Beyond Love (Middle East Literature in Translation) (17 page)

Staring at one of the big stone blocks, I said, "I want
to be honest with you. The mere word offer makes me feel
base, exactly like a surplus item at a public sale."

He was shaken, and his eyes widened. "No ... Perhaps I didn't express myself well. It is true that at first
I only wanted to help you and save you from your predicament here. I had thought that the wedding contract
would be a mere formality until you arrived in the new
country and decided. But over time my feelings toward
you have taken a different direction."

I waited until he lit another cigarette to say, "Don't
you think that exile brings people closer to each other,
causing them not to know their feelings, but that when
things return to normal, they reconsider their hearts?"

"No," he said. "Sometimes exile increases dissension. I already told you that some of the Iraqis here in
Amman came to spy and report on each other. Imagine.
I have a friend; I fled with him after the failed uprising.
We suffered together during the journey's hardships,
drank putrid water, and ate the forest grass while fleeing. We entered refugee camps in Iran, got sick, suffered
beyond what men can bear, and then suddenly his values
collapsed, and he weakened. I found out that he was spying on others who were in our same situation. He would
have died at the hands of the refugees if it hadn't been for
the guards' intervention; they saved him while he was
drowning in his blood."

As he was telling me about these atrocities, I scanned
his face as though seeing him for the first time. I looked
at his brown face and the scar over his left eyebrow. I
plunged into his glowing eyes and his lips, which cigarettes had stained a dark color. I observed the words taking form and coming out hot and fresh from his mouth.
I was drawn into him, looking for the other man in him.

"Forget about all this," I said to him. "Let's return to
our original subject. I don't deny that I need you, too, and
a huge emptiness fills my soul when I don't see you for a
long time. But I can't deceive myself; I'm afraid my loneliness is making me grasp at straws."

This time I was the one who had expressed herself
poorly. A thread of sadness spun in his eyes, and he fell
silent, as if collecting his thoughts.

"I don t wish to be a straw. Believe me, I would rather
be a lifeboat or a captain leading you to firm land. Give
me a chance to prove my sincerity."

"Then open up to me. You lock so much away."

He extinguished his cigarette and said, smiling, "I
don't know what you're looking for. I don't think I'm hiding anything. Here I am, in your hands, an open book
ready for you to read slowly."

With coquetry, I said, "What about the woman you
loved? Over time, won't true love dig deep into your heart
and not leave any place for me?"

"No one can deny his past. We can't erase our memories, but this doesn't mean that once our first love is over,
we can't fall in love again. When life denies us one thing,
it gives us other choices; the past becomes merely a pleasant echo that settles in the soul."

He seemed convincing, and I felt he had crept closer
to my feelings, although I was still looking for his hidden face. I looked at him carefully, hoping to find his
secret, but it remained hidden. Then he cornered me with
a question I had been afraid to ask myself. "What is the
truth of your feelings toward me?"

Confused, I shifted a little bit on the bench. He was
making me face my heart, which I had been dodging and
deceiving. I bowed my head silently, then lifted it, but
before I could say anything, a boy's cries arose as he fell
among the rocks. His mother hurriedly stood up, saying,
"God save you!"

She had spoken without knowing that she planted
thorns in my heart. The father rushed over, horrified, and
hugged the child. Then the mother grabbed her son, hugging him to her chest.

I said to Moosa, "Did you hear what the mother said?"

He looked at me inquiringly without responding, so
I said, "'God save you.' It's an expression only Iraqis say. Do you think we would hear it in Australia or in Canada
or in the Netherlands or ... ?"

Laughing, he interrupted me. "If you want, I'll say it
to you ten times a day."

He repeated himself firmly. "You didn't answer my
question. I'd like to know your true feelings; otherwise,
we will not meet again."

He wasp t giving me the opportunity to hold the stick
in its middle. I said, as I felt myself give in, "I don't want
you to only narrowly enter my heart. I feel an inclination toward you, but I don't understand the nature of this
inclination. I'm afraid."

"Are you afraid of me? Or am I outside the requirements of your heart?"

