Beyond Love (Middle East Literature in Translation) (19 page)

When I emerged from these bloody pages, I was weeping in horror. Although I was familiar with most of what had happened, I still sank into a deep sorrow. I lay there shivering until I fell into a deep sleep, as if my head, crowded with scenes of horror, had shaken off everything and become empty. When I woke up and looked in the mirror, I was pale, as though sick. It was four o'clock.

WHEN FIANCA, the maid, opened the door to me, I heard Samiha's voice welcoming me from the living room. She was lying on the couch, suffering from back pain. She told me about some faded memories that I wasn't interested in hearing about. I tried to listen to her, but Moosa kept intruding.

Samiha told me that she needed to stay home. (Moosa reiterates, "I jumped from the vehicle; my feet plunged into the mud.") Samiha sat with a pillow behind her back, moaning.
(Moosa says that the soldiers along the streets walked barefoot.)
She said, "If I have to go see the doctor, I'd like you to come
with me." (Moosa's voice slips in: a morning of fire and bodies
drilled with shrapnel.) Fianca told me that Samih was waiting for me. (Moosa reminds me of our appointment the next
day). Samiha pointed to a pile of newspapers on the table.
(Moosa asks me about the nature of my feelings toward him).

In the room decorated in Arabian style, Samih sat
near his lute, smiling as usual. Fianca set down two cups
of coffee and two glasses of water.

"Today," he said, "no need to read. I think it's a day
for chat."

This wasn't part of our contract, but I acquiesced and
found it convenient. Samih asked me about what had
happened at the Refugee Office and to which country I
would be sent.

I answered, "Perhaps I will go to Australia, the other
side of the world."

He said, "There is a shining place waiting for you."

I didn't know why he said that, so I asked, "Do you
think things will be okay?"

"You'll have to adjust. I've heard that the standard of
living there is one of the highest; it's the country of pineapple, natural resources, and virgin land. People there
live in the present, whereas we hold on to our sorrows."

I said to him, "We-I mean'I'-need a decent present
in order to continue. The absence of an enticing present
leaves us no choice but to discuss our memories time and
again."

Samih objected. "There are many incentives for the
present, but we don't acknowledge them. They are with us, within and around us, but our insight-I mean your
insight-is obstructed. But isn't that what you've been
wishing for? At least you don't have to worry about your
relocation."

"Worry never ends. It might recede, but it never ends,
not just for me, but for all Iraqis-those who live under
the regime's hammer and those who have left the country
looking for another life."

"God will help you."

"It looks as if this is our destiny-a diaspora growing
bigger over the years."

"No, things are different from what you think. If
every dissident left the country, that would give the ruler,
who had brought calamities upon the country, a new, longer life."

"What you say is true, but many were forced to do
exactly that. The world knows only what it sees on television screens or in newspapers. The details of our lives and
misfortune are known only to us. As for me, you know
my problem; although I have nothing to do with politics
and don't even understand its games, I am entrapped
in its snare. I'm a woman who longs for a peaceful life:
a house, a husband and children, reading and intimate
relationships. Unfortunately, I have found myself outside
these dreams. I don't know how to handle what has happened to me, but my people's cause is a tragedy, and I'm
merely a small part of it."

I wanted to tell Samih that a man had entered my life
at the wrong time and that my feelings toward him were
mixed. At that very instant, I wanted to fly to that man,
but I was afraid that when I arrived, my wings would fall
apart. I decided not to tell Samih about him.

I looked at Samih. He was silent. I didn't know if he
was with me or in another place. When he spoke, his voice
was sad. "If you emigrate, I'll find it difficult to adjust to
another person."

"There's nothing extraordinary about me. I just do
my work. Wasn t there a woman before me doing the
same job?"

He said in a low voice, "You're different."

He lapsed into silence before he said, "You arouse my
feelings." Then he emended, "Sorry. I hope you don't get
me wrong-I'm in love with your voice." Then he said,
"Don t misinterpret; I just wanted to say that with you I
see things better."

Before he could return to his lute, I said, "There are
specialized centers where they teach blind people how to
read with the computer. Why don t you sign up?"

