Read Online Beyond Love (Middle East Literature in Translation) by Hadiyya Hussein - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Hadiyya Hussein
Ads: Link
from its silence. No one replied; no one came. I couldn't travel there.
THE HANDS OF MY BEDROOM CLOCK had stopped. I checked its battery to see if it had shifted out of place. I hung it back on the wall, but it was still the same. I thought of buying a new battery and went to bed without eating anything. I seemed to be diving into a void. Many questions started clamoring in my head. Why wasn't anyone answering? What had happened to Youssef? He should have finished his additional military service a month ago. Was he still trying to pay the heavy taxes required to travel?' My aunt had been trying to keep him away from the wars and their calamities. Youssef had been tired of war, and I knew that desperation had been eating his heart. He had often told me that he couldn't live in a country where war would only hatch out more wars and where he had to guard his life lest he be killed or driven to suicide. We'd discussed his leaving Iraq for a long time before he was convinced; he was very opposed to the idea of Iraqi migration. What was delaying him, then? My thoughts went in vicious circles, asking the same questions, setting up excuses, creating illusions that I believed, until I felt dizzy. I stood up and washed my face, but my body was still tense. Nadia's notebook caught my attention. I grabbed it and started reading.
On that unfortunate cold morning, the atmosphere was
dense with the smell of death. A few cars were parked
in front of the big prison gates in Basra, where guards
with jackal eyes patrolled and kept surveillance from
the observation towers. People's faces were pale and
their eyes expectant, their lips locked and filled with
anger. Distressed and defeated women wore black
woolen cloaks that blew open in the wind, revealing
their humble clothing and wasted bodies. Men with
heads swathed in koufiya smoked compulsively, their
eyes red and blank. All eyes looked toward the iron
gate. No one dared to ask questions. The guards were
fully armed, ready to attack. They looked at us with
disdain, although it was they who were despicable.
My uncle and I had sought refuge near the car that
would transport Nadir's body. To keep myself from
surrendering to tears and stop my spirit from shattering, I bit my parched lips fiercely till they almost bled.
I pressed on my throat to suppress my cries. Memories
transfixed me with quick images and flashes, deluding
me, bringing closer a childhood that had flown away
from me. Deceptive images danced in my head: me playing with a cotton doll that Nadir might come and snatch
away in a moment. I would follow him with insults;
then he would turn and hit me. I would cry, so he would
suggest that we go to the garden to collect mulberry and
pomegranate flowers. This image disappeared and gave
way to another. Here was Nadir plagued by puberty,
sticking actresses' photos on the walls and collecting
tapes of modern music. Under his pillow he would hide
papers. I suspected they were love letters or love poems
for a woman he hadn't met yet.
Cold wind slapped our tired faces, carrying with
it the fates of the murdered. An officer came out. Shaking steps hastened, and tears petrified. He read aloud
the names of our dead, every name preceded by the
word traitor. He requested that only one person from
each family enter to sign the acknowledgment of the
body's receipt. I was frozen in place, my teeth chattering. My uncle entered with some of the men. They all
disappeared behind the gate, leaving the rest of us to
our sadness. No one wept. No one cried out. Everything was forbidden, and the silence whipped our dismayed souls. After a little while, the coffins came out,
one after the other. They were put on top of the cars
and went their separate ways.
My uncle sat next to the driver, and I sat next to
my mother in the backseat. The way to holy Najaf was
long and hard. I felt as though I were swallowing fire;
it ran down my throat and burned my intestines. I
THE HANDS OF MY BEDROOM CLOCK had stopped. I checked its battery to see if it had shifted out of place. I hung it back on the wall, but it was still the same. I thought of buying a new battery and went to bed without eating anything. I seemed to be diving into a void. Many questions started clamoring in my head. Why wasn't anyone answering? What had happened to Youssef? He should have finished his additional military service a month ago. Was he still trying to pay the heavy taxes required to travel?' My aunt had been trying to keep him away from the wars and their calamities. Youssef had been tired of war, and I knew that desperation had been eating his heart. He had often told me that he couldn't live in a country where war would only hatch out more wars and where he had to guard his life lest he be killed or driven to suicide. We'd discussed his leaving Iraq for a long time before he was convinced; he was very opposed to the idea of Iraqi migration. What was delaying him, then? My thoughts went in vicious circles, asking the same questions, setting up excuses, creating illusions that I believed, until I felt dizzy. I stood up and washed my face, but my body was still tense. Nadia's notebook caught my attention. I grabbed it and started reading.
On that unfortunate cold morning, the atmosphere was
dense with the smell of death. A few cars were parked
in front of the big prison gates in Basra, where guards
with jackal eyes patrolled and kept surveillance from
the observation towers. People's faces were pale and
their eyes expectant, their lips locked and filled with
anger. Distressed and defeated women wore black
woolen cloaks that blew open in the wind, revealing
their humble clothing and wasted bodies. Men with
heads swathed in koufiya smoked compulsively, their
eyes red and blank. All eyes looked toward the iron
gate. No one dared to ask questions. The guards were
fully armed, ready to attack. They looked at us with
disdain, although it was they who were despicable.
My uncle and I had sought refuge near the car that
would transport Nadir's body. To keep myself from
surrendering to tears and stop my spirit from shattering, I bit my parched lips fiercely till they almost bled.
I pressed on my throat to suppress my cries. Memories
transfixed me with quick images and flashes, deluding
me, bringing closer a childhood that had flown away
from me. Deceptive images danced in my head: me playing with a cotton doll that Nadir might come and snatch
away in a moment. I would follow him with insults;
then he would turn and hit me. I would cry, so he would
suggest that we go to the garden to collect mulberry and
pomegranate flowers. This image disappeared and gave
way to another. Here was Nadir plagued by puberty,
sticking actresses' photos on the walls and collecting
tapes of modern music. Under his pillow he would hide
papers. I suspected they were love letters or love poems
for a woman he hadn't met yet.
Cold wind slapped our tired faces, carrying with
it the fates of the murdered. An officer came out. Shaking steps hastened, and tears petrified. He read aloud
the names of our dead, every name preceded by the
word traitor. He requested that only one person from
each family enter to sign the acknowledgment of the
body's receipt. I was frozen in place, my teeth chattering. My uncle entered with some of the men. They all
disappeared behind the gate, leaving the rest of us to
our sadness. No one wept. No one cried out. Everything was forbidden, and the silence whipped our dismayed souls. After a little while, the coffins came out,
one after the other. They were put on top of the cars
and went their separate ways.
My uncle sat next to the driver, and I sat next to
my mother in the backseat. The way to holy Najaf was
long and hard. I felt as though I were swallowing fire;
it ran down my throat and burned my intestines. I
Similar Books
