Sand Queen
Page 24
“You think you’ll be okay here?” he says.
“Oh, yes. I… I never expected to land anywhere nice as this.” I try to smile, but I can’t.
“Well, let me know if you need anything. You can stay as long as you want. I mean it.” He smiles at me again. “I’m glad you came.”
My throat aches at that. I wish I could just walk over and hug him. We hover in silence a minute.
“Jimmy?” I finally screw up the courage to say. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.” He looks at me gently. Those eyes again.
“How long have you and Mandy. Um. Been together?”
He pauses. “Month or so. Since I got back.” Then, still looking at me, he adds quietly, “She doesn’t live here, you know.”
“Oh.” I gaze back at him, a flicker of hope jumping up inside of me like a pilot light. I’m longing to ask more, but instead other words push out, words I don’t even want to say. “Will you tell me about Third Eye now? I can handle it.”
“You sure?”
I nod. But I’m not sure at all.
Jimmy takes my hand and leads me to the bed, where we sit side by side on its edge. He picks up my other hand and folds them both between his. His touch sends a warmth through me like nothing has for months.
“Kate.” He looks into my eyes.
I wait.
“Third Eye’s dead.”
I take a deep breath. “When?”
“About a week after we got back. DJ told me. He said she called him once, drunk, talking wild. She was at her dad’s place, you know, in Coxsackie? The next day she shot herself in his garage.”
I nod. “I knew she’d do something like that.” My voice is calm.
But then I’m crumpling forward, falling and falling till my head rests on our joined hands.
“I didn’t protect her, Jimmy,” I whisper as the tears come. “I didn’t protect Yvette either, or Naema’s dad or her little brother. I’ve killed so many of them. Oh God, when will it stop?”
[ NAEMA ]
BY THE TIME we have returned from Umm Qasr to Granny Maryam’s house, having braved the traffic and convoys and checkpoints once again, we are in the heat of midday and Granny’s body has been lying in the backseat for hours. Mama and I hurriedly climb out of the car, shuddering with shock and fatigue, and carry our sad burden inside to lay her down on her bed. There, we quickly undress and prepare her for burial, so as not to further violate the Qur’an’s prohibition against allowing the dead to linger above ground.
We bathe her three times, according to custom, and wash and braid her long gray hair into three parts. At least the rigor mortis is passing by now, so we are able to move her limbs, may Allah have mercy on her. Then we bind up her jaw with a strip of cloth and drape her in a clean white sheet. Only two days ago I would have struggled against my revulsion at these duties, for her body is full of foul fluids we have to expel by leaning gently on her stomach. I would have been mortified at the sight of her sparse, gray pubic hair and the dangling pudenda my mother has to wash and stop up with cotton. But after the suffering I saw at the hospital, I am beyond revulsion or pity. I am beyond any feeling at all.
“Naema, look in that trunk over in the corner,” Mama says quietly. “See that bundle of white sheets? Those are the kafan my mother prepared. Bring them here.”
I obey, unfolding the burial sheets to spread out beside her: a sleeveless tunic and four pieces of varying sizes. “Now,” Mama says, “watch what I do so you can bury me properly when my time comes.”
First she reaches for the gourd of perfume beside the bed and dabs a little on Granny’s forehead, nose, hands, knees and feet: the parts Granny used to rest upon when in prayer. Then Mama winds a narrow strip of sheet around Granny’s thighs and pelvis as a loincloth, after which she wraps a longer, wider piece around and around Granny’s frail waist. Together, we then lift Granny up so Mama can slip the tunic over her head and down her body; it looks like the dress of a little girl. We lay her back down and, finally, Mama arranges a small, square sheet into a veil around my poor grandmother’s head.
Mama performs all this in silence, although I can hear the cries and prayers sealed up inside her so loudly they deafen me to everything else. I know she is crying inside not only for Granny but also for Papa and Zaki. And as I watch her prepare her own mother so tenderly for the grave, my shock and numbness give way at last and I feel a great love for her swell within me. Mama is newly precious to me now, for seeing her lose her own mother makes me desperately fear losing mine.
