Under the Hill (part 1)

I. By conveying this account, my purpose is not to make believers out of those who happen to cross paths with my tale. Rather, I seem to recall a lesson from an old Oxford professor, William Hadley. In between extended periods of inattention, I managed to learn about what he termed the “reflexive impulse,” that is, the need for one to recount a witnessed event in order to believe it, digest it, and commit it to one’s eternal memory. It is with that principle in mind that I became a reporter. Journalism was essentially my way of crafting an absolute reality from seemingly isolated experiences. For the better part of my career, that was not difficult. Most everything I came upon fell within the bounds of my constructed reality. In covering ministerial meetings or union strikes, that existential question simply never came up. Even my year as a foreign correspondent in the heart of the Middle East conflict did not yield any serious misgivings as to the nature of my observations. After all, even war, in spite of its gruesome and exceptionally forceful character, is nonetheless part of the natural course of things. And though, for weeks, I bore witness to many extraordinarily dreadful episodes, it was not until nine months into my stay that this story begins.
It was nearing October and along with the climate, the violence was also in its cooling down period. The Israeli military declared a victory over militant Palestinians following its recent incursions into several West Bank towns, killing five suspected militants and a score of nearby civilians. There had yet to be any Palestinian response, signalling a possible end to the cycle of violence. I had been there long enough to know, however, that the cycle was never ending. Sooner or later, the response would come. And following that, the response to the response. And so forth on this wheel of death. But the calm that hit the region during those days was unlike any I had experienced in the previous months. Even the soldiers patrolling the checkpoints seemed unusually relaxed, given their typically high-strung manner, to put it mildly. It had been nearly a week since I sent in a story and my editor in London was getting impatient.
“Very well, if there’s nothing immediate to report,” he said, “then get to work on an in-depth feature of some sort.” When I inquired as to the nature of this feature, he snapped back in his usual way, “Come now, that’s your job! Soldiers’ families, orphaned Palestinian children, bomb victim profiles, settlement schools, anything! Are you catching my wave here, Stanley? Good, I want it by Friday. With any luck, you may make it on Sunday’s front page.”
And so I decided to set out on my usual daily routine. Beginning at my hotel in Jerusalem, I ate breakfast alone, per usual. In the months I had been staying in this hotel, I had scarcely seen any sign of life, aside from the occasional business traveller or fellow journalist. This particular morning, there were two other reporters dining a few tables over. In my boredom, I overheard their conversation. The two Americans were discussing a press conference taking place later that afternoon with several Israeli cabinet members. It was supposed to be “big” and reveal some sort of “bombshell.” Upon noticing my interest, however, my neighbours moved closer together and continued their discussion in an inaudible whisper. It’s probably no more than another victory declaration or some such nonsense, I thought to myself. The Yanks are always getting excited over the most immaterial happenings. And with that, I continued onto the Palestinian territories. My cab took me from Jerusalem to the outskirts of Ramallah, through the usual military checkpoint leading into the West Bank. Going there was always without complications. Israeli cabs are waved through effortlessly. Coming home though, especially during the early evening hours, was always impossible. The Palestinian cabs I take from Ramallah are only allowed to the checkpoint. In very rare circumstances are they allowed through. Consequently, I usually ask the driver to drop me off at a roundabout roughly five hundred metres from the checkpoint and walk the rest on foot. Once beyond the checkpoint, I catch a second cab back to my hotel.
