Unsafe Haven, An

by Awar Jarrar, Nada

  He embraces her and leaves, Fatima and Wassim trailing behind him.

  Chapter 27

  The baby is asleep. After inexpertly changing and then feeding her, Hannah places a clean towel on the living-room sofa and puts her down on it, patting her gently on the tummy, humming quietly too until she finally falls asleep. She leans forward and looks at the infant more closely, the tiny nose and rosebud mouth, the dark, fine hair combed to one side to reveal a large, ungainly head, the small body wrapped tightly in a cotton blanket that is no longer as white as it should be, moving as its nameless owner inhales the short, urgent breaths of life.

  Hannah is moved almost to tears by so much helplessness and vulnerability, and wonders if this is the kind of unease that always comes with taking care of a child, especially one so young.

  In the early years of her marriage, she had twice fallen pregnant and miscarried within the first few months on both occasions. By the time doctors discovered a medical condition that meant she would never be able to carry a baby to full term, both she and Peter had decided that being together was enough, that in their closeness was the kind of connection that would not be destabilized even in the absence of a child. Yet despite Peter’s reassurances that their relationship was sufficient unto itself, despite the safety she felt within it, somewhere in the back of her mind doubts lingered, disappointment waited to pounce. Eventually, even these yearnings left her, and in their place, in that hollowness that love for a child would have filled, were her own pursuits, the work involved in self-discovery and in relationships.

  She lifts her head and sighs. When she gets up off the couch, the child stirs and then thankfully settles down to sleep once again. She could do with a proper bath, Hannah thinks, and fresh clothes. Rummaging earlier through Fatima’s plastic bag, she had found only a less than clean bottle and two cloth nappies but nothing in the way of clothing for the baby. She decides to go out later in the day and pick up some things for both children, perhaps even for Fatima too, if she allows her to do it. The weather will be changing soon and they will need warmer things to wear. She tells herself that she must also remember to ask Peter, when he examines the child later, what vaccinations she will need, whether he thinks she is receiving adequate nourishment and so on. But I am getting ahead of myself, Hannah reminds herself in an attempt to stop her mind racing.

  In truth, what she is more concerned about is Fatima’s apparent indifference to this child, something she finds much more alarming than anger or resentment would have been. She is filled with dismay at the idea that the baby may not yet have been given a name, and hopes that it is only anxiety causing Fatima to forget to mention what the baby is called.

  She remembers once, in a restaurant in a seaside resort, observing a young mother with a child slightly older than this who came in and placed her baby on a chair beside her with total lack of interest, as though the child were a bag or something else inanimate, and not once, throughout her meal, turned to look or speak to it. Hannah, by then a teenager, had gathered the courage to go to the woman’s table and bend down to smile at the child, who grinned back with such readiness and joy that she had felt vindicated for her forwardness, although even then the mother had not acknowledged the gesture.

  But the circumstances of an affluent member of the middle class and those that Fatima is facing now can hardly be compared and Hannah wonders again what the reasons behind the young woman’s obvious coldness towards the child really are. Is it because the baby is a girl and, like most female children in conservative, rural communities, seen as more of a burden than a blessing? The thought crosses her mind that if Fatima is determined to ignore the baby’s existence, then perhaps she and Peter could take her on and give her the love and attention she needs. But as quickly as the thought appears, Hannah dismisses it, telling herself it is too late, that given the uncertainties she and Peter are facing about their future, a child would not gain the security it needed, indeed it might suffer along with them the consequences of these turbulent times.

  I go out on to the balcony and look down at the garden below, quiet now at the end of the day, empty and somewhat bleak. It occurs to me now that I was harsh at times in judging my parents, accusing them of being the reason behind this or that fault in my character, sometimes voicing dissatisfaction and expecting to find reward in their apologies. Mother often said that while she was convinced having children was the best thing she had ever done, it was also the most difficult, a challenge she was not always capable of meeting and which invariably revealed weaknesses in both her character and spirit. Yet despite the blunders my parents inevitably made, there was never a time when I did not feel completely and abundantly loved. Perhaps there is so much room for making mistakes in bringing up a child that this is why Peter and I, as we grow older, feel less and less able to take on the challenge.

  Chapter 28

  Late afternoon and Beirut airport is not as busy as she had expected it to be. She pushes the trolley through the sliding doors that lead into the arrivals lounge and, feeling momentary regret that there is no one there to meet her, makes her way to the taxi stand outside.

  It is raining but the weather is not especially cold and her thick jacket feels suddenly oppressive. She motions to the driver of a large, black Mercedes parked right by the exit, gives him her suitcase to put in the boot and, getting into the back seat, takes off her coat. The air is musty and smells strongly of cigarette smoke, something she realizes she is no longer used to and which irritates her a little.

  When the driver asks about her destination, she replies in flawless Arabic and smiles when she sees the surprised look on his face. I may look like a foreigner, she wants to tell him, but I know exactly where I am going and how much the fare should be and I’ve also been here often enough to know my way around. She says nothing, though. Her determination to fit in must begin here and now, but it is not strangers like this one that she is trying to convince.

