The sky and
two bridges
Amy Dawn
السماء
وجسرين
Kuwait,
July 1990
Enjoy
yourself, it’s later than you think. Enjoy yourself
whilst your still in the pink. Hagar
spent her first month in
Saddam
imprisoned her for it, for believing that her life was anything more than a
patriotic flag wave of the state and her body, a pregnable lump of flesh for
its reproduction. But she tried to forget that now, the burning fire she felt
in her stomach at the student protests, the appetite she once had to eat kubba after a long day of studying, and that
one guard, Iraqi like her, who decided to drop his trousers and perforate the
only layer of skin between the only character she had created and her country. Bastard.
She
switched off the TV, threw the remote on the sofa and walked towards the
window. Shards of light beamed into her eyes from the newly built shopping mall
below. She opened the window, letting the weight of the summer evening sink
into the air-conditioned room. Ugly, she thought.
Hagar
closed the curtains and made her way into the bedroom, turning down the air-con
as she passed through the hallway.
Enjoy yourself, la la la la la la.
She
lay on the unmade bed, body sticky from the heat, stroking the white lines
across her light brown belly from under her T-shirt. It was skin that was once
so rounded and tight that she could hardly see her feet. Why did Fahad want to
marry her with such embodied reminders of her past, she wondered?
The
white cotton sheets crumpled as she moved. Hagar rolled off of the bed
and onto the tiled floor. On her knees, she reached her hand far underneath the
mirrored wardrobe that stood opposite the side of the bed that she slept on.
Tap, tap, tap, her fingers disturbed the dust. A notebook,
wrapped in a cheap purple scarf and wedged at the back of the perfect sized gap
between the back of the wardrobe and the wall. Black leather, thick and almost
in pieces, but all hers, her words, her memories, the world she once was. She
opened it and flicked through.
they beheaded
love’s breath
now I rest a
slave
to a dry bed
no drop of oil
sweat
impossible
cold little…
Hagar
heard the elevator door open outside the apartment. She closed the notebook,
wrapped it, and skidded it with force across the white tiled floor, the
notebook disappearing just before Fahad entered.
‘Habibti, hello, why is it so warm in here?’ Fahad
was a rich man, a government bureaucrat, a cousin to the ruling Al-Sabah
family. He changed his shoes whilst pointedly pressing the blue button on the
aircon. ‘I pay for this place you know, you just have to keep it cool.’ He
smiled after catching a glimpse of his immediate frustration in the mirror.
‘What are you doing in the bedroom anyway?’
‘I
was watching TV and the…’
‘And
did you visit Mohammad today, about your papers?’
Hagar stood up from the bed, subtly checking to see whether the notebook was
out of sight. ‘I went, but he wasn’t in the office.’
‘That
man, a donkey is more reliable!’ Fahad took off his agal, throwing it
onto the bed. ‘And did you cook something my dear?’
Fahad
met Hagar on the Iraqi border, on her second attempt to leave
‘I’m
Kuwaiti, travelling to
Hagar
lied when Fahad first stopped her. She was a woman, had perfected her Kuwaiti
dialect, she could get away with it.
‘Do
you need a lift to the city? I’m returning soldiers in ten minutes.’
That
was another benefit of being a woman, outlawed from driving, free lifts are
offered.
‘Perfect, thank you.’
But
during that journey, Hagar’s tongue slipped. One word,
unmistakably Iraqi, quzzurqut, spoken in
instantaneous reaction after the soldier sitting beside her burped. And
it was then that Fahad realised where she was from, began feeling sympathy for
her and saw instead a victim of his country’s corrupt neighbour.
‘I
have a place to stay’, Fahad whispered just before Hagar stepped out of the
army truck, ‘and don’t worry, I know you’re Iraqi.’
So
of course Hagar had cooked something. Except the rare nights when he felt eager
for her, Iraqi recipes were the only thing she could offer Fahad in repayment
for helping her gain Kuwaiti status. ‘
‘A
woman can usually get it after five years of marriage, but I know a person who
will help us,’ Fahad once explained.
And
a cooked meal was a mutual exchange in Fahad’s eyes too. Besides, he had saved
her, given her another chance to enjoy it, making her soon to be the first
Iraqi to be granted asylum in his oil-rich homeland. Hagar a
refugee for now, certainly, but soon to be married, comfortable and safe as the
wife of the Emir’s cousin.
***
‘Quickly,
they’ve seen us!’
Bader threw the
last of the oranges into the back of the pick-up then jumped in. In a yellow
cloud of dust and sand the truck pulled away and him
and his cousin Nassir headed North towards the desert. It was dusk, too late
and dark for the police to follow them out of Al-Jahra and besides, the money
gained from fining two fruit sellers was a small sum against their wages.
Bader climbed
over from the back and into the passenger seat from the side-window, unknowingly
chipping away a flake of white paint from the edge of the truck door.
‘That was a
close.’
As he continued
to drive, Nassir, looked over to Bader shaking his
head as he had done a thousand times before. As the older cousin; it was easy
for him to blame Bader for their risky escapes. Nassir then pulled out two
cigarettes from the pocket of his dishdasha and passed one to Bader.
Bader accepted, without looking. Hardly shaken by the event,
Bader remained silent the entire journey.
The truck
pulled off of the road and onto the desert, slowing whilst nearing a spot to
park. It was their usual place, the wadi where they had gone to watch stars
together since they were children. Nassir turned off the rattling engine and
the desert silence loomed thickly in the air between them.
‘Will you ever
leave
Nassir turned,
surprised simply by the fact that Bader decided to speak.
‘What?’ But
Nassir heard him the first time.
‘Will you ever
leave
‘Stop dreaming,
we’re stateless. Anyway, uncle Salman's ill, these thoughts only waste time.’
Bader took a
long breath then returned to silence. Only the sound of the desert winds
through the truck window soothed his mind.
‘But aren’t you
tired of all this?’ Bader flicked his half-finished cigarette out of the half
open window and onto the sand outside.
‘All what?’
‘Being illegal,
running away from police for selling a bag of apples?’
‘It’s the life
Allah gave us, what are you going to do about it?’
It was with this
question, just as the evening stars above brightened, that Bader burst from
silence and into a thousand fractured pieces.
‘It’s
suffocating Nassir! I mean we’re young and have nothing, but I want to work,
you know, a real job, earn money, this government treats us like shit.’
As though they
were still driving, Nassir remained staring ahead. ‘Your anger will conquer you
one day brother, think slower and act faster.’
‘Sure Nassir, I
will.’ Bader then lit another cigarette, stepping out of the truck to urinate.
***
A
month before their wedding, Fahad was working away in
turn towards
a vacant saviour
of lonely toy
town
war is a whore
and so am I
for lying
Not
enough. Scribble out.
‘Words’,
she muttered, ‘how can they capture death?’ Hagar couldn’t remember when she
first started talking aloud to herself. She had sung to herself when she was in
prison, in the early mornings when the guards would leave for salat and
the other women in the cell were sleeping. But even then, she knew that someone
was listening. An older woman maybe, drifting peacefully
through a dream of natural wonders. Or her children who she felt, only
hoped, were so close to her, somewhere in the adjacent block. ‘My boys.’ Again, Hagar tugged the hem of her grey T-shirt. ‘Bastards.’
orphans falling
amongst ruins
of a home and
myself alone
in toy town
and freedom?
dust filled
dreams
to him
despondent
war is a whore
and I am also
for lying
Useless, turn page.
