Читать книгу On the Hills of God - Ibrahim Fawal - Страница 14

By ten o’clock the next morning, Isaac had not shown up at Yousif’s house for their regular weekly study, so Yousif and Amin walked down the hill to find out why. Isaac’s modest stone house with its yellow window shutters looked like all the houses around it. They stepped onto the porch and Yousif rang the bell.

After a minute, Isaac’s mother opened the door. She was short and plump and her graying hair was wrapped in a white scarf. Her round, kindly face was pale and she looked hesitant. She held the door only slightly ajar. Then, seeing who they were, she let them in.

“What’s wrong, Aunt Sarah?” Yousif asked, surprised at her hesitation.

“I didn’t think you’d come today,” she said, still holding the door open.

“Why not?” Amin asked, looking at Yousif.

“I just wasn’t sure,” she said, embracing them. She looked outside, shook her head, and shut the door.

Yousif could read her mind. “We’ve got nothing to do with what’s happening.”

After an awkward pause, she led them to the living room and motioned them to sit down. On the far wall Yousif could see several pictures of old women and men, one of whom looked like a rabbi. On a table in the corner was Isaac’s ‘oud, covered in a maroon velvet jacket. It reminded Yousif of Jamal’s agony the night before.

“Do you think there’s going to be war?” Amin asked.

Aunt Sarah wrung her hands and remained standing. “I’m afraid so,” she answered. “You’re too young to know what real suffering means. If war does break out we’ll all suffer.”

“But why war?” Amin pressed. “You’re happy here, aren’t you?”

“It’s not the native Jews, Amin. You know as much as we do who’s starting the troubles.”

Isaac came out of his room carrying his books. His friends involuntarily stood up as if they were about to meet a stranger. Aunt Sarah looked at them, biting her knuckles.

“What’s for breakfast?” Isaac asked, trying to sound cheerful.

Aunt Sarah stared at him and his two friends. “The three of you could split up,” she said. “Before it’s over you could be fighting on opposite sides.”

As when Yousif had suggested the pledge, Amin looked shocked. “We won’t,” he told her.

“But you will,” she said, nodding. Tears began to fill her eyes. She hastened out of the room.

After a short pause, the three friends sat down.

“We waited for you,” Yousif told Isaac. “Why didn’t you come?”

“Studying was the last thing on my mind,” Isaac answered, his voice low. “Last night, mother was so worried she couldn’t sleep. In her lifetime she cried a lot for the Jews. Now she’s crying for the Jews and the Arabs.” He waited a moment and then added, “She’s going to ask you to have breakfast. Please agree.”

“I’ve already had breakfast,” Amin said.

“Have another one.”

Ten minutes later, Aunt Sarah came in and announced that breakfast was ready. She seemed to take it for granted that they would eat together. The three boys exchanged glances, and followed her to the small dining room without saying a word. She had made a special dish of chick peas with fried lamb meat and pine nuts, and served large rings of bread with sesame seeds. There were black olives, sliced tomatoes, white cheese, and irresistible olive oil and thyme. Of all the breakfast foods, the last two items were Yousif’s favorites.

The three broke pieces of bread, dunked the tips in the olive oil, and then dipped them in the small bowl of thyme. They chewed heartily, as though relishing a gourmet meal.

“How do you like your eggs?” Aunt Sarah asked no one in particular.

“I pass,” Yousif told her. “This is more than enough.”

“I’d be disappointed,” she said. “Do you like them scrambled or sunny side up? Tell the truth now. Don’t be bashful. You’re like Isaac to me.”

“I know that,” Yousif said. “But honestly I don’t care for any.”

“How about you, Amin? How do you like your eggs?”

“None for me, please. Oil and thyme is all I want.”

“Come on now,” she said, bringing out a wicker basket full of eggs.

“Mama!” Isaac implored.

She seemed to remember something. “Just run out,” she told her son, “and get me a handful of mint and parsley from the yard. I’ll make you omelets.”

