Beyond Love (Middle East Literature in Translation) (11 page)

But the crowds refused to calm down. They were
holding onto the iron bars like prisoners, yelling, complaining, desperate, furious. The officer, frustrated with
their disobedience, turned his back and disappeared
angrily behind interior doors. The voices died down;
some people blamed each other, others just fell silent, and
yet others, like volcanoes waiting to explode, suppressed
their anger. The women withdrew to the sidewalk, and
the men remained standing, waiting for their turn. A long
time passed before the officer reappeared, and, pointing
his finger, he stressed the necessity of remaining calm
lest he go away and not return. A man leaning on an iron
bar called to him, "Brother, please..."

The officer came closer to the man, who said to him
imploringly, "You ought to be more patient, for them"he pointed at the women and the children. "Their condition is miserable; you have to look at their requests in a
way that acknowledges their humanity."

The officer didn't seem to comprehend what the man
said. He just nodded and asked the people to form two
lines, one for men and the other for women, and to keep
silent so that they could hear what he was going to say.
When we had complied, he began to read off numbers, asking some to enter. A few steps away stood a young
man with his arms around his chest. Every time I accidentally looked around, I caught him staring at me as
though he knew me.

"Huda Abdel Baqi."

"Yes?"

"Sorry. Your application is rejected." The officer
handed me the application, saying, "You can appeal."

I was speechless as I took the paper. I felt as if I were
sinking in quicksand and asked myself how this wide
world could refuse me refuge in any one of its corners. I
was about to yell, cry, rebel, but I contained myself to preserve some remnant of pride. I walked a few steps away
from the Refugee Office, and the young man joined me.

"It doesn't matter; there's still a chance."

I looked at him, a young man in his thirties, tall and
dark. His eyes were black, and he was rather slim. I didn't
say anything. I walked toward the fence and leaned
against it.

The young man began to explain without my asking.
"This happens a lot when the committee is not convinced
by the reports. In the case of an appeal, the demand is
transferred to another committee, which reads the information anew. It happened to my brother, and he is now a
refugee in Australia."

I didn't make any comment, so he asked me, "Who
else is with you in your file?"

I replied with a sadness I couldn t conceal, "No one is
with me. I'm on my own."

He went on, asking, "Where's your family?"

I wanted to cry, but I held back the tears. "There's
only my grandmother left, and she's in Baghdad."

After some silence, he spoke again. "I'm sorry. What
is your case? As you know, or perhaps you don t know,
being granted refugee status depends on a clear and justified case: those who are escaping the death penalty or
are fugitives from imprisonment, including those who
were accused of acting against the regime or who suffered clear evidence of damage. In all cases, they need
documents to prove their claims."

We walked together toward the bus stop. I told him
about my problems while he explained the system to me.
"The committee has to verify all information because
some of the asylum seekers turn out to be sent by the
regime to spy on others, either here in Amman or in their
countries of settlement."

Surprised, I asked, "Is that possible? How can Iraqis
spy on Iraqis under such circumstances?"

He answered painfully, "Bankruptcy, lack of prospects, and desperation overpower the good in souls, so
these people become instruments to spy on their fellow
citizens."

I looked at him as we waited at the bus stop. I
didnt know why, but I suspected he might be one of those sent
by the regime. I regretted disclosing my problems and
paid no attention to what he said after that. I jumped onto
the bus without saying good-bye, but his lips were moving when I looked back at him as the bus left. I had a
feeling that he wanted to say something important. What
could he be saying in that last moment?

A HUNDRED ANXIOUS AND HORRIFYING HOURS under
the most violent bombing by the militaries of thirty countries were relived in Nadia's diary. It was hellfire, and the Iraqis were the firewood. Intensified and blind bombing,
mass flight, terrible anger, and one single question with
no answer: Why did the president so obstinately continue
with the invasion if he knew he was going to withdraw
from Kuwait anyway? This question was on everyone's
minds before and after the outbreak of the war.

On February 26, 1991, troops had headed down a wide
desert road. They had returned in failure and defeat. On
the road, they had been a target of the enemies' planes
despite the withdrawal order, which many commanders
hadn't believed, knowing the president's stubborn insistence on putting them in one hell or another. They had
been returning home, frustrated. Under fire, they had
melted into their vehicles' steel, and their bodies had been
carbonized. The fortunate ones had walked hundreds of
miles, torn with hunger and humiliation, and many had
fled to the Saudi border, looking for escape.

The feeling of humiliation was shared among the
army and the people, who had no hope of relief except
through revolt. The first spark started in Basra and
spread to the other provinces. The defenseless people
were moved by despair, isolation, bitter defeat, oppression, and the widening gap between them and their ruler.
This is how it was: vanquished people and angry, demoralized troops who had left behind them burned corpses
and damaged machinery came together. Statistics say
that thousands of troops had chosen captivity and that 65
percent had deserted from the army; ten thousand troops
had fallen dead on the road in retreat.

Police stations, ministries, and party organizations
fell into the insurgents' hands. Some of their occupants
ran away, and others joined the uprising. The starving people broke into the government stores of grain and
food and took everything they could carry. Wounded soldiers sought refuge in houses where they were not asked
for their names. Names had no importance in those horrible hours. Nadia wrote in her diary how she rushed to
assist the wounded. On her way back, she saw a fallen
soldier near their house. At first, she didnt recognize
him. She held his hands to help him stand up. His clothes
were covered with blood. Then she heard him whisper,
"Nadia, don't worry. This blood is not mine. I'm hungry
and don't have the strength to walk."

She couldnt believe that it was Emir. His face was
soiled with mud, and his eyes were hollow. He fell into
her arms, almost fainting.

"Try for me, my darling. Please. Hold on."

At home, she offered him some water and wiped
his face. Her mother rushed to give him some of Nadir's
clothes.