A blank page, to start over.
war is a whore
despondent
saviour
dust-filled
dreams
and freedom
orphans falling
amongst ruins
and prayers
let go let go
bury…
‘Bury?’
Hagar placed down the pen and turned to the first few pages of her notebook.
death to words
death to death
bury everything
that left
unsaid
As
though a ghost to herself, Hagar’s wrapped up the
notebook, put it in her bag, pinned in place her hijab and then slipped on her
leather sandals. She took the remaining money Fahad had left for her on the
kitchen side, and the keys and then quietly left the apartment as though once
again escaping a country that had betrayed her.
Ding.
Ground floor. Bus 103, evening rush
hour, traffic.
Daily
life passed so quickly outside of the window – Fruit sellers on the streets,
school children crossing, galabiyahs,
gold chains, Philippino, Indian, flat caps, people
everywhere – So quickly that she almost missed her stop.
Ding.
Fursa coffee shop, Atraf Street.
‘Thanks.’
The
bus driver nodded in response.
Hagar
wanted to reach the border, the same sands that she had grown from, but Al-Jahra was as far north as the bus would take her. She tilted her head backwards, the evening
air cooling and a pale orange filter tainting the sky. Ethereal, she thought, a
colour that reminded her of her younger days, walking to mosque, bags of dates
in hand, talking of small things and school lovers with her older sister.
‘Focus
Hagar,’ she told herself.
Small
birds chirped and flitted into the few shrubs that had managed to grow roots
wild enough to grasp onto the fine grains of desert sand. Some birds had
feathers that were beige and others, feathers that were grey, the same colour
as her T-shirt, and the backing of mirrors. Funny, Hagar thought, such slight
variation, such difference in circumstance…
She
continued walking north for almost an hour, until the highway faded into a thin
line and the two oil towers ahead became the only etches on the horizon. She
peered back to notice them. They were her markers of how far she had come and
reminders of where she really was; a wild place, forever beyond her control.
Her stomach churned. She heard it but instead continued to concentrate on the
air that arose upwards, from still warm desert sands beneath her feet.
***
The
evening sunlight was sinking behind Maliya church,
dusted pigeons cooed on the surrounding rooftops. Bader sat alone on the
roadside, watching people of all nationalities enter through its open, oblong
doors.
‘Maybe
everyone desires what they can’t have.’
Unlike
Hagar, Bader remembers the first time when speaking aloud to himself became a normal thing. He was eleven, planning him and his
best friends’ day trip to the city centre and speaking to himself he realised, gave
him a great comfort in his own imagination, a security and magic in thinking of
a future plan. First, he remembers saying, they’d tell their parents they were
‘spending the day at mosque’. Second, they’d tell the local shop owner that
they ‘had to travel to collect an important medicine for their uncle’. Then
third, well the rest ‘was an adventure.’ Maybe they’d walk back, or even better
never come back? Maybe the two pointy giant towers they’d only seen in
advertisements on the roadside would engulf them forever? All young Bader knew,
and said aloud with confidence, was that they would go and talking about it,
alone or with his friends, was something that he enjoyed, especially during the
longer, empty days.
More
people entered through Maliya church as the evening
breeze cooled Bader’s salted forehead. He watched one woman, Malaysian he
guessed, taking a photograph arm in arm with another younger woman, wearing a
red dress. Mercy, pray for us was written above them both on a large
plastic banner. Bader wondered whether unlike him, they felt at home in
A
white Mercedes suddenly pulled up beside the road. A Kuwaiti driver, Bader
could tell by the sunglasses and dishdasha. Without greeting the man, Bader
got into the back of the car and closed the side door.
‘Assalam alaykum, sloonach?’
The
radio was playing loud, so loud that the driver didn’t hear Bader. ‘Rahalta, Rahalta,’
it was a recent Abdullah Al-Rowasheed song. Bader
liked it, the lyrics, my journey, my journey. It was a
coincidence, he thought.
‘Ahlan, sloonach?’
This
time Bader waved his hand in the reflection of the rear-view mirror. They the
driver still didn’t react his head instead
continuously nodding to the Khaliji rhythm.
Without
looking around to Bader, the driver then opened his hand and gestured with his
fingers. Bader, giving up on talk, pulled out the folded dinars from his side
pocket and passed them over. He watched the driver slowly to count them.
‘Good
luck my friend, may God be with you.’ Still without
looking to Bader, the driver passed over a white envelope.
‘Many
thanks brother, take care.’
The
car already began moving as Bader stepped out and returned to standing on the roadside.
So quickly, the church crowds had now disappeared through the wooden doors. But
still Bader double checked that no one was around before opening the sealed
envelope. Then finally, there it was, in his hands. A passport, fake but
official looking, and spoiled enough not to appear suspicious to border guards.
And the photo inside? Perfect, captured the most
obvious features of Bader’s face, long, high cheek bones and a nose which
hooked slightly over his thin moustache. He looked at his new portrait as
though a small mirror. Definitely Kuwaiti, he thought, certainly passable.
The
sun finally vanished behind the church steeples. Bader pocketed the envelope
close to his chest and began walking home as the desert winds awakened him to
what lay ahead. When would he leave, he wondered, tomorrow? That didn’t matter.
What mattered, he thought, was that for the first time in his life he had the
choice to. Night ascended and the moon appeared, full and complete. Bader,
louder than he realised, was singing past the patch of green his childhood self
once played on.
‘rahalta,
taraktini shamata, taraktini shamata.’
My
journey, you left me gloating.
***
Daylight
was defeating Hagar. She had sat for an hour, staring at the hole she had
carved into the sand, a chasm deep and significant enough for her words to be
lost forever. However, her notebook remained wrapped in the purple scarf and
tightly held within her fingers. Dusk was approaching and both her and the desert knew that it was now, or never.
‘Ok,
one last thing.’ She reached into her bag for her pen.
to breathe the
air
of what is dead
chokes the
chance
of surviving
now
a tongue in
exile
buries and
bleeds
amongst the
fallen
sand of her
children
‘Done,’
she said, tearing the back page of the notebook, folding it, then
placing it into the side pocket of her bag.
Then,
with a few tears clumping together the grains of sand between her legs, she placed
the notebook in the hole and with eyes closed, pushed the surrounding sand on
top. ‘And breathe, and gone.’ She placed three flattened stones on top, a
security that no desert animal would ever dig up the discarded leather. She
patted it, right hand, and bade her farewells to the graveyard of her
sentences. Although still, she noticed as she began walked away, a familiar
emptiness resided in her lower stomach, the void she so wished she could also
entomb.
***
Fahad
adjusted his agal, ‘sir, you know a good place to eat around here?’
Fahad
had only visited
‘We’re
going to the Golden Tulip, for Japanese food, sushi.’ Bassam’s rounded face was
sharpened by the angles of his beard.
‘Never tried.
May I join?’
Bassam,
the soon to be Bahraini minister of Culture, looked up from his phone screen
and to Fahad, pushing his sunglasses onto his face as he did so. ‘Welcome!’
Fahad
was distant, tired from the early flight. His eyes wondered towards the two
Japanese men who, head’s down, and in calm composure, were preparing their
dishes. Sushi, is it warm, Fahad wondered, spicy?
‘And
how’s
‘Sorry?’
‘Ha!
