Four more planes passed overhead. Yousif looked up to see their lights twinkling among the much brighter stars. It was too dark to identify them, but Yousif knew they could only be the enemy.
“God knows what’s happening to him now,” Imm Akram lamented, shaking her head. “And tomorrow the sun will be so hot, his body will decompose . . . and will start to smell.”
The image was too strong for Salwa. She couldn’t take it. She struck out on her own. Yousif got up and followed her. Thousands of marchers were strewn all over the mountain, covering its slopes like a human carpet. The night was still, except for crickets and crying babies.
Standing by a huge rock on the edge of a precipice, Salwa turned and looked at Yousif.
“Promise me one thing,” she said, her eyes glistening.
Yousif feared what was coming. “I’ll do my best,” he said.
“Promise me to fight the Zionists as long as you live.”
“That’s the easy part,” Yousif said, holding her hands.
“What’s not so easy?”
“Knowing how to fight them.”
“You’ll find a way.”
“We’ll find it together.”
“But promise me you’ll fight them.”
“I swear it on your father’s and my father’s graves,” he said, wrapping his arm around her waist.
They leaned against the rock, deep in thought. New vistas of Palestinians on the run opened before their eyes. This was not a limited exodus out of Ardallah alone, they concluded. No, no. This was a general exodus out of Palestine altogether. The people from Galilee were trekking to Lebanon and Syria. People from Bethlehem were marching to Jordan. People from Gaza were headed for Egypt. The vision of hundreds of thousands of Palestinians being exiled made them forget for a moment about the death of Salwa’s father. Palestine was being evacuated on a full scale. Tonight all Palestinians were isolated, trapped in a valley of death.
“Do you realize we’re watching history in the making,” Yousif reflected, remembering his tutoring days at his father’s feet. “One day scholars will write books about all this. And here we are living the whole episode. It’s a tale waiting for a teller to do it justice.”
She looked at him quizzically. “When you talk like this you remind me of your father.”
“I’m flattered,” Yousif told her. “I wish I were half the man he was. He knew things, Salwa. And he understood as though he were connected to a different world.”
“I like you the way you are,” she said, expelling a deep breath.
Yousif turned her around. “You know,” he said, “when I first saw the soldiers with guns in their hands I felt sorry for them. I really did. I was glad it wasn’t me who was carrying the gun.”
Salwa frowned. But she kept quiet, waiting for him to continue.
“At that point,” he said, “I would’ve preferred getting killed myself than killing someone else.”
“That’s foolish,” she said, not blinking.
“Like Khalil Gibran wrote, ‘I’d rather be the deer and not the hunter, the anvil and not the hammer.’ Or something like that.”
“Still foolish.”
“True, though. That’s how I felt. Then I changed. Do you know at what precise moment I felt transformed? Not when they threw us out and robbed us at the outskirts of town. Not even when they raped Hiyam.”
Salwa seemed at a loss.
“I know that it pales compared to what they’re doing to us in general. And yet, the emotional impact of that moment shattered my senses.”
“What are you talking about?” Salwa asked, curious.
“It’s when that damn soldier stripped Hiyam,” Yousif recalled, feeling a dryness in his mouth. “There she was—exposed, debased. When I saw her pubic hair flash before my eyes, I felt shame, anger, hate.”
“Nothing could possibly be more humiliating,” Salwa said, her eyes glazed.
“No, nothing.”
“Imagine how she must’ve felt.”
“Some men don’t see that much of their wives even after they’ve had two or three children.”
There was silence. Salwa looked reassured.
“I know you’ll keep your promise,” she said, reaching for his hand.
“So help me God,” he vowed, looking her in the eye.
After a moment, Salwa added, “I wonder how many couples are making the same commitment.”
“May their numbers multiply,” Yousif said, wrapping her in his arms.
With the full silvery moon hanging over them like an eavesdropper, Yousif felt his heart pounding against Salwa’s back.
