On the Hills of God (30 page)

She smiled. “You want me to get killed?”

“Maybe not in those words. But you know what I mean. Tell him Adel Farhat is a stranger to you. That you don’t feel comfortable around him.”

Salwa opened her purse and took out a linen kerchief. “He knows that.”

“And he still wants you to marry him? What kind of a father is he?”

“The very best,” she insisted, her look stern. “That’s the way he was raised. That’s what he believes in. He and mother hardly knew each other when they got married. Look at them now. Inseparable.”

“But those days are gone. We are a new generation. We live in a different world. And we’re facing a war. You and I can be partners. We can be a team . . .”

She took a deep sigh. “I know,” she said.

“How can you be full of fervor, full of revolutionary ideas, and then let him arrange your marriage? It’s unthinkable.”

Her big eyes flashed. “Look who’s talking. Our hero is in a cage—feeding the birds. Some revolutionary.”

Yousif felt stung, but he wouldn’t show it. “Then let’s both change.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to deride you.”

“That’s okay,” he told her. “I probably deserve it.”

“All I can tell you is I’m trying to get out of this engagement. But it hurts me to see father hurt. I don’t want to fail him.”

He dropped the newspaper in his hand and shot out of the cage, rejuvenated. His sudden move startled Salwa.

“Don’t get near me, please,” she begged. “And don’t build up your hopes. All I’m saying—”

“What are you saying, Salwa?” her mother said, standing behind her. “I smell a conspiracy. But let me tell you two: it won’t work. My husband is a proud man. He’ll never go back on his word.”

“Go back on his word?” Yousif protested. “Can’t he trade a promise for his daughter’s lifetime happiness?”

The father’s hold on his family soon became more evident. Salwa seemed mystified. And gone was the laughter in her mother’s eyes. Her expression dampened Yousif’s enthusiasm.

“You used to like me,” he pleaded. “Why did you give Salwa to someone else? You knew we loved each other.”

“Stop that kind of talk,” the mother advised, touching her daughter at the elbow. “Come on, Salwa. Let’s go. Your father would be furious if he knew of this. He’d blame me for letting you come. I thought Yousif had gotten over it by now.”

“Gotten over it?” Yousif said, appalled.

“We never get all we want in life,” she lectured him. “Believe me, what happened has nothing to do with you. If I had my way I would’ve given you two my blessing. But it’s too late now.”

“It’s not too late until she gets married. She’s only engaged.”

“The same thing,” she said, her face blanched. “You should forget about—”

“Forget about her?”

“—and get on with your life. Many mothers would give their right arms for you to be interested in their daughters.”

“But I don’t want anyone else.”

“Bye, Yousif,” the mother said, walking away with her hand in her daughter’s.

He followed them out into the corridor. “Is that how it’s going to be, Salwa?” Yousif asked, shocked. “You’re going to let them drag you about for the rest of your life?”

Before the two women turned around the corner, Yousif saw Salwa look back and shake her head. For a moment he didn’t understand what that meant. Was she telling him it was hopeless? Was she telling him not to pay attention to what her mother had said? Every fiber and every cell and every drop of blood in him prayed that from now on she would put her foot down, assert her individuality.

Though seized with wonderment and overcome by emotion and uncertainty, he allowed himself the luxury to hope.

Back in the bird cage, he shut the mesh door, absorbed in thought. What about eloping to Lebanon? No, she won’t agree. What about telling Adel Farhat that Salwa did not love him? No, that would only muddy the water. What about seeking the help of the teacher, the priest? Would that be enough? Damn it, maybe not. But it sure as hell beats doing nothing. Then he was seized by new doubts. Was it proper to have love and happiness on his mind—so soon after Isaac’s murder? What would the people say? Maybe after a week or so—a decent mourning period—he could . . .

The song of spring that year was jarred by the nervous sound of gunfire. Early in April, the breeze blew unusually hot. The orange blossoms around Jaffa seemed less fragrant than they used to be. School girls did not make their annual field trips to pick tulips and daisies. Jamal stopped playing his violin.

