—They did get plenty of help in the beginning, both financial and otherwise, explains Maysoun. The UN commission on refugees played a part, and so did local communities and non-profits. But funds have been severely depleted, and the truth is that the longer the conflict continues, the worse the situation will become for them.
—It’s heartbreaking.
—Yes, it is, agrees Maysoun, but it’s also true that this country is simply too small and too unstable to continue to provide safe harbour for nearly two million refugees.
—But other countries in the region are taking them.
—Turkey and Jordan have taken in hundreds of thousands but they’ve closed their doors to them now. The truth is nobody wants them, especially not with the rise of the Islamic State.
—And now the exodus towards Europe …
There is a pause in the conversation, their heads filled with images they have seen in the news of refugees risking their lives in lifeboats on the Mediterranean, the long journey towards central Europe, often on foot and across hostile borders, to a future unknown but still better than that which they had left behind.
Maysoun shrugs.
—Governments and people in the West are not exactly enamoured with Muslims at the moment. Germany is the only country that has admitted to a responsibility for them.
Hannah frowns.
—The real truth is that had these refugees been white and Christian, European countries would have welcomed them with open arms, she says. This is as much about racism as it is about war and the inevitable movement of people away from it.
—Has anyone heard about the group that’s planning a vigil in Washington? Peter asks. They’re going to stand in front of the White House and take turns reciting the names of all those killed in the war in Syria. I wonder how long it’ll take them to read out over a quarter of a million names.
He pauses.
—It’s not as if the act will bring anyone back to life, but there’s something in it, don’t you think?
An image comes to Anas of a scroll unfolding on which words, in the loops, arcs and elegant contours of the Arabic script he loves, appear, and then suddenly extricate themselves and escape towards open skies, shadows released, a history of words and a confident belief in their power to change what is intolerable.
—It may be true that no one wants the refugees – Hannah returns to the original discussion – but they’re happy to see the conflict in Syria continue. It’s a convenient place for them to fight their little wars.
—Please, Hannah, Peter says. Let’s not start this whole conspiracy theory against Arabs thing again.
—That’s not what I’m saying at all, she protests. There’s no denying that this war is accommodating internal as well as regional and international conflicts. Someone is training Islamic State fighters and providing them with weapons. As for the Syrian government, it’s very clear who its supporters are. There are lots of interests at stake here, including those of Israel and its allies in the West.
—You’re right, Hannah, Peter interrupts her. We all know this isn’t merely about Syrians fighting among themselves, or even about a sectarian conflict between Sunni Islam and Shia Islam. I just think it’s time the Arab world took some responsibility for the mess it finds itself in.
He shakes his head before continuing.
—It’s just so frustrating. Look at what’s going on around you, for heaven’s sake. It’s forty years since Lebanon’s civil war began, over twenty since it ended, and this country is worse off now than it ever was. And after all the protests, the deaths that occurred in Egypt, the promises made, another dictator is in power there today. Not to mention the war in Yemen, the fighting in Libya, and the mayhem, oppression and displacement everywhere else. As for the Palestinians, how far have they got in their struggle to regain their homeland and who among their Arab brothers is willing to help them? It’s an unholy mess, I’m telling you, and sometimes I wish I were much further away from it.
Hannah looks at him, her mouth open.
—Is that really how you feel? she asks.
The others remain silent, waiting for Peter’s reply.
—You’re surprised that I want to get away from all this madness, that I feel so frustrated at what’s going on? Peter continues, his face turning red.
—What shocks me is that you now seem to be on the outside looking in, she says, looking pained. I always thought you considered yourself one of us.
—That’s what you understood from what I just said, that I’m betraying you and this country in some way? His voice is harsh and uncompromising. Why can’t I talk frankly about what I see happening around me? he continues. Does being an American mean I have to keep quiet or that I won’t be accepted into this society any more?
—No, of course that’s not it.
—Then what do you mean, Hannah? he asks quietly now. You don’t think I belong here any more?
—Surely that’s not what you’re trying to say, Hannah? Maysoun intervenes.
But Hannah does not reply to the question.
—Habibi, Anas says after a long pause. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so worked up before. Yours is usually the voice of reason amongst us hotheaded Arabs.
This makes Peter smile and the tension in the air dissipates somewhat.
—Let’s order and eat, says Maysoun.
Peter turns to Hannah.
—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to shout.
—I know you didn’t, she says, reaching out to touch his arm.
—If you ask me, Anas says, laughing, this kind of outburst must mean you’re turning into one of us. God help you!
Chapter 13
In her parents’ home, Brigitte is temporarily cocooned. There is love here but it is a quiet, contained sort of love, deep yet without the appendages of passion and guilt. She recalls this gentle detachment as the principal setting of a childhood that was not without its pain but which was nonetheless largely peaceful. Growing up in a country that would undergo profound change and prove up to that challenge, she sees now that she had been given enough freedom to discover the hidden rewards of solitude, to liken separateness to affection. And if her subsequent experiences proved to be the exact opposite, if the persistent intensity of her Damascus existence, the example of loving she met with there, contrasted wholly with that of home, she wills herself now into a more neutral state of being, feels herself suspended in time, finally finding release.
