Beyond Love (Middle East Literature in Translation) (3 page)

The novel's historical context is also dominated
by the consequences of the strict economic sanctions
imposed by the United Nations against Iraq. Because of
the sanctions, Iraq's population was devastated socially,
economically, and psychologically. The novel's female
characters, Nadia and Huda, experience deprivation and
disempowerment in Baghdad while they work at the alAmal Factory (Factory of Hope) for men s underwear. An
unhealthy atmosphere of fear and humiliation dominates
the factory, and the women workers are abused and controlled by a ruthless boss paradoxically named "Shafiqa,"
the Arabic word for "kindness" and "sympathy." The
atmosphere in the factory replicates the feeling of the
whole country. The women working in these humiliating conditions are widows, divorcees, and young women
unable to find husbands. They try to survive in a country
where the living conditions have become very difficult
in the absence of men, who would under normal circumstances be providing for them. Stubbornness pushes
Huda, the main character and one of the workers in the
factory, to write "No" instead of the required "Yes" on
her ballot in a presidential election. But fear of the consequences of her action compels her to flee the country to
Amman, leaving behind her grandmother and the Baghdad she loves to join the lines of Iraqis who wait in front
of the Refugee Office.

Her life in Amman is full of sad encounters, grief, and
remembrance. In the form of letters, diaries, and memoirs of the war, the defeat, and the uprising, Hussein's characters-Huda, her coworker Nadia, and Moosa,
whom Huda meets at the Refugee Office in Ammangive their accounts of these years of fear and torture.

"This is everything."

A leather handbag containing a wallet with many
pockets and a small notebook... a pair of jeans, a
long coat, four woolen sweaters, three shirts ... a few
books-some literary and some about Iraq during and
after Desert Storm-and a large notebook for memories
...a ceramic cup containing seashells, colored beads,
and small, strangely shaped stones-I had no idea where
Nadia had gotten them. "I'll keep just the books and the
handbag," I told the landlady before losing myself again
in the street. "You can give the rest to those who might
need it." Nadia's death had struck me like a thunderbolt.
How, I wondered, can a car driven by a reckless driver
end the life of someone looking only for a safe refuge
after fleeing the hell of her homeland?

The street swallowed me. It was as tumultuous with
the noise of cars and pedestrians as my mind was with its
many questions and a single, unwavering answer: "This
is how death comes, as a visitor whose knock you never
expect at your door. Sometimes it enters without knocking and surprises you before you stand up. Death has the
keys to everything locked and doesn t need permission
to enter."

I mourned her silently and painfully in my tiny refuge, a room high on the slopes of Mount al-Hussein and
cursed the day I'd run into her again. Our memories were
supposedly buried in Baghdad. What made them come
back to the surface again, weaving once more their web
of sorrow and exile in Amman?

OUR ENCOUNTER in Amman was unexpected; in fact,
it seemed impossible. Even when I was still in Baghdad,
I never thought we would meet again; I always thought
she had settled in Basra. The last time I called her was in
1994, just before all the phone numbers were changed.
Over those years, memory had finally come to the verge of
throwing off the weight it carried. How else could it handle
all the calamities, the wars, the embargo, the uprooting?

In the Friday market near the Abdali complex, crowded
with people, cars, vintage clothing, peddlers, beggars, vegetable merchants, and food kiosks, there we were, side by
side. Fate had squeezed us into a narrow corner between a
wall of used clothes suspended like hanging corpses and
piles of garments crammed into closed boxes and smelling
of mothballs. At first, I didn t notice our chance proximity.
We were turning over the clothes, looking for the ones that
were clean and cheap.

We might have gone our separate ways if it hadn't
been for her voice, full of Iraqi grief. "What's the problem?
Everything is so expensive. You have to bring the price
down."

I started, snatching my hands back from the shirt I
was about to buy.

When I first heard her voice, I wasn't sure that it was
Nadia. I don't know if I was attracted by the language-I missed speaking with an Iraqi accent-or if my subconscious recognized her first.

There we were, face-to-face after a handful of yearsmute, paralyzed. We could find nothing to say. It was as
if each of us wanted to release a cry from the depths, but
the cry withdrew, clearing the way for tears. We didn't
know whether the source of our tears was the joy of the
encounter or the sadness about what we had left behind.
We stared at each other a long moment before we broke
out with names ... and tears.

THE STORY of my first encounter with Nadia starts at
a men's underwear factory called Factory of Hope, Factory of Amal, located at al-Karrada and owned by Mr.
Fatih. He was a corpulent man with a dark complexion,
prominent belly, and bald head hidden by a cotton hat.
He usually came into the factory after two o'clock and
never stayed more than two hours. He confidently left
arrangements and regulations to the watchful supervision of Shafiqa, a woman heading toward her forties with
a constantly terrified but alert face.

Shafiqa had a sharp and fiery temperament. She had
earned her authority through her fierce commitment to
handling everything, big or small, as though she were the
real owner of the factory. When she spoke, she waved her
hands to the left and to the right as if shooting the words
from between her fingers. As soon as she finished speaking, she would drop her hands down by her sides, where
they looked forlorn without any movement. Her kohl-lined
eyes constantly roamed the corners of the rectangular
room, where she controlled twenty-five female workers
sitting behind sewing machines for eight hours a day. The humid room had only one window, which looked out on
a small yard used for the lunch break, and was decorated
with shoddy handwritten excerpts from the speeches of
the president, whose portrait hung at the factory entrance.

