Читать книгу On the Hills of God - Ibrahim Fawal - Страница 13

On the first Monday morning in September, Yousif woke up earlier than usual. The darkness still filled his window, but he knew there was nothing else to do but rise and face the day. It was time to go back to school.

Yousif felt too old for school. He had been jolted more than once during the three-month vacation. But there was a time for everything, he said to himself. As he yawned and stretched in his big warm bed, he realized that in spite of the political rumbling and the talk of war, life still seemed normal in Ardallah.

He got up and took a shower in the spacious new bathroom with its pale blue ceramic tile. Then he shaved, looking at himself in a mirror that also functioned as a door for the built-in medicine cabinet. All the while he was thinking of the road before him: passing the London Matriculation which was given to all high school seniors throughout the British colonies; graduating; and going on to a university. Brushing his teeth, he wondered if he should make such long-range plans when the country might be ravaged by war.

The thought of all these years of schooling also troubled him: one more year in high school, four more years in college, maybe three years in law school. My God! He’d be twenty-five before he was through. In any case, which university should he select? Many seemed attractive, but they were all outside Palestine. He splashed his face with cold, invigorating water. The Palestinian Arabs did not have a single university, while the Jewish minority had at least two. It simply did not make sense.

That morning, books under their arms, Yousif, Isaac, and Amin met at the flour mill. All public and private schools were opening today. Students of all ages were dressed in clean clothes and headed in different directions. Some were eager, walking briskly, their neatly covered books under their arms. Then there were the six-year-olds on their first day to school. Yousif and his two friends grinned as they saw one boy crying and holding his mother’s hand. Memories rushed to Yousif’s mind. He remembered his first day, when his mother had had to bribe him by filling his pockets with British toffee. He also remembered meeting two other youngsters, Amin and Isaac, who were to become his two best friends.

How long had that been! Nearly eleven years, he recalled. They had been inseparable ever since. Nothing in their relationship seemed to change. They had shot up in height, Isaac began to wear glasses, and the three learned to shave. But the most obvious physical change in them that morning was Amin’s amputated arm.

Yousif was still uncomfortable seeing Amin with the sleeve of his jacket tucked and pinned under his armpit. Walking with his two friends, Yousif remembered how much Amin loved to play soccer. Amin would certainly have to give up his position as the school’s goalkeeper.

Yousif just hoped his fellow students would be kind enough not to make Amin more self-conscious. When they reached school, however, most of them acted true to form. They stared at Amin, their mouths gaping. Even those who knew of the accident seemed to look at him with shock and hesitation in their eyes.

Sitting in the last row next to the back wall, Yousif looked around the room and wondered where they would all be next year. He felt too old to be confined to the desk on which he’d carved Salwa’s initials next to his own, during the first throes of infatuation two years ago. He felt too old to go back to studying and memorizing and trying to compete for the top grades.

Soon he would be waiting for Salwa on the road. He longed to see her, to gaze at her eyes and face. He hungered to be near her, to touch her, to kiss her. But all he could do now was hope to see her during the one-hour lunch break or certainly at the end of the day. It was Salwa’s last year in school, too. He had no idea what her plans were after graduation. Not too many girls from this small town could afford or were even allowed to seek higher education. He would soon know whether she would be one of the lucky ones. On second thought, the matter of her future began to worry him. Most girls got married and started having babies soon after graduation from secondary school, for even work outside the house was unacceptable to most families. What would he do if someone asked for her hand? More important, what would she do?

Two months later, there was a flock of birds in the carob tree, but none drinking at the shallow creek where Yousif had cast his net. The net itself was made up of three rectangular pieces bounded by long thin strips of wood and connected by hinges. It looked like three window shutters floating in a most unlikely place. The idea was to throw bread on the net to attract the birds. As soon as they landed, the bird catcher would pull a string or two and trap them.

That afternoon, Amin and Isaac had already caught two birds each, Yousif but one. Yousif reached for a medium-sized stone and threw it at the ancient tree, causing the leaves to rustle and the birds to fly away. They flew against the gray sky, then returned to their haven.

“Why don’t you face it? It’s not your day,” Amin said, laughing at Yousif’s eagerness to match their catch.

Yousif threw a bigger stone and heard it thud against a big branch. The birds flew again, and the leaves rustled, but he waited in vain. Soon raindrops began to fall.

“Let’s go,” Isaac said. “It’s time to leave.”

They folded their nets and strings, picked up their cages, and started down the hill.

Descending the hill had often brought pleasure to Yousif. He tried to time it so they could watch the magnificent blending of colors as the sun set on the far horizon. This view of Ardallah, resting leisurely on the crests and slopes of seven hills, inspired in him a sense of joy. He often paused to offer a silent prayer. Looking at the town, he felt touched by its serenity. Perhaps the trees gave it splendor and warmth. They seemed to sheathe the little houses, hovering over them protectively. Yousif saw the women carrying their fruit baskets on their heads after an arduous day in the fields, the shepherd playing his flute, silhouetted behind his sheep. He heard the murmur of the brooks, the fields with hundreds of birds over them noisily flapping their wings and singing, the steeples and the one minaret, the melodious haunting voice of the muezzin chanting a praise to Allah and calling Man to prayer.

