A woman in her early thirties sat in front of me with her seven children, all under ten. Birth control, I thought. I should be talking to the women about birth control. The children sported kohl around their eyes. I had heard of the long-ago practice of putting kohl around a newborn’s eyes to keep away the evil eye, to keep Satan and his jinn at bay, but when I asked the mother, she said that what kohl kept away was conjunctivitis. I spent ten minutes disabusing her of the silly belief, explaining about viruses and bacteria, rather loudly so everyone in the room could hear. Most of the women we interviewed were not as superstitious, at least not when it came to medical cures.
A farmer told me that she and her husband had the most fertile plot of land in the entire universe. She was able to grow anything on her farm. Citrus? Of course. Olives, peaches, cherries, apples. All kinds of vegetables, cucumbers, tomatoes, and onions so tasty they’d make you weep before and after you cut into them. She missed the smell of flowering apricots. She insisted that even if she were blindfolded, she could tell precisely where she was on the farm by feeling the earth through her soles. She had all kinds of trees on her land, and she could name every single one of them. She knew the names of all the wildflowers she encountered, the names of all the grasses she walked over. But what good was all her knowledge now? She would have to learn names in a language not her own, on land not her own.
It was then that I realized that as poor as these refugees were, they were not the most destitute of Syria’s population. The Turkish mafia charged a thousand dollars per passenger, a bit less for children, and you might be able to haggle a discount if you were willing to leave at odd hours or during reckless storms. Those were exorbitant fees. Where was the money coming from? Where was the money going?
When a young widow who had left Syria on her own—her husband’s family having abandoned her seeking refuge in Jordan the year before—kept smoothing her skirt while sitting on the cot before us, I wondered, Did she have to barter? I surprised both Rasheed and her by asking a somewhat more direct question: “Did you encounter any problems trying to book a place on the boat from Izmir?”
She shook her head no a couple of times. A bit tentative, awkward, she interlaced her words with serious pauses. She would not look at me. She seemed to examine her hands as they lay on her lap. I wondered if I should push, but again I felt out of my depth, not just as a physician, as a human.
“It must have been challenging,” I said. “Hard.”
She suddenly stopped fidgeting, looked up; her eyes found mine.
“Thank you for asking,” she said. “I did not have a problem getting on the boat. I did have a problem earlier, right after we crossed the border, but I handled it. I’ve had to deal with the problem before. It wasn’t difficult.” She grinned and her eyes lit up. “But yesterday is gone. It’s a new day. I must forget where I came from.”
Either You Are with Us or You Are with the Terrorists
Every nation needed an enemy, you wrote, every group a nemesis. Quite a statement, though you should have left it at that. But you added that the stronger a nation was, the more defined the enemy needed to be. I thought that wasn’t right. I know it was one of the characters in your novel who said it, not you; nevertheless, it gives me pleasure to point out that you were wrong and your character too.
Who would have expected that the new enemy would be terror? Who would have thought that we’d declare war on an abstract noun?
That speech, that fucking speech.
Either you are with us or you are with the terrorists.
You and I had a similar reaction to the bombing of the World Trade Center, beginning with the shock of it and on through the grief. You were alarmed, but more so when the president gave that speech days later. You knew, just as I did, that our world would soon spiral into horrors hitherto unimagined.
They hate our freedoms.
You knew, I knew, everyone from the Middle East knew. Hell, every immigrant knew. Our country was redefining the enemy and it was us.
But first let’s bomb them over there. Shock and awe, baby. Let all of us who believe in progress and pluralism, tolerance and freedom blindly destroy their countries, shatter their political systems, economies, infrastructures, and create millions of refugees for generations to come. Bush called that civilization’s fight.
Even grief recedes with time and grace.
But not before we damage the world for eternity.
You had to adapt; you were good at that. First you were an enemy because you were queer, but suddenly being a Middle Eastern immigrant was a bigger threat. A shift of wind. A sailboat has to adjust to the whim of the wind, not the other way round. You adjusted. Every time you returned to the United States from Beirut, the new Homeland Security people gave you a funny look, until you figured out how much the sail needed trimming, how to jibe the boat. You learned how to camp it up at passport control, a sashay here, a seductive grin there, a small drop of the shoulder, as if saying, “Look at me, I’m no threat at all.” Worked like a miracle.
And the true revelation arrived on a flight from London back to the United States after you’d visited Pakistan. You were worried that you’d be interrogated, that the customs officials and the Homeland Security agents would conspire to delay you at the airport for an hour or more. You would be exhausted after such a long flight. The woman in the seat next to you was polishing her nails a delightful pink. You told her you loved the color; she told you she was willing to share. Of course you partook. Of course you did.
And when you arrived at the desk with hot-pink nails a stark contrast to the dark blue of your American passport, the agent simply opened the little booklet, briefly glanced inside, returned it with a smile, saying: “Welcome home.”
Look at you. Building any kind of explosive device would ruin your manicure.
No one at a US port of entry had ever welcomed you home before. Every day now, hell might be shadowing your soul, but stark nail polish is your companion as well and maybe a touch of eye shadow.
