They stop to cross the street at a busy intersection a few minutes away from their building, a traffic light that most drivers and pedestrians tend to ignore, and observe the chaos as drivers manoeuvre their vehicles through narrow gaps in the traffic, past cars that are double-parked on either side and between darting pedestrians. The small shops on either side of the road are also busy, women buying groceries on their return home from work, children running in and out of stationers for school supplies, people waiting to be served outside a sweetshop famous for its baqlawa and, on the pavement, constant movement.
Hannah is nervous because a group of refugees congregated at the intersection, as usual, do not seem wary enough of the cars whizzing past. It is getting dark and the street lights have not come on yet. The refugees are like shadows, she thinks, colourless and in some ways invisible to everyone else. She has seen them here before, remembers especially a young woman with a very young boy sitting together on the median strip running down the centre of the road. When night begins to fall, Hannah has watched the young woman wrap the boy tightly in her arms, both of them sitting very still, the little boy’s head on his mother’s shoulder, eyes open and searching. It is a disturbing sight.
Tonight, though, the little boy is up and about, moving between vehicles, at times running after them and begging for money. But before Hannah can point this out to Peter, the boy grabs the door handle of a large four-wheel drive and jumps on to the car just as the light changes and the vehicle begins to move forward. He is so small she is almost sure that the driver will not have seen him. The boy’s head snaps back and he is thrown off the car and on to the road with a heavy thud. The mother screams and the car immediately behind comes to an abrupt halt. Hannah and Peter run towards the child, gesturing to the vehicles on either side of the road to stop.
The driver of the four-wheel drive walks over to them.
—What happened? he asks anxiously. I swear I didn’t see him until it was too late.
People get out of their cars and come up to see what has happened.
Peter bends down to check on the boy as the mother tries to pick her son up, her wailing overwhelming the commotion around them. Hannah holds her back.
—My husband is a doctor, she says in a firm voice. Let him take care of your son.
Someone pulls the woman further away and she stands at a distance, whimpering quietly now.
—What was the child doing in the middle of the road? someone protests.
—They should have a policeman at this junction, another man says. It’s getting dangerous.
—It’s dangerous because these people insist on accosting us and begging for money.
—Is the child all right? Shouldn’t someone take him to hospital?
Hannah squats down beside Peter and watches him check the child’s pulse and gently pull up one of his eyelids. The little boy begins to stir.
Moments later, Peter turns to Hannah.
—I think he’s going to be OK. But it would be a good idea to take him to A & E to be properly checked. He has to be kept awake for a while to make sure he’s not concussed and that the shock hasn’t been too much for him.
He lifts the child off the ground and feels the back of his head.
—Nothing seems to be broken, he says, urging the boy to stand up on his own.
A man comes out of one of the shops on the corner with two bottles of water for the boy and his mother.
Moments later, once reassured that the boy is conscious and in good hands, the crowd that has amassed at the intersection disperses and the cars stopped on either side also drive off. Peter and Hannah remain standing on the pavement with the boy and his mother.
—You talk to her, Hannah, Peter says. There’s no way she’ll understand my Arabic. Tell her he has to be taken to hospital.
—We’ll have to take her, Peter. She won’t be let in on her own.
Hannah turns to the boy’s mother and explains the situation to her.
—No, the young woman exclaims, pointing to Peter. Let your husband treat him. We can’t go to hospital.
—My husband can only do so much, Hannah says quietly. Your son needs to be properly checked.
The young woman reaches for her child; she picks him up and begins to walk away.
—She probably doesn’t have any papers and is here illegally, Hannah says. She’s afraid of getting into trouble if she goes for help. What should we do?
Peter frowns.
—I suppose we can take them over to our place for now, he tells Hannah. I can keep an eye on him there. It’s better than letting them leave like this. Were there any other family members with them?
—There might have been but they ran away after the boy fell, says Hannah, shaking her head. I guess they were worried about getting into trouble if any policemen turned up.
She reaches for the woman’s arm and explains that Peter wants to make sure the boy gets safely through the next couple of hours.
—You can come with us, Hannah says reassuringly. We won’t go to the hospital. Don’t be afraid. We only want to help.
Once at the apartment, Hannah and Peter lead the two into the living room and ask them to sit down but they remain standing in the doorway, looking hesitant.
Hannah squats down to speak to the boy.
—What’s your name? she asks.
She is surprised at the intense blue of his eyes. His other features are difficult to make out since his face is covered with dirt. Hannah smiles encouragingly at him but he does not reply.
She stands up again and looks at the mother, who by now is trembling.
My God, Hannah thinks, she is a child herself. The veil wrapped around her head is dark and frayed at the edges but her skin is clear and her features are delicate. Beneath the clear anxiety in her eyes, Hannah also sees diffidence, and thinks that perhaps the young mother is reluctant to give in too easily to her vulnerability.