At such times Yousif would often be so saturated with nature and its glory that he’d walk silently, thoughtfully. At other times, however, life would seem too wonderful to contain. He would burst out singing or shouting—then hear the hills echo his youthful voice.

The three friends would swing the bird cages in their hands or start throwing stones to see who could throw farthest. They would climb an apricot tree to fill their pockets and the insides of their shirts with fruit. They would pick ripe black or white sour grapes and stuff their mouths to see who could eat the most. Passing a brook they would stop and stretch flat on their stomachs and dip their mouths to drink. Sometimes one would dunk the head of another and they’d all start splashing. Then they might persuade a farmer to let them ride his donkey or his horse. If he had a camel, each competed for the first ride.

On this day late in November, however, the sunset was missing, the sky was solid gray. Even beautiful Ardallah seemed more depressing than tranquil or inspiring. Everything was the same, yet it seemed like a painting by an artist whose touch was as heavy as his heart. Yousif felt the difference. He looked for the farmers and the shepherds and saw nothing but black crows circling far above their heads. He descended the hill with his friends, not leaping, not singing, not laughing, but restrained.

Soon the rugged dirt road ended and the paved street began. Turning the corner, they came upon a crowd of sixty or more men in front of Fardous Cafe.

“My God, I almost forgot,” Yousif said. “You two. Do you know what day it is?”

“What?” Amin asked, swinging a bird cage in his right hand.

“You really don’t know?” Yousif asked him, feeling a bit superior.

“Oh, yes,” Amin finally said. “It’s the day the United Nations votes on the partition. Not such a big deal, though.”

“Why not?” Yousif asked.

“We know they’ll turn it down. Except for a few western countries, the world isn’t for it. From what I hear no one gives the plan a chance.”

“Maybe so,” Yousif said. “But I still want us to make a pledge.”

“A pledge? What kind of a pledge?” Amin wanted to know.

Yousif ignored Amin and looked straight at Isaac. Isaac seemed to read his mind. They had stopped walking and faced each other.

“Let’s make a pledge,” Yousif repeated, “that no matter which way the vote goes we’ll always be friends.”

“Friends!” Amin exclaimed. “What’s the matter with you? Of course we’ll always be friends. Is it because Isaac is Jewish? Is that it? My God, he’s one of us.”

Isaac smiled and Amin motioned with his head for them to keep on walking.

“Just the same,” Yousif persisted. “It will be good that we—”

“Why not?” Isaac spoke for the first time. “Let’s shake hands.”

They stopped in the middle of the road and shook hands. Yousif and Isaac were a bit solemn, while Amin made light of the fact that their arms crossed as each reached to shake hands with the other two.

“When arms cross like this,” Amin remarked, “it means someone is going to get engaged. I wonder which of us will be first.”

A middle-aged woman came out of Abul Banat’s bakery wearing a native dress and carrying a tray of freshly baked bread on her head. Yousif thought he had seen her once or twice at his house, but he was not sure. She became flustered asking about Amin’s accident and, by way of apology, lowered the tray on her head and handed him a whole loaf of bread.

After she’d left, Amin looked at his friends, grinning. “Perfect,” he said. “Now we can break bread to go along with our pledge. A handshake on a full stomach will make our vows last forever.”

“What a clown!” Yousif said.

“It’s soooooo good,” Amin said, chewing the crusty bread.

“Delicious,” Isaac agreed. “But I wish we had some white cheese.”

The Fardous Cafe was made up of two parts: a large hall and a tiny kitchen in a building as old as Ardallah, with a separate yard across a narrow street. The yard was covered with a canopy of straw, under which were about fifteen tables where old men wearing turbans and indolent youth sat and killed time playing cards or smoking a nergileh.

On one of the posts holding up the straw canopy was a speaker wired to the radio set inside the cafe itself. The cafe was jammed on both sides of the street and the radio turned on full volume. The motley crowd, even some women with shopping baskets on their heads, seemed to be listening attentively. Yousif traded looks with Amin and Isaac. The moment of decision was approaching. They walked up and stood unnoticed at the edge of the crowd.

Suddenly the music stopped and the announcer broke in saying: “A news bulletin of historic importance is about to be broadcast. The public is urged to stay tuned to this station.”

Again there was music. The listeners remained riveted in their seats. Yousif surveyed those around him. It was so quiet he could hear the dice rattling inside a backgammon box, and the water gurgling in someone’s nergileh. The liquor store, the barber shop, and all the businesses between the Greek Orthodox Church and the sidewalk vegetable stalls were left open and unattended.

The stillness had invaded the liquor store. Yousif turned and saw his cousin Salman approaching. Salman stood by Yousif and his friends, then reached inside his pants pocket and drew out a handful of roasted watermelon seeds. He poured a few in each one’s palm. Quietly the four split the seeds with their front teeth, ate the pulp, and delicately spat the shell on the street.

Again, the music stopped and the announcer returned to the microphone. Standing between Amin and Isaac, Yousif placed the bird cage on the ground and put his arms around his friends. Unwittingly, he touched the stump of Amin’s amputated arm, and both cringed. But the announcer’s voice distracted them.