  She pulls the window down slightly and feels rain on her face as the driver speeds up and manoeuvres the car on to the highway. Moving her head from side to side to try and release the crick in her neck, she grimaces at the sight of the southern suburbs to her right, the tall, ungainly buildings, some still under construction, that crowd up against each other and deface the skyline and the once-clear views of the mountains to the east. To the left is the green and murky sea. It is clouded because of the stormy weather, but also because of the waste water that is allowed to flow relentlessly into it and which emits a foul smell into the air. She quickly shuts the window.

  Moments later, she directs the driver to take the exit that leads to the coastal road into Ras Beirut, past the Raouche Rock and down on to the Corniche, scenic spots that she remembers well and which once appealed to her, past the enormous residential buildings and hotels that block light and sea views from the more modest structures that are situated behind them. Traffic is much heavier here, cars only reluctantly stopping at lights or, worse still, ignoring them altogether, horns blaring with impatience. She sighs and sits back in her seat.

  This has always seemed to her a city of contrasts that somehow manage to complement each other, a city which, though not certain of its place in the world, continues to claim it anyway, in the hope perhaps that it will one day deserve the status it wants for itself.

  The last time she had been here was just over three years ago, on a weekend visit with Anas that had stretched into several days because they could not bring themselves to leave, there was so much they longed to do. They had stayed with Peter and Hannah, spent their days wandering the streets of Ras Beirut at first and then going on impromptu trips to the mountains or down south as far as Bab Fatima on the border with Israel. They attended gallery openings, went to the theatre and ate the kind of food usually found in fancy restaurants in Europe. But even then, even as she experienced the privileges that Beirut offered, she had sensed the beginnings of its demise, noticed tell-tale signs that Beirut’s legendary charm was unr
avelling to reveal a city in anguish.

  On their last night, they had sat with their hosts around a dining-room table that was weighted with food and drink and talked into the early hours with excitement about the uprisings in the region, of their implications, and with caution about the future, the potential obstacles that could arise in this seemingly unstoppable drive for justice and equality, for the end to dictatorship.

  Anas, she recalls, had been the most optimistic of the four, had believed the Arab people would make the transition from revolution to nation-building successfully. But so many people are dying, she had protested. Surely there is an opportunity to do things differently here as well?

  When she then voiced her misgivings that extremism might find in the upheaval in the Middle East an opportunity to take hold, Anas had dismissed her argument. That is the problem with thinking like a foreigner, he had said, gesturing with one hand so that she felt her heart sting. You cannot see beyond your age-old prejudices about the Arab world, about Islam and what you believe is our inferiority. It’s pure racism.

  She had told herself at that moment that she would never give him occasion to make her feel that way again, though looking back now she realizes she had failed dismally at this also.

  As absurd as she knows it to be, there is a part of her that believes that in dying the way he did, Anas had had the last word, had demonstrated, to her especially, how he had always been willing to make the ultimate sacrifice for what he believed in. We are, she thinks, often cruellest to those we love most.

  When the taxi finally comes to a stop, the driver wheels her bag into the lobby of a suite hotel in the Hamra district that is only a few minutes’ walk from Hannah and Peter’s apartment and which, when she is on her own, is close enough to shops and restaurants and general activity to lose herself in should she need to.

  Her room is spacious though a bit dim, has a tiny kitchenette at one end and a clean bathroom with, thankfully, a good-sized bath. She pulls open the window and looks out at the quiet street below, at the residential buildings opposite and the shops beneath them, closed at this time of night. She suddenly experiences an intense need for sleep, for temporary oblivion.

  Turning back into her room again, she unpacks, undresses in the fading light and gets into bed. There is something thrilling about being alone like this. Until the moment I pick up that telephone, she tells herself, no one who matters knows where I am, what I am doing. She sees how easy it would be to simply disappear, to leave one life behind and start another without past burdens, the weight of what has happened before.

  She dials for an outside line and makes the first call.

  —Brigitte! The voice at the other end sounds surprised. Is that you?

  —Hello, Peter, she says after a pause Yes, it’s me. I’ve finally made it to Beirut.

  Chapter 29

  —Did she mention the baby’s name to you? Hannah whispers to Peter.

  It is almost midnight and they are preparing for bed. Fatima and the children are already asleep in the guest room.

  Peter shakes his head.

  —Why didn’t you just ask her about it? he asks.

  —I did at one point but she completely ignored me. Then when I asked her a second time, while we were making up the beds, I still didn’t get an answer. How could that poor child not have a name?

  —You’re really upset about it, aren’t you?

  —Of course I am, Peter. I was thinking about it the whole time you and Fatima were at Maysoun’s. If you don’t give someone a name, it’s as if you’re denying them an identity. It’s just not right.

  —You have a point there, I guess.

  —We don’t even know if the baby’s hers, Hannah continues. She won’t acknowledge even that.

  —Maybe she doesn’t want to admit it to herself, Peter says. Maybe she thinks that once she acknowledges the baby’s presence she’ll have to do something about it.

  —What does Maysoun think?

  Peter sits down on the bed.