With the increasingly pleasant weather, the walk has become rather refreshing. It is a chance to reflect on my day, and in many instances, it is during this time that I decide on the perfect opening line to the story I am to write that night. The area is a relatively wide expanse of bad soil and endless patches of loose grass, interrupted by the occasional sycamore tree, which, by now, had already begun to shed its leaves. There is a small path, marked by loose rock and ghostly footprints leading from the outskirts of Ramallah to a side opening of the checkpoint. I have never seen anyone on this solitary road, for most people either come and go freely by car, or in the case of the Palestinians, have no reason to walk this path. Toward the middle of the field, the ground begins to rise, almost suddenly, but with a gradual climb. It is the only portion of the trek that I find physically straining. It is a little bump of a hill that most natives would probably never even notice, given the enormity of some of the other local tels. Given my less than notable physical condition (I’ve barely budged since my years playing squash –ages ago!), I am often inclined to pause for a short breath upon reaching the “summit” of this rise. The view is rather impressive: a sloping Jerusalem ahead of me, with its imposing shrines standing tall like gods, and the endless link of humble, flat-roofed houses appear as prostrating masses. Behind me is Ramallah, rising high and proud with its surrounding hills covered in buildings, as an over-protective mother concealing some precious child within.
On this particular day, there is not much for me in Ramallah. The streets are deserted, businesses are closed, and doors are locked shut, as if some unspeakable evil has only recently swept through. The city is under strict curfew. No one is to leave home for the next two days at least, a soldier patrolling the neighbourhood informs me. I ask if I can at least visit Mahmud, a journalist working at the Palestinian Authority’s information ministry, and on whom I have relied for much of my work for contacts and updates. He has also invited me to his home on several occasions and has been my closest friend during my months here. But today, I am not allowed to visit him. In fact, the soldier says dryly, “I don’t know why they even let you through the checkpoint. Go back to your hotel.” Frustrated, I accept an offer from another soldier to drive me to the checkpoint in his jeep. As we reach the roundabout, I tell him to stop. In my daze, I have forgotten that it is an Israeli soldier driving me, and not a Palestinian cab driver.
“It’s OK,” he says, “I will take you to the checkpoint.” Catching myself, I continue, “No, I enjoy the walk. Thank you kindly though.” And with those words, I embarked on my usual crisp walk, though this time I have no story to cultivate, no opening lines to fashion. Upon reaching the top of the hill, I paused for a short breath. The sun is unusually bright today, perhaps since I am unaccustomed to walking this distance at high noon. I proceed to take refuge on a soft patch under the generous shade of a tree on the far end of the hill. In my unsatisfied state, a blank mind is my sole comfort. Within moments, I was asleep.
I was not sure at first that I had heard them. It seemed as though the strong evening breeze was what awoke me. It must have been six, at least. I had slept through the day. But then I heard them again. This time I was certain. A number of voices carried by the cool wind had made their way to my listless ears. It was the sound of children’s laughter, yet it was enough to send chills down my spine. Not a soul was in sight, but the laughter continued for some time, with its source impossible to discern. Just then, a thought passed through my mind. Insane as it was, it was becoming more likely with each passing moment. The direction of the voices was unattainable because it was coming from the earth itself. But how? As I put my ear to the ground, the voices instantly grew louder. I could even hear a tinge of conversation in between the boisterous childish giggles. How was this possible? My immediate reaction was one of unprompted horror. I jumped to my feet, preparing to make a dash down the hill and away from this frightful field. Before I could do so, however, my better sensibilities prevailed, and my inquisitive nature led me toward the side of the hill, away from the path, in search of an explanation. What I discovered was a steep decline that I had never noticed in my previous hikes through this place. It looked too high to jump down, but that became an afterthought as I proceeded to do so almost instinctively, at the expense of my sore knees. The side of this cliff was of a dark granite-like rock that was smooth to the touch. It was a sharp contrast to the soft, yielding earth that surrounded the edge of the hill. It looked like the remnants of some ancient wall that had become engrained into the soil over the centuries. The laughter continued to grow as I examined the wall. Looking lower, I began to discover what appeared to be an opening of some sort. It was a rather curious archway about the height of a man much shorter than myself. Adjusting accordingly, I walked into it. There was nothing but darkness before me, and as I walked deeper, I was forced to change direction several times, leaving me strangely disoriented, but without care. The laughter grew louder, and I was determined to find its source. The roof was now well overhead and I could stand up straight. I had reached the end, some sort of room, in which the laughing children stood. Through a crack in the roof above, a streak of sharp moonlight shone through, illuminating the beings before me. There were five of them. Dirty, pale-looking children, presumably Palestinian. The three boys were busy wrestling each other and laughing. The girls, however, having detected my unannounced arrival, clung to each other tightly in silence. Finally, as one of the boys was flung against me by his playmate, my presence was known to the whole company. The skinny boy who had wrapped his arms around my legs to keep from falling over looked up at me and backed away at once, though still without sure footing. The five of them now embraced each other and said nothing. With my limited Arabic, I would introduce myself, but I was beaten by a lone voice emerging from the crowd.