He said, "I don't feel close to a computer; it doesn't
have a soul, and I can't have a dialogue with it. I believe in
intimate and warm relationships." Then he grabbed his
lute and began to strum on it. A delicate echo of sadness
wafted from it. The chords called for relaxation and harmony with nature, then became more intricate, forming a
melody that rose and carried me high. I could see myself
galloping on a green meadow, like a horse freed from her
reins. I could see colorful images I'd never seen before.
The lute suddenly fell silent and left me stranded.

ON THE WAY TO HASHEMITE SQUARE, I met the same
woman who had previously been sitting on the sidewalk.
Next to her was another woman selling loofahs, black
bath stones, tweezers, and needles. I wasn't paying attention to her face as I greeted the two women and sat. But before I could extend my hand to the incense sticks, the
second woman shrieked, "Huda?"

The world is like a village; fate leads its dwellers to
meet one another. But it is also as large as an endless universe, where each human is just a dot lost in the emptiness. In Amman, you may run into a neighbor or a friend
or any other person you have met during the journey of
your life, but in your own country you may not meet that
person for years. Everybody here, especially in the downtown area and Hashemite Square, became a familiar face
as long as we all carried the same tragedy. A faded cloak
and intertwined wrinkles like an old tree-that was
Mother Khadija.

I shrieked too. "Who? Mother Khadija? I cant believe
it!"

She hugged me like a daughter. I could feel her warm
breaths on my chest.

"Even you, Mother Khadija! What brought you here?"

With the corner of her cloak, she was wiping her
tears. "What could I do? I found myself destitute after the
fire at the Factory of Hope; no one paid attention to me.
All my friends had gone to a safe haven. Life is better
here, except for the problems of residence."

"And where do you live?"

"At Talat al-Misdaar with Umm Hashim." She
pointed to her neighbor.

Umm Hashim replied, "We share the rent, we eat
together, and..." She wanted to say more but then
became busy with a customer.

Mother Khadija was holding my fingers and squeezing them with affection. Then she asked, "And you, what
are you doing here?"

"I'm on the waiting list."

She looked at me as though she didn't understand
what I meant. I added, "I'm a refugee; I'm going to a Western country."

"Which country?"

"I don't know yet. Australia or Holland or maybe
America or Canada."

"Did you say America?"

"Yes, perhaps America or another country."

She stroked her chest as she asked a second time,
"America, who hit us with missiles?"

"If they accept me."

"Things are so strange in this life-people seeking
refuge with their killers."

I said to her, "Mother Khadija, the killers have become
numerous now, and the worst of them is he who emerges
from your own homeland."

She didnt look convinced and said, "Despite this, we
should not seek refuge from the bad only to fall prey to
worse."

"As Amin Maalouf puts it, the worst ruler is he who
makes you hit yourself with the stick."

"Who is Amin Maalouf?"

"Huh? He's one of my relatives."

Umm Hashim was listening but did not interrupt.
I continued, "Who said that America is worse than our
president? America wasn't alone when she hit us; more
than twenty countries had allied with her, including
many Arab countries. It is our president who invaded an
Arab country, looted it, and chased away its people. Anyway, Mother Khadija, don't worry about that because I'm
actually going to Australia."

"I haven't heard of Australia. How far is it from here?"

"It is at the end of the world."

She opened her eyes wide. "The end of the world. That must be close to the day of resurrection."

Umm Hashim joined in the laughter. Mother Khadija, holding me as if she were afraid of losing me, began to lament, "Oh, my daughter, our people are scattered like the beads of a broken necklace! No one can reunite us! It is God's will; perhaps it's a punishment because we have lost the purity of our soul."

Umm Hashim objected, "On the contrary, we are the noblest people on earth-kind, tolerant, and generous."

Mother Khadija looked around her angrily, "Aren't we the descendants of al-Hajjaj?"13

Umm Hashim disagreed, "Al-Hajjaj is not from Iraq! You old folks!"

Before the debate could get too heated, I excused myself. It was time to meet Moosa.

