Beyond Love (Middle East Literature in Translation)

Read Beyond Love (Middle East Literature in Translation) for Free Online Page B

Book: Read Beyond Love (Middle East Literature in Translation) for Free Online
Authors: Hadiyya Hussein
dared to say "No." I then found myself adrift,
leaving behind everything-my house, my memories, my
grandmother, and Youssef, my childhood's dream. They
planted him as a husband in my head, and I loved him.
Or perhaps I only thought I loved him because there was
no one else in my life. The last thing he said to me when
he was handing me the passport was, "Don t waste time.
Be ready at 8:oo p.m. Your permanent identity papers will
reach you later on." He gave me a piece of paper. "Here
is Hani's address. Do you remember him?" Yes, I remembered him. He was a Palestinian guy who had been in
college with Youssef. I had met him a couple of times.

    "Don't forget your new name, Samia Shahine Hassan. Remember your birth date-we had to make you
forty-five years old to avoid the requirement for a male
chaperone."
    I took with me just a small clothing bag and another
handbag with only a notebook, tissues, a pen, the passport, and a few aspirin. I wrapped my head in a black
shawl and wore glasses so that I looked older. Youssef
said good-bye to me quickly; he was still upset with meor at least that was how it seemed to me.
    On the wide desert road across thousands of miles,
the car devoured the road and stole away my calm. I was
in the backseat, sitting next to a woman with her child.
Her husband was in the front, next to the driver. Some
drivers were willing to report any suspicious behavior to
the government, so I felt apprehensive about our driver.
Drivers would first start by pulling a passenger into conversation about living conditions and the state of the
country and then casually ask about the passenger's reasons for travel. I avoided taking part in the conversation. I feigned sleep, but I couldn't spend twenty exhausting
hours sleeping. After the driver had gossiped enough
with the man and his wife and knew about their motives,
he turned to me.

    "I'm about to have surgery, and my father is waiting
for me in Amman, where he has made arrangements for
a hospital room," I told him. The woman wanted to know
about my disease. I improvised the phrase "removing a
growth near the liver," but I didn't take part in the followup comments about the diseases ravaging Iraqis, the scarcity of medication, and the high rates of cancer after the
Gulf War. Every time we had to halt at checkpoints, my
heart stopped, but I had to be patient and contain myself.
    The wheels of the car were crushing my ribs, anxiety and fear overwhelming my dreams and expectations.
Youssef's face was following me; he looked upset, insisting, "Remember the new name, Sarnia Shahine Hassan. I
will join you after three or four months, as soon as I finish
my training." (I knew military training never ended. It
devoured the lives of youths, eating their dreams, until
they suddenly found themselves in their forties.)
    My grandmother's face took the place of Youssef's,
insisting, "You are lying. You are not headed to Najaf."
As I had held her hands, she had been certain that we
would never meet again; if I hadn't been in such a hurry,
she would have sewn me a talisman and hidden it in my
breast. But there hadn't been that much time, so she had
offered me a camel-bone necklace, placing it around my
neck while saying, "It will bring you patience and luck."
    In the car, I anxiously tried to be patient. Through
the fogged glass, I saw a star sparkling in the dark night.
A small window opened before me, and so I returned again to my grandmother. I entered her distinctive room.
It was a special world. As soon as you crossed the threshold, you would notice the change in the atmosphere, a
mixture of scents-henna, incense, and mastic. Her mattress was on the floor, for she had refused to sleep on
the bed since the death of her husband. In the corner
across from her mattress was a thick woolen carpet that
she had made herself, placed on mats, and surrounded
by soft woolen pillows. On top of a small wooden table
near the bed was a copy of

Similar Books

His Road Home

Anna Richland

Sophia

Michael Bible

One-Two Punch

Katie Allen

Boy X

Dan Smith