On the Hills of God. Ibrahim Fawal

It’s nothing new. And for every group we accidentally discover there are dozens more. It’s a pattern the Zionists have been following all over Palestine for years, no doubt in my mind. They’re getting ready for a big offensive. As soon as all the pieces fall in place they’re going to come at us with a vengeance.”

      Maha sighed deeply, which attracted everyone’s attention. “It’s 1936 all over again,” she said, leaning her head against the wall behind her and holding her one-year-old close to her bosom.

      There was something sad about the curve of her neck, Yousif felt.

      “There’s no comparison,” her husband corrected her. “We are on the verge of something catastrophic—either for them or for us.”

      “Or for both,” Uncle Boulus added, his thin lips drawn tight.

      “Could be,” Basim agreed. “All the troubles we’ve had with the Jews and the British are nothing but a prelude—a rehearsal—for what’s to come. Believe me.”

      The mention of 1936 seemed to throw everyone into memories of those hard times. Yousif had grown up hearing stories about Basim and his bravery in 1936. Shocked by Britain’s treacherous merry-go-round policies toward the Arabs, Basim had abandoned a flourishing law practice and at the age of thirty joined the Arab revolt that had broken out against the British and the Zionists. Basim had distinguished himself as a brave man. Eyewitnesses swore they had seen him run after armed British soldiers with an empty revolver, a bayonet, or just a pocket knife. He had killed so many that the British government had once sent a whole battalion to capture him. But he had eluded them.

      When the revolt ended in 1939, the British had insisted on exiling him—and Basim would have remained in exile had it not been for petitions and pleas sent by his family to the British High Commissioner in Jerusalem. The Commissioner had refused time and again, until finally, and after five years of roaming the earth, Basim had sent his word that he would stop his anti-government activities.

      “If we catch you doing anything wrong,” the British officials had warned him, “we’ll hang you from the highest minaret.”

      Basim had accepted their terms, for the sake of his aging parents, knowing very well that he could serve the Arab cause much better from inside the country. Following his return, he reopened his law office, married Maha, the sister of a comrade-in-arms who had been killed during the Revolt, and settled down. But his fire remained ablaze. His family and intimate friends had known that he would never rest until the Palestinians achieved their complete independence and eradicated the new Zionist threat.

      “If the Zionists are that active in preparing for war,” Yousif asked, waking up everyone from the doldrums, “what are we doing about it?”

      His cousin’s jaws tightened. “Very little,” Basim replied. “It would take a concerted effort on the part of a large number of our people to stop such things from happening. Unfortunately we don’t have an Arab government in Palestine.”

      “What about the Arab Higher Commission?” Yousif pressed. “What about the Mufti? He led the 1936 Revolt. Why can’t he lead it now?”

      All eyes were on Yousif, who seemed to surprise everyone by his questions. Then they looked at Basim, who seemed reluctant to talk about the Mufti or the Arab Higher Commission. Yousif knew that Basim had more or less broken off with the old resistance movement, but he did not know to what extent. From Basim’s reaction, he thought perhaps the timing of his question was wrong.

      Basim stretched his legs before him. “The Mufti and the Arab Higher Commission are still there,” he replied, his low voice full of hurt and disappointment.

      Yousif studied his cousin’s words, tone, and gesture. Yousif felt a dark and mysterious bond forming between him and his revolutionary cousin. Their eyes met and held.

      “As I said,” Basim continued, “we don’t have the organizations or the money or the manpower to ‘police’ the countryside. The British authorities who are still running the country don’t care. So the Zionists are left free to roam our mountains and valleys as they wish. The payoff for them will come when they jump us from every cave and nook and cranny they’ve been mapping all these years.”

      Silence, as thick as fog, enveloped all those present. The doctor puffed on his black pipe and said nothing. Uncle Boulus opened his gold vest watch and closed it indifferently. Yousif got the impression that not everyone agreed with Basim; some seemed to regard him an alarmist.

      “Why don’t we organize?” Yousif asked, impatient. Again the eyes focused on him. “That’s what we should all do,” he added, almost in defiance of their stares.

      “‘And a child shall lead them . . .’” Uncle Boulus quoted, smiling.

      Yousif bristled. “How old do I have to be to be called an adult?”

      “I apologize, Yousif, you are not a child,” his uncle told him, his tone respectful. “In fact, you impress me as being more grown up than most.”

      Yousif nodded in his uncle’s direction and then turned to Basim. “And what do you do with the spies you catch?” he asked, surprising his parents by his persistence.

      “We take their maps,” Basim replied, “and we interrogate each and every one separately.”

      Yousif waited for more. When Basim did not volunteer any further information, Yousif asked, “Who’s ‘we’?”

      “A few associates of mine here and there, that’s all,” Basim said, smoke billowing all around him.

      “I see,” Yousif muttered, thinking. “And what do you do with them afterwards?”

      “We beat them,” Basim said. “Some we shoot.”

      By gesture and word they all seemed horrified. The barber’s plump old wife sneezed, causing the baby in Maha’s arms to cry. Even the Spanish woman looked confused until her husband explained to her what was going on in her own language. Visibly rattled, she reached for a pinch of snuff from the barber’s wife.

      “Without trial?” said Yousif’s mother.

      “Just like that?” asked the barber.

      “What if the Zionists begin shooting our boys at random,” asked the retiree, resting on a cane with an ivory handle.

      “I didn’t say we shoot them at random,” Basim defended himself. “We shoot the ones we catch spying on us.”

      “Is that wise?”

      “Why not?” Basim wanted to know.

      “It could start the violence all over again,” Uncle Boulus predicted.

      “Sooner or later we’re going to have open war,” Basim argued, taking his crying baby from his wife. “No sense pretending otherwise.”

      Shooting was a grave mistake, Yousif thought. But who among them, their silence seemed to say, could argue with a hero who had actually fought in battle against the British and the Zionists? Basim’s patriotism was beyond reproach—and so were all his political and military actions, it seemed.

      “What do you think, Father?” Yousif asked. “Do you think they should kill the ones they suspect of spying?”

      “No, I don’t,” the doctor answered, drawing on his pipe.

      “And why not?” Basim snapped. “What do you want us to do? Accuse them of trespassing?”

      “You can do more than that,” Yousif argued. “You can interrogate them, learn all about their secret cells, lock them up—but you don’t have to kill them. For one thing, you might use them in the future for an exchange.”

      “A trade for what?” Basim insisted. “For whom?”

      “One day they’ll probably hold some of our people,” Yousif protested. “There could be an exchange of prisoners.”

      “Who