by Bee Rowlatt
They apologized, saying that they could not interfere with Intelligence. The taxi driver suggested taking me to the home of the Minister of the Interior, Mr Eid al-Fayez. I was desperate and he was God’s gift to me in my hour of need.
Ali kept calling and I kept asking him to be patient, but he said they had locked him in a car like a prisoner and were about to take him back to the Iraqi border. There had been a couple with him; the man was allowed entry but the wife was rejected because of a spelling mistake. The man couldn’t leave his wife in the middle of the desert, and so he had to return with her. It seems to have become a sort of policy practised against Iraqi families requesting visas.
The minister’s house turned out to be several blocks away from where I live and the driver waited for me, but the guards told me that they didn’t know when he would be back, and I should return the next day at 7 a.m. to see him. It did cross my mind that the next day was Friday but, in the middle of all the tension and the self-pity I was feeling, I did not ask and instead convinced myself that surely the minister would be at home on Friday.
Ban came in the afternoon and suggested that I should go to the Intelligence office on Sunday and try to correct the spelling mistake. I really don’t know how long I can keep up the struggle, Bee. Ali keeps telling me to return to Baghdad, but something inside makes me totally reject the mere thought. I can’t tell him, of course – not when he is in such a bad state.
By 9 p.m. Ali was back home in Baghdad again. Thank God he arrived safely. Do you remember, Bee, when in my ‘Apology to Hemingway’ I said that they keep defeating you until you’ll gladly want to destroy yourself? We have never ceased to struggle. It is as if we are living under constant punishment, lasting from the cradle to the grave. Is such a life really worth living? Where are our rights as individuals? Why do other countries assume that we have no feelings?
May xx
19.09.08
The last straw
Dearest. I couldn’t sleep all night. I put my MP3 player on and listened to songs downloaded for me by Ali. I was afraid to sleep in case I was late.
I went out at 6.45 a.m. this morning. Amman was still asleep. The streets were empty and all the shops were closed. By 7 a.m. I was at the minister’s gate. The same guard was still there and when I approached him he apologized, telling me that the minister does not receive people on Fridays and Saturdays and that he had forgotten to tell me. I tried to insist just a little bit and he said I should come again on Sunday and he will do his best to help me see the minister. I stood there for about 10 minutes, trying to decide what to do; I just couldn’t stand the idea of being sent away because I knew that I might die from humiliation.
So, I will try my luck on Sunday. Seeing the minister will be the last attempt on my part, because if the minister can’t solve the problem, who can? And if I don’t get to see him, I will go to the Intelligence office as a final option. I just can’t bear it any longer.
Funny how degradation in my life has taken several forms, but all have led to painful feelings and anger. My late husband squandered his salary on drink and I was forced to ask my mother for pocket money and to buy food. My mother saved my face in front of others, but never once did she forget to lecture me on the duties of a husband, making me hate myself.
Now in this marriage I am begging officials in a foreign country to help my husband, shedding tears and making a scene of myself.
The phase in between wasn’t any better. I struggled with my in-laws, who thought their late son had left me money, and hinted at wanting their share. They also demanded a fancy funeral. When I told them that I had no money, they did not believe me. They arranged a fancy ceremony for him, then came to me demanding that I pay for it. One of them told me to sell the furniture and the fridge and give them the money.
I asked them to select either the Moslem way or the secular way. If they were devoted Moslems then the wife (where there are no children) would get a quarter of the inheritance plus her dowry and have nothing further to do with her in-laws. And if they wanted the secular way, then the wife would be in charge of the full inheritance but also the debts. They wanted the best of both, but the poor man had only his car, a worthless piece of land, and $10 in his wallet. My car was an old 1976 Renault 12 model, given to me by my mother to get away when his drinking got out of hand.
I don’t know why I am telling you this, but no one believed me at the time. Even my only brother, whom I loved and almost worshipped, told my mother that I was hiding the money and denying my in-laws their legal rights, while in fact I was in debt for my husband’s hospital expenses.
You talked on the phone to me about being strong. How much strength do you think I have left?
This Jordanian dilemma is the last straw. I know it is nobody’s fault, but I can’t stop blaming Ali and myself for getting married. Now we are stranded all alone in the Arab world, which believes in strength through numbers rather than acting as individuals. And so I feel obliged to go to any length to save Ali and my wretched self.
Ali just called and, after a lot of screaming on both our parts, we came to a final conclusion: if the meeting fails and the Intelligence office does not correct his name by Monday morning, then I will apply for the UK visa on my own and he will go to Syria. Otherwise, I will have to return home and buy a car with what is left of our money and resume my old life.
OK, lovely Bee, I will go because I need to sleep.
See you in another email.
May xxxx
19.09.08
Wretched
Dear May
Yesterday everything changed in an hour. I was high on optimism, and when I met a friend for lunch we chatted in the sunshine about how Ali is on his way and you could be here within three weeks. Then I heard your message on my phone. It had a strong physical effect on my body. I just drooped, my energy seeped away and I felt like a deflated balloon dragging along the ground.
