On the Hills of God (13 page)

“Well, then,” Yousif said, “did we help the Allies because we hated the Turks? Or was there more to it than that?”

“We did it because we hated the Turks and loved what the British promised,” the ustaz said, again sitting on the edge of his desk, his hands under him. “We sacrificed thousands of men because the British dangled before us the promise of freedom and independence. They told Sharif Hussein—spiritual leader of Mecca and the father of Jordan’s present King Abdullah—that if he would rally his people to fight on the side of the Allies against the Turks, he would be rewarded at the end of the war by being crowned king and having all the Arabs in the Middle East free and united under him. You can only imagine what his response was. Sharif Hussein put the men of his tribes under the command of his son Faisal and the British Lawrence. Together they stormed over the desert, from the Arabian peninsula all the way to Damascus, defeating the Turks at every turn.”

The students were sitting on the edge of their seats and clutching their desks. Yousif felt his blood race with excitement.

“Those poor Bedouins thought they were going to get independence at the end of the war,” the teacher explained. “Little did they know that the British were also going to promise the Jews a national home in Palestine. That came in 1917, only two years after the Arabs had entered the war on the side of the Allies. But obviously negotiations between the British and the Zionists must have been going on for some time—behind the Arabs’ back.

“The British made their promise to the Zionists in the form of what’s known as the Balfour Declaration. Some say the British double-crossed the Arabs because they wanted the rich Jews to help them finance the war. Some say it was because a Jewish scientist had developed poisonous gas as a weapon and the Allies needed it to win the war. Others say it was because the Allies wanted the American Jews to put pressure on Washington to enter the war on their side.”

Khalil tapped his desk with the eraser of his yellow pencil. “What do you think the reason was?”

“Personally,” the teacher said, “I think there were two other reasons. One, the British wanted a European outpost here to make sure that the Arabs would never rise again and be able to rebuild their empire. Two, they were already smelling oil under the Arabian sands and they wanted to corner it all for themselves.”

“Then colonialism,” Yousif said, “was the root of the problem.”

“Absolutely,” the teacher agreed. “That one word explains it all. Both Britain and France were colonial powers and they wanted to subjugate other peoples to their will. Why is France in Far East Asia, for God’s sake, if it weren’t for their greed for other countries’ resources? Why is Britain ruling India for that matter? Why is it in Ireland? Britain and France are two major colonial powers and they want to drain the wealth and resources of all countries for their own benefit. Anyway, what’s interesting is that while Britain was telling the Arabs one thing and the Jews another, she was conspiring with France behind the scenes to triple-cross both.”

“Fine fellows these British,” Khalil said.

Some students sneered; others shook their heads. The pimpled student to Yousif’s left muttered, “Sons of dogs.”

“How did they triple-cross them?” Mustapha asked, chewing his lip.

Again, ustaz Hakim smiled. “By reaching a secret agreement—known as the Sykes-Picot Agreement—according to which terms these two colonial powers would divide the region between themselves. Britain would take Palestine and Iraq; France would take Lebanon and Syria.”

“What about Jordan?” Amin asked, shifting in his seat. “Weren’t the British there until three years ago when Emir Abdullah became king?”

The teacher nodded, amused. “Jordan was carved out of the wild desert—in 1922, or three years after the Peace Conference in Paris—to appease Emir Abdullah, one of Sharif Hussein’s sons who is now King of Jordan. Abdullah had felt left out and was threatening to start another war of sorts. But that’s yet another story we don’t have time for now.”

History was full of interesting drama, Yousif reflected, along with much bloodshed and misery. The British, the French, the Turks, the Arabs, the Romans, the Greeks, the Persians, the Mongols—they had all coveted other peoples’ lands. They had all been greedy, selfish, and unconscionable. And now the Palestinians were to pay the price.

“In the thirties,” the teacher said, pacing the floor, “Britain almost went back on its promise to the Zionists.”

“How?” Amin wanted to know, hugging his amputated arm.

“It never expected our violent reaction to her Balfour Declaration. During the late twenties and throughout all the thirties—especially 1936 and 1937—we Palestinians waged guerrilla warfare against the British and the new Zionist settlers to the point that Britain was willing to renege on her promise to the Zionists. It issued what’s known as the White Paper, which aimed at curtailing the Jewish immigration into Palestine. And then external events—completely out of our control—took a sharp turn to the worse. In 1939 World War II broke out, and you know the rest.”

The town’s clock, which was located on top of the Roman Catholic Church across the yard, chimed on the hour. Ustaz Hakim waited for the eleventh strike to be completed before he would continue.

“War is man’s worst crime,” ustaz Hakim said finally, “but if there’s one war that can be condoned it’s World War II. Hitler needed to be stopped. He wasn’t only mad, he was evil. I’m not saying this because he was indirectly responsible for the predicament we’re in now. I’m saying it because anybody who could kill twelve million human beings—six million of them Jews—is evil. When the concentration camps were discovered and the extent of Hitler’s atrocities became known, there was a great swell of sympathy for the Jews and a feeling that they deserved a place of their own. Hence, we now have the UN resolution to partition Palestine.”

