Beyond Love (Middle East Literature in Translation)

by Hadiyya Hussein

  I leaned on one of the walls overlooking the strange street scenes. Old men emerged, dazed, and women began to distribute water to the soldiers. Despite their poverty, some families didn't hesitate to hand out hot tea and pieces of bread. Then a man in his thirties came out with his two daughters. They stared at me, but I could hardly smile. After a few moments, one of the girls began to cry. (Cry, you little girl. Let anything come out of you; let something come out to change this horror, so that the sound of life postpones the rhythm of death and defeat.)

  We eventually crossed to the other bank. On the road, through orchards of date palms, the driver called out the number of our unit so that soldiers could make their way to us and continue their journey. Many groups showed up-some we knew, and others we didn't-and for a moment they seemed like horrifying creatures emerging from their tombs. They were wrapped in blankets, and the darkness added to their strange, ghostly aspect. We arrived at Tannuma, and its only street was crowded with vehicles and soldiers. I thought about spending the night at my aunt's place there, but I didn't stop.

  We took the road to Katiban through groves of palm trees. Along the way, I saw soldiers walking barefoot. I didn't know how they would be able to continue or when they would give up. This was the same road that had taken up a great deal of my life during the eight-year war with Iran: the battles of East Basra between 1982 and 1984, Majnun, al-Nashwa, Buhayrat al-Asmaak, al-Fao with its farms, and the Shalamja ... and ... and ... And here again were the hands of death, taking me and thirty other soldiers in a vehicle through the darkness in silence.

  At the crossroad between al-Nashwa and Majnun, the procession stopped. The vehicles were motionless in a long line on the road. No one knew the reason for the halt, but I sensed the smell of death close to us. I yelled to those who were with me, "Get down quickly!" From a gap in the clouds obstructing a bright moon, two planes appeared. I hurried to reach a small canal and threw myself into the mud. The explosions resounded; shrapnel flew above my head, and four men up the canal were motionless after a slight rattle. Fire devoured the unmoving line, but our vehicle seemed safe. The planes came back. It was dreadful. I wanted to sleep-yes, to close my eyes and sleep. Fatigue and weakness overcame my whole body, and I no longer feared anything. Let it be enough, come what may.

  With ten other soldiers, between one attack and another, I headed to an abandoned house in the middle of an orchard of palm trees. The driver of the vehicle, Talib Halil, the calmest of us in the midst of horror, had returned to the burning line and brought back his personal weapon, my bag, and some blankets. He handed me a blanket and said, "Let's go to sleep; tomorrow is another day." How could I sleep with this flying horror that never ceased? I dropped to the cold earth in exhaustion. I spread half of the blanket on the ground and covered my body with the other half.

  Morning came with the effects of fire all around us. Bodies drilled with shrapnel were thrown on the side of the road; the scorched corpses reeked in a day devoid of life. Some peasants walked on the road, looking around to see what was happening. We continued walking between burned vehicles, looking at propaganda portraits and official murals on the facade of the military road units. They had been sprayed by bullets from close range.

  Burned or destroyed vehicles lay here and there. Slumberous bodies drenched in blood dangled from their sides. Other bodies had been abandoned on the streets. The earth itself seemed to have recoiled, ready to jump, to join us, another body about to be destroyed.

  "Quickly, quickly, take us, Ibn Halil, while the fog is covering everything-we hope it will be our umbrella protecting us from the hell swarm of aluminum birds and their wild, rapacious claws. Oh! Morning of our drenched bodies! Shaking, terrified, and burning, poisoned, starved, yet young. And you, Sun, take your time, and please delay your threads of light."

  This is how I was praying, like a Bedouin playing his rebec, swaying back and forth. But what kind of music could there ever be amid burned bodies?

  The rubble of machinery and the bodies scattered around blocked our way. One of the tanks proceeded to open the road, pushing aside the bodies and piles of metal, and we quickly crossed through. But the same scene repeated itself at the Majnun al-Hadidi Dam, which had recently been attacked before we reached it. The rubble was still warm. The thick smoke mixed with the fog and embraced the papyrus plants. The plants offered us a convenient refuge between their long stems, which rustled and leaned when the air was shaken by yet another fierce attack.

  The shrapnel flew over my head, and I could hear someone calling for help not far away. I wanted to continue my way through the papyrus, following the streams, along the muddy earth and away from the dangers of the road, which had become a deadly trap. There the planes were finding an easy hunt for more bodies. But once again Talib Halil, our driver, made it safely from the fire and began to honk, calling us to jump in again.

  I abandoned my original idea and jumped quickly into the vehicle, accompanied by wounded soldiers from another unit who were able to jump in as well. The same scene was repeating itself all along the road. Many fragments of bodies were scattered in the middle of the road, but I'll never forget the sight of one young soldier seated on the edge of the road with blood covering his shoulders and his back. He was looking toward the horizon and the stretch of grass and mud, moving his head in a familiar regretful way. He turned his back to us as the last light in his eyes mixed with the shreds of the dissipating fog. As we passed him, I looked through the window and followed the slow movement of his trunk back and forth. Oh. God, just a few minutes ago I had been moving like that. Was it the rhythm of the body's death? His hand was still pointing to the horizon, and his back was turned to the killing.