You’re hungry it seems,’ the two other Bahraini’s scoffed in agreement.
‘Good,
progressing, I mean, oil prices have increased since last year.’
‘And Iraq?
I heard that Saddam is still in debt to Al-Sabah?’
Fahad
adjusted his agal again. He was given strict orders from the Emir to
keep Iraqi relations confidential.
‘Sure,
but that’s old news, since the days when
‘Ahh,
a Kuwaiti blaming their problems on
‘What
does that mean?’ Fahad replied, leaning forward.
‘Well
I never hear a Kuwaiti blaming
The
waitresses began laying the dishes on the table. Conversation paused in order
for the four men to decipher whose order belonged to who.
Fahad leaned back in his seat, ‘looks good,’ he said ‘b-il-hana
wi-shifa’, hoping conversation would change to
lighter topics since the arrival of the food.
‘But
Saddam could easily enter
Fahad
inhaled deeply, obviously. He wished that he had never agreed to sushi and
besides, it was hardly satisfying his hunger.
‘Yeah,’
another man joined in conversation, ‘
Fahad
wiped his hands on his serviette then took a sip of water. ‘Look gentlemen, I worked
on the border for three years. I have met Iraqis, Shia’, Sunni, we are all
against Saddam.’
‘Are
you sure Fahad, you’re not one of Saddam’s faithfuls?’
Sniggers arose again. Did the men know about his marriage to Hagar? Her face
came to Fahad’s mind, he wondered, what would she say to these men? Sweat ran
from Fahad’s thinning hair and down the side of his neck, luckily his ghutrah covered it.
‘I
hold everything against Saddam and nothing against Iraqis and, gentlemen, I suggest you do the same.’ Fahad took a sip of
water. ‘Shall we enjoy this food now?’
The
table quietened, giving way to the Japanese music.
***
The
sun was small and floating, the last of daylight bleeding into the desert
sands. The smell of frying onion and garlic thickened the evening air, a sign
that the land, as dry as it was, was still producing enough food for those on
the outskirts of the city, Al-Jahra. It’s a temporary
magic, Um Dalal thought, falling in perfect amounts like
the first sight of rainclouds after a long hot summer.
It
was Friday, Iftar. Um Dalal and Bader’s sister,
Amina, were preparing Machboos - rice,
mutton, almonds, in a spicy tomato sauce –another of Um Dalal’s
family favourites. From a covered pot into two small aluminium dishes, she
spooned two bigger than normal portions of purple chutney, an Afghani recipe,
taught to her ten years ago by a woman she had met in the local market. It was
sweet and she had made a promise to herself to never to reveal the secret
ingredient.
Amina
checked the rice and then turned to Um Dalal, ‘will
Uncle Salman join tonight?’
‘No,
he’s ill, remember? But Abbas and Ilaf will come.’ Um
Dalal was standing over the aluminium pots, debating
whether to serve four dishes of chutney instead of two.
‘And
Bader, where’s he?’
‘God
knows,’ Um tutted, ‘that boy is useless, twenty something and not married! Shame.’
‘Ya Ummi, it’s his short legs and
skinny arms.’ Amina laughed, joking as sisters do.
‘Enough
Amina, pass me the lid,’ Um Dalal finally decided
that two dishes would be enough.
The
yellow ball on the horizon sank and Abbas arrived just after, along with two
other unexpected family members. For this reason, it was the most exciting part of the day
for Amina, the only time when anyone could walk into the house, the only time
she imagined strangers, boys and girls her age, wandering through the back
gate, asking her half-romantically for a tare of bread and a taste of her
mother’s recipes. She just desired company, of her own age. Then she heard the
corrugated metal of the back gate.
‘Bader,
where have you been?’ Amina asked, ‘we are about to pray.’ Bader joined the men
as the women separated into the other room. Then afterwards, Amina laid the
dishes onto the carpet of the men’s room.
‘Enjoy,
b-il-hana wi-shifa’,
Amina said as she placed the dish of chutney onto the carpet. ‘But not you, loser.’ She whispered, turning to Bader and
playfully hitting him on the shoulder.
‘Sure,’
Bader replied half noticing, still sweating from the walk home, ‘and you enjoy
your meal too sister.’ Amina then shook her head trying to hide her
disappointment that Bader too didn’t feel like having fun. She then left the
room to join the women.
Before
tucking in, Bader checked his pockets for the envelope ensuring it hadn’t
fallen out during prayers and moreover, assuring himself that what happened in
town had really happened.
‘Lost
something?’ Abbas said, sitting next to Bader.
‘Just
cigarettes,’ Bader replied, finally feeling the rectangular outline of the fake
passport. ‘How are you doing these days,’ he asked, ‘how’s Ilaf
and the children?’
‘Everything’s
fine, thank God, Ilaf is looking after the children,
but you know Ahmed lost his job yesterday?’
‘Really, why so?
I thought he only just started?’
‘KOC
are employing cheaper labour instead, Pakistanis, Indians, it’s the same
everywhere, bidun are becoming Kuwaiti
cockroaches.’
‘Bidun?
Like bidun jinsayya?’
‘Yes,
withouts, that’s what they call us now.’
Bader
dipped his bread into the chutney. ‘You know, the police chased me and
‘You’re
right,’ Abbas replied, ‘when I was younger, the government wanted to give us
jobs, I mean, look at your father, he was in the Army, defending
‘You
think it’s the Americans, or British?’ Bader tore another piece of bread, this
time pausing before dipping it into the chutney.
‘No
no, that’s old story.’ Abbas lit a cigarette, then
offered Bader one.
Bader
shook his head, almost aggressively, ‘who then?’
‘Who you do think?’
‘Al-Sabah?’
Bader replied, mouth full.
‘He
shoots, he scores!’
‘Yes?’
‘Of
course, you should have seen the old days,
‘But
they’ve been here so long, right, the rulers? I thought they were good, I mean,
destined to rule?’
‘That’s
what they want you to believe.’ Abbas flicked his cigarette into the
metal ashtray. ‘Young man, sometimes men use the word of Allah to excuse them
of their greed, remember that.’
‘I
will, I’ll make note,’ Bader replied, feeling for the screwed-up receipt in his
top pocket. ‘You have a pen?’
‘Here,
keep it, for when you one day take over the country.’
They
laughed, ‘God willing,’ Bader pushed the empty dishes away and re-folding the
receipt into the same pocket which held his ticket of escape.
***
Hagar
spoke into the winds that pushed her back towards the desert. ‘Ha-ga-ra, she whispered, ha-ga-ra.’
It
was the root of her name, meaning to take flight, abandon, flee, her only
strength to continue walking towards Al-Jahra without
thinking of what she had left behind. Although soon enough, with the desert
winds strengthening and her hijab failing to cover her eyes from the sand, her
voice was lost and thoughts of her past arose. She remembered her mother’s
wrinkled lips, moving slowly, telling her the story of her name, Hagar, the
wife of the prophet Abraham, the mother of Ishmael.
‘Allah
ordered Ibrahim to take Hagar and Isma’il into the Faran desert and leave them there under the only tree in
the land. They had only a little water and no food, it was Allah’s test on them
and, peace upon them, they accepted.’
‘But
wasn’t she scared and didn’t they die without food?’
‘Habibti!
Slowly, slowly,’ Hagar’s mother patted Hagar on her head. ‘But you’re right,
after all that time in Faran, Hagar did run out of
water and baby Isma’il began to cry so much that
Hagar worried and became thirsty herself and so Hagar left the tree in search
of water.’