"We can no longer look at requirements and criteria as
we used to do. I'm not afraid of you exactly, but I'm afraid
of everything around me. I'm not adjusted to the time and
place, and this is making it more difficult to adjust to my
feelings. I am living a life that was imposed on me, and
so it regulates my feelings. Why don't you give us some
time to better know our feelings toward each other? Let's
meet and talk. You know, you are sparring with words,
and this diminishes our chances."

A ball rolled between our feet. Moosa grabbed it and
gave it to the child who stood there, staring at us with
shy eyes as though apologizing; then he looked at me and
spoke.

"When it comes to feelings, chitchat is deadly. If I were
to tell you everything, the conversation would end before
it even began. Sometimes I feel I'm too old to do that,
despite the burning feelings inside me. I've been through tumultuous times, and I've put up with wounds during
the war and the difficult work in the refugee camps. The
wars I experienced also made me forget love's language,
which we used to master. I experienced ferocious battles
in which I would have rather died than kill another soldier like me, who had a father, a mother, and dreams
awaiting him. I walked all the way back from Kuwait in
humiliation and shame. I experienced the uprising and
then the flight to Iran through al-Ahwaz. There we lived
as though we were prisoners of war."

I expressed my surprise and asked him how that was
possible.

He explained, "In Iran, political asylum for Iraqis
is not recognized and is therefore illegal. Iraqis have no
right to travel or to marry an Iranian woman or to work,
even though the Iranian Constitution guarantees a foreign resident of ten years the right to work. Even the Iraqi
children who grow up there cannot pursue their studies.
They call us 'uninvited guests who have outstayed their
welcome,' and they see us as a burden on Iran; there is no
way for us to stay. We were refugees, but in barbed-wire
prisons. I and a few others who were closer to the border were employed illegally, doing humiliating jobs for
very little money. My earnings of three years were given
to one of the smugglers so I could come here, hoping to
join my brother, who migrated to Australia as soon as I
arrived."

"Did you participate in the uprising?"

"Yes. I had returned from Kuwait disappointed and
humiliated, and my other brother had been killed on the
uprising's third day, although he'd been unarmed. He
was a student and was put to death along with twenty other students in the university square. Because I was
wanted by the authorities, I assumed his name when I
fled. I kept my brother's name in order to preserve his
memory, never retaking my real name. I live now with
my brother's life, the life that could have continued if
they hadn't killed him. From a young age, I had always
wanted to be him because he had been an extraordinary
person. Sometimes I feel guilty for having wished that-I
wonder if God preserved my life so that I could live out
my brother's life. But now my soul has become peaceful,
and I feel that every time I bury my own name, I reenact
that faithfulness to his memory. I loved him very much."

It didn't occur to me to ask him what his previous
name was. It wasn't important; I knew him by the name
"Moosa," and that was it. We carry names for identification, and when the name becomes a death threat, we have
to write it off.

I looked at Moosa; he was pale and looked profoundly sad. He was rubbing his palms anxiously as his
gaze became harsh; I felt as if I had scraped the scab from
his wounds. He started to smoke nervously. I was thinking of excusing myself when he stood up, saying, "Let's
sit in a quiet place."

We walked silently. I felt his sadness creeping into
my chest and pressing it. Every time I met him, the conversation would stir up sadness and sorrow, and I
waspt sure why. I thought about retreating to my room to punish myself. I heard him say, "Are you with me?"

While I was withdrawn from him, he had wanted to
say something. We reached the cafe, and he signaled the
waiter, who came quickly.

"What do you want to drink?"

"Tea."

"Two teas, please."

He continued smoking, scanning every corner as if
looking for something. Then, as if postponing the conversation about his suffering, he said, "Listen. I don't want to
drown myself or you with the weight of the past. What
do you think?"

He opened the leather satchel and took out a bundle
of papers. "Read these at home, and let's enjoy our meeting now. I am excusing you from answering my question. We are friends now, just friends, if it's okay with
you. We'll meet here tomorrow morning and speak more
freely. Is ten o'clock good for you?"