“Say your last good-bye now,” she finally whispers. “My mother is going away forever.” And quietly, she quotes the traditional words of mourning as she places Granny’s left hand on her chest, puts her right hand over it in the sign of prayer and folds the last and largest sheet around her until we can see no more of the Granny Maryam we knew, only a cold white shroud.
All that life in Granny, all her suffering and joy, mischief and love—gone. I turn to tell Zaki this thought, to share with my little brother my sorrow. But, of course, Zaki is not here either.
In the afternoon, many more people come to Granny Maryam’s funeral than I would think possible in this time of fear and danger. Kind Abu Mustafa and his wife and sister come from next door, of course (I think Abu Mustafa has always been a little in love with Granny), but so do their grown sons, who live nearby. Friends and cousins come from the village with their children, and even Granny’s in-laws arrive, although she has been widowed these many years. All these people flock to honor this woman they loved, bearing food and condolences, despite the marauding soldiers and their tanks and roadblocks. It is such a comfort to poor Mama, this generosity, especially after our ordeal at the hospital.
Because Papa and Zaki are absent, two of Abu Mustafa’s sons perform the duties of the family men. They lift the platform on which Granny’s shrouded body lies and carry her to the burial grounds, the other men following, where they will place Granny in the earth, laying her on her right side to ready her for the Day of Judgment, while the imam leads their prayers. We women stay behind in the house to pray, for women are not allowed at burials in this conservative village of my mother’s youth.
Finally, the men return to offer us their last condolences and more prayers before gathering their families to leave for their homes, in a hurry to get back before dark and all its dangers.
And so it is over—much too quickly, it seems—and now Mama and I are left in Granny’s small house alone, our once boisterous family reduced to two saddened scarecrow women with no control over our fates and no knowledge of our futures. We wander through the empty rooms, gazing at the leftovers of what was once a family life: Zaki’s guitar. Papa’s books and poems and letters. Granny’s bright pillows, embroidered by her own hand, already dimming with dust. We spin in our quiet loneliness, missing their voices, missing their love, missing all that we once took so naturally for granted.
Still, I refuse to allow even this to stop my quest. In fact, Granny’s death makes me all the more determined to find my brother and father, to bring our family back to what it once was. So, as soon as the funeral and our three days of mourning have passed, I arise eagerly at dawn, embrace my poor mother and once again join stout little Zahra and widow Fatima on our trek to the prison, keeping an eye out for al-Sadr’s thugs and the American soldiers and their merciless guns.
Yet, as determined as I am, it is different this time. For all the way to the prison, as I walk along the highway and across the desert with my two steadfast companions, my usual yearnings and outrage are silenced. I cannot think of Khalil and whether he is safe, of my future or of home. I cannot even whip up my habitual anger against the Americans and their senseless war. For all I can hear, echoing relentlessly in my head, are the words of mourning Mama spoke over Granny Maryam’s body as she wrapped her in that shroud. Words that seem determined to extinguish, one by one, each tender flame of my hope.
I am the house of remoteness.
I am the house of loneliness.
I am the house of soil.
I am the house of worms.
[ AUTHOR’S NOTE ]
THIS NOVEL IS set in 2003, at the beginning of the war in Iraq, known in the military as OIF, Operation Iraqi Freedom. As I write these final notes, it is seven years later and the United States is withdrawing the bulk—although not all—of its troops. Yet everyday conditions for Iraqis are not much better than they were in the time Naema describes. The United Nations reports that hundreds of thousands of Iraqi civilians have been killed, two million have fled the country and two million more have been internally displaced. The water and sewage systems, electricity and hospitals continue to be barely operational and much worse than they were before the war. Daily violence continues and corruption is rife, while disease and birth defects are on the rise from depleted uranium and other pollutants of war. The 1959 Family Code that protected Iraqi women and gave them more autonomy than Muslim women anywhere in the Middle East outside of Turkey has been dismantled, pushing back women’s rights fifty years.
