I have tried to justify my position as the inevitable consequence of writing human-interest features which have to contain a measure of humanity in them to be interesting, but I concede the point also, the assertion that in identifying so closely with those I interview I am necessarily forfeiting any semblance of impartiality in my work.
But here is what I have discovered during these past few weeks, as I have toured the country reporting on what is often referred to as ‘collateral damage’, the human consequences of this terrible war both for Lebanon and the one and a half million Syrians who have sought refuge here, the many millions more scattered around the region and wandering dispossessed within their own country: I have discovered that there is no such thing as personal or public when it comes to displacement and suffering, no politics, no two sides to every story, no differing opinions and certainly no room for conjecture.
I have wondered why we allow ourselves to believe that refuge is a right for some while remaining a privilege for others. I have questioned how exactly we have come to accept that life and abundance are accidents of birth rather than a moral responsibility, how we reconcile this clear truth with the notion that the wretchedness of fellow human beings can reasonably be kept at arm’s length, can be contained like this. The journalist in me ponders the lessons we might have learned but which we continue to ignore, the danger and shame in that ignorance, the inexorable storm that lies ahead.
I realize instead that as long as homelessness exists, I am – we all of us are – refugees. We are their fears and their frustration, their anguish and their undying will to survive, their optimism and their conviction that this world, somewhere, somehow, will always be their harbour.
Chapter 30
Arranging Fatima’s escape to Turkey might prove to be her last accomplishment on the job, Maysoun muses. When she told Peter that the organization had helped refugees go through Syria to destinations further afield by allowing them to hide in ambulances, she had not been telling the whole truth. She had heard of one driver who, while transporting a wounded man from a battlefield to a hospital in Turkey, found a stowaway in the ambulance on arrival. The driver had not been disciplined because he had not known about it, but she realizes now that if it is discovered that she had helped Fatima and her children get away, her position as one of the top administrators of this organization might be compromised. Still, she has no intention of putting a stop to the plan; she senses everything that is defiant in her asserting itself.
Since Peter and Fatima came to see her, Maysoun has determined which ambulance driver she will approach to take Fatima and her children to Turkey. When she meets with him, away from the office, she will reassure him that should he meet any trouble at any time during the trip or at its end, he is to say that she ordered him to allow Fatima and the children on to the ambulance and that he had had no choice but to follow that command. Once everything with the driver is arranged, all she will have to do is let Peter and Hannah know the date she has set for Fatima to depart.
She takes her reading glasses off, places them on her desk, lifts both arms above her head and stretches her upper body. She looks up when one of her colleagues appears at her office door.
—I’m going now, Maysoun, he says, looking and sounding as tired as she is. I guess you’ll be the last one to leave so will you lock up?
—I’ll be on my way too in a moment but yes, of course, I’ll lock up. See you tomorrow.
But instead of preparing to leave, she finds that she is reluctant to move out of her chair. Is it because she feels some sense of an ending to what has been her life these past few years, to the path she seems at times inadvertently to have taken since she left Iraq?
She reaches for the laptop in her bag and places it on the desk once again. She searches for the Skype icon and telephones Jalal, though she cannot be sure he will be available at this hour.
Just as her call is answered and Jalal comes on to the screen, she realizes that since it is late afternoon in Beirut, it is very early in the morning in Auckland.
—Oh, no, she exclaims. I’m so sorry, I forgot what the time is there, Jalal. Please, go back to sleep. I’ll hang up right away.
—No, no, don’t go, he says. It is early here but I wasn’t asleep. Look, I’m on my balcony having a coffee.
He turns the telephone around and she looks out on to what she imagines is the darkness of the South Pacific.
—I don’t believe you, she laughs. I can’t see anything at all.
—It’s good to hear from you, Maysoun. His voice is softer now. How are things? Is Nazha still there with you?
—No, she left a few days ago. She’s back in Baghdad. She refused to stay here.
She hears him sigh.
—Well, I understand why she would want to do that.
—Hmmm. Not sure I do, but tell me how are the girls? How are your sisters?
—They’re all doing very well, alhamdulillah. They love it here, you know. He chuckles. I mean I had an idea the girls would like it when we came out here. But their aunts? I don’t think they’ve ever enjoyed this much freedom. They have their own home not far from us and have made a good circle of friends among the community.
—But you like living there too, don’t you? Maysoun asks.
—Yes, I do, but there are moments when I miss home. That’s inevitable, isn’t it?
—Of course it is. We all feel that way at some point, I suppose.
—Are you OK, Maysoun? You look a bit down. What’s happened? How’s your work going?
She sighs.
—I have to admit it’s beginning to get to me. There’s so much that needs to be put right and so little being done. Sometimes I feel the results we’re achieving aren’t worth all the effort. There are times when I just want to pick up and leave it all behind.
