There on the bank women had carried votive offerings, their wishes wandering on their lips and their hearts full of faith. The shrine of Elias had been full of visitors and guests carrying platters filled with gifts. Boats loaded with women and children had glided along the river. The bank had swarmed with fishermen, salesmen, and visitors. Lighted candles attached to palm-tree trunks had been floating in the Tigris.
I had said to Youssef, "Let's ask the saint for what we want; the doors of the sky are open today."
With difficulty we had walked down to the carnival. We had grabbed a myrtle branch and a candle and made our way through the crowd, walking hand in hand until we arrived at the Cafe of the Captain, looking for peace and exhorting our hearts to joy. Youssef had looked at me and asked about the wish buried in my heart, although we both knew one another's wish. It was a wish that we renewed each year, but that would not come true, for the war would suck the sap of love from Youssef's heart, stealing many years of his life. Sometimes I would hardly recognize him when he became violent for little, if any, reason. His mother would remain silent until he had returned to his peaceful nature and asked her pardon.
"It is the war, Mother. I'm not the same man."
"My son, why don't you get married? You and Huda love each other."
He had raised his hand toward her. "Do you want me to beget fodder for the next wars?"
He often said that he didnt know how he had carried a gun or pressed the trigger, and he sometimes fell into a depression merely thinking of the soldiers he might have killed. Once, while watching a program about the war, I had tried to pull him out of the abyss into which he had fallen upon seeing the constantly broadcast scenes. He had yelled at me: "You didn't experience what the soldiers did! How difficult it is to see a human laughing, singing, sobbing, remembering, complaining, and dreaming and then suddenly scattered into burned pieces! The head is no longer a head, and the heart is no longer a heart-just spattered blood or a charred body or severed limbs that we cannot gather. Unfortunate is the one who does not die instantly!"
His appearance had changed when he was talking about the war, and his eyes had flared red. I had said to him, "Let us not repeat these stories that have become a mere memory, a thing from the past," but he had continued, his voice dripping with pain.
"Life's sweetest years are lost in wars. We fought with fear, but with courage too. We were afraid during the fierce battles, but we were also filled with courage because we had to be. But it was a courage devoid of will. To kill a man-a man like you, directing his weapon to preserve his own life, just as you do-means that you are reducing your own humanity. When the two of you are good at shooting, you are just prolonging the regimes that drive the nations children to the fires."
While he was talking, I remained silent and sad. But his violent moments quickly disappeared. Youssef had excused himself and returned to normal. He had looked at me and said, "What did you do to your hair? I like it as it is, untidy, not styled."
I said, "When I don't do my hair, I look like an idiot, and this pleases you?"
He had laughed and replied with a loving malice, "Who said you are not?"
I'd pretended to be upset, so he'd made peace with me, caressing my hand and fondling my fingers. I'd felt at that moment a strange feeling of joy. Then he'd added, "In this world, madness is the only way to freedom."
I hadn't wanted to argue with him because he was visibly sad, which I attributed to what he was suffering, given what was happening in the country-the psychological pressure and the difficulty of living a dignified life. We were talking about things we didn't fully understand and were unable to express as we wished. He had pressed my fingers again and said, "I know what you're thinking in your little head, and I realize how patient you've been. I love you, and nothing will ever shake that love, but love is not enough these days. It is important to preserve this love; as for the rest, let's leave it to the future."
And here were those days, my beloved. They came and went, stripping everything and crushing hope, pulling it by the roots from the land and casting it out of the garden of love.
With these verses by the poet Farouk Jouweida, Nadia started a different chapter in which she talked about the impossible love affair that we had never discussed in Baghdad and that I hadn t wanted to press her about. Our most important concern then had been the loss of our lives under the pressure of the siege, and, later, exile exhausted what was left of our dreams. She had told me once, "I'm looking for my 'Emir,' for a speck in a stormy sea. It is my heart's wound. You will find out about it one day. Then your curiosity will be satisfied, but now let us think about a way out of suffering." At the time, we were sitting in Ammans Hashemite Square, a few days after we had met in Abdali. She was still as secretive as before. Neither of us knew that her heart's confessions would come after her sudden tragic death. I plunged with her into the furious sea of her confessions.
My prince, my Emir, I write to you from my second month in exile. I know that my letters haven't reached you yet, but I write hoping they will find their way to you one day. My heart tells me that you are still alive and that you are somewhere in the world. I don't blame you for your absence-perhaps you are in a pit where angels have no access, facing a torture more than humans can bear, or perhaps you are hiding in a country where no one will recognize you. I can believe anything except that you are among the dead. Do you know, since you disappeared, I have been lost in thought, a prey to distraction? Some people even think that I have gone mad. That's all right-I'm crazy about you. I feel we connected and that we'll meet again one day. Where? I don't know; perhaps on a boat smuggling immigrants or on an expected road. When? I don't know; it might take some time. And perhaps we'll forget, or we'll pretend to forget after we get older, or perhaps each of us will have chosen a companion and been faithful to him or her; then our meeting will be pale and cold. No, no, I'm just rambling ... Forgive me. You are my lover and my compass if I get lost. I will definitely meet you and finish the journey with you. Wait for me, Prince! I will find you, or our paths will cross, even if it happens after our bodies are gone.