“He’s a g-ghost, isn’t he?” said one of the boys reluctantly. “I knew it! I knew it! One of the seven ghosts! Just like my brother Ahmad told me,” said another. “No, he can’t be. He’s a man. Look at him,” said one of the girls with an air of confidence. “Yes, but look how pale and white he is. He must be a ghost,” came the other girl’s voice. “No, I’m no ghost, I’m just an Englishman,” I finally broke in. I gave them an unthreatening smile, which they just observed with bewilderment. “What are you children doing here anyway? Don’t you know there’s a curfew? You can get in trouble for this. Come along, I’ll take you home.” I seldom played the role of responsible adult. With my nieces and nephews, I was always the rebel uncle who kept them out past bedtime or gave them too many sweets, but now my hitherto undiscovered fatherly instincts were in full swing, but not for long.
They ignored my appeal, but continued talking nonetheless. One boy, presumably the daredevil of the bunch, strode forward cautiously, finally laying his hand on mine, as if feeling for something. I cannot be sure what he expected, but it appears as though he was to be disappointed, for he turned back to the others and said, “yes, he’s just a man after all.” “You are correct, sir,” I said smiling down at him, “my name is Stan. What’s yours?” The boy seemed uninterested in my introduction though, and turned back to the group without responding. “My grandmother says that a beast lives in this cave,” broke in the quiet girl. Her voice was shaky, and seemed only to have been carried to where I was standing by the strong draft that entered through the crack in the ceiling. “It has the body of a man, but the legs of a goat,” she continued. “Yes, I heard that too,” the second boy said. “Mama told me that he comes for you if you don’t finish your food.” “Do you think he is the beast?” asked the other girl thoughtfully. “I’ll find out!” came the first boy’s response, and he was back upon me at once, though this time he was much more cautious once he approached me. He kept one foot back, as if to give himself a running head start in case he needed it. And with his hands, he began to pull my pant leg up slowly, making sure not to actually touch my leg. I could not help but be amused by these children, and there was little at that point to make me want to put this charade to an end. Rather, I wanted to continue and see where this would all lead, for there was something very curious about the way these children behaved.
“No,” came the disappointed answer, “He’s not a beast. He has human legs.” “What do you mean?” cried another boy, apparently hiding behind the others, “don’t you see how hairy they are? He must be a beast.” At this I laughed and ushered the other boy to lower my pant leg. “I assure you, I’m not a beast,” I told them, “Besides, I’m sure you’ve all been good children and finished your dinners tonight. You shouldn’t have come out here, though. That was foolish.” The third boy, who had been quiet for some time, finally spoke. It was not clear whether he was responding to anything I had said, or whether he was simply ignoring me as the others had done. “What if it is a Jinn?” he began, “Imam Hamza told me that Jinn wander around these areas, especially at night, and that they can turn themselves into anything they want. Even a human being!” “Yes,” came the first girl’s voice, who had apparently changed her mind, “they can trick you into thinking they’re an actual person or an animal, and when you do not expect it, the Jinn will possess your body!”