—I can understand how you must be feeling, he says. I believe the map of the Middle East is being deliberately redrawn through all this conflict. We were getting too close to liberating ourselves from dictators and corrupt governments a couple of years ago and the powers that be had to put a stop to that.
She shakes her head.
—I don’t know, Jalal. I just think whatever the initial intentions behind the uprisings, things have spiralled out of control. There just doesn’t seem to be any way out of all this. We’re even having a difficult time trying to alleviate the suffering of refugees, whether in this part of the world or as they risk their lives trying to get to Europe.
—It’s pointless worrying, especially when there’s so little you can do about it anyway. I wish you would think seriously of leaving the region. There is a life out here, you know.
—Well, that’s actually what I called to ask you about.
—Oh?
—I … I was just wondering if the invitation to come to New Zealand is still open. She gestures vaguely behind her. I mean I’ve only just realized that I need a break from all this, she continues.
He grins at her and she smiles back.
—I won’t impose on you for long, she says.
He tells her that his hope is once she gets there that she will want to make of New Zealand a permanent home.
—That sounds perfect, Maysoun says, feeling something close to joy.
Chapter 31
At a tired café near the American University, Hannah sits and looks outside where the weather is finally turning, the sun less present and the air cooler, and the torrential rains of a Beirut autumn, lightning and its accompanying thunder, are anticipated. In the mountains, once temperatures drop, snow will also fall and, for a short while at least, there will be the suggestion of purity in a land no longer familiar with innocence.
Seeing Brigitte again had been unsettling, holding her and whispering, ‘I’m so sorry,’ again and again, then pulling away to look into her cool blue eyes and at her pallor, at the impression of fading beauty and the intensity of a grief too private to penetrate. Had the children been there, the pain and awkwardness of t
hat first encounter might have been avoided. As it was, she and Peter, standing in the lobby of the small hotel their friend was staying in, had watched as Brigitte attempted to contain her emotions and felt something close to shame at not knowing what to say next in the way of comfort, waiting for her to invite them to sit down and ask them if they would like anything to drink so that they could refuse.
—I’m all right, Brigitte had eventually told them.
She paused before continuing.
—I’m here because I want Anas’s exhibition to go ahead as planned. The children will join me soon, in time for the opening.
If Brigitte’s words hinted at resilience, her demeanour, the way her hand trembled slightly as she lifted it to adjust a lock of hair, her unbending body, its stiffness, her manner of speech and the lack of shade in it, suggested otherwise. Hannah wondered if there was something she was not telling them; she looked more closely at her friend as she spoke and decided these were merely the markings of great sadness.
—I … I also need to put things right with Anas’s family. His parents and sisters may be very angry with me right now but Rana and Marwan are all they have left of Anas and I don’t want to keep the children away from them.
Hannah realized that what she had mistaken for woodenness in Brigitte’s voice was, in fact, the result of nuances of German creeping back into her English, a kind of abruptness in speech that the many years spent in Syria immersed in Arabic had previously softened. But she seemed to have been fortified by her sojourn home and that was exactly what she needed to face this ordeal.
As the evening wore on and turned into night, the small lobby dimly lit and quiet by then, as Hannah and Peter sat and Brigitte spoke, her voice rising then falling and lilting like waves, as they listened patiently to stories that needed to be told, of lives unravelling and the finality of death, it seemed to Hannah that a great emptiness stretched before them, sorrow gently beckoning, drawing them near.
Wondering where Brigitte’s monologue would ultimately lead, Hannah leaned over in her seat and placed a hand on the other woman’s arm in silent acknowledgement. She had been feeling so much guilt at Anas’s death, both she and Peter had really, for allowing him to leave with Abou Mazen on his own, for returning to Beirut without him, for not reading the signs which with hindsight seemed a definite indication of Anas’s real intentions. But if they had hoped for some kind of release in seeing and talking to his wife, in commiserating with her and expressing their own feelings, they did not find it.
If anything, Hannah now thinks, the regret at what could have been had they acted differently seems to have grown into something bigger, a weight that at times presses so hard into her chest that she discovers she has stopped breathing for a moment.
The café door opens and she looks up to see a group of students laden with backpacks and books. An older man, a professor perhaps, leads them to a table not far from hers. She glances at them surreptitiously at first and then more boldly as she follows their conversation, a class in history or politics or perhaps both, she is not sure. They discuss with their teacher the events of the past months and raise questions about possible outcomes and the disintegration of the region in the future. One young man raises his voice slightly to protest.
—As Arabs, he says, we are connected, there is a thread that stretches between us and cannot be broken.
Another disagrees.
—We are separate nations that undermine each other constantly and as a result we live incompletely.
For a moment, Hannah wishes her father were here with her. He is interested in the opinions of young people. Would he conclude, as she has, that youth does not make us immune from realizing the extent of our disgrace, but rather shames us into wondering what kind of legacy we are leaving behind?