This letter had no date, and neither did the others. I read the second letter.
I wonder, my prince, when did my hand slip away from yours? I don't know the answer. Memory alone leads me to you. I remember there was a big crowd, and the world around was filled with noise. We were sitting in one of the garden corners on Sindibad Island, drinking cocoa and planning our life far from the destruction befalling the people. Perhaps a thousand times we built the castles of our love while crowds of children jumped, radiant in their feast clothes. I told you, "Look at them; they are reenacting our childhood," and I told you about my childhood and how on the feast's eve I used to sleep with my palms covered with henna and wrapped in tissue till the morning. Then I would get up and wash my hands and get dressed before anyone got up. I would walk to Nadir's bed and wake him so that we could get our feast-day presents and hurry to the carnival rides. We didn't plan for difficult days because life hadn't yet disclosed its ugly face. We were propelled by our feelings. And when a cloud appeared, our hands intertwined till it passed peacefully. No peace after today, though, my prince. Memories of our childhood have faded away, and our souls are wandering aimlessly, lost, chased by the fear of the unknown and the search for security. I will have no peace till I find you. When will I meet you? I know that the reply to my letters is delayed, but I'm sure one day you will read them and then read them again. Perhaps you will reply. Will you?
It seems, from what Nadia wrote afterward, that the prince did not reply.
I have a lump in my throat today. I even choke on water, although everything went fine. I met the Canadian delegation and obtained the international number. I was hoping you would share this latest exile with me, or perhaps I will find you there? Nothing is impossible beyond the limits of reason because we live in a world that knows no logic. I feel tired. Can I postpone writing? Well, I will go to sleep; maybe I will see y
ou in my dreams.
The rain gently knocked at the door. Listening to the harmony of the rain and the whirling wind, I felt as if I were listening to music coming from very distant times. But at this instant I was united with Nadia.
My prince, I have finished all the procedures. I don't know if I will have enough time to write to you from Amman. I fill my days with wishes. My future encounter with you is what preoccupies me. Sometimes I get confused and plunge into remembrance. I say to myself, "Calm down so you won't go mad," and I forget that I'm actually standing on the edge of madness, but then I feel pleasure. Don't be surprised: I feel pleasure mixed with pain. The news of the homeland arrives with the new immigrants, but it is so scarce. Despite its scarcity, it reveals many absent and concealed truths-more death, more killing, more disease, more militarization, more darkness, and more preparations for the next war. People are falling, and there is no hope. And between this pain and the pleasure of taking refuge in you, I understand the scope of the catastrophe. Did you know that my uncle died? I am sorry to tell you they killed him. When corpses were scattered during the days of the uprising and the regime took control, we were confined in our houses for three days. On the fourth day, we heard my uncle's voice calling my mother; we didn't know how he had managed to get there. When my mother opened the door, my uncle was there looking at a man's body near the threshold; he just wanted to get it out of the way. They shot him on the spot (it was forbidden to bury corpses; they said to let the dogs devour them). When my mother gasped, one of them aimed his gun at her chest, but for some reason he didn't shoot; he withdrew, saying, "Scum. You're all scum, and we'll take revenge on you." I huddled up under the stairs between neglected corpses, smelling death, and Nadir was in army training and couldn't take a day off. I don't know why I'm telling you about atrocities you have experienced yourself. Let me finish this letter because depression has descended upon me, and I don't want you to be infected.
The gusts of rain increased, accompanied by thunder and the lamenting wind, as if the whole sky were weeping and crying. Cold air crept through the gaps in the door and window. I covered myself with the blanket. I didn't care anymore about the smells it emitted. My body was used to it now. I felt warmth, not because of the blankets, but because of the love letters. This love story was mad-a madness like standing on the sharp edge of a mountain with a very steep slope. Two lovers separated by national events and then reunited on paper, but from one side only. A woman who dedicated herself to a lost lover-she would never find him-and a man, indifferent in his absence, who didn't know about the woman dedicated to his love.
O absent-present prince, I'm putting myself together to pass into my exile. I'm hungry for you. Your face will pursue me wherever I go, for I cannot forget you. My strength to survive comes from you; perhaps I will finally tap the dregs and after that will stop traveling with you. Sometimes I feel weak from the weight of life upon me. The countdown started in Amman, and when it ends, I'll be going to settle in Canada.