‘And
did they die?’ little Hagar asked, raising her head.
‘Slowly!
No, they didn’t die. With faith in God, Hagar ran seven times between two hills
called Al-Safa and Al-Marwah. And then…
‘She
ran out of breath and died.’
‘No
Hagar, stop now or I won’t finish.’ Hagar apologised slumping back down against
the wall, her head resting on her mother’s shoulder.
‘So
Hagar ran between the mountains and then on the seventh time, Allah sent an
angel to Hagar and, with a little tap of his heals he created a beeeauutiful spring for Hagar and Isma’il so they did not die. When our countries fixed
and you are a little you’re a little older, I will take you there.’
‘To the spring?
You mean it’s a real place!’ Hagar remembered her excitement, how her curly
hair flicked up, brushing her mothers’ face.
‘Of
course, the Zamzam well, it’s as real as you are my darling.’
Hagar’s
dry eyes began watering. The evening sky had darkened and the wind had dropped.
She could hear the rumbling of oil tankers on the tarmac ahead, a sure sign
that she had almost reached the main road. Hagar looked up hoping somehow,
magically, the emptiness of the night sky would soak her tears. ‘Ha-ga-ra’, she repeated but again her mind drifted, this time
revealing the faces of her two sons. They were beautiful, as clear to Hagar as
her mother’s voice, yet as distant as the stars above.
***
Bader
and Nassir were driving from the market to Al-Jahra,
the back of their truck rattling with half-filled boxes of fruit.
‘I’m
leaving next week.’
‘Ay?’
Nassir turned down the radio, ironically Abdullah Al-Rowasheed’s
song was playing, the synchronicity that confirmed to
Bader that it was the right moment to admit his plans.
‘I’m
leaving, I bought fake I.D.’
Nassir
turned the radio off, ‘you’re joking?’
‘No,
I decided to act fast, to travel West.’
Nassir
pulled over to the side of the road, the sharp turn almost throwing out the box
of oranges. He turned the engine off.
‘And what about Uncle Salman, your mother?’
Nassir looked over to Bader who was looking into the wing mirror,
half-heartedly checking the fruit was still there.
‘I’m
doing it for them, to earn money, get a proper job.’
‘You
think the West has money Bader, how do you think they function their machines?
With our oil! And anyway, look at us, we’re stateless, not peasants!’
‘What’s
that supposed to mean?’ Bader finally looked to Nassir whose elbows were locked
and hands gripped firmly onto the steering wheel in front.
‘It
means you’re stupid to think that more money will save us!’
‘But
the pursuit of our freedom might.’
‘And
that’s a reason to give up is it, your own freedom? Selfish
ass.’
‘You’re
jealous’ Bader retorted, surprised by his own words.
‘Of what, ignorance?
Not caring for my family?’
‘I
care, I just… Nassir, a woman…’
‘What?’
Nassir turned to see a woman, tall and slim with a strand of dark hair showing
from her hijab, gently knocking on the half-open window of the truck door. ‘Shame on you both!’ He cursed, his hands surrendering to
the sight of the road ahead. ‘Look Bader, just go for all I care but don’t
expect a welcome back when you realise your happiness was here all along.’
Nassir then rolled down the rest of the window, ‘and what do you want?’
‘Is
this the direction to Al-Jahra?’,
the women asked pointing ahead.
‘Where
are you going?’ Nassir replied, his temper calming in the strangers’ presence.
‘
‘Yalla, get in,’ Nassir ordered, already turning on the engine.
‘Thank
you,’ the women replied.
Nassir
turned on the radio and lit a cigarette, tapping every one of his fingers madly
on the steering wheel. Then, trying to forget the conversation with Bader, he
glanced into the rear-view mirror.
‘Woman, where you from?’
‘
‘Funny,
your face looks Iraqi.’ The woman nodded her head and remained silent.
‘You
like Abdallah Al-Rowasheed?’ Nassir
turned the radio up a little.
‘I
prefer traditional songs.’ The women spoke a little louder yet tried carefully
to tame conversation.
‘Oh,
my friend here likes poetry too.’ Nassir turned smiling wildly at Bader, ‘isn’t
that right Mr travelling man? You especially like patriotic
‘Sure,’
Bader replied, knowing fully well Nassir’s intentions. Then waving his hand, in
the air and lowing his voice, he began recalling the
national anthem.
‘Blessed
be my country, a homeland for harmony,
With
a smirk on her face she nodded, ‘it’s very nice.’
‘Well
at least someone likes this country!’ Nassir glanced again into the rear-view
mirror, ‘woman, are you stateless too?’
‘No,
I mean, why?’ The woman was obviously thrown off by the question.
‘I
was just wondering what you were doing in Al-Jahra
desert so late?’
‘Visiting friends.’
‘Who, the desert rats?’
Bader and Nassir laughed, temporarily forgetting their earlier disagreement.
‘Leave
me! I’m tired,’ the women hastily replied, turning her head to face the side
window. She noticed the street lights ahead, a sign she was close to town.
Nassir
turned up the music again and lit another cigarette, the white truck
increasingly submerging into the orange pools of street light.
‘By the bus stop, right?’
The inside of the truck darkened, passing underneath the two bridges that
connected the road into Al-Jahra with highway
seventy, the road that headed west to the Iraq.
‘Yes,
Al-
The women then said her thanks and hurried to the bus which, to her luck, had
just arrived.
‘Wait!’
Bader shouted, already opening the truck door. He had noticed something fly
from the woman’s bag as she ran, crossing the road to catch the bus.
‘You
can walk from here too!’ Nassir yelled, leaning his head out of the window, ‘preparation
for your travels!’
Bader,
without turning around, carelessly waved his hand behind him. He then caught
the drifting paper and continued running across the road. But the doors had
already closed and bus, pulling away. The woman, adjusting herself in the back
seat, looked out to see Bader standing the other side of the dusted window,
holding onto the very last words she had written.
***
Hagar
was certain she remembered what was on the paper and wrote it down as soon as
returned to the flat. She then switched on the TV and using the remote,
scrolled through the channels. News, no, shopping, no, Sudanese music, a young
man playing a tanbour and singing of his
lover’s pearly teeth. Click. She then rested her head on the cushion beside her
and fell asleep almost instantly.
‘Darling,
Hagar, good morning.’ Hagar awoke to see Fahad’s legs in front of her and feel
his hand shaking her waist. ‘You slept all night with the TV on and the window
open.’
Hagar
knew Fahad was returning from
‘Close
to eleven, what time did you sleep?’ Hagar noticed a sudden sternness in
Fahad’s voice.
‘I
don’t know,’ Hagar replied, truly uncertain of how long it had taken her to
return from Al-Jahra.
‘What
do you mean you don’t know? And anyway, what were you doing to make you pass
out like that?’
Hagar
finally sat up, rubbing her eyes with her hands and then moving them to touch
to her abdomen. ‘I’m sorry my lover, it’s the time of month, it’s tiring in
this heat.’
‘Yes,
and that’s why most people close the window Hagar, what are you going to do
when we have children? Are they going to have to wake you up for lunch?’ Fahad
threw the keys onto the kitchen side and poured himself a glass of water. Hagar
remained silent, sitting on the sofa. They’d spoken about having children two
months before but now, with their wedding only a few weeks away, the reality of
it suddenly felt inescapable to Hagar.