The night was clean and clear but not cool. Yousif had a hard time sleeping. Thirst was driving him crazy. Again, his tongue felt like a piece of chalk stuck in a dry hole in his head. The idea of urine occurred to him, but he felt repulsed. Even Abla’s milk tantalized his palate. But how could he do it?
He lay awake, gazing at the solemnity of the silhouetted mountains. Every now and then he would smooth down Salwa’s hair. The night was not as black as he had thought. He could see the outline of the hanging cliffs and the tops of the mounds below him. The mountain was steep. Descending it tomorrow would be hazardous. Salwa shifted in her sleep. Her head rested on her folded arms, her limbs stretched out uncovered. Yousif wanted her in his arms but knew that was impossible.
The multitude of refugees awoke long before dawn. Scattered over an area several miles wide, they seemed to pull each other by an invisible cord. The commotion resounded through the quiet valley. A shrill cry was heard, signifying another tragedy. Death had crept around during the night, Yousif knew. More hearts were broken. Other cries followed. Names of lost ones were called in anguish.
Yousif and his party gathered themselves up, beginning the second day’s journey.
“The crowd seems to be getting bigger and bigger,” Yasmin observed, strands of hair falling on her forehead.
Imm Akram nodded. “The worst thing that could happen to us now is to get separated.”
“Let’s all make sure we don’t,” Yousif said. “Hold each other’s hands. Especially the children’s. Don’t strike out on your own. Salwa, are you listening?”
“I am,” Salwa said, dusting off her dress.
“Should we get separated,” Yousif continued, “let’s all agree not to leave Jordan. Stay in Jordan until we regroup and figure out what to do next. Agreed?”
Some said yes, but most of them nodded.
They resumed their journey, the dust of exile in their mouths. The canyons below looked foreboding.
The sun rose behind the inhospitable mountain, disclosing a vista of dull gray rocks and a sea of haggard faces. The stark Mount of Temptation looked majestic in the distance—a great divide between the wasteland they were crossing and the plush green fields of Jericho which lay beyond. To reach it was to survive; not to reach it was to be devoured by a callous, cavernous pit. A promise and a threat, Yousif thought, as he lugged little Reem on his back and trudged down the barren mountain. Salman, burdened with the baby in his arms, walked along grimly, followed by the rest.
“I’m hungry,” Reem whimpered.
That was the moment they had all dreaded. The adults exchanged looks. No one answered the girl.
“I’m hungry,” Reem repeated, crying.
Yousif patted her on the leg, saying they would soon have food. He lied and braced himself to lie even more. To get her mind off her hunger he began to tell a story. He told her about a nice family that lived on a nice street and was sleeping in a nice house when one stormy night a big bad wolf came knocking on the door. At first the wolf terrorized the mother and the children and bit the father in his leg until he couldn’t walk. The children began to cry, worried to death about their father. But the father winked at them and they knew he was okay. Then the mother boiled some water and splashed it in the big bad wolf’s face and the father ran to the kitchen and came back with a butcher’s knife.”
Suddenly baby Reem
stopped sobbing. “Why?” she asked, sucking her thumb.
“To kill the big bad wolf, that’s why. And by God he did.”
“And what happened to the children? Were they scared?”
“Not after their father had dragged the body of the big bad wolf and thrown it outside where it belonged,” Yousif told her. “Then he and the mother tucked them in their soft warm comfortable beds. And they went to sleep to dream nice dreams.”
The ploy worked, but only for a brief moment. Soon Reem went back to crying for food.
Yasmin sighed and trudged weakly. “One doesn’t know whether to cry for the dead or the living.”
“I’m still hungry,” Reem whimpered, kicking Yousif on the side.
Yousif put Reem down. Her mother held her hand. There was no stopping the little girl’s crying. She wanted food and nothing would placate her. Abla tried to nurse her, but the girl refused. Her crying became intense. The adults rolled their eyes, bit their lips. What could they do? Yousif himself felt terribly thirsty. It was mid-morning, yet the intensity of the heat was already wearing him down.
“Wait, son, wait!” an old man cried.