“But we had nothing to do with what happened in Germany,” Yousif said.

Ustaz Hakim nodded. He looked tired. His voice had gotten softer and more strained. Again he glanced at his watch and went back to his desk as though ready to pick up his books and papers to leave. “That’s where we are now,” he added, “and that’s why the stage is set for another war—right here, right before our eyes. The Zionists are determined to carve a state for themselves out of Palestine, and we Arabs are equally determined to stop them. So when the British leave by next August, blood will flow down the street.”

Ustaz Hakim picked up his books and waited for the bell to ring.

“My father says,” Khalil said, “that the Zionists have raised enough money to get all the weapons and manpower they need. What do we have?”

“The support of the Arab regimes, ostensibly.”

There was a long pause.

“Why ‘ostensibly’?” Nadim asked.

“Because it may or may not materialize,” ustaz Hakim answered.

“Let’s assume it did materialize,” Nadim pressed. “Would it be enough?”

“We’d have to wait and see,” the ustaz answered. “Frankly I think we’ll be outmatched. Our man on the street thinks we could stand up to all the Zionists, but I have my doubts. You see, we won’t be fighting the Zionists by themselves. When big powers such as Britain and France and the United States throw their weight behind our enemies, what chance do we have? You know they’re going to do whatever it takes to make the Zionists come out on top.”

“So you’re predicting our defeat?” another boy behind Yousif asked.

“In a way. But don’t go around saying I said that. Listen, unless we shut down all the coffeehouses and kick everybody’s ass and make them train and smuggle arms and get massive help from outside and get the whole Arab world on war footing—I’m afraid it’s going to be too late.”

“Why don’t you start a movement?” Mustapha asked. “We’ll all join you. I know I will.”

“Me too,” several voices echoed.

Yousif watched and listened, having resolved to work with Basim. An idea occurred to him. Shouldn’t ustaz Hakim and Basim get together? Perhaps he should arrange it.

“It’s going to take a lot more than a few of us,” ustaz Hakim said, already at the door. “Just remember this: he who has the gun has the upper hand.”

That night, in the middle of dinner, the phone rang at Yousif’s house. His mother, who was sitting closest to the foyer where the telephone was placed, got up to answer it. Yousif could not see her, but he could hear every word she spoke.

“Hello, Rasheed,” she said. “How’s the family? Oh! Widad? Oh, dear! When did it happen?”

The doctor and Yousif stopped eating and perked their ears. Yousif could tell she was talking to her brother-in-law, Rasheed Ghattas. He got up and went to the door between the dining room and the foyer.

“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.”

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 number of rabbis and orthodox Jews, all clad in black. Some huddled in groups; many walked along the sidewalks, their elbows and fur-trimmed hats touching the wall. Several blocks later Yousif saw a fist fight.

“Where did you say you’re going?” Makram asked, looking in the rear-view mirror. “The French Hospital?”

“That’s right,” she answered, clutching her purse. “But don’t take us there. Stop us at Jaffa Gate and we’ll walk up the couple of blocks. I need to buy something for Widad.”

Yousif was surprised. “Like what?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” she replied. “A robe, a bottle of perfume. Something.”

“I wish you wouldn’t. It’s too dangerous.”

His mother frowned. “You don’t expect me to visit her empty-handed?”

“This is no time for formalities between sisters,” he answered. “Look, why don’t we let Makram drop us off at Barclays Bank. You can buy a box of chocolate from the delicatessen next door. It’ll save us time.”

His mother would have none of it. She was not coming to Jerusalem every day. Now that she was here, there were a few things she needed to do. This was her hometown. She wanted to light a candle at the
Qiyameh,
Holy Sepulchre. And she wanted to see her parents.

“You wouldn’t come all the way to Jerusalem and not see your grandparents, would you?” she asked, looking him in the eye.

She succeeded in making him feel guilty. He turned around and faced the road ahead of him. A city in mourning zipped by. He felt a lump in his throat. Some of his happiest recollections resonated around this sacred and blessed city of shrines, temples, belfries, minarets, and domes. From childhood, he had loved everything about Jerusalem: the old and the new, the visits with his grandparents in the old district of Musrara and with his cousins up at modern Qatamon. He had loved the exotic and appetizing smells of herbs and foods drifting from restaurants and sidewalk cafes, the sounds of church bells and muezzins, the voices of vendors and heavy traffic, the sight of silks and leather goods hanging in the middle of the streets and touching the pedestrians’ heads, the bazaars in
souk
Khan iz-Zait and the modern shops at Al-Manshiyyeh, the skullcap and the fez, the priest and the rabbi and the shaykh, the chic and the dowdy, the marble of new Jerusalem and the mud huts of old, the cobblestoned labyrinth of old Jerusalem within the ancient, imposing, wind- and sun-beaten stonewall.

