning Yousif and Salwa sat in the living room listening to the news and drinking coffee.

  “Before the truce,” Yousif said, “the Arab Legion checked the Zionists’ advances against Lydda and Ramleh. Now they’re receiving fresh and deadlier attacks.”

  “Why not?” Salwa answered. “The Zionists have recovered their initiative. They’re now much stronger and far more daring.”