On the Hills of God (61 page)

Yasmin seemed in another world. “If we could only sit in the shade,” she complained. “Look at all these people in the hot sun. Look at all the children. I don’t see how they stand it.”

Abu Mamdouh’s bronze forehead glistened with sweat. He clasped and unclasped his hands over his enormous girth, saying it would be a long wait yet. For the first time, Yousif noticed the man’s powerful hands: his fingers seemed as long and thick as cucumbers. Then Yousif thought he heard someone weeping. He turned around and looked. It was Imm Mamdouh. Baby Azmi was in her arms and clawing around her neck.

“Mortals are not supposed to question God’s will,” Yasmin said, wiping the sweat off her own forehead. “But I can’t help feeling that He’s been hard on us. It’s not fair. It’s not right.”

“God knows we’ve never hurt a soul,” Imm Mamdouh said, sniffling.

Everyone looked at her.

“You don’t know us and we don’t know you,” Imm Mamdouh continued, pulling her baby from around her neck, and sitting him in her lap. “But let me tell you that my husband is one of the biggest orange exporters in Palestine.”

“Stop bragging,” Abu Mamdouh admonished her.

“I’m not bragging,” his wife said.

“Of course you’re not,” Yousif’s mother assured her.

“Now he’s got nothing,” Imm Mamdouh protested. “Do you blame him if he’s speechless? Do you blame him if he’s stunned by what the Jews did to us?”

“Some of them used to be my best friends,” Abu Mamdouh said, looking straight ahead. “Did business together for years.”

“May Allah topple their homes over their heads,” Makram prayed, stretching his arms heavenward.

“He had over a hundred men and women working for him,” Imm Mamdouh added. “And then he had to leave his orange groves, the chicken farm, the fifteen trucks, his fine home, his private car—and cross the country on foot. It’s enough to make one curse.”

“May God make all their wives widows,” Makram prayed again at the top of his voice.

There was something comical about Makram’s outbursts. But no one laughed.

Again the young mother’s face contorted. Tears streamed down her cheeks. Baby Azmi scratched her neck. She pulled out her breast, pushing the nipple in his mouth. The temperature inside the car was oppressive. Yousif and Makram got out to stretch their legs. Abu Mamdouh remained in place, his eyes glazed.

Yousif walked around, looking at the Jordan River below. It was such a narrow “trickle” it hardly seemed to be an important international boundary. It twisted like an over-sized brook, its banks covered with stones and scattered bushes. So shallow, had it been close to a village women would have washed their clothes in it. No, maybe not, for its water was murky.

How odd, Yousif thought, for God to have had His only son baptized in such a dreary place. God certainly did not do right by His own son, Yousif thought. Imagine! He even let him enter Jerusalem on a donkey. Not a fine carriage, not a white horse, not even a one-hump camel. A donkey—and probably a puny, scrawny one at that.

“Sorry, God,” Yousif thought, looking at the deep blue sky. “If you would allow your own son to be nailed and stabbed, if you would let him die on the cross like a common criminal, you’d probably let our homes burn to the ground. If that’s the way you’d treat your own son, to whom should we Palestinians turn for protection? You’re acting as though we’re not your children, as though you don’t love us. You’re treating us no better than our kings and presidents have been treating us. And you know what a disappointment they’ve turned out to be.”

Soon, however, Yousif regretted his blasphemy and felt ashamed of himself. But he couldn’t help his anger. Moments later, while no one was looking, he crossed himself, asking God for forgiveness.

As soon as they were finally ushered through the narrow gate of Allenby Bridge, the barren Jordanian terrain engulfed them. Only a bridge, a mythical boundary, and they were now in a different country. Long stretches of flat hot desert lay on both sides of the highway. Ahead was a caravan of countrymen,
jammed in trucks, teetering on collapse. A greater number of people were braving the long journey on foot, once again like a tattered army in retreat.

Yousif felt disoriented. He looked back through the car window. His homeland was receding in the distance. Only a few minutes gone, and he was already feeling nostalgic. Gone was Palestine with its oranges and olives and balmy weather. Gone were the golden summer nights in Ardallah. Gone were the richly green thickets and leafy orchards of Jericho. Gone were the smells of mango and guava and the bitter taste of endive salad.

His eyes grew misty. And in his heart he could feel a growing hate.

A few miles away from Allenby bridge and the low lands of the Dead Sea, the terrain began to change. Spindly palm trees were scattered in the wide desert, like pillars of a lost civilization. Half an hour later, unfamiliar mountains and high cliffs hugged the road on both sides. Makram pushed on the gas. Yousif felt the heat wave rushing against his face through the open window.

Yousif was amazed how little he knew about Trans-Jordan, and how little contact existed between the people of these two neighboring states. He knew the name of King Abdullah; the names of the largest cities: Amman, Irbid, Jarash, Salt, Zarqua; the name and the poetry of a rebel poet, Mustapha Wehby al-Tell; and the name of the attorney who had translated Dante’s
The Human Comedy
. Above all, Yousif knew that Trans-Jordan was a vast desert inhabited by nomadic tribes. Arab history, particularly Arabic poetry, had instilled in him the love of the desert and the Bedu. He had always looked forward to the experience of knowing both. But not as an exile.