—There’s no need to be afraid, Hannah says. We only brought you here because my husband needs to observe your son for a few hours. It’s important that he doesn’t go to sleep. Do you understand?
The woman nods.
—We’re not going to call the police, I promise. You don’t even have to tell me your name. My name is Hannah.
—I’m Fatima, the young woman finally says.
—OK, Fatima. Just sit down and I’ll get you something to eat.
—I’m going inside to change, Peter says. I’ll be back in a bit to help you, sweetheart.
She makes sandwiches and brings them into the sitting room with a large bottle of water.
—Let me show you where the bathroom is. You can wash your hands there.
Fatima frowns.
—We haven’t always been like this, you know, she suddenly blurts out. I kept a spotless house and my son was always clean.
—I’m sorry. Hannah feels instantly contrite.
—It’s only since we had to leave home, Fatima continues, her voice rising and tears streaming down her face. We don’t have a proper place to stay and things have been so difficult.
Hannah attempts to put an arm around Fatima and feels her flinch. The little boy begins to whimper too.
They all three stand still for a moment.
—The little one is probably hungry, Hannah finally says. Let’s see if we can get him to eat something, shall we?
—I’ll just take him in for a wash first, Fatima says coldly.
When Anas arrives a while later just as Peter is checking on the child again, Hannah tells him what has happened.
—Just tell the mother he’s likely to have a bump on his head for a few days but he’ll be fine, Peter says.
—We can’t let them leave now, says Hannah. It’s dark out and the child might get sick again. Surely we can ask her to stay here for the night?
—If you can persuade her to stay, it’s fine by me.
Hannah turns to Anas with a look of despair and speaks to him in English.
—You
talk to her, she says. She won’t tell me much except that she’s in Beirut with her son on her own and doesn’t know where her parents are. I … I think she’s afraid we’ll report her to the authorities and she’ll be deported. Maybe she’d be more comfortable talking to you because you’re from Syria too.
Anas introduces himself and at the sound of his voice, his familiar accent, Fatima is visibly relieved. She tells him that she arrived in Lebanon several months ago with members of her husband’s family.
—What about your parents and siblings? Anas asks gently.
—They used to live on the outskirts of Damascus and escaped when their neighbourhood was taken over by rebels. I haven’t heard from them since. I need to find them. Can you help me?
—We can try but you need to stay here tonight in case the little boy needs the doctor’s help. Will you do that?
—Yes.
Once Fatima and her son are settled on a mattress on the living-room floor, Hannah and Peter talk in their room, as they prepare to sleep, of how they can help her further.
—The most important thing would be to get her back to her family, Peter says.
—They might be anywhere at this point. How are we going to find them?
—Maysoun might be able to help. But Fatima will have to be willing to provide her full name and identity card.
—Anas seems to have gained her trust. I’m sure he’ll be able to persuade her to do that. I’ll talk to her again in the morning. She may be less resistant after a good night’s sleep.
—I’ll call Maysoun first thing then.
Peter smiles and smoothes back a lock of hair that has fallen over Hannah’s eyes.
—So now we’re looking for Fatima’s family as well as Anas’s?
—I suppose we are, he replies.
—I’m glad, Hannah says, leaning forward to kiss him.
She has sometimes wondered what it must be like for him, living here, in the midst of this turbulence, his past so remote and inaccessible. If he is here primarily because of her, then are there times when he might regret his decision to remain? From the start, she had told him she would not be willing to move to the United States, this despite the better prospects of work for him there, despite the obvious advantages of living in a country where he would enjoy full rights.
She had explained before they got married that in Lebanon women do not have the right to pass on citizenship to their spouses, and not being a citizen meant Peter could not practise medicine here. His solution to this problem had been to find a job as a consultant in an international organization that focused on matters of health. Although he has reassured her time and again that this is exactly the kind of work that gives him the most satisfaction, especially in view of the current situation, she worries now, after her recent conversation with Anas, that he may not have been completely honest with her about this.
And while she knows he has never been particularly close to his family, she suspects there must be a great deal that he misses about home: the relative ease and comfort of it; the room to breathe in relationships that do not so readily become demanding and perpetually binding. She knows also that there have been moments when he has been unsure of his place here, has seen in his eyes an expression of bewilderment at the circumstances that surround him, even a measure of impatience which scares her because it is unclear where it may lead. Once or twice in recent months, as the situation in the country has worsened, she has asked him if he ever has thoughts of leaving, and rather than completely deny it as he has done before, his reply was that he would never dream of leaving without her wanting to as well.
It occurs to her now that her position with Peter is not very different from that Anas faces with his wife, and while she cannot see him taking off and leaving her behind as Brigitte has done, she wonders if there will be a moment in the near future when their relationship too will be threatened by the events that surround them.
