On the Hills of God. Ibrahim Fawal

would never again dream of going to the United States. Nor would he let his father speak so fondly of his years at Columbia University. The America his father had known in the 1920s might have been great, but since then she must have changed. How could she call herself the leader of the free world when she was conspiring to deny him and his people their freedom? Yousif would never watch another cowboy defend his West, when that same cowboy was insisting on giving Palestine away to the Zionists.

      The plaza in front of the cinema was full of peddlers: one selling falafel sandwiches, and another shish kabab. A third one, a ragged-looking old man, was waving a newspaper.

      “Long live Arab Palestine,” he shouted. “Read all about it.”

      Men on both sidewalks headed in the old man’s direction. Yousif was afraid the big bundle under the peddler’s arm would be gone before he got to him. Yousif squeezed through the crowd and managed to purchase three papers. The Egyptian and Lebanese tabloids were very popular and Yousif wanted to read what the Arabs’ reaction was to the UN vote. “time for holy war,” shouted Falastin. “once again the crusades,” shouted Ad-Difaa. “the west gangs up on arabs,” shouted Al-Ahram.

      As soon as they were away from the heavy traffic, Yousif handed Amin one newspaper, put one under his arm, and began to read the third. Both read in silence, then aloud to each other.

      Everything in the papers stirred their blood. The reports of the Jews singing and dancing throughout Palestine the night before infuriated them. Then there was the battle cry. It had been sounded from Yemen to Iraq, from Kuwait to Morocco. Much of it was Arab rhetoric; that Yousif knew. But the neighboring Arab states did seem eager to deliver on their promise to save Palestine from the aggressors who were converging on them like waves of locusts bent on swallowing everything in sight.

      On top of a high hill that overlooked Jaffa and the Jaffa-Jerusalem road, Yousif stopped and stared. The distant, brown, rolling hills were clustered and elongated. They looked like a basket full of Easter eggs, dyed the color of onion skin. To his left was the hill on which they had often caught birds; to his right was the slope where they had followed the Jewish spies and Amin had fallen. Below them was a deep valley already engulfed in darkness.

      “We’re not too far from the Zionists,” Yousif said, thoughtful. “Tel Aviv itself is less than twenty-five miles away. They just might make a grab at Ardallah.”

      Amin stared at him, shaking his head. “Not a chance,” he said.

      “I wouldn’t put it past them,” Yousif said.

      “They could try but they would fail.”

      “What if they didn’t? What if Ardallah fell into their hands.”

      In his wildest dreams, Amin had never considered the possibility. “If that happened,” he said, looking astonished, “then it’s something bigger than all of us. Something we couldn’t help.”

      “But we can stop it.”

      “If it can be stopped, it’s going to take Arab armies to do it.”

      “But you and I can help.”

      “How?”

      “That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” Yousif said, kicking a pebble with his foot. “Who are the people making decisions on our behalf? Where do they come from? Who elected them? No one I know has ever been consulted about what’s going on. You and I don’t want war. Isaac and his parents don’t want war. So why are we all being ignored? I feel trapped, left out, condemned without a trial. The destiny of Palestine belongs—or should belong—to the people. So why—”

      “It’s politics,” Amin interrupted. “That’s how it’s done.”

      “Well, look where it’s taking us. We need to get involved. There must be thousands of Arabs and Jews living beyond these hills who share our feelings. Why can’t we all get together and tell the politicians to go to hell?”

      They walked in silence. “Everyone we passed today had a long face,” Yousif said. “Well, damn it, long faces don’t save the country.”

      “What do you expect them to do?”

      Yousif got angry. “They can get off their butts for a change. The country is going to be torn apart while they’re swatting flies.”

      “Oh, Yousif, the Arab regimes are not going to sit back and let a bunch of Zionists steal our land. If that ever happens there’ll be hell to pay. Every Arab king and president would be scared to death of his own people. The masses would turn on every one of them. I wouldn’t be surprised if there was a revolution.”

      From the depth of his heart, Yousif wanted to believe Amin. But he couldn’t. It sounded like wishful thinking more than anything else.

      “I don’t care what happens afterwards,” Yousif said. “The main thing is to prevent the Jewish state from getting established. They must not get a foothold here at all. If we lose one Arab village now, it will take us a generation to get it back. Father says we Arabs have too many so-called governments, too many factions within each country. The West can play us one against the other. For them it would be like splitting wood. It’s true.”

      Amin looked at him quizzically. “Since when are you so cynical?”

      “Basim is right,” Yousif answered. “Now is the time to stop the Zionist takeover or we’ll be lost.”

      A shepherd passed behind them with his flock of sheep. Again Yousif was reminded of the simple life on these hills that Jamal had called the hills of God. But now Yousif was worried about the future. When they reached the flour-mill, they parted. It was already dusk.

      On Monday, Arab Palestine went on strike. The doctor stayed home as did Yousif. They read newspapers, listened to the news, and spoke of nothing except the impending crisis.

      While the Jews danced and blew their shofars in the streets, the Arabs rioted, especially in large cities such as Jerusalem, Jaffa, and Haifa. Multitudes of angry citizens rioted in the Arab capitals of Damascus, Beirut, Baghdad, and Cairo. They turned their vengeance on foreign embassies, especially those of the United States. They shouted “Down with America” and “Down with Truman.” They burned British vehicles and looted Jewish stores.

      What was more important, from Yousif’s perspective, was not knowing Isaac’s whereabouts.

      Next morning, Yousif and Amin did not find Isaac waiting for them by the flour-mill. Nor was he at school when Yousif, as the prefect of the senior class, rang the bell at 10:15 to end the recess. Teachers and students hurried from the playground toward the building. It was a chilly, cloudy December morning, and all were bundled in topcoats or woolen scarves. Yousif rang the bell again and again for the benefit of the tardy and those at the far end of the field.

      Knowing what the country had gone through the last few days, Yousif’s class of twenty-two students did not really expect to be tested in the next period. The history test had originally been scheduled for the day before, but the school had been shut down on account of the strike. Most of the students were still cold, and sat now rubbing their hands, wondering what their teacher would do. Some buttoned their sweaters and leafed through their textbooks for a last-minute review, but most thought he would postpone the test. As prefect, Yousif stood at the head of the class and tried to keep it quiet.

      Then the teacher, ustaz Rashad Hakim, opened the door briskly and closed it behind him. He moved toward his desk, energizing the whole class with his mere presence. He was short, compact, sleeveless even in the dead of winter. His gum shoes gave him an extra bounce.

      “Are you ready?” Hakim asked, his clear brown eyes expecting rebellion.

      “No!” several students responded.

      “I didn’t think so,” Hakim said, grinning behind his desk. “By the way, where’s Isaac?”

      “We don’t know,” Yousif volunteered.

      There was