Sanctuary

by Judy Nunn

  ‘Why?’ The question, barked by Hany, was patently belligerent. ‘Why must we do something?’ he demanded.

  They all turned to the Egyptian, surprised more by the hostility of his tone than the actual words he’d said.

  ‘Why tempt fate?’ With all eyes now upon him, Hany’s manner was more desperate than hostile. ‘We are living in peace here, and we want for nothing,’ he implored. ‘Who can tell what might lie ahead if we make our presence known? I do not believe we should call attention to ourselves.’

  ‘Come now, Hany, you’re not being realistic.’ Rassen’s response was calm, his tone reasonable, but he hardly dared look at the others, particularly Hala and Massoud, whom he knew shared his incredulity. ‘We cannot settle here. We cannot live out our lives on this island.’

  ‘Why? What would be so very wrong in doing just that?’ Hany countered, once again on the offensive. ‘We are at peace here. We have no enemies on this island.’

  Rassen was about to reason further, prepared to choose his words with care, for the man seemed a little unhinged, but strangely enough it was Karim who got in first.

  ‘We have a son,’ Karim said, glancing at his wife. Although not having understood every word that had been said, he and Azra had gathered the gist of the conversation. Hany wishes to stay on the island forever, Karim thought, but this would not be right. ‘We cannot raise our boy here,’ he said quietly, meaning no disrespect, but intending to state his case, which was important. ‘Hamid must go to school. He must learn to read and write, he must meet others …’

  Karim’s voice faltered. The sudden hatred he could see in Hany’s eyes bewildered him. What had he done to so anger this man who had been his friend?

  ‘Our son must have a life, Hany,’ he said by way of summation.

  It was all that was needed to tip the Egyptian over the edge.

  ‘Your son must have a life,’ he snarled as if in accusation. ‘Why must our world revolve around your son? We have lost all we had and yet we are to serve your interests? Why? We are Copts! We are Christians! It is your people who robbed us of all that we loved. It is your people who murdered our family!’

  Sanaa turned from her husband, her hands covering her ears trying to block out the sound, but Hany’s attack continued relentlessly.

  ‘You believe your son deserves a life, Karim? So did our sons! So did both our sons! They deserved a life too!’

  As he screamed out the words that so vividly brought back the past, Sanaa crumpled to her knees where she remained, silent, defeated, head bowed to the ground.

  ‘Two fine young men, not even twenty.’ Hany’s voice was cold now as he spelled out the facts; his rage spent, he’d exhausted himself. ‘And your people tortured them, murdered them, cut off their heads. So you tell me, Karim, you tell me if you can … Why should we care for your son?’

  He’d finished, and in the silence that followed he looked at his wife, who was now rocking back and forth, softly keening to herself. Beside her knelt the doctor’s wife, trying to offer comfort, which Hany knew would be useless. What comfort could be offered a woman who had witnessed her sons’ decapitation? What solace was there for a woman who had seen her boys’ heads held aloft and paraded down the street? Hany deeply regretted having let his anger get the better of him. For Sanaa’s sake.

  The others remained silent, taken aback first by Hany’s maddened outburst and now even more so by Sanaa’s naked anguish.

  Hala knelt beside the woman, gently stroking her, aware the action was useless, but needing to offer something. Who could have guessed Sanaa carried such pain? Indefatigable Sanaa, the strongest of us all, she thought. Sanaa who works tirelessly feeding us, looking after us. But perhaps that’s why, Hala thought, perhaps she needs the distraction.

  Those most affected by the outburst were Karim and Azra, who were in a state of shock. They had not fully understood what Hany had said, the words had been spat out with such speed and venom, but they had registered his hatred and also his accusation.

  Karim was the first to break the silence, but he did not address the Egyptian, speaking instead to his wife, and in their Hazaragi tongue.

  ‘Hany says he has lost his two sons, is this so?’

  ‘Yes,’ Azra replied, ‘this is so.’ Her eyes, filled with sorrow, remained fixed upon Sanaa.

  ‘And he accuses us of their deaths, is this also so?’

