by Ghada Samman
Looking up at him wearily as though she’d just trekked thousands of miles across time zones and cultures, she said, “That isn’t me, Baba. I’m a sixty year old woman talking to herself in a story I’m writing. When I create characters, I become them. I live their lives.”
Kissing her on her forehead, her father said, “Sorry to interrupt you, but the owner of Al Jara’id newspaper called from Beirut while you were out. He said he’d like to come to Damascus to interview you. Editors from Al Deek and Kull Al Ashya’ newspapers want to do interviews with you, too, and the man who called said he could bring a delegation to the house if you’d like.”
He left their telephone numbers at the edge of the table and withdrew.
As he slipped out of the study now taken over by his daughter, he felt proud and gratified. I’m repaying a debt to Zain’s mother. I didn’t appreciate her writing the way I should have. In fact, I was almost hostile toward it. Even though she’d barely survived her labor with Zain, all I cared about was for her to give me a son. If they hadn’t done a C-section, she wouldn’t have made it. No judge could pronounce sentence on me, but I murdered her. If it weren’t for that damned young guy Nizar Qabbani and the poem he read at her memorial service, nobody would have realized that she died a victim of my determination to have another child.
I feel guilty as hell toward Hind, and I’m trying to make it up to her by taking the best care I can of “Hind No. 2.” Through Zain, Fate’s given me a chance to atone for leaving her mother when she needed me most. Just when her due date was approaching, I went traipsing off to some medical conferences even though I knew that if she went into labor, my brother Abdulfattah wouldn’t take her to the hospital for fear of her being examined by a male doctor! So she died, and I mourned her, and so did everyone at the old house in Ziqaq Al Yasmin.
* * *
Zain finished recording her radio program, “Poetry, Music and Zain.” which aired at midnight after everybody had gone to bed (!). Trying to flirt with her from behind his shades, a certain Salah Muharib said to her one day, “When I hear that lilting voice of yours reciting your translations of Shakespeare, Herrick, Wordsworth, Byron, Keats and Shelley, I imagine how beautiful you’d look dressed for a samah dance performance!”
“Well, let me tell you this,” she replied, not pulling any punches. “First of all, I don’t like the samah dance. I like some parts of our tradition, but not the ones that reflect subservience. I wouldn’t want to dress up as a slave girl, and I wouldn’t want to dance like one, either. I’d rather move to the beat of a bongo drum, or dance Isadora Duncan style. Women who perform the samah dance might know how to move to a slow, erotic rhythm, but they’re spoiled and lazy as far as I’m concerned.”
Salah looked uncomfortable, and she didn’t blame him. He’d begun to realize she was something of a “bad ass”—as everyone else had started calling her. She was ready to go to war, and he was already worn out from his own personal battles. So he decided to cut his losses and get away from her before the bliss she’d appeared to promise turned to misery.
When she got home that day, Zain said to her father, “I’m thinking of finishing my studies in Beirut and applying for a job there.”
“Whatever you decide, I’ll do my best to help you,” he assured her.
“I’ll have to apply to the American University in Beirut.”
“No worries there. Two of the deans at AUB are friends of mine—Dr. Qastantin and Dr. Fouad. They’ve known you ever since you were a little girl.”
* * *
“Hello, may I speak with Ms. Zain Khayyal?”
“This is Zain. Who’s speaking?”
“My name is Sadduqi Ibrahim. I’m a writer, and…”
“Oh! Of course I’ve heard of you! What can I do for you?”
Getting straight to the point, Dr. Sadduqi explained in his usual matter-of-fact, serious manner, “We’ve been invited by the Writers’ Union in West Germany to send a delegation to their country for a month-long visit. It’s a kind of goodwill and cultural exchange program. The delegation will be made up of four writers of literature and two journalists. So I thought of you.”
“Oh, that’s fantastic. I’d love to come!”
“Wouldn’t you like to know who the other delegates will be?”