“The United Nations has passed a resolution to partition Palestine . . .”

The crowd gasped as if someone had jerked a big noose around its neck.

“The holy city of Jerusalem and its environs,” the announcer continued, “are to be internationalized. The British mandate in Palestine is to end and the British are to evacuate not later than next August.”

“That’s crazy!” Yousif heard Salman cry out behind him.

“Of great significance is the way the unexpected vote was reached. Thirty-three members voted for the resolution, thirteen against it, and ten abstained. Among those who voted for it were the United States and the Soviet Union. Among those who abstained was Great Britain.”

“The bastards!” Yousif said.

“Arab delegates at the United Nations were shocked,” the announcer went on, “to observe the extent to which the United States had gone to coerce nations to vote for the partition. Even a large country such as France was threatened with the cut-off of American foreign aid unless it toed the line and voted for the partition plan. But the most stunning reversal in voting position came from the Philippines. The ‘yes’ vote the Philippines cast illustrates the kind of pressure the Americans applied on the members of the United Nations.”

The crowd stirred.

“Why should the Americans hate us?” Yousif whispered to his cousin. “What have we done to them?”

Salman shrugged his shoulders.

“Arab diplomats,” the announcer went on, “recalled with great dismay the eloquence with which the Philippines’ delegate, General Carlos Romulo, had argued against the partitioning of Palestine. Only a few days ago he stood behind the podium of the United Nations and declared, ‘We cannot believe that the United Nations would sanction such a resolution to the problem of Palestine that would turn us back on the road to the dangerous principles of racial exclusiveness and the archaic documents of theocratic governments.’ Incredibly, this same General Romulo today cast a vote in favor of the partition plan.”

The crowd gasped in unison.

“Arabs everywhere should conclude for themselves,” the announcer continued, “what pressure must have been put to bear in the dark corridors of the United Nations to effect such a dramatic reversal. They should also come to realize the depth of undeserved hostility we Arabs, as a nation, are encountering from the so-called leader of the free world, the United States.”

A player threw a deck of cards across the table, knocking off a glass of water. A waiter, carrying a brass tray high above the crowd, lost his balance and dropped the cups of hot demitasse coffee over several people’s heads and shoulders. A backgammon box was upset, its chips scattering by Yousif’s feet. Salman’s hand froze, a watermelon seed clenched in his front teeth. Yousif’s grip around his friends’ waists tightened, but their eyes never met.

No Arab in his wildest imagination, Yousif knew, had expected this outcome. Palestine was theirs. Telling them otherwise was like trying to hide the sun with a forefinger. They had expected the United Nations to sympathize with the Zionists but not to give them other people’s homes.

“Never!” someone shouted.

“Never!” another seconded.

“Never!” the crowd repeated.

People began to move, agitated. Yousif watched men shake their heads, twist their mustaches, and bite their lips.

“Crazy, don’t you think?” Salman muttered. “Crazy, eh? Crazy.”

Isaac began to pull away from his two friends. “I ought to go,” he said.

Salman seemed dazed. “Isaac,” he said, “don’t you think it’s crazy? They can’t do that, it’s crazy. Don’t you think?”

“Incredible!” Isaac replied, his eyes wandering.

Yousif heard a familiar voice addressing the crowd. He saw his cousin, Basim, standing atop a flight of stairs that led to a dentist’s clinic above the cafe. As the crowd heard Basim, they stopped their milling and focused on him.

“Remember this day,” Basim shouted, his arms gesturing for the crowd to settle down, “as a day of shame. Remember November 29, 1947, as the day the world lost its senses and demanded a catastrophe. Remember it as the day the world leaders held hands and jumped off a suicidal rock.”

Basim, Yousif knew, was not supposed to get involved in politics. This was a condition of the British government for his return from exile. Yousif worried about what might happen to his cousin.

“The world which persecuted the Jews for so many centuries,” Basim thundered, “decided today to erase its guilt, and in its attempt to right the wrong, it committed another wrong. Remember this day of shame when the world closed its ears to the people who own and inhabit Palestine. We, the majority who have been here from time immemorial. Why did the world leaders deny us the right to self-determination?”

The crowd was spellbound by Basim’s fiery oration. But Yousif noticed that Isaac was growing fidgety.

“We’ll leave soon,” Yousif whispered. “I want to hear what Basim has to say.”

“It’s getting late,” Isaac whispered back, his face turning pale.

“A few more minutes,” Yousif urged. Isaac stayed.

“Remember this black day,” Basim exhorted, “as the day the world declared that you have no right to live in your own homes, or to plough your own fields. They’re telling you that you must move out and make room for the Zionists of the world, as if you were responsible for their dispersion. As if you were the Hitler who thirsted for their blood. Remember this day as the day the world decided that our living in this country for thousands of years isn’t long enough to call it a home. Raise your voices and let the conscience of the world be awakened. How long, how long does one have to be rooted in a country before he can call it a home?”

The people roared their approval, shouting, “How long? How long?”