She reached for a white bowl and began to crack some eggs. Isaac’s rolled his eyes. Then he got up and went out, resigned to let her have her way.

Minutes later, she hovered around them, breaking more bread, filling their cups with hot tea, and telling them to eat more. In her loving care she looked flustered. They ate and talked, and pretended to enjoy the meal. Yousif felt such a lump in his throat, he could not swallow. Sitting at one table and breaking bread together was good, but the world would not leave them alone. A steady roar filled his ears, from which he knew they could not escape. From now on, he said to himself, things would never be the same.

After breakfast they went back to Yousif’s house to attend to their studies. All their books were there and there were no children to disturb them. They had vowed not to allow politics or anything else distract them. The cause of their seriousness was the London Matriculation. That crucial international examination would be held next March or April, and it was never too early to start preparing for it. It was a great honor to pass it and a greater shame to fail it. The names of those who passed would be published in the national newspapers, and the morning the announcements hit the stands, the whole town would read the list.

The thought of failure filled Yousif, Amin, and Isaac with apprehension. Unless they passed, all their achievements over the last eleven years would be forgotten. Moreover, in the eyes of their parents the “Matric” was the yardstick by which their fitness for college was measured. All three boys wanted to continue their education. Amin, in particular, was hoping for a scholarship. Without one he wouldn’t be able to afford college, but with the “Matric” to his credit he stood a chance.

For that reason, Yousif and his two friends had obtained published copies of old tests on the six subjects (Arabic, British, History, Mathematics, Chemistry, Physics) out of which every senior had to sit for five. They had set aside every Saturday morning to study for the “Matric” and nothing else. They resolved to answer every question, memorize every equation, and solve every problem. And they were making good progress.

Today was no exception. At one point, Yousif’s mother brought them a pot of Arabic coffee. Half an hour later Fatima tiptoed in with a plate of peeled oranges. The three boys read, discussed, and reviewed. But on the hour, Yousif would interrupt his studies to fiddle with the radio set. He was anxious to hear the latest news. Or he would glance at the morning newspaper, which his father had left in his armchair.

The headline, in bold red letters, screamed, the shock of the ages. On the front page was a large map of the recommended division. To Yousif’s chagrin, northern and southern Palestine and most of its coastline would be allotted to the Zionists. A corridor would connect Arab Palestine with Jaffa and Gaza.

“This is bizaare,” Yousif said, shaking his head and picking up the newspaper.

Both Isaac and Amin looked up, frowning.

“Are you going to study or not?” Amin asked.

“I can’t help it,” Yousif answered, the paper rustling in his hands.

Isaac bit his lower lip and stared at his friend. “Maybe it won’t come to pass. Now that both sides know that the threat of war is real, maybe they’ll come to their senses. No one wants war. Not really.”

For the rest of the review session, the three read in silence.

They had lunch at Yousif’s. They ate sardines, tabouleh, and fried potatoes cut like small moons. Then they went out.

They passed the market place and saw the damage done by the explosion late yesterday afternoon. Scores of windows had been shattered, several corrugated iron doors mangled, and the nearest wall charred. The mutilated jeep, however, had been removed, and the streets had been cleared of glass.

“Amazing no one was hurt,” Yousif said.

“Someone will get hurt if they don’t fix that balcony,” Isaac said, pointing his finger.

Yousif looked up. The balcony right above the street was still hanging—but teetering, on the verge of collapse.

They backed off to the other sidewalk.

A woman carrying her shopping in a wicker basket on her head stopped, gaping at the damage. She murmured something and made the sign of the cross.

The three boys resumed their walking. The shops were mostly empty, with the owners sitting behind their counters wrapped up in scarfs or wool sweaters. On the wall between the site of the explosion and the nearest grocery store, the slogan “Down with Zionism” was painted in black. Not far from it was painted another one. It read, “Down with Britain.” On the green wrought-iron gate of the Greek Orthodox Church was a third. It said, “Down with Truman.”