“Our armies do not come into your cities and lands as conquerors or enemies, but as liberators.”
—GENERAL STANLEY MAUDE ON INVADING IRAQ, MARCH 1917
“We are coming not to occupy their country, not to oppress them, but to liberate their country.”
—SECRETARY OF DEFENSE DONALD RUMSFELD ON INVADING IRAQ, MARCH 2004
“When I see an American tank on the street, I feel it rolling over my own heart.”
—MUHAMMAD AL-NAJI, IRAQI HOTEL MANAGER IN ABOUT BAGHDAD BY SINAN ANTOON, 2003
[ ACKNOWLEDGMENTS ]
MUCH Of THE material for this novel was culled from the research I did for my nonfiction book, The Lonely Soldier: The Private War of Women Serving in Iraq. Although this is fiction, I have been helped and inspired by my interviews with more than forty veterans of the Iraq War, several of whom served at Camp Bucca and many of whom survived combat and mortar attacks. My special thanks go to veterans Rolanda Freeman-Ard, Mkesha Clayton, Eli Painted-Crow, Chantelle Henneberry, Mickiela Montoya, Laura Naylor, Abbie Pickett, Marti Ribeiro and Jennifer Spranger. Without their courage and honesty, and their willingness to tell me their stories, I could never have written about Kate Brady’s experiences at war.
I also want to thank Elizabeth O’Herrin, who served in Iraq with the Air Force, for her support and careful reading of the manuscript; Leila al-Arian for sending me to Nour al-Khal; and Nour al-Khal herself, who helped me invaluably with Naema Jassim and did her best, with patience and grace, to correct my mistakes. Any errors I have made are entirely my own.
Hala Alazzawi and her daughter Hiba Alsaffar also generously gave of their time and hearts to help me with Naema’s story, as did Mohanad Alobaide. To these and other Iraqi refugees I send my gratitude and heartfelt wish that life in America were not so unwelcoming. We should do better by you.
Once again, huge thanks to my faithful and brilliant reader and friend, Rebecca Stowe; to my children, Simon and Emma Benedict O’Connor, whose talents and compassion never fail to move and impress me; and, above all, to Stephen O’Connor, my partner in life and art, for his encouragement and help, his belief in what we do and for his faith in this story.
For their enthusiasm, time and suggestions, my deepest thanks also to Bishop Regina Nicolosi, feminist Catholic and rebel extraordinaire; and to Zainab Chaudhry and Susan Davies, both of whom work tirelessly to help Iraqi refugees and yet found time to talk to me for hours. I regard you all with awe.
My gratitude also to the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts for peaceful and fruitful residencies in both Virginia and Auvillar, France. I wrote much of this novel in these exquisite places, with a concentration impossible to achieve elsewhere.
I consulted many sources for Sand Queen, but the following were of particular help: The Taguba Report on Abu Ghraib and Camp Bucca (news.findlaw.com/hdocs/docs/iraq/tagubarpt.html); BBC, CBC and other news outlets for accounts of conditions at the Umm Qasr hospital in 2003; reports on Iraq, Iraqi refugees and violence against Iraqi women by Amnesty International and Human Rights Watch; the brilliant blog, Baghdad Burning by Riverbend; the documentary About Baghdad and the novel I’jaam, both by Sinan Antoon; Two Grandmothers from Baghdad by Rebecca Joubin; Contemporary Iraqi Fiction, edited and translated by Shakir Mustafa; Cell Block Five by Fadhil al-Azzawi; Literature from the “Axis of Evil,” a Words Without Borders anthology; The Occupation: War and Resistance in Iraq by Patrick Cockburn; and Nobody Told Us We Are Defeated: Stories from the New Iraq by Rory McCarthy.