which they nurtured, as it nurtured them. Through such constant and daily rituals, families exressed the love they felt for those closest to them, and the affection and respect which they showed to friends, acquaintances, and guests. The three friends, Yousif, Amin and Isaac—the Christian, Muslim and Jew—share a delicious breakfast prepared by Isaac’s mother Sarah, while all are so horribly aware that the love which bound together their families and their community could so easily be split asunder. On this occasion they share a powerful foreboding of the final meal, after which things will never be the same again. The hills, the countryside, the vegetation, the fruit and produce of the land, have presences on these pages as vital as those of the human characters. The very soul of this land and community of mixed faiths was expressed most eloquently and movingly by the blind musician Jamal, who had been persuaded to teach Isaac to play the ‘oud.
On the Hills of God is a testimony, at once moving and shocking, to the essential fragility of relationships, both individual and communal. The Palestine that was destroyed in 1948 was a rich and delicate human fabric which has been built up over many generations. Muslim, Christian, and Jew shared a common language—Arabic—and a common culture, and they shared the land. That delicate fabric was destroyed rapidly and brutally, creating a massive injustice, the roots of which lay in Europe and had nothing to do with the Holy Land. On the Hills of God is a re-creation in literature of the human beings that were Palestine before 1948, most of whom now live under occupation or are scattered in yet another of the twentieth century’s diasporas.
St. John’s College fellow Robin C. Ostle is University Lecturer in Modern Arabic at Oxford and a member of the staff of the Oriental Institute.
In Palestine’s last summer of happiness, seventeen-year-old Yousif Safi was awakened by the familiar voice of the muezzin calling man to prayer. It was not six o’clock yet and he lay warm and comfortable in his bed, but the moment he opened his eyes he was fully awake. He could hear the chirping and twittering of his birds in the aviary in the next room. On this day early in June 1947, the new house was to get its roof. His parents and relatives and all their friends had been waiting for this occasion. He could hear the workers gearing up for the mixing and pouring of concrete on top of the house. The iron grid, which would hold the roof together, had been fastened atop the nearly finished villa a week or two earlier.
He stretched in bed thinking of the ten years his parents had spent waiting to build such a house. Thank God it was nearly finished. He admired them for their foresight and determination. They had divided and landscaped the whole mountaintop long ago. Trees needed years to grow and his parents had wanted the house and gardens to be ready at the same time. And while the trees were growing, they were saving the money to build their villa. Not satisfied with a good income from his medical practice, his enterprising father had invested wisely over the years, buying and selling real estate at a good profit.
Luck must have been with Dr. Jamil Safi. Young as Yousif was, he could tell that scheming and making money were against his father’s natural instincts. What did interest the doctor was building things and making them grow. It was he who had thought of developing the only real estate agency in Ardallah. It was he who had invested in the first cinema. It was he who had advised the Chamber of Commerce to send men on a public relations tour of the surrounding Arab countries to promote Ardallah as a summer resort. It was he who had conceived the idea that Ardallah needed a hospital and had started raising money for it. No wonder, Yousif thought, the townspeople had wanted his father to be their mayor.
In every municipal council election he had entered, Dr. Safi had always come out on top. The British, who effectively ruled Palestine and with whom he was on relatively good terms, had offered him the position of mayor several times. But the doctor had always declined, satisfied with being just a council member. After all, the major decisions for the city were subject to approval of the British authorities, and they consulted him on important issues such as zoning and opening new roads. Anyway, from the doctor’s point of view, who needed a job of worrying about paying garbage collectors and inspectors and a dozen or so policemen, or threatening with legal action people who were delinquent in paying their local taxes, or issuing building permits, or listening to citizens’ complaints about the need for light posts on dark street corners? No, the doctor felt he had better things to do than be a bureaucrat, no matter how exalted. And now, in the summer of 1947, Yousif’s parents were realizing their dream of building their own villa and Yousif, their only son, was happy for them.
Yousif shaved, took a quick shower, and stood by the window tucking in his shirt. It was a beautiful morning, without a cloud to mar the blue summer sky. He could see the maid, Fatima, spreading white tablecloths on the fifteen long tables that had been set under the trees the night before. Fatima’s husband and two teenage sons were bringing in dozens of chairs borrowed from relatives and friends or rented from cafes. Two or three workers were picking up odd pieces of wood or scrap metal off the ground. Others were inside the house, hammering at the scaffolding.
A large pile of cement was already on the ground and another big truck was being unloaded, raising a cloud of dust. The builder, a stout man with a grayish beard, was on top of the roof for a last-minute inspection. The two workers with him were bent down, welding. The gravel-voiced blacksmith and a couple of helpers were at the far end of the driveway installing the huge wrought-iron gate before the crowds arrived. Only Abu Amin and his six stonecutters were relaxed. Their job done, they looked awkward in their clean ankle-length robes. They had done a beautiful job on the house, Yousif observed, and he was glad to see them with no dust clinging to their clothes. It would be nice, he mused, to see drinks in their hands rather than hammers and chisels.
By the time Yousif finished eating breakfast and feeding his birds, the old house had begun to fill up. Aunt Hilaneh, Uncle Boulus’s wife, and other women were already stuffing three large lambs with rice, chunks of meat, pine nuts, and spices. Two or three of these women took great pride in their cooking, and Yousif wondered which one would appoint herself as supervisor. At other occasions he had seen them make faces behind each other’s back and bicker about too much cinnamon or not enough nutmeg. But not today. Today, everyone was working in harmony.
Maha, cousin Basim’s wife, was hard at work with a crew of women on the balcony. Aunt Sarah, Isaac’s mother, was helping to chop parsley, mint, lettuce, tomatoes, and to fry meats and mash garbanzo beans. One and all, they were preparing maza for the guests to nibble on while drinking. Kabab, falafel, fried kidneys and dips—hummus and eggplant—cheeses, pickles and olives were piled up in dozens of small dishes to be placed on the tables throughout the yard.
Yousif was in charge of drinks: whiskey, beer, arak, kazoze, lemonade, and water. By ten o’clock, his best friends, Amin and Isaac, were with him. They helped him crush the large ice block which had been laid in the bathtub, and they helped pass around drinks as the guests began to arrive.
Yousif’s father was in constant motion, giving last-minute instructions and greeting well-wishers. Around 10:30, Father Mikhail and Father Yacoub of the Roman Catholic Church joined the small knot of guests under the trees. Soon scores of men were in the garden. Some sat around on chairs with high backs or small short backs with straw bottoms; the younger ones stood watching by the sparkling-white, colonnaded house. Yousif and his two friends brought out the drinks and the maza. The rest of the clergy followed each other, as if by plan. Then came two more priests: one Melkite Catholic, the other Greek Orthodox. Five minutes later they were joined by an Arab Anglican minister and two Muslim shaykhs. Then came the suppliers and sub-contractors. They were followed by the mayor of Ardallah, the entire municipal council, attorneys Fouad Jubran and Zuhdi Muftah, Dr. Fareed Afifi and his wife, Jihan. Even Moshe Sha’lan had closed his shop for the occasion.
Half an hour later the moment of excitement was at hand. The grayish builder wove his way through the crowd until he found the doctor. Yousif saw him signal with his forefinger
