Unsafe Haven, An

by Awar Jarrar, Nada

  —Anas? Is that you?

  He quickly wipes a hand over his eyes and looks up to find Hannah walking towards him.

  —You’re up early, she says. Isn’t it beautiful here?

  He only nods, afraid that if he tries to speak she will hear a tremor in his voice.

  She slips a hand through his arm and leans against his shoulder.

  —I want to look around, she says. Will you come with me?

  She leads him down some stone steps to the right of the gazebo and towards a grove of olive trees, their leaves and trunks glinting silver as the sun, now making its early-morning appearance, leans into them.

  —Abou Mazen told us last night that this place was farmed for the first time by his grandfather nearly eighty years ago, says Hannah. He was the son of Lebanese immigrants to Mexico who came here in the nineteen thirties, just before the war, and spent his life savings on this land and on building a home for his family.

  She stops and looks around her.

  —Apparently, Hannah continues, he couldn’t speak Arabic when he first arrived but ended up remaining here for the rest of his life. And he made sure it was a working farm from the very beginning. There’s this olive grove, a fruit orchard, a vegetable garden, a chicken coop and even a stable.

  Anas smiles, looking at the trees that, in their completeness, seem settled here for life also, their unseen roots as much a part of the tableau before him as their trunks and branches are.

  He imagines exactly what it must have been like so long ago, a man seeing in what would have been a barren patch of valley the green and bounty to come, a picture in his mind’s eye that grew even as the vegetation did, that built itself into a home and into lives, into future generations who would hopefully love and nurture this place as he had.

  He is aware of Hannah pulling at his arm, leading him all the way around the grove, through a gate and to a fenced paddock where sheep, a couple of very old-looking horses and several deer are feeding on the grass.

  Hannah lets go of Anas’s arm and walks over to the fence.

  —Aren’t they beautiful?

  She reaches an arm out and almost immediately one of the horses ambles over to her, nuzzles her hand and, finding nothing there, lifts his head up and snorts with disdain.

  She looks at Anas and they burst out laughing.

  —Are you going to tell me what you’re feeling? Hannah almost whispers this question to him a moment later. You’ve been so quiet.

  He shrugs.

  —You might feel better if you talk about it, Anas.

  He likes the smell of the animals here, the musty scent of manure and grass mixed in with the whiff of damp fur and hide. He is pleased also at the spectacle of hundreds of insects buzzing through the expanding sunshine and the specks and spots suspended forever in it. But he is unsure what he can say to explain himself because it seems to him now that there is really nothing he wants to say to Hannah or anyone else.

  Speaking to Brigitte had proven even more difficult than he had anticipated. Their conversation days earlier had been stilted and formal, with her not expressing regret for having taken the children away and he unwilling to take responsibility for driving her to it. But both had agreed that Marwan and Rana’s welfare was what was uppermost in their minds and that he should go out there to see them before any major decisions were made.

  After talking to his wife, Anas had decided to go to Damascus to check on his family without letting Hannah and Peter know since they would, he was certain, try to stop him. He would return to Beirut after a few days to apply for a visa for Germany, while Brigitte, in turn, put a request in at her end for him to be granted a visa as soon as possible.

  A few days later, when the bus that carried him and a dozen or so passengers on the highway to Damascus was stopped at the checkpoint, he had not been unduly concerned. It would be another routine perusal of identity papers, he was certain, and he would soon be on his way.

  The soldiers demanded they all step out of the vehicle and then subjected them to individual searches. Anas had opened the small suitcase he’d brought with him and watched as one of the soldiers tipped out its contents on to the ground. Still, he had been convinced that, having found nothing, they would be allowed to gather their belongings, board the bus and be on their way. But only those with Lebanese identity papers were released.

  Two hours later and the remaining men were standing against a wall on the side of the road, having been forbidden from moving around or sitting down. When Anas had attempted to approach the soldier standing guard over them, he was told to shut up and return to the line. Relief came only when an officer arrived, had them moved to a shaded area where they could sit down and bottles of water were handed around.

  It was then that Anas had had the opportunity to talk to the men being held with him, the majority of whom were casual labourers from Syria who regularly sought work in Lebanon.

  They had told him that up until Islamic State extremists began to gain ground in the civil war at home, it had been relatively easy to move between the two countries. The local authorities had become suspicious of migrant workers after battles in the border town of Arsal between the Lebanese army and extremist fighters had led to the deaths of a number of soldiers and to the kidnapping of dozens of others. Four of the soldiers, like a number of Western captives being held by the same militia in Iraq, had been beheaded so far, with the threat of more to come if demands were not met.

  Anas had sighed and watched as one of the men pulled a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket, took one and then handed the packet around. Surprised at himself, Anas lit up a cigarette and breathed in the smoke with relief. He had stopped smoking years before, soon after he and Brigitte were married and decided to start a family.

  —You can’t blame the army here for wanting to get back at those bastards, one of the labourers said after a pause in the conversation. But it’s people like us who have to bear the brunt of it when all we’re really trying to do is make sure our families somehow survive this mess.

  —Yallah, another man said, shaking his head. If this is God’s will for us, then there’s nothing we can do.

