On the Hills of God. Ibrahim Fawal

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On the Hills of God - Ibrahim Fawal

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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.

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