“Somebody must’ve been up all night,” Yousif commented.

“Where did they get all that black paint?” Amin asked.

“Look,” Yousif said, pointing his finger. “It’s not all black.”

Across the wall of the public lavatory was a huge arrow painted in red, pointing toward the edge of the door. Above it were words, also in red: “Herzl Lives Here.”

Yousif had no love for the Austrian Jew who had founded Zionism at the end of the last century, but the vulgar slogan embarrassed him.

“Whoever wrote that doesn’t know history,” Yousif said. “Herzl died years ago. Like Moses, he never set foot on Palestinian soil.”

“This scares me,” Isaac said, turning pale.

“It’s shitty,” Yousif apologized.

Amin jerked his neck. “Words don’t kill, though,” he said. “It’s the bullets and bombs that worry me.”

“Words are powerful enough,” Isaac said. “They could lead to real violence.”

Amin’s face reddened. “I guess you’re right.”

They were nearing the Fardous Cafe where Basim had made his speech the day before. Yousif was worried for Isaac. Would the Arabs remember that he was Jewish? Would any of them make a snide remark or try to hurt him?

As usual, the cafe was crowded. Some customers were reading newspapers, or staring blankly. Several, however, had gone back to old habits: playing pinochle or checkers, gambling for a cup of coffee, and smoking nergileh. It was an overcast day, but it was warm and dry enough for many to sit in the yard under the canopy.

There was nothing abnormal about the way the Arabs looked at Isaac or talked to him. They accepted him as though nothing had happened the day before. To them he continued to be an inseparable part of the trio. Yousif was relieved.

“Let’s go to the movies,” Yousif suggested, rubbing his hands.

“What’s playing?” Amin wanted to know.

“I don’t care,” Yousif replied. “We haven’t seen a film in two weeks.”

Isaac slowed down. “You go ahead. I can’t.”

“And why not?” Yousif asked, waving to someone across the street.

“I need to be with my father,” Isaac explained. “He can’t even go to the rest room unless someone minds the store for him.”

His two friends did not seem convinced. They exchanged looks but did not argue with him.

“I’ll see you later,” Isaac said, leaving.

Yousif and Amin stood motionless, each wrapped up in his own thoughts. Then they began to walk again and ended up at the movies. Salwa usually came to Saturday or Sunday matinees, so Yousif spent more time looking for her than watching the screen. Today she never showed up, and Yousif made Amin walk out of the theater with him, even before John Wayne finished kissing Maureen O’Hara. How could he sit through an American film? No more would he like anything from the land of Truman.

Yousif would never again dream of going to the United States. Nor would he let his father speak so fondly of his years at Columbia University. The America his father had known in the 1920s might have been great, but since then she must have changed. How could she call herself the leader of the free world when she was conspiring to deny him and his people their freedom? Yousif would never watch another cowboy defend his West, when that same cowboy was insisting on giving Palestine away to the Zionists.

The plaza in front of the cinema was full of peddlers: one selling falafel sandwiches, and another shish kabab. A third one, a ragged-looking old man, was waving a newspaper.

“Long live Arab Palestine,” he shouted. “Read all about it.”

Men on both sidewalks headed in the old man’s direction. Yousif was afraid the big bundle under the peddler’s arm would be gone before he got to him. Yousif squeezed through the crowd and managed to purchase three papers. The Egyptian and Lebanese tabloids were very popular and Yousif wanted to read what the Arabs’ reaction was to the UN vote. “time for holy war,” shouted Falastin. “once again the crusades,” shouted Ad-Difaa. “the west gangs up on arabs,” shouted Al-Ahram.

As soon as they were away from the heavy traffic, Yousif handed Amin one newspaper, put one under his arm, and began to read the third. Both read in silence, then aloud to each other.

