Beyond Love (Middle East Literature in Translation) by Hadiyya Hussein Page A

asked again, "Is there anyone I can talk to?"

    His question was lost amid the child's crying, and the
officer disappeared into the building without answering.
He also didn't hear my voice when I called him, or perhaps he heard but ignored me. Some women were sitting
on the ground and on the sidewalk. Every one of them
was pondering her suffering. My back hurt, so I sat down
next to a woman with a pale face. She looked at me and
asked for some water from the bottle I was holding.
    Any occasion is an opportunity for us to confess to
a stranger; we Iraqis do not need reasons or introductions when our hearts can no longer bear the weight of
our tragedy. Thus, as soon as the woman returned the
bottle, she started to tell her story. "I have been coming
to the Refugee Office for five months now. My daughter
is a medical doctor; she left Iraq before I did, and I have
followed her. She left through the services of clandestine immigration to shorten the time and the troubles of
waiting here. She should have arrived four months ago
in Germany, where her father is waiting for her. He has
been a refugee there for two years. But she didn't wait for
him to send her official papers. She paid a lot of money,
but since then I haven't heard anything from her. She
hasn't arrived in Germany, and she hasn't been in touch
with me."
    I asked, "What have they done for you here at the
Refugee Office?"
    She bowed her head silently. I looked at her emaciated
face and her dry lips as I listened to her response. "How
should I know? I don't even know the office my daughter
dealt with. I arrived in Amman three days before she left,
and she assured me then that she would arrive safely in Germany. Here I am, waiting. I have lost it all: daughter,
husband, and homeland."

    We were eventually admitted to the office. The corridor leading to the waiting room was three feet wide and
paved with dark tiles. The last step up to the main door
to the waiting area looked tortuous, as though to remind
us that the road we were about to take would be endlessly
long and twisted. The only waiting area was too small
for the number of applicants. The children were shouting and fighting over three plastic toys: who would get
to ride the horse first, who would get to crawl inside the
belly of the goose, who would get to play with the blocks.
One of the children snatched some blocks from another,
and a lopsided fight started between a fat little bully and
a skinny, scared child.
    A few men leaned against the wall, and some women
sat on large stones scattered randomly throughout the
room. Others would walk in and out as though looking
for something they had lost. There was only one story
circulating among the people, though with different
details-the flight from hell and the lack of work opportunities in Amman. As soon as I sat next to someone, I
would find myself listening to that person's story, which
was also my own. From time to time, the officer Abou
al-Abd emerged to call out a few file numbers or to read
aloud some instructions. All eyes would be on him before
he even said anything. The hours lengthened, the children shouted endlessly, and the stories circulated.
    "My son emigrated two years ago. He got in touch
with me only once when I was in Baghdad. I've been
waiting nine months. All I know about him is that he is in Michigan, and his phone is out of service." The woman
wrapped in her black woolen cloak continued, "Could the
phone possibly be out of service this whole time?" Her
tears were visible.

    The young woman sitting next to her asked, "What
did they tell you here?"
    With her fingers intertwined, the first woman said,
"I met with them a month ago, and they gave me an
appointment today. What do you think? Will they be able
to find him?"
    Abou al-Abd came out from his small office. He read
aloud the file numbers. A few men and women moved
off, their children following them; among them was the
woman who hadn't