On the Hills of God

by Fawal, Ibrahim

  “Luckily,” Abla said, her hair stringy, “I’m still breast-feeding the baby. If it weren’t for my milk I think the two kids would have died. I know they would’ve. I even wet my fingers with my own milk and passed it on to Salman. I’m sorry Yousif, I don’t mean to embarrass you, but it’s true. I squirted a few drops and passed them on to Salman. Then I licked my own palm.”

  Truly embarrassed, Yousif looked away. He remembered what the old woman had told him: “There’s no shame in the face of death.”

  “Milk is better than urine,” Yousif muttered, picking a pebble and throwing it.

  Yasmin stirred, then opened her eyes. Seeing Salman and his family around her, she became flustered and tried to sit up.

  “Oh, my God, you’re here,” Yasmin said, overcome with emotion. “How are you, darlings?”

  “As expected,” Abla told her, fiddling with her daughter’s hair.

  “Have you seen Maha?” Yasmin asked, anxious. “Or my brother Boulus?”

  Abla shook her head. “But I saw your tenants. Is it true about the rape?”

  Yousif nodded, rocking the baby in his arms. Salman’s eyes were fixed on the far horizon.

  “Pull yourself together,” his wife admonished him. “You can’t go on like this.”

  Salman toyed with his thumbs. “Two days ago,” he said, breaking the silence, “I bought five hundred pounds’ worth of goods. I stocked the shop up to the ceiling.” There was a tremor in his voice.

  “You didn’t know this was going to happen,” Abla consoled her husband. “And it’s not as if we’ll be gone forever. We’ll be back.”

  Salman shook his head, looking glum.

  “Sure we’ll be back,” Abla insisted. “My God, don’t you think—?”

  “Who’s going to take us back?” Yousif sneered. “The Arab armies?”

  “Why not?” Abla challenged him.

  “Look at the evidence,” Yousif said, casting his eyes on the multitude of displaced people.

  “This is temporary,” she explained.

  Salman seemed to be in another world. “And all that cash under the mattress,” he muttered. “I remembered it at the door. But the soldier wouldn’t let me go back. I bet he found it.”

  “Allah will provide,” his wife said, rubbing the length of his tense spine. “Let’s be thankful we escaped the fate of Deir Yasin.”

  “That’s the first thing that crossed my mind,” Yasmin said. She then repeated how Hiyam had been raped. And for the third or fourth time, Yousif guessed, she related how he, Yousif, had gone inside to free his birds, how she heard two gunshots and thought he had been killed.

  “Money isn’t everything,” Yasmin added. “Property isn’t either. Thank God we’re all safe. Thank God none of the children are hurt.”

  Late that afternoon, the sun began to set behind them. The shadows on the facing cliffs were getting long, promising relief from the heat. Yousif’s mother was now breathing regularly. At least Salman was not sulking. They all felt hungry, but thirst was more of a problem. Yousif rose to look for some water. With luck he might find Maha—or Salwa’s family. Suddenly he remembered Jamal and felt ashamed for not having thought of him earlier. Could a blind man possibly be forced to make such a journey? That would be cruel—but knowing the enemy, he put nothing past them.

  “Stay right here,” Yousif said to Salwa and the rest.

  “Where are you going?” Salwa asked, anxious.

  “To look around. Maybe I’ll find someone we know. But if you move, we may get separated.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Salwa said, rising with new energy.

  Standing up, Yousif surveyed the scene for landmarks. He chose to go backward, and began to climb the mountain he had earlier descended. Salwa followed him. He waited for her and let her drape her arm around his neck. The clusters of people here and there reminded him of the religious picnic of Sitna Miriam. Here, however, the mood was not festive. Children were not playing. Here were gloomy people, some in their pajamas and nightgowns. Those in traditional costumes blended best with the terrain. Yousif and Salwa explored the area carefully, wishing for as little as a puddle of dirty water or a blade of grass. There was none.

  Those they met were equally desperate. Yousif saw a big rock to his right and was able to push it—looking for what, he didn’t know. As it began to roll down the hill, he worried it might hurt someone—but soon it stopped. The brown dirt under it looked a bit damp. Amazed at his own excitement, he let go of Salwa’s arm and bent down. He dug his fingers and scooped a handful. He looked to see if someone other than Salwa were watching. Then he raised his hand to his mouth and smeared the dirt on his lips. He hated doing it, regarding himself as a pig. His chafed lips welcomed the ointment, but he refused to eat dirt.