Basim held his arms up and the crowd quieted. “You may wonder what will happen now that the UN has approved the resolution. You can be sure that its consequences for us, if they go unchecked, will be disastrous. One look at the map they have devised for a divided Palestine would tell you that it was the work of demented minds. The jagged borders look like the rough edges of a jigsaw puzzle. Arab villages and towns and Jewish colonies and kibbutzes would be enmeshed so as to foster hatred and violence between the two peoples forever. This particular town, Ardallah, is to remain Arab. But who would guarantee it? And who cares? Who would want a Palestine without Haifa and Acre and Nazareth? Would you?”

“NOOOOO!” the crowd screamed.

“Our concern is not this or that town,” Basim told them. “Our concern is the whole country.”

“YEEEEES!” the crowd roared.

“For the last thirty years Britain has been allowing Jewish immigrants to come in by the shipload, and yet we Arabs are still the overwhelming majority. You’d think our numbers would mean something. You’d think our opinion would count when it comes down to how we should run our affairs. But no! Now the United Nations wants to divide the country and give the best half to the Zionists. No one in his right mind would say this is fair, and no Arab would accept it.”

“Down with Zionism,” a farmer shouted, his white mustache bobbing up and down.

“Down with Zionism,” the crowd echoed.

“Bad as it is,” Basim went on, “this is just the tip of the iceberg of what’s to come. What we should all fear is this: the Zionists will never settle for the half they’re being offered, even if they accept the UN resolution and sign a hundred documents. Sooner or later they’ll be asking for the other half. Why do I say this? Because I read what they’re saying and I follow what they’re doing. Because Palestine is too small for Arabs and Jews, especially if they’re going to gather the ten million Jews in the world and settle them right in our midst. That’s exactly what they have in mind.”

“Boooo!” the crowd shouted.

“What this shameful UN resolution means,” Basim explained, his arms flailing, “is that when the British leave here by next August, the small minority of Zionists will get the fertile and cultivated seashore of Palestine and we the great majority of Arabs will get the rocky mountains where men and goats will have to graze for a living.”

“No!” a fruit merchant shouted.

“No!” again the crowd echoed.

“Listen carefully to what I’m saying,” Basim exhorted. “Go home and tell your relatives, friends and neighbors. Unless we stop them now—and I mean now—we as Palestinians have no future whatsoever in this country. We’ll either have to pack up and leave or they’ll drive us out. They want to build an empire stretching from the Euphrates in Iraq to the Nile in Egypt. Their strategy is this: take what you can get and then ask for more. Today half of Palestine, tomorrow the second half, and the day after tomorrow most of the Middle East.”

“Let them dream,” shouted a cab driver, gesturing and dropping ashes from his half-chewed cigar.

“If we don’t send the Zionists a message loud and clear,” Basim cried, “if they think we’re bluffing or inept, then we might as well lie down and die, because Palestine will be lost and we will be lost.”

A multitude of clenched fists were raised and a thunderous cheer shook the square. Yousif and his two friends looked at each other, recognizing each other’s fears. Because they were standing at the edge of the crowd, they were the first to notice the British soldiers arrive in two jeeps. They saw them park their vehicles and scramble out, their hands on their rifles. Amin and Isaac wanted to leave, and began to move away.

“Wait,” Yousif said.

“What do these bastards want?” Amin asked.

“I’m leaving,” Isaac answered, his voice shaking. “They’re telling the people to go home. Can’t you hear them?”

The crowd eyed the soldiers with anger and hate. The men in the street seemed to form a human wall to block their way. As the eight soldiers tried to push through, the people pushed back. Yousif stood on a nearby chair and watched. He saw a thin soldier squeeze by and run up the steps toward Basim. Basim and the soldier seemed to have an argument and then began to push and shove each other. Freeing himself from Basim’s grip, the soldier turned around and blew a whistle. Two more soldiers, their rifles in both hands, dashed up the steps and the three tried to arrest Basim. Arabs chased them up the stairs and were clutching at their feet. One soldier kicked a man and he fell back. Other men reached Basim and began to create a wall between him and the British soldiers.

Yousif became worried. He jumped in and rushed through the crowd, urging for calm. Seeing Basim struggling to defend himself, he was afraid that the soldiers might know Basim’s identity and have him arrested. He wished his cousin would try to escape.

Two shots were fired. The crowd gasped; Yousif froze. His heart fluttering, he hoped the shots were just a warning. For a second the crowd grew calm; Yousif prayed that no one was hurt. Anxious and afraid, he stood on his toes and craned his neck. Basim stood still on top of the stairs, gesturing. A wall of men separated him from the soldiers. Slowly the crowd recovered. They were urging Basim to resist.

“We’re with you, Basim!” one man shouted.

“We’re all with you!” another seconded.

Basim raised his arm, and the crowd hushed. “They want to take me to jail,” he told them. “What would you say to that?”

“Hell no, they won’t,” Yousif yelled. “Tell them we’re all with you.”

The crowd roared, “YEEESSS! We’re all with you!”

Basim looked at the police, defiant. A moment later one of the soldiers who tried to arrest Basim turned and faced the hundred or so people below.