‘And
what about when you are a Kuwaiti, when we finally start living a normal life
and I can carry on with mine instead of dealing with yours?’ Fahad continued
after taking a sip of water, ‘what time are you going to wake up then?’
Hazy
and weighted by yesterday’s emotions, Hagar remained irresponsive. Instead she
stood and walked over to the window, hoping to find a sight from below to
distract her thoughts.
‘Talk
to me Hagar’ Fahad slammed the fridge door, finishing with the water.
Hagar
looked down, outside of the still open window, to see two men outside of the
mall, talking, waving their arms at each other as they exchanged words. She
imagined their conversation.
‘Hagar?’
‘I
told you I’m sorry and you know that I love you.’ Then suddenly her stomach
tightened and her lips curled under her teeth. Fingertips dug into the muscles
of her shoulders. She closed her eyelids, hoping they would encase her
composure as Fahad’s breath cooled over the skin of her jawline.
‘Then
show me it.’ Fahad jolted his arms, causing Hagar’s spine to stiffen and eyes
open. She was sure Fahad could never hurt her but not enough for her to fully
surrender to his presence. He loosened his grip and walked into the bedroom,
speaking louder to her as he disappeared. ‘Anyway, I need to visit Mohammed
again today, to ask him for your papers, then I’ll be back at maghrib for dinner, it looks like you need to visit the
market.’
‘I
will,’ Hagar responded finally, her mind unexpectedly drifting, thinking about
whether she could really undergo the experience of childbirth again.
‘And
you’ll cook?’ Fahad was changing his clothes in the bedroom, getting ready to
go out again.
‘Of course.’
‘And
the bedroom could do with a sweep,’ Fahad scuffed the tiles with his foot.
Hagar
walked to the front door and neatly arranged the four pairs of shoes on the
entrance mat. ‘I know.’
***
Men wearing white stood silent – thick, black
moustaches, sturdy – behind their stalls looking proud of their arrangements.
It was late afternoon and crops were being restocked, piling high in ways which
defied natural orders. Aubergines, oranges, pomegranates all tilted upright,
upheld by the cardboard boxes and wooden crates beneath them. The stall owners,
with enough daily practice, had come to know the exact angle to steady their
colourful displays, considering even the most fastidious of their customers.
Hagar
passed the fish stalls which were similarly arranged in ways which fascinated her.
Fins and tails fanning the edges and fish bodies slumped over one another
forming beds of wet scales. She bought three mackerel from the usual stall,
knowing it was Fahad’s favourite.
‘Here
you are, Miss.’
‘Many
thanks.’
What
else, Hagar wondered. The usual, she guessed. She added the fish to her larger
shopping bag and walked on towards a fruit and vegetable stalls.
‘No coriander, sorry.’
She moved ahead, onto the next.
‘Excuse
me, you have coriander?’ Thinking through a recipe, Hagar was oblivious to
other customers bustling around her. On request, the stall owner pointed her to
the greens on the other side of the stall.
‘We
meet again!’ Hagar, unaware, continued to count the change in her hand.
‘Hey,
lady,’ Hagar finally sensed his presence beside her, ‘I have something of
yours.’
Hagar
looked up and turned to see the familiar face. His moustache was thin, hooked
just slightly over upturned edges of his mouth.
‘I
added to it, it’s nice writing.’ The man passed her
the folded paper and continued smiling.
‘Thanks,’
Hagar responded, still adjusting to the unexpected occurrence. ‘You also
write?’
‘Sometimes,’
he said, seeming embarrassed. ‘Well, I make notes.’ They laughed in mutual
understanding. ‘And writers also have to eat!’ The man looked towards the stall
owner who was stood, hand out, waiting for Hagar to pay.
‘You’re
right and greens are good for the mind.’ Hagar held up the coriander then
passed the stall owner the money. ‘Is the note-taker shopping too?’
‘Yes,
getting fruits from this good man Asif,’ the man in front of Hagar flicked his
head towards the shorter man standing behind the next stall. His hair was
greying and the skin around his eyes was thick and creased. ‘He’s a good
friend, gives me a good deal, then I sell them in Al-Jahra.’
‘Ahh,
that explains the oranges in your truck,’ Hagar said, again laughing together
in similar minds. ‘Anyway, thanks for this.’ Hagar flashed the folded paper
then tucked it away in her bag.
‘My
pleasure and really, it’s beautiful.’
Hagar
held eye contact with the man for longer than a woman should in public. His
eyes were gentle, honest.
‘They’re
nothing, only notes.’ Hagar smiled, quickly turned away, ‘Anyway, nice to meet
you.’
‘One
second!’ The man darted around the side to catch her, ‘what’s your name?’
‘Hagar.’
‘Ah,
the one that fears.’
‘No,’
Hagar replied, ‘the one that flees.’
‘Well
I’m Bader, the full moon.’
‘Well
take care and nice to meet you.’
Hagar
turned again, leaving Bader hanging in the air between them. ‘And you,
stranger.’
***
Mohammad
shuffled the files that sat on his desk. His teeth were stained yellow by the
large quantities of coffee he drank. ‘We’re almost there Fahad,
all you need now is something to prove that she’s been living with you for over
three months.’
‘And
how am I supposed to prove that?’ Fahad was rubbing his hands together, a sure
sign of impatience.
‘It’s
a tough one,’ Mohammed replied, ‘especially as you are not married yet. How about
some sort of letter, from the Emir maybe, or your landlord’s recognition?’
‘You
know I own the flat and I’m trying to keep her origins a secret.’
‘Ha,
you’ve made your life difficult Fahad!’ Mohammad quietened his laughter as he
quickly realised that Fahad was not amused. ‘Ok, what we have already should suffice, I’ll see what I can do.’
‘And
make it quick this time, please.’
‘How
is she anyway?’ Mohammad asked, trying to soften Fahad’s agitation.
‘Fine,
well, things will improve once all this is over.’
‘That’s
what most people say.’ Again, Mohammad quickly paused, realising Fahad was not
in the slightest mood for joking. He changed the topic. ‘Does she ever talk
about
‘I’ve
found notes she’s written but we’ve never talked about it.’
‘It
must weigh.’
‘What?’
Mohammad
sipped the coffee and reached for the pot realising that Fahad’s glass was
already empty. ‘You want another?’ He asked.
Fahad
tutted and shook his head, ‘what weighs?’
‘The past, the dead children, Saddam.’
‘Possibly,’
Fahad replied, suddenly wondering about Hagar and where was at that very
moment. Mohammad took another sip from the small cup.
‘And
you know, last week, there’s another Iraqi who was identified at the border.
Her case was terrible, she claimed to have been raped
by Saddam himself.’
‘And
she is applying for asylum too?’
‘Without a Kuwaiti husband?
Wouldn’t dream of it. You’re doing a good thing
Fahad.’
‘My
friend, you’re kind.’ Fahad sat back on the sofa chair, releasing a breath, ‘I
just wish it was easier.’
‘If
God permits, another week, it will be done.’
‘God willing.’
***
Nothing, not even a window.
Unpolluted, air-conditioned, passionless. No ornament
or trinket to mark a special occasion, no photograph to stain the wall or mind.
Their bedroom of impersonal love, filled with artificial light, sterile,
several pin-pricks of spotlight mounted perfectly into the ceiling, reflecting
on the white tiles beneath. A cold and empty laboratory of
modernity to research post-oil family life.