"Take this, my son, and I will prepare you something
to eat. As for your clothes, I will burn them."

Emir recovered after two days and joined the insurgents. The provinces fell one after the other. Emir did not
return to Nadia's house. She thought that he had gone
to Hiyania to reassure his family, but he never reached
them. Instead, he met an officer and a sergeant from his
unit. They suggested that he travel to Karbala to support
the insurgents there. By the time they entered Karbala,
before dawn, the holy city had already fallen into the
hands of the authorities.

Everyone who has survived remembers the events
of the uprising and how helicopters circled the city.
Houses, factories, and stores were demolished. Armored cars entered the city, burning gardens on both sides
of the street so that no one could take refuge in them.
Those who attempted to escape death via the outlying
roads were trapped by helicopters that poured white
oil on them and then threw firebombs, reducing them
to ashes. At the same time, American helicopters hovered in the skies, watching the events of the new battle of
Karbala, where children were exterminated along with
their mothers and the elderly. Those whom the authorities caught were transported to unknown places from
which they never returned. With horror falling upon
the houses, Karbala became a ghost city filled with the
smells of decay. Its streets were empty except for tanks,
the regime's armed men, and the bodies that no one
dared to bury. The authorities had forbidden their burial
so that they would serve as a warning to others. The
corpses remained disfigured and rotting for many days
until they were buried in unknown mass graves. The
same thing happened in other districts as well. Highlevel officials or their friends attended execution ceremonies. On a video smuggled to many humanitarian
organizations, the president's cousin Chemical Ali could
be seen beating many young men to death with his shoes
and the butt of his gun.

Emir vanished, like many others who died, escaped,
or disappeared in secret prisons. Nadia had written in her
diary, "One friend told me that Emir didnt fall into the
hands of the regime, and the last time he saw Emir, Emir
had said to him that he intended to return to Basra. But he
never returned, and I have no news from him now."

This was how so many lost touch. Fathers didn't
know anything about what had happened to their missing children and were unable to search for or ask
about them. Perhaps they accepted their fate, for the
missing ones never returned. Family, wives, and lovers
convinced themselves that there was no way for them to
meet each other again. But Nadia had kept flirting with
hope, believing that Emir might have left the country,
like those who succeeded in fleeing through Kurdistan
or through the desert to Saudi Arabia.

EVERY TIME I went to the Refugee Office, I would see
new faces. Since it was too early to let us in, the policeman
at the door asked everybody to withdraw to the sidewalk.
Some listened, and others grumbled. When the officer
finally opened the door, everybody rushed in. I pushed
my way through the crowd to hand in my appeal application. The policeman shouted, "Don't push!" A man
asked about his residency permit renewal, and the officer
pointed at the announcement board.

"Brothers! Please read the posted announcements.
There are new instructions. There is a day for general consulting, another for residency and renewal-of-residency
applications, and specific days to pick up renewals."

The man who had asked about residency said, "It is
best like this."

The officer didn't reply, and others went to check the
instructions on the announcement board. The women
waited on the sidewalk or leaned on the fence while the
officer admitted some families. I didn't know who was
standing behind or next to me, and my body was becoming tense. I handed in the application and moved away
with difficulty. Before I left, I noticed the young man from
the other day, the one I had been suspicious about. Why did I slow down? He greeted me, and we walked together,
almost as though we had prearranged it. Our steps were
slow and rhythmic on the asphalt.

"Things are slow in the Refugee Office," he said.
"Some will now desperately try illegal immigration.
What about you?"

"I just appealed. What about you?"

"I'm accepted. I'm now waiting for an interview
with the Australian delegation. I'll join my brother there.
Where do you live?"

"On Mount al-Hussein. And you?"

"I live with a roommate, my friend Faisal, in
al-Jandawil."

I waited for him as he bought cigarettes from one of
the kiosks. He returned with two bottles of strawberry
juice, and we sat on a bench. I looked at him while he was
lighting up a cigarette. His face looked different, but his
features were difficult to forget: mysterious black eyes,
a coffee-colored complexion with the trace of a healed
wound above his left eyebrow. This time his features
inspired confidence, and I didnt feel suspicious about
him, but I was still uncertain. I felt that he was concealing
something, and this impression would be confirmed in
subsequent encounters.

When the bus came, he wrote his cell phone number
on a piece of paper. "If you need anything, don't hesitate
to contact me."

I took the paper, looking at him as though promising
him an appointment. When the bus started moving, we
waved to each other, each of us hiding something confused deep inside.

EVERY TIME I dialed the number for home, I was disappointed. Baghdad preferred to keep silent, as if punishing
me for having abandoned it. Every time I asked myself
questions, I developed a headache. Days and months
passed slowly, and I felt like a desert sojourner lost in a
mirage that was failing to quench my thirst. I was unable
to change the map of my exile, and I couldn't return to
Baghdad.

I climbed the long stairs to my room, and before I
reached it, I had to sit down on the last stair to catch my
breath. Umm Ayman came out to tell me that she was
about to rent my room to someone else. The carpenter
from the downstairs shop needed wood storage; otherwise, he would have to find another place for his growing
business. She apologized, trying to look sympathetic as
she explained the situation, and said that she would give
me until the end of the month to look for a decent place.
While she was rambling, I thought about the burden of
looking and bargaining for a new place.

At that moment, my hand felt the paper in my jacket
pocket. I immediately thought of calling him; then it
occurred to me that I didn't know his name and that
he hadn't written it under his phone number. He hadn't
asked me my name either. What would I tell him? Should
I say I'm the girl from the Refugee Office? It was amazing
that neither of us had asked the other for a name.

Umm Ayman continued, "You will be fine. I know a
nice woman in Mount Amman; I think she has a vacant
room much better than this one."