Leon Uris's "The Haj" could have been a different and far better book. Returning to the scene of his huge 1958 best seller, "Exodus," Mr. Uris attempts here to explore a Palestine in tumultuous upheaval between 1944 and 1956, hoping to shed light on what still remains a bewildering political and religious impasse. The illumination he provides, however, is so thoroughly dimmed by a severely biased viewpoint that the book loses all power as a work of fiction and all credibility as an objective study of that depressing and continuing deadlock.

The hero—if he can be called such—of the novel is Haj Ibrahim al Soukori al Wahhabi, muktar (or head) of the village of Tabah, close by the Shemetz Kibbutz on the road to Jerusalem. We come to know this man through an alternating dual narrative recited on the one hand in the first-person voice of his son, Ishmael, and on the other through an omniscient third-person voice that we can assume speaks for Mr. Uris himself. The stylistic device is clumsy at best, despite Ishmael's apology for it in the very first chapter. What is unforgivable, though, is the propaganda—there is no other word for it—that booms out from virtually every page of the book; it is insidious when Mr. Uris himself is speaking and despicable when it is framed in the thoughts and voices of his many Arab characters….

According to Mr. Uris, Arabs in general and Palestinians in particular are lazy, cowardly, boastful, deceitful, untrustworthy, double-crossing, backbiting, lustful, undependable murderers, thieves and rapists….

When a view is so biased, it becomes impossible to accept even what appears to be impeccable research on past events. History lessons in brief are inserted into the book at regular intervals lest we forget Mr. Uris's overriding theme. The Arabs are a hateful and hate-filled people and there is no chance they will ever change. It is no wonder that by the end of the novel, Haj Ibrahim explodes in an unspeakable act of violence that drives his son Ishmael mad.

One cannot deny a novelist his personal view; that would be akin to cutting out his tongue, something that, according to Mr. Uris, Arabs are adept at. But Anthony Burgess … said, "We do not demand of an author that he be an intellectual … but we have a right to intelligence, a knowledge of the human soul, a certain decency—quite apart from professional skill. Probably this imputation of decency is important: All the great novels have been about people trying to be kinder, more tolerant."

"The Haj" is not a great novel. It is not even a good one; Mr. Uris's head-on assault finally leaves the reader battered and numb. The effect might best be summed up by his own description of an Arab conference in Zurich: "Words hiss out like dueling rapiers, swish, clang. Moods of rage and disgust bounce off the lofty heights of the committee rooms and the intellect becomes dull and insulted."