Cold wind slapped our tired faces, carrying with it the fates of the murdered. An officer came out. Shaking steps hastened, and tears petrified. He read aloud the names of our dead, every name preceded by the word traitor. He requested that only one person from each family enter to sign the acknowledgment of the body's receipt. I was frozen in place, my teeth chattering. My uncle entered with some of the men. They all disappeared behind the gate, leaving the rest of us to our sadness. No one wept. No one cried out. Everything was forbidden, and the silence whipped our dismayed souls. After a little while, the coffins came out, one after the other. They were put on top of the cars and went their separate ways.
My uncle sat next to the driver, and I sat next to my mother in the backseat. The way to holy Najaf was long and hard. I felt as though I were swallowing fire; it ran down my throat and burned my intestines. I didn't dare look at my mother after we picked her up. I feared that if I looked at her, I would hurt her even more deeply.
My uncle, the driver, and I had carried the coffin and gone home to pick her up. I waited in the car while my uncle walked into the house. The neighbors stood on their thresholds or stared from their windows; no one dared to share our grief openly because everything could be observed; every place was filled with furtive eyes and dirty hands formulating secret reports.
My mother walked out with bowed head, holding my uncle's hand for fear of falling. She didn't look at the car's roof; perhaps she wanted to delay her cries so that she wouldn't break down in front of everybody. I was surprised that she didn't cry out and didn't say anything till we left Basra. Then she unleashed all the cries that had been pent up inside her; she slapped her cheeks and ripped the pocket of her tunic. I tried to hold her, but her deep sadness had exploded like a volcano and gave her incredible strength.
The driver stopped and turned to her: "Say nothing will happen to us except what Allah has decreed for us.."' Still she continued weeping and crying throughout the long journey. I began sobbing along with her; then I calmed myself and looked out the window, hoping to find a way to save my exhausted soul. Alongside vast deserted areas stretched the marshes, their banks dotted with black-and-white birds; the small birds were the size of starlings, and the big ones the size of crows or storks.
My mother's cries became increasingly sharp and high. She began hitting the door of the car unconsciously when suddenly a strangely shaped bird crashed into the windshield. The driver, who had been imploring my mother to stop crying, jumped back startled, and the car swerved. He stopped the car and yelled angrily, "You see, we could have died, all of us, in the blink of an eye. Thank God the road is empty at this time; otherwise, it could have been a disaster."
My uncle leaned over the seat and put his palm on my mother's head, saying, "Weeping will not bring the dead back. Please, the car was about to roll over."
My mother stopped crying-not because of what my uncle had said, but because she didn't want Nadir to die twice.
The car devoured the road at a tremendous speed, as though consuming the earth. None of us objected to the driver's crazy speed. From time to time, I heard my mother's sighs and her silent, burning weeping; then I would look out the window again. The road stretched out with distant trees, scattered spikes, mineral ponds, enclosed fields, and herds of cows and sheep. From afar there loomed buildings sunk in fog, and I could see men walking with knee-high boots along little streams and freshly plowed land. A car carrying a bier occasionally sped past.
When we arrived at Khan al-Nass, two other cars were already there, each with a coffin on its roof. We recognized some of the faces that had been with us at the big prison gate. A few men got out. They had tea and smoked, and the women washed the dust of tragedy from their faces. Then we continued the journey.
In vain, I tried to escape Nadir's face, to rein in memory's willfulness and conceal my pain, hoping that doing so would lighten my sadness. I withdrew into a painful shell. Memory's knives cut into my head, though, taking me to my childhood, and I could see myself running behind Nadir.