I got home and, after calling you, I still felt horrible, even though it was some kind of relief that the reason he has been sent back is a clerical error and not anything more sinister. At the very least, this means it is worth trying again. You were right to go round to the minister’s house, even though it may have seemed ridiculous. The situation has become so incredible that nothing you could do would seem out of place. I was completely convinced that we had it all in the bag; those last two obstacles (spelling mistake, then the driver’s mother dying) made me irrationally confident that we were smoothing the way ahead. I felt so buoyant. Yet, since talking to you, it’s all ebbed away.
I haven’t cheered up since. Justin cooked me a lovely dinner but I felt miserable and couldn’t really listen to what he was saying. In fact I felt ill; I was cold and very shivery. In the end, I went to bed with an extra duvet and woke this morning still feeling exhausted. I feel a bit dazed, but reading your emails has made me think that you’re still moving; there is still something to be done, we just have to carry on and for the hundredth time tell ourselves not to give up.
I worry about Ali more than ever. Can anything else go wrong? As a teenager I loved Nietzsche and relished his notion: ‘That which does not kill us makes us stronger.’ Nowadays you often hear it from celebrities complaining about their drugs problems or being hassled by photographers, so I’ve rather gone off it. But yesterday I thought NO, he’s just wrong, there’s no way this is making Ali stronger. What if it does irreparable damage? Enough is enough. Optimism has become faltering and vulnerable. I’m just sorry, May. You must be exhausted.
Please try to stay strong and keep going. Sunday morning is our last chance. Do you have access to a printer? I thought I could write a letter of support that you can take with you. Would it be any use? Let me know.
Yours
Bee XX
20.09.08
The minister
Dearest Bee
Thank you for the idea. I don’t think it would do any damage, so why not try and write the letter? I’ve been told that hi
s English is good, so why not? I will be at the internet café for another two hours. If you have the time, write now. If you don’t, just text me when you can.
Love you so. By the way, I feel awful too.
May XXXxxx
PS His name is Eid al-Fayez (His Excellency, I think, is the usual form of address).
20.09.08
Letter
May, SORRY it’s a bit later on. I was out with the girls, and when we got back Elsa burned her hand on a halogen lamp and it took all my attention. They’ve only just gone to bed and I’ve opened my emails now. Here’s the letter; I hope you can find a way to print it out. I’m worried about it not being signed, as I remember that was an issue when I wrote to the embassy in Syria.
But let’s hope and pray…
All my love
Bee XX
20 September 2008
To His Excellency Eid al-Fayez
Re: Entry papers for the husband of May Witwit
Dear Sir
I write as a close friend and supporter of May Witwit. I am a journalist at the BBC World Service and we became friends through my work. We have since collaborated on a book to be published by Penguin, and May has been invited to do a PhD at the University of Bedfordshire.
May is in transit through Jordan, on her way to live in the UK on a student visa which includes her husband Ali. May is not only an outstanding scholar and original writer, but also an extremely special and beloved person who really deserves to reach her full potential in life.
It seems extraordinary that something as apparently trivial as a spelling mistake could threaten her hopes for the future. The fact that Ali was sent back from the Jordanian border has had a devastating impact on their emotional wellbeing. From London I can barely imagine the anguish May is enduring, having tried so hard to bring her husband safely in, only to have him rejected as the result of a minor error.
I write to you in the earnest hope that you may be able to help. I ask you from the heart to intervene in any way you see fit, and I appeal to your sense of justice.
I apologize for writing to you in such a direct fashion, but if it lies within your power to help May and Ali, I beg you to do so.
Yours most sincerely
Bee Rowlatt
23.09.08
Ali
Dearest Bee
Surprise, surprise… Ali has just crossed the border and is on his way to me.
I will tell you what I did, and to what lengths I went. Although they allowed him to enter Jordan, they have taken away his passport and told him to report to Intelligence next week.
I don’t know what is going to happen, but it is better than being stuck in the inferno without hope. He is supposed to arrive in Amman within four hours. This has given me renewed energy. I feel recharged after the dreadful days, including today. Only now do I feel that I am alive.
Oh Bee, wish him luck so he will arrive safely. I’ve bought lots and lots of Iraqi food to feed my chubby one. I am happy, happy and again very happy. Thanks to Mr Saleh al-Zaban, by the way. It was his efforts that did it, and I will never forget him for the rest of my life. He really deserves to be promoted for all the patience he showed in putting up with me. I will send you lots of details as soon as Ali arrives and gets settled.
Bee, I can’t believe it. Are we really in motion??
Love you for ever and a day
May xxx
24.09.08
Five-year-old child sent back from the border
Dearest Bee
This is a short one. Ali’s passport was taken at the border so that his name could be corrected, and he has been given a date to go to the Intelligence office. Ali sends you his love and wanted to call you this morning. It was 7 a.m. our time, which means 4 or 5 in the morning your time, so I talked him out of it (for your sake, hehee). Plus all that he has learned are a few words in addition to his famous early phrases.