Yousif and Amin, who were still in school, ended their preparation for the matriculation examination. It wasn’t certain that it would be held that year anyway. And if it were to be held, it would be in Jerusalem, which was becoming impossible to visit. Yousif was aware that many of his classmates had been busy applying to American universities. But neither he nor Amin had any intention of doing so. Amin was too poor to think of higher education. Yousif hadn’t applied on account of the political situation and the threat of war. His patriotic impulse wouldn’t let him. He would avoid fighting, but he would do his duty—whatever that might be. Besides, how could he leave when Salwa’s wedding plans were not resolved? He wasn’t about to let her marry Adel Farhat.

To occupy himself, Yousif became a news addict. Although explosions were ripping the country, all eyes and ears were on Jerusalem. The battle for its control was on. The Zionists were dismissing the UN resolution that called for its internationalization. The Arabs were adamant about keeping it from falling into Zionist hands.

Yousif devoured the news like a hungry prisoner. Not satisfied with Arabic newspapers and magazines, he read English publications when he could get them. He listened to every station he could tune in on his short-wave radio. When the electricity was out, he hurried to the nearest cafe to hear the broadcasts on portable sets. Then he’d run back home and repeat what he’d heard to his father and his guests, almost verbatim. Many marveled at his powers of retention, while he wished he were a bearer of happier news.

To his chagrin, fighting was enveloping the Jaffa-Jerusalem road like a heat wave. Arabs and Jews fought at Latrun, where the Trappist monks were caught in the crossfire. They also fought at Bab al-Wad, the narrowest point on the same road.

Situated between high cliffs, Bab al-Wad was both vulnerable and crucial. Controlling it was like clamping a main artery. Press hard and your life would be endangered. The Arabs rode the high terrain and hunted the Zionists passing below with deadly accuracy. The Zionists panicked but didn’t give up. Their convoys were halted and smashed, only to appear again with greater force and fiercer determination. Sometimes they succeeded in getting through; often they did not. All hearts and minds were riveted to what was happening on that highway. Emotions swung. For both sides, “control the highway” became April’s battle cry.

What amazed Yousif was that a few hundred disorganized Arab volunteers could hold off the well-organized Jewish stampede on the eternal city. Incredible, he felt, that those Arabs—mostly villagers unskilled in war—could face highly-motivated, well-trained, European-educated Zionists parading before their eyes like one of the armies in World War II. “Imagine!” the Arabs said, their hearts and souls with these brave fighters. It was enough to send goose bumps up Yousif’s arms.

On the one hand he was proud, on the other he was angry. Instinct told him that violence was the law of the jungle. People were dying every day—the soldiers and the innocent. Violence begot violence, this he knew from the depth of his soul. But, again, he was not immune to the joys of victory. Pockets of Arab volunteers, armed with puny guns and a lot of spirit, were dealing the Zionists blow after blow. Wagons and pick-ups and trucks and tanks and all the weapons in the Zionists’ arsenal were not enough to shake the Arabs’ faith in their cause.

But questions flew everywhere. All Arabs, including Yousif, wanted to know where the Zionists had been stockpiling such heavy equipment all those years. Reading and hearing about the Zionists’ astonishing supply of arms caused Yousif’s heart to sink. Often he would find his father and his nightly visitors wondering how long the brave Arabs would last in the face of all that machinery. Even with Abd al-Qadir al-Husseini as their commander, how could they resist the nightly and daily Zionist assaults?

“One on one, the Jew is no match for the Arab,” his father said.

“Oh, yes,” Uncle Boulus agreed, clicking his
masbaha
. “But this is the twentieth century. It’s modern weaponry that counts.”

“And the Zionists have plenty of it,” Yousif added.

“That’s for sure,” Uncle Boulus agreed.