  ‘Yes. I believe that is what he said.’

  ‘Why? Why does he blame us?’

  ‘I do not know, Karim.’ She turned to face him. ‘I do not know.’

  Massoud, who had understood every word of their exchange, chose this moment to intervene, and while the others quietly watched, he addressed the young Afghani couple in Dari, a Persian dialect that encompassed their own.

  ‘Hany does not accuse you personally,’ he explained. ‘Hany’s anger is directed at the Islamic State militants who murdered his sons.’

  Karim and Azra exchanged a look of sheer bewilderment.

  ‘But we are simple Muslims,’ Karim said, ‘we are not Islamic militants.’

  ‘I know this, Karim, and I know that deep down Hany does also. But he is a Christian whose people have suffered at the hands of the extremists. His outburst of anger was an expression of this, no more.’

  ‘Ah.’ Karim and Azra exchanged another glance, which this time said of course. They understood now.

  Karim turned and addressed Hany in the limited Arabic he had at his command.

  ‘I am sorry for your sons, Hany,’ he said. ‘I am very, very sorry for your sons.’

  Hany nodded, gazing distractedly down at the ground, already regretting his wild accusations. He liked Karim and he knew the Afghani couple were innocent peasants. He’d had no right to turn on them with such ferocity.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ he muttered.

  But Karim, desperate to make his feelings known, struggled on as best he could.

  ‘We are Hazara,’ he beseeched. ‘Our people, too, have suffered. The soldiers have hunted and murdered Hazara for many years. It makes no difference that we follow Islam and wish to live in peace, still they kill us.’

  ‘I know.’ Hany looked at the younger man, so anxious and imploring, and felt ashamed of his outburst. ‘Forgive me, Karim. The jihadists and the militant regimes do not discriminate, this much I do know.’ He held out his hand. ‘Will you forgive me?’

  ‘Of course. Of course.’ Karim eagerly clasped the hand on offer, shaking it vigorously in both of his. ‘Yes, yes, of course, Hany, we are friends.’

  Hany turned then to his wife, who remained on her knees, no longer keening, but staring dully at nothing, and leaning down he gently raised her to her feet.

  ‘I am sorry, Sanaa,’ he said. ‘I am sorry, please forgive me.’

  Sanaa nodded: of course she forgave him. After all, what was there to forgive? The past would always be there whether they spoke of it or not. But she knew nonetheless that Hany had been wrong. His anger, which always seethed below the surface, should never have been directed at Karim and Azra.

  She looked at the young couple, their little boy beside them, and as her eyes met Azra’s she saw the sorrow there. Azra too was a mother with a son. Sanaa’s eyes signalled an apology.

  Azra stepped forwards and embraced the older woman, a bold move for one so shy, but she felt compelled to do so.

  Sanaa returned the embrace without hesitation.

  Watching, the rest of the group recognised not only the bond between the two women, but the bond shared by them all. There on the island they belonged together. They were each other’s salvation.

  The moment registered most particularly with Hany. This was why he wanted to stay. Here, being needed by and looking after her new ‘family’ had given Sanaa a reason to exist. For a long time now he had feared for her sanity, worrying even that she might take her own life. And he blamed himself.

  Forty-five-year-old Hany Awad lived with regrets that would remain with him until the day he
died. He regretted his decision to take his family from their hometown of al-Awar in southern Egypt to Libya in order to work. It had seemed a good idea at the time. As a plumber he’d earned six times more than he could have made in al-Awar, a whole thirty dollars a day in American money. He regretted also that he’d fobbed off initial warnings from friends that Libya was dangerous. ‘We can look after ourselves,’ he’d scoffed. ‘My sons will join me in the business, we will become rich.’ And they had: richer than they could ever have become in al-Awar. He regretted too that, because of this he hadn’t left when danger had indeed threatened. But most of all, he regretted that day. That day when he hadn’t been there and she’d seen it all. Coptic men and youths rounded up and slaughtered in front of their homes and families. Islamists ridding their land of the infidel! He should have been amongst those slaughtered of course, he should have been beheaded alongside his sons, and at first that too he’d regretted. But if he had been murdered what then would have become of his wife? Hany’s ongoing challenge was the preservation of Sanaa’s sanity, and in doing so he had preserved his own. They’d fled Libya and he’d made immediate plans to take her to Australia by whatever means possible. His brother and his brother’s wife lived in Australia, and his brother and his brother’s wife had four children. A ready-made family for Sanaa to look after. Deprived of all she had lived for, Sanaa needed to be needed.