We woke up at 7 a.m. today not really believing it. We kept pinching each other to make sure. This is our first outing together in the local neighbourhood. We walked to the internet café. The man at the café greeted Ali and asked, ‘Is he the one all the fuss was about?’ and I said he was. Ali couldn’t believe that everyone knew about him (even the janitor of the building greeted him and asked me if I am happy now). He laughed, saying that he has become famous because of my blabbermouth. Well, Bee, I cannot be blamed, can I? I mean, the issue deserved all this publicity.
Oh, before I forget: do you know what Ali saw at the border yesterday? What I am about to tell you is probably hard to believe, but Ali swears to God that it is true. An Iraqi woman at the border was granted entry to Jordan while her five-year-old daughter wasn’t. The child cried, fearing that her mother would leave her there. Of course, as any mother (or any person, for that matter) would do in a similar situation, the woman took her child and returned to Baghdad. How would you assess such a situation? I will not comment at all.
By the way, how is Elsa’s hand? I hope she is better, the poor baby. Love you, dearest sister. Also, have you heard anything about that problem with your arm? Do tell me. That gave me such a scare.
Must go now.
May XXXX
24.09.08
Reunited and it feels so good!
May. I can’t believe you’re both there, together again. I feel so happy and strangely light; that last setback really had me worried and full of fear. Well, now I feel like anything I say is insignificant in the light of what you’ve just been through, so I don’t really know how to write to you after such an upheaval.
I guess the next step will be that you both submit the application forms together for the UK visa? It seems as though the Jordanians have been lovely, and I think it’s very sweet that they welcomed Ali in your neighbourhood and knew who he was. The story of the mother being told to leave her five-year-old child behind is disturbing, but authorities here are also strict about people travelling with children. Even a newborn baby needs its own passport, they can’t just be added to the parent’s passport.
When Eva had just been born I flew to visit my German family, and landed over on the Swiss side of the border. At the time my passport had my old name on it, and Eva’s had Rowlatt. The Swiss immigration man coldly asked me how I could prove she was my baby. It was horrible; he had a twitching little officious moustache and I felt like crying. I became agitated and emptied my whole bag on to his desk, scattering it with various cards and ID, some with my new name and some with my old. In the end, he believed me. Just the other night I had a nightmare about losing Zola on a crowded beach. It is the deepest fear there is, so I feel very sorry for that mother on the Jordanian border.
I’m at work and really hungry; my tummy keeps on gurgling loudly and I keep turning the radio up. The girls are all well but a bit tired; the weather is really changing here, it’s a lot colder and grey and we all feel like hibernating. Eva and Zola are looking a little tired now that the school routine has settled in, but Elsa is having a great time. She has made sudden progress at her potty training. (About time – last week she weed on the sofa twice and I got furious even though you’re not supposed to.)
I can’t bear the suspense.
Loads of love and a big hug to Ali
Bee x
25.09.08
At the minister’s gate
Dear Bee
So here’s how it happened. I returned to the minister’s gate on the Sunday, as arranged with the guard. The alarm clock had gone off at 5.30 a.m. and I dragged myself out of bed. I looked exhausted. I went out after the usual morning rituals and, trying hard to cover my drooping features under make-up, I was at the minister’s gate by 6.45 a.m. The guard greeted me in a friendly manner. He pulled out a chair and made me sit down near his cubicle on the pavement and told me to wait for the minister’s secretary.
When the guards changed at 8.00 a.m. I was worried as the gruff new guard asked me what I was doing there. I told him that ‘I depended on God and His Excellency in my app
eal’ (a traditional phrase used by Arabs when they badly need something from someone), but even then he was a bit rough, thinking I wanted a residency permit or something. He told me that this was a private residence and not an office, and if I wanted anything I should go to the office. I had to cry out, ‘For God’s sake, I am a university teacher and have a fellowship in the UK, but my husband was turned back at the border.’ His features relaxed and his tone changed, and eventually he showed me into a small living room in the official residence.
The room was beautiful in its mixture of western and eastern furniture. I found it enchanting to see a fireplace with a mantelpiece taking up one wall with two Victorian model chairs. The other wall had a picture representing some Indian legend. There was an elephant and on top of that elephant was a tiger and some other animals, each one on top of the other, till the lamb was on top of them all. I liked it so much and kept thinking that this is probably how the world operates.
I didn’t dare move, not even to have a look at the photos on the mantelpiece, I was so nervous. Then there was the clatter of spoons and saucers and I remembered that this is a home, and the sounds of a home always afford a sense of security.
Soon the minister’s secretary came in, and when I explained my situation he phoned the Ministry and told them to help me. He advised me to hurry to the Ministry to get the job done.
Of course I thanked him, and almost ran to get there as fast as possible. When I arrived at the Ministry I recognized all the people I had seen last Thursday and they all seemed very willing to help, but I was left waiting and then moved and then told to see someone else and then left waiting again until I finally went to the office of Mr Murtadha, the gentleman I had originally seen at the minister’s house, and he repeated that he was following up my case.
