On the Hills of God (59 page)

“I’m still hungry,” Reem whimpered, kicking Yousif on the side.

Yousif put Reem down. Her mother held her hand. There was no stopping the little girl’s crying. She wanted food and nothing would placate her. Abla tried to nurse her, but the girl refused. Her crying became intense. The adults rolled their eyes, bit their lips. What could they do? Yousif himself felt terribly thirsty. It was mid-morning, yet the intensity of the heat was already wearing him down.

“Wait, son, wait!” an old man cried.

Yousif looked up, his heart breaking. He saw an old man—bearded, shriveled. He tapped his cane, begging his son, the watermelon vendor, not to abandon him. Earlier, Yousif had seen the son carrying his fragile eighty-year-old father on his back. But after thirty or forty miles going up and down mountains, even the bag of bones must have felt heavy. Yousif watched in disbelief. He saw the old man’s legs fail him. He saw him falter and fall, cutting himself on the forehead.

“I’ll die, son,” the old man pleaded, wiping his own blood.

“Forgive me, Father,” the young man said, on the verge of tears, “but I can’t wait here with you. We still have at least twenty miles to cross. I just can’t do it.”

Yousif was mystified. He waited for the little drama to end.

“For Allah’s sake, don’t leave me,” the old man cried, his chin trembling. “Have mercy on your own father. Don’t leave me. I’ll die, son. I’ll die . . .”

“I have young children to take care of,” the son argued, visibly shaken. “You’re my responsibility and they’re my responsibility. What am I to do? I can’t carry you on my back all the way to Jericho. We’d both die, and what will that do to the rest of the family? Who’s going to take care of the little ones? Please understand. And
Allah isamihni
. May God forgive me.”

Yousif watched the exchange, anguished, incredulous. The old man’s frenzied cry did not deter his son. The young man walked ahead a few steps, determined not to look back, not to let sentiment or shame dissuade him.

All of Yousif’s anxieties returned to nauseate him. His mother’s face was flushed again. Salwa was consoling her mother. Little Reem’s crying was unnerving. He himself could barely move his tongue. Yet now he felt a surge of energy.

“We’re all doomed,” Yousif cried, flailing his arms. “But we can’t leave this old man behind to die in the wilderness. God may never forgive us such cruelty.”

Salwa, obviously remembering the death of her father, burst in tears.

Many of the marchers stopped, curious. There was anguish in Yousif’s voice. But he was reaching them. He jumped up on a high rock, motioning for them to listen.

Yasmin did not know what the devil he was up to. “Don’t try to be a hero,” she admonished him. “This problem is bigger than all of us. Get down.”

Yousif ignored her pleas. Finally, the son came back, pointing a finger. “Are you accusing me of being cruel?” he asked.

“Of course not,” Yousif said. “You’re doing it because you think you have no choice. But we’re going to help you.”

Yousif turned and faced the small crowd. “We’re going to help him carry this old father to safety.”

“Do it, Yousif,” Salwa told him, sobbing.

“Bravo,” a strong young man said, stepping forward.

“If each and every able-bodied man,” Yousif implored, “would carry
ha likhtyar
a hundred yards, we can save a human being. A burden that’s shared is no burden at all. Let’s all pitch in. I’ll be the first. And you can be sure I’m just as tired as any of you. Come on. A human life is at stake.”

Salwa threw him a kiss, her cheeks wet. Some of the marchers clapped. Many more smiled. Yousif was encouraged. Salman was shaking his head. Well, Yousif thought, Salman had his hands full. He didn’t have to volunteer. But there were plenty of men who were ready.

Yousif walked to the old man and squatted before him. “Come on, Grandpa.”

The old man hesitated. Yousif looked back. The old man was crying.

“No need for that,” Yousif said. “Hop on.”

The old man’s son looked ashamed of himself. “I wasn’t heartless,” he said, sore and red-eyed.

“Who said you were?” Yousif asked. “Come on. We’ll all take turns.”

The son helped his father get on Yousif’s back. The old man felt lighter than Yousif had expected. It must be the adrenaline, Yousif thought, walking briskly.