By the time she leaves, rain has begun to fall. She hunches her shoulders, places her handbag over her head and runs, turning right on Hamra Street and then up Sadat Street and to her father’s building where, drenched and shivering, she wipes her feet on the large mat in the entrance before getting into the lift and making her way upstairs. She shivers with cold as the housekeeper opens the door and lets her into the living room.
—Sweetheart, you got caught in the rain.
Faisal puts down his book and gets up from his armchair, frowning.
—Come with me, he says, leading her to a hall closet where he takes out a large towel and then pushes her gently towards the bathroom.
—I came to see you, Baba, Hannah says. So many things have happened and I haven’t had the chance to talk to you about them.
—Yes, of course, habibti. We’ll talk but first get out of those wet clothes and put on my robe. It’s hanging behind the door. I’ll turn the heater on in the living room so you can get yourself warm again.
There is something precious about elderly parents, Hannah tells herself, something that makes the inevitability of their loss seem more poignant still.
Chapter 32
—Is Hannah home? Brigitte asks, looking around in some confusion.
The young woman with an infant in her arms shakes her head.
—She’s out, she says, looking closely at Brigitte. Are you the artist’s wife? The one who was killed?
Brigitte gasps and the young woman motions to her to come inside.
—She told me to let you in if you got here before she did.
—Thank you.
—Are you from Syria? You sound like you’re from home, but you don’t look it. The woman reaches out to touch Brigitte’s hair.
—No, no. I’m not Syrian but my husband is.
Brigitte makes her way to the sitting room and sees a young boy playing on the carpet by the French doors. He looks up at her and smiles. He is very much like his mother, has light-coloured eyes and fair skin. The baby begins to cry and the mother places it on the sofa before going into the kitchen. It looks to be about three months old and, unlike the little boy, has a full head of dark, wavy hair.
—A little girl? Brigitte asks when she comes back with a bottle.
The young woman nods.
Leaving the baby on the sofa, she pushes the bottle into her mouth and holds it there, turning her head away to stare at Brigitte.
Having lived in the Middle East for so long, she is used to standing out because of her height and her blonde hair, but she has a feeling that the young woman’s apparent fascination with her has something else behind it.
—I’m from Syria, the young woman says.
—Oh.
Brigitte cannot understand why she feels uncomfortable in this woman’s presence.
—My husband was killed in the war too, she continues. I didn’t want to leave our home but I had to in the end.
—I’m sorry, Brigitte manages to say after a pause.
The young woman clears her throat.
—He was looking for you, your husband. I heard him talk to the others about it, about how anxious he was that you took the children away.
Brigitte lifts her head in astonishment.
—You were here? You met Anas?
She nods.
—My son and I were staying here too.
—I don’t understand.
The young woman looks confused.
—I’m Fatima. Hannah hasn’t told you about me?
Brigitte shakes her head.
—I only just got here, she says. I was in Germany …
—Yes, he told me that you’d taken the children away with you.
—Anas?
—He went out on to the balcony to smoke a cigarette and I followed him. We talked for a long time.
—You talked to him about us? Brigitte asks softly.
—When he explained what had happened, what you had done, I told him he was wrong, that there wasn’t a mother in the world who wouldn’t want to get her children out of that place, that he had no right to expect anything different from you.
Brigitte cannot believe what she is hearing.
; —Anyway, Fatima continues, he didn’t say very much at first. But I could tell he was listening. Then just before we went back inside, he showed me a picture of you and the children, your son and daughter.
Brigitte opens her eyes wide in astonishment.
—I told him that if he was missing you all, he should just go to you. I said that’s what I intended to do, go be with my family no matter what. Eventually, he agreed with me, said he knew he couldn’t live without you and the children.
—He mentioned me?
—Yes.
Brigitte takes a deep breath and, feeling suddenly cold, wraps her arms around herself.
—Can I hold her? she finally asks.
Fatima nods and hands her the baby.
She nestles the infant in the crook of her arm and watches as she sucks eagerly at the bottle. Her forehead is high, delicate skin stretched thinly over it, revealing tiny, crisscross veins of colour. Brigitte bends down to take in that inimitable scent of baby, of newness, and is instantly refreshed.
Recollections of her own children as infants flood into her mind, pictures such as this, of Anas standing patiently beside her, looking on with tenderness and then taking the bundle on to his shoulder to relieve her for a few moments, listening to him sing the babies to sleep, watching him rock them in his arms; memories of his immense, unrelenting love for them. Her tears fall on to the child’s blanket and she is unable to stop them. She looks around for a tissue and is grateful when Fatima hands her one.
—He was a good man, your husband, Fatima says suddenly. He was kind to me.
Brigitte nods, her head still down, unable to speak.
—When I said your husband was a kind man, I meant I knew he’d be able to help me.
A look of anxiety passes over her face and Brigitte is suddenly aware, as one sometimes is, that she is about to be taken into Fatima’s confidence.
Unsafe Haven, An Page 17