And Wellbutrin.
After Lesbos, definitely Wellbutrin for you.
But How Butch Are You?
Rasheed told me this story about two Iraqi gay men who had arrived in Lesbos a few months earlier. Processing for Iraqi men took much longer, and that was if they were lucky. They were gay, they explained to anyone who would listen. They had to leave Iraq because they would have been killed, maybe beheaded, stoned to death, you never knew. They were a couple. They had been together for eight years. They were a family with nowhere to go.
Well, no one seemed to believe them, Rasheed said. At first the couple assumed that it was because their English, though passable, was not up to par. They asked for a translator, but then the translator would cock his eyebrows whenever they said they were a couple. They would point to their rings, yet their application would go back to the bottom of the pile. They could not understand.
They watched as Syrian families were processed and moved to Athens on their way to new homes in Europe. They saw new couples arriving on the island and being given prime real estate inside the camps, while they had to sleep in a small tent in the olive grove outside Moria. It was cold and wet and muddy and awful. They wondered at the unfairness of it all. They had thought there would be less discrimination in Europe, that they could live more openly in the West.
And then Rasheed came along.
Done with his shift, he walked down the Moria runway.
“All right, I pranced down the hill,” he said. “Let’s say that the boys saw me, and right away one of them said hello. I turned around, and before me was my ultimate sexual fantasy. Mamma mia! I wanted to be sandwiched by those two gorgeous bears from Iraq. They were almost thirty years younger than me, but in my fantasy, they would find my aging body charming. We got to talking, they told me their story, and I was aghast. They explained that they were not sure what they’d been doing wrong. T
he boys had another interview the next day and were worried. I told them that I, gay superhero for the ages, would fix it.
“I took them with me to my hotel. No, shut up, it wasn’t what you think. I put them up in their own room. They were my people. I had to explain that they were having trouble because they were much too masculine. Of course, I had to listen to the usual but this is who we are, blah, blah, blah. I told them the system was unable to compute two masculine men in a relationship. They would have to femme it a little, just a little, or at least one of them had to. They panicked. Would they be able to do it? Could they pass? I told them not to worry. It wasn’t as if they were going out in drag. They didn’t really have to become feminine, only a touch less masculine. Gay superhero for the ages could help, no problem. They couldn’t decide who would become the less masculine one. I decided for them. Both, I told them. I had them shower, shave their beards, and yes, shave their chests and backs just in case. They spent an hour in the bathroom, and I could imagine what went on in that shower. When they were done, I took them down to the restaurant for dinner and showed them how they should behave, how not to overdo things. It was only little things, slight adjustments, instead of putting ankle over knee, it’s the back of one knee over the other. Very simple. Smile more often. You want whoever is talking to you to like you. No, not because you want them to process your application. You want them to like you because you’re a gay man. You get used to smiling because they have power over you, not just when it comes to an application. Wherever you go, they will have power over you. Appeasement is your friend. Always smile nervously. And for the coup de grace, I showed them the secret weapon. I told them that when they pointed to the rings, it had better be a certain way. I showed them Beyoncé’s video. Luckily, I only needed the first thirty-five seconds, because you know how slow the internet at the hotel is. My hero points to her hand and sings, “Put a ring on it.” I had them memorize how she moved her hands. I told them if they could Beyoncé, everyone would know they’re gay. Smile nervously and Beyoncé.
“They’re now in Berlin.”
Heavy Words
A woman, head covered with a simple scarf, asked to speak to me alone, without anyone else listening in. She looked to be around my age, give or take a few years. She apologized profusely to Rasheed and Mazen, saying she needed to discuss a private matter with the doctor, a medical condition. Rasheed, more experienced in dealing with overtly devout women, asked her whether she needed the men out of the room. No, she said. She only needed to talk. She did not say anything until my companions were at the other side of the room.
“I have a problem,” she began. She looked both left and right to make sure no one was listening. As she did, she set off waves of spicy fragrance, some combination of basil, ginger, and olive oil. I couldn’t be sure where exactly the scent emanated from, but I assumed from under the head scarf, probably some homemade hair-care oil.
I nodded encouragingly, making sure my face remained noncommittal.
“Ever since we left home,” she said, “I haven’t been able to speak.”
I did not say anything, just raised a questioning left eyebrow. She understood. The vertical wrinkle running down her forehead deepened.
“Oh, I’m speaking now,” she said, “but not the right way. My words seem heavy and slow, much too slow. And sometimes I can’t even form words.”
“Forgive me,” I said, “but I don’t understand what you mean by your words seeming slow. It appears to me that you sound normal.”
“No, I don’t sound normal,” she said. “Not like before. My tongue has expanded. It’s quite swollen, much too big for my mouth.” Shoving her head forward toward me, she opened her mouth wide, drawing her cracked lips apart with both forefingers. “Look,” she said with a distorted lisp. “Look.”
She wished me to examine her mouth like you would with a horse. Unlike her teeth and her dry and stretched lips, the tongue looked healthy and pink. Her uvula, hanging like a fleshy polyp at the top of her throat, seemed normal to my naked eyes. I asked her to lift her tongue and she did. Nothing.