I was to begin with my standard refutation, but would not get the opportunity to do so this time. It seems this final inquiry had settled it in the minds of these children, for the girls, joined shortly by the boys, let out a collective shriek that was enough to make anyone believe them. Their piercing howls continued ceaselessly, filling every corner of the cave, and echoing into the still night. They were painful screams, as if by some tortured souls that wanted nothing more than a cold and cruel release from whatever infliction they faced. In fact, of everything I witnessed that night, it is the final moments of unbridled terror that I recall most vividly. All the voices seemed to have combined into one mighty collective cry. At that moment, I wanted nothing more than to leave that place at once. My legs could not carry me fast enough. I desired desperately to vanish out of that cave in an inaccessible instant. The children had probably stopped screaming long ago, but the echo continued behind me until I had run out of the cave, upon whose low entrance I violently hit my head in my terrible haste. By the time I was outside, however, I would hear nothing. In fact, had I not so vividly recalled it, it would be hard to believe that such deafening shrieks could have come from within so small a place, and from such seemingly frail beings as I encountered them.
In a bewildered stupor, I continued my journey to the checkpoint. Upon my arrival, the soldiers promptly noticed my startled and haggard appearance. “Did they chase you out of there?” said one of them mockingly. “We tell you people not go into that jungle. Those animals simply don’t have any respect for law and order.” At this point, I was not even listening, but observing him thoughtfully as he worded his sentences. He then proceeded to inquire about the cut above my eye that was still bleeding slightly. Ignoring his question, I asked, “Do you know of the cave located on the side of that hill?” “What are you talking about?” he responded, taken off guard by my question. “Oh, that little hole in the ground!” he continued with disgust, “My friend, you have not seen real caves. That is nothing but a cavity that should be filled,” he concluded disdainfully. At this point, I hesitated, for to tell him of the children would be to endanger them and their families. I would be better off hoping they return home safely and undetected, in the same way they were able to come out there in the first place. I continued along different lines, “So do you know of any ghost stories in this area, haunted places, old legends, things of that nature?” The soldier proceeded to give me an inquisitive but serious look. In silence, he studied my face, as if by looking into it he could learn of all that I had just witnessed. Finally, he looked away and mumbled, “Those are old wives’ tales from the Arabs. This is what happens when you do not educate your people. They begin to create nonsensical fairy-tales and believe them.” With that, he gave me back my identification and gave me a swift nudge to keep moving.
Back at my hotel, I am told that Mahmud called while I was away. I phoned him immediately from my room. “Hello Stan,” he said. “I am sorry we could not meet today.” “No need to apologise, Mahmud. I know it was out of your control. Perhaps you can help me with something though. Do you know anything about ghost stories or legends within the caves in the West Bank? I’m working on a story now and—” “That is interesting. There certainly are many folk tales of Palestinian origin, but I do not know more than what my grandmother told me and what we tell our children.” “That’s alright,” I said, “could you give me an example of such stories? I seem to recall hearing one about the seven ghosts.” At this he laughed. “It seems you’ve been talking to some children. But I haven’t heard that one in years. I believe it tells of seven caves, all in the same area, each housing a different ghost. These spirits haunt anyone who enters their cave, for they see it as a violation of its sanctity, and supposedly will not leave the violator, even once he leaves it. There are many others of course. Some that speak of beasts that have the bodies of men who harass disobedient children. Others are more romantic, in which spirits of dead martyrs court young women who will go mad and wish to join their love in the other world.” We continued speaking for some time, and surprisingly, Mahmud never showed the slightest curiosity about my sudden interest in his people’s folklore. Rather, he was more than willing to speak to me about it at length, though he kept reminding me that he was no expert and could only tell me what he had heard in his youth. He proceeded to tell me about the Jinn, an Islamic being of fire that humans could not see except when it transformed itself into an animal. “But once again,” he told me as we parted, “many of these traditions, even ones based on religion, are often taken out of context and greatly exaggerated in myths. People know that these stories aren’t true, but it’s something for the women to entertain themselves with and keep the children in line.”
That night I could not sleep. In a fit of creativity, I wrote of my encounter with the children in the cave. By the end, I had produced a rather long-winded piece that described Palestinian legends of haunted areas and the role such stories may have within the ongoing conflict, especially on young people, who have a harder time making sense of the events around them and probably find release in such tales. At dawn I forwarded the story to the desk in London. Feeling mystified, but ultimately pleased with the previous day’s events, I resolved to rest for several hours.