One day, two months after I'd started working at the factory, Shafiqa walked in. A svelte, brown-skinned young woman with thick black hair hanging to her shoulders accompanied her. Shafiqa introduced her as Nadia Mazloom, pointed to a place for her right behind me, and gave her a scarf to tie her hair. After a single look from Shafiqa, we returned to work as though we hadn't heard anything. The machines' clamor rose again.
During the first few days, Nadia seemed withdrawn. She allowed others into her world only to a certain point; when asked about anything, she would reply only briefly. She used to sit away from the others during the break, and after she heard the bell, she would hurry back to her machine as though escaping us. The women disapproved of her behavior and thought she was full of herself.
To me, she seemed like an incomprehensible book. But I nevertheless became the person closest to her. After some time, I felt that she was like a banana skin: with a little bit of patience, it was possible to unpeel it and find the sweet and soft fruit inside. I also noticed her distraction when she spoke or was spoken to; she would suddenly fall silent, seemingly unable to utter anything, as if she were sick. But this would last only a few seconds. Salwa once accused Nadia of being disrespectful because she didnt listen to whoever was speaking and of cutting that person off.
After our relationship grew stronger, I asked Nadia about her strange state of distraction. She informed me that she had suffered from it for almost three years and didn't know what she was thinking of when it happened. It was like a deep sleep empty of any dreams. I used to tell her that it was a blessing because we get distracted only when we are pressured and exhausted from the troubles of life. If these troubles remain hard to forget, the pain will expand into the very depths of our souls. Sometimes she would respond with an obscure smile, and sometimes she looked unconcerned.
One time when we were sitting in a corner away from the others, her eyes blurred, and she looked absentminded. I shook her shoulders, saying, "Hey, I'm jealous of the man you are thinking about."
She smiled unambiguously. She said, "I'm looking for something precious I lost. Sometimes, unexpectedly, it comes to me, but before I take hold of it, it departs and vanishes."
I pushed her gently. "Who is he?"
She lowered her head, saying, "I will cry if I say anything. Let's leave this for another time."
I didn't ask her about it again after that, and the opportunity didnt come until many years later. By then, Nadia had been killed, but she had left the answer in a handful of letters.
DAY BY DAY the closed book opened to me. I quietly read pages that revealed a dreaming, gentle-hearted person. She and I were calmly weaving the lengthening threads of our friendship. We met each other outside work and exchanged a few visits. I learned that she was a graduate of the College of Administration and Economics in Basra. She had tried her hand at writing short stories, but she never showed them to anyone. Perhaps this was the strongest thread that bound our friendship. I, too, used to enjoy literature and had tried my hand at poetry. I even dared publish a poem, then followed that one with a second and a third. I had graduated with a degree in Arabic language and literature and still read literature and enjoyed the arts. Yet, for some reason, I gave up poetry. Perhaps poetry was no longer able to convey our sorrows.
I thought of asking her about that lost thing she missed in her life but always deferred doing so. Maybe I wanted her to confess it voluntarily so that I wouldn't seem curious or meddlesome about her affairs.
THERE WAS NO HOPE in the Factory of Hope. Just a group of women looking for daily bread dipped in misery after the loss of opportunities, the lengthy siege, and the destruction of the country: pseudowomen sitting behind deaf machines that devoured their lives and shrank their faces. Some of them were illiterate-widows, divorcees, spinsters. Others were married in name only, preferring the protection of any man just so they weren't considered divorced. Some were young girls whose dreams were bigger than their reality.
The powerful, vicious Shafiqa supervised us, acting on behalf of a man who knew less about his factory than she did. Aziza and Salwa received the biggest share of rebuke and reprimand from Shafiqa, for they were the only quarrelsome ones.
Aziza was an active and shapely twenty-five-yearold with prominent breasts whose nipples could not be hidden by summer shirts. Her mouth was sensual, her gaze dreamy. She was always in a good mood, and her cheeks were naturally so rosy that one day Shafiqa shook her finger at her in warning, saying, "This is a factory, not a nightclub! Makeup is forbidden! Remove that red color from your cheeks."
Aziza took one of the flannels right away and rubbed her cheeks with it. She spread it before Shafiqa's eyes and then displayed it for everyone to see. "Look," she said. "It is white like snow. God alone has put this makeup on my face from the day I was born."
When Shafiqa left the room, Aziza burst out, "Oh, God, when will you save me? Let me marry a man, no matter how he looks, as long as he rescues me from hardship and this cursed country, the country of endless wars!" Then she returned to work, and after a few minutes her good humor settled back in.
Aziza never lost an opportunity to say something crude. When she finished sewing a piece, she would hold it up and say, "I wonder who the guy is who will hide his privates behind this." No one shared her jokes except Salwa. We couldn't hear them, but their meaning was obvious. Their eyes brimmed with tears of laughter suppressed out of fear of Shafiqa.
Salwa's face showed contrasting expressions. Sometimes she would look innocent, and sometimes the secrets of a well-experienced woman seemed to be hiding behind her honey-colored eyes. She was agile, talkative, and quarrelsome. For unknown reasons, she had declared herself an enemy of Mother Khadija, although the latter was in her sixties and this job was her only source of pleasure. Despite the wrinkles, traces of beauty were still apparent beneath the sadness on Mother Khadija's face.
