On the Hills of God. Ibrahim Fawal

hearing from people when they talk about the house,” Yousif said, “is magnificent. And I really believe it is.”

      Colonnaded and well-lit all around, it brought to mind the Dome of the Rock when viewed from the Mount of Olives. It thrilled Yousif to know that people actually drove long distances just to see it.

      “There’s one more thing for me to do in this life,” his father said, puffing on his pipe and pressing his wife to his side.

      “To see Yousif married?” his wife guessed.

      Yousif was taken aback, and the three exchanged glances.

      “No,” the doctor said, smiling. “We have plenty of time for that. Yousif still has a lot of studying to do.”

      His father was referring, Yousif knew, not only to his last year in high school, but also to medical school, which the doctor hoped his son would attend.

      “I wish I had a brother,” Yousif said, “so he could carry on in your footsteps, father.”

      “We do too,” Yasmin said, sighing. “But we have no right to question God’s will. If He wanted us to have another child, we would’ve.”

      Yousif could sense that his parents were disappointed but resigned to the fact that life had denied them other children. Living in a world that exalted big families, they too would have welcomed and enjoyed a bigger brood.

      “When I think of all those who don’t have any children,” Yasmin said, “I’m thankful we have you. Look at Dr. Afifi and Jihan. Look at my brother Boulus and Hilaneh. What wouldn’t they give for someone to carry on their names?”

      “That’s true,” Yousif said. “Nevertheless, you are disappointed, are you not?”

      Yasmin put her arm around her son’s waist. “We’d be both lying if we said we weren’t. There were times when I was bitter. All my life I looked forward to a house full of children and grandchildren. I wanted to cook for them. I wanted to open my arms for them when they returned from schools. I wanted to knit sweaters and scarfs and gloves for them. I wanted to shower them with gifts and love. But . . .”

      “Don’t forget,” his father said, chuckling, “it took five years for your ‘majesty’ to arrive.”

      “But you made up for all that we may have missed,” Yasmin told her son, giving him an affectionate squeeze. “You brought us joy that wiped out all our sadness.”

      “Even if I don’t become a doctor?” Yousif teased.

      “No matter,” she told him. “We’ve always been and we’ll always be proud of you.”

      Should the troubles escalate into war, Yousif thought, it would be impossible for him to even contemplate leaving for school. He would stay and defend his country from the Zionists. How he would serve he still did not know. And if the threat of war was removed, he would rather be a lawyer than a doctor. He hated to disappoint his father, but he had no interest in medicine whatsoever; he was squeamish at the sight of blood.

      “I guess,” Yousif said to his father, “the one thing left for you to do now is build the hospital.”

      “Yes, that indeed,” the doctor agreed. “But construction work being so expensive nowadays, I don’t see how this town could afford it. Yet we can’t afford not to have it either.”

      His wife snuggled against him. “It doesn’t have to be big. If you wait too long you may never be able to build it.”

      The doctor nodded. “It needs to be at least five times the size of this house, and you know how much this cost.”

      “How much?” Yousif asked, holding the railing and looking at the opposite mountain. From a distance he could hear an orchestra playing at the Rowda Hotel’s garden. He could imagine vacationers dancing under the full moon.

      “Nearly ten thousand pounds,” the doctor answered. Then, turning to his wife, he added, “What do you think? You keep up with the figures more than I do.”

      His wife shrugged her shoulder. “I don’t care. It’s worth every bit of it.”

      “That we know,” her husband agreed. “In any case, today I contributed another hundred pounds to the hospital fund.”

      “Again!” his wife protested.

      Her husband looked at her reproachfully. “I should’ve given more, but right now that’s all we can afford.”

      “It’s enough,” his wife assured him.

      “I wouldn’t say that,” the doctor replied, stroking her back. “Some paid as much on lesser occasions.”

      Yousif knew what his parents were saying. Ever since his father started the community fund to build a hospital, people had contributed at all happy occasions: weddings, childbirths, baptisms, the building of a new house, returning from abroad. Weddings had always been a good source of income, but of late people had learned to make donations in the loving memory of their deceased. How many times had Yousif seen his father take out his small black book to register five pounds here or ten pounds there?

      What would the political troubles ahead do to all these plans? The thought nagged at the back of Yousif’s mind. Was there a solution that could satisfy Arabs and Jews? He would not bring up the subject tonight with his parents; there was no need to spoil their happiness.

2

      Wearing well-pressed pants and short-sleeved sport shirts, Yousif and his friends, Amin and Isaac, were out for their ritual Sunday afternoon stroll. Yousif was Christian, Amin Muslim, Isaac Jewish. They were born within a few blocks of each other. They had gone through elementary and secondary school together. Together they had switched from short to long pants, learned to appreciate girls, enjoyed catching birds, suffered over acne, and, because they were all Semites, wondered who among them would have the biggest nose. They were so often together that the whole town began to accept them as inseparable.

      Yousif, considered by many to be the leader of the three, was tall and had a thick black head of hair. He was first in his class, many considered him handsome, and no one doubted that he was relatively rich, being the only son of the most popular doctor in town. Amin was short and compact, with a perfect set of gleaming white teeth and skin that was a shade darker than the other two. He was the oldest of nine children and the poorest of the three companions: for his father was a stonecutter and all his family lived in a one-room house in the oldest district in town. Isaac was of medium height, with high cheekbones, sunken cheeks, and a shy, winsome smile. His father was a merchant who sold fabrics, mostly to the villagers who came to shop in the “big” city, in a store he had inherited from his father.

      None of the three boys wanted to follow in his father’s footsteps. Yousif wanted to be a lawyer; Amin a doctor; Isaac a musician. Such were the dreams that fluttered in their hearts as they walked together, like birds awaiting the full development of their wings to fly.

      That afternoon these three were enjoying a favorite Ardallah pastime: tourist watching. Ardallah was a town thirty miles northwest of Jerusalem and fifteen miles east of Jaffa. Tourists made the population of this summer resort swell from ten thousand in the off season to nearly double that during the summer, and to perhaps twenty-two thousand over the weekends. Ardallah swarmed with automobiles and pedestrians. There were occasional camels and mules, which, however archaic, were still viable means for moving goods. Pushcart vendors weaved from one sidewalk to another, undaunted by the heavy traffic or by the angry, sometimes rhythmic honking from drivers who were not above coupling their blasts with a few choice words or obscene gestures. The many little shops—and the few big ones—did a thriving business. Shoppers coming out of the Muslim and Jewish stores had their arms laden with packages. But to the Christian shopkeepers of this predominantly Christian town, Sunday was truly a day of rest.

      On that particular Sunday, the three boys nudged each other