“Oh, that’s all right. I’m sure you’ll make all the right choices. Besides, I wouldn’t be going on account of the other delegation members. I’d be going to represent my country. But why did you choose me, if I might ask?”
“Well, I’ll be straight with you. The other delegation members all speak Arabic and French, but none of them has good English. Some of us speak English, of course, but not that fluently.”
“So,” Zain said with a laugh, “You just want me to be your interpreter?”’
“No, Miss Zain. It isn’t as simple as that. I’ve been reading your stories since the time they started appearing in the newspapers, and I hear they were released recently in book form by a reputable publishing house in Beirut. You’re not just a lover of freedom. You’re a gifted writer, too, and that’s why you’ve been invited to join us on this visit. What do you think?”
“As I said before, I’d love to. I never pass up a chance to learn new things or go new places.”
“Don’t you want to consult with your father about it?”
“No need. I make my own decisions.”
* * *
Zain made a point of arriving early for her usual coffee rendezvous with Dr. Manahili. She ascended the staircase carved into the foothill of Mt. Qasioun and looked out over her beloved city. As she did so, she imagined herself a mother gently caressing her infant lying before her. The sight of the city stretched out before me this way makes me think of eternity. I’m just passing through Damascus the way others have done for thousands of years. I’m reminded of how miniscule and fragile I am. My life is nothing but a tiny speck in Damascus’s vast sky. Thinking this way makes my own troubles seem less scary. Sometimes I feel the weight of the world on my shoulders, but when I take in the sight of this huge city stretching as far as the eye can see, my problems seem like nothing but a grain of sand on a vast shore, and peace floods my heart.
As my literary circle includes more and more people, some good, some bad, some noble, some despicable, there are moments when I feel like a butterfly caught in the web of some huge deadly spider. But then I think about Damascus, and I see myself in the right perspective again. I’m not a boulder on Mt. Qasioun. I’m just a grain of sand on Damascus’s boundless shore.
She was wakened out of her thoughts by the endearing presence of her friend Dr. Manahili.
“Did I keep you waiting?” he asked apologetically.
“Oh, no!” she said. “I just felt like getting here early today. I love this city so much, I never get tired of just looking at it, and especially from this spot. There isn’t much traffic, and it’s surrounded by an aura of calm. There aren’t many buildings up here either. I just wish it were covered with trees instead of cement.”
Lingering over coffee flavored with cardamom and rosewater, they shared news of happenings in their lives since their last meeting. Zain was thrilled to hear what had transpired between the doctor and his wife, who’d had surgery just the day before to enable her to have children. It also made her happy to learn of the positive energy she had brought into her friend’s life.
When she told him about her upcoming visit to West Germany, he remarked, “You need a trip like this! But I’ll really miss you!”
* * *
“Hello, Miss Zain.”
She couldn’t help but notice that everybody was addressing her as “Miss” instead of “Mrs.” So, then, I’m not the only one who’s left the past behind.
“Hello, Professor Sadduqi. I received the invitation you sent, and I’ve got my visa to West Germany. After picking it up from the consulate, I took the consul for a spin in my new car. I took him around to see Mt. Qasioun, Al Ghouta, Sahat Al Marjah, and…”<
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“I know,” Professor Sadduqi broke in, “He tells me you scared him to death with your wild driving! Where are you trying to go in such a hurry?”
“To freedom,” she replied simply. “Even if I die getting there. There’s only one thing that holds me back: the fear that I might hurt somebody in another car. Otherwise, I’d probably go flying off the road!”
“In any case,” he said, laughing, “now we have to go to the Intelligence Division to get travel permits.”
“What!” cried Zain, taken aback. “How dare they treat us this way? Syria is our country, and we should be able to leave it and come back to it whenever we want!”
“We have an appointment with the intelligence officer, Lieutenant Nahi, at ten in the morning day after tomorrow. I’ll come by so that we can go together, and we’ll meet the others there.”
Zain was tempted to scrap the whole trip in protest against this indignity. But this was the first chance she’d ever had to go to Europe, which was a dream come true for her.
