Unsafe Haven, An

by Awar Jarrar, Nada

  —You’re mistaken, he says. My wife and children have just gone away for a short while, to her family in Europe.

  —They’re safe then?

  He nods.

  —But you’re upset that they left, aren’t you?

  He purses his lips and does not reply.

  —They’re better off wherever they are, believe me, she says. Anyone who has a chance to leave Syria and doesn’t is a fool. Will you see them again soon?

  —I hope so, Anas replies.

  Her eyes flicker, as if something has just occurred to her.

  —Then you have to help me, please, she says, still leaning against him.

  —What is it?

  —There’s another child. I … I came to Beirut to have her so that the family wouldn’t find out. I can’t possibly keep her. Please, you have to take her. You and your wife can take care of her.

  He shakes her hand off his arm, alarmed at what she has told him.

  —You’ve just had a baby? I thought you said your husband was dead.

  He is unmoved when she begins to cry.

  —Where is this baby? What have you done with her?

  He moves away to sit down, wondering if he has still to hear the worst of it.

  —Please. She is pleading with him now. Please listen to what I have to say before you make up your mind.

  She looks so miserable that he feels suddenly ashamed of himself for reacting so violently and motions for her to join him on the living-room sofa.

  —Tell me, he says quietly, his heart beating less urgently now, his mind clearing.

  *

  Later, lying on the bed in the spare room, he reminds himself that Fatima’s is hardly an unusual story. As the war in Syria goes into its fifth year, over four million people have already fled into neighbouring countries – Lebanon, Turkey, Iraq and Jordan – or made the long and perilous journey further on to Europe. Many of them, he knows, have faced still greater hardship than this young woman, but he is nonetheless moved by her plight, wishes somehow to honour her truthfulness with his own, wonders how his own circumstances coincide with hers.

  There are different ways of being a refugee, different expressions of displacement and dissonance, depending on the point at which we begin our experience of dislocation, the point at which our lives are first disrupted by the violence imposed on us by events that seem outside our control.

  Perhaps for Fatima, the experience has been something like stepping out of one black hole and falling straight into another that is deeper and darker because it is unknowable, something like losing your past and not having a vision of the future to sustain you through the present.

  When he married Brigitte, Anas had not reckoned on the dilemma that he would eventually face as a result. He sees now that in refusing her plea that they go into voluntary exile, he has inadvertently made refugees of himself and of his family, though ones obviously in a position of privilege.

  Like Fatima and millions of others, he has already lost the certainty of home, of belonging, and, in seeking refuge elsewhere, is imposing on the entitlement of others. He feels suddenly and intensely the oppression of his predicament, the want in it of dignity and expectation.

  Chapter 10

  The south of Lebanon is resplendent with flowers in spring: white and yellow daisies, crocuses, poppies and baby’s breath on green hills that dip towards the pungent sea, with, on the way, orchards of lemons and oranges and fields of banana trees nearly meeting the water. But although it is comforting, Hannah thinks, to know that the seasons and their fruits continue as before, it is not a perfect vista.

  The highway on either side is littered with rubbish – empty soft drink cans, plastic bags and tissue paper – while in some places small mounds of it lie smouldering in the sun. She sees a man with two large hessian bags slung over his shoulders picking up whatever is recyclable, his clothes and load covered with dust, his head bent to the task as cars whizz past dangerously close. To the left, where once there were terraces of trees and bush, are rows of low-rise buildings, many grey and unfinished, shoddy constructions that house some of the tens of thousands displaced by Israel’s twenty-year occupation of vast areas of the south, and who have, since the liberation in 2000, nonetheless remained.

  As each conflict has developed and eventually made way for the next, waves of migrants have followed in its wake; the human make-up of this country, this region, is constantly changing, loyalties forever unfixed, and those left behind, whether Lebanese or Palestinian, whether from Syria, Iraq, Libya or Yemen, find themselves disconnected and dependent on whatever and whomever provides reprieve from this state of drifting. Is dispossession exclusive to the poor and destitute or are we all in the same situation now?