Hagar
reached her arm underneath the wardrobe. Dust still collected there despite the
absence of her notebook and the constantly renewing air of their bedroom. She
cupped her hand, sweeping the cloth in curves, creating small piles of grey
matter and brown hair. She wondered just how many times she had reached under
the wardrobe, aching to write, insensible to the dust.
‘I
added to it,’ she thought, recalling what Bader had said earlier that
afternoon. What did he mean? She abandoned the grey formations, leaving the
yellow cloth crescent shaped under one corner of the wardrobe. She opened her
bag and unfolded the letter.
they once sang
of he
who permitted
greed
and the
forgotten who
never ceased
trying
Hagar
inspired, took the pen from her bag and began to write, adding to his words.
‘Shit!’
Hagar
ran to the kitchen, leaving the unfolded paper on the edge of the sofa. The
walls were dirtying with smoke as the burning rice continued to cook. Hagar
saved the edible remains, wetted the pan with water, and already began scraping
off the thick, blackened layer on the bottom. The damage was retractable,
concealable she thought. If only… Her head turned; the
door opened.
‘What’s
happened!’ Fahad entered the kitchen still wearing his
shoes.
‘I
was...’
‘And
look at the walls!’
‘They
will clean, I’ll clean them.’
‘You’re
mad, woman.’ Fahad retraced his steps back to the front door and slipped off
his shoes. He was too exhausted to show further concern.
‘And
how was it seeing Mohammad?’ Hagar saw it as a chance to quickly change the
subject.
‘Useless,’
Fahad replied, taking rest on the sofa, ‘still no papers and he told me he’ll
sort it next week, always next week.’ Fahad picked up the paper resting on the
sofa armchair. He recognised Hagar’s hand writing. ‘Did you write this?’
Hagar
stopped scrubbing the pot and without drying her hands took the paper off
Fahad. ‘It’s nothing, just notes.’ Her wet finger marks trailed down the paper,
already smudging the ink.
‘But
did you write it?’
‘A
while ago, really it’s nothing.’ Hagar folded the paper and again tucked it
into the side pocket of her handbag. Heart racing, she returned to the pot in
the sink.
‘And
who else wrote on it, Hagar?’ Fahad stood up, furtively tracking Hagar’s steps
and retrieving the paper from her bag.
‘What
do you mean?’ Hagar turned to see Fahad holding up the paper.
‘This,’ Fahad pointed, ‘who wrote this part?’
Hagar
stumbled, noticeably showing her lack of confidence.
‘A friend from Iraq, a woman.
My friend!’ Hagar’s heart throbbed; she worried Fahad
could hear it.
‘And
why is it in your bag?’ Hagar kept her head down, eyes on the dish, hoping this
would hide her colouring cheeks.
‘It’s
old, I just wanted to remember...’
‘Remember
the men that raped you? Mercy on you Hagar! Do you know how much I have done
for you? And how much you are still stuck in your own mind!’ Fahad screwed the paper and threw it into the
charcoaled water of the sink. Hagar’s salvaged it instantly, hiding it behind
the dishes on the side. She heard Fahad in the bedroom.
‘Selfish whore.’
She remembered the cloth and the small mountains of
dust she abandoned. Leaving the pot, she walked into the bedroom.
‘Fahad, stop! What are you doing?’
The blue abaya Fahad had brought her, the scarf
she wore on her journey from
‘Take it and get out.’ Hagar’s eyes widened.
‘I can’t! What do you mean?’
‘I mean enough, get out.’
‘Can we talk, the letter, really it…’
‘No Hagar, get out.’
‘But I have cooked fi…’
A flash of Fahad’s eyebrows and a
stinging marking only an instance of time. Searing. Hagar silenced, too stunned to look away
from the silver pen that was hooked upon the top pocket of Fahad’s dishdasha.
Hagar picked up the plastic bag that Fahad had thrown
onto the floor and, on the cold tiles of their bedroom, began packing away her
clothes.
***
Step by step, box by box. Bader hadn’t known any other
place better than he knew the market. Since the age of eleven, stacking and
re-stacking, he doubted that his hands could be useful for anything else. And
he will miss it, he thought, as he turned to see Nassir waving his hand,
agreeing with the bedouin woman who was selling
homemade perfumes and jewelry. He’ll miss the chaos of it, the police runs, the
awkward mosaics of
Nassir returned with something in his hand, a small
item grasped in his fist.
‘For you.’ Nassir passed the item to Bader, ‘for your travels,
for protection.’
Two silver scorpions, each enclosing upon a sharply
cut black stone, their tails hooking back on themselves and facing the other.
Bader pushed the ring over the knuckle of his middle finger. It was a perfect
fit, heavy yet in place.
‘Thank you, it means a lot, really.’
Nassir placed his hand onto Bader’s shoulder. ‘I’ll
think of you, promise you’ll keep safe?’
In silence Bader nodded, smiled, then
loaded the last of the fruit into the back of the truck. Nassir turned on the
engine. Bader closed the truck door, leaving behind more white flakes of paint
upon the grounds of the market. They drove home together, windows down, for
what they both knew would be the last time.
***
The shoreline was expanding, growing golden as the sun
lowered behind the tower blocks. Rising to the east, setting
to the west, cyclical, holy. The colour of the sky was so gently melting
into the blues of the ocean. Hagar felt comforted by it, to realize that
despite everything, the rivers of the
It was unusual to see a woman alone on Mahboula beach but that didn’t matter to Hagar. She was
alone, it was Monday, she imagined that the other
women in the suburban district were preparing food, like she too would have
been, only in another universe.
She wriggled her toes. Small shells emerged around
them as the waves inhaled, cradling her ankles. She was surprised at how
sensitive they were, assuming instead that by now, taking her across borders,
they would be tougher, stronger. She splashed them, her feet flicking,
sprinkling ripples across what otherwise would have been calm evening waters.
She wondered if she could sleep there for the night, safe under the stars, in
the romance of herself, drifting away to natural sounds, more consolatory than
the breathing of a man.
Her stomach rumbled. Could only the ocean appease this
moment of solace wondering, a moment so raw and tender
just as the night she first escaped
***
The market was dismantling. The cool evening air was a
time to enjoy. Stall owners were stacking away what remained to be sold,
placing the carboard boxes beneath the wooden frames. Rhythmically, with clanks
and squeaks, the working day was ending.
Bader caught sight of Asif on the corner of his stall.
He was crouching over a box, sorting the rotting bananas from the ripe.
‘Asif, my brother.’ Bader surprised him, interrupting his final duties.
He stood, pulling the waist of his trousers up with him. His legs were thin and
bowed but usually unnoticeable, hidden under a loose fitting izhar.
‘My friend you’re late! I’ve packed away already.’
‘It’s ok, we have fruit. I came to say goodbye and
thank you for helping me all these years.’
‘In the name of God, don’t mention it.’ Asif crouched
back down, turning to continue sorting the bananas. ‘Anyhow, where’s a
stateless man like you going?’
Bader looked around then squatted, helping Asif to
sort the fruits. ‘I’m going west,
‘Mashallah! It’s good to travel, I remember the feeling.’
‘You travelled too?’ Bader stopped sorting the fruit,
amazed and almost disappointed by Asif’s lack of reaction.
‘Of course. Before I left
‘And what happened, you didn’t make it?’ Bader shouted
to him as he walked away.
