On the Hills of God. Ibrahim Fawal

too far from us now.”

      “But there are others to be afraid for,” she said, reproachful. “How could you say a thing like that? Look at them, like ants. If the bomb goes off God knows how many will be killed.”

      “Let’s hope not.”

      Angry shouts flew from store owners whose goods had been knocked over. Someone picked up a huge ripe melon and threw it at the soldier. It hit him in the back of the head and he stumbled and fell on the cobblestone pavement. Before he could get up, the Arabs converged on him and held him to the ground.

      “There’s a bomb on that man,” the soldier pleaded.

      “He says you’re lying.”

      “I’m telling you the God’s truth.”

      “Shove it up your ass.”

      Just then down the street the bomb went off with a horrible, deafening blast. But the screaming was even louder than the sound of the explosion.

      “Oh no . . . oh no!” said Yousif’s mother.

      The roof of the arcade was blown away. Soon the pedestrians were showered with rubble. A dozen men and women were piled up in the middle of the narrow street, rendering it impassable. Dust particles danced in the sun rays like those in the beam of a motion picture projector. Goods were now the color of dry clay. Blood oozed from the arm of one man nearby, and Yousif rushed to help. Images of Amin flashed in his mind and he envisioned an amputation.

      “You need to cover it from all the dust,” Yousif warned the injured man, offering him a handkerchief.

      “Aaaaaahhh . . .” the man cried, not heeding Yousif.

      It was a cry among many. Here was a ten-year old girl yelling for help and squeezing her right eye. When Yousif tried to help her she pushed him away, groping for whomever had been with her. There was a crying woman with her headdress knocked off. A wound as wide as a pencil ran from her right ear to below her chin. Mothers were calling for their children. Children were lost and hurt. Silk scarfs, leather hassocks, embroidered vests were scattered everywhere. Earthen jars full of honey, molasses, and sesame oil had broken open. Sweet and tangy smells filled the air.

      Yousif slipped over a box of halkum and a jar of pistachio nuts, catching himself in time. He was pulling a bald-headed old man up, when he heard his own mother calling.

      “Yousif, what are you doing?” she reproached. “Let’s get out of here. I’m about to die.”

      She did look crimson, but Yousif knew she was prone to exaggeration. He wanted to stay and help out, yet he couldn’t abandon his own mother. After all, her blood pressure was a problem. He pushed his way toward her.

      “Come on,” he obliged, putting his arm around her and hurrying her away.

      In the rush to escape, they failed to turn on souk Khan iz-Zait, which would have taken them to the Qiyameh, where Yousif’s mother had wanted to light a candle. Instead they were on Via Dolorosa and then al-Wad Road, stopping every now and then to catch their breath. When they reached the Khalidiyeh Library, at the corner of the Jewish Quarter, they slowed down so as not to arouse suspicion. On the top of a few roofs Yousif could see Jewish men looking at them down the barrel of a gun. He kept it to himself lest his mother become alarmed.

      They turned right on Bab al-Silsilah Road, crossing several streets until they got to Omar Square, just inside Jaffa Gate. It was not twelve o’clock yet but she was too tired to go any further. To the right, less than a block from the Tourist Information Center, was a small restaurant in a dark alcove. She wanted to stop there and freshen up and have a glass of water. She needed to take the pills for her high blood pressure. But the restaurant was closed.

      “Let’s go to Al-Amad just outside the gate,” Yousif told her, remembering a place famous for its kabab. He could almost smell the appetizing aroma drifting from the popular restaurant.

      “No, let’s stay in the old city for a while,” she told him, leaning against a wall. “We’re not far from the Qiyameh. Now that we’re here we might as well visit.”

      Yousif stared at her. “I don’t think we should. This town is terrifying. If we get stuck here we might not be able to make it home tonight.”

      “What about Makram? We told him to meet us at three o’clock. It’s not twelve yet.”

      “Knowing him I bet he’s waiting for us already.”

      But getting out of the old city was not as easy as they had thought. The British police had blocked Jaffa Gate.

      “What now?” his mother asked, still frightened.

      “They’re not letting anybody out.”

      “What for?”

      “There may be others carrying bombs.”

      “Talk to that soldier. Tell him I have high blood pressure. I can’t stand this.”

      “It wouldn’t do any good. We’ve got to wait in line.”

      “I wonder how many people were killed.”

      “Who knows.”

      “I should’ve listened to your father. We chose the wrong day to come.”

      “From now on every day will be the wrong day.”

      The soldiers began to search the line, one by one. There was lightning in the sky and then shattering thunder in the heavens. Most people looked startled, suspecting another explosion.

      While his mother leaned on his shoulder, Yousif inspected the scene. In front of him was the Citadel, which the Jews liked to call the Citadel of David, although it was built centuries after David was dead and buried. The Jews wanted the whole thing whether it was theirs or not, he mused, and that was the root of the whole problem. The citadel itself was an imposing fortress that had defied many conquerors. Next to it was a minaret. Beyond it were the Armenian and Jewish Quarters with more churches and synagogues than the rest of Jerusalem.

      Behind him was the Christian Quarter and the old Terra Sancta, where his father had gone to school before going to Columbia. Next to Terra Sancta was the Greek Orthodox Patriarchate, which was only two blocks from the Freres School. He had been enough times to Jerusalem, especially the old city, to know it like the back of his hand. And his mother was even more familiar with every brick and every cobblestone.

      The multi-faceted character of Jerusalem had always fascinated Yousif. Within that ancient wall were the Holy Sepulchre, the Wailing Wall, and the Dome of the Rock—holy monuments of Christianity, Judaism, and Islam—all proclaiming the same God. No wonder even the misguided United Nations had insisted on internationalizing Jerusalem. Truly, it was a legacy for all mankind. Yet, Yousif’s heart ached. He knew that for this Holy City doomsday had come.