  The Lebanon into which our ancestors were born was part of an Ottoman Empire that did not recognize it as an independent nation. After the end of the First World War and the defeat of the Turks, European leaders divided up the region into mandates which they ruled and used to expand their spheres of influence, and the Lebanon that eventually came into being included numerous religious communities in different parts of the country for whom the idea of unity meant little.

  Ours has always been a region of shifting identities, so what exactly does it mean to be Lebanese? This horrific war and its repercussions on Lebanon are putting our existence as a viable nation into question.

  Hannah sighs and glances at Fatima and her young son asleep on the back seat beside her. It had not been easy at first to persuade her to tell them where she and Wassim had been living. When Hannah began to suspect that Fatima had no intention of leaving the apartment, the young woman had finally relented and told them what they wanted to know.

  —We’ve been staying in an encampment with my husband’s family in the south, in a village not far from Tyre.

  —But what are you doing here in Beirut? Hannah asked.

  Fatima’s expression was sullen.

  —I have a place to stay at the Bourj al-Barajneh Palestinian camp. I have relatives there. I’ll go back as soon as Wassim starts to feel better. You don’t have to worry about me.

  Hannah was at a loss how to make the younger woman understand that she was only trying to help.

  —Wassim is already better, Fatima, she said gently. I just want to make sure you get back safely to your family. Is that where your husband’s relatives are, in the south?

  Fatima nodded.

  —Then we’ll take you there as soon as possible. You shouldn’t have to make the journey on your own.

  Now, after making sure Wassim still has his seatbelt on despite his reclining position, Hannah leans forward towards the front seat where Anas is sitting by the taxi driver. She taps him on the shoulder.

  —I’ll wake her up when we get closer to our destination, she says quietly. She’ll have to show us the way.

  Anas smiles and nods his assent.

  —Not far now, I think, he tells her. We’re already on the outskirts of Sidon. It’ll take us another twenty minutes or so to get to Tyre.

  Hannah leans back in her seat and looks out of the window again. She is aware of a feeling of discomfort growing inside her but cannot quite place it. This not knowing, this uncertainty will only lead to further anxiety, she knows. She takes a deep breath, closes her eyes and tries to focus only on her breathing, tries to push the fear away.

  *

  In Tyre, Fatima directs them to a small field on the outside of a village, a couple of kilometres from the sea. They take a right turn on to a dirt road, come to a stop at the end of it and get out of the car. Ahead of them are a dozen or so canvas tents on either side of a narrow concrete pathway. On one side of each of the tents is a large, plastic barrel that Hannah assumes contains water and further along, grouped together in a corner of the field, are a number of small, portable cabins. Hannah sighs with relief: at least they have some degree of sanitation.

  She watches as Wassim runs ahead of them and disappears into one of the tents. Prese
ntly, a man dressed in a dark grey gallabiyyah that falls down to his ankles emerges from the tent and begins to walk towards them. As he gets closer, Hannah notes his skin is weathered by the sun and his moustache is peppered with grey. Wrapped around his head is the traditional black and white headscarf worn by the inhabitants of rural regions of Syria and Palestine.

  Fatima rushes towards him and takes his hand.

  —Ammi, she greets him respectfully.

  He gives her a brief hug.

  —Where have you been, ya binti, he says pulling away again to look at her. Your cousin at the Bourj al-Barajneh camp sent a message asking about you and we’ve been very worried.

  —It’s Wassim, she replies, her voice trembling a little. He had an accident and these people took care of us.

  —An accident? What happened?

  —He’s fine now, Ammou. Please don’t worry.

  As if to prove her point, Wassim runs out of the tent followed by a motley group of barefoot children who gather around to stare at Anas and Hannah.

  Anas reaches out to shake the man’s hand and introduces himself. Hannah follows suit.

  —Ahlan, Fatima’s uncle says. Welcome to you both.