Cousin Salman rested his elbows on his knees. “And all these years we’ve been told the poor Jews in all those colonies were farmers.”

“No one told us to believe it,” Yousif snapped.

“We were naive,” Salman admitted.

Yousif looked at his uncle who had predicted not too long ago that nothing would come out of the UN resolution. “Do you still think,” he asked, “that a Jewish state would be stillborn?”

Uncle Boulus puckered his lips. “I’m afraid I was wrong,” he said.

“You
wrong?” the doctor chided him.

“I’m not denying it, am I?” Uncle Boulus said, crossing his legs.

Yousif thought of Salwa. Even though she was still engaged to Adel Farhat, he felt sure that he was uppermost on her mind. She would want him to fight. But deep in his heart he knew violence would only prevent peace by exacerbating the hatred and revenge. Luckily none of his peers were flocking to join any fighting group. What would he do if they did? Would he let them get killed while he watched? On the other hand, how could he persuade them not to join? What alternatives could he offer?

And when he looked up to ponder his moral dilemma, he thought the crescent moon was mocking him.

Doomsday was fast approaching. The British would be out of Palestine by May 15, several months ahead of the UN deadline.

My God, Yousif thought, six more weeks and the British would be gone. Six more weeks and the war would be officially declared. He had no idea how that was to be done. Would the sleepy Arab kings and presidents wake up one morning, rub their eyes, and decide it was time to get out of bed? Time to meet the Zionist threat, time to salvage Palestine? Would they make ringing speeches on radio? Give fiery statements to the press? Would the parliaments thunder and roar? Would the head of the Arab League speak for all of them? Or would the newly appointed commander-in-chief, Jordan’s King Abdullah, scratch his royal beard and nod to the Arab “armies”—which so far had been waiting on ceremony—to start shooting? How theatrical wars were, Yousif thought. If only they weren’t so bloody!

Meanwhile, the Palestinians and the Zionists were jockeying for better positions on the ground.

One storm of battle raged in and around Kastal, a small village perched above the hills overlooking the vital Jerusalem-Jaffa road. Its strategic importance was equal to Bab al-Wad’s. To control it was to seal the fate of Jerusalem itself. Within a week, the suddenly prominent little village exchanged hands no less than four times. One day the sun rose and set on two different occupiers.

Yousif wavered between excitement and concern. Victory was going to be costly for either side. The more blood got spilled the harder would be reconciliation. He sat in class, not his usual self, his dilemma gnawing at him. Couldn’t Arabs and Jews, he thought, have legal and moral claims on the same piece of land? After all, they were both the sons of Abraham. Was God partial to one against the other? Was He playing the role of a real estate agent or probate judge—dividing the land inequitably? The Bible didn’t offer Yousif a satisfactory answer. Besides, he didn’t think religion should enter into the equation lest the adversaries start shouting, “My God is better than your God.”

He sought to find a solution on human terms. Couldn’t two men, his mind pushed, fall in love with the same woman? It happened all the time. Like he and Adel Farhat. They could—but only one could have her. One could be the husband, one the lover. Or both could be her lovers—without the benefit of wedding rites. The thought made him smile, and he looked around the class to see if anyone noticed. In the Middle East
that
was forbidden.

Bouncy, short-sleeved ustaz Hakim rolled down a map of Palestine and pinpointed Kastal. Yousif watched him move to the blackboard and draw a road map to familiarize his students with the exact location of this once-sleepy village.

“The Zionists are sending their men from Jaffa and Tel-Aviv,” Hakim lectured, a piece of chalk in his hand. “We should hit them at the source—long before they get to Kastal. But we can’t. Do you know why?”

“We don’t have enough volunteers,” Adnan guessed.

“No,” the teacher said, “we have plenty of those.”

“Not enough arms,” Amin suggested.

The teacher nodded. “What’s worse,” he said, “we don’t have the money to buy arms should they become available. Meanwhile, this waiting on Arab armies is absurd.”

