On the Hills of God. Ibrahim Fawal

basket full of eggs.

      “Mama!” Isaac implored.

      She seemed to remember something. “Just run out,” she told her son, “and get me a handful of mint and parsley from the yard. I’ll make you omelets.”

      She reached for a white bowl and began to crack some eggs. Isaac’s rolled his eyes. Then he got up and went out, resigned to let her have her way.

      Minutes later, she hovered around them, breaking more bread, filling their cups with hot tea, and telling them to eat more. In her loving care she looked flustered. They ate and talked, and pretended to enjoy the meal. Yousif felt such a lump in his throat, he could not swallow. Sitting at one table and breaking bread together was good, but the world would not leave them alone. A steady roar filled his ears, from which he knew they could not escape. From now on, he said to himself, things would never be the same.

      After breakfast they went back to Yousif’s house to attend to their studies. All their books were there and there were no children to disturb them. They had vowed not to allow politics or anything else distract them. The cause of their seriousness was the London Matriculation. That crucial international examination would be held next March or April, and it was never too early to start preparing for it. It was a great honor to pass it and a greater shame to fail it. The names of those who passed would be published in the national newspapers, and the morning the announcements hit the stands, the whole town would read the list.

      The thought of failure filled Yousif, Amin, and Isaac with apprehension. Unless they passed, all their achievements over the last eleven years would be forgotten. Moreover, in the eyes of their parents the “Matric” was the yardstick by which their fitness for college was measured. All three boys wanted to continue their education. Amin, in particular, was hoping for a scholarship. Without one he wouldn’t be able to afford college, but with the “Matric” to his credit he stood a chance.

      For that reason, Yousif and his two friends had obtained published copies of old tests on the six subjects (Arabic, British, History, Mathematics, Chemistry, Physics) out of which every senior had to sit for five. They had set aside every Saturday morning to study for the “Matric” and nothing else. They resolved to answer every question, memorize every equation, and solve every problem. And they were making good progress.

      Today was no exception. At one point, Yousif’s mother brought them a pot of Arabic coffee. Half an hour later Fatima tiptoed in with a plate of peeled oranges. The three boys read, discussed, and reviewed. But on the hour, Yousif would interrupt his studies to fiddle with the radio set. He was anxious to hear the latest news. Or he would glance at the morning newspaper, which his father had left in his armchair.

      The headline, in bold red letters, screamed, the shock of the ages. On the front page was a large map of the recommended division. To Yousif’s chagrin, northern and southern Palestine and most of its coastline would be allotted to the Zionists. A corridor would connect Arab Palestine with Jaffa and Gaza.

      “This is bizaare,” Yousif said, shaking his head and picking up the newspaper.

      Both Isaac and Amin looked up, frowning.

      “Are you going to study or not?” Amin asked.

      “I can’t help it,” Yousif answered, the paper rustling in his hands.

      Isaac bit his lower lip and stared at his friend. “Maybe it won’t come to pass. Now that both sides know that the threat of war is real, maybe they’ll come to their senses. No one wants war. Not really.”

      For the rest of the review session, the three read in silence.

      They had lunch at Yousif’s. They ate sardines, tabouleh, and fried potatoes cut like small moons. Then they went out.

      They passed the market place and saw the damage done by the explosion late yesterday afternoon. Scores of windows had been shattered, several corrugated iron doors mangled, and the nearest wall charred. The mutilated jeep, however, had been removed, and the streets had been cleared of glass.

      “Amazing no one was hurt,” Yousif said.

      “Someone will get hurt if they don’t fix that balcony,” Isaac said, pointing his finger.

      Yousif looked up. The balcony right above the street was still hanging—but teetering, on the verge of collapse.

      They backed off to the other sidewalk.

      A woman carrying her shopping in a wicker basket on her head stopped, gaping at the damage. She murmured something and made the sign of the cross.

      The three boys resumed their walking. The shops were mostly empty, with the owners sitting behind their counters wrapped up in scarfs or wool sweaters. On the wall between the site of the explosion and the nearest grocery store, the slogan “Down with Zionism” was painted in black. Not far from it was painted another one. It read, “Down with Britain.” On the green wrought-iron gate of the Greek Orthodox Church was a third. It said, “Down with Truman.”

      “Somebody must’ve been up all night,” Yousif commented.

      “Where did they get all that black paint?” Amin asked.

      “Look,” Yousif said, pointing his finger. “It’s not all black.”

      Across the wall of the public lavatory was a huge arrow painted in red, pointing toward the edge of the door. Above it were words, also in red: “Herzl Lives Here.”

      Yousif had no love for the Austrian Jew who had founded Zionism at the end of the last century, but the vulgar slogan embarrassed him.

      “Whoever wrote that doesn’t know history,” Yousif said. “Herzl died years ago. Like Moses, he never set foot on Palestinian soil.”

      “This scares me,” Isaac said, turning pale.

      “It’s shitty,” Yousif apologized.

      Amin jerked his neck. “Words don’t kill, though,” he said. “It’s the bullets and bombs that worry me.”

      “Words are powerful enough,” Isaac said. “They could lead to real violence.”

      Amin’s face reddened. “I guess you’re right.”

      They were nearing the Fardous Cafe where Basim had made his speech the day before. Yousif was worried for Isaac. Would the Arabs remember that he was Jewish? Would any of them make a snide remark or try to hurt him?

      As usual, the cafe was crowded. Some customers were reading newspapers, or staring blankly. Several, however, had gone back to old habits: playing pinochle or checkers, gambling for a cup of coffee, and smoking nergileh. It was an overcast day, but it was warm and dry enough for many to sit in the yard under the canopy.

      There was nothing abnormal about the way the Arabs looked at Isaac or talked to him. They accepted him as though nothing had happened the day before. To them he continued to be an inseparable part of the trio. Yousif was relieved.

      “Let’s go to the movies,” Yousif suggested, rubbing his hands.

      “What’s playing?” Amin wanted to know.

      “I don’t care,” Yousif replied. “We haven’t seen a film in two weeks.”

      Isaac slowed down. “You go ahead. I can’t.”

      “And why not?” Yousif asked, waving to someone across the street.

      “I need to be with my father,” Isaac explained. “He can’t even go to the rest room unless someone minds the store for him.”

      His two friends did not seem convinced. They exchanged looks but did not argue with him.

      “I’ll see you later,” Isaac said, leaving.

      Yousif and Amin stood motionless, each wrapped up in his own thoughts. Then they began to walk again and ended up at the movies. Salwa usually came to Saturday or Sunday matinees, so Yousif spent more time looking for her than watching the screen. Today she never showed