On the Hills of God. Ibrahim Fawal

up their cages, and started down the hill.

      Descending the hill had often brought pleasure to Yousif. He tried to time it so they could watch the magnificent blending of colors as the sun set on the far horizon. This view of Ardallah, resting leisurely on the crests and slopes of seven hills, inspired in him a sense of joy. He often paused to offer a silent prayer. Looking at the town, he felt touched by its serenity. Perhaps the trees gave it splendor and warmth. They seemed to sheathe the little houses, hovering over them protectively. Yousif saw the women carrying their fruit baskets on their heads after an arduous day in the fields, the shepherd playing his flute, silhouetted behind his sheep. He heard the murmur of the brooks, the fields with hundreds of birds over them noisily flapping their wings and singing, the steeples and the one minaret, the melodious haunting voice of the muezzin chanting a praise to Allah and calling Man to prayer.

      At such times Yousif would often be so saturated with nature and its glory that he’d walk silently, thoughtfully. At other times, however, life would seem too wonderful to contain. He would burst out singing or shouting—then hear the hills echo his youthful voice.

      The three friends would swing the bird cages in their hands or start throwing stones to see who could throw farthest. They would climb an apricot tree to fill their pockets and the insides of their shirts with fruit. They would pick ripe black or white sour grapes and stuff their mouths to see who could eat the most. Passing a brook they would stop and stretch flat on their stomachs and dip their mouths to drink. Sometimes one would dunk the head of another and they’d all start splashing. Then they might persuade a farmer to let them ride his donkey or his horse. If he had a camel, each competed for the first ride.

      On this day late in November, however, the sunset was missing, the sky was solid gray. Even beautiful Ardallah seemed more depressing than tranquil or inspiring. Everything was the same, yet it seemed like a painting by an artist whose touch was as heavy as his heart. Yousif felt the difference. He looked for the farmers and the shepherds and saw nothing but black crows circling far above their heads. He descended the hill with his friends, not leaping, not singing, not laughing, but restrained.

      Soon the rugged dirt road ended and the paved street began. Turning the corner, they came upon a crowd of sixty or more men in front of Fardous Cafe.

      “My God, I almost forgot,” Yousif said. “You two. Do you know what day it is?”

      “What?” Amin asked, swinging a bird cage in his right hand.

      “You really don’t know?” Yousif asked him, feeling a bit superior.

      “Oh, yes,” Amin finally said. “It’s the day the United Nations votes on the partition. Not such a big deal, though.”

      “Why not?” Yousif asked.

      “We know they’ll turn it down. Except for a few western countries, the world isn’t for it. From what I hear no one gives the plan a chance.”

      “Maybe so,” Yousif said. “But I still want us to make a pledge.”

      “A pledge? What kind of a pledge?” Amin wanted to know.

      Yousif ignored Amin and looked straight at Isaac. Isaac seemed to read his mind. They had stopped walking and faced each other.

      “Let’s make a pledge,” Yousif repeated, “that no matter which way the vote goes we’ll always be friends.”

      “Friends!” Amin exclaimed. “What’s the matter with you? Of course we’ll always be friends. Is it because Isaac is Jewish? Is that it? My God, he’s one of us.”

      Isaac smiled and Amin motioned with his head for them to keep on walking.

      “Just the same,” Yousif persisted. “It will be good that we—”

      “Why not?” Isaac spoke for the first time. “Let’s shake hands.”

      They stopped in the middle of the road and shook hands. Yousif and Isaac were a bit solemn, while Amin made light of the fact that their arms crossed as each reached to shake hands with the other two.

      “When arms cross like this,” Amin remarked, “it means someone is going to get engaged. I wonder which of us will be first.”

      A middle-aged woman came out of Abul Banat’s bakery wearing a native dress and carrying a tray of freshly baked bread on her head. Yousif thought he had seen her once or twice at his house, but he was not sure. She became flustered asking about Amin’s accident and, by way of apology, lowered the tray on her head and handed him a whole loaf of bread.

      After she’d left, Amin looked at his friends, grinning. “Perfect,” he said. “Now we can break bread to go along with our pledge. A handshake on a full stomach will make our vows last forever.”

      “What a clown!” Yousif said.

      “It’s soooooo good,” Amin said, chewing the crusty bread.

      “Delicious,” Isaac agreed. “But I wish we had some white cheese.”

      The Fardous Cafe was made up of two parts: a large hall and a tiny kitchen in a building as old as Ardallah, with a separate yard across a narrow street. The yard was covered with a canopy of straw, under which were about fifteen tables where old men wearing turbans and indolent youth sat and killed time playing cards or smoking a nergileh.

      On one of the posts holding up the straw canopy was a speaker wired to the radio set inside the cafe itself. The cafe was jammed on both sides of the street and the radio turned on full volume. The motley crowd, even some women with shopping baskets on their heads, seemed to be listening attentively. Yousif traded looks with Amin and Isaac. The moment of decision was approaching. They walked up and stood unnoticed at the edge of the crowd.

      Suddenly the music stopped and the announcer broke in saying: “A news bulletin of historic importance is about to be broadcast. The public is urged to stay tuned to this station.”

      Again there was music. The listeners remained riveted in their seats. Yousif surveyed those around him. It was so quiet he could hear the dice rattling inside a backgammon box, and the water gurgling in someone’s nergileh. The liquor store, the barber shop, and all the businesses between the Greek Orthodox Church and the sidewalk vegetable stalls were left open and unattended.

      The stillness had invaded the liquor store. Yousif turned and saw his cousin Salman approaching. Salman stood by Yousif and his friends, then reached inside his pants pocket and drew out a handful of roasted watermelon seeds. He poured a few in each one’s palm. Quietly the four split the seeds with their front teeth, ate the pulp, and delicately spat the shell on the street.

      Again, the music stopped and the announcer returned to the microphone. Standing between Amin and Isaac, Yousif placed the bird cage on the ground and put his arms around his friends. Unwittingly, he touched the stump of Amin’s amputated arm, and both cringed. But the announcer’s voice distracted them.

      “The United Nations has passed a resolution to partition Palestine . . .”

      The crowd gasped as if someone had jerked a big noose around its neck.

      “The holy city of Jerusalem and its environs,” the announcer continued, “are to be internationalized. The British mandate in Palestine is to end and the British are to evacuate not later than next August.”

      “That’s crazy!” Yousif heard Salman cry out behind him.

      “Of great significance is the way the unexpected vote was reached. Thirty-three members voted for the resolution, thirteen against it, and ten abstained. Among those who voted for it were the United States and the Soviet Union. Among those who abstained was Great Britain.”

      “The bastards!” Yousif said.

      “Arab delegates at the United Nations were shocked,” the announcer went on, “to observe the extent to which the United States had gone to coerce nations to vote for the partition. Even a large country such as France was threatened with the cut-off of American foreign aid unless it toed the line and voted for the partition