Beyond Love (Middle East Literature in Translation)

by Hadiyya Hussein

  THE FIRST DIALOGUE I had with Youssef went as follows:

  "This is Samia." (I gave the false passport name out of fear of intelligence agents.) "I hope I won't have to wait long until I see you."

  "Don't worry. Just look after yourself."

  "I miss you. I miss you all. How is Grandma?"

  "She misses you a lot. She suggested renting your house in Baghdad; if this works out, I'll send you the rent money."

  And the second conversation:

  "You'll be getting your permanent identity papers soon."

  "What about you?"

  "Be patient a little bit more."

  "Can I talk to my grandma?"

  "She's not here. She went out with my mum to visit the Imam al-Kadhim. How can I reach you?"

  "I don t know. I don t have a phone. I'm calling with a phone card."

  "A card-what does that mean?" (Of course, no one in Iraq knew the phone card system.)

  "It's a public phone where we use special cards; listen, I'm afraid it will cut off soon. I'll call later."

  The third time was different:

  "Did you receive your permanent ID?"

  "Yes, the papers arrived along with the money."

  "Samia, what's the matter with your voice?"

  "I just have a cold."

  "No, your voice is very sad."

  "Do you remember my friend Nadia?"

  "Nadia? Yes, I remember her."

  "She was killed."

  I pulled out the phone card right before I broke into tears.

  NADIA AND I had to go our separate ways at the end of 1993. Her family had to leave Baghdad during the evacuation of those originally from the South who had fled their homes because of Desert Storm. Of all the cities in Iraq, Basra had suffered the greatest destruction because it was the only city along the route for both the lines of invasion into Kuwait and the lines of defeat coming back from there. After the death of thousands on the battlefields and along this "trail of death," the defeated troops who remained alive had returned from Kuwait. In Basra houses had been destroyed with their inhabitants inside; those who were able to had fled to Baghdad, Karbala, and Najaf, thinking that the capital and the holy places would be safer.

  On her second visit to my home on Mount al-Hussein, Nadia had told me that when her family had returned to Basra, they couldn't find their house or even their old neighborhood. Both had been completely destroyed and become a dumping ground for garbage and waste. One of their acquaintances suggested that Nadia's family register their names on the list of those who had suffered damages from the war. But other people warned them that doing so was useless because no Iraqi ever received compensation. The people of Basra were particularly stigmatized for their hostility to the regime because the 1991 uprising had originated there. This meant that in response to any request for compensation, the intelligence services would unearth files, sources, origins, and relatives-not to offer compensation, but to find out whether the requester had any connection with the uprising. Nadia's uncle had been killed in the first days of the rebellion in front of Nadia's house while he was trying to remove a corpse from their threshold. For this act, he was considered against the regime, and the family had to take refuge with one of their relatives. Then Nadir was hired as a driver by Hamid Kalla.

  AT THE REFUGEE OFFICE, the waiting line only grew longer and longer. It would organize and dissolve, then gather and dissolve again. After almost an hour, an officer appeared and from the bars of the closed door called some names. He handed people notices that their appointments were postponed. Some grumbled and walked away, but a fifty-year-old man standing next to a woman holding a child said, "Please, I have been on the waiting list for six months. This is the fourth time I've been postponed."

  The officer continued distributing notices of new appointments as though hehadnt heard anything. The man asked again, "Is there anyone I can talk to?"

  His question was lost amid the child's crying, and the officer disappeared into the building without answering. He also didn't hear my voice when I called him, or perhaps he heard but ignored me. Some women were sitting on the ground and on the sidewalk. Every one of them was pondering her suffering. My back hurt, so I sat down next to a woman with a pale face. She looked at me and asked for some water from the bottle I was holding.

  Any occasion is an opportunity for us to confess to a stranger; we Iraqis do not need reasons or introductions when our hearts can no longer bear the weight of our tragedy. Thus, as soon as the woman returned the bottle, she started to tell her story. "I have been coming to the Refugee Office for five months now. My daughter is a medical doctor; she left Iraq before I did, and I have followed her. She left through the services of clandestine immigration to shorten the time and the troubles of waiting here. She should have arrived four months ago in Germany, where her father is waiting for her. He has been a refugee there for two years. But she didn't wait for him to send her official papers. She paid a lot of money, but since then I haven't heard anything from her. She hasn't arrived in Germany, and she hasn't been in touch with me."

  I asked, "What have they done for you here at the Refugee Office?"

  She bowed her head silently. I looked at her emaciated face and her dry lips as I listened to her response. "How should I know? I don't even know the office my daughter dealt with. I arrived in Amman three days before she left, and she assured me then that she would arrive safely in Germany. Here I am, waiting. I have lost it all: daughter, husband, and homeland."

  We were eventually admitted to the office. The corridor leading to the waiting room was three feet wide and paved with dark tiles. The last step up to the main door to the waiting area looked tortuous, as though to remind us that the road we were about to take would be endlessly long and twisted. The only waiting area was too small for the number of applicants. The children were shouting and fighting over three plastic toys: who would get to ride the horse first, who would get to crawl inside the belly of the goose, who would get to play with the blocks. One of the children snatched some blocks from another, and a lopsided fight started between a fat little bully and a skinny, scared child.

  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 m
ake 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 starte
d 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.