He had eliminated the pressure on me, and I smiled at
him; his face looked calm. The harshness in his gaze was
disappearing, and he had stopped twisting his palms. At
this very moment, I wished I could be in love with him
and could feverishly cry on his shoulder. I felt my feelings
flaring up again, but I controlled my heart's unruliness. I
feared myself and my mood changes-I was pushing him
away whenever he approached and then trying to draw
him closer whenever he stopped discussing our relationship. As we parted, my palm was between his; I could feel
something inside me moving and wanting to catch him,
but we separated, going our own separate ways.

I wanted to cry on the street; I fought to overcome
this feeling as I looked at the shops and kiosks. These
sidewalk stands were managed by Iraqi women who
were spending the end of their lives in strange streets.
Each time I encountered one of these women, a desire
rose up in me to sit down and talk to her as if she were
my mother or my grandmother; these women were part of the beautiful past that rekindled those sweet stories
that spilled from the lips of our grandmothers.

I stopped near a very old sad woman selling incense
sticks, napkins, cigarettes, and Indian hair dye. She was
arranging her merchandise on a black rug. I bought some
incense that I didn't need and looked carefully at her features. Her face reminded me of my mother's, which I had
almost forgotten.

Trying to stretch out the conversation between us, I
said to the woman, "This stuff is not worth going into
exile for."

Without looking at me, she replied, "What should I
do? I'm entertaining myself while I wait for the end of
my days."

"You would do better to have fun there, in the Iraqi
public markets."

She looked at me harshly as she replied, "What do
you want? Are you one of them?"

Taken aback, I said, "God forbid. Do I look like them?"

She replied in a softer tone, "I don't know. I'm unable
to tell. All of us have worries. We came to Amman to display our sorrows, but no one buys sorrows."

"I'm like you, Grandma."

"No, you are not like me. You are young; life is before
you; you can make up for what you missed. But for the
likes of me, God alone knows what we suffer. Are you
married? Do you have children?"

"No, I'm uprooted."

"What prompted you to talk with me? Everyone who
buys goes on his way."

I looked at the tattoos between her brows and on her
cheeks and said, "You look like my mother."

She answered carelessly, "Where is your mother?"

"She died a long time ago; she didn't go through the
wars that we went through."

"That's better; at least in her old age she preserved
her dignity. As for us, you can see we have become a spectacle, selling our sorrow in the streets. I'm a mother of
four. Two of them died in the war with Iran; the third was
lost in the war with Kuwait, and the fourth is here with
me. He works with a shoemaker in Saqf al-Sayl."

All of a sudden, though, she shook herself, gathered
her goods, and disappeared up an alley, saying, "The
police, the police."

There was nothing left in her place except her shoes.
She hadn t had time to put them on.

WHEN I GOT HOME, I had a snack, eager to look at
Moosa's papers. After I finished eating, I shut the curtain,
propped the pillow up against the headboard, and leaned
back comfortably. I reached for the papers and began.

Dear Huda,

I am sharing my wounds with you, although for
many years I have tried to bury them in the hope of sparing myself their cruel assault. I didn't want to recount
them as others do, always carrying their sadness and
spreading it until it fades from repetition. I'm the kind of
person who never gives up in the face of calamities. I have
written down some of the events I have gone through,
and it's the subject of a book that will have the title Diary
of a Soldier Returning from the Defeat. Here, I have chosen
for you part of that story, which is as painful as many
other parts. Please, read slowly. It describes what we went through. The next generations have the right to know the
catastrophe's impact before someone denies them this
right to the truth.

Best wishes.

After this letter, which Moosa had clearly written
yesterday, I began reading the pages he had given me.

Back from death, balls of fire, shrapnel, burning
vehicles, and cluster bombs, I was back from moving death, where the lines of retreating vehicles had
become an excellent target for airplanes. The vehicles
burned along with the bodies. The storm of explosions had thrown soldiers onto the roads, dead and
mangled or wounded and helpless. They remained
grim faced, looking toward the horizon and waiting
for their deaths. Yet these men were actually luckier
than those who were being crushed at night by the
tanks and heavy-armored cars. The latter were frozen
pieces of tissue and bone. I'm back from this horrible
chaos, from all this doom. It was only by accident that
I escaped the killing.