Yousif carried the scrawny old man for about a mile, stumbling, faltering. Now the old man would clutch his shoulders. Now he would clasp his bony hands around his neck. Then an Israeli bi-plane swooped down on them, as if dropping out of the blue. Yousif had been so engrossed with the old man that he didn’t even hear it approaching. The marchers again panicked. They ran helter-skelter. Yousif crouched to let the old man off so that another man could carry him. Bombs did not explode, but they might have just as well. The stampede caused the dust to rise. Women and children screamed. An old man fell down and a dozen marchers stumbled all over him. Yousif looked around. He could see no trace of Salwa or his mother. It seemed as though the earth had split and swallowed her and everyone he knew.

“Ya Allah !”
he exclaimed. Where did they go? Now what should he do? Where did they go? How could he find them among thirty thousand people? Must every horror be compounded?

Three torturous hours later, Yousif could find no one. A song of doom began to echo in his head. Evil was laid bare before him. Its fullness seized him. He thought about where he was: in the shadow of the great mountain. Had not the devil tempted Jesus here? Whom was he tempting now? Whom was he stalking?

Now, Yousif felt that he himself was being tempted. He was hungry, thirsty, tired. And where was Salwa? Where was her family? He wanted to shout “Goddam! Goddam!” and shake his fist at the heavens, but he didn’t. He hadn’t lost his mind—yet. But how long, he asked, could one preserve his sanity in a situation like this, especially when the sun was penetrating his skin and drying every cell? “Drink your urine,” a voice whispered within him. “Drink it. Humble yourself. Debase yourself. Know that you’re weak. Know the limits of humiliation. The mountain says drink it. He who was tempted says drink it. Your lips and tongue demand it.”

Yousif was too dehydrated and too foggy to question the inner voice. He veered off the beaten path, stood behind a pile of stones, and forced himself to leak a few drops. He collected them in the palm of his hand as if they were the elixir of life. He raised his hand up to his chin, closed his eyes. At first he hesitated, resisting the craving he suddenly felt. His mind was in turmoil. But then he weakened. The need for moisture burned his lips. Despite his revulsion, he found himself lowering his head into his palm.

He felt better—but too ashamed to tell others what he had done.

He wanted to walk fast, but his feet failed him. The eroded land was full of brush and stones. His ankles kept turning. His lips were dry again, his shoes tight. More important, there was still no sight of Salwa or his mother. Nor anybody from his family. He passed another baby’s body, lying face down like a dead chicken. Death was becoming commonplace.

He stood on the edge of a high boulder, surveying the scene below. Thousands were descending at a slow pace. Many were meandering along with the terrain. The hills were rising and falling like the waves. He heard a voice call him. It was Adeeb, the rough classmate who had once fought Isaac.

“Have you seen Salwa or my mother?” Yousif asked.

“No,” Adeeb answered, his arm in a sling.

“What happened to your arm?”

“I broke it this morning.”

“Oh, no,” Yousif said, remembering what had happened to Amin’s broken arm. The two classmates now looked at each other, tormented. Adeeb’s mother had already discarded her headdress. Her thinning, disheveled hair was solid grey. She stumbled along, lamenting her son’s condition. She too remembered what had happened to Amin.

The hint of a village in the distance acted as a magnet, pulling the marchers back together. There was a confluence as the scattered crowd began to head in one direction. Hope surged within Yousif as he hobbled along, too tired to feel the numbness of his feet. Standing on a high rock and watching the flat land below him and the outline of a community on the far horizon, he felt elated. He wanted to dance, too exhausted to feel the irony.

The village of El-Auja was, despite its dreariness, a welcome sight. Here the sea of marchers was met by inhabitants with jugs of water in their hands and by Jordanian soldiers with trucks and jeeps ready to transport them. Yousif was so beaten with fatigue he fell on his face, unable to rise. It flashed through his mind that here, at last, he would not be abandoned; here, at last, water was accessible. He lay there unseeing, unhearing, unfeeling. Voices clashed and receded in his ears. The earth spun around him.