Nadia didn't go to Canada, but to a tomb, without bothering to gather up her things. She didn't need a passport this time. Not even a ticket. She carried no clothing bag, no memories, no feeling of regret or satisfaction or love. Was she desperate for her prince? Did she ever erase him from her memory? Did she reach the point where she could bury her past, right before the instant separating life and death?
I put the notebook away and closed my burning eyes. The rain let up, and the wind stopped lamenting. I gave in to drowsiness. A few blurred images passed my mind's eye, and then I suddenly plunged into sleep.
WE JOSTLED AGAINST THE IRON-GATED DOOR. In the chaos, no one could hear anyone else. The officer stretched his hand through the bars, holding out papers-papers of residency, papers for new appointments, incomplete papers to be returned to their owners. From time to time, he protested against the tumult. "Attention, please! Listen to what I say! Stop all this confusion at once! The people who are here for interviews will enter first."
But the crowds refused to calm down. They were holding onto the iron bars like prisoners, yelling, complaining, desperate, furious. The officer, frustrated with their disobedience, turned his back and disappeared angrily behind interior doors. The voices died down; some people blamed each other, others just fell silent, and yet others, like volcanoes waiting to explode, suppressed their anger. The women withdrew to the sidewalk, and the men remained standing, waiting for their turn. A long time passed before the officer reappeared, and, pointing his finger, he stressed the necessity of remaining calm lest he go away and not return. A man leaning on an iron bar called to him, "Brother, please..."
The officer came closer to the man, who said to him imploringly, "You ought to be more patient, for them"he pointed at the women and the children. "Their condition is miserable; you have to look at their requests in a way that acknowledges their humanity."
The officer didn't seem to comprehend what the man said. He just nodded and asked the people to form two lines, one for men and the other for women, and to keep silent so that they could hear what he was going to say. When we had complied, he began to read off numbers, asking some to enter. A few steps away stood a young man with his arms around his chest. Every time I accidentally looked around, I caught him staring at me as though he knew me.
"Huda Abdel Baqi."
"Yes?"
"Sorry. Your application is rejected." The officer handed me the application, saying, "You can appeal."
I was speechless as I took the paper. I felt as if I were sinking in quicksand and asked myself how this wide world could refuse me refuge in any one of its corners. I was about to yell, cry, rebel, but I contained myself to preserve some remnant of pride. I walked a few steps away from the Refugee Office, and the young man joined me.
"It doesn't matter; there's still a chance."
I looked at him, a young man in his thirties, tall and dark. His eyes were black, and he was rather slim. I didn't say anything. I walked toward the fence and leaned against it.
The young man began to explain without my asking. "This happens a lot when the committee is not convinced by the reports. In the case of an appeal, the demand is transferred to another committee, which reads the information anew. It happened to my brother, and he is now a refugee in Australia."
I didn't make any comment, so he asked me, "Who else is with you in your file?"
I replied with a sadness I couldn t conceal, "No one is with me. I'm on my own."
He went on, asking, "Where's your family?"
I wanted to cry, but I held back the tears. "There's only my grandmother left, and she's in Baghdad."
After some silence, he spoke again. "I'm sorry. What is your case? As you know, or perhaps you don t know, being granted refugee status depends on a clear and justified case: those who are escaping the death penalty or are fugitives from imprisonment, including those who were accused of acting against the regime or who suffered clear evidence of damage. In all cases, they need documents to prove their claims."
We walked together toward the bus stop. I told him about my problems while he explained the system to me. "The committee has to verify all information because some of the asylum seekers turn out to be sent by the regime to spy on others, either here in Amman or in their countries of settlement."
Surprised, I asked, "Is that possible? How can Iraqis spy on Iraqis under such circumstances?"
He answered painfully, "Bankruptcy, lack of prospects, and desperation overpower the good in souls, so these people become instruments to spy on their fellow citizens."
I looked at him as we waited at the bus stop. I didnt know why, but I suspected he might be one of those sent by the regime. I regretted disclosing my problems and paid no attention to what he said after that. I jumped onto the bus without saying good-bye, but his lips were moving when I looked back at him as the bus left. I had a feeling that he wanted to say something important. What could he be saying in that last moment?
A HUNDRED ANXIOUS AND HORRIFYING
HOURS under the most violent bombing by the militaries of thirty countries were relived in Nadia's diary. It was hellfire, and the Iraqis were the firewood. Intensified and blind bombing, mass flight, terrible anger, and one single question with no answer: Why did the president so obstinately continue with the invasion if he knew he was going to withdraw from Kuwait anyway? This question was on everyone's minds before and after the outbreak of the war.
Beyond Love (Middle East Literature in Translation) Page 7