In stark contrast to all of these women, though, was Nadia. She was mostly silent, and everything about her was uncommon-her figure, her clothing, her behavior. Her eyes lured us with a mysterious attraction, but I wasn't sure whether we were drawn because of her eyes or the tone of her calm voice or the way she spoke when she suddenly became vacant and appeared like a woman from a bygone age. She didn't take part in discussions and didn't argue, so she was the only one of us who was spared Shafiqa's tongue, from which even I couldn't preserve myself in spite of my great caution.
One morning when it was raining and the streets were muddy, I had trouble getting to the factory. Just before I sat behind my machine, Shafiqa's authoritarian voice assaulted me, making it clear to everyone that she would not permit this breach of discipline. When I told her that being five minutes late should be understandable on such a rainy day, she mocked me. She started counting the damage it would cause to Mr. Fatih, our benefactor, if it were to happen again. Then she sneered at the graduate student who ignored the importance of time and didn't understand the slogan written with sparkling letters and hanging over our heads. She pointed with her fingers and spat the words, "To lose a minute of work is to lose an opportunity for progress." It was hard to remain impassive in front of Shafiqa, but I hid the irony I felt regarding a slogan often repeated by a president who was in fact the one who stole our lives and destroyed our hopes.
After Shafiqa rebuked me on that cold morning, she announced menacingly that because of the recession, Mr. Fatih had decided to do without a certain number of workers. She said she was going to post a list of the workers who exceeded the factory's need. Obviously, she used this announcement to make us nervous. It would be logical for Shafiqa to choose the less productive or the undisciplined workers, but Salwa pointed out another reason that she believed would be the main one used for dismissal.
Shafiqa walked out after making the announcement, leaving us helpless and scared. We were anxious and wanted to know what was going on. Salwa stood up at this moment, though, and malignantly announced that Shafiqa would choose those who might be her r
ivals for Mr. Fatih's heart. After Salwa dropped this bomb, she refused to give more details until the break bell rang. Aziza immediately asked her what she meant, but Salwa, fearing that Shafiqa might hear, whispered words that we couldn't hear. Still, the other women wouldn't let Salwa possess the secret alone. They threw themselves around her so that she couldn't escape their curiosity.
"You don't need to be smart to figure it out. Mr. Fatih has lived alone since his Syrian wife left him a few days before the war broke out. Since then, she hasn't come back, perhaps because he is getting fat and she's afraid she won't be able to breathe under him. Isn't this a good reason for Shafiqa to hope that she might marry that heap of flesh? Having already missed the boat, she is jealous and tightening her control over us so that no one will get the chance to have him for herself."
Aziza laughed coquettishly, saying, "Just one glance from me would be enough to drag him to bed, but I don't want to die suffocated."
Quick glances circulated, and the low laughter was stifled out of fear that Shafiqa would crush the merriment. Mother Khadija found herself squeezed between Salwa and Aziza, buffeted by their words until she pulled herself away from them, begging God's forgiveness and throwing Salwa a glance of recrimination.
Salwa went on, reminding us how difficult it was even to approach Mr. Fatih, for it was necessary to go through Shafiqa first if we needed to talk to him. Shafiqa would enter the room with us for anything of a truly serious nature.
At this point, Mother Khadija asked the others to stop their nonsense, which might threaten our only source of income. She looked at Salwa severely. Salwa became so angry that she damned the day Mother Khadija entered the factory, forgetting that the older woman had already been there when Salwa herself had started working.
Things would have stopped there had not Aziza winked at Salwa, saying, "Male underwear seems to have its effect."
Before the laughter had completely died down, Salwa glared at Mother Khadija and yelled, "If you don't like this conversation, don't push yourself into it! You are an elderly woman, and it is not suitable for you, so don't interfere!"
All the while, Nadia and I had been observing, not participating. After a short time, Nadia chose to move to the corner farthest away, and Mother Khadija withdrew from Salwa and Aziza, hissing to Salwa, "You are the last person to talk about people's honor!"
Salwa became even angrier, and all the women held their breath out of fear of an unexpected explosion, as sometimes happened. But Aziza took hold of Salwa and moved her away from Mother Khadija. All we could hear then were muttered insults.
Mother Khadija and Salwa had never liked each other and never agreed on anything. The clash between them, however, would go only so far. There was a certain point beyond which neither was willing to step. Years later the hidden nuances of their relationship were disclosed to me when I encountered Mother Khadija once again in Amman. Both she and Salwa had originated from alShawaka, a forgotten quarter in Baghdad, with cracked houses and overflowing sewers in wintertime. Even today the houses' walls are half washed away by humidity during the rainy season, and termites build nests in their pillars and wooden roofs. Bogs and ponds find their way to its alleys, which sink below street level during the rainy season. It is a quarter falling into oblivion for everyone but the rats, the scorpions, and poverty.