  —Well, she says there are any number of explanations, some of them too upsetting to think about, but the most likely one is that Fatima is the mother.

  —What sort of explanations?

  —That she may have found the baby abandoned in the camp and taken her on because there was no one else to do it, or more likely that she had an affair or was raped and had no choice but to have the baby once she got pregnant.

  Hannah shakes her head.

  —I’m sure it’s hers, she says. I can’t imagine her taking on responsibility for someone else’s child when she already has so much to cope with. I guess she must have had it in secret. It would have been about a month before we met her. But who was taking care of it for all that time?

  Peter shrugs.

  —Whether it’s her baby or not doesn’t really matter since she’s here with it now, he says. At least she didn’t try to get rid of it and dump it somewhere.

  —Oh, Peter!

  —It has been known to happen, Hannah. Fatima cared enough about that child not to do something like that.

  —I guess you’re right, Hannah says after a pause. Maybe I’m being too harsh on her. Maybe once she’s had a chance to rest here for a bit, her attitude towards the baby will change.

  —Actually, I would have thought she’d be even more anxious not to keep the baby now that she knows she’s leaving, Peter says.

  —What do you mean?

  —If the baby is hers, her parents aren’t going to be happy about it. You know that in a situation like this and in this kind of conservative community, there’s no place for either the woman or her child. It brings shame on everyone so that even if they wanted to, they wouldn’t be able to accept her back into the family.

  —They’ll shun her, Hannah says quietly and half to herself.

  —Or they’ll do something worse still than that, Peter adds.

  Hannah lifts a hand to her mouth.

  —What are we going to do, Peter?

  —I don’t know, habibti. I don’t know that there’s anything we can do at this stage.

  —But we have to help her somehow, Hannah insists. We can’t let something terrible happen to her or the baby. You must come across this sort of thing in your work, Peter. Surely you know of some organization that would be prepared to help.

  Peter clears his throat.

  —Would you be prepared to take the child, Hannah, and raise her as our own?

  She raises her eyebrows.

  —The thought did occur to me earlier but could we really take on such a huge responsibility at this stage in our lives? Even if we wanted to, I’ll bet this child is not only without a name but without identity papers as well. Officially it doesn’t even exist so how could we adopt it?

  —There are ways, you know, Peter says. People do it here all the time.

  She nods.

  —I really don’t know what we can do to save this baby, but we have to find a solution before Fatima leaves.

  Peter places a hand on her shoulder and pulls her towards him.

  —Hannah, he says gently, you’re worrying about something that we really have no control over. I’m not being callous but this baby is not our responsibility. There are thousands more like her who will never acquire an identity or a home. It’s a never-ending battle trying to deal with the consequences of these insane sectarian wars.

  —But I’m not trying to save thousands, Peter. I’m talking about this one baby, this one child we could help. And what about Fatima? Could we live with ourselves if she went back to her family and they did something to her because of the baby?

  Peter sighs.

  —You’re right, I suppose. Look, I’m too tired to think clearly about this right now. Let’s talk about it tomorrow.

  Hannah feels her frustration mounting.

  —And on top of everything else, I have all this work to do for the article, she says. I think I’d better ring and tell them I can’t do it. It’s all just too much.


  A familiar feeling descends on her: first the thought that this conversation is being repeated – the details surrounding it, the lateness of the hour and the quiet hum of the building’s generator in the background are recognizable; then the sense of being swallowed up by fear. She gasps, clutches at her chest and squeezes her eyes shut.

  —Hannah? Are you having another attack?

  But she is unable to respond. She feels Peter’s arms wrap themselves around her and though this does not allay her terror entirely, she is conscious of impending relief.

  —This can’t go on, sweetheart, he whispers in her ear. We’ve got to do something about this anxiety, Hannah.

  She allows him to lower her on to the bed, and for a long time he does not let go.

  —Is it over now? he asks.

  She nods.

  —You must start taking medication or these attacks will just get worse with time, Hannah. Do you want to go on like this?

  —I couldn’t bear that, she says.

  He rocks her gently back and forth and she begins to weep, muttering, ‘Oh, oh,’ between sobs.

  *

  Waking to the dark, she tosses and turns, listens for Peter’s deep breathing and is still awake sometime later when she hears the baby whimper. She gets out of bed and tiptoes into the spare room. In the moonlight coming through the window, she sees the shapes made by Fatima and Wassim on the mattress, two gently curved Cs nestling into each other. She steps closer, notices movement at the foot of the mattress and bends down to look. When she picks up the baby she realizes that both her nappy and blanket are wet. She makes her way carefully into the kitchen, turns on the light above the stove and looks down at the bundle in her arms. The baby is staring up at Hannah and smiling, her tiny body almost completely still, her eyes unblinking.

  —Not one to complain much, are you, sweetheart? Hannah says softly. She bends down and plants a kiss on the baby’s forehead. Little angel, she whispers.

  As I write, I admit to having been accused, by my American husband recently and by editors on a few occasions in the past, of taking the stories I cover too much to heart, of allowing my emotions to taint my supposed objectivity and making of issues meant to enlighten the general public something akin to personal.