But there are moments when she cannot stop thinking about Anas, when his face, pale and drawn, follows her wherever she goes, and she finds herself wondering whether in disappearing like this she may have irreparably broken his trust. At other times, she sees clearly the ways in which their confidence in each other had been shaken long before, so that when she is being honest with herself, she must also acknowledge that had war not broken out she would, with time, have found a thousand other reasons to leave the place that seemed reluctant to accept her as she was.
The prospect of settling in Damascus after they married had seemed exciting: for Anas because that was where his family lived and also since the city was a major source of inspiration for his work; and for Brigitte, at twenty-three, because she felt ready to venture further, to discover a part of the world that had always seemed not only mysterious but also slightly forbidding to her. Yet, young and passionately in love as she was, she had also been astute enough to understand that although her new husband was a member of an established, middle-class Christian community in Syria, he was nonetheless the product of a culture that was vastly different from her own.
The experience had been exactly as she had expected it to be in the first few years of her marriage: interesting and providing so much to discover, challenging, beautiful, and moving too at times; an environment not easy to blend into, in part because of her physical appearance, but one that was largely accepting, bemused by rather than rejecting of her. And if her in-laws proved to be more interfering than she would have
liked, if what she perceived as her personal affairs were construed as concerns for the whole family to ponder and deal with, this was not the real reason behind her estrangement from her husband.
How to articulate it? she now thinks. If someone were to ask her what had happened between them, how would she explain what had started as a mere inkling, a seemingly inconsequential perception of distance that kept repeating itself until days would be wholly consumed by it, and nights too? When lying in bed together, the vacant hush of sleep made their separateness seem more marked, their loneliness heavier.
Resolving to talk to Anas about these misgivings she had made an unexpected visit to his studio one morning, climbing slowly up the stairs to the scent of jasmine and the sound of tree leaves rustling. Then, quietly pushing the big, wooden door open, she stepped inside. Stillness pervaded the entrance hall where Anas’s jacket hung on a hook by the door, the kitchen with its uneven floor tiles, the sink and its old-fashioned iron tap just visible from where she stood, and, as she turned right to stand in the doorway of the studio proper, she had a perception of complete silence. A ray of light briefly blinded her. Blinking, she caught clear sight of him bent over a piece of sculpture on the table before him, his beautiful hands immersed in it, an outline of light and colour surrounding this shape that she knew was Anas but which now felt unfamiliar and otherworldly; in that moment before he looked up and became aware of her presence, she experienced a sense of disconnection so strong that she had had to grab on to the door frame to keep from falling, until recognition returned and it was her beloved husband who reached out to steady her, who took her in his arms.
But she does not want now to think too long on the past, does not want to doubt her actions, is anxious to focus on the task at hand, on finding out what the options open to her may be.
They are staying in her parents’ home in a suburb of Berlin. The children have been here before so it is not, she hopes, too great a change for them. She has tried to create a routine for them, though things have been getting increasingly difficult with Marwan and she is not sure what she can do to help him since all he seems to want is to go back to Damascus.
—Why don’t you put them in school? her mother Elena suggests. There’s a very good one within walking distance of here. It’ll keep them busy during the day, might make it easier for all of you.
—It’s an idea, I suppose, replies Brigitte. But the school year has already started and if we’re not going to be here for very long anyway, what would be the point?
Her parents have been kind enough not to ask her how long she intends to stay or, indeed, what her plans are for the future, since it is clear she has no idea herself.
—And what about Anas? Elena asks. When is he planning to come?
—I told you he’s in Beirut for work, Mother. He has an important exhibition there.
—Yes, but surely he’ll come here once it’s over?
Brigitte avoids her mother’s eyes.
—You left without letting him know?
—Of course I did, Mother. He would never have allowed me to leave Damascus if I had.
—Even after you were injured in that blast?
There was a pause.
—He doesn’t know about that, Brigitte admits. I couldn’t bring myself to tell him and I don’t know how much his parents have told him about it.
It had happened early in the afternoon, moments after the children arrived home from school, as Brigitte called to them to wash their hands and come to the kitchen to eat. She had been stirring something at the stove when she felt a sudden whoosh in the air and a moment of utter stillness before everything around her went into motion, splinters of glass flying through the air, the kitchen table shifting, plates and cutlery falling to the floor, her own body wobbling as she tried to hold herself steady, her heart dropping to her knees, blood rushing into her head and then the feel of it trickling down her face, mixed with sudden tears.
She was brought back to herself by the sound of Rana’s screaming and ran into the living room to find her daughter standing in a corner, hands covering her ears and eyes wide open. Brigitte knelt down and wrapped her arms around the little girl until the screams calmed into whimpers before, in a panic, she began to call Marwan’s name. He had finally appeared, shaking and unable to speak, moments later and Brigitte had pulled him to her and held him close.
