Free On the Hills of God by Ibrahim Fawal Page A

was visiting this evening with his wife, Maha, and their two young boys, ages three and one. Basim was forty-two years old, his black hair and mustache hardly touched by gray. For all Basim had been through, Yousif thought, they should have already turned white. Here was a veteran who had fought both the British and the Zionists in 1936 and 1937 and had been exiled from Palestine from 1939 till the end of 1944.
    Yousif eyed him with admiration and respect. Basim was handsome, manly, and powerful looking, with broad shoulders, a wide forehead, big hands, and long limbs. Men respected him, even those who did not agree with his radical political views. Women loved him for his strong profile and deep smoky eyes. Basim could sit brooding for hours, but when he talked, everyone listened. Tonight, Basim too was in a quiet mood. Even he who had seen many die in battle seemed touched by what had happened to Amin.
    “Yes, I believe bones can be set by a layman,” Dr. Safi explained, tapping his armrest with the bowl of his black curved pipe. “But not every case is simple. When the skin is broken it becomes a serious matter. It needs antibiotics which only a doctor can prescribe. So Amin didn’t have any when he needed it.”
    Basim turned to Yousif. “How did Amin break his arm?” he asked.
    “A stone wall collapsed under him,” Yousif answered. “We were following a Jewish group—”
    His mother gave him a restraining look.
    “First we thought they were out for some romancing in the woods. Then I thought they weren’t.”
    Silence lingered for a moment too long.
    “Yousif was suspicious from the start,” his mother said. “He thinks they weren’t just tourists.”
    Basim pouted, the tips of his ten fingers touching. “You thought they were out for some fun,” he said. “Then you changed your mind. Why?”
    Yousif knew all eyes were on him. “It struck me that they might actually be involved in espionage,” he explained.
    Not a breath could be heard.
    “How did you know they were Jewish?” Basim asked quietly.
    “Isaac thought they were speaking Yiddish,” Yousif answered.
    Basim nodded and wiped his mouth. “You were right,” he said. “They were spies.”
    The word “spies” fell in their midst like a hand grenade. Yousif was the only one who felt a sense of elation. Here was someone who believed him.
    “Yes, Jewish spies,” Basim repeated, fixing his stare on his astonished audience. “Probably here to survey the hills and valleys. So that when the time comes they can occupy them and quickly seize strategic points. While we’re sitting on our haunches, they’re planning for war.”
    “War!” Yousif’s mother said. “Do you think there’s going to be war?”
    “No doubt about it,” Basim told her.
    “When?” the mother interrogated him, sitting on the edge of her chair.
    “It’s already started. But if you want an official declaration, you’ll have to wait another year.”
    “When the British Mandate ends?” she asked.
    “More or less.”
    Cousin Salman, who had not cracked a single joke all evening, folded his arms and seemed to double up. He smiled wryly and his first word seemed to hover on his lips. “Why do you always see the dark side of things?” he asked. “The story of innocent young boys who are curious about lovers was sweet. Why did you have to ruin it?”
    “Ruin it?” Basim shot back, pulling out a cigarette from a half-empty pack. “What are you saying? Even young Yousif didn’t believe it. The Zionists were doing this sort of thing in 1936, and they’re doing it now. It’s their system, their style. Last month we caught a group near Hebron; a week ago some Zionist map-makers were caught in the hills overlooking Nablus. It’s nothing new. And for every group we accidentally discover there are dozens more. It’s a pattern the Zionists have been following all over Palestine for years, no doubt in my mind. They’re getting ready for a big offensive. As soon as