“Does it hurt?” I asked.
She shook her head sideways. It didn’t. I was now certain that the lovely spice scent originated from her hair.
I told her to keep her mouth open for a minute, but that there was no need to use her fingers. I wondered what I could use for a tongue depressor without having to abandon her to look for one. I didn’t have a spoon on me, a Bic pen would have to do, and I did have alcohol wipes in my pocket. There was no sign of a problem, not on her tongue or in her throat. No discoloration, no movement issues, no swelling, no pain, no polyps, no apparent symptom of any disease I recognized, not diphtheria, no visible tumors. All I could see was a possible abscess in one of her teeth, but I was no dentist. I could not figure out what was going on.
“I don’t see anything wrong,” I said. “And you have no pain, right?”
She seemed disappointed. I wondered whether it was a neurological problem or a psychosomatic one. Why did she want the men to leave? I asked her if she could be more specific with her descriptions. How did it feel to have a swollen tongue? What did heavy words sound like? She shrugged.
“I think you should see a dentist,” I said.
“My teeth don’t hurt either,” she said.
She thanked me politely, stood up, and walked away. She sat on her cot across the room, took out a large plastic bag brimming with clothes, and began to rummage through it.
I wished I could refer her to someone. I wanted to explain to her how the brain works, what the nervous and endocrine systems were, but nothing came out. I wished to say kind words to her, anything.
My words were too heavy.
Another woman moved up the queue and sat before me.
The Old Woman’s Theory of Loss
As Mazen and I descended Moria’s little hill to get to the car, I saw the old woman from the beach trudging up in the opposite direction. We were in heavy traffic, feet shuffling up and down the walkway, except no one could figure out the lanes, let alone stick to them. The old woman still carried her black plastic trash bag; it looked a little less full, less heavy than the last time I saw it. She must have felt tired, because she plopped her behind on a protruding stone next to the cement walkway, seemingly oblivious to all the people around her. I pointed her out to Mazen, telling him that the last time I saw the woman, she had stolen a young volunteer’s iPhone.
“Good for her,” he said as he pulled me by the hand, weaving through the crowd to go introduce himself.
She regarded us suspiciously as we approached and clutched her bag closer to her bosom, almost disappearing behind it. Thin and bony, she looked as if a caricaturist could capture her in no more than a couple of strokes. Her shaky body seemed about to run at any moment.
“What do you want?” she snapped. “I have nothing for people like you.” Her tone had the right measure of disagreeable, giving each word a particular weight and value.
“We only want find out if you’re doing all right,” Mazen said, using his most pleasant salesman tongue. “We were wondering if you needed anything.”
“I was there when you landed on the beach,” I added, hoping to make her feel less anxious. “I’m the doctor.” I wondered if I should take out my stethoscope and drape it around my neck.
“I don’t need a doctor,” she stated emphatically, looking up at us standing before her, challenging us to disagree. “Didn’t need one then, don’t need one now.”
“I’m glad your health is good,” Mazen said, sounding serene. “Do you have everything you need here? Are you missing anything?”
“Here?” she said. “Here where? In this awful camp? How can I have everything I need in this place? How can anyone?”
I took a long breath and shoved the air out with a sigh, whereas Mazen seemed to perk up. The woman reminded me too much of my mother, a smal
l evil sprite, malevolent and ungrateful.
“I understand, believe me,” he said. The left collar suddenly peeped from under his sweater as if it wanted to jump out in glee. “After losing so much, being in a foreign country, in a place like this, must feel terrible.”
Her eyes turned skeptical again. “What do you mean, losing so much?”
“Having to leave your home,” he said, still not breaking stride. “The war, the destruction, things like that.”
She rolled her eyes, and her face went slack. “You young people don’t know anything,” she said, “and you’re no longer that young. What hope is there for the world when it’s run by young people who know so little?” She was in all black—black dress, black head scarf—except for a pair of sparkly blue Adidas sneakers that someone must have given her recently. “You can never understand.”
“Maybe we can,” Mazen said, ignoring my tugging at his sleeve—tugging so hard that his other collar popped out. “We’re from Deir ez-Zor, or our mother is. I have been there a few times, the last time not too long before the troubles began.”
Her hand let go of the bag to flick itself in the air, dismissing everything around it. “That’s worse,” she said. “You should understand, and you don’t.”
“Tell me,” he said.
“When you’re my age, you’ve lost everything over and over again,” she said.
“I understand,” he said, “but I was talking about your home, the belongings you left behind.”
“You’re like my son,” she said. “Not bright in the head, are you? My son is up there weeping like a little girl for what he lost, all the dolls that he can’t play with anymore. How is he going to be able to get new dolls in a new country? Wah, wah, he blubbers every evening, until it’s time to go to bed again. He shuts off the light, settles down, straightens the damp pillow, and tries to sleep. He wakes up and starts crying again. You’re all children.”
The Wrong End of the Telescope Page 17