Yousif looked up, his heart breaking. He saw an old man—bearded, shriveled. He tapped his cane, begging his son, the watermelon vendor, not to abandon him. Earlier, Yousif had seen the son carrying his fragile eighty-year-old father on his back. But after thirty or forty miles going up and down mountains, even the bag of bones must have felt heavy. Yousif watched in disbelief. He saw the old man’s legs fail him. He saw him falter and fall, cutting himself on the forehead.
“I’ll die, son,” the old man pleaded, wiping his own blood.
“Forgive me, Father,” the young man said, on the verge of tears, “but I can’t wait here with you. We still have at least twenty miles to cross. I just can’t do it.”
Yousif was mystified. He waited for the little drama to end.
“For Allah’s sake, don’t leave me,” the old man cried, his chin trembling. “Have mercy on your own father. Don’t leave me. I’ll die, son. I’ll die . . .”
“I have young children to take care of,” the son argued, visibly shaken. “You’re my responsibility and they’re my responsibility. What am I to do? I can’t carry you on my back all the way to Jericho. We’d both die, and what will that do to the rest of the family? Who’s going to take care of the little ones? Please understand. And Allah isamihni. May God forgive me.”
Yousif watched the exchange, anguished, incredulous. The old man’s frenzied cry did not deter his son. The young man walked ahead a few steps, determined not to look back, not to let sentiment or shame dissuade him.
All of Yousif’s anxieties returned to nauseate him. His mother’s face was flushed again. Salwa was consoling her mother. Little Reem’s crying was unnerving. He himself could barely move his tongue. Yet now he felt a surge of energy.
“We’re all doomed,” Yousif cried, flailing his arms. “But we can’t leave this old man behind to die in the wilderness. God may never forgive us such cruelty.”
Salwa, obviously remembering the death of her father, burst in tears.
Many of the marchers stopped, curious. There was anguish in Yousif’s voice. But he was reaching them. He jumped up on a high rock, motioning for them to listen.
Yasmin did not know what the devil he was up to. “Don’t try to be a hero,” she admonished him. “This problem is bigger than all of us. Get down.”
Yousif ignored her pleas. Finally, the son came back, pointing a finger. “Are you accusing me of being cruel?” he asked.
“Of course not,” Yousif said. “You’re doing it because you think you have no choice. But we’re going to help you.”
Yousif turned and faced the small crowd. “We’re going to help him carry this old father to safety.”
“Do it, Yousif,” Salwa told him, sobbing.
“Bravo,” a strong young man said, stepping forward.
“If each and every able-bodied man,” Yousif implored, “would carry ha likhtyar a hundred yards, we can save a human being. A burden that’s shared is no burden at all. Let’s all pitch in. I’ll be the first. And you can be sure I’m just as tired as any of you. Come on. A human life is at stake.”
Salwa threw him a kiss, her cheeks wet. Some of the marchers clapped. Many more smiled. Yousif was encouraged. Salman was shaking his head. Well, Yousif thought, Salman had his hands full. He didn’t have to volunteer. But there were plenty of men who were ready.
Yousif walked to the old man and squatted before him. “Come on, Grandpa.”
The old man hesitated. Yousif looked back. The old man was crying.
“No need for that,” Yousif said. “Hop on.”
The old man’s son looked ashamed of himself. “I wasn’t heartless,” he said, sore and red-eyed.
“Who said you were?” Yousif asked. “Come on. We’ll all take turns.”
The son helped his father get on Yousif’s back. The old man felt lighter than Yousif had expected. It must be the adrenaline, Yousif thought, walking briskly.
Yousif carried the scrawny old man for about a mile, stumbling, faltering. Now the old man would clutch his shoulders. Now he would clasp his bony hands around his neck. Then an Israeli bi-plane swooped down on them, as if dropping out of the blue. Yousif had been so engrossed with the old man that he didn’t even hear it approaching. The marchers again panicked. They ran helter-skelter. Yousif crouched to let the old man off so that another man could carry him. Bombs did not explode, but they might have just as well. The stampede caused the dust to rise. Women and children screamed. An old man fell down and a dozen marchers stumbled all over him. Yousif looked around. He could see no trace of Salwa or his mother. It seemed as though the earth had split and swallowed her and everyone he knew.