“Clear out—all of you,” he shouted, waving his arm. “If you’ll calm down and go home there will be no trouble.”

“We won’t go until Basim tells us to leave,” Yousif shouted back. “You cannot order us around anymore.”

“Not anymore,” the crowd again roared.

Before Yousif knew it, he was being lifted up on somebody’s shoulders.

“Tell them, Yousif, tell them,” a woman cried.

“This trouble,” Yousif went on, “was started by the UN, not us. Leave us alone or we’ll turn this peaceful gathering into a demonstration against you.”

There was a dramatic pause. Yousif also wished the man who had lifted him on his shoulders would put him down. His neck was crushing Yousif’s balls. And Yousif hadn’t planned on getting involved. But someone had to support Basim and stand up for what was right.

“What should we do, Basim?” Yousif asked his cousin, as though speaking for the crowd.

Basim raised both his hands in triumph, his smile broad and his eyes fixed on Yousif. “We will choose the time and place for a confrontation. We won’t fight until we’re ready. Today let us be satisfied that we have raised our voice and that the British government has heard it. Tomorrow is another day. For now, let’s all go home and start preparing for war.”

Before he was put down, Yousif saw a group of men turn one of the jeeps upside down. The way they lifted it, swung it around, and tossed it aside, it seemed no more than a toy. Then someone doused it with lighter fluid and touched a match to it.

The sight of fire and black smoke and the smell of burning plastic and rubber made all those in the street disperse. By the time the crowd thinned out Basim had vanished and Yousif couldn’t find Amin or Isaac. What he did find broke his heart. Crushed on the street was the blue cage with the birds they had caught that afternoon—flattened in the stampede. Why hadn’t his friends picked up the cage and taken it with them? But this was no time to worry about birds. Human lives were at stake. The fate of Palestine itself was hanging in the balance.

Then, as if on cue, a drizzling rain began to fall.

By the time Yousif had run as far as the blacksmith’s shop, the jeep’s gas tank exploded. Would it be the first blast of war?

Approaching the hilltop on his way home, Yousif found his neighborhood in an uproar. Many had poured out of their houses and were standing in the streets despite the drizzle, too shocked to discuss their new dilemma. The gloom was palpable. Some kitchen windows were lit, but most of the street was wrapped up in shadow. Those gathered seemed already touched by the memory of a simple good life that was about to be snatched away from them for reasons they could not understand. Some of the women wore house slippers and their arms were folded. The men looked stung, paralyzed. Yousif greeted several people he knew. No one even nodded back.

“What was that explosion?” the wife of a mattress maker asked.

Yousif told her what he had seen.

“Was it the British soldiers who did the shooting?” asked the bosomy wife of a bus driver.

Yousif looked at her. “Who did you think?” he asked.

“I was hoping it was one of our men,” the same woman answered.

A quiet moment of understanding passed between them. Suddenly the crowd perked up, showering him with questions.

“Tell us what happened. Was anyone hurt?”

Yousif briefed them, skipping the part about himself. No one was hurt as far as he knew, he told them as they clustered around. Soon they themselves passed on the news: from the wife of the bus driver in the street to the seamstress standing at her doorway, to a widow on the balcony above, to a spinster school teacher at the window across the courtyard, to an endless chain of women at other doorways, windows, and balconies.

His father was home early, standing with his mother on the steps in front of their house, talking to some men and women from their neighborhood. Only his mother acknowledged his arrival with a nod.

“When they postponed the voting two days ago,” a neighbor said, “I was afraid it would come down to this.”

Yousif understood what the man was saying. The United Nations had been scheduled to vote on the resolution Wednesday, November 27. At the last minute, however, the voting was postponed till after the Thanksgiving holiday in the United States. Many feared that the postponement was meant to give the U.S. enough time to coerce countries that received foreign aid from Washington to vote in favor of partition.

“Huh,” Uncle Boulus scoffed. “I knew it thirty years ago, when that damn Balfour promised this country to the Zionists. And I knew it again in 1936 when Britain really tried to test our resolve. What do you think, doctor?”

“It’s unfortunate . . . most unfortunate,” answered the doctor. He seemed to be listening and not listening, paying attention yet preoccupied.

“In 1917 when Balfour promised the Jews a home here they were no more than three percent of the population,” Uncle Boulus said. “Even now they are no more than fifteen or twenty percent. Yet, look what they get. It’s unfair.”

The drizzle changed to a heavy rain, and the people quickly moved inside their houses or sheltered themselves on their balconies. Yousif and his parents were left alone. They stood outside for a minute looking down at the town and the people scurrying in the streets.

All the pieces were falling in place, Yousif thought. Basim was right. War was inevitable. “What happens next?” Yousif asked his father, who was looking west, in the direction of Jaffa.

“The only thing that can happen in a situation like this—war,” his father answered, biting the stem of his black pipe. “Tonight they’ll put a match to the dynamite which Balfour unwisely, unnecessarily, and stupidly planted.”

“Do you see any way out of it?” Yousif asked his father.

It was his mother who answered. “Only by a miracle,” she said, putting her arm around Yousif’s waist. “But if they try to take you away from me,” she said, “I’ll go with you.” She seemed frightened by the prospect.

“Take me where?” Yousif asked.

“If they draft you I’ll join the army. I’ll do something. I don’t care what.”

“What army?” her husband asked, tamping out his pipe. “You know we have no army. This is an occupied country. The British are still here, remember?”

“Who knows,” she said. “Now that things are serious, the Arabs might start one. If they do and take Yousif away—”

“I’m no different from anyone else,” Yousif objected.

“—I won’t wait and die slowly,” his mother added.

“Don’t worry,” the doctor assured her, “you’ll have plenty of work to help me with at the clinic. There’ll be many wounds to patch.”

His words made her shiver. “You speak like a prophet of doom,” she reproached him.

“I’m no prophet, but we are doomed,” the doctor answered with conviction.

The street lights were soon turned on and Yousif’s parents went inside. Yousif walked slowly around the veranda. His eyes traveled from the top of the hills before him to the bottom of the valleys, exploring the town street by street.

It was unnaturally quiet. Not a human being moved; not even a car or a bicycle or a stray cat. His eyes focused on a little house a few acres below him. He could imagine what was going on inside, for he had been there often. In the house was the Sha’lan family, Isaac’s family. Yousif could also imagine how they must be agonizing over their future.

At the dinner table Yousif stirred the lentil soup before him. “What’s going to happen to Isaac and his family?” he asked, as if trying to read their fortune at the bottom of his bowl.

“Nothing, of course,” his mother answered, and looked at her husband for assurance.

Her husband drank his soup in silence, as if, Yousif felt, his wife’s naiveté sometimes were too much to bear.

“Mama, you surprise me,” Yousif said, looking at her. “They live in an Arab town, don’t they? There’s going to be war. Will they be safe?”

His tone upset her and color rose to her cheeks. “Well, they’re not involved. It’s a conflict between us and the outside agitators, the Zionists. The Sha’lan family are just like the rest of us—getting sick over what might happen.”

“That’s not the way your average Arab is going to look at it,” her imperturbable husband predicted, without raising his eyes from his plate.

Yousif broke off a piece of bread. “Don’t be surprised if the police come after me,” he said.

Both parents were startled. “After you?” his father asked.

“Yes,” Yousif replied.

“What on earth for?” his mother wanted to know.

Yousif told them what had happened after Basim’s oration.

“What did you tell them?” his father asked.

“That they can’t order us around anymore.”

“That’s all?”

“I also threatened them with a demonstration.”

His mother gasped. “You threatened them?”

“Yes, I did.”

“That’s the least of their worries,” his father said. “They just don’t want you to throw bombs or go around shooting people.”

“Then why did they try to stop Basim from making a speech? Wasn’t that what a demonstration is all about?”

“Right now they’re nervous. They’re afraid things might get out of hand.”

His mother reached out to touch Yousif’s hand. “Please, son, stay out of it.”

“One way or another, we’re all going to get involved,” her husband said, as he stopped eating, pushed back his chair, and rose slowly from the table.

After dinner, Dr. Safi went out to make his nightly house calls. He had a number of very sick patients, he said, and might be out for a while. His wife helped him put on his jacket and heavy black topcoat and told him that she and Yousif would be waiting for him at her brother’s house.

Five or six people were already hovering around a portable heater and discussing politics with Uncle Boulus. Soon other people from the neighborhood arrived. The living room—with its plush mahogany furniture and thick Persian rug—was almost full of bewildered men and women who had reached a crossroad in their lives and had no idea which way to turn. Some were dressed in native robes and red fezes. Others, like Uncle Boulus, were in modern suits with nothing on their heads. Some were rolling cigarettes; others were fingering worry beads. Most were staring at the medallion in the middle of the Tabriez rug as though it were an open casket. Abu Nassri wore large tinted glasses, like a movie star traveling incognito, and chain-smoked his cigarettes until the fire scorched the tips of his yellowed fingers. One old bearded man had only one tooth. They all wanted to know what had happened that afternoon, and Yousif tried to answer all their questions, finding himself slowly but surely slipping into the vortex.

“Who fired the two shots?” Uncle Boulus asked. “Did anyone find out?”

“One of the soldiers, I’m sure,” Yousif said. “Who else?”

“If I had a gun I would’ve been proud to empty it in their skulls,” the old man fumed. “The sons of dogs! They shaft us and then expect us to like it. Dare we open our mouths?”

“I bet they won’t stop the Zionists from celebrating all over Palestine,” Yousif predicted.

“Hell no,” someone said. “They’re already dancing in the streets of Jerusalem.”

“I bet the British soldiers are dancing with them,” Yousif said.

“Well, of course,” said Abu Nassri. “You think they’d try to muzzle them as they tried to muzzle us? Hell no.”

Then, Yousif heard the heavy iron door open and footsteps cross the long marble corridor. Salman appeared and sat on the sofa nearest the door, followed by Yacoub Khoury, a man in his late twenties whose hair was parted in the middle and slicked down. Yacoub was a house painter who was ashamed of his trade. At sunset, he would throw away his work clothes and dress up like a civil servant. He was also a high school drop-out; to compensate for his lack of education, he would read all the magazines, listen to all the news, and try to engage in serious discussions. He lived with his mother and two older sisters and refused to get married lest his wife mistreat them. Poor Yacoub, people said. He was misery personified. But Yousif liked him.

“What do you think of the Philippines?” Yacoub asked as soon as he sat down, pulling up his sharply creased trousers at the knees.

“That’s Truman for you,” Uncle Boulus answered, crossing his legs.

“But General Romulo was so eloquent, so positive,” Yacoub persisted.

“He wasn’t the only one who had to swallow his pride and buckle under American pressure,” Abu Nassri said. “Truman probably told him, either come across with the vote or there will be no more foreign aid to the Philippines.”

“Sure,” Salman commented. “Washington dealt us a dirty hand.”

“Not Washington, only Truman,” someone corrected him.

“Same thing,” Yousif said.

Silence enveloped them like steam in a hot shower. Yousif wondered what happened to Basim. Did he leave, did he stay in town? Did the police know who he was? Were they now searching for him? He needed to find out, so he got up suddenly and headed for the door without an explanation. A few doors down he ran into Maha, carrying one child in her arms and walking another beside her. She too was on her way to spend the evening at Uncle Boulus’s house to catch up with the latest news.

“Where’s Basim?” Yousif asked her, standing under the street light.

Maha shook her head. “You should know more than I do. Is it true that he made a speech and you both defied the police?”

Yousif nodded. “Haven’t you seen him?”

“No. Don’t look so surprised. I’m used to it by now.”

Her pretty face was long that night, and Yousif could detect the sadness in her voice. He wondered what kind of a family life someone like Basim had; he wondered also what kind of a life he himself would have with Salwa if he were lucky enough to marry her. Salwa, he knew, would not settle for just being a housewife waiting for him to show up whenever he could.

Yousif walked Maha back to Uncle Boulus’s house, with Yousif carrying the baby. An hour later his father came in from his nightly visits and the conversation again gained momentum. All those present wanted to hear the good doctor’s views.

“Only a few weeks ago, Truman came out against the partition plan,” he reminded them, his eyebrows knitted. “Twenty-four hours later he changed his mind. Someone must’ve sat him down and said, ‘Do you want the election or don’t you?’ Now you can see what his answer must’ve been.”

“Then it’s not a matter of conviction, is it, doctor?” the grizzled old man with the single tooth asked. Yousif looked at him, surprised by his probing.

“Expedience is more like it,” the doctor replied, smiling benevolently and reaching for a cup of coffee. “At least Truman was honest. He said he didn’t give a damn where they put Israel so long as they didn’t put it in Missouri.”

“What’s Missouri?” the old man asked, flicking his ivory worry beads with his bony fingers.

“His home state,” Yacoub answered, proud that he could recognize the name.

“That’s it,” Salman concluded, smacking his lips and folding his hands like an old woman. “It’s the Jewish vote.”

“No question about it,” Abu Nassri added, his big abdomen resting almost on his knees. “Money and votes talk—especially in America.”

Yousif sat and listened, impatient with the men’s calm frustration. He wanted them to be angry, restless—even in their probing of what had brought them to this point.

“How should we have handled it?” Yousif asked his father.

Everyone in the room turned and looked at him.

“Handled what?” his father asked.

Yousif’s eyes met his father’s. “What should we have done to prevent this from happening?”

There was silence. Men exchanged looks. Some expelled streams of breath.

“I’m not sure we could’ve,” Uncle Boulus offered. “The West seems set on paying old debts to the Jews. Nothing we could’ve done would’ve mattered.”

“Do you agree, father?” Yousif asked. “We did all we could?”

“I don’t know about that,” the doctor replied, reaching for his pipe. “I guess we could have tried to reason with the Zionists.”

“How?” Yousif pressed.

“I guess,” his father reflected, unzipping his black tobacco pouch, “we could’ve sat with some of their moderate leaders and said something like, Is this the way to come home again? Look, it’s unfortunate that you’ve been gone all these years, but it was the Romans who pushed you out, not us. Now that some of you want to come back, we want you to know that you’re welcome. Come and live with us and share with us what we have like so many of you have done before over the centuries. We can build the country together, run it together, live in it in peace together. But we can’t let you carve a state for yourselves in our midst, because that would be at our expense. The law of survival will tell you we can’t let that happen. One thing for sure, you can’t possibly love the land more than we do—”

“That’s for sure,” Yacoub interjected.

“—and if you think you can just come back and take it from us—some of us might get unhappy or downright angry.”

There was a long pause.

“Do you think they would have been persuaded?” Yousif wanted to know.

“It would’ve been worth a try,” his father said. “I don’t know whether it would’ve worked, but I certainly would’ve tried it.”

The sadness of all those in the living room seemed to deepen. They looked, Yousif thought, as though every one of them either had seen a ghost or at least was suffering from a terrible heartburn.

“What now?” Yousif again asked. “What if they try to implement the resolution? How can we stop it?”

“By war,” Yacoub said. “What else is there to do?”

“Who’s going to do the fighting?” Yousif questioned him, thinking of the spies who had mapped Ardallah’s countryside.

A long discussion ensued. It was clear to most that the security of Palestine depended on the defense provided by the surrounding Arab states.

“You mean Lebanon, Syria, Jordan, and Egypt?” Yousif asked.

His father nodded. “That’s what’s usually meant by the confrontation states. They are the ones that have borders with Palestine. They are the ones who would come to help us save it.”

“What about Iraq and Saudi Arabia?” Yousif inquired. “What about Arab countries in north Africa? Won’t they come to our aid?”

Uncle Boulus smiled. “I guess they might if we need them. But they’re too far away. Besides, unless the West intervenes directly or indirectly, this Jewish state, whatever they might call it, would prove no problem for us. History would record it as an aberration, as a futile attempt on the part of the misguided Zionists. Nothing else.”

Yousif could not believe his ears. “You mean we have no problem?”

“We do,” Uncle Boulus admitted, “but it’s nothing we can’t control.”

“I’m surprised you say that.”

“The Jews are not stupid,” Uncle Boulus explained, flicking his worry beads. “When they know the crunch is on, they’ll negotiate. They’d settle for a lot less than they’re asking for now.”

Stunned, Yousif pursued the argument. “But will a Jewish state be created?”

“They’re going to give it a try, that’s for sure. But nothing will come of it.”

“Uncle, how can you say that? We didn’t think the UN would pass the silly resolution. But it did.”

“It’s not the same thing. Nothing will come of it, I’m telling you.”

“What if they declare a state the minute the British pull out?”

“They can do that, for sure. And probably will. So what? The state will be stillborn. Take my word for it. It will die at birth as sure as I’m sitting here.”

All those in the room grumbled. Yacoub was so upset his face turned white.

“I hope you’re right,” Yousif said, not convinced. “What do you think, Father?”

The doctor leaned on his elbow and puffed on his pipe. “It will be a miracle if they don’t get their state,” he said, deep in thought.

Again Yousif heard the iron front door clang. Someone was walking down the marble hall. The steps got closer, and Yousif looked up. The sight of the new arrival made him gasp. Everyone turned and looked. Jamal, the blind musician, stood like an apparition at the door, his right hand resting rigidly on his cane. His black robe was wet, his sunken eyes and grim expression further electrified an already charged scene. For a moment no one said a word.

“I was so upset when I heard the news,” Jamal said finally, “I hated to stay home alone. I knew I’d find someone here.”

“I’m glad you came,” said Uncle Boulus, rising to greet him.

Everyone in the room, even the old man with the one tooth, stood up in deference to Jamal. They seemed disturbed by the sudden appearance of his ominous black figure and touched by his shaky voice. Yousif led him to a seat. Jamal seemed pleased to learn of Yousif’s presence. His cold hand clutched Yousif’s arm a bit tightly, and Yousif was certain that Jamal’s twitching lips were suppressing a cry gnawing at his heart.

If anyone in the room could feel pain in the depth of his heart and soul, it was Jamal. He lived alone and made a living weaving baskets. How many times had Yousif and his two friends been touched and inspired by him. About ten o’clock every night, Jamal would play the violin for an hour before he went to sleep. During that hour, many neighbors would open their windows or sit on their doorsteps, listening to his disquieting, haunting music, unlike any other they had ever heard. They were grateful.

If anyone loved the land of Palestine and its people, Yousif knew it was Jamal. It had taken Isaac months to convince Jamal to teach him how to play the ‘oud. Yousif recalled when Jamal, who had become comfortable after a while with Isaac and his two friends, actually picked up the violin and played for them. It was a rare privilege none of the three friends was likely to forget. But it wasn’t only the music nor the manner of playing that stuck in Yousif’s mind. It was the words Jamal used to describe the music that swelled within him but which he felt he could not express—a failure, he said, that frustrated him to the point where he had “destroyed four violins—and my life.”

Yousif looked now at the small, pale, piteous man sitting beside him. His eyes seemed to have been sealed by a surgeon. He dressed in total black like a man in mourning. Yousif recalled the exact words Jamal had used: “Did you ever hear a shepherd on top of a mountain play his flute to his sheep? Or the farmers sing when harvesting their wheat and plowing their fields? Have you ever heard the women sing when their men return from across the ocean? Or the men and women sing at weddings? Did you ever hear women wail and chant their death songs?”

“When I was young, before I lost my eyesight,” Jamal had added, “I used to sit among them and cry. I wanted to write a symphony of these hills—the hills of God. I wanted to write about their glory and everlasting meaning. I wanted to write about the people who lived and still live on them. I wanted to write about their deaths, for here a divine human conquered death with death.”

It was this kind of love for the land and its people that gave Yousif hope. No one in the room, he knew, could express himself as well as Jamal, but deep in their hearts they all felt the same. If a blind man, Yousif thought, could fall in love with these hills and valleys, what about those who grew up looking at them everyday?

Let the UN pass resolutions. Let the Zionists dream of taking Palestine from its rightful owners. None of it would come to pass. This Yousif resolved—as he watched and pitied the men in the room who only sighed and complained. His generation would put up a fight and he, Yousif, would be a part of it.