  “What are you doing?” Salwa asked, bewildered.

  “My lips are parched, anything will make them feel better. Here, try some.”

  “Are you crazy?” she asked, walking away.

  Down and down the marchers went, while Yousif and Salwa struggled up in the opposite direction. Climbing the steep hill was hard. As they labored, he put his hand on his right knee and pushed down to propel himself. Then he would pull up Salwa. Whenever he could he would grasp at an undergrowth to pull both of them along. He recognized a few people, but they all looked drugged. Their leathery faces were tired, their widened eyes dull and empty. Arif, the bookseller, was among them, his shirt open and stained with sweat and his bald head glistening. The three waved to each other like strangers, each weak-kneed and engrossed in his or her own quest.

  Unexpectedly, they had come upon Salwa’s family. They were in an open field with nothing to shield them from the beating sun. Salwa’s mother was the first to notice them. She stood up, waving her arm. But her husband and two sons remained lying on the ground.

  “Look!” Yousif said, excited. He nudged Salwa and pointed his finger.

  “Hurry!!!” Salwa screamed, wanting to run.

  Yousif had to hold her, cautioning her about the heat.

  Yousif didn’t know what to think. Were they exhausted? Was Anton Taweel sick? Unable to restrain Salwa any further, Yousif let go of her and saw her make a dash. He picked up his pace and followed her, worried.

  By the time Yousif reached them, Salwa had already hugged her mother and was on her knees next to her father. The whole atmosphere was charged.

  “What’s wrong?” Yousif asked, shaking Imm Akram’s hand. Then seeing the fear on her face, he quickly bent down next to Salwa. His father-in-law looked ashen. Salwa’s eyes were already clouded.

  “How are you, Uncle?” Yousif asked.

  Anton Taweel, now Uncle Anton, shook his head. “I had a terrible chest pain. Right here. In the middle of my chest. Right under the small bone of my rib cage.”

  Salwa clutched her father’s hand. “What about your arm?” she asked. “Did you have a shooting pain?”

  Her father nodded. “In my left arm. Like an electric bolt. They say that’s the real sign of a heart attack.”

  Salwa began to whimper. Imm Akram woke up her children, who sat up alarmed. Yousif knew that the man was dying.

  “It’s the heat,” Imm Akram said, wringing her hands. “And the long walk. May they never rest in peace.”

  Aware that tragedy was about to strike, Yousif was glad that he and Salwa’s father were on good terms. What if the man were to die, he thought, still holding a grudge?

  Against all odds, Yousif wanted to find a doctor, or a heart patient who might have a pill to spare. Yousif hadn’t gone more than fifty meters when suddenly he heard Salwa shrieking. He spun around and ran back, his muscles aching.

  Imm Akram was scratching her own face. Salwa was flung across her father’s chest. Men and women were walking by, shaking their heads. Yousif was afraid he was too late. As he got closer, he could see Anton’s eyes rolling, his mouth frothing. Yousif knelt beside Salwa and put his arm around her waist. Salwa’s crying became louder.

&nb
sp; “Uncle,” Yousif said, “I want you to know I’m sorry for the pain I’ve caused you. I didn’t mean to hurt you, I swear.”

  “Nor did I, Father,” Salwa sobbed. “Tell us you forgive us. Tell us you’re not mad at us.”

  Anton did not answer but looked at them intently. His eyes were bulging, their white now yellow.

  “Please forgive us,” Yousif pleaded, reaching to touch his hand. He squeezed it gently, hoping the man would squeeze his hand back. Anton did, looking like a man sinking in quicksand, begging for help.

  A deep, harsh and strangling gurgle forced itself out of Anton’s throat. “I forgive—” he started, but couldn’t finish the sentence. His head dropped to the side and his arms went limp.

  Salwa screamed and fell on her father’s chest. Akram and Zuhair clung to their mother. She pressed them to her body, her face stained with tears. Yousif’s chin began to tremble. Soon he too was crying. He put his hand on Salwa’s back to console her. She sobbed convulsively. He could feel her whole body quivering.