She told Sadduqi, “You’re a Baathist, so you sympathize with any decision the government makes. But frankly, this thing of having to get permission to travel from the Intelligence Division—I don’t like it one bit! Isn’t the Baathist motto ‘Unity, Freedom, Socialism’? Well, then, where’s the freedom you’re talking about if I have to ask for permission to leave my country and come back to it?”
“These are routine measures to ensure citizens’ well-being,” Professor Sadduqi retorted stiffly.
Undaunted, Zain insisted, “Well, you ensure people’s well-being by giving them their freedom. Freedom may have its drawbacks, but suppressing it has worse drawbacks, and the world’s advanced societies understand this fact.”
With barely suppressed rage, Sadduqi said coolly, “I’ll be at your door day after tomorrow at nine-thirty in the morning, Miss Troublemaker. Don’t forget: I work hard for my money, of which I don’t make that much, and so does my wife.”
“Believe me,” Zain replied, “I realize you’re honest and broke. I see that. But you don’t want to support the people who get rich off government overthrows the way they get rich off wars.”
“My God, you really are a rebel, aren’t you? Why did I even ask you to come along?!”
“It’s because in your heart of hearts, you love freedom more than you love your party affiliations. You’re a rebel, too.”
* * *
Once again Zain arrived early for her appointment with Dr. Manahili. She practically flew over the dirt staircase leading up to the rustic coffee shop on Sahat Al Muhajirin. This is where I regain my sense of calm and clarity. As soon as I see the end of one tunnel, I find myself in another one, and I’m worn out. So my trip to West Germany will be a much-needed break. I’ve got a growing list of so-called friends who try to impose their points of view on me. Instead of respecting my right to express my own opinions, they want to use me for their own purposes on the pretext that they’ve supported me and contributed to my rise to fame. “Say good things about so-and-so!” and “Tear so-and-so apart!” they tell me, as though I were some sort of literary slave. But I don’t do it. I scream and shout, not just with my voice, but with my actions. As for Sheikh Shafiq, he still has it out for me, and on top of that, he claims to speak in the name of women who’ve never read what I’ve written or even heard of me. My father warned me, saying, “Our household is moderately religious. But don’t underestimate what he can do with that bamboo rod of his. He’s well thought of among certain people who don’t know how to read or write, and as far as they’re concerned, his word is law.”
I just go from one failure to the next. I keep on trying, at least, but is that success? When I interviewed at a TV station once for a job as a scriptwriter, the interviewer tried to brush me off nicely, saying, “Why don’t you go to the United States and study script writing there?”
He might have been right to suggest that I do a degree in the field. But the person he ended up hiring was a semi-illiterate who happened to belong to the ruling party. On the other hand, Baathist poet Alwan Ibn Al Silmiyah offered me the chance to present a radio program even though he knew I wasn’t a Baathist myself, and Poetry, Music and Zain has been a real hit.
Here comes Dr. Manahili. I’m always so happy to see him. The times we spend together are a respite from the painful parts of my life, and with him I get a taste of genuine human warmth.
* * *
At long last Zain met Lieutenant Nahi, whose influence far exceeded his rank. Word had it that given his tyrannical, violent tendencies, Lieutenant Nahi would make a perfect scapegoat if necessity required. It was also said that his superior, Lieutenant Colonel Samir, was the one who pulled the strings backstage. The upshot was that Lieutenant Nahi decided who was granted entrance into the paradise of Beirut or wherever else one hoped to go, and who stayed in the paradise of Dummar, where he had invited Zain and the other delegation members for dinner.
Before Zain went with Professor Sadduqi to the dinner party, her father briefly met with Sadduqi and asked a number of questions about the upcoming trip. As they were about to leave the house, Zain kissed her father on the forehead and whispered in his ear, “You don’t need to worry about me. You can worry instead about what I’ll do to them!” Her father exploded with laughter.
As Zain and Sadduqi descended the stairs on their way out, he asked, “What did you say to your father that made him laugh so hard?”