  There was a murmur of agreement in the group as Anas had looked more closely at them, at their haggard faces, their clothes faded with washing and shoes worn pathetically thin. He saw outsized hands roughened with work and bowed shoulders and it occurred to him then that although he had always prided himself on knowing of the plight of fellow countrymen and -women, he had never shared it. Their reality was exactly what he tried to depict in his work, as well as the greed and corruption of the governing classes that had led to it, the oppression of any kind of opposition, the humiliation in poverty and powerlessness. Yet, although he had thought himself familiar with all this, he did not really know what it was to be trapped by circumstance, to be broken by fear. He realized that in being a member of a relatively privileged minority he had been protected from the excesses and cruelty of dictatorship, had – once his work was recognized internationally – even been used by the regime in its effort to present a more civilized face to the outside world. He had instantly felt ashamed, not because these truths were new to him but because he had hidden them from himself so well for so long.

  He thinks now of Fatima and her dream of being reunited with her family, how unlikely her chances are of returning to a home she will recognize or feel safe in. He wonders again if there is something he can do for her, for the infant she seems so willing to abandon, for a child made superfluous just by virtue of being born. The baby, he knows, will need valid identity papers if it is to have any hope of a secure future, and he is the only person Fatima can count on to provide them. He realizes he will have to return to Damascus and bribe officials to falsify the necessary documents, even if he has to put his own name down as the child’s father. What would Brigitte’s reaction be to that, he wonders?

  An image comes to him of his wife rocking one of the children to sleep in infancy, of a bundle
in the crook of her arm, her head bent towards it so that her golden hair, dishevelled because she has just roused herself from sleep, covers most of her face and all he can see as he lies in bed, with eyes half closed, are her lips whispering a traditional Arabic lullaby, the melody haunting, almost sorrowful, her rendition hesitant at first and then filled with love. And in that moment, he is certain Brigitte will feel the same compassion for Fatima’s little girl that he has, will welcome his decision to save her from a certain fate.

  —Anas?

  Hannah, standing away from the fence now, is looking fixedly at him.

  He smiles.

  —You know, he says, I’m feeling a little tired all of a sudden. Can we sit down?

  —Yes, of course. You must be hungry too. You went to bed without dinner last night. Come and sit under the gazebo and I’ll go and get us some coffee and something to eat from the house.

  When they get to the seating area they find that a typical Lebanese breakfast has already been laid on the old trunk in front of the sofa, yoghurt and labneh, plump black and green olives, a plateful of cucumbers, tomatoes and fresh mint, grape molasses covered with a layer of tahini, and loaves of what look like fresh mountain bread beside them.

  —Oh, Hannah says. Oum Mazen has been busy this morning.

  A young woman carrying a tray with a pot of Arabic coffee and cups comes towards them. Behind her, Anas surmises, is Oum Mazen, looking fresh-faced and smiling.

  —Good morning.

  —Good morning, Oum Mazen, Hannah replies, this is our friend Anas.

  The older woman puts down the tray and shakes Anas’s hand.

  —Welcome, she says. I hope you slept well after your ordeal.

  —Thank you, yes.

  —Ah, here are Abou Mazen and the doctor, Oum Mazen continues. Let’s all sit down and eat.

  The food is delicious in the way that fresh food eaten outdoors is bound to be. Anas helps himself to a bit of everything and, once he has finished, sweetens the cup of coffee that Oum Mazen hands him with two teaspoons of sugar and sits back in his seat to drink it.

  Peter and Hannah seem relaxed and happy and, for a moment, he thinks of telling them what he knows he must now do but just as quickly dismisses the idea because he is sure they will try to dissuade him. Instead, as soon as breakfast is over and he and Abou Mazen begin to get ready to leave for the police station, he takes Peter aside to talk to him.

  —Peter, I didn’t get a chance yesterday to thank you and Hannah for what you did for me. I hope you know how much I love you both, how much I appreciate everything you’ve always done for me and for my family.

  —There’s no need to thank us, Anas, Peter replies. You would have done exactly the same. Just go get your papers in order and we’ll wait for you here.

  —That’s what I wanted to talk to you about, says Anas. Please don’t wait. It may be hours before it’s all sorted out so you two should go ahead to Beirut without me. Abou Mazen will organize my return.

  —Are you sure?

  —Positive, Anas says emphatically.

  He hesitates before continuing.

  —I also wanted you to know that I understand now.

  —Understand?

  —I mean why Brigitte did what she did. I know that she was just thinking of the children and their safety, that I am the one who has been unreasonable. I … It gives me great comfort to know that all three of them are well and safe where they are because that is really what matters most, isn’t it?

  Peter smiles and Anas is suddenly struck by the gentleness in his friend’s face.

  —I’m glad, Peter says. Once you’re back in Beirut, we can focus on getting you to Berlin as soon as possible.

  Anas places his hands on Peter’s shoulders.

  —You have been a very valuable friend to me, he says. I hope you realize that.

  Peter’s eyebrows lift as if he is surprised at what Anas is saying but does not have a chance to reply because Abou Mazen interrupts their conversation.