‘No, I made it. Besides, it was easy back then,
borders were like garden gates.’
‘So why didn’t you stay?’
‘Well it wasn’t what I expected, the money wasn’t good
and no one believed my story.’
‘That you were Yemeni, you mean?’
‘No that I was a human. That I did good things and
bad, fell in love, got angry. I realized that I was becoming what people in the
west wanted me to be, either a victim or a thief, and that wasn’t me. Well, not
all the time at least – ha! – so I left, and now look, I’m living a dream,
sorting out rotting bananas and talking to an adventurous young man like you.’
Asif smiled wildly, displaying the two gaps which over time,
had replaced his canine teeth. He looked up, noticing the sudden distance in
Bader’s gaze.
‘You think I should leave Asif?’ By now Bader had
forgotten about the fruit and was sitting, holding a banana in his hand,
eagerly waiting for Asif’s words.
‘That one’s not my story to tell. Anyway, I thought
you came here to say goodbye?’ Asif stood up before Bader had time to
reply.
Bader grinned, his heart filling, understanding
exactly the answer to his question.
‘Words cannot express my thanks Asif. You’re a good
man.’
‘And a bad man too, remember!’
Asif winked, saluting Bader with his right hand as though an army cadet.
Bader’s mouth, yet for him to realize, remained wildly grinning.
‘Hey, are you driving to Al-Jahra?’
Bader turned, his senses still glowing from Asif’s words.
‘Well peace be upon you too
sister!’
Hagar knew she’d find him there, at the market. The full moon, everything in alignment, too perfect for the
circumstance not to offer her what she needed.
‘Are you, or not?’
Bader was pleased to see her, himself
also elated in his own spirit and ready for the world to enter.
‘Well Hagar, stranger, I am taking the bus.’ Hagar laughed, almost rudely.
‘You don’t drive? I knew you were young!’
‘I’m stateless, it’s
difficult to get a license.’
Hagar was jarred, less by his words, more through
realizing her own abrasiveness. ‘Sorry, I mean, I’m in a rush.’
‘To meet the desert rats?’
‘Touché.’
Bader, stroked down the thicker
hairs on his upper lip.
‘Ok, let’s take the bus’ Hagar claimed before Bader had
the time to suggest anything else. ‘Anyway it won’t…’
‘Wait there,’ Bader interrupted, ‘I’ll ask Asif…’
***
‘Just here,’ the truck pulled over on Hagar’s request.
Asif saluted Bader for the second time, flickered a wink. Bader smiled and left
the truck, swinging his legs off the leather seat as
though a boy leaving the bus for the school gates.
‘What are you doing?’ Hagar turned as she heard the
truck door close.
‘Joining you.’
‘No, I need to go alone.’
But already, Asif had pulled away, only a silhouette
of his waving hand remained shrinking into the distance. Hagar rubbed her
forehead, meticulously tucking in the several strands of hair that were again
escaping from her hijab and into the subtle eastward winds.
‘No, please leave, Bader.’
Bader kicked the sand underneath his feet, the grains
emerging then uniformly falling.
‘Well, at least tell me where you are going.’ Hagar
turned and began walking, unwilling to respond to his calls.
‘I can’t, please go now.’
‘Just tell me and then I will go.’ Hagar turned to see
Bader’s skin lightened under the moonlight, his eyes were wide and eager.
‘Why do you care, I’m a stranger to you?’
‘Because I feel you are hiding something that will
help me one day.’
Hagar closed her eyes, gathering the strength to
locate herself amongst the stars. She inhaled the stillness of the desert
night.
‘Come, but please don’t speak.’
‘Ok, agree...’ Bader’s paused then slid his thumb and
forefinger across his lips. He silently nodded then began following Hagar’s
footsteps.
***
The desert muted their tread yet their pace was
rhythmic, in sync, right, left, right, left; a metronomic ticking beneath them,
beyond each of their thoughts. Never did Hagar turn to face him and, following
his promises, Bader never spoke. Their only quiet company was the moonlight
that illuminated the surrounding land and of course, the scurrying desert rats,
Sundevall's jird.
Hagar peered into the distance towards the two oil
towers ahead. Sixty degrees to the right of her, she measured. They were close.
And the highway? Hagar turned to check. Only a faint
sight of the two bridges that marked the edge of the city and a distant rumble
of oil tankers rolling across the tarmac. Bader then noticed her, head down,
scanning the ground beneath.
‘Can I help, have you lost something?’ Bader thought
it was an appropriate time to break the silence. Hagar seemingly agreed.
‘I’m looking for three stones, triangle shaped.’ Hagar
responded, still inspecting the sands around.
‘There?’ Bader pointed towards a dark lump on the near
horizon.
‘No, too big, they were flat.’
‘Three flat stones, in the desert, in the night,’
Bader laughed, the sound quickly absorbed by the surrounding silence. ‘Are you
mad stranger?’
‘Possibly, but you’re crazier for following.’
‘Following the moonlight,’ Bader turned over a stone
on the ground. ‘If the moon be with thee, thou needest
not care about the stars.’ Bader flipped the stone back over. ‘You know
this saying? Its Egyptian I think.’
‘Yes, and who wants a thing is blind to its faults.
Yes, I know it but now’s not a good time for poetry.’
Hagar gestured for them to keep walking north, further from the main road.
‘But I thought you were a writer, what writer doesn’t
enjoy poetry?’
‘I do, but not right now.’
‘So, what are you searching for again?’
‘The same thing as you,’ Hagar replied, ‘three flat
stones in the sand.’
‘Take my hand.’
‘What?’ Bader knew she had heard him.
‘Just take it!’
‘No, I’m looking…’
Bader walked in front, pausing Hagar in her tracks. He
looked into her eyes: the first moment her gaze felt present, with him. He felt
them mirror, everything in his life that had led him to standing there with her
and all it could mean amidst his own journey. The comfort of familiarity, all
that had made him yet never belonged to him, or anyone, and the pain of
confronting it, letting it go; departure, growth, another soul searching for
the place that he too desired.
‘He who fled from death, fell into it, you know
that one?’
Hagar’s breath slowed. ‘No, I don’t, Egyptian?’
‘No, my own.’ Bader looked down towards his open hand then back
towards Hagar. She placed her hand gently in his, their fingers at once curling
tight around each other’s palms.
‘Let’s keep looking.’
***
The sand remained warm from the daytime heat yet the
night air was cool, enough for their exposed skin to become dry. The three flat
stones had been forgotten. Instead they sat together, crossed legged, under the
stars, rubbing their fingers through the fine grains. Their
hands and minds becoming dusty, talking about their pasts.
‘There over a hundred thousand stateless people in
Hagar too spoke about her life, the stories she
admitted she had so recently buried. She told Bader about Saddam, what he had
done to the Shi’a, her mother and sisters, in the South. How
his guards had imprisoned her, raped her, just because her father had some
minor political standing in their village. She told him the pain of
giving birth to the twins knowing only minutes after,
they would be taken from her, never hers instead vessels of Ba’athist regime. She
felt shame, shed tears which her hand immediately wiped away in reticence.
Nothing could give comfort and Bader knew that no words, poetic or not, would
suffice. He could only listen, so intently, and place his hand on hers when the
emotions ebbed, until the back of her moistened hand eventually rested upon her
knee.