“What about Fawzi al-Kawiqji?” Nadim asked, sitting in the back of the room. “Isn’t his Liberation Army strong enough to have an impact?”

From the expression on the teacher’s face, Yousif deduced ustaz Hakim’s lack of confidence in the ostentatious Syrian commander who had recently arrived with a few hundred volunteers picked up along the way from Syria and northern Palestine.

“We are thankful for any help,” the teacher observed diplomatically. “But saving Palestine is going to require more than a rag-tag army.”

Several hands went up. Ustaz Hakim recognized Karam, a quiet, fat boy who hoped to become an electrical engineer.

“Do you think Britain will leave?” Karam asked.

“I really do,” the teacher answered. “She wants to wash her hands of the mess she created.”

“Good riddance,” Mustapha said.

The teacher took a deep breath. “Listen, boys, our biggest problem is not Britain or the Jews—it’s ourselves. It’s our rulers who are holding the armies back. The masses want a fight but the Arab regimes lack either the heart or the will or the nerve. Not to help immediately is a sin . . . an unforgivable crime.”

While the students questioned the teacher, Yousif thought of his father. The doctor’s unwillingness to part with the hospital money was becoming very awkward. Before long Basim would be back—with both hands open.

A solemn mood descended upon the students. Yousif studied their faces, his heart full of pity. Before it was over, he was certain, some of them would be killed. Which ones, he did not know. Isaac sprang to mind.

Yousif was so lost in thought that he forgot to ring the bell for ten o’clock recess. When Raja reached for the brass bell on the sill and rang it through the open window, it sounded like church bells tolling for the dead.

That afternoon Yousif was walking with Amin near the
saha,
engrossed in a newspaper. Since the attack on the bus, Amin seemed to have hardened. He blamed the Zionists for bringing the war to his doorstep and no longer had any pity for them.

“Yousif,” Salwa called from across the street.

Yousif was taken aback by her double daring. This was the first time she had ever called out his name in public. And she was still engaged to Adel Farhat.

“Salwa, what is it?” he shouted back, glad to see her.

She and Huda crossed the street. Staccato bursts from automobile horns and angry looks from drivers didn’t faze her.

“Basim is in town. He’s looking for volunteers,” she said, her face flushed. “We just saw him in front of the municipal building. Men were clamoring to get on his truck.”

Yousif almost asked her if her fiancé Adel Farhat had joined. But he didn’t wish to betray his hurt feelings in front of the others. At the same time he didn’t know what to make of her stopping him in the middle of the street. Why was she so brazen? Was she that confident of her hold on him?

“You ought to go before Basim’s truck fills up,” she pleaded, their eyes locked.

“Oh, really?” Yousif said, sarcastically. “How sweet of you to tell me.”

His heart pounded. She was asking him the impossible. He didn’t wish to volunteer. How could he tell her (on the street for Godsake!) to mind her own business? How could he convince her that since the days of Cain and Abel—violence had settled absolutely nothing? Was there nothing to be gained from the experience? The silence among the four stilled the sounds of traffic. Looks crossed and re-crossed.

“The Zionists are making a bloody push to retake Kastal,” Salwa pressed. “But it mustn’t fall. Take Amin with you.”

“I’m ready,” Amin said, rubbing his stomach.

Without saying another word, both Yousif and Amin headed quickly toward the
souk
. But by the time they got there Basim was already gone.

Yousif was relieved. Basim, he was told, had taken about thirty volunteers and was on his way to Lydda and Ramleh, where he was sure to fill up several more trucks. Standing in the midst of men who were sorry they hadn’t had the chance to go, Yousif wondered if he was truly different from the rest of his generation. Maybe one day he’d find something he could do without having to carry a gun. Yet at the moment it was the thing to do. He felt guilty.

“You would’ve jumped on that truck, wouldn’t you?” Yousif asked.

Amin looked surprised. “Absolutely.”

“Not me,” Yousif confessed. “I would’ve found a way to back out at the last minute.”