  This is what the island has provided, Hany thought watching the women embrace and feeling the empathy surrounding them. The doctor had said it was unrealistic to suppose they could stay there forever, and Hany recognised this fact. But having observed his wife’s gradual return to normality, he wished with all his heart that they could.

  ‘We will build the fire,’ Rassen announced. The women’s embrace over and the moment broken it was time to get back to practicalities, he decided, although he was glad the altercation had ended peaceably. ‘And this afternoon I will draw up a roster for the daily watch.’

  Aware that they’d all been moved by the exchange and that possibly he sounded a little brusque under the circumstances, he added a further word of advice. ‘Given today’s sighting, I have no doubt another boat will appear at some stage. We don’t know how long it will be before this happens of course, but in the meantime during our stay on this island we will help each other become well and strong.’

  He looked about at the group, everyone attentive, everyone respectful of his leadership, and he met all eyes directly singling out no one, although his gaze did linger briefly on his wife.

  ‘We need to heal,’ he said, ‘all of us.’ Then he turned abruptly. ‘Come along now, let’s get back to lunch. The fire can wait until after we’ve eaten.’

  They followed in his wake as he led the way back to the blue hut.

  Hala, dawdling behind the group, was overcome by a powerful mix of admiration and tenderness. ‘We need to heal,’ he’d said, ‘all of us.’ As she’d heard those words and as her husband had looked at her, they’d both known it was a confession. For all the strength of his leadership, Rassen too was amongst the damaged, although until this moment he had never acknowledged it. His admission was now there to be read by the others if they wished, but most of all it was an offer of thanks to his wife. And she loved him all the more for it.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Hala had decided she was in love with Rassen Khurdaji the very day they’d first met in 1988. Being the honest young woman she was, she’d initially told herself that it may perhaps be infatuation as the doctor’s reputation preceded him and she was automatically predisposed to admire such men, but she hadn’t expected to find him so physically attractive. It was odd because he wasn’t really attractive at all by conventional standards. A little below average height, not muscular in build, mid-thirties and with hair prematurely greying, most girls might have found his appearance rather ordinary. But Hala was not ‘most girls’ and to her the doctor was anything but ordinary. She was drawn immediately by the fierce intelligence she perceived in eyes, mid-brown, that to others might appear placid, and the fine bones of the clean-shaven face seemed to her stronger in character than the overt masculinity she associated with the majority of men in her home city of Damascus. What most impressed her though was the quiet air of command Dr Khurdaji exuded with no apparent effort. This did not altogether surprise her for he was highly respected by all at Great Ormond Street Hospital for Children, where she’d recently accepted a nursing position. In fact Dr Khurdaji was one of the most respected paediatricians in London, which was the principal reason she had wanted to meet him, and also hopefully to work with him.

  Having achieved her aim, young Hala had very quickly concluded that her feelings towards the doctor had nothing whatsoever to do with infatuation, that at the age of twenty-five, and for the first time in her life, she was genuinely in love. It was unfortunate, therefore, that over the ensuing weeks the recipient of her love appeared not to notice her. Something would have to be done about that.

  ‘Do you mind if I join you, Dr Khurdaji?’

  It was a fine autumn day and she’d cornered him during his lunch break in nearby Russell Square where, having completed his constitutional round of the gardens, he’d bought himself a sandwich from the café and was sitting on his favourite park bench. A creature of habit, this was his daily routine when the weather allowed; she’d been spying on him for some time now. Occasionally he’d read a book, but for the most part he seemed to enjoy just soaking up the atmosphere. She was glad there was no book in evidence today.

