Beyond Love (Middle East Literature in Translation) (8 page)

A few men leaned against the wall, and some women
sat on large stones scattered randomly throughout the
room. Others would walk in and out as though looking
for something they had lost. There was only one story
circulating among the people, though with different
details-the flight from hell and the lack of work opportunities in Amman. As soon as I sat next to someone, I
would find myself listening to that person's story, which
was also my own. From time to time, the officer Abou
al-Abd emerged to call out a few file numbers or to read
aloud some instructions. All eyes would be on him before
he even said anything. The hours lengthened, the children shouted endlessly, and the stories circulated.

"My son emigrated two years ago. He got in touch
with me only once when I was in Baghdad. I've been
waiting nine months. All I know about him is that he is in Michigan, and his phone is out of service." The woman
wrapped in her black woolen cloak continued, "Could the
phone possibly be out of service this whole time?" Her
tears were visible.

The young woman sitting next to her asked, "What
did they tell you here?"

With her fingers intertwined, the first woman said,
"I met with them a month ago, and they gave me an
appointment today. What do you think? Will they be able
to find him?"

Abou al-Abd came out from his small office. He read
aloud the file numbers. A few men and women moved
off, their children following them; among them was the
woman who hadn't had any news from her son. The rest
continued to ruminate over their stories.

"Would you believe it? I'm a professor," said a slightly
frail man wearing medical glasses. "I spent twenty years
teaching and researching-imagine, a professor, and my
salary can't meet my family's needs."

"But how did you manage to leave Iraq? Persons with
your scientific rank are not allowed to travel. Did you
flee?"

The professor smiled and adjusted his glasses. "No, I
bribed a doctor to make a report saying that I have been
diagnosed with heart disease. I left on a medical pretext;
then my family joined me. It's all about bribery."

"I sold everything," another man said, "the house,
the car, the furniture. Life had become unbearable; no
other hope was left for us except to look for a decent life
away from the humiliation and disease. But, believe me,
the most beautiful country will not be able to replace Iraq,
despite all its destruction."

"My story is worse," said a third person. "I have been
condemned to death in absentia. I lost my self-control and
spat on one of the party members in my neighborhood,
and, worse, I insulted the president as well."

"And they didn't cut out your tongue?"

"After I calmed down, I realized what was going to
happen to me and fled just before they caught me. But I
was right."

Before the man could finish his story, Abou al-Abd
showed up again to read new numbers and to say that
the rest were to be postponed. He smiled, saying, "Sorry,
but we need to check some intelligence information about
some of you. You can come back next Sunday."

This was the third time my appointment had been
postponed since I had filed an application consisting of
twenty-six questions. The application required a strong
memory and details about family members, relatives,
and their addresses, school years, and years of graduation. My permanent identity papers had been sent to me
at Hani's address via one of the drivers working on the
route line between Baghdad and Amman.

I returned to my room feeling ambivalent. It was one
thirty. I took out leftovers and warmed them up. No one
was around to talk to. I threw my body on the bed, not
caring about the smells. I sank into a terrible void, and I
found myself wandering the streets of Kadhimiya, strolling through narrow, twisted alleys.

I could see women on their doorsteps staring at me
and whispering. I passed them on my way to the herb
shops: the scents of incense, spices, cardamom, and nuts
tickled my nose. I bought some incense and entered the
shrine of Moosa al-Kadhim. I held onto the window's silver grate, breathing in the shrine's spiritual perfume.
The visitors' prayers and exaltations rose and fell, purifying me and giving me peace. Women showered their
offerings over the crowd's heads; cries of joy rang out. I
was struck by the weeping women who were holding on
to the illusion of fulfilled prayers. Their grieving hearts
were aching for missing children and missed husbands,
including those without graves. I could see emaciated men
with vacant glances standing in the corners. Young girls
were reciting silent prayers, hoping the saint would heal
their troubles and fill their hearts with faith and hope. I
could see children dedicated to the saint, wretched beggars, women with shriveled bellies, sheikhs who had lost
their children and years of their lives, fingers clinging
to the grates, shivering and seeking refuge. I could hear
wailing, smothered sighs, prayers for protection, crying.

