Unsafe Haven, An

by Awar Jarrar, Nada

  Once the bombing stopped, what followed, Maysoun discovered, was to be even more difficult to endure. The sanctions that were meant to weaken the regime impoverished the Iraqi people even further while at the same time served to fill the pockets of the dictator and his cronies.

  Maysoun’s mother held down a menial job just to make ends meet while Maysoun herself searched for work in vain; there was no place in the new order for the educated youth. Bit by bit, and like so many others, the two women began to sell off their jewellery, those pieces that had made up her mother’s dowry as well as the beautiful gold bangles that Maysoun’s grandmother had given her for her coming of age. Walking through the old souks looking for buyers, Maysoun’s eyes would fill with tears at the sight of people peddling their precious belongings: rare books and antique furniture, family heirlooms, pots and pans, clothing and household goods, anything that could hold destitution at bay even briefly.

  Then in the midst of an unprecedented crime wave brought on by the collapse of civil society and its institutions, as the residents of one of ancient Mesopotamia’s most revered cities reeled at the sudden viciousness of some of its residents, Maysoun found love at a small get-together organized by one of her friends.

  Kamel had just completed his studies in medicine and had decided, he told her, not to practise in protest at a presidential decree that doctors, engineers and other professionals be forbidden from leaving the country.

  —Would you believe me if I told you I have an American passport? he began in a seductive voice, made tipsy by drinking. My parents, after emigrating to the United States when my siblings and I were very young, decided, in their wisdom, to return. I was thirteen at the time and had begun to think of American suburbia as home.

  She felt restrained energy in him, warmth radiating from his dark skin that made her want to get closer, that drew her in.

  —But why would your parents come back here when everyone is trying to run away? she asked, astonished.

  He put his head back and laughed out loud.

  —They did not want us to grow up knowing nothing about our background, our home country.

  She smelled the alcohol in his breath, the rich scent of aniseed and spirits.

  —Then the situation here turned bad, of course, he continued, and my father decided to move to Libya where he had found a job. By then, I was halfway through medical school and had no choice but to stay on here and finish.

  For a moment, she felt as though they were alone in the room.

  —And now the authorities won’t allow you to leave, she said quietly. You’re trapped just like the rest of us, despite your foreign passport.

  They stood very close together and, because he was only a little taller than she was, Maysoun looked directly into his eyes, saw in them, alongside the haziness brought on by drink, unmistakable anguish, and felt suddenly embarrassed at her longing to embrace a man who until a few moments before had been a complete stranger.

  —You’re blushing, he said softly. It’s sweet.

  —I … I’m sorry.

  He smiled and leaned in to whisper in her ear.

  —I feel the connection too, Maysoun.

  When it was time for her to leave, Kamel took her hand, called to a couple of his friends to join him, and drove her home.

  —I’ll pick you up tomorrow, early evening, he told her as she prepared to get out of the car. You go on now. We’ll just hang on here until you get safely inside.

  How is she to describe what followed? Though she knows well the story’s end, where would the telling have to begin to reveal its true meaning?

  He had been her refuge, her light and darkness, a source of unending love and a possessor of innate wisdom unexpected in one so young. He was friend and brother, as tender in his lovemaking as he was in the humdrum interactions of everyday life, so expansive of heart that with him she had felt her horizons open up to a world unlike anything she could have imagined, where there was the possibility of being at the centre of all that is good and complete and still survive in the midst of disorder and decay, of having the choice to live magnificently.

  It seemed to her sometimes that they spent more time talking than anything else, alone together in his house, walking down the street, with friends and at every opportunity, conversations that not only rejuvenated her but served also to reconfigure her notion of self, as though these words exchanged contained within them a cure for low self-worth, helped make cohesive in her what had once been untold.

  Yet, throughout the relationship, she had also been aware of her own role as observer of Kamel’s increasing despair, a tilting of his equilibrium that was fuelled by heartbreak over the situation as well as a growing dependence on alcohol. When demonstrations by young men who believed in the promises of support for insurgence made to them by Western politicians began to take place around the country, their bravery was met with brutal repression within and complete silence without. Hearing of the disappearance of two of his cousins, Kamel felt greater anguish and told Maysoun he would have to find a way to escape Iraq before things got worse still. He said he could not bear this state of affairs any longer.

  —You will come with me, my darling, he said. I’ll take you to America with me and we’ll be together always.

  A year or so later, Kamel was shot and killed for the few dollars he kept in his bedside drawer, the murderer one of the friends he had introduced her to the night he and Maysoun had met.

  Going on had seemed impossible at first but the worsening situation and concern for her mother’s welfare prevented Maysoun from breaking down. She began to investigate how they might leave the country, perhaps crossing the border to Syria and then seeking refuge somewhere in Europe or even as far away as America or New Zealand where many fellow Iraqis had settled after the war. But a presidential decision forbidding women from travelling unless accompanied by a male guardian made escape impossible, since Maysoun had neither the connections nor the money to bribe her away across the border in defiance of the new law.

