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