  He made no reply, but chewing away at his mouthful of chicken sandwich stared up at her dumbfounded.

  ‘I hope I’m not intruding,’ she said, ‘but it’s such a lovely day I thought I’d have lunch in the park.’ She gave a wave of her own café-wrapped sandwich and her can of Diet Coke. ‘I quite understand if you prefer to be left alone,’ she added with a smile, ‘there are plenty of other benches.’

  ‘No, no,’ he hastily swallowed and shuffled along to make room for her, ‘please do join me,’ he said, his face still registering amazement. She had spoken to him in Arabic. This attractive young English girl whom he’d noticed from time to time as he’d done his rounds of the hospital wards had actually spoken to him in Arabic, and like a native. How could this be?

  ‘Thank you.’ Hala sat, pleased she’d made an impression, as had been her intention. She was fully aware that he’d presumed she was English.

  ‘How is it that you speak my language?’ he asked, continuing the exchange in Arabic.

  ‘Because, like you, I am Syrian,’ she said with a nonchalant shrug. ‘I was born in Damascus.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. My name is Hala,’ she added with telling emphasis and perhaps just a hint of accusation, ‘Hala Faruk.’ She’d been introduced to him, along with several other nurses, well over a month earlier and although he’d been pleasant she’d known at the time he was paying little attention so she hardly expected him to recall her surname. But since then she’d been referred to by her first name in his company on numerous occasions. Hala is surely a bit of a giveaway, she thought. It’s hardly Elizabeth, Mary or Jane.

  ‘Ah.’ He nodded as if it was somehow coming back to him, but in truth he couldn’t remember ever having heard her name. ‘You don’t look Syrian,’ he said bluntly, taking in the fair hair and grey-blue eyes, although on closer examination he noted her skin was more olive-toned than the creamy complexion of most English girls.

  ‘My mother was from Derbyshire and my father from Damascus,’ she said, unwrapping her sandwich, ‘has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?’

  She took a healthy bite and they shared a smile. He liked her directness. The other young nurses and hospital staff were always deferential in his presence, as was to be expected given his seniority, but this girl was bold. Bold without being disrespectful, which was as disarming as it was unusual. But then the situation itself was unusual, wasn’t it? Being joined on a park bench in the middle of Bloomsbury
by a decidedly English-looking girl who spoke fluent Arabic rather lent itself to boldness, he supposed.

  ‘They met here,’ Hala continued after downing a swig of Diet Coke. ‘Dad was in London on business and Mum had moved to the city to pursue a career in nursing. It’s why I became a nurse myself,’ she said, ‘and why I came to London after I qualified.’ She took another large bite of her sandwich and chewed away vigorously for a moment or so. He liked, too, the robust way she ate, unlike most English women he’d met who favoured a daintier approach to food.

  ‘Funny, isn’t it,’ she continued, ‘my mother was working at Great Ormond Street when she met my father. Well, they didn’t actually meet at the hospital itself,’ she said, ‘but at a hospital fundraising function. Dad’s company has always been involved with philanthropic concerns, particularly those dealing with children’s health, so their meeting seemed sort of destined.’ She gave a self-deprecating shrug, knowing she was talking too much, but not really caring. ‘I grew up with hugely romantic notions about Great Ormond Street, courtesy of my mother. She told me its wonderful history, the fact that J.M. Barrie had gifted the rights of Peter Pan to the hospital and all that, but mostly she talked of the part it had played in changing her life. I always knew I was going to come and work here one day myself.’ She turned to him with a smile. ‘Following in my mother’s footsteps, I suppose.’

  Rassen was nonplussed. She had not made the statement meaningfully, a passing comment no more, but she’d looked directly at him and in the most personal manner as if the thought amused her. She can’t be flirting with me, surely, he thought. Young women never flirt with me – I’m not their type. And besides, I must be a good decade or so older.

  ‘Where did you do your training?’ he asked, reverting to English and changing the topic. He felt a little flustered, which was most unlike him.