Beyond Love (Middle East Literature in Translation) by Hadiyya Hussein Read Free Book Online

the Holy Qur'an. My grandmother was educated and literate, which was uncommon
because females of her generation and even the generation that came right after hers were usually illiterate. She
says that she completed the reading of the Qur'an when
she was nine. Her father was one of the students of the
Islamic learning center in Najaf, but he never finished
because he died from malaria. In her closet were a number of dresses, and in the lowest drawer she still kept
her wedding dress, a faded pistachio color embroidered
with white glittering beads. Next to it were a few objects
left by my grandfather: a rosary from al-Hussein, a silver cigarette box, and an oak cane with a serpent head.
Although my grandmother had not been preoccupied
with the past and wouldn't cry over it, she nevertheless
missed those days. She always used to repeat, "How is
it possible for life to go on without me? I lived it fully, a
simple, safe, and sweet life. Now wars have disfigured
life's beautiful face. The present doesn't mean much to
me; it just confuses me. Sometimes as an escape from it, I
think about the past, and that's enough."

    I used to envy her. I envied the strength with which
she fought the hardships of life. The bright memories of the past and her sense of humor never left her. She used
to have difficulties with modern names, still calling the
pillow lulah, the chair sakmali, and the medicine cabinet
sandagja, and oftentimes she would finish her stories with
the expression, "It was back then, in the days of plenty."

    Someone was snoring in the car, and the image of my
grandmother disappeared. I looked at the woman sitting
next to me; she was deep in sleep. Fear of the unknown
overwhelmed me. Time was slow; it weighed on my
chest and suffocated me. My patience disintegrated even
though the necklace my grandmother had given me
encircled my neck. I swerved away to the furthest skies
of the past, to where I had played in that wide street. I had
snatched the sunflower seeds from al-Zayir Jabr's store,
and then I had run away with the small black grains,
holding them like a treasure. I had been flooded with
pleasure when I succeeded in distracting al-Zayir Jabr
and grabbed a handful. But the pleasure had disappeared
when I realized that al-Zayir Jabr had turned a blind eye.
I threw the small grains on the side of the street and hid
under the blankets in my bed, ignoring my mother's calls
to help her string beans. Hoping that she would stop calling, I feigned sleep, but she called me again and again.
I suddenly felt her near my head. I refrained from moving or making noise to fool her, and the taste of the small
stolen grains came back into my mouth. Then I needed
to urinate but waited a little bit lest my mother called me
again. Time pressured my bladder. I shