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he wouldn’t hang around for long,” remarked my mother.
    Our loft was much frequented because it was like a treasure trove. Jars of oil, fat, and olives were stored there. My mother loved them for a secret reason even though she didn’t cook, and if she ever tried, she burned the food and the cooking pots. Unknown to my father, she sold these jars to her friends and with the money bought anything that was in fashion, especially if it was plastic, a material banned from our house. She also sold her jewelry and swore that she’d lost it or had it stolen. She lived in a world of movie stars like Asmahan and Anwar Wajdi, reliving the dialogues of their films and singing their songs. I would probably have remained in the house where I was born, but when my mother chose to remarry and move to the States, it didn’t occur to her to think about me, or to consult my grandmother about what should happen to me; but everyone knew instinctively that I would live with my grandmother and her maid Zemzem or our maid Isaf, no matter where, in a great variety of houses, playing with the children round about. In our family decisions were not taken; instead things were simply left to take their course.
    I realize that what I’m talking about doesn’t concern you, and that includes Paul McCartney even though he’s English. He may not have heard of your friend’s kidnapping and if he has he probably isn’t that interested. But I can’t get therecord covers out of my mind, or the rhythm of the Beatles’ songs. I used to imagine that I’d save some money, go to London, and end up marrying John Lennon.
    You see how people revert to thinking about themselves. Even the fact that you’re going through my mind now is a result of my being wrapped up in myself. I feel as if all I possess at this moment is my body and this bed. My mind is no longer my own and if I force myself to think about it, I know that I possess my body but not, even temporarily, the ground I walk on. In short, I’m a hostage just like your friend, lover, fiancé. What does it mean to be kidnapped? Being separated forcibly from your environment, family, friends, home, bed. So in some strange way I can persuade myself I’m worse off than them. They rode in a comfortable car which dropped them off by mistake in a city of horrors, but I was abducted to a city which resembled the one I’d lived in originally with its clear skies, changing clouds, and some small details of life, like thyme and sesame pastries and the black soot which always clings to the outer wall of the baker’s oven. For I’m still in my own place, but separated from it in a painful way: this is my city and I don’t recognize it.
    I’m a stranger here. Not because the streets have changed physically, and the signs are no longer illuminated, the lights don’t work, water doesn’t come flowing out of the taps as it used to in ancient memory. Not because the paint is peeling off the cars and their workings are visible, or the seasons have become different from one street to the next, or a forest of trees has risen up where there used to be cement, while in gardens and open spaces there are plastic-bottle trees. Notbecause stagnant water glistens from the swamps which have formed across main roads, buildings have collapsed and half collapsed, and even those built recently are falling down before they are finished. The façades of shops are not only unfamiliar, but they actually transport me to another country. There are Iranian signs on the shopfronts, on the walls, posters of men of religion, of leaders I don’t know. I no longer understand the language people use. I know it is Arabic but it has become a series of riddles, its letters mysterious symbols, and it’s not the language we learned in childhood and practiced in youth. It has different meanings which are unfamiliar to me. I tried looking in a dictionary but didn’t find equivalents of the words I heard spoken, even though I attempted to