One of the custodians, who was wearing the greentissue strips of hope on his wrist, called hoarsely, "May
the saint Abu al-Jawadayn protect you from all evil."
Another one asked, "Any vows?" A third one wrapped
a child in cotton cloth in his father's arms and read the
sura of the dawn.

Bodies were pressed against bodies, and everyone
was calling, praying, and seeking help and protection.
Among the exalted voices and the weeping eyes, I could
see Youssef's face, but in a flash it was wrenched away. I
slipped among the crowd to try to hold on to him, calling,
"Youssef, Youssef!" I woke up, not knowing if what I had
seen was a night vision or a daydream.

I carried myself to the phone booth and dialed. No
one answered. Perhaps they were out visiting or shopping. I tried again in the afternoon and an hour later. I called again and again at different times for a week. What
had happened to Youssef? Where was my aunt? Why
was no one responding? I reassured myself by thinking
up many excuses-service interruptions, for instance,
because telephone service was often interrupted in Iraq.
Since the war, the central telephone lines had been only
half functional because the embargo still continued on
some merchandise and equipment. It was foolish to think
that the government wanted to lift the embargo; it wanted
to maintain the suffering of those who had resisted the
regime after the liberation of Kuwait. The uprising then
had been the largest and most widespread the country
had ever witnessed. That is why people in the southern
districts were still drinking polluted water. It was a collective punishment. The internal blockade surpassed the
blockade imposed by the superpowers.

On the eighth day, I got up early. I had a glass of milk
and left for the Refugee Office. The sky was covered with
white and dark clouds, but the fresh air was filled with
the smell of flowers. As usual, we stood waiting until the
doors would be opened. The woman I had previously sat
next to was sitting in the same place near the sidewalk. I
sought a remote corner in order to avoid asking her what
had happened to her daughter. After almost a half hour,
an officer appeared. He began asking and answering
questions; then he let in a large number of people. We
spread out inside the room and in the narrow yard. Time
stretched from hour to hour, and we filled it with the stories that had become familiar and boring. The doctor's
mother was among the next group that entered. As soon
as she saw me, she walked toward me as though we were
old friends. Then, without my asking, she told me that her daughter had called her from Malaysia and said that she
had been arrested along with others who had entered the
country illegally. Her eyes glistened with tears as she told
me about her daughter. "Life is very tough, and the treatment is bad; they treat them as though they were robbers,
making them sleep on the floor with just a blanket under
their bodies and another one as a cover. Their problem now depends on meeting with the United Nations
delegate."

"Huda Abdel Baqi."

I jumped from my seat without excusing myself to the
woman. I walked behind Abou al-Abd through a narrow
corridor. He asked me to enter the room and returned to
his business. I sat before a young woman whose face was
without makeup or expression. There was a computer in
front of her. She began asking me questions as she typed
my answers. I admitted to her that my passport was false
and that my name was Huda Abdel Baqi, as it showed on
my papers and citizenship certificate. I gave her a precise narrative of facts and events and answered all the
questions concerning studies, home, number of living
and dead relatives, dates long past, and how and where I
lived here. She asked me to draw a map of my home and
a few other things that in my opinion were not important.
She ended our meeting by stressing that asylum was not
my right, but only a temporary solution; everyone who
came here should know that. After that meeting, I bore
the number 2426. When I left the Refugee Office, the
atmosphere was colder, and dark clouds were thickening.
I halted at a phone booth. I dialed, every part of my body
hanging onto this silent machine, waiting for a voice. Just
as before, no one picked up, although I let it ring a long time, holding on as though entangled in its wires. I tried again; perhaps Baghdad would awake from its silence. No one replied; no one came. I couldn't travel there.

