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

had any news from her son. The rest
continued to ruminate over their stories.
    "Would you believe it? I'm a professor," said a slightly
frail man wearing medical glasses. "I spent twenty years
teaching and researching-imagine, a professor, and my
salary can't meet my family's needs."
    "But how did you manage to leave Iraq? Persons with
your scientific rank are not allowed to travel. Did you
flee?"
    The professor smiled and adjusted his glasses. "No, I
bribed a doctor to make a report saying that I have been
diagnosed with heart disease. I left on a medical pretext;
then my family joined me. It's all about bribery."
    "I sold everything," another man said, "the house,
the car, the furniture. Life had become unbearable; no
other hope was left for us except to look for a decent life
away from the humiliation and disease. But, believe me,
the most beautiful country will not be able to replace Iraq,
despite all its destruction."

    "My story is worse," said a third person. "I have been
condemned to death in absentia. I lost my self-control and
spat on one of the party members in my neighborhood,
and, worse, I insulted the president as well."
    "And they didn't cut out your tongue?"
    "After I calmed down, I realized what was going to
happen to me and fled just before they caught me. But I
was right."
    Before the man could finish his story, Abou al-Abd
showed up again to read new numbers and to say that
the rest were to be postponed. He smiled, saying, "Sorry,
but we need to check some intelligence information about
some of you. You can come back next Sunday."
    This was the third time my appointment had been
postponed since I had filed an application consisting of
twenty-six questions. The application required a strong
memory and details about family members, relatives,
and their addresses, school years, and years of graduation. My permanent identity papers had been sent to me
at Hani's address via one of the drivers working on the
route line between Baghdad and Amman.
    I returned to my room feeling ambivalent. It was one
thirty. I took out leftovers and warmed them up. No one
was around to talk to. I threw my body on the bed, not
caring about the smells. I sank into a terrible void, and I
found myself wandering the streets of Kadhimiya, strolling through narrow, twisted alleys.
    I could see women on their doorsteps staring at me
and whispering. I passed them on my way to the herb
shops: the scents of incense, spices, cardamom, and nuts
tickled my nose. I bought some incense and entered the
shrine of Moosa al-Kadhim. I held onto the window's silver grate, breathing in the shrine's spiritual perfume.
The visitors' prayers and exaltations rose and fell, purifying me and giving me peace. Women showered their
offerings over the crowd's heads; cries of joy rang out. I
was struck by the weeping women who were holding on
to the illusion of fulfilled prayers. Their grieving hearts
were aching for missing children and missed husbands,
including those without graves. I could see emaciated men
with vacant glances standing in the corners. Young girls
were reciting silent prayers, hoping the saint would heal
their troubles and fill their hearts with faith and hope. I
could see children dedicated to the saint, wretched beggars, women with shriveled bellies, sheikhs who had lost
their children and years of their lives, fingers clinging
to the grates, shivering and seeking refuge. I could hear
wailing, smothered sighs, prayers for protection, crying.

    One of the custodians, who was wearing the greentissue strips of hope on his wrist, called hoarsely, "May
the saint Abu al-Jawadayn protect you from all evil."
Another one asked, "Any vows?" A third one wrapped
a child in cotton cloth in his father's arms and read the
sura of the dawn.
    Bodies were pressed against bodies, and everyone
was calling, praying, and seeking help and protection.
Among the exalted voices and the weeping eyes, I could
see