“Ya Allah !” he exclaimed. Where did they go? Now what should he do? Where did they go? How could he find them among thirty thousand people? Must every horror be compounded?
Three torturous hours later, Yousif could find no one. A song of doom began to echo in his head. Evil was laid bare before him. Its fullness seized him. He thought about where he was: in the shadow of the great mountain. Had not the devil tempted Jesus here? Whom was he tempting now? Whom was he stalking?
Now, Yousif felt that he himself was being tempted. He was hungry, thirsty, tired. And where was Salwa? Where was her family? He wanted to shout “Goddam! Goddam!” and shake his fist at the heavens, but he didn’t. He hadn’t lost his mind—yet. But how long, he asked, could one preserve his sanity in a situation like this, especially when the sun was penetrating his skin and drying every cell? “Drink your urine,” a voice whispered within him. “Drink it. Humble yourself. Debase yourself. Know that you’re weak. Know the limits of humiliation. The mountain says drink it. He who was tempted says drink it. Your lips and tongue demand it.”
Yousif was too dehydrated and too foggy to question the inner voice. He veered off the beaten path, stood behind a pile of stones, and forced himself to leak a few drops. He collected them in the palm of his hand as if they were the elixir of life. He raised his hand up to his chin, closed his eyes. At first he hesitated, resisting the craving he suddenly felt. His mind was in turmoil. But then he weakened. The need for moisture burned his lips. Despite his revulsion, he found himself lowering his head into his palm.
He felt better—but too ashamed to tell others what he had done.
He wanted to walk fast, but his feet failed him. The eroded land was full of brush and stones. His ankles kept turning. His lips were dry again, his shoes tight. More important, there was still no sight of Salwa or his mother. Nor anybody from his family. He passed another baby’s body, lying face down like a dead chicken. Death was becoming commonplace.
He stood on the edge of a high boulder, surveying the scene below. Thousands were descending at a slow pace. Many were meandering along with the terrain. The hills were rising and falling like the waves. He heard a voice call him. It was Adeeb, the rough
classmate who had once fought Isaac.
“Have you seen Salwa or my mother?” Yousif asked.
“No,” Adeeb answered, his arm in a sling.
“What happened to your arm?”
“I broke it this morning.”
“Oh, no,” Yousif said, remembering what had happened to Amin’s broken arm. The two classmates now looked at each other, tormented. Adeeb’s mother had already discarded her headdress. Her thinning, disheveled hair was solid grey. She stumbled along, lamenting her son’s condition. She too remembered what had happened to Amin.
The hint of a village in the distance acted as a magnet, pulling the marchers back together. There was a confluence as the scattered crowd began to head in one direction. Hope surged within Yousif as he hobbled along, too tired to feel the numbness of his feet. Standing on a high rock and watching the flat land below him and the outline of a community on the far horizon, he felt elated. He wanted to dance, too exhausted to feel the irony.
The village of El-Auja was, despite its dreariness, a welcome sight. Here the sea of marchers was met by inhabitants with jugs of water in their hands and by Jordanian soldiers with trucks and jeeps ready to transport them. Yousif was so beaten with fatigue he fell on his face, unable to rise. It flashed through his mind that here, at last, he would not be abandoned; here, at last, water was accessible. He lay there unseeing, unhearing, unfeeling. Voices clashed and receded in his ears. The earth spun around him.
Minutes later, he woke to an uproarious scene. The multitudes were still straggling into the village. The search for lost ones reached a peak. He rested on his elbows and watched a battered stream of refugees pass before him, all looking like millers—powdered with dust from head to toe. A farmer with a petrol can full of water passed him by. Yousif pulled at the man’s garment begging with his eyes for a drink. The farmer obliged, helping Yousif place the punched hole in the corner to his mouth. Yousif hugged the can like a lost friend and drank with relish, taking brief pauses between lengthy, thirst-quenching gulps.
On the Hills of God Page 54