On the Hills of God. Ibrahim Fawal

      “What is it, Mama?” he asked, holding the napkin.

      She cupped the receiver and told him that her sister Widad had had a gallbladder operation. “Now you tell us?” she complained to her brother-in-law. “What if something had happened to her during surgery? You know I would’ve come to see her before she went in for the operation. Poor girl! How’s she now? Is she all right? What pathology test? Why? Do they suspect something else, God forbid? Well, here’s Jamil. You tell him and he’ll explain it to me. In any case, I’ll be there tomorrow.”

      Father and son looked at each other, skeptical. Then the doctor spoke on the phone for a few minutes. When he returned to the table, he was optimistic. The likelihood of a malignancy was very small. Normally cancer would develop in the gallbladder only after a long illness. But Widad had never had any problem with hers. So there was nothing to worry about.

      “I hope so,” his wife answered, suddenly drained of energy.

      “But, my God, Yasmin,” her husband chided her, picking up a drum-stick, “you berated Rasheed as though he intended to keep your sister’s surgery from you.”

      “All he had to do was pick up the phone,” she said.

      “And?” Yousif said.

      “I would’ve taken a taxi and gotten to the hospital before they wheeled her into the operating room. Jerusalem is a forty-minute drive, you know.”

      Husband and son stared at her.

      “What are you looking at me for? I haven’t lost my mind, have I?”

      “No,” her husband answered, chewing. “You just seem to forget there was a curfew.”

      She did not answer; nor did she pick up her knife and fork.

      “And I presume you were serious,” her husband said, “when you told him you’d be there tomorrow.”

      “I was serious,” she said, her eyes widening. “What of it?”

      “Tomorrow I’m busy. Why not wait until we could go together? I’d like to check on her myself.”

      “We’ll go again,” she said, still not touching her food.

      No argument was strong enough to dissuade her. The doctor looked to his son for help.

      “When mother makes up her mind,” Yousif said, “there’s no sense trying to change her mind. I’ll skip school tomorrow and go with her.”

      “You don’t have to,” his mother said.

      “I know I don’t have to,” her son told her. “But you might need protection.”

9

      Yousif took a day off from school to accompany his mother to see Aunt Widad in Jerusalem. As Makram drove them in his dusty black Mercedes taxi across the thirty-five-mile stretch southeast, his mother voiced concern about her sister. But Yousif was preoccupied with other matters.

      Passing Sarafand, the British military camp, he wondered what the British were going to do with all those arms. Couldn’t the Arabs find a way of getting any of them? Couldn’t some of the officers be bought? Couldn’t they look the other way as the Arabs helped themselves? It would be a shame if all these acres of guns and ammunition were taken out of the country or if they fell in the hands of the Zionists. He should speak to Basim about that.

      A few miles later, he could see the outlines of Lydda and Ramleh, two large Arab towns. They were known for their fertile fields of vegetables. Lydda was also famous for the bravery of her men. Yousif was curious what these brave men were doing now, on the eve of war. Were they thinking of attacking the Sarafand camp, for example? Or were they, like everyone else, wasting their time daydreaming or playing dominos at coffeehouses? Lydda was also the birthplace of Saint George, the dragon slayer, his favorite saint.

      When they reached Latrun, Yousif thought of the Trappist monks who lived in the monastery. Were there Arab monks among them? Were they all Europeans? Where were their earthly loyalties—if they had any? Could their monastery be available to the Arabs to defend themselves? There was no doubt in his mind that Zionist agents had already made their “arrangements.”

      But Yousif’s thoughts were soon interrupted. Across the narrow road from the monastery was a British police station, heavily barb-wired. Two young M.P.s, with cheeks pink from the December weather, stopped the car. Their guns were at the ready. They flanked the Mercedes on both sides. Makram was quick to roll down the window. A gust of raw wind blew inside the car. Yousif saw his mother wrap her beige wool scarf around her neck.

      “Let me see your I.D.,” one M.P. ordered the driver.

      Makram had his hand already at his hip pocket. Within seconds he was showing him a small card with his picture on it. The policeman studied it and then returned it to the driver. He looked at Yousif and his mother.

      “Let me have yours,” the Britisher said.

      “We don’t have any,” Yousif replied, lowering the window on his side.

      “Why not?”

      “Is this a new law?”

      “It’s not a new law,” the policeman answered. “It’s always been a requirement. Get one as soon as you can and make sure you have it on you at all times. And that goes for the lady in the back seat. Lady, do you understand English?”

      She nodded.

      In the meantime, the other M.P. had Makram open his trunk for inspection. Shortly, Makram returned to his seat and they were winding their way up to Jerusalem.

      “If it’s like this here, I can imagine how it is in Jerusalem,” his mother said, tight-jawed.

      The road wound itself around the hills like a snake. Soon they were entering Bab al-Wad, a narrow passageway between high cliffs. It was obvious to Yousif that whoever controlled this strategic point would control the entire highway and be able to cut off Jerusalem from Jaffa and Tel Aviv.

      Such twists and turns in the road seemed to parallel the twists and turns in Yousif’s mind. Palestine must be protected; Arabs must survive—Jews too if he could help it. He would quit school and join whatever resistance group there was and do his share. But where was such a group?

      The Grand Mufti, who had led the revolt in the 1930s, was still a leader around whom some rallied. But not many. Most people, Yousif now remembered, had no qualms with the Mufti’s patriotism. But to others, he had become obsolete. They had little faith in his band of villagers and their outmoded tactics. Even Basim, one of the Mufti’s closest aides, was striking out on his own. Yousif watched the road as they passed two more Arab towns well perched above high hills. Kastal and Abu Ghoush were on the outskirts of Jerusalem.

      A sense of foreboding seemed to grip Yousif as they crossed the city limits. The atmosphere in this city of churches, mosques, and synagogues seemed funereal. The sights and sounds of bustle were gone. The usually clean roads were littered with yesterday’s debris. Were the sweepers on strike, Yousif wondered, or were they afraid to do their work? There were few shoppers on the sidewalks. Some of the stores were even closed. Posters bearing the star of David were plastered on walls and over movie billboards. The writing on them was in Hebrew. Yousif could tell they were urging Jewish men and women to join the Hagana, the Jewish underground. Blue and white banners, some of them ripped, were hanging from telephone posts.

      “Get us out of here,” Yousif’s mother said to the driver.

      Yousif looked at his mother. Her face was as yellow as a lemon.

      “You’d think you’re in Tel Aviv,” Makram remarked, shaking his head. “Look at all the Hebrew signs.”

      “It’s not that,” the mother complained. “I feel uneasy . . .”

      They passed a