  Hannah feels a hand grab hers and looks down into the face of a little girl of about six, her hair pulled back in a pony tail, her eyes dark and tender.

  She smiles and reaches out to pat the child on the head.

  —Hello, Hannah says and the little girl squeezes her hand a little harder.

  Fatima’s uncle leads them towards the entrance of the tent he came out of earlier but Hannah’s companion tries to pull her past it.

  Hannah signals to Anas, tells him she’ll join him in a minute and follows the little girl to another tent further down the path. She bends down to get inside and hesitates for a moment until her eyes adjust to the darkness. The little girl points to Hannah’s shoes.

  —Take them off, she says.

  Hannah slips off her shoes and feels the smooth sur-face of the thin, straw carpet beneath her feet. In one corner of the tent, the concrete floor is bare and a young woman squats next to a little boy, rubbing vigorously at his head with a towel. Beside them is a circular tin tub filled with soapy water.

  The young woman looks up, notices Hannah’s presence and her hands go up to her uncovered head.

  —Oh!

  The little boy slips away from his mother.

  —Bassem, come back here, the woman shouts at him. I still have to comb your hair.

  —I’m sorry, Hannah blurts out. I shouldn’t have come in without calling out first.

  The woman smiles and reaches for a scarf which she wraps around her head.

  —That’s all right, she says. I can see Leila brought you with her. She loves to bring visitors.

  Hannah laughs.

  —Yes, but not in the middle of bathtime!

  —Leila, bring your brother back here and comb his hair before he gets it dirty again, the mother calls to the little girl.

  She motions for Hannah to sit down beside her on a long cushion on the floor.

  The inside of the tent is small but neat and Hannah is also impressed by its cleanliness. There are thin cushions for seats lined against one wall of what must be the living room and a single gas burner placed on a slab of wood not far from the area the little boy had bathed in with plates and cups stacked next to it. The kitchen, she supposes.

  Leila comes back in with her brother in tow and carrying a pink backpack that she hands to Hannah.

  —She wants to show you her schoolwork, the mother says.

  Hannah unzips the bag and takes out a worn notebook which Leila asks her to open. Inside is the unmistakable, unsteady writing of a child, the letters of the alphabet, in English and in Arabic, looking like drawings rather than mere symbols of sounds. She imagines Leila’s small head bent in an arc towards the page, a pencil in her hand, her mouth perhaps twitching a little as she attempts to reproduce an approximation of the letter. Though she knows the little girl is waiting for her reaction, Hannah is too moved to speak at first.

  —This is wonderful, she says finally, reaching out to cup Leila’s face with her hand. You are a very clever little girl, aren’t you?

  She turns to the mother.

  —I’m glad to see she’s going to school.

  —Well, she did the first few months we were here. She studied at a public school in a nearby village but she’s since had to stop.

  —But why? Hannah asks. Public schools are free here. I know they’ve been trying hard to accommodate children from Syria.

  The young woman looks at her for a moment and then smiles. Hannah notes compassion in her eyes and is surprised by that.

  —We could no longer afford to pay for the bus that takes her to and from school, the woman says gently. I’m trying to teach her here at home, though. She loves to learn. She points to a low wall of loose bricks piled on top of one another where Hannah can make out letters scratched on to the stone.

  —Your husband isn’t able to find work?

  —He’s working in an orchard not far from here at the moment. It’s picking season for oranges and lemons. Once that ends, we’re not sure what he’ll be able to do.

  Hannah wants to tell her that Syria has provided cheap labour for the construction industry in Lebanon for years.

  —Surely there’s plenty of manual work out there for him, she says instead, realizing that she might be coming across as patronizing.

  The woman continues to smile at her.

  —He needs a residence visa now and we don’t have the money to pay for it. There are new regulations for Syrian refugees living here.

  —I don’t understand. I didn’t know any laws had been introduced. I thought the borders were open and people could come and go as they pleased.