  If she had thought Kamel’s dying would be the end of her, then she could not have anticipated the humiliations and horrors that followed, could not have seen herself endure a week’s incarceration by the police during their investigation of his murder, would not have felt herself die and come back to life again on her release. In moments of emotional lucidity, she admits that Kamel’s anguish and alcoholism might eventually have destroyed her too had he remained alive, but even that thought does not help assuage a grief that, years later, continues to burn inside her.

  As it was, soon after Kamel’s killer was put on trial and convicted, Maysoun was offered a job with the International Red Cross, one of several relief organizations entrusted with the implementation of the Oil-for-Food Programme introduced by the United Nations to relieve the plight of the Iraqi population. It seemed to her then that what life had taken away from her with one hand, it was giving back with the other, uneven though the equation was. When she was given the opportunity to transfer to the office in Beirut, she thought she would have to turn it down at first because her mother refused to leave with her.

  —You need to go, her mother said, and make a proper life for yourself elsewhere, Maysoun. Go live your life and leave me here. This is where I will always belong.

  Since then, Maysoun regularly sends money to her mother, telephones her on a weekly basis and has been back to see her twice since her departure.

  Perhaps, Maysoun tells herself, it is not injustice we continue to suffer but the ambiguity that lies beyond it, the interval between insurmountable distress and that moment which falls short of finding inner peace.

  *

  Looking at her computer screen, Maysoun glimpses New Zealand from the terrace of Jalal’s home, an expanse of deep and differing shades of green that she has never seen elsewhere, damp air visible as light fog, faint outlines of a city in the distance and what seems like infinite room to breathe.

  —Can you see the view? he asks. Ar
e you there, Maysoun?

  —Yes, yes, I’m still here. It’s beautiful, just as you described it.

  Jalal’s face appears on the computer screen again.

  —It’s been raining today, that’s why the view isn’t too clear, he says, smiling. Usually, when the weather’s good, we can see all the way to the ocean.

  —It looks so clean. I can almost smell the freshness in the air.

  —Makes a change from the diesel fumes of Beirut, doesn’t it?

  Maysoun laughs.

  —Yes, it does, she says.

  It gives her pleasure to look at him, the warmth in his eyes, his face so familiar that she can make out the changing years in it, the boisterous, outgoing boy she had known as a child not far beneath the kind man with greying temples that he has become.

  A relative on her father’s side of the family, Jalal had lived only a few streets away in Baghdad, and had been, along with his two younger sisters, a frequent visitor to the house as a child; he came to play alongside Maysoun in her beloved garden and, like her, sought shade beneath the floating fragrance of the naranj trees.

  He had left Baghdad to study abroad and when he returned, married and had two children. Maysoun kept in touch with Jalal and his family throughout this period, during the First Gulf War and then his young wife’s illness with cancer and her untimely death. But when the prospect of another American attack on Iraq became real in 2003, he decided to leave, taking his children and sisters with him. She did not hear from him for several years but in recent months, they have reconnected through video calls and they have been speaking regularly.

  —How are things in Beirut? he asks her. It must be getting more and more difficult for you there, having to cope on your own.

  —I’m doing good work here, Jalal. As you know, we’re dealing with a terrible refugee crisis now.

  —Yes, of course. I know you are. I’m just concerned about you. After all that’s happened in your life, maybe it’s time you took it easy and started taking better care of yourself.

  —Jalal, even speaking in Arabic, you’re sounding like a Westerner now. How can I take it easy when things are so bad here and need our attention?

  He shakes his head.

  —Why do you always feel you should suffer along with others, Maysoun?

  —That’s not what I meant.

  —Perhaps it isn’t, he says after a pause. I was actually going to ask you to think about coming out here for a while, to see how you like it. There’s a small but very active Iraqi community in Auckland and I think you would fit in well.

  —Fit in? What do you mean?

  —Just that you might want to stay on, that’s all. Finally get away from that troubled part of the world and discover how different life can be.

  She tries to imagine what life abroad would be like, imagines the certainty in it and, during moments of aloneness, a yearning for connection. It is inconceivable to her, the idea of being so far away, though she is not sure quite what this might mean since she is no longer home. She admits that even if she were to return to Iraq, it would never again be the country that had once granted her fortitude and purpose.

  She remembers walking to school earlier than usual one morning – she would have been no more than eight or nine at the time – when the leather satchel that she carried on her back suddenly came open and all the books, notebooks and pencils in it fell to the ground. The street was empty, the children she usually encountered on her way not there at that hour, and, bending down to retrieve her things, Maysoun had felt, perhaps for the first time, the sensation of being entirely alone.