After the break, all the women returned to their machines except Salwa, who stood again in the front part of the room. Looking upset, she announced, "If Shafiqa dismisses me, I will dishonor her."
Mumbles and questions circulated in the room. Aziza exploded in support, but the other women asked what Salwa meant.
Feeling she had said enough, Salwa simply returned to her place, adding, "All of you are self-serving. You'll compete in flattering Shafiqa so that she spares you. Don't rush things; I for one will wait for the list, and then we'll see what happens."
The machines' rising clamor interfered with our questions and laughter, drowning out everything but Shafiqa's sharp command to get back to work. At four o'clock we brushed off our hands and ran to the coat rack. A WEEK LATER Mr. Fatih fired five women. None of them made any objection, for there was no law to protect employees in the private factories. Contrary to our expectations, Salwa was not among the fired women. One month later, however, she announced that she was leaving to marry someone who was employed at the Ministry of Commerce. Mother Khadija was one of the first to congratulate her; she took Salwa in her arms and wished her a happy life.
Aziza lowered her eyes and embarked on a long daydream before saying to Salwa, "You are the first; we are next."
At that time, the market was in its worst economic recession, although underwear wasn't as greatly affected as other merchandise. Nevertheless, Mr. Fatih reduced the number of workers again. Shafiqa informed us of the cuts, but the news didnt have the same impact on us as it had the first time. The whole country was in turmoil; major atrocities were broadcast by the channel of the president's son. They were crimes reminiscent of the days of Abu Tabar in the 197os before we found out that Abu Tabar, who robbed people's tranquillity and security, was nothing more than a creature of the regime.'
A FEW WORDS, fragments of jokes, complaints, and vexations-this was our life in the Factory of Hope. Over time, we had become weaker parts of the machines. Sometimes we forced a laugh, but it vanished immediately, or we voiced our complaints but never received a response. The floating flannel particles clung to our clothes and our eyelashes, dulling the shine in our eyes. And whenever Shafiqa wanted to punish one of us, she would assign that woman to the storage room to find the damaged pieces and repair what could be repaired.
The storage room was just seven by five feet, with no other opening than the door. The ventilation was very bad, the light scarce, and the humidity suffocating. We used to call it the "prison cell." Shafiqa, who had much experience in the market, never missed an opportunity to benefit from small pieces of fabric. She asked us to collect these pieces in bags after the selection process. Then she would sell them to the Dushma factories on her own initiative, not Mr. Fatih's, because he never thought about taking such measures. The system was lifeless, rigorous, numbing.
On the days the machine technician visited the factory, the lonely souls were stirred and the usual order was shaken. Emad was a tall young man with a clear complexion and an elegant appearance. He used to come every Saturday to examine and repair the damaged machines because under the endless embargo Mr. Fatih couldn't import new ones. Emad also came on other occasions, for an hour or two when necessary.
Every Saturday the women prettied themselves as though they were going to a party; they would wear lipstick and sparkling eye shadow. As soon as they saw the handsome technician, their faces drained of color and their eyes attacked him with improper looks. Aziza would claim that her machine was too heavy, and Salwa would complain about the quality of the needles that pulled at and damaged the fabric. A third woman would ask him, although she knew the answer already, whether Mr. Fatih would buy new machines. Another woman would call out: "Please, Mr. Emad, have a look at my machine! It's getting tired." No matter how long he stayed, they always had questions and requests the entire time. He spent his visit observing the machines, taking notes, recording requests, and promising every woman that he would take care of her demand. Infatuated eyes and lascivious glances would always follow him as he departed.
Shafiqa often noticed those eyes and glances, though. She realized that unless she set things straight, she would lose control of the situation. One day she said to Mr. Fatih, "How can you set a fire near gasoline?" So one Saturday another engineer stepped in. He was short and pushing toward his sixties, with only a little white hair left on his scalp. And so Emad appeared and quickly disappeared, like a dream, as Aziza kept saying. Still, he wasn't a dream because we had a collective feeling about him. But so it was that the status quo was reasserted.
WE SANK TO THE PAVEMENT, devastated, our fingers intertwined while silently we wept.
&n
bsp; "How long have you been here?" I asked her.
She replied with a dry voice, as if it came from the heart of the desert. "A year and a half. Only a few days more, though, before I move to Canada. I live very poorly on a small wage from the Refugee Office and what I earn at the boutique selling children's clothes. And you?"
"I just arrived. I applied for asylum, and I'm still waiting for the interview."
We sank into silence again. We looked at each other as if trying to discover our inmost secrets or as if looking for things lost: the remaining traces of our humanity crushed under the wheels of chaos.
She finally broke the silence, seeming to talk to herself. "Will anyone believe what happened to us? The children of a wealthy country scattered all over the world?"
I didn't answer. The sidewalk couldn't absorb the overflow of our emotions, so I suggested that we go to my "house," meaning my room, which was perched on top of a carpentry workshop on Mount al-Hussein. On our way, we held hands and exchanged glances, not believing in this meeting.
I prepared tea. She wanted Iraqi tea.
"Don't put any sage or mint in it."
Beyond Love (Middle East Literature in Translation) Page 2