Okra branches stung us, so we ran into the grapevine trellis; then we walked among the sesban trees, stripping their tender leaves. Butterflies hovered around the flowers. Nadir caught one of them; he held it between his thumb and his index finger. When he released it, nothing remained on his fingers except a light ash. We advanced farther and farther into the garden, fearing the guard would catch us trespassing. I found a bird with yellow fluff still on its tender flesh. Nadir grabbed it from my hands and looked at the highest point of the peach tree from which it had just fallen. He suggested climbing the tree, then put the bird in his pocket and climbed. He placed the bird inside the nest while the mother hovered around angrily. Before he came down, he picked a few peaches and threw them to me. As soon as he set his feet on the ground, the guard whistled. We ran away, terrified that he would whip us. When we were out of the garden, we threw ourselves on the ground, breathless, convulsing with loud laughter. Suddenly we were surprised by the guard's steps. We cried from fright, but he didn't hit us as we'd feared. He even let us take the peaches but warned us to keep away from his master's garden and insulted our fathers and grandfathers. We ran away crying.
My mother was crying out at the top of her hoarse voice when the dome of Imam Ali loomed nearer.
"I came to you, my imam, 0 father of the Hassanayn. This is your grandson. They killed him."
She was crying painfully, and the driver didn't interfere this time. My mother beat her face, which was covered in burning tears, but I had to search for my tears and found that I had none. Perhaps they had turned to stone inside me, or perhaps fate had hidden them somewhere to save them for dark days to come.
The car was moving slowly. Burial processions were leaving the place of the imam, and other people were getting through Bab al-Taous, spreading out toward the vast cemetery, accompanied by the sounds of continuous lamentations There were two funeral processions ahead of us, and many behind. We entered the cemetery through the gate leading to the burial offices. My uncle got out of the car and went into the offices; after a few minutes, he came out with the grave digger. My mother continued her painful sobbing; her heart seemed to be breaking with every cry. I wished I could cry like her to empty my soul of its pain at the loss of my twin. I begged for tears from my eyes and cries from my throat, but in vain.
We drove through narrow streets amid tombs and headed toward the family cemetery. After three hundred yards, we stopped, stupefied. Before me stretched an infinite number of tombs, tombs as far as the eye could see. When had the cemetery's womb grown so enormous? How did all these people die? Who had driven them to a fate that could have been delayed? It was amazing how death's machinery could work with such incredible speed. Tall tombs, layers on top of layers ... marble tombs, low tombs, stone tombs, tombs made of baked bricks and of sandstone ... tombs in the form of houses that the poor could not afford. Those with money had fancy tombs with pictures of their owners on the decorated doors. Martyrs occupied a large area in the cemetery. In pictures of them, their eyes uttered the burning question: "Why?" No one could answer that question. Some tombs were obliterated, forgotten by their people. Others were new, and yet others were still being carved. No peace in Najaf's cemetery. The grave diggers' hands were always busy, and their livelihood would prosper as long as the wars had no end.
Some funeral processions halted next to us. The lamentations had never stopped: some women were crying and beating their chests, others were beating their heads and rending their cheeks-their tired faces sharing the same misfortunes and looking equally sad and devastated. The grave diggers were digging up the soil and carrying the corpses they would cover with sand, while the beggars hovered near.
We remember Death only when we enter cemeteries or when he approaches. Then we remove our masks and shrink away. We beg him to forgive us, to give us a respite just to settle past accounts, but Death doesn't pay attention. Undaunted by our supplications, he continues on. Everyone has his hour e
xcept the betrayed ones-war victims and the innocents.
My mother insisted on opening the coffin to take a last look at the boy who had delighted his father when he had come into the world. Where are you, Father? Do you remember that rainy night and the bitter cold? You were very sad and upset when the midwife told you of my birth, but as soon as Nadir came a few minutes after me, you felt your good fortune. You didn't get to enjoy it, though. Nadir and I used to crawl together toward you to get close to your warm lap. You would take him into your arms and give him so many cuddles and kisses, but ignore my fingers playing with your toes. I didn't cry despite my disappointment. Perhaps I hid my tears for some other time. And you left us, despite the joy you felt before we were even able to speak. Here you sleep in this cemetery, and Nadir's grave is being dug next to yours.