  For a moment, she thought she heard the trees murmur her name and felt the wind nudging at her, its touch on the small of her back gentle but insistent. Maysoun, Maysoun, the trees called as her body suddenly lifted itself off the ground and hovered there, her breath expanding to take in the street and all the houses in it, embracing the trees and the surrounding air, containing in it all that she knew, her life so far and what was to come, the love she would encounter, and, further in the distance, fears that would not prove fearful, solitude without loneliness, communion with the spirit, a final acceptance and a willingness to keep.

  —Maysoun? Can you hear me?

  Jalal’s voice wakes her from her reverie.

  —Yes, yes. I’m here. She smiles to reassure him.

  —Will you at least consider paying us a visit here sometime soon?

  It is entirely possible, thinks Maysoun, that we only happen upon home once in this lifetime and that my chance has already come and gone. What then would I have to lose in leaving again?

  —Of course I will, she tells Jalal. I’ll definitely think about it.

  Chapter 12

  Anas ponders, as they sit waiting in the restaurant, how he might best depict the steel-grey colour the man had worn, the suggestion of a taut body underneath, the scarf coiled on top of his head, the way his eyes moved restlessly as he spoke, and the mixture of dignity and defencelessness in his manner. Anas moves the empty plate in front of him to another corner of the table and begins to draw imaginary lines with his fingers on to the white tablecloth, shapes that mimic the waves of emotion inside him, the ups and downs of his sadness and perhaps something of God’s grace looking on.

  From the corner of one eye, he notes that Hannah and Maysoun are watching him carefully but it is easy enough for him to ignore their attention. Once the idea for a piece takes shape in his head, there is no letting go of it, no distraction that can interrupt the flow. He pinches the tablecloth here and there to create peaks on its surface, the neatly ironed cotton stiff to the touch at first but eventually pliable. It reminds him of clay in some ways, its initial resistance and then the satisfaction of feeling it bend to his will.

  Painting or sculpture, he is not certain yet which this will be, but he can feel something forming already, something that will live inside him for some time before it can come into physical being.

  —Anas.

  He feels a hand on his shoulder and looks up to see Peter smiling down at him. He moves further along the table to make room for his friend.

  —Sit down, habibi. We’ve been waiting for you.

  —Where are the ladies? Peter asks.

  Anas looks around in surprise. The two chairs where the women were sitting earlier are empty.

  —I didn’t see them leave.

  Peter chuckles and points to the bar where Hannah and Maysoun are ordering drinks.

  —You were too involved with the creative process to notice what was going on around you, weren’t you?

  Anas smiles sheepishly.

  —You know me well, he says.

  —So what are you conjuring up this time, my friend?

  —It’s this man we met, Fatima’s uncle. There’s something about him.

  —What exactly?

  —I’m not sure. He seemed to be the nominal head of the encampment, a group of about fifteen or so families – dozens of children running around in bare feet, the women too, not too shy about letting themselves be seen, and young men hanging around looking listless.

  —The leader by virtue of his age, you mean?

  Anas shakes his head.

  —I mean they all stood around waiting for him to speak and really listened when he did, making the occasional comment but not interrupting his flow for more than a moment. He had an air of refinement about him that stuck out in that environment, you know? If I really wanted to pinpoint what it was that captured my attention I’d need to go back to see him …

  He hesitates.

  —I’m in two minds about that, though. What if my original impression is tarnished by a second visit?

  —But I thought you had to study your subjects very closely before painting or sculpting them, Peter says. Surely it’s a process.

  —That’s just it, you see, Anas replies. Sometimes it takes only a moment or two for a person or a situation to have that kind of impact, to stir my interest and demand that I do someth
ing about it. The rest, the time it takes to actually make something of it, represents only my interaction with it, my perception of what I saw and felt.

  —Hello, there.

  Maysoun and Hannah return to the table carrying four bottles of chilled beer between them.

  —Excellent, Peter exclaims. Exactly what I need after a hard day at work.

  Hannah hands him a beer and reaches out to touch his hand.

  —Is Anas talking about that man again?

  Peter nods.

  —He’s besotted with him, it seems.

  Maysoun joins in.

  —From what I’ve heard so far, he must be really something, she says. To be Anas’s latest muse, I mean.

  Anas looks at their faces, sees the entirety of them but also, with his artist’s eye, notes individual features, the different shades of dejection and its opposite hopefulness, and though he tries hard to discern behind their expressions a common bond, he sees only himself.

  Hannah interrupts his thoughts.

  —It’s what he told us about their situation that was so upsetting. This law the government recently introduced is making life really difficult for the refugees.

  —Yes, I know, Maysoun replies. It demands a list of requirements for residence here that are virtually impossible for them to fulfil, including proof of accommodation and a Lebanese sponsor, as well as sworn affidavits that they will not seek employment. It’s a poorly orchestrated strategy to try to stem the tide of refugees.

  —But when they’re officially registered with the United Nations, doesn’t that mean they’re here legally? And don’t they get some kind of financial help?