  “I’m sorry, darling,” he told Salwa, tasting the salt of his own tears.

  Salwa hugged Yousif and cried, resting her head on his shoulder. Then Yousif got up and went over to her mother. He kissed her on both cheeks, then pressed the young boys to his sides. He watched Salwa cradle her father’s head in her arm and lean over him. She smoothed his hair, wiped the sweat on his forehead, and talked to him as though he were still alive.

  “Is it too hot for you, Daddy?” she was saying. “You won’t need someone to cover you up, will you, Daddy? What are you going to do when we leave? Will you be too lonely? Do you want me to stay with you? Who’s going to keep you company?”

  The death scene merged with Yousif’s memory of his own father’s death. And that of Isaac’s. Yousif felt the lump in his throat grow bigger. He wanted to pull Salwa away. Then he decided that holding her back was not right. It was unnatural not to grieve.

  Salwa’s mother knelt beside her. “His eyes and mouth have to be closed before the body stiffens,” she said.

  “Don’t say that!” Salwa cried. “I can’t stand it.”

  “I’m sorry, habibti, but it’s true,” her mother told her. “And these things are his rights. Get away from him now and let me do what needs to be done.”

  Salwa’s crying subsided. Yousif watched the mother resolutely set out to perform her duties. He stood between Zuhair and Akram, putting his arms around their shoulders. Gently, Mrs. Taweel closed her husband’s eyelids and put her left palm under his chin and forced his mouth shut. She pressed the head between her two hands for a few minutes to ensure that the mouth would not reopen. Then she crossed his arms on his chest and pulled his legs straight.

  “What difference does it make?” Salwa again sobbed, “if his legs are straight or not? He’s dead, Mother, he’s dead.”

  “Allah yirhamu,” her mother replied, perfectly calm. “God rest his soul.” She went about her business with dignity, paying no attention to her daughter’s outbursts.

  Yousif watched her with admiration and respect. The dead man’s face looked like an Easter egg which had been dipped in many coloring cups. Was the dull mixture of green, yellow, and blue the ashen color of death? The two-day stubble of beard was mostly white. Yousif remarked to himself that Anton Taweel looked as impressive in death as he had in life.

  Marchers filed by, pausing long enough to offer their condolences.

  “God gave and God took.”

  “We came from dust, and to dust we return.”

  “We belong to God, and to Him we return.”

  They looked for a priest to say the last rites, but there was none to be found. The mother led in prayer. Yousif and her children knelt around the body. They said the Lord’s Prayer; he said Hail Mary. Salwa’s spasms had calmed down considerably. Her eyes had a faraway look, as if she were seeing a distant vision. But when the time came for them to resume their journey, her grief and anger were revived.

  “We can’t leave him like that,” Salwa protested, her lips twitching. “How can we, Mother?”

  “What else can we do?” her mother asked in return. “Who’s going to haul him another twenty miles in this heat?”

  “Maybe we can dig a grave,” Yousif suggested.

  “With what?” the mother asked, doubtful. “The ground is so hard.”

  Yousif had to agree with her. The mountain slope looked as though it had never been plowed. It occurred to him that perhaps they could cover the body with stones, but the rocky terrain was full of large boulders and small pebbles. Who was going to pile up enough stones to build a mound? And who, for God’s sake, would dare put hard, hot stones on the man’s face? Salwa would be outraged.

  Then an old man offered his black ‘abaa as a cover. Yousif accepted it with gratitude and quickly unfolded it over the body. But Anton’s body was too long and another man had to give up his white hatta to cover the legs. Then Yousif and the young boys gathered a few stones and placed them around the body. Not much of a burial, Yousif thought, but he kept it to himself.

  “It’s so cruel,” Salwa whimpered, staring at the mound.

  “God’s will be done,” her mother replied, her hands clasped in her lap.

  “God? What God?” Salwa shouted.

  Mrs. Taweel reproached her sharply, saying that she would not tolerate blasphemy. Again, Salwa’s outbursts reminded Yousif of his own behavior at his father’s death and at Isaac’s. How could he blame her? Had he not gone berserk himself? He saw the mother bend down and kiss her husband’s forehead, her face contorted. One by one, including Yousif, they all kissed the dead man farewell.