  The sun overcame the fog, and morning came just when we had given up completely; we set out, but to where? We were desperate; two airplanes roamed once more over our heads, wings shining under the sun. I warned the driver that we needed to stop and get out of the vehicle. We scattered in small groups between the folds of the earth, and its green grass embraced our bodies and welcomed our fear with its freshness.

  I stood on a sandy hill as the others moved away from me and hurried into the depths. I could see four missiles dropping on our small groups. At that moment, I found myself reproaching my mother's soul, which had appeared to me in my dreams two days earlier. She had told me that I would get back home safely. I asked her, "Mama, how could you have foretold my safety when death is here, falling on me, buzzing, with its wings open wide?" I saw the missile hit four vehicles in the road, where we had split in two directions. Shrapnel flew, and our vehicle was trapped between two fires as we stared at it as if it called to us: "Come on, let's go. The journey is long."

  Sudden cries rose up, coming from what remained of the groups of soldiers. The scene was one of hysteria-soldiers embracing each other, then separating and covering their faces with their palms. Vehicles began to stop, and soldiers walked back and forth: jumping, embracing, crying out. Plucking up my courage, I reassembled my shattered self and tried to walk but felt unable to move, as if my back were still broken. I realized how perfect that expression was for describing a fate-stricken person. Indeed, my back was broken, and my country's back was broken too. When I reached those groups, I learned that a cease-fire would go into effect at 8:oo a.m.-in just two minutes. How could they have been killing us only five minutes earlier? Five minutes had separated many young men from life. I threw myself on the side of a dried stream and looked for my cigarettes. I took one and caressed it with my fingers, inhaling its smoke deeply; I could hardly hold it with my shaking fingers.

  I pulled myself together and catapulted my body forward. Others made it ahead of me to the vehicle crossing the road. Crying together, we left the fire behind, along with the remnants of our brothers. We wailed in mourning; we entered the gates of the small southern towns, whose people came out at our sudden appearance, inquiring about what had happened, about a son, a brother, a husband, and about us.

  Many wome
n scattered sand on top of their heads, and others beat their chests with their hands in a historical reenactment of the killings that had always taken place there. The towns we entered seemed very strange and bitter. This time, defeat had been declared. As we made our way to one town's center, a young boy welcomed us with the sign of victory, but he purposely put it upside down.

  "Yes, little boy, you are right. The mud of our defeat is what we brought to you. You have to look for a way that starts from here, from the chaos of this bloody return."12

  When I emerged from these bloody pages, I was weeping in horror. Although I was familiar with most of what had happened, I still sank into a deep sorrow. I lay there shivering until I fell into a deep sleep, as if my head, crowded with scenes of horror, had shaken off everything and become empty. When I woke up and looked in the mirror, I was pale, as though sick. It was four o'clock.

  WHEN FIANCA, the maid, opened the door to me, I heard Samiha's voice welcoming me from the living room. She was lying on the couch, suffering from back pain. She told me about some faded memories that I wasn't interested in hearing about. I tried to listen to her, but Moosa kept intruding.

  Samiha told me that she needed to stay home. (Moosa reiterates, "I jumped from the vehicle; my feet plunged into the mud.") Samiha sat with a pillow behind her back, moaning. (Moosa says that the soldiers along the streets walked barefoot.) She said, "If I have to go see the doctor, I'd like you to come with me." (Moosa's voice slips in: a morning of fire and bodies drilled with shrapnel.) Fianca told me that Samih was waiting for me. (Moosa reminds me of our appointment the next day). Samiha pointed to a pile of newspapers on the table. (Moosa asks me about the nature of my feelings toward him).

  In the room decorated in Arabian style, Samih sat near his lute, smiling as usual. Fianca set down two cups of coffee and two glasses of water.

  "Today," he said, "no need to read. I think it's a day for chat."

  This wasn't part of our contract, but I acquiesced and found it convenient. Samih asked me about what had happened at the Refugee Office and to which country I would be sent.

  I answered, "Perhaps I will go to Australia, the other side of the world."

  He said, "There is a shining place waiting for you."

  I didn't know why he said that, so I asked, "Do you think things will be okay?"

  "You'll have to adjust. I've heard that the standard of living there is one of the highest; it's the country of pineapple, natural resources, and virgin land. People there live in the present, whereas we hold on to our sorrows."

  I said to him, "We-I mean'I'-need a decent present in order to continue. The absence of an enticing present leaves us no choice but to discuss our memories time and again."

  Samih objected. "There are many incentives for the present, but we don't acknowledge them. They are with us, within and around us, but our insight-I mean your insight-is obstructed. But isn't that what you've been wishing for? At least you don't have to worry about your relocation."

  "Worry never ends. It might recede, but it never ends, not just for me, but for all Iraqis-those who live under the regime's hammer and those who have left the country looking for another life."

  "God will help you."

  "It looks as if this is our destiny-a diaspora growing bigger over the years."

  "No, things are different from what you think. If every dissident left the country, that would give the ruler, who had brought calamities upon the country, a new, longer life."

  "What you say is true, but many were forced to do exactly that. The world knows only what it sees on television screens or in newspapers. The details of our lives and misfortune are known only to us. As for me, you know my problem; although I have nothing to do with politics and don't even understand its games, I am entrapped in its snare. I'm a woman who longs for a peaceful life: a house, a husband and children, reading and intimate relationships. Unfortunately, I have found myself outside these dreams. I don't know how to handle what has happened to me, but my people's cause is a tragedy, and I'm merely a small part of it."

  I wanted to tell Samih that a man had entered my life at the wrong time and that my feelings toward him were mixed. At that very instant, I wanted to fly to that man, but I was afraid that when I arrived, my wings would fall apart. I decided not to tell Samih about him.

  I looked at Samih. He was silent. I didn't know if he was with me or in another place. When he spoke, his voice was sad. "If you emigrate, I'll find it difficult to adjust to another person."

  "There's nothing extraordinary about me. I just do my work. Wasn t there a woman before me doing the same job?"

  He said in a low voice, "You're different."

  He lapsed into silence before he said, "You arouse my feelings." Then he emended, "Sorry. I hope you don't get me wrong-I'm in love with your voice." Then he said, "Don t misinterpret; I just wanted to say that with you I see things better."

  Before he could return to his lute, I said, "There are specialized centers where they teach blind people how to read with the computer. Why don t you sign up?"

  He said, "I don't feel close to a computer; it doesn't have a soul, and I can't have a dialogue with it. I believe in intimate and warm relationships." Then he grabbed his lute and began to strum on it. A delicate echo of sadness wafted from it. The chords called for relaxation and harmony with nature, then became more intricate, forming a melody that rose and carried me high. I could see myself galloping on a green meadow, like a horse freed from her reins. I could see colorful images I'd never seen before. The lute suddenly fell silent and left me stranded.

  ON THE WAY TO HASHEMITE SQUARE, I met the same woman who had previously been sitting on the sidewalk. Next to her was another woman selling loofahs, black bath stones, tweezers, and needles. I wasn't paying attention to her face as I greeted the two women and sat. But before I could extend my hand to the incense sticks, the second woman shrieked, "Huda?"

  The world is like a village; fate leads its dwellers to meet one another. But it is also as large as an endless universe, where each human is just a dot lost in the emptiness. In Amman, you may run into a neighbor or a friend or any other person you have met during the journey of your life, but in your own country you may not meet that person for years. Everybody here, especially in the downtown area and Hashemite Square, became a familiar face as long as we all carried the same tragedy. A faded cloak and intertwined wrinkles like an old tree-that was Mother Khadija.

  I shrieked too. "Who? Mother Khadija? I cant believe it!"

  She hugged me like a daughter. I could feel her warm breaths on my chest.

  "Even you, Mother Khadija! What brought you here?"

  With the corner of her cloak, she was wiping her tears. "What could I do? I found myself destitute after the fire at the Factory of Hope; no one paid attention to me. All my friends had gone to a safe haven. Life is better here, except for the problems of residence."

  "And where do you live?"

  "At Talat al-Misdaar with Umm Hashim." She pointed to her neighbor.

  Umm Hashim replied, "We share the rent, we eat together, and..." She wanted to say more but then became busy with a customer.

  Mother Khadija was holding my fingers and squeezing them with affection. Then she asked, "And you, what are you doing here?"

  "I'm on the waiting list."

  She looked at me as though she didn't understand what I meant. I added, "I'm a refugee; I'm going to a Western country."

  "Which country?"

  "I don't know yet. Australia or Holland or maybe America or Canada."

  "Did you say America?"

  "Yes, perhaps America or another country."

  She stroked her chest as she asked a second time, "America, who hit us with missiles?"

  "If they accept me."

  "Things are so strange in this life-people seeking refuge with their killers."

  I said to her, "Mother Khadija, the killers have become numerous now, and the worst of them is he who emerges from your
own homeland."

  She didnt look convinced and said, "Despite this, we should not seek refuge from the bad only to fall prey to worse."

  "As Amin Maalouf puts it, the worst ruler is he who makes you hit yourself with the stick."

  "Who is Amin Maalouf?"

  "Huh? He's one of my relatives."

  Umm Hashim was listening but did not interrupt. I continued, "Who said that America is worse than our president? America wasn't alone when she hit us; more than twenty countries had allied with her, including many Arab countries. It is our president who invaded an Arab country, looted it, and chased away its people. Anyway, Mother Khadija, don't worry about that because I'm actually going to Australia."

  "I haven't heard of Australia. How far is it from here?"

  "It is at the end of the world."

  She opened her eyes wide. "The end of the world. That must be close to the day of resurrection."

  Umm Hashim joined in the laughter. Mother Khadija, holding me as if she were afraid of losing me, began to lament, "Oh, my daughter, our people are scattered like the beads of a broken necklace! No one can reunite us! It is God's will; perhaps it's a punishment because we have lost the purity of our soul."

  Umm Hashim objected, "On the contrary, we are the noblest people on earth-kind, tolerant, and generous."