The grave digger's voice rose as he urged, "Let's keep things discreet. Don't you see how they nailed him in?"
How did my mother's fingers get the strength to lift the coffin's tightly closed cover? (Such a precaution was amazing: did they fear their victims so much?)
The grave digger had come out of the hole and was trying to grab my mother. My uncle tried to calm her down, but her fingers were ferocious. I suddenly found myself helping her to lift the cover, but as soon as we removed it, we were consumed and paralyzed by surprise. The corpse was not my brother, Nadir!
The last sentence was written at the top of an empty page, as though Nadia wanted to catch her breath or wanted to start a new chapter after remembering every terrifying detail. I was turning the page when Umm Ayman knocked on my door.
Nadia's notebook was still in my hands when I opened the door. Umm Ayman sat down on the room's only chair, looking into corners as if she had never seen them before. I let her scan the walls; her eyes fell on a pile of books on the small table; then she looked at the notebook and asked, "What are you reading?"
Although I knew she didn't care about reading and had come to collect the rent, I answered, "I'm reading a diary."
She opened her mouth in surprise, showing a gap in her teeth. "Do you keep a diary?"
I said casually, "No, it's the diary of my friend who passed away a few days ago."
She replied, patting her thigh, "May God have mercy upon her and all of us; we all share the same worries."
All of a sudden she asked me an unrelated question. "Have you found a job?"
I had bargained with her about the rent and had promised her that I would give her an increase as soon as I found a job. But days had passed, and I didn't have any energy for work.
"No, I haven't found one." I pulled the rent from under my pillow. "I knocked twice at your door, but no one was there; please take this."
Her features smoothed into a mask of kindness. "I came to inquire about you, not to ask for the rent." But as soon as I passed her the money, she grabbed it and slipped it in her pocket.
When she walked out, I sank into a deep depression, wondering, "How am I going to survive with only the little I have left?" But I didn't think deeply about the answer; I returned to Nadia's notebook to find out what had happened after they discovered the strange body.
After the initial shock, we carefully examined the corpse. Although the face had lost all of its features because of the torture-burns, gouged-out eyes, and mutilated lips-the white hair confirmed that a mistake had been made. My mother stood up, terrified. She looked around and cried commandingly, "Look for the owners of the cars that came with us."
My uncle hurried to the north side, and I ran behind my mother toward the west side, where groups were piling up sand on their dead. Our feet sank into the smooth, shifting sand and stones between the ruined tombstones, while the grave digger guarded the corpse.
"Stop!" my mother yelled in a breaking voice. Heads turned toward her. She looked miserable. Perhaps they thought she was deranged; they continued pouring the sand as though they hadn't heard anything. She yelled again and again, walking toward the grave that was still open.
"Listen to me carefully. The body I found in the coffin is not that of my son. Perhaps there is a mistake."
My uncle joined us and continued, "Didn't you come with us from that big prison?"
They immediately stopped pouring the sand and started digging up the grave. A woman in the crowd said, "Didn't I ask you to check it?"
No one answered. The grave digger objected, warning about the authorities, but no one listened to him amid the chaotic wailing and general cacophony. I sought refuge behind my mother, drawn by the smells of death and the sounds of lamentation emerging from the depths of the cemetery. My mother started running in different directions, looking for coffins and corpses. The others had identified their body just by looking at its face.
A voice came from another corner, "We have three legs here."
My mother ran with wild eyes and stricken heart. My uncle and I followed her. We made our way through the crowd surrounding the coffin, which revealed a dismembered man with a third leg packed among his limbs. At this point, the grave digger came and grabbed my uncle's shoulder, "What should I do? You are disrupting my work!"
My uncle said, "Go ahead and bury the body, and you will get your pay."
My mother collapsed near the open tomb while the grave digger covered the wrong corpse quickly, ignoring the funeral rituals because we knew the body wasn't ours. We spent that night in the shrine, and at dawn we returned to Basra. During the journey, my mother was silent except to answer questions or comments from others. Sometimes she muttered, seeking answers to the question running through all our minds: Where was Nadir's body?
