Read Online Beyond Love (Middle East Literature in Translation) by Hadiyya Hussein - Free Book Online
Authors: Hadiyya Hussein
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Youssef's face, but in a flash it was wrenched away. I
slipped among the crowd to try to hold on to him, calling,
"Youssef, Youssef!" I woke up, not knowing if what I had
seen was a night vision or a daydream.
I carried myself to the phone booth and dialed. No
one answered. Perhaps they were out visiting or shopping. I tried again in the afternoon and an hour later. I called again and again at different times for a week. What
had happened to Youssef? Where was my aunt? Why
was no one responding? I reassured myself by thinking
up many excuses-service interruptions, for instance,
because telephone service was often interrupted in Iraq.
Since the war, the central telephone lines had been only
half functional because the embargo still continued on
some merchandise and equipment. It was foolish to think
that the government wanted to lift the embargo; it wanted
to maintain the suffering of those who had resisted the
regime after the liberation of Kuwait. The uprising then
had been the largest and most widespread the country
had ever witnessed. That is why people in the southern
districts were still drinking polluted water. It was a collective punishment. The internal blockade surpassed the
blockade imposed by the superpowers.
On the eighth day, I got up early. I had a glass of milk
and left for the Refugee Office. The sky was covered with
white and dark clouds, but the fresh air was filled with
the smell of flowers. As usual, we stood waiting until the
doors would be opened. The woman I had previously sat
next to was sitting in the same place near the sidewalk. I
sought a remote corner in order to avoid asking her what
had happened to her daughter. After almost a half hour,
an officer appeared. He began asking and answering
questions; then he let in a large number of people. We
spread out inside the room and in the narrow yard. Time
stretched from hour to hour, and we filled it with the stories that had become familiar and boring. The doctor's
mother was among the next group that entered. As soon
as she saw me, she walked toward me as though we were
old friends. Then, without my asking, she told me that her daughter had called her from Malaysia and said that she
had been arrested along with others who had entered the
country illegally. Her eyes glistened with tears as she told
me about her daughter. "Life is very tough, and the treatment is bad; they treat them as though they were robbers,
making them sleep on the floor with just a blanket under
their bodies and another one as a cover. Their problem now depends on meeting with the United Nations
delegate."
"Huda Abdel Baqi."
I jumped from my seat without excusing myself to the
woman. I walked behind Abou al-Abd through a narrow
corridor. He asked me to enter the room and returned to
his business. I sat before a young woman whose face was
without makeup or expression. There was a computer in
front of her. She began asking me questions as she typed
my answers. I admitted to her that my passport was false
and that my name was Huda Abdel Baqi, as it showed on
my papers and citizenship certificate. I gave her a precise narrative of facts and events and answered all the
questions concerning studies, home, number of living
and dead relatives, dates long past, and how and where I
lived here. She asked me to draw a map of my home and
a few other things that in my opinion were not important.
She ended our meeting by stressing that asylum was not
my right, but only a temporary solution; everyone who
came here should know that. After that meeting, I bore
the number 2426. When I left the Refugee Office, the
atmosphere was colder, and dark clouds were thickening.
I halted at a phone booth. I dialed, every part of my body
hanging onto this silent machine, waiting for a voice. Just
as before, no one picked up, although I let it ring a long time, holding on as though entangled in its wires. I tried again; perhaps Baghdad would awake
slipped among the crowd to try to hold on to him, calling,
"Youssef, Youssef!" I woke up, not knowing if what I had
seen was a night vision or a daydream.
I carried myself to the phone booth and dialed. No
one answered. Perhaps they were out visiting or shopping. I tried again in the afternoon and an hour later. I called again and again at different times for a week. What
had happened to Youssef? Where was my aunt? Why
was no one responding? I reassured myself by thinking
up many excuses-service interruptions, for instance,
because telephone service was often interrupted in Iraq.
Since the war, the central telephone lines had been only
half functional because the embargo still continued on
some merchandise and equipment. It was foolish to think
that the government wanted to lift the embargo; it wanted
to maintain the suffering of those who had resisted the
regime after the liberation of Kuwait. The uprising then
had been the largest and most widespread the country
had ever witnessed. That is why people in the southern
districts were still drinking polluted water. It was a collective punishment. The internal blockade surpassed the
blockade imposed by the superpowers.
On the eighth day, I got up early. I had a glass of milk
and left for the Refugee Office. The sky was covered with
white and dark clouds, but the fresh air was filled with
the smell of flowers. As usual, we stood waiting until the
doors would be opened. The woman I had previously sat
next to was sitting in the same place near the sidewalk. I
sought a remote corner in order to avoid asking her what
had happened to her daughter. After almost a half hour,
an officer appeared. He began asking and answering
questions; then he let in a large number of people. We
spread out inside the room and in the narrow yard. Time
stretched from hour to hour, and we filled it with the stories that had become familiar and boring. The doctor's
mother was among the next group that entered. As soon
as she saw me, she walked toward me as though we were
old friends. Then, without my asking, she told me that her daughter had called her from Malaysia and said that she
had been arrested along with others who had entered the
country illegally. Her eyes glistened with tears as she told
me about her daughter. "Life is very tough, and the treatment is bad; they treat them as though they were robbers,
making them sleep on the floor with just a blanket under
their bodies and another one as a cover. Their problem now depends on meeting with the United Nations
delegate."
"Huda Abdel Baqi."
I jumped from my seat without excusing myself to the
woman. I walked behind Abou al-Abd through a narrow
corridor. He asked me to enter the room and returned to
his business. I sat before a young woman whose face was
without makeup or expression. There was a computer in
front of her. She began asking me questions as she typed
my answers. I admitted to her that my passport was false
and that my name was Huda Abdel Baqi, as it showed on
my papers and citizenship certificate. I gave her a precise narrative of facts and events and answered all the
questions concerning studies, home, number of living
and dead relatives, dates long past, and how and where I
lived here. She asked me to draw a map of my home and
a few other things that in my opinion were not important.
She ended our meeting by stressing that asylum was not
my right, but only a temporary solution; everyone who
came here should know that. After that meeting, I bore
the number 2426. When I left the Refugee Office, the
atmosphere was colder, and dark clouds were thickening.
I halted at a phone booth. I dialed, every part of my body
hanging onto this silent machine, waiting for a voice. Just
as before, no one picked up, although I let it ring a long time, holding on as though entangled in its wires. I tried again; perhaps Baghdad would awake
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