On the Hills of God. Ibrahim Fawal

Sea lay Jaffa, Lydda, and Ramleh, which were surrounded by hundreds of orange groves; between Ardallah and the highlands lay hundreds of Arab villages surrounded by fig and olive groves and pasture lands, where shepherds could still be seen sitting atop a hill playing the flute or herding their flock as in biblical times.

      Ardallah had always welcomed her guests. Yousif himself waited nine months a year for their return. He loved the change and the excitement that resulted from their appearance. They brought their fashions, their gaiety, their dialects, the glamour of their women in their latest fashions or fancy cars, and their money, which made everyone in town walk around with a smile. The tourists slept in the morning, drank tea and ate fruits on their verandas, and played backgammon or bridge in the afternoon. And, yes, they danced at night.

      Often Yousif would go with his parents to these hotels and meet the rich families and powerful men his parents knew. How lovely the women and their daughters were, Yousif remembered. The women of this upper class did not abide by old-fashioned restrictions; they swayed under the moonlight to the tango and foxtrot and waltz tunes played by orchestras—often imported from places as distant as Athens and Rome.

      Often Yousif would dance with their daughters. The colored lights which had been hung outdoors over the dance floor would shimmer, the dresses of the elegant women would rustle, and Yousif, dressed in the conservative manner of his father, would wish Salwa and not his mother or some stranger’s daughter were in his arms.

      On two occasions the previous summer he had been fortunate enough to have danced with Salwa herself, and to have given her a peck on the cheek when the dance floor was overcrowded and no one was looking. The smell of her hair and the feel of her body burned in him for weeks and still lingered in his mind. This year luck might smile on him again; at least he hoped.

      By the time the conspicuous strangers reached Bata, the famous shoe store, Yousif was jolted out of his daydreaming. What triggered his suspicion was the large amount of equipment they were carrying. What did they need all the canvas bags and the cameras and binoculars for? And what about that tripod under the tall man’s arm?

      It struck Yousif that they were carrying surveying equipment. This new perception was anchored in the depth of his being and born out of many nights of listening to his father and his father’s friends discuss the mounting tension between the Arabs and Jews. Should hostilities break out, as some expected, what these outsiders were doing could prove detrimental to the Arabs. Such preparation, he reasoned, could mean the difference between victory and defeat.

      “My favorite is the tall blonde,” Amin said, his brown eyes dancing. “The one with the long shapely legs.”

      “I bet you wish she had her arms around your waist,” Isaac taunted.

      “Do I!” Amin swooned.

      “How far are we going to follow them?” Isaac asked, elbowing his way through the crowd.

      “Until we find out what they’re up to,” Yousif said, his mood changing. “They could be Zionists.”

      “So what?” Amin asked, impatient. “What’s a Zionist anyway? Some kind of a weird Jew, isn’t he? Isaac, are you a Zionist?”

      “You’re crazy,” Isaac said. “Of course I’m not a Zionist.”

      “Don’t get angry, I’m just asking. Well, is your father a Zionist?”

      “No one in my family is a Zionist,” Isaac explained, wiping his glasses with his handkerchief.

      “Well, do you know what a Zionist is?” Amin pressed.

      Isaac looked around. “He’s a member of a political party. Most Zionists are Jews, but not necessarily. They’re just members of a party, like any other political party. They have their aims and goals and ideology. Isn’t that right, Yousif?”

      “That’s what I’ve heard.”

      “Okay,” Amin said, keeping his eyes on the tourists. “They are members of a party. But what do they want?”

      “To take over Palestine,” Yousif told him. “They think it’s theirs. They think God promised it to them.”

      “And what about us? We’re Abraham’s children too. Just like them.”

      “They want us out,” Yousif told him.

      “Out where?” Amin inquired.

      “I don’t know. Just out.”

      Amin looked at Isaac, grinning. “Now you tell me who’s crazy. Me or them. Well, if they’re that cuckoo, let’s follow them for sure.”

      Yousif kept his eyes on the strangers, who were stopping now to look at the variety of sweets and pastries. He restrained Amin and Isaac from walking any closer lest anyone become aware that they were being followed. The tall dark man with the sinewy arms who was accompanying the blonde with the bluest eyes bought two portions of red-colored cheese-filled kinafeh wrapped in waxed paper. Three others, including the statuesque brunette in her thirties who reminded Yousif of Salwa, bought dark roasted peanuts from a tall, thin, Ethiopian woman selling from a portable stand that emanated smoke.

      “Where do you think they’re going?” Amin inquired.

      “I have a feeling they’re headed for the woods, but not for what you’re thinking,” Yousif said, stepping off the curb and holding back his friends to let a car make a right turn.

      “They’re heading west,” Yousif explained. “There’s nothing in that direction except the olive and fig orchards. There must be more comfortable places to make love than a rocky field. Besides, I just don’t believe they’d screw in broad daylight with everyone watching.”

      “Well I hope you’re wrong and I’m right,” Amin said, again rubbing his hands. “If I catch them in the act, I think I’ll go crazy.”

      “Don’t worry, you’re not about to,” Yousif told him, leaning against a wall to count the strangers ahead of him. “Look, there are nine of them. Who’s going to make love to the odd number? I tell you they’re not lovers.”

      The new suspicion seemed to destroy Amin’s confidence in his own theory.

      “What a bore,” he said, “but I still would like to know for sure.”

      The strangers were half a block away from the entrance to Rowda Hotel’s garden. Maybe, Yousif thought, they would turn to go in and bask in the shade of the ancient trees. But the strangers passed the entrance without even turning their heads and proceeded to descend the hill, going west. The three boys looked at each other again, then began to follow them in earnest. They maintained a respectable distance from the strangers and, to avoid suspicion, chose to walk on the other side of the street.

      On the outskirts of town, the group paused at a main fork in the road. One of them looked back and saw Yousif and his friends. Then all of them turned around and looked in the direction of the three boys. Yousif quickly bent down to tie his shoelaces, and Isaac and Amin stopped and waited for him to finish.

      “They saw us,” Yousif muttered as he tightened the lace through every hole.

      When he looked again the group had split up and gone in two different directions. Yousif rose and the three boys resumed their walking. They agreed to stay together, but didn’t know which group to follow. By the time they reached the fork they decided to follow the group of five that had turned right and taken the dirt road.

      The group ahead of Yousif and his friends moved briskly, doubling the hundred meters between the two groups. They had to walk much faster to keep up with them.

      As the straight road ended and dipped into the valley Yousif could see the Roman arch, a landmark two-thirds of a mile away. Beyond it was a steep hill, a narrow road, and vast fields of olive and fig trees which stretched over several mountains. Yousif was alarmed.

      “If they get to that arch before us,” he told his two friends, “they could disappear very easily and we’d never find them.”