Everything in the papers stirred their blood. The reports of the Jews singing and dancing throughout Palestine the night before infuriated them. Then there was the battle cry. It had been sounded from Yemen to Iraq, from Kuwait to Morocco. Much of it was Arab rhetoric; that Yousif knew. But the neighboring Arab states did seem eager to deliver on their promise to save Palestine from the aggressors who were converging on them like waves of locusts bent on swallowing everything in sight.

On top of a high hill that overlooked Jaffa and the Jaffa-Jerusalem road, Yousif stopped and stared. The distant, brown, rolling hills were clustered and elongated. They looked like a basket full of Easter eggs, dyed the color of onion skin. To his left was the hill on which they had often caught birds; to his right was the slope where they had followed the Jewish spies and Amin had fallen. Below them was a deep valley already engulfed in darkness.

“We’re not too far from the Zionists,” Yousif said, thoughtful. “Tel Aviv itself is less than twenty-five miles away. They just might make a grab at Ardallah.”

Amin stared at him, shaking his head. “Not a chance,” he said.

“I wouldn’t put it past them,” Yousif said.

“They could try but they would fail.”

“What if they didn’t? What if Ardallah fell into their hands.”

In his wildest dreams, Amin had never considered the possibility. “If that happened,” he said, looking astonished, “then it’s something bigger than all of us. Something we couldn’t help.”

“But we can stop it.”

“If it can be stopped, it’s going to take Arab armies to do it.”

“But you and I can help.”

“How?”

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” Yousif said, kicking a pebble with his foot. “Who are the people making decisions on our behalf? Where do they come from? Who elected them? No one I know has ever been consulted about what’s going on. You and I don’t want war. Isaac and his parents don’t want war. So why are we all being ignored? I feel trapped, left out, condemned without a trial. The destiny of Palestine belongs—or should belong—to the people. So why—”

“It’s politics,” Amin interrupted. “That’s how it’s done.”

“Well, look where it’s taking us. We need to get involved. There must be thousands of Arabs and Jews living beyond these hills who share our feelings. Why can’t we all get together and tell the politicians to go to hell?”

They walked in silence. “Everyone we passed today had a long face,” Yousif said. “Well, damn it, long faces don’t save the country.”

“What do you expect them to do?”

Yousif got angry. “They can get off their butts for a change. The country is going to be torn apart while they’re swatting flies.”

“Oh, Yousif, the Arab regimes are not going to sit back and let a bunch of Zionists steal our land. If that ever happens there’ll be hell to pay. Every Arab king and president would be scared to death of his own people. The masses would turn on every one of them. I wouldn’t be surprised if there was a revolution.”

From the depth of his heart, Yousif wanted to believe Amin. But he couldn’t. It sounded like wishful thinking more than anything else.

“I don’t care what happens afterwards,” Yousif said. “The main thing is to prevent the Jewish state from getting established. They must not get a foothold here at all. If we lose one Arab village now, it will take us a generation to get it back. Father says we Arabs have too many so-called governments, too many factions within each country. The West can play us one against the other. For them it would be like splitting wood. It’s true.”

Amin looked at him quizzically. “Since when are you so cynical?”

“Basim is right,” Yousif answered. “Now is the time to stop the Zionist takeover or we’ll be lost.”

A shepherd passed behind them with his flock of sheep. Again Yousif was reminded of the simple life on these hills that Jamal had called the hills of God. But now Yousif was worried about the future. When they reached the flour-mill, they parted. It was already dusk.

On Monday, Arab Palestine went on strike. The doctor stayed home as did Yousif. They read newspapers, listened to the news, and spoke of nothing except the impending crisis.

While the Jews danced and blew their shofars in the streets, the Arabs rioted, especially in large cities such as Jerusalem, Jaffa, and Haifa. Multitudes of angry citizens rioted in the Arab capitals of Damascus, Beirut, Baghdad, and Cairo. They turned their vengeance on foreign embassies, especially those of the United States. They shouted “Down with America” and “Down with Truman.” They burned British vehicles and looted Jewish stores.

What was more important, from Yousif’s perspective, was not knowing Isaac’s whereabouts.

Next morning, Yousif and Amin did not find Isaac waiting for them by the flour-mill. Nor was he at school when Yousif, as the prefect of the senior class, rang the bell at 10:15 to end the recess. Teachers and students hurried from the playground toward the building. It was a chilly, cloudy December morning, and all were bundled in topcoats or woolen scarves. Yousif rang the bell again and again for the benefit of the tardy and those at the far end of the field.

Knowing what the country had gone through the last few days, Yousif’s class of twenty-two students did not really expect to be tested in the next period. The history test had originally been scheduled for the day before, but the school had been shut down on account of the strike. Most of the students were still cold, and sat now rubbing their hands, wondering what their teacher would do. Some buttoned their sweaters and leafed through their textbooks for a last-minute review, but most thought he would postpone the test. As prefect, Yousif stood at the head of the class and tried to keep it quiet.

Then the teacher, ustaz Rashad Hakim, opened the door briskly and closed it behind him. He moved toward his desk, energizing the whole class with his mere presence. He was short, compact, sleeveless even in the dead of winter. His gum shoes gave him an extra bounce.

“Are you ready?” Hakim asked, his clear brown eyes expecting rebellion.

“No!” several students responded.

“I didn’t think so,” Hakim said, grinning behind his desk. “By the way, where’s Isaac?”

“We don’t know,” Yousif volunteered.

There was a moment of silence.

“You don’t suppose . . .” asked Khalil, a handsome boy with short curly hair.

“There’s nothing to suppose,” the teacher said, cutting him short.

Ustaz Hakim looked at the blackboard, found it full of algebraic formulae from the previous class, then admonished Yousif with a look for having neglected one of his duties as a prefect. Yousif started to get up, but the teacher motioned for him to keep his seat.

He cleaned the blackboard meticulously. Then he opened the window to dust off the eraser on the outside wall.

“This morning,” he began, “I intend to depart from our text and speak on the crisis at hand.”

The students breathed satisfaction and seemed eager to hear him out.

“The Manchurian War of 1905 is good to know about,” ustaz Hakim said, “but the UN resolution to partition Palestine is more urgent, more relevant. It’s imperative that you should be well-informed.”

Silence filled the room.

“If you read the newspapers and listen to the news,” the ustaz added, sitting on the edge of his desk and wiping his hands off with his handkerchief, “you’d know that the situation here in Palestine is rapidly deteriorating. Both sides are stubbornly opposed to a compromise, and the world’s attempted help seems to be nothing but an irresponsible meddling that will help hasten the eruption.”

The students cleared the tops of their desks, folded their arms, and sat soaking up every word uttered by their favorite ustaz.

“Because man has not yet learned how to live with his fellow man,” ustaz Hakim continued, “wars are usually expected to occur, but the world never knows when or where. The Arab-Zionist clash is different.”

“How different?” Yousif asked.

“As soon as the partition plan was passed,” the teacher explained, “the whole world knew not only that war was going to happen, but the exact day. That day is steadily approaching and no one is able to stop it.”

“The UN could’ve stopped it last Friday when it passed that damn resolution,” Amin blurted.

“Watch your language,” the teacher said.

“I’m sorry,” Amin apologized.

“But you’re right,” ustaz Hakim agreed. “The UN could’ve, but it didn’t. And now we have to deal with a new set of realities. I predict the war will start one minute after the British officially pull out of Palestine and thereby end their thirty-year mandate. This they have repeatedly promised to do. According to the UN resolution, they must leave not later than next August. That’s only nine months from now. And for once the Arabs and the Zionists agree that that promise isn’t going to be broken like so many promises before. The historic moment, then, will take place at midnight when the British leave and the Zionists create their Jewish state in a land owned and inhabited overwhelmingly by Arabs. Ever since 1917, when Britain—”

Mustapha interrupted. “How did the British get involved? What I don’t understand is why they’re here in the first place.”