‘So my plan is to leave
‘Where are you going?’ Hagar, caught up in her own
stories and the skin on her cheek tightened by tears, almost forgot Bader’s
presence, that he too was navigating a life, whole and separate from hers.
‘I’m going West, to start
again.’
‘Brave!’ Hagar suddenly noticed a
lightness, how words could slip so easily from the mind to tongue. ‘Are
you scared?’
‘Of course.’
‘Of what?’
‘Of forgetting who I was, the people who created me,
the face of my mother.’
‘They will travel with you, undoubtedly, your
memories. I mean, look, even an empty desert didn’t allow me to escape them!’
‘And what will you do if we don’t find it Hagar, your
diary?’
‘Write it all down again, exactly what I just told
you, write it all down.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes! And then bury it. In fact, I will spend my
entire life doing this! I will start my own business, call myself the mortician
of memory but don’t worry, I will not be tearful like this, I
will feel free and hopefully become rich doing it too.’
‘Paid by the ruling family?’
‘Yes, of course, I will bury the Al-Sabah’s memory
quite happily and wrapped neatly in a Kuwaiti flag… And you will return just to
see it, to sing the national anthem in your best voice…
‘Blessed be my country
a homeland for harmony,
They
laughed loudly, knowing only the small desert creatures around them would hear.
Just them and the creatures, witnessing their unity at the crossroads of their
lives, together, silently, wondering whether these moments really should happen
to people like them, whether, people really do come into your life for a
reason, just at the right moment, as though destined by some greater force?
‘How
long until the sunrise, do you think Bader?’
Bader jocosely held his fist to his chest and turned
to the moon.
‘Oh full moon my brother, when will the sun
brighten your skies?’
Hagar cracked in giggles, seeing a face so kind suddenly pretend an unnatural seriousness.
‘Shh Hagar! He’s speaking to me…’ Bader whispered, ‘He says… he
says… three hours! Three hours till the sun rises and that with light, you’ll
find everything that you’re looking for.’ Bader opened his eyes and smiled. ‘If
the moon be with thee, thou needest not care about
the stars.’
‘Thank you, Bader, thank you for listening.’
‘And thank you for finding me, stranger.’ Bader lay on
his back, arms folded and reaching for the cigarettes in his top pocket. ‘We
will continue our search in the morning, right?’
‘I will and you’re welcome to join.’ Hagar joined
Bader laying, she rolled over to face him, kissing him
on the cheek as he drew from his cigarette. ‘Goodnight Bader.’
Bader turned to see her, the side of her body
adjusting into the sand and curving out from the barren flatness surrounding
them. It too sacred to touch, a womanly figure, so grounded
and whole. Bader rolled over again to face the stars above.
‘May you awake to goodness.’
***
Glinting, was it dawn? The stars were falling from the
sky. But really were they stars? Hagar rubbed her
eyes. They moved above, freckles of light, like small flies, hundreds of them
buzzing, no, thousands, helicopters. Thousands of helicopters, flying
southward, their noise dissecting the inaudible air that blanketed a city of
awakening bodies and the humming of more in the distance. How many had already
passed over their dreams, their fleeting experience, without them realizing?
Hagar sat up to see more flecks of light on the horizon. Unholy phosphorescence,
she recognised instinctively, tanks,
Iraqi, machined ghosts floating in the distance. She rubbed her eyes to see
them, metallic insects gliding along the highway and underneath the bridges
that entered Al-Jahra.
‘Bader,’ Hagar shook him, his sleeping face holding
the same gentle demeanor he has when awake. ‘Bader, wake up, I think it’s a
war.’
‘A war, what?’ Bader stretched his body, the words not
settling into his still unconscious mind.
‘Look, near the bridge, I think it’s
Bader’s eyes finally opened, squinting into the
twilight ahead. ‘Are they, tanks?’
‘I think it’s Saddam.’ Hagar
stood and at once and began walking North, her black abaya flapping, like
the wing of a bird, with each footstep.
‘Hagar!’
Bader noticed fire ahead, flames arising from the two
oil towers in the distance, their smoke tainting the glow of morning light.
‘Hagar!’ A jet plane flew overhead, dipping its flight path as it neared the
city. Bader ran to her, covering her with his body and causing her to fall onto
the sand beneath. She pushed him away, deafened by the noises of the helicopter
rotors above.
‘Leave me,
Hagar walked faultlessly, mission-like, as though she
knew exactly the destination she was heading, the very place she had longed to
be all along, not the diary, or the stones, or her children, but place where
the fire burned within her stomach, the very thing that once told her to press
pen to paper, to leave Iraq, escape the prison, bury her words, to find Bader
at the market on yesterday’s moonful night. And she saw the flames ahead, the
jet planes in the distance still coming, but still she continued, headstrong
but not in spite, only certain, for the first time in her life, that everything
that had happened to her, belonged precisely to her. Every decision she had
made, suffering felt, smile, all hers. And it was untouchable, indestructible, a sanctity that not even time nor a fire could reach.
But then, ‘Hagar!’ She saw deep purples suddenly filtering behind her
eyes. She could still hear Bader, faintly in the distance behind her. Was it
dawn now, she hoped? Her heart slowing, he felt her neck, and arm twitching,
her blood pouring onto the golden sand of morning’s sunrise. And all because of
one distant decision made by a man, once a boy – ‘bastard!’ – who like
anyone with enough training could be, was, manipulated by the angst of attack,
fueled with enough armed emotion to react with a neurotic urge to tense a
forefinger around the cold trigger of a gun. ‘No!’ And it just happened to be
that the solider, who in the same day took a cold shower, ate warm bread and
molasses, who unknown to them both was the friend of the man who had once raped
Hagar, saw beneath him a black moving spec below. An enemy, he thought, running
wildly with such conviction, yet cowardly escaping his pointed vision.
And still, if only the true voice of that one man’s
instinct had not been inebriated by the same chemical that had caused that
black speck to birth now orphaned children and flee its country, she would live
presently in peace as an Iraqi, as a human, like he so too wished he could. And
maybe, just one afternoon, on the banks of the Tigris, they would have spoken,
laughed, held hands even, exchanged their own stories of freedoms and morality,
of the inevitable suffering that rest within every existence.
‘I’m here Hagar,’ her vision was now fading beyond the
outline of Bader’s body ‘still here, and I’ll find the
stones, your story.’ Bader finally returned the kiss upon her cheek, still
soft, he noticed. ‘You know more than anyone on this earth, they can’t kill you
that easily.’
________________________________________________________
to breathe an air
of what is dead
chokes
the chance
of surviving now
a tongue in exile
buries and bleeds
amongst the fallen
sands of her
children
they once sang of
he
who permitted greed
and the forgotten who
never ceased
trying
rebuild rebuild higher
they scream her
freedom
is
so close to dying
________________________________________________________
‘Good morning. As of this hour,
It was August and dawn: the only time of day cool
enough to travel. With the same fearlessness as the stranger he had met, Bader
walked underneath the two bridges heading west. He sung to himself, Rahalta, the words echoing across the the walls and
his shadow stretching in front as the sun arose from behind. He stopped to
turn, to face Al-Jahra for the last time. He had packed Hagar’s diary and the
fake passport into his rucksack and he knew, certainly now, that he had found
the freedom he was searching for: the courage to say goodbye to the world where
his story begun.
Note:
The two bridges referred to are the two bridges where
‘The Battle of the Bridges’ took place in