—Are we going to die? Rana asked.
—No, of course we aren’t, Brigitte reassured her. It’s over now, sweetheart.
—But, Mama, Marwan whispered, you’re bleeding. He reached up to touch her face.
—It’s nothing to worry about, darling. Just a few scratches here and there.
She stood up slowly and lifted the children up with her.
—Let’s go and clean ourselves up a bit. Then we’ll call Sitto and Jiddo and let them know we’re all right.
Brigitte had looked at her face in the bathroom mirror and flinched at the sight, but once the blood had been washed off, she decided it didn’t look too bad. The cut that had caused all the bleeding was on her head and, touching it carefully with her fingers, she found it was not too deep. She felt it sting when she poured antiseptic over it, saw her features tense at the sensation and felt a sudden outrage at what had just happened.
This is not how I want to live, she told herself, not how I want my children to live, and I have to do something about it.
Her in-laws came over as soon as they could get through the security cordon that surrounded the neighbourhood after the bombing. By then, she had swept the glass off the floor and tidied up the apartment so that it looked almost as it had before. She had also made a decision about her future and that of the children which she knew she must not reveal to Anas’s parents. She would have to leave as soon as possible, before Anas had a chance to return and forbid it, before anyone became aware of her plan to do so and she lost her resolve.
—You’ll come and stay with us, of course, Anas’s mother said after the children were in bed. It’s impossible for you to stay here now.
Brigitte had felt herself bristle at this at first, before reminding herself that she needed to remain calm.
—On the contrary, she said. This area is bound to be safer than anywhere else now because it’s not likely to be targeted again.
—We just think you might be more comfortable with us, her father-in-law said quietly, at least until Anas can get back and be with you. And perhaps you should see a doctor about those cuts, habibti. They look pretty bad.
—I’m sorry, Abou Anas, Brigitte said. I don’t mean to be forceful about it but I think it’s best if we stay here for now. I don’t want to disrupt the children’s lives too much just at the moment. I’m very grateful you came over to check on us but we will be all right, I promise.
Eventually persuading them to leave, Brigitte had immediately telephoned her parents and asked them to make the necessary arrangements and call her back. Afterwards, unable or unwilling to sleep, she busied herself with packing and preparing for their departure the next day.
Her mother’s voice interrupts her reverie.
—Brigitte, sweetheart, she says. Anas needs to know his children are OK, that you’re OK.
—Why should I talk to him when it’s his fault we were there when it happened? Brigitte protests. If we had left when I told him we should, the children would not have had to go through such a terrible experience.
When her mother puts an arm around her shoulders, Brigitte allows herself to cry. Moments later, she wipes at her eyes with a tissue and looks up.
—I’d like to go for a walk, I think, she says. I’ll be back a little later to take the children to the park.
—That sounds like a good idea, her mother says in her comforting, matter-of-fact voice.
Standing outside her parents’ place, she is surprised at suddenly losing her bearings, at not knowing which way to turn, what street to take. Around her, there is the quiet buzz of the city of her birth, cars and bic
ycles and people and all the indications of life continuing undeterred. She notes the green of the trees that line the pavement all the way to the roundabout at the end of the street, at the greying sky and the buildings framed by it, grey too and plain, but there is comfort in this uniformity, she admits. In that moment, still and unmoving, Brigitte is the sum of all her selves, old and new; she is everywhere she has been and all the things she has hoped for. Thinking clearly at last, and despite herself, she is able to consider Anas not as an adversary but as being equally lost, and, like her, gradually breaking.
Chapter 14
Peter is not prepared for the call, is working at his desk when he receives it, when he hears a familiar voice, though he cannot quite place it.
—Peter?
—Yes, yes, I … Oh, Brigitte, it’s you!
He shifts in his seat and takes a deep breath.
—How are you, Brigitte? How are the children? I’m at work and Anas isn’t here with me …
—I called to speak to you, Peter, she says.
Peter frowns and waits for her to continue.
—How is he? she asks. How is Anas coping?
—Well, he’s obviously had a bad shock. But shouldn’t you be asking him that question rather than me?
—I had to do it, Peter. I had to get the children out.
She pauses.
—We understand, Brigitte, Peter rushes to say. Hannah and I understand why you would have wanted to leave. It’s the way you did it. Disappearing like that was … But what’s more important now is that you’re OK. How are the children?
—They’re well. We’re at my parents in Berlin.
—Yes, we thought that’s where you would have gone. I’m glad to hear the children are doing well.
—If the children are fine, Peter, it’s because I took them away from Damascus. I begged Anas to allow us to leave. I wanted him to come with us, but he kept refusing. No matter how bad things got, he wouldn’t leave. Then that car bomb was the last straw. It was terrible.
He hears the frustration and anger in her voice.
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