  31

  The sun seemed closer, whiter, meaner. The air seemed free of oxygen. The marchers moved like scarecrows. Death was their loyal companion.

  Yousif knew he had to look after Salwa’s mother and brothers. He couldn’t allow them to drift off, especially now that they had no adult male to look after them. Putting his arms around Zuhair and Akram, Yousif felt they were now in his care. And in spite of the sad occasion, Yousif was gratified. How quickly fate had propelled him to a position of a caretaker! Looking after Salwa’s family would be a duty. Under different circumstances it would have been a pleasure.

  But Salwa was torn with grief. The minute they had walked away from her father’s corpse, she buried her head in her hands and cried. Sometimes she’d let Yousif put his arm around her. Often, she’d strike out on her own, now pulling her hair, now wringing her hands. And always sobbing. Again and again, Yousif would leave the boys and try to calm her down.

  “Control yourself,” he said. “It’s hard enough on all of us.”

  “Nothing will bring my father back,” she said, crying.

  “Allah yirhamu. But you need to be giving your mother strength.”

  Of course she would, Salwa said. But not right now. Yousif sensed that she was angry, not just sad. It bothered him that she might start blaming him for the death of her father. Tormented as she was, she must not make him a scapegoat.

  “Look,” he said, trying to catch up with her. “I hope you’re not in any way blaming me, or yourself, for his death.”

  Salwa stopped in her track, gazing at him. “Did I say we were to blame?” she asked.

  “The way you’re looking at me—”

  “I’m devastated,” she said. “Right now, all I can think of is that he died and we left him in the wilderness.”

  Yousif watched his wife stand alone, bewildered, isolated: like a hollow tree stuck in the middle of the desert. Marchers streamed by like a flock of sheep. But she seemed unfazed by the din of highly-pitched cries mingled with a steady thud of footsteps. Slowly she began to move, like a woman crossing the borderline of a nightmare. She broke his heart. Then she walked briskly, unfettered by the harshness of the wilderness. Her mother was lagging behind her, aged by the tragedies of the last two days.

  Suddenly the older woman stumbled and fell. Yousif rushed to help. She had fallen on her
back, legs splayed. Yousif turned his head away, embarrassed for her. He gave her time to cover up.

  “I’m so sorry,” Yousif told her, lifting her up under the arms. “Are you all right?”

  “Thank God nothing is broken,” she said, apologizing. “You’re kind.”

  “Maybe you ought to have the boys walk beside you,” Yousif said.

  “Good idea,” she said, looking around for her children.

  Yousif ran ahead to catch up with Salwa. He took her hand to help her cross some rough terrain.

  The marchers were in the thousands and the going was so heavy, it took Yousif and the Taweel family almost an hour to reunite with his own family. He found them waiting for him in the vicinity of where he had left them. It was dusk. The red hot sun was ready to plunge behind the far horizon.

  But Salwa’s and her mother’s pathetic condition must have shocked the waiting party. Yasmin jumped to her feet, dread registered all over her face.

  “Salwa, why are you crying?” Yasmin asked, alarmed. “What’s the matter, habibti?”

  Yousif told his mother and the rest about Anton Taweel’s death. Yasmin shrieked and hugged her daughter-in-law. Abla embraced the mother, Imm Akram, whose sobbing caused both of them to tremble. Salman turned white. Children cried. Marchers stopped to inquire. Again, pandemonium broke out. Tongues clucked. Heads shook. Questions tumbled. The sun turned bloody.

  Sitting down on the dirt, they went over and over the details of Anton’s death. Their shock, their sorrow seemed to deepen.

  “And you left him behind?” Yasmin asked again and again.

  “Without burial!” Abla said. “Can you imagine!”

  “He’s not the first or the last,” Salman reminded them, wrapping his arms around his raised knees. “How many corpses did we pass along the way?”

  “Lord have mercy on us,” Yasmin said, making the sign of the Cross.

  The dust of the marchers filled the air. Many were coughing.

  Slowly Yasmin and Imm Akram began to hum. Other women marchers joined them and they all filled the night with dirges. The wake was made all the more bitter because of the wilderness. With each new arrival the chanting intensified. Tears flowed. Death was now on stage. Their drama had turned real, tragic.