  —Why would you know? the woman says kindly. They don’t apply to you. The regulations require that we pay for a residence visa and also that we won’t try to work here. Very few people are able to comply with the law and without valid papers the authorities have the right to send us back to Syria. It’s happened to several families already.

  There is no sarcasm in her voice, though Hannah cannot tell if what she can sense in it is acceptance or resignation. Once again, she feels a burrowing sadness within, finds herself suffering the same discomfort in her chest she had felt earlier, her heart beating faster and faster until she thinks it might burst.

  After a moment, she reaches for her handbag and takes out her purse.

  —I’d like to help, she says. Please let me do that. It’s the least I can do.

  —Yes, replies the young woman matter-of-factly, her expression open and unashamed.

  *

  When, a little later, she joins Anas in the tent with Fatima and her family, Hannah finds them sitting on the floor drinking coffee. A woman pours out a cup and hands it to her.

  Anas turns to Hannah and smiles.

  —Abou Ahmad and Oum Ahmad insisted on extending their hospitality to us. This is Hannah, he continues. She’s the wife of the doctor who looked after Wassim.

  —May Allah keep you and your family safe. Oum Ahmad smiles at Hannah.

  —I’m just glad we were there at the time, Hannah replies. Those intersections are very dangerous, especially at night.

  Abou Ahmad clears his throat and looks directly at Anas.

  —You’re a fellow Syrian and I can be open with you. I’m not proud that I have to send the women and children out asking for money from strangers on the streets but what choice do we have? I get manual work occasionally but it’s not enough to keep us going. Our position here has become very precarious.

  —Have you registered with the UN agency for refugees? Hannah asks. Surely, they can help you.

  —We did that as soon as we arrived, but aid from the agency has been cut drastically and we get very little help now.

  His wife interrupts him.

  —Last time he went out looking for work, he was stopped by the a
uthorities and taken to jail because his papers weren’t in order, she says. They beat him and kept him there for two days. I thought they’d sent him back to Syria.

  Abou Ahmad looks embarrassed.

  —That’s enough, he tells her. Then, turning to Anas once again, he continues: I just don’t have the money for our visas. We already pay the landowner here rent. He shakes his head.

  —We understand, Anas says quietly.

  —It’s impossible here, Oum Ahmad says. We’d be better off taking our lives into our own hands and running away to Germany like others have done.

  —It’s a dangerous trip, Hannah says. Many have died on the way.

  —What do we have to lose? the woman asks. Look at the way we’re living now. We had homes and property once. We weren’t rich but we managed, our men worked and our children went to school.

  When they get up to leave, Hannah watches Anas take Abou Ahmad aside and hand the older man some money. She turns away so as not to embarrass him further and calls to Fatima.

  —We have to go now, Fatima, Hannah says quietly.

  The young woman pulls at Hannah’s arm until they’re outside the tent. She hands Hannah a piece of paper.

  —This is a copy of my identity card, she says. The artist said you would need it to find my family.

  —I hope we can. We’re definitely going to try.

  Fatima looks behind her towards the tent and moves closer to Hannah.

  —I don’t want my uncle to know about this, she says in a low voice.

  —I understand. I’ll let you know as soon as we’ve heard anything.

  On the way home, the look on Fatima’s face as she bade her goodbye returns to her. There was too much hope in it, Hannah thinks, closing her eyes.

  Chapter 11

  In leaving Iraq, Maysoun knows she also left behind the most vital period in her life when the dual struggles for love and for survival had dominated her every thought.

  During the bombing of Baghdad in 1991, which lasted for forty consecutive days, Maysoun and her mother had endured forty sleepless nights side by side in the bed in which her father had taken his last breath, their hands lightly touching as if to confirm their togetherness, their breathing strangely quiet for fear the mere sense of it would lead the carnage to them. Then, getting up to daylight, dazed from lack of sleep or from awe at still being alive, they would go out into the heavy air, into the black soot rained down on them by the Western allies that covered the streets and houses with its greyness, and laid waste to the living, to trees that would never bear fruit again, to people whose health would not recover, to a country capitulated.