  —Let’s go, Abou Mazen says in a loud voice. The sooner we get there, the sooner it will all be over and we can get back here.

  —Give Hannah my love too, Anas says as he walks away.

  Chapter 19

  There is a hint of autumn in the air. Walking home from work in the early evening, Maysoun smells rain, successfully ignoring the lingering pall of diesel fumes from building generators that run regularly because of the electricity shortages.

  The coming thunderstorm, she thinks, will relieve us of dust and drought and this too-long summer.

  She looks up at the sky and smiles at the sight of dark clouds looming. If she hurries, she will get home just in time, although there is something in her that delights in the thought of being caught in the cleansing rain.

  As she opens the door of the apartment and calls out to her mother, a clap of thunder makes her jump. She runs to shut the living-room windows and take in the washing she put out on the balcony that morning. She calls out to Nazha once again but gets no reply and, though not unduly worried, Maysoun wonders where her mother might have gone and whether or not she had thought to take an umbrella with her.

  She takes off her shoes, goes into the kitchen to make herself a glass of lemonade and sits down at the dining-room table to check her emails. This is a good time, she thinks, to take advantage of the quiet to catch up on all the unanswered messages she has not had time to attend to at work.

  It is raining hard now and Maysoun is beginning to wonder if she shouldn’t go out to try and find her mother and bring her home when she notices that she has received an email from a colleague in Turkey. He writes that he has finally been able to locate Fatima’s family in one of the refugee camps, that they are all alive and well and had heard of her flight to Lebanon. ‘As to whether or not we can arrange for her to join them at the camp,’ the colleague continues, ‘I cannot be sure. The government here is adamant about keeping refugee numbers down. I will, however, do my best seeing as she’s a widow and has a young child, and will let you know as soon as I’ve found out if there’s anything we can do to help her.’

  Maysoun reaches into her bag for her telephone to call Hannah and Peter and give them the good news when she hears her mother come through the door. Nazha walks in, soaked but smiling.

  —Mama, what were you thinking going out in this weather?

  Nazha sniffs.

  —Hello, sweetheart. It wasn’t raining when I went out.

  She takes off her shoes and shakes her head hard so that Maysoun is spattered with water.

  —Mama!

  Nazha laughs.

  Maysoun turns away from her computer and looks at her mother more closely.

  —You’re in a very good mood this evening, she says. Where exactly have you been?

  Nazha sits down opposite her.

  —The people living in our house in Baghdad are leaving and going to America. Isn’t it great news?

  Maysoun lifts her eyebrows in surprise.

  —I can go home now, Nazha continues. In fact, I just went and booked my ticket, paid for it too.

  She reaches into her handbag and pulls out an e-ticket and shows it to Maysoun.

  —Oh, no, it’s damp with the rain, she says with alarm. Quick, hand me a tissue.

  —It’s all right, Mother. We can print out another one if we need to.

  Nazha’s face clears.

  —But that’s not the issue here, Maysoun continues. Your going back to Baghdad wasn’t contingent on those people leaving. We’ve talked about this often enough, Mama. It simply isn’t safe for you to go back there now.

  Maysoun watches as Nazha pushes back her chair abruptly and stands up to face her. There is something almost comical about her appearance, hair dripping, clothes soaked so that her spare frame is clearly visible through them and her feet splayed out to stop her slipping in the puddle she is making on the floor. But there is nothing funny about the look on Nazha’s face.

  —Maysoun, she s
ays quietly but firmly, we have a few more days together before I leave. We can either enjoy them as we should or you can spend that time trying to argue with me about the wisdom of a decision over which I will not waver. It’s your choice, my love.

  She pauses for a moment, as if to make sure her daughter has understood that she means what she says.

  —Now, I’m going to get out of these wet clothes, have a nice hot bath and then see about dinner, OK?

  Maysoun says nothing and, while her mother makes her way gingerly to the bathroom, fetches a mop from the kitchen and tries to wipe away the trail of water Nazha has left behind, slapping the mop down hard on the floor and then pulling it slowly towards her. The swinging movement, the rhythm of it, calms her and she is surprised at no longer feeling the anger and frustration that have overshadowed these last few weeks of her mother’s visit.

  She leans the mop against the wall and looks out of the living-room window. There has been no easing of the rain and in the street below people move quickly on the pavement and in and out of the slow-moving traffic. She thinks of this time of year in Baghdad, of sunny days, blue skies and, at night, cooler weather infused with the scent of blossom and damp dust. She remembers how all this changed after the Gulf War, when the heat of summer began gradually to linger, stretching itself into autumn, until the seasons, like the people experiencing them, descend into confusion.

  The telephone rings and Maysoun rushes to answer it.

  —Marhaba, Maysoun, says Hannah.

  —Oh, habibti, I was just about to call you.

  —I … I just thought you might have heard from Anas. He said he was going to call you at some point to say thank you for all your help. I just thought he might have done, that’s all.

  —Anas? I thought he was staying with you.

  Hannah tells her of Anas’s arrest and release, of how he managed to convince her and Peter to return to Beirut, promising that he would follow when all along he had intended to make his way back to Damascus.