I was also torn by other questions, thinking of my twin soul.
No doubt they tortured you. Perhaps they gouged out your beautiful eyes? Did you weaken at the last moment? Did you scream, asking for mercy from those whose hearts would never know mercy? Or did your strong body finally become numb to the pain? Did they blindfold your eyes? Or did they make you see yourself get shot and enjoy the look of fear on your face? How did your soul depart, my twin? How many moments did your last breath linger? What was the last image you saw? Was it my mother? Was it me? Or was it the executioner? I'm afraid they dismembered your body while you were still alive. What a beautiful body you had!
Between one question and another, my soul was screaming: "Where is Nadir's body?"
I HAD PLENTY OF TIME, but I wasn't doing anything. My days moved like a tortoise with flabby legs. I spent that time doing nothing, either in my room or the Refugee Office or wandering around town, talking to myself because I had no one else to talk to. After plunging into Nadia's diary, I stopped going to Amman's library. I was feeling burdened and confused. A longing-for Baghdad dug deeply into my heart. Time was slow. I spent long hours looking at the corners and ceiling of my room, although I knew nothing was there. My head was stuffed with memories. Youssef's face and my grandmother's alternated in my head, consuming me. The alleys I had walked in Baghdad shone in my memory. I was drawn to the ebb and flow of the Tigris, on whose banks I had been born. Large banks, sweet clover, Indian fig and spinach, polished rocks, myrtle trees flanking the fences of the houses-all exhaled their fragrance in the corners of my memory and colored it with the henna of love. My memory would make its way to the Shourja Market crowded with customers on feast and holy days. The scents of herbs and spices would spread out from the market and tickle noses: pepper, essence of rose, aniseed, nutmeg, henna, rose water, pomegranate shell, and kohl of Mecca. I wouldn't know which of us was enticing the other, the memory or me. What a crowded memory, moving in a flash from one place to another. At one moment I would again be in Kadhimiya, wandering its streets, walking through its markets. Then I would enter Imam Moosa al-Kadhim's shrine through the al-Murad Gate. Women would be buying a miracle product for their problems: a mixture made out of dried grapes, chickpeas, and sweet citrus. I would wander about with the people, filling myself with the good smells, passing my hand along the fence. Different-colored tissues and strings would be knotted
around the window in the hope that the imam would untie the knots and remove the sorrow. Hands would be lifted in supplication; wishes and tears would be pouring out as people wept. The gatekeeper would distribute pieces of green tissue that a visitor could wrap around his wrist to seek blessings and mercy. After a quick glance, I would swerve from the tumultuous crowd and walk through the north gate toward Sarbadi Market, where the shops were filled with merchandise: rosaries, woolen wraps, and koufiya, prayer rugs and handmade quilts, coffee sold in small cups. Bracelets and earrings, necklaces and silvery rings, rubies, wedding clothes decorated with ribbon, large candles hanging in front of the shops like chandeliers. I lit those candles in my memory so that the alleys would shine from their glow. They led me to the Cafe of the Captain on the other side of the Tigris, where I would meet Youssef. Today, though, in exile, I had no captain, and I could not steer my boat as I wished. My days were made of grief and vigils on platforms unattended by lovers. I was swept away by the violent longing for memories of fleeting rendezvous, stolen kisses, and the fever of entangled fingers. The first meeting I had with Youssef was outside the family house, and our first date had been at the Cafe of the Captain. I had worn a short-sleeved blue dress and styled my hair loose along my shoulders, strutting in high heels like a princess, giving myself royal airs. My grandmother had given us her blessing while busy with her rosary: "Tonight is Saint Zakariyya's, when prayers are answered; visit the shrine of the prophet Elias before you go anywhere else."9
Beyond Love (Middle East Literature in Translation) Page 6