Ustaz Hakim waited for a signal from the class to see if the rest wanted him to go that far back. Several students agreed with Mustapha; they, too, didn’t know.

“Well,” Ustaz Hakim said, seemingly shifting gears. “I’ll tell you, but remind me, Mustapha, to drop your ‘B’ to a ‘C’ for the course. You do well on world history but you don’t know your own.”

“It’s not my fault,” Mustapha protested.

The fog descending outside the window caught the teacher’s eyes. He stared at it, trying to sort out his thoughts. “I presume you all know,” he began, “that at one time the Arabs ruled most of the known world—from Asia in the east to Spain in the west—from the seventh century till the end of the fifteenth. Their empire-building began with the Prophet Muhammad, who in the seventh century led his followers and gave spark to the most brilliant series of conquests the world had ever seen.”

Although Yousif was a Christian Arab, he was proud of all Arab history, even when it was dominated by Islam. Like most Christian Arabs, he considered himself Arab first and Christian second. He had been raised to believe that the Arabs of old were heroes, giants, supermen. And he had the highest admiration for their accomplishments. Sitting in class now, he wondered if the spirit of old would return and save the day for his generation.

“The Arab Empire, which reached its zenith around the tenth century A. D., was the center of civilization,” ustaz Hakim continued. “Knowledge in every field flourished as never before. All history books will attest to that. But then the empire began to collapse. It was too big, too fat; both rulers and citizens grew apathetic, corrupt. It crumbled. Like everything else in life, it had a beginning, a middle, and an end. The end came in 1492—the same year Columbus discovered America—when the Arabs were finally driven out of Spain.”

Yousif raised his hand and waited for the teacher’s permission to speak.

“Didn’t Ferdinand and Isabella of Spain expel the Jews too?” Yousif asked.

“You’re right, Yousif,” ustaz Hakim added, smiling. “Ferdinand and Isabella did throw the Jews out. But that’s another story—really. It has to do with how abominably the West has always treated the Jews. The West, mind you—not the Arabs. The truth is, the Jews never fared better than they did under the Arabs, in Spain or anywhere else. In Spain they actually flourished, and more than a few rose to the highest ranks of government.”

“Some of them became wazirs,” Mustapha said. “Isn’t that true?”

“That’s true,” the teacher said. “But to get back to the events that led directly to the current crisis, let me say this: by the year 1492, when the Arabs were expelled from Spain, the Ottoman Empire—with its seat of power in Constantinople, Turkey—was rising. Soon it was able to occupy most of the Arab world and to dominate it for four hundred years.”

Here, Yousif thought, was a chance for Ustaz Hakim to answer a question that had always nagged him.

“How did that happen?” Yousif asked. “It seems incredible that those who ruled the world for eight hundred years would fall apart so quickly. Why didn’t they revolt? Didn’t they crave freedom?”

Ustaz Hakim got off the table and walked to the window. “That’s still another story. But don’t ever forget that the Ottomans were the worst thing that could’ve happened to us or to any people. They were unenlightened to say the least. Whereas the Arabs spread knowledge and light wherever they went—look at the advances they made in medicine, astronomy, philosophy, algebra, architecture, poetry—the Ottomans did the very opposite. They ruled by setting libraries on fire, closing schools, spreading fear, and creating an atmosphere of darkness and terror.”

He slid his watch with the silver elastic band off his wrist and began to wind it. “Around the turn of this century, when the Ottoman Empire was reaching its end, it allied itself with Germany for security reasons. At the same time, Britain and France were eyeing it with interest—wanting to carve it up for themselves. That’s when the British sent in an inconspicuous little officer who was stationed in Cairo. This fellow knew archaeology and some Arabic. He tried to interest the Arabs in revolting against the Turks and helping the Allies—Britain and France—win the upcoming war against the Axis—Turkey and Germany. That was around 1915. The war to come was, of course, World War I. The officer was T. E. Lawrence, better known as Lawrence of Arabia.”

“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.”