Beyond Love (Middle East Literature in Translation)

by Hadiyya Hussein

  After a sleepless night, I found out that I was really leaning toward Moosa; my senses were awakening, waiting for his caress. I began to hear his voice-a fresh voice, whispering that life is an exhausting journey but that I have to live it fully.

  The rain knocked on the door and played slowly on the window while I fell asleep. I would tell him that I had been double-checking with myself. He would not be angry with me; he loved me. We would be together. Sleep conquered me.

  That night I ran on an endless carpet of grass and flowers crossed by streams and surrounded by fern and oleander trees. My steps were followed by music. I walked proudly to an unknown place that only my dreams' memory recognized. I walked while the streams murmured and colorful birds hovered with synchronized songs. The blue sky was embroidered with white clouds. A cart drawn by a golden horse came out of the diaphanous cloud. It halted near me, and from behind its velvety screens I could hear a voice calling me. Like a light bird, I jumped into the cart. The roaring wind pushed the cart mercilessly, and it flew far away. I screamed with all my force to the wind: "Stop your fury and cross the wide deserts! Take me back to Iraq's border or strike out these arid, infested times so that innocence may reveal itself!" The horse neighed and reared as if in danger, his coat turning from a transparent gold into a shining light. I rubbed my eyes and awoke exhausted, as though returning from a weary journey.

  THE suN's RAYs showered on the buildings. The air was filled with the scent of flowers. The streets were clean, and the morning just beginning. I prepared my words. It had been a month now. I would tell him that my feelings had been mixed. He knew that. Before I left for the telephone booth, I put my camel-bone necklace around my neck. I dialed the number.

  "Yes?"

  "Sorry, I think I have the wrong number."

  I dialed the number again, and the same voice answered.

  "Yes, who is this?"

  "I'm sorry. I'd like to speak to Moosa."

  "Moosa left. He went to Australia five days ago. I'm his friend Faisal."

  A bitter silence passed. He interrupted it, asking, "Are you Huda?"

  "Yes, I'm Huda."

  "He asked me to take care of you. If you need anything, call me. Think of me as your brother."

  "Thank you."

  "Moosa called yesterday. Once he's settled, he'll send his address. Do you have a phone number?"

  "No, I'll contact you. Thank you."

  At the first sign of spring, Moosa had left for Australia. We hadnt bid each other farewell, and I didn't have any explanation for what happened. I was bitter. Painful words took over and began to whip me. The other woman inside me awoke and began oppressing me.

  "The opportunity was there, Huda. It knocked at your door more than once, but you were preoccupied, busy. You spent your days asking sterile questions, falling into the well of memories, and distorting the present. Everything else changed taste and color except you. You looked at Moosa's feelings as though you controlled destinies. He was bored with your mood changes and your agitated feelings. He departed without a word of farewell, leaving you with a store of memories. Don't say you loved him. You were always looking for a love that didn't exist. You are a swaying soul. You have the same mood fluctuations as the river that witnessed your birth, and you will never enjoy the taste of love. Train yourself from now on to erase your wounds and keep the memories, but be careful not to get hurt."

  I found myself in my cold room, my teeth chattering. From afar, I could hear a cat's mewing, asking for help. While I was moaning under the blankets, trying to restrain my feelings, I said to myself, "You have nothing to lose in exile; you already lost everything when you left."

  The other woman attacked back, shaking me. "You are a scattered woman, difficult to put together."

  I said to her, "But I carry in me feelings of love that I'm sure one day will overflow."

  She yelled at me, "Stop it!"

  The mewing of the cat outside the door became inaudible, and my body relaxed, but my head was crowded with tens of faces wearing Moosa's features.

  THERE WAS A VASE with artificial flowers on a rectangular table. Three persons were seated at this table: the translator, the American delegate, and I. I looked at the American: a sharp face with piercing blue eyes. I tried to find in them something that would assuage my anxiety.

  I was shaking. The American's questions came at me through the translator.

  They were mostly the same questions that I had answered in my first meeting with the relocation official. The American delegate wanted to be sure about what I had said. I answered carefully and didn't lie, didn't falsify any claim.

  After about twenty minutes, the meeting was over. The translator informed me that my relocation in America depended on the delegate and that they would be in touch soon.

  "Congratulations."

  I heard that comment from many people as I walked out, but I left the office without responding. Something inside was squeezing me. I said to myself, "I should have changed my answers; perhaps the American delegate will reject me."

  Scared, I walked to the bus stop. I was so perplexed I almost crossed the street without noticing the traffic light. I was absentminded and not focusing on anything. Truncated images of faces and stories from different times got mixed up with the noise of the cars and the clamor of the street.

  I went into my room and closed the door carefully. I was afraid. I tried to rid myself of the idea that something was following me. I took off my clothes (sweaty in spite of the cold air) and slipped into my bed. The American delegate's face with its blue eyes jumped out at me. He kept asking me the same questions, and I kept giving the same answers, but distorting them a little bit by changing the dates. He was looking at me distrustfully, so I implored him, "Please-I'm not good for America."

  His face sharpened, and he didn't say a word. I was the one talking. I raved, I prattled, I turned the answers upside down. He held his head, clenched his fist, and hit the table, yelling, "You are rejected!"

  AMERICA DIDN'T REJECT ME. When I received the Refugee Office's answer a week later, I just said, "Thank you." My feelings were neutral. I wasn't happy, but at the same time I didn't plunge into sadness. I said to myself again, "I have nothing to lose; I've already lost a lot. Perhaps it is only politics that has depicted America as a monster devouring the world."

  Contrary to my previous habits, I wasn't exaggerating my fantasies about how horrible things might turn out. I was following the invisible stream that determines the steps and draws the itineraries of our lives. I was able to remove my mask in Amman's streets and walk naturally, without asking myself so many questions. Even my grandmother's voice had ceased to repeat her warnings to me. Youssef was becoming just part of the past. And Moosa, I found out through him that I had only liked the idea of being in love, as if I had wanted to avoid falling into the void.

  WHILE I WAS HAVING COFFEE, Samih said, "You'll be off for a few days."

  "What do you mean?"

  "The Ministry of Culture has chosen five lute players, including myself, to participate in a festival in Cairo. It's the first time I will travel outside Jordan."

  "I'll miss you. I will really miss you. I've gotten used to these feelings, poetry, music, and conversation."

  "I won't stay too long. But you should prepare yourself for an intensive schedule before I go. I would like to listen to more of al-Sayyab's poems. This poet awakens in me deep feelings that I can express only with music. I have in mind a project about al-Sayyab's exile. For that I'll need your help."

  "I'll help you. I'm sure this project will be an important transition in your artistic career."

  "In addition to what we have here in the library, Samiha can provide you with books about al-Sayyab."

  He seemed about to say something, but he kept silent, so I asked, "Is there anything you want to say?"

  "I wish you could take off the mask that keeps you from seeing the truth."

  I didn't understand and was confused, but I sai
d, "Sometimes we need masks to protect ourselves. That doesn't mean that we don't see the truth."

  "Sometimes, but not always."

  "Our emotional state is what determines truth. If I'm down, do I want the whole world to know about it?"

  "Only if the mask doesn't become the rule."

  "I promise many things in me will change."

  "Get ready for the new experience awaiting you in America."

  "I look forward to it."

  I DIDN'T VISIT MOTHER KHADIJA AGAIN and would never know what happened to her.

  One day I found myself in the Hashemite Square, where she usually sat with Umm Hashim. They weren't there. I walked downtown, looking at tired Iraqi faces. Near Restaurant al-Quds, I saw Umm Hashim; she was putting her money in her wallet. I picked up some incense sticks and gave her money. She didn't look at me.

  "How are you, Umm Hashim?" I asked.

  As soon as she lifted her eyes, she began imploring me to take back the quarter of a pound.

  "No need to be generous, Umm Hashim. Tell me, where is Mother Khadija?"

  "Oh, she left a while ago. As soon as she felt better, she decided to go back to Iraq. She said she wanted to die there, although she has no children. But she left a message for you."

  "What message?"

  "She said, 'Don't ever travel to America."'

  "And what do you think?"

  "Frankly, my daughter, I have another opinion."

  "What is it?"

  "Anyplace in the world is fine for us as long as we can live with dignity. Our life has become bitter. Go wherever you go, and God protect you."

  DATES DON'T MEAN ANYTHING when they don't leave a mark in the memory. Throughout the journey of our lives, some dates get inscribed, and others are erased. The dates that remain are those of birth, death, the first shiver of love, big joys and deep sadness, the last glance before departure, the last waves, and tears of farewells. Some dates are like pins poking the skin, producing the nervous prickling of fear. Some engrave themselves in the footsteps, on the walls, and in the heartbeat, whereas others spring up to hammer the head again and again during life's journey.

  March 4 will remain engraved as the birth of my new life. It's the day I would be leaving Amman for America. Here I was packing up my life into a bundle of thrift-shop clothing smelling of mothballs. I would also take a few Arabic books that I would need there, before I learned the new language. One bag would be enough; I would be getting rid of many things. I didn't get the time to participate in Samih's project. He called Samiha yesterday and said that he would be late. I sorted my papers-pages onto which I had transcribed my pain, papers with addresses and unimportant notes. I wouldn't need Nadia's diary. I didn't wish to carry sorrows, but my hand wouldn't let me tear it up. I would leave it there, on the table or under the bed, or perhaps I would bury it so that it would live longer, under the grape-seed tree. I wouldn't need her small bag with her personal belongings. I hadn't opened it when I picked up her things, so I opened it that day: eyeliner, a notebook, and a leather wallet. A photo of Nadia was in one of its pockets, a gloomy photo of a sad woman. I couldn't look at it long, lest I fell into a fit of crying. But as soon as I examined the other pocket, I almost fainted from the surprise. My body tingled, my joints weakened, and my fingers went numb. A cry was stifled in my chest.

  In the other pocket was a photo of Moosa. I could see it clearly; I wasn't dreaming. It was Moosa, although he looked a few years younger. I looked at the photo-it read "Your Emir." I remembered the letters that she began repeatedly with "My Emir." I could hear his voice saying, "I fled with my brother's identity. I wanted to preserve his memory. That's why I kept his name." I hadn't thought then to ask him about his real name.

  My body was still absorbing the effect of the surprise. After a few minutes, I rushed to the phone booth and called Faisal. I wrote down Moosa's address.

  Don't worry, Nadia, your letters will reach him. I sent the diary in an envelope without my name on it. I just wrote on a small piece of paper, "Nadia died, and this is what she left for you."

  That night Nadia came to me in my dreams. She wasn't angry or annoyed. Her face shone, and her soul was settled. She waved at me and disappeared.

  Fate had been kind to Moosa; they didn't meet again. How would his days have been if he had had to take her to the grave after this great love? Time had played its game with them. One after the other, each of them had come to Amman but had never met. After such a separation, though, her letters would still find him. I wondered how he would receive their abundance of impassioned feelings.

  I didn't ask myself whether what I did was the right thing to do, but I did wonder what would have happened if I had found out about Moosa after I married him.

  I would have fallen into endless sadness if not for an instant in which I felt that I was no longer the same person. I was no longer an easy prey to sorrow, and memories couldn't scare me. Another face, perhaps a new mask, was on me. Nadia's letters had inflamed me; they made me seek refuge in Moosa and escape my bitter memories, but without any consideration of my real feelings.

  I brushed off my hands and began putting my things in order. March 4 would separate the two stages of my life. On that day I could begin looking at Amman's streets with affection, paying attention to their details, filling my chest with the city's air. I could feel the market's crowdthe same crowd I used to avoid. Strangely enough, I didn't grow nostalgic. Where was this strong sense of resolution coming from? Only eight days before I traveled.

  After Samih heard about my travel plans, he called from Cairo to talk to me. He wished me happiness, but behind his voice I could feel suppressed weeping. The time for departure was approaching. One after another, I crossed out each day on the calendar.

  Only four days were left. I had gotten rid of surplus possessions, and everything was ready for the journey. Samih hadn't returned from Cairo. Samiha told me that he had met the Iraqi musician Nasseer Shamma, who asked him to join his group (the House of Arab Lute), and he was considering the offer. One day after another. The hands of the clock were running. Only two days left.

  I was not happy or sad, satisfied or angry. I wanted to discover the unknown and felt like a newborn. It was my last day in Amman-Amman that was bringing me my country's news through the waves of immigrants who were looking for their bread and escaping the fires of new wars. The exile I had suffered would be a mere rehearsal for longer days that would begin tomorrow.

  iT's MARCH 4. Samiha helps me carry my bag. She puts it in her car, and while she takes me to Queen Alya Airport, my eyes gather details of Amman before I miss it forever. A voice behind me cries: "Oh, stranger, where to?" And I repeat to myself what the poet Ibrahim al-Zabidi said when he departed for freedom thirty years ago:

  Oh, morning of Baghdad, Farewell,

  I'm entering exile.

  2. Ibid., 102.

  i. Anthony H. Cordesman and Ahmed S. Hashim, Iraq: Sanctions and Beyond (Boulder, Colo.: Westview Press, 1997), ioi.

  i. Abu Tabar, the "Father of the Ax," a supposed serial killer who terrorized Baghdad in 1972-73, but who was in fact working for Saddam Hussein's regime, killing those families who opposed it.

  2. Alessandro: a character in a famous Mexican film series.

  3. "The party": the Baath Party, which was the only party of government in Iraq until 2003.

  4. Umm: the Arabic word for "mother."

  5. Fatima al-Zahra: the daughter of the Prophet Mohammed and the mother of al-Hassan and al-Hussein.

  6. During the 19gos, the Iraqi government made it very difficult for Iraqis to travel abroad. They had to pay heavy taxes, around four hundred thousand Iraqi dinars (anywhere from three to four hundred US dollars), to be able to travel.

  7. Qur'an IX, 51.

  8. Bab al-Taous: one of the gates of the holy city of Najaf.

  9. The shrine of the prophet Elias is said to be on the Tigris River in Baghdad.

  10. Badr Shakir al-Sayyab (1926-64): Iraq's most ce
lebrated poet and one of the pioneers of the free-verse movement.

  ii. Abou-t-Tayyib Ahmad ibn al-Husayn al-Mutanabbi: an Arab (Iraqi-born) poet regarded as one of the greatest poets in the Arabic language.

  12. The material quoted is from a diary of an Iraqi soldier, poet Ali Abd el-Emir, dated March 2, 1991.

  13. Al-Hajjaj ibn Yusuf: an important provincial governor in Iraq during the Umayyad Empire whose methods of rule were very harsh and unpopular.

  Table of Contents

  Foreword, MIRIAM COOKE ix

  Acknowledgments xiii

  Introduction xv

  Beyond Love 1

  towns of Diwaniya, al-Hillah, al-Kut and al-Amarah and Mahmoudiya.."l

  The Shiite revolt spread and benefited from the presence of the coalition forces and from the help o

  At that time, the market was in its worst economic recession, although underwear wasn't as greatly a

  He'd said jokingly, "And how do you find me? Do I really look like Alessandro?"'

  My neighbor was responsible for the party's masquerades in our quarter.3

  She was unable to drag me into the party, and I hated the regime that brought wars and woes upon the

  "Don't be worried. Seek the help of al-Zahra, the mother of the Hassanayn.s

  THE HANDS OF MY BEDROOM CLOCK had stopped. I checked its battery to see if it had shifted out of pla

  The driver stopped and turned to her: "Say nothing will happen to us except what Allah has decreed f