Minutes later, he woke to an uproarious scene. The multitudes were still straggling into the village. The search for lost ones reached a peak. He rested on his elbows and watched a battered stream of refugees pass before him, all looking like millers—powdered with dust from head to toe. A farmer with a petrol can full of water passed him by. Yousif pulled at the man’s garment begging with his eyes for a drink. The farmer obliged, helping Yousif place the punched hole in the corner to his mouth. Yousif hugged the can like a lost friend and drank with relish, taking brief pauses between lengthy, thirst-quenching gulps.

“Easy, easy,” someone cautioned him. “It’s not good to drink so fast.”

“After such a long journey without water your lungs are too dry,” another man added. “They’ll crack if you’re not careful.”

Yousif was too thirsty to heed their advice. Having drunk enough, he cupped his hands and asked the farmer to pour him some more water. Yousif splashed the cool water across his warm, tense, dirty face. He enjoyed feeling it trickle down his throat and chest.

Suddenly Yousif leapt to his feet. Izzat and Hiyam were in sight.

“Izzat!” he cried. “You made it, you made it!”

Hiyam looked embarrassed, shy, crushed. Her hair had lost its sheen. Her forehead and long neck were bathed with sweat.

“Where’s your family?” Izzat asked, holding Hiyam’s hand. “Did Salwa and your mother make it all right?”

“I don’t know,” Yousif answered, feeling guilty.

“You don’t know?” Izzat asked.

“We got separated. I was going to ask if you’ve seen them.”

The young couple shook their heads in dismay. They were soon joined by Hiyam’s sister and brother-in-law: her hair unruly, his face unshaven. No, they had not seen Salwa or his mother, they said. Imm Raji sat on the grass-covered ground, exhausted. The others joined her. They formed a circle, enveloped by silence. Jordanian army trucks were lined up about fifty yards away. People were pleading, arguing for a ride.

“If I could only find them,” Yousif said, his eyes searching.

He spent one more night outdoors on the outskirts of Jericho and the Dead Sea. The heat was unmerciful, the worry about his mother and Salwa unrelenting.

Early next morning Yousif struck out on his own. His companions had decided to wait for a ride on account of the women. Jericho was around ten miles away. Yousif felt refreshed enough to attempt the short journey. The morning was cool. The grass and trees were wet with dew. But it was the flatness of the narrow paved road that impressed him most. Here were no boulders to climb over, no steep mountains to descend. Only green and brown plains stretched as far as his eyes could see.

The Mount of Temptation loomed large on Yousif’s right. He remembered the monastery perched on one of the cliffs along the path to the top. He had been thirteen years old, but the impact of his visit there had remained with him. How deeply impressed he had been by the monks, by their seclusion and devotion to study and worship. The dark grotto, carved in the heart of the high mountain, lit only with candles, haunted him.

Yousif also remembered the lush fields and orchards of citrus fruits at the mountain’s foot. How many times had he visited those same fields in his youth: running, tumbling and splashing water with children of his age and with his favorite cousin, nicknamed Abul Izz.

A few miles to the left was the excavation of Tel es-Sultan and the Hisham Palace, with its ancient but celebrated baths and colonnaded courts. He remembered his last visit there with his parents. He remembered the lesson he had learned from his father about Arab history. He could still see his father leaning against one of the columns, puffing on his pipe, and admiring the art and architecture of the seventh-century Ummayads. How could he forget The Tree of Life, which was considered the most beautiful mosaic in the world? Whatever happened to that snapshot of him and his father in front of the huge star in the main court?

As the sun glistened behind the palm and banana trees, a long line of weary marchers, like a dishonored army in retreat, fell into a rhythmic, grueling walk. Odd, Yousif thought, how most of the people around him were strangers and not from his hometown. Where was the mayor? Where was the principal, ustaz Saadeh? He thought of Sitt Bahiyyeh and her shell of a mother. How did they manage? He wished Amin or Salman or Basim or Salwa or his mother were around.

“Did you know that at one time Antony gave Jericho to Cleopatra?” Yousif asked an old man wearing a battered fez and walking next to him.