Maneuvering his way through the heavy traffic, Makram seemed to know his way around the holy city. Staying on Jaffa Road, he cut through Jerusalem from almost one end to the other. Strangely, there were no checkpoints along the way, mainly grim soldiers patrolling the jittery, empty metropolis. Government buildings looked like fortresses.

Makram honked and sped around a stalled truck. “Just tell me when and where to pick you up,” he said. “I’m at your service all day.”

“Let me think,” the mother said, checking her make-up in the small mirror she was holding.

Yousif turned to Makram. “Why don’t you pick us up where you’re going to drop us off. In front of Barclays Bank. It has a canopy we could stand under if it rains. Is that okay with you, Mother?”

“What time?” she wanted to know.

“How about three o’clock? That’ll give you nearly five hours to do all your errands.”

She thought for a second, then nodded.

“Look at these sand bags,” Yousif remarked, as they passed the main Post Office.

“Look at the barbed wire.”

Yousif’s imagination ran wild, and his concern mounted.

Carrying a large box of imported biscuits and a brown bag of apples and bananas, Yousif and his mother followed a beautiful young nun in a white habit as she moved silently down the sparkling marble floor of the huge French Hospital. They were the first visitors to be admitted. Because of the quiet, Yousif found himself tiptoeing. The nun stopped in front of room 26 and waited for them to enter, her kindly face turning crimson.

“Thank you, Sister,” the mother said, bowing her head.

“You’re welcome,” the nun answered, smiling. “I hope you’ll find your patient doing well.”

They stepped into a semi-private room with a large window. The outdoor view was blocked by a curtain drawn between the two beds. Aunt Widad was asleep, her long neck bent on the high pillow. Although she was his mother’s twin sister, she looked older. The resemblance between the two sisters was slight. His mother was fair-complexioned, but his aunt was olive-skinned. Aunt Widad must have sensed their presence. She opened her eyes—glad to see them. The two sisters embraced and kissed. Then it was Yousif’s turn.

Aunt Widad told them all about the sharp pain from the gallbladder attack and her subsequent surgery. God must have listened to her prayers, she said. She had felt the pain all that weekend, but she did not have to be rushed to the hospital until after the curfew had been lifted. The first night and the following day after the resolution was passed, the Jews were dancing right under the Widads’ window. Then something strange happened. Their next-door neighbors, Jews they had known for years, stopped talking to them.

“The UN resolution seems to make it illegal or immoral for Arabs and Jews to have any contacts with each other,” she said, frowning.

“Did you try to speak to them?” Yousif asked, standing by her bed.

Aunt Widad nodded. “They mumbled something,” she said. “But you could tell they didn’t want to talk. After that, kindly old Jewish men started walking around wearing black arm bands and carrying guns. We could see them parading through the neighborhood. Then we began to hear firing going on in every direction. Bombs exploding . . . ambulances screaming. It was awful.” She sighed and pointed her finger toward the curtain. “The lady in the next bed is one of the first victims. A sniper’s bullet hit her in the jaw. They had to operate on her for five hours. Look behind that curtain—she doesn’t mind.”

Both Yousif and his mother got up from their seats and walked to see the patient in the next bed. She was up, peering at them from behind a white mask but unable to speak. Her bandaged head looked like a mummy’s. They nodded in her direction. Yousif bit his lower lip; his mother covered her mouth with her hand.

They returned to stand around Aunt Widad’s bed.

“We saw nothing like this in Ardallah,” Yousif’s mother said, her eyes glistening with tears.

“Any place is safer than Jerusalem,” Widad explained, her fingers folding and unfolding the bed sheet. “We’re afraid the worst is yet to come.”

They stayed with her for the next half hour. By 10:30, they hugged her, kissed her goodbye, and wished her a speedy recovery.

“Have a safe trip back home,” Aunt Widad said.

At the door both Yousif and his mother stood silent, absorbing her words. Yousif wondered if they would ever see Aunt Widad other again.

Yousif and his mother walked downhill past Notre Dame until they reached Bab el-Amood, two long blocks away. Like the new Jerusalem, the old city within the ancient wall was distressing. People were shopping and going about their business, but they seemed dispirited. Yousif and his mother walked through the narrow, congested streets, not stopping at any shop but heading for the
Qiyameh,
the Holy Sepulchre. Suddenly, there was excitement in the street. People began to push each other as if to make room for someone on the run. In a chain reaction, people were elbowing each other or stepping on each other’s feet down the narrow, crowded street. Yousif saw a young man running and a British soldier following him. As they ran, they toppled pushcarts and knocked over fruit stands. The street was strewn with apples, bananas—and crucifixes and crosses from a small showcase that had been knocked over.

“Catch him! Catch him!” the British soldier shouted, unable to shoot lest he hit someone else. But the people would not cooperate. Most of them were Arabs and the fugitive was one of them.

“Don’t listen to him,” screamed the man running.

“Catch him,” insisted the soldier, “he’s carrying a bomb. Catch him before it explodes.”

“He’s lying,” shouted the Arab, merging with the crowd.

Nevertheless, the word “bomb” brought more alarm to the scene.

“A bomb!” said Yousif’s mother, horrified.