“Oh,” she replied, “That’s our secret!”
Once they were in the car, Sadduqi said, “I’ll be honest with you. Even the intellectual community is in shock over the way your father went on supporting you after you insisted on marrying someone he and your family didn’t approve of, and then divorced him against everybody’s wishes as well. So why did you separate from your husband after wanting so badly to marry him?”
Having learned the age-old Damascene art of the understated response, Zain said simply, “What’s past is past.”
Lieutenant Nahi made a point of seating Zain next to him during the evening’s gathering, and when he started flirting with her, it was obvious to her travel companions that she was the sole reason behind the dinner invitation.
* * *
Zain arrived early for her session at the radio station and recorded four episodes of Poetry, Music and Zain. She suspected that one reason Alwan had scheduled her program in the middle of the night was that it gave him an excuse to hand her Baathist tracts to read. This way he could either enlist her as a supporter or, if she didn’t cooperate, shun her. A new current is growing, and its motto is: “If you’re not for us, you’re against us.” And being against them comes with a price. Whoever you are, you’re under suspicion until you prove your innocence by joining the party. It’s either us, or nobody. But I want the freedom either to agree with them, which I do some of the time, or question them or out-and-out reject what they stand for, which I do most of the time.
To Zain’s surprise, Alwan was waiting for her when she came out of the studio. She felt a rush of friendly affection toward him. As usual, he was wearing his shabby sandals and a half-ironed shirt. He represented a world at total odds with that of Lieutenant Nahi, who, on the two occasions when Zain had encountered him—at the Dummar dinner party, and during her visit to his office with other members of the Syrian delegation to West Germany to apply for travel permits—had been clad in top-of-the-line Parisian footwear. On his desk lay a bag of French-made Sulka neckties that he couldn’t possibly have afforded on the salary he was making. A bribe, no doubt. Thanks to my ex’s family, I know a thing or two about upscale men’s attire.
Alwan invited Zain for a cup of coffee at Al Rawda Café. Since his antique sandals were his sole means of transportation, they went in her car.
The minute they sat down, he asked her, “So, what’s the story with your divorce?”
Kind though he was, she gave Alwan the same answer she’d been giving everybody else: “It wasn’t meant to be.” As Grandm
a Hayat always tells me, “Better a heartache in private than humiliation in public!”
“Why do you want to spy on my heart?” she asked him in turn. “Does my divorce have anything to do with my radio program?”
“No!” he admitted. “But it does have something to do with a poem I’m writing, since it was inspired by you!”
“My friend,” she said, “poetry’s all shadow and ambiguity. It bears no connection to the things we go through in our everyday lives. So just write, and don’t ask any questions.” Why should I tell him I’m not “a squeezed lemon”—that I’m no different to women who hold out in the face of their sorrowful marriages? What need is there to tell him that a woman isn’t finished after a failed love affair, but has the right to put her life back together again? Doesn’t he know that being divorced doesn’t make a woman free game for men’s lusts? I just noticed that I’m the only woman in the coffee shop, and it doesn’t bother me. Pretty soon it will be a routine thing to see women in places that were once the sole province of men.
* * *
After a month in Germany packed with memorable experiences, the delegation of Syrian writers boarded a nighttime flight headed for Damascus. Not in the mood to converse with her fellow travelers, Zain closed her eyes and withdrew into herself to mull over the month’s events. In her mind’s eye she pried open the cabin window, climbed out and flew alongside the aircraft with her trusty owl. Never in my life have I been feted as a writer the way I was during this trip. I was constantly worried about making sure my English pronunciation was right and that people could understand me clearly, but I did my best to be a good representative of my home country, especially its women. Some Germans have the odd notion that we Arab women are still living in the age of The Arabian Nights. It was as if some people expected me at any moment to get up and perform a striptease, like the “Dance of the Seven Veils”! On the other hand, they were happy to see that I try to learn about other peoples and cultures and to teach people from other places about my heritage.