Mother Khadija squeezed my palm and said, "We should keep in touch. You can always find me here, and if we have to move, I'll be near Restaurant al-Quds."

As I stood up, I said, "We'll see each other a lot, I promise."

She replied, "I hope that's not mere talk."

HE HAD ARRIVED in the cafe before me; from far away I could see him reading some papers. As I drew closer, he pushed his papers aside, saying, "This time my intuition
betrayed me; I thought you wouldn't come."

I put my bag on the table's right side, asking, "What
made you think that?"

"Frankly, yesterday you didn't look enthusiastic."

"Here I am."

"Your behavior confuses me."

Pulling the pages of his story from my bag, I said, "I
was saddened by what you wrote. After all that has happened to you, I wonder how you've managed to preserve
your soul."

I suddenly jumped with alarm when he grabbed my
fingers. I turned my head but didn't withdraw my hands.
I let them absorb the warmth of his feelings; I was in
need of a mans caress. Pearls of sweat shone on his forehead. I wondered where this abundant flow of love that
immersed my senses came from. The waiter interrupted
this unplanned moment in a time of exile.

We ordered juice, and he read to me what he had written during his days in exile. Then we went to a fast-food
place. He didn't ask me about my feelings toward him.
Then he said, "Time is short. Should I add your name to
my file? If you have reached a decision, give me a call
after tomorrow, but if I don't hear from you, I'll consider
the matter over with."

I was about to bypass the two-day waiting period
and accept immediately, but for some reason I just kept
silent.

MY SHIP WAS SAFE from being tossed over. A strength
I had lacked for a long time flowed back into my body. I
had received the refugee certificate.

I began scanning the lines. I couldn't believe it. "The
Office for Refugee Affairs of the United Nations in the
Jordanian Kingdom attests that Mrs. Huda Abdel Baqi,
Iraqi citizen, is granted the status of Refugee..."

I wanted to shout in the streets, "Farewell to the nightmare of homelessness!" I wanted to tell the whole universe about it, to go back home and wait for Samih, or to
fly to the Roman Theater and enter the Hashemite Square
to announce it to the Iraqis there, but instead I walked to
see Mother Khadija. I spotted Umm Hashim sitting in
front of her merchandise in her usual place. As I bought
incense from her, she told me that Mother Khadija was
sick. I asked for directions to her place.

From Saqf al-Sayl, I walked to Mosque al-Husain in
the northern part of the city, up to Talat al-Misdaar, then
turned left as Umm Hashim had indicated. An iron door
opened up to a relatively long corridor that eventually
led to a circular basin that collected water, which was so
scarce in that region. Mother Khadija was living in one of
the three rooms that overlooked the sandy yard. I looked
for her door. When a woman came out, I asked for Mother
Khadija.

She pointed, saying, "The last room."

Mother Khadija couldn't believe it when she saw me.
"What brought you here? By God, you are great."

She had wrapped herself in a blanket and sat close to
the fireplace. She looked very pale.

"It's the cold," she said. "My bones can't tolerate it."

The room she shared with Umm Hashim was wide,
with a corridor leading to the kitchen. Near the fire was
a carafe with chamomile tea. She asked me to pour her a
little bit to moisten her throat. She was dehydrated and had a slight fever. Then she pushed aside the blankets
and cursed the time that had brought her to this condition. I didn't know what to say as she assured me that as
soon as she felt better, she would return to Baghdad. She
was afraid to die on foreign soil.

She sighed and said, "Oh, beloved Baghdad-abundant water, sunny weather, and people united as if they
were one tribe. But they destroyed it. God's curse upon
them! The idea of dying here frightens me. What do you
think-should I die here?"

Patting her shoulders, I said, "God give you long life!"

She shivered. "No. I just want to reach Baghdad; then
I don't care."

I told her about Nadia's death. She remembered her
and said, "She was very kind and educated like you. She
avoided the bickering that went on in the factory and preserved her purity."

She didn't ask about the circumstances of Nadia's
death but continued to grieve and reminisce about the
Factory of Hope, the workers, and Shafiqa, whose power
had been broken after the factory was burned and Mr.
Fatih had run away.