THE HANDS OF MY BEDROOM CLOCK had stopped. I checked its battery to see if it had shifted out of place. I hung it back on the wall, but it was still the same. I thought of buying a new battery and went to bed without eating anything. I seemed to be diving into a void. Many questions started clamoring in my head. Why wasn't anyone answering? What had happened to Youssef? He should have finished his additional military service a month ago. Was he still trying to pay the heavy taxes required to travel?'
My aunt had been trying to keep him away from the wars and their calamities. Youssef had been tired of war, and I knew that desperation had been eating his heart. He had often told me that he couldn't live in a country where war would only hatch out more wars and where he had to guard his life lest he be killed or driven to suicide. We'd discussed his leaving Iraq for a long time before he was convinced; he was very opposed to the idea of Iraqi migration. What was delaying him, then? My thoughts went in vicious circles, asking the same questions, setting up excuses, creating illusions that I believed, until I felt dizzy. I stood up and washed my face, but my body was still tense. Nadia's notebook caught my attention. I grabbed it and started reading.

On that unfortunate cold morning, the atmosphere was
dense with the smell of death. A few cars were parked
in front of the big prison gates in Basra, where guards
with jackal eyes patrolled and kept surveillance from
the observation towers. People's faces were pale and
their eyes expectant, their lips locked and filled with
anger. Distressed and defeated women wore black
woolen cloaks that blew open in the wind, revealing
their humble clothing and wasted bodies. Men with
heads swathed in koufiya smoked compulsively, their
eyes red and blank. All eyes looked toward the iron
gate. No one dared to ask questions. The guards were
fully armed, ready to attack. They looked at us with
disdain, although it was they who were despicable.

My uncle and I had sought refuge near the car that
would transport Nadir's body. To keep myself from
surrendering to tears and stop my spirit from shattering, I bit my parched lips fiercely till they almost bled.
I pressed on my throat to suppress my cries. Memories
transfixed me with quick images and flashes, deluding
me, bringing closer a childhood that had flown away
from me. Deceptive images danced in my head: me playing with a cotton doll that Nadir might come and snatch
away in a moment. I would follow him with insults;
then he would turn and hit me. I would cry, so he would
suggest that we go to the garden to collect mulberry and
pomegranate flowers. This image disappeared and gave
way to another. Here was Nadir plagued by puberty,
sticking actresses' photos on the walls and collecting
tapes of modern music. Under his pillow he would hide
papers. I suspected they were love letters or love poems
for a woman he hadn't met yet.

Cold wind slapped our tired faces, carrying with
it the fates of the murdered. An officer came out. Shaking steps hastened, and tears petrified. He read aloud
the names of our dead, every name preceded by the
word traitor. He requested that only one person from
each family enter to sign the acknowledgment of the
body's receipt. I was frozen in place, my teeth chattering. My uncle entered with some of the men. They all
disappeared behind the gate, leaving the rest of us to
our sadness. No one wept. No one cried out. Everything was forbidden, and the silence whipped our dismayed souls. After a little while, the coffins came out,
one after the other. They were put on top of the cars
and went their separate ways.

My uncle sat next to the driver, and I sat next to
my mother in the backseat. The way to holy Najaf was
long and hard. I felt as though I were swallowing fire;
it ran down my throat and burned my intestines. I
didn't dare look at my mother after we picked her up.
I feared that if I looked at her, I would hurt her even
more deeply.

My uncle, the driver, and I had carried the coffin and gone home to pick her up. I waited in the car
while my uncle walked into the house. The neighbors
stood on their thresholds or stared from their windows; no one dared to share our grief openly because
everything could be observed; every place was filled
with furtive eyes and dirty hands formulating secret
reports.

My mother walked out with bowed head, holding
my uncle's hand for fear of falling. She didn't look at
the car's roof; perhaps she wanted to delay her cries so that she wouldn't break down in front of everybody. I was surprised that she didn't cry out and didn't say anything till we left Basra. Then she unleashed all the cries that had been pent up inside her; she slapped her cheeks and ripped the pocket of her tunic. I tried to hold her, but her deep sadness had exploded like a volcano and gave her incredible strength.