One day, two months after I'd started working at
the factory, Shafiqa walked in. A svelte, brown-skinned
young woman with thick black hair hanging to her shoulders accompanied her. Shafiqa introduced her as Nadia
Mazloom, pointed to a place for her right behind me, and
gave her a scarf to tie her hair. After a single look from
Shafiqa, we returned to work as though we hadn't heard
anything. The machines' clamor rose again.

During the first few days, Nadia seemed withdrawn.
She allowed others into her world only to a certain point;
when asked about anything, she would reply only briefly.
She used to sit away from the others during the break,
and after she heard the bell, she would hurry back to her
machine as though escaping us. The women disapproved
of her behavior and thought she was full of herself.

To me, she seemed like an incomprehensible book.
But I nevertheless became the person closest to her. After
some time, I felt that she was like a banana skin: with a
little bit of patience, it was possible to unpeel it and find
the sweet and soft fruit inside. I also noticed her distraction when she spoke or was spoken to; she would suddenly fall silent, seemingly unable to utter anything, as
if she were sick. But this would last only a few seconds.
Salwa once accused Nadia of being disrespectful because
she didnt listen to whoever was speaking and of cutting
that person off.

After our relationship grew stronger, I asked Nadia
about her strange state of distraction. She informed me that she had suffered from it for almost three years and
didn't know what she was thinking of when it happened.
It was like a deep sleep empty of any dreams. I used to
tell her that it was a blessing because we get distracted
only when we are pressured and exhausted from the
troubles of life. If these troubles remain hard to forget,
the pain will expand into the very depths of our souls.
Sometimes she would respond with an obscure smile,
and sometimes she looked unconcerned.

One time when we were sitting in a corner away
from the others, her eyes blurred, and she looked absentminded. I shook her shoulders, saying, "Hey, I'm jealous
of the man you are thinking about."

She smiled unambiguously. She said, "I'm looking
for something precious I lost. Sometimes, unexpectedly,
it comes to me, but before I take hold of it, it departs and
vanishes."

I pushed her gently. "Who is he?"

She lowered her head, saying, "I will cry if I say anything. Let's leave this for another time."

I didn't ask her about it again after that, and the
opportunity didnt come until many years later. By then,
Nadia had been killed, but she had left the answer in a
handful of letters.

DAY BY DAY the closed book opened to me. I quietly read
pages that revealed a dreaming, gentle-hearted person.
She and I were calmly weaving the lengthening threads
of our friendship. We met each other outside work and
exchanged a few visits. I learned that she was a graduate of the College of Administration and Economics in
Basra. She had tried her hand at writing short stories, but she never showed them to anyone. Perhaps this was the
strongest thread that bound our friendship. I, too, used to
enjoy literature and had tried my hand at poetry. I even
dared publish a poem, then followed that one with a second and a third. I had graduated with a degree in Arabic language and literature and still read literature and
enjoyed the arts. Yet, for some reason, I gave up poetry.
Perhaps poetry was no longer able to convey our sorrows.

I thought of asking her about that lost thing she
missed in her life but always deferred doing so. Maybe
I wanted her to confess it voluntarily so that I wouldn't
seem curious or meddlesome about her affairs.

THERE WAS NO HOPE in the Factory of Hope. Just a group of women looking for daily bread dipped in misery
after the loss of opportunities, the lengthy siege, and the
destruction of the country: pseudowomen sitting behind
deaf machines that devoured their lives and shrank their
faces. Some of them were illiterate-widows, divorcees,
spinsters. Others were married in name only, preferring
the protection of any man just so they weren't considered
divorced. Some were young girls whose dreams were
bigger than their reality.

The powerful, vicious Shafiqa supervised us, acting
on behalf of a man who knew less about his factory than
she did. Aziza and Salwa received the biggest share of
rebuke and reprimand from Shafiqa, for they were the
only quarrelsome ones.

Aziza was an active and shapely twenty-five-yearold with prominent breasts whose nipples could not be
hidden by summer shirts. Her mouth was sensual, her
gaze dreamy. She was always in a good mood, and her cheeks were naturally so rosy that one day Shafiqa shook
her finger at her in warning, saying, "This is a factory, not
a nightclub! Makeup is forbidden! Remove that red color
from your cheeks."

Aziza took one of the flannels right away and rubbed
her cheeks with it. She spread it before Shafiqa's eyes and
then displayed it for everyone to see. "Look," she said. "It
is white like snow. God alone has put this makeup on my
face from the day I was born."

When Shafiqa left the room, Aziza burst out, "Oh,
God, when will you save me? Let me marry a man, no
matter how he looks, as long as he rescues me from hardship and this cursed country, the country of endless
wars!" Then she returned to work, and after a few minutes her good humor settled back in.

Aziza never lost an opportunity to say something
crude. When she finished sewing a piece, she would hold
it up and say, "I wonder who the guy is who will hide
his privates behind this." No one shared her jokes except
Salwa. We couldn't hear them, but their meaning was
obvious. Their eyes brimmed with tears of laughter suppressed out of fear of Shafiqa.