The city of Amman looked bleak and arid—like a large village spread out at random. Dust blew everywhere. The streets were narrow and mostly unpaved. Ugly white stone houses and mud-brick huts were strewn haphazardly on several hills. There were no curves to please the eye, no trees or flowers to enliven the drab scene or break the monotony.

The commotion that afternoon seemed incongruous in such a primitive and sleepy town. Buses and trucks and cars and pushcarts and camels and donkeys and pedestrians were thrown together, causing a pandemonium not unlike the one he had seen in Ardallah when the people of Lydda and Ramleh had first arrived. Drivers honked their horns, vendors shouted their wares, policemen whistled their directions, and Makram’s taxi crawled to a halt. In the heart of town, congestion made movement impossible.

“You might as well forget about looking for a hotel room,” Makram told them, waiting for the crowd to stop crossing the street. “Even King Abdullah couldn’t get a room tonight.”

“I bet,” Yousif said.

“I mean it. It’s that serious.”

“You’ve been here and we haven’t,” Yasmin told him. “Just find us a place to spend the night. Tomorrow God will provide.”

“Tomorrow will be more difficult,” Makram advised. “Ten times more difficult.”

“Well, what do you suggest?” inquired Abu Mamdouh.

“I say you ought to look for an apartment to rent for more than just one night. The sooner the better. If you’re lucky your two families could share one. But that’s up to you.”

It was a long search. They knocked on fifteen or twenty doors only to be turned away because all the rooms had already been rented. Often there would be three or four families in line trying to negotiate with the landlord. Children cried. Tempers flared. Disappointment followed disappointment, but they persisted. They had no choice. They had to have a place to sleep. Everywhere they went, Yousif kept asking about Salwa. No one had seen her. It was getting dark, they were getting tired and hungry, but they took turns to knock. Frequently they would read the anguish on the faces of other apartment hunters and drive on. Once, as soon as Makram parked his car in front of a house that looked halfway decent, the owner looked out of the window and motioned for him and his group not to bother getting out.

But by eight o’clock that night luck smiled on them and they found a suitable place—a flat built on the roof of a grocery store. There was a small sitting room between the two bedrooms and a kitchen that led to a narrow balcony protruding above the narrow street below. Yousif and his mother took the bedroom on the left. The Bittar family occupied the one on the right. Behind the house, and hugging the slope, was a small patio shaded by an old, leaning tree. Except for the bedrooms, the two families had to share everything.

“This flat has never been lived in,” the shriveled owner with a wrinkled white shirt and a sullen white
hatta
assured Yousif and his mother. “You can still smell the fresh paint.”

“Yes, we can,” Yasmin agreed, looking exhausted.

“May I crack the window?” Yousif asked. “It’s a bit strong.”

“Sure, go ahead. I don’t mind. You’re paying the rent, and you should feel at home. Frankly, I could’ve rented it for more than fifteen pounds a month. And I could’ve asked for a two-month deposit, like so many people are doing. But, I said to myself, no need adding to your misery.”

“Thanks,” Yousif replied, pulling hard to get the window unstuck.

“It’s the fresh paint,” the man explained.

Yousif rested against the window sill, and watched his mother wipe her forehead with her handkerchief. She seemed anxious for the man to leave, but he did not.

“Don’t mind my saying so,” the man said, fumbling in the pocket of his frayed blue pants with ugly wide stripes. He lit an off-brand cigarette and offered Yousif one, but Yousif declined. “You Palestinians live in better homes than we do, no question about that. I was in Jerusalem once, a long time ago, and I know what kind of homes you have. No one around here can afford that kind of luxury. But you’re lucky to find a place. Any place. People around here are mostly poor. They build for themselves and no more. There are not many rooms to rent, believe me. Where are all those people going to stay I don’t know.”

“You’ve been kind to let us have the room,” Yasmin said, walking around, craning her neck and rubbing its nape.

“You’re welcome. I only wish it were better. Actually, I built it for me and my wife and our only son, Khalil. He’s twenty-one. How old are you?”

“Eighteen,” Yousif answered.

“He’s three years older than you. I thought you looked a bit older than that. Anyway, he’s a bachelor, and we thought maybe this summer we’d find him a wife.”

“Inshallah,”
Yousif’s mother said, standing by a wall and leaning her head against it.

“My wife and I planned to live in one room, and to let him and his bride have the other one. But, that’s the way it goes.” There was a touch of sadness in the voice of the thin-faced man.

“Who would’ve imagined,” Yasmin said, pale and about to collapse.

Anxious about her health, Yousif walked to the door and opened it. “We’re grateful to you,” he told the man.

“Don’t be grateful to me, son. Show all your gratitude, give all your thanks to Allah. We owe Him everything. I built these two rooms because Allah wanted me to have them. You found a place to stay because Allah wanted you to find it. Allah was, is, and will be everywhere. Allah did, does, and will do everything.”

“Can He commit a sin?” Yousif asked, holding the door ajar.

The man’s black beady eyes seemed not to understand. “Allah commit a sin?” he asked. “Heavenly Father. Son, you amaze me.”

“I’m just wondering.”

“That’s a new one for me. Allah commit a sin? Amazing, I’ve never thought of that. Yet, if He’s responsible for everything, and you’re homeless, then it follows . . .” the man mumbled on his way out.

Yousif smiled and watched him go down the steps, shaken by the irreverence.

As soon as Yousif shut the door, Yasmin began to cry. She wailed for the first time since they had left Ardallah. Yousif watched her walk in a daze around the room, touch the white-washed walls with her fingertips, and bang her fist in agony. He heard her pray for the safety of Salwa and her family, her own parents, her sister Widad and her husband and children. He saw her put her forehead against the wall and cry fitfully.

“Have we come to this?” she moaned. “Have we come to this? Four walls, a bare floor, and not a mat to sit on? Oh, God, why? What have we done?”

Yousif was standing by the window watching the crossings of people and cars on the narrow, poorly-lit street below. He heard his mother sigh, and turned in time to see her collapse in a heap. He ran to her, and lifted her face gently off the mosaic floor. He sat beside her, holding her head close to his shoulder.

“Mother,” he begged, “calm yourself, will you? As the man said, we’re lucky.”

She beat the bare floor with her fist, bursting out in tears.

“He’s right,” Yousif consoled her. “Where are all these people going to stay? You know what happened in Ardallah—they ended up in tents, remember? At least we have a roof over our heads. God knows where Salwa is. And Uncle Boulus and Aunt Hilaneh. And Maha and Salman and the rest. How are they managing? I get sick thinking about them.”

His mother did not answer. Her mouth and chin continued to tremble.

Yousif racked his brain trying to say something to cheer her up. “The son is going to be furious,” he said, “when he finds out his father has rented this place. Probably no room, no wedding. I’d be angry too.”

Twenty minutes later, they heard a knock on the door. Yousif rose and opened it. A delivery boy wearing suspenders came in carrying a tray of food.

“Compliments of Abu Khalil,” the delivery boy said, hesitating before putting the tray on the floor.

Yousif tipped him two shillings instead of one, and the boy seemed pleasantly surprised.

“Where did the food come from?” Yousif asked.

“From Abu Khalil. He owns the building and the grocery store below.”

“I meant where did he order it from?”

“A small cafe next door. I work there.”

“Is it possible to borrow a few chairs, until we get some furniture?’

“I don’t know. We’re awfully busy. But I’ll see what I can do.”

“Will you?”

On the aluminum tray were several
falafel
sandwiches, two dishes of pickles, four dishes of
hummus,
and several loaves of pita bread. That much food, Yousif realized, was meant for the two families.

Yousif took some of the food next door and returned to find his mother still crying. He did not know how to console her. There was a second knock on the door, and he was glad for the intrusion. The delivery boy had returned, carrying two low straw-bottomed chairs by each hand.

“You’re so kind,” Yousif told him, accepting two chairs.

At midnight, Yousif stretched out on the cold bare floor. He rolled over several times trying to sleep. His mother sat motionless by the window, staring outside. He shut his eyes, but his restless mind kept him awake. He folded his arms under his head and stared at the stark opposite wall. He must have pressed a nerve in his temple for the throb in his head swung like an invisible pendulum. He rolled on his back and stared at the ceiling, thinking of Salwa and the promise to stay in Jordan. Why hadn’t they specified Amman in particular? How big was Jordan—how many cities would he have to go to? He must look for her in the morning, he told himself. Someone was bound to know where she was. His back ached. He rolled to his left side and then to his right. It was his most comfortable position, but he couldn’t sleep.

“Lift up, oh God, this evil off your land,” Yasmin prayed. “Save our children and protect our homes. Our enemies are Your enemies for they know not Your face.”

Yousif opened his eyes. His mother was silhouetted against the moonlight, framed by the open window. She looked troubled, withdrawn. He closed his eyes again lest he intrude on her privacy.

“Why did You let them, my God, my Savior,” she continued, “trespass so brutally against the innocent? They have come with unwarranted hostility in their hearts. They have uprooted people who have done them no harm. They bode us ill, oh Lord. Remove the storm from their hearts so that we may all see Your glory, so that, in Thy name, we may all live in peace.”

When she began to sob, Yousif sat up fully awake. “You can’t go on like this,” he told her. “Think of your blood pressure.”

“Blood pressure? Who cares? We’re ruined. We’re ruined.”

She beat on her chest and then buried her head in her hands. Strands of hair fell to the side of her face.

“You ought to lie down,” Yousif suggested. “It’s not the softest bed but it’s better than sitting up all night on this stool.”

“If I sleep on this floor,” she said, blowing her nose, “tomorrow morning my back will be stiff as a board. I’ll never be able to get up.”

“It’s a hard floor,” he admitted, resting on his elbows.

“God will deny them His blessings. I’m only glad your father isn’t here to see all this.”

Yousif’s mind drifted back. “He’s better off,” he muttered, thinking.