Yet she knows these troubling thoughts only come to her at night when she is a vague version of herself, the dark and silence scattering the bits of her that are strongest and most determined into the atmosphere like dust. This is how she waits impatiently for the day, for movement, for speech, for those, like herself, who wake up counting on something happening, one small thing that will reassure them once again that they are not alone.
—By the way, how was your trip to the encampments in the Bekaa? Peter asks. With everything going on I haven’t asked about your work.
—It’s going well, habibi. There is an overwhelming number of tragic stories to report on. It’s heartbreaking. They’re sending a photographer from England in a couple of weeks so I need to have everything sorted out by then.
—How many pieces do you have to write?
—At least two, I guess. The paper has commissioned articles about the camps in Jordan and Turkey as well.
—I would have thought with the number of refugees escaping to Europe now, there wouldn’t be much interest in the West about what’s going on in the Middle East.
—But that’s exactly why they’ve asked for these articles. There hasn’t been enough coverage of the millions of homeless Syrians in countries in the region.
Peter lies back on his pillow and looks at Hannah.
—I’m proud of you, sweetheart, he says as he closes his eyes. I just want you to know that.
She is suddenly aware of her heart beating and places a hand on her chest as if in an attempt to slow it down a little. She leans towards Peter and whispers in his ear.
—Thanks for your confidence in me, habibi.
But Peter is already fast asleep.
Chapter 9
Fatima sits on the floor in the living room with Wassim asleep in her lap. It is dark outside, Hannah and Peter have already gone to bed, and as she begins to recount her story Anas feels himself sink into a deep silence.
—The bombing was terrifying, she begins. They used all kinds of weapons on my husband’s village, shot at us from aeroplanes, tanks and machine guns. We had no shelters to go to, nowhere to hide, and I knew if I didn’t get out of there, we would be killed.
—I gathered a few of our things, picked Wassim up and left. There were lots of other people gathered in the streets and I joined my husband’s family. We’d heard about villages elsewhere being bombed and held under siege, of people being starved inside their own homes or rounded up and slaughtered, and we knew we had to get away quickly.
She pauses and bends her head to look at her son.
—I lost my husband nearly four years ago, a few months after the war began. He was conscripted into the army and was killed very early on. I told myself at the time that I would not abandon our house, that I would hold on to it for Wassim no matter what, but that was not to be.
Fatima’s narrative goes backwards and forwards in time and still Anas only listens.
—I never wanted to get married, she continues. I wanted to stay on at school but my father was adamant, said it was a good match and that he would be happy to get me off his hands. My husband was a good man and his family treated me well, but I was much happier when I was at home with my own family.
She looks into the distance and clears her throat.
—Anyway, we managed to get out of the village and made it across the border to the narrow strip of land between Syria and Lebanon. For a while, we stayed in a camp set up there by an aid agency but eventually moved on. My husband’s uncle decided we should go south, to a village on the coast where he used to work for a wealthy Lebanese family that owns citrus groves. He said they might be able to help us, that the men would be able to get work and earn money to keep their families.
—At first I wanted to stay on at the camp on the border because I kept hoping that my parents would turn up and take me with them. When that didn’t happen I agreed to leave. What I didn’t realize was that we would be swapping one camp for another where the conditions were just as bad.
Anas interrupts her at this point.
&n
bsp; —So you don’t know where your parents are?
She shakes her head.
—We weren’t able to keep in touch because of the fighting. I heard through someone at the border camp that they had also left Syria but they have never been in touch. I don’t know how I ever thought they would be able to find me.
Wassim stirs and she starts to rock him back and forth in her arms.
—Do you have a wife? she suddenly asks Anas.
—Yes, I do, he replies. I have a son too, and a daughter.
—Why aren’t they here with you?
—I’m only here for a short while, for work. We live in Damascus.
—You left them there?
—That’s where our home is, he says, the irritation he is suddenly feeling in his voice.
She looks at him and says nothing.
—Anyway, he continues, they’ve left now.
—Where to?
He decides to redirect the conversation to her account.
—What brought you to Beirut?
She blinks and avoids looking directly at him.
—I thought you said you went down south with your husband’s people, Fatima?
She leans over and hands him the little boy, then gets up and walks to the other side of the living room where Hannah put down a mattress and some pillows and blankets earlier. Anas carries Wassim over to the mattress and puts him down, pulling the covers up over him and gently caressing the top of his head. For a moment, he is reminded of his own children and feels a sudden sharp pain in his chest at the thought.
—You’re missing your own son, aren’t you? she asks once Anas stands up again. You don’t know where your family is either.
They are standing very close to each other now, her voice low though not menacing. She puts a hand on his arm and leans into him so that he has to shift on his legs to steady himself.
—I could tell you would understand, she says with urgency. The moment you came in this evening, I knew I could trust you. The others are kind but they don’t know what it’s like for us.
Her face is very close to his and he feels a strong desire to step away but does not for fear of offending her.
Unsafe Haven, An Page 5