On the Hills of God. Ibrahim Fawal

War was inevitable. “What happens next?” Yousif asked his father, who was looking west, in the direction of Jaffa.

      “The only thing that can happen in a situation like this—war,” his father answered, biting the stem of his black pipe. “Tonight they’ll put a match to the dynamite which Balfour unwisely, unnecessarily, and stupidly planted.”

      “Do you see any way out of it?” Yousif asked his father.

      It was his mother who answered. “Only by a miracle,” she said, putting her arm around Yousif’s waist. “But if they try to take you away from me,” she said, “I’ll go with you.” She seemed frightened by the prospect.

      “Take me where?” Yousif asked.

      “If they draft you I’ll join the army. I’ll do something. I don’t care what.”

      “What army?” her husband asked, tamping out his pipe. “You know we have no army. This is an occupied country. The British are still here, remember?”

      “Who knows,” she said. “Now that things are serious, the Arabs might start one. If they do and take Yousif away—”

      “I’m no different from anyone else,” Yousif objected.

      “—I won’t wait and die slowly,” his mother added.

      “Don’t worry,” the doctor assured her, “you’ll have plenty of work to help me with at the clinic. There’ll be many wounds to patch.”

      His words made her shiver. “You speak like a prophet of doom,” she reproached him.

      “I’m no prophet, but we are doomed,” the doctor answered with conviction.

      The street lights were soon turned on and Yousif’s parents went inside. Yousif walked slowly around the veranda. His eyes traveled from the top of the hills before him to the bottom of the valleys, exploring the town street by street.

      It was unnaturally quiet. Not a human being moved; not even a car or a bicycle or a stray cat. His eyes focused on a little house a few acres below him. He could imagine what was going on inside, for he had been there often. In the house was the Sha’lan family, Isaac’s family. Yousif could also imagine how they must be agonizing over their future.

      At the dinner table Yousif stirred the lentil soup before him. “What’s going to happen to Isaac and his family?” he asked, as if trying to read their fortune at the bottom of his bowl.

      “Nothing, of course,” his mother answered, and looked at her husband for assurance.

      Her husband drank his soup in silence, as if, Yousif felt, his wife’s naiveté sometimes were too much to bear.

      “Mama, you surprise me,” Yousif said, looking at her. “They live in an Arab town, don’t they? There’s going to be war. Will they be safe?”

      His tone upset her and color rose to her cheeks. “Well, they’re not involved. It’s a conflict between us and the outside agitators, the Zionists. The Sha’lan family are just like the rest of us—getting sick over what might happen.”

      “That’s not the way your average Arab is going to look at it,” her imperturbable husband predicted, without raising his eyes from his plate.

      Yousif broke off a piece of bread. “Don’t be surprised if the police come after me,” he said.

      Both parents were startled. “After you?” his father asked.

      “Yes,” Yousif replied.

      “What on earth for?” his mother wanted to know.

      Yousif told them what had happened after Basim’s oration.

      “What did you tell them?” his father asked.

      “That they can’t order us around anymore.”

      “That’s all?”

      “I also threatened them with a demonstration.”

      His mother gasped. “You threatened them?”

      “Yes, I did.”

      “That’s the least of their worries,” his father said. “They just don’t want you to throw bombs or go around shooting people.”

      “Then why did they try to stop Basim from making a speech? Wasn’t that what a demonstration is all about?”

      “Right now they’re nervous. They’re afraid things might get out of hand.”

      His mother reached out to touch Yousif’s hand. “Please, son, stay out of it.”

      “One way or another, we’re all going to get involved,” her husband said, as he stopped eating, pushed back his chair, and rose slowly from the table.

      After dinner, Dr. Safi went out to make his nightly house calls. He had a number of very sick patients, he said, and might be out for a while. His wife helped him put on his jacket and heavy black topcoat and told him that she and Yousif would be waiting for him at her brother’s house.

      Five or six people were already hovering around a portable heater and discussing politics with Uncle Boulus. Soon other people from the neighborhood arrived. The living room—with its plush mahogany furniture and thick Persian rug—was almost full of bewildered men and women who had reached a crossroad in their lives and had no idea which way to turn. Some were dressed in native robes and red fezes. Others, like Uncle Boulus, were in modern suits with nothing on their heads. Some were rolling cigarettes; others were fingering worry beads. Most were staring at the medallion in the middle of the Tabriez rug as though it were an open casket. Abu Nassri wore large tinted glasses, like a movie star traveling incognito, and chain-smoked his cigarettes until the fire scorched the tips of his yellowed fingers. One old bearded man had only one tooth. They all wanted to know what had happened that afternoon, and Yousif tried to answer all their questions, finding himself slowly but surely slipping into the vortex.

      “Who fired the two shots?” Uncle Boulus asked. “Did anyone find out?”

      “One of the soldiers, I’m sure,” Yousif said. “Who else?”

      “If I had a gun I would’ve been proud to empty it in their skulls,” the old man fumed. “The sons of dogs! They shaft us and then expect us to like it. Dare we open our mouths?”

      “I bet they won’t stop the Zionists from celebrating all over Palestine,” Yousif predicted.

      “Hell no,” someone said. “They’re already dancing in the streets of Jerusalem.”

      “I bet the British soldiers are dancing with them,” Yousif said.

      “Well, of course,” said Abu Nassri. “You think they’d try to muzzle them as they tried to muzzle us? Hell no.”

      Then, Yousif heard the heavy iron door open and footsteps cross the long marble corridor. Salman appeared and sat on the sofa nearest the door, followed by Yacoub Khoury, a man in his late twenties whose hair was parted in the middle and slicked down. Yacoub was a house painter who was ashamed of his trade. At sunset, he would throw away his work clothes and dress up like a civil servant. He was also a high school drop-out; to compensate for his lack of education, he would read all the magazines, listen to all the news, and try to engage in serious discussions. He lived with his mother and two older sisters and refused to get married lest his wife mistreat them. Poor Yacoub, people said. He was misery personified. But Yousif liked him.

      “What do you think of the Philippines?” Yacoub asked as soon as he sat down, pulling up his sharply creased trousers at the knees.

      “That’s Truman for you,” Uncle Boulus answered, crossing his legs.

      “But General Romulo was so eloquent, so positive,” Yacoub persisted.

      “He wasn’t the only one who had to swallow his pride and buckle under American pressure,” Abu Nassri said. “Truman probably told him, either come