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.
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
