On the Hills of God. Ibrahim Fawal

the marble hall. The steps got closer, and Yousif looked up. The sight of the new arrival made him gasp. Everyone turned and looked. Jamal, the blind musician, stood like an apparition at the door, his right hand resting rigidly on his cane. His black robe was wet, his sunken eyes and grim expression further electrified an already charged scene. For a moment no one said a word.

      “I was so upset when I heard the news,” Jamal said finally, “I hated to stay home alone. I knew I’d find someone here.”

      “I’m glad you came,” said Uncle Boulus, rising to greet him.

      Everyone in the room, even the old man with the one tooth, stood up in deference to Jamal. They seemed disturbed by the sudden appearance of his ominous black figure and touched by his shaky voice. Yousif led him to a seat. Jamal seemed pleased to learn of Yousif’s presence. His cold hand clutched Yousif’s arm a bit tightly, and Yousif was certain that Jamal’s twitching lips were suppressing a cry gnawing at his heart.

      If anyone in the room could feel pain in the depth of his heart and soul, it was Jamal. He lived alone and made a living weaving baskets. How many times had Yousif and his two friends been touched and inspired by him. About ten o’clock every night, Jamal would play the violin for an hour before he went to sleep. During that hour, many neighbors would open their windows or sit on their doorsteps, listening to his disquieting, haunting music, unlike any other they had ever heard. They were grateful.

      If anyone loved the land of Palestine and its people, Yousif knew it was Jamal. It had taken Isaac months to convince Jamal to teach him how to play the ‘oud. Yousif recalled when Jamal, who had become comfortable after a while with Isaac and his two friends, actually picked up the violin and played for them. It was a rare privilege none of the three friends was likely to forget. But it wasn’t only the music nor the manner of playing that stuck in Yousif’s mind. It was the words Jamal used to describe the music that swelled within him but which he felt he could not express—a failure, he said, that frustrated him to the point where he had “destroyed four violins—and my life.”

      Yousif looked now at the small, pale, piteous man sitting beside him. His eyes seemed to have been sealed by a surgeon. He dressed in total black like a man in mourning. Yousif recalled the exact words Jamal had used: “Did you ever hear a shepherd on top of a mountain play his flute to his sheep? Or the farmers sing when harvesting their wheat and plowing their fields? Have you ever heard the women sing when their men return from across the ocean? Or the men and women sing at weddings? Did you ever hear women wail and chant their death songs?”

      “When I was young, before I lost my eyesight,” Jamal had added, “I used to sit among them and cry. I wanted to write a symphony of these hills—the hills of God. I wanted to write about their glory and everlasting meaning. I wanted to write about the people who lived and still live on them. I wanted to write about their deaths, for here a divine human conquered death with death.”

      It was this kind of love for the land and its people that gave Yousif hope. No one in the room, he knew, could express himself as well as Jamal, but deep in their hearts they all felt the same. If a blind man, Yousif thought, could fall in love with these hills and valleys, what about those who grew up looking at them everyday?

      Let the UN pass resolutions. Let the Zionists dream of taking Palestine from its rightful owners. None of it would come to pass. This Yousif resolved—as he watched and pitied the men in the room who only sighed and complained. His generation would put up a fight and he, Yousif, would be a part of it.

8

      By ten o’clock the next morning, Isaac had not shown up at Yousif’s house for their regular weekly study, so Yousif and Amin walked down the hill to find out why. Isaac’s modest stone house with its yellow window shutters looked like all the houses around it. They stepped onto the porch and Yousif rang the bell.

      After a minute, Isaac’s mother opened the door. She was short and plump and her graying hair was wrapped in a white scarf. Her round, kindly face was pale and she looked hesitant. She held the door only slightly ajar. Then, seeing who they were, she let them in.

      “What’s wrong, Aunt Sarah?” Yousif asked, surprised at her hesitation.

      “I didn’t think you’d come today,” she said, still holding the door open.

      “Why not?” Amin asked, looking at Yousif.

      “I just wasn’t sure,” she said, embracing them. She looked outside, shook her head, and shut the door.

      Yousif could read her mind. “We’ve got nothing to do with what’s happening.”

      After an awkward pause, she led them to the living room and motioned them to sit down. On the far wall Yousif could see several pictures of old women and men, one of whom looked like a rabbi. On a table in the corner was Isaac’s ‘oud, covered in a maroon velvet jacket. It reminded Yousif of Jamal’s agony the night before.

      “Do you think there’s going to be war?” Amin asked.

      Aunt Sarah wrung her hands and remained standing. “I’m afraid so,” she answered. “You’re too young to know what real suffering means. If war does break out we’ll all suffer.”

      “But why war?” Amin pressed. “You’re happy here, aren’t you?”

      “It’s not the native Jews, Amin. You know as much as we do who’s starting the troubles.”

      Isaac came out of his room carrying his books. His friends involuntarily stood up as if they were about to meet a stranger. Aunt Sarah looked at them, biting her knuckles.

      “What’s for breakfast?” Isaac asked, trying to sound cheerful.

      Aunt Sarah stared at him and his two friends. “The three of you could split up,” she said. “Before it’s over you could be fighting on opposite sides.”

      As when Yousif had suggested the pledge, Amin looked shocked. “We won’t,” he told her.

      “But you will,” she said, nodding. Tears began to fill her eyes. She hastened out of the room.

      After a short pause, the three friends sat down.

      “We waited for you,” Yousif told Isaac. “Why didn’t you come?”

      “Studying was the last thing on my mind,” Isaac answered, his voice low. “Last night, mother was so worried she couldn’t sleep. In her lifetime she cried a lot for the Jews. Now she’s crying for the Jews and the Arabs.” He waited a moment and then added, “She’s going to ask you to have breakfast. Please agree.”

      “I’ve already had breakfast,” Amin said.

      “Have another one.”

      Ten minutes later, Aunt Sarah came in and announced that breakfast was ready. She seemed to take it for granted that they would eat together. The three boys exchanged glances, and followed her to the small dining room without saying a word. She had made a special dish of chick peas with fried lamb meat and pine nuts, and served large rings of bread with sesame seeds. There were black olives, sliced tomatoes, white cheese, and irresistible olive oil and thyme. Of all the breakfast foods, the last two items were Yousif’s favorites.

      The three broke pieces of bread, dunked the tips in the olive oil, and then dipped them in the small bowl of thyme. They chewed heartily, as though relishing a gourmet meal.

      “How do you like your eggs?” Aunt Sarah asked no one in particular.

      “I pass,” Yousif told her. “This is more than enough.”

      “I’d be disappointed,” she said. “Do you like them scrambled or sunny side up? Tell the truth now. Don’t be bashful. You’re like Isaac to me.”

      “I know that,” Yousif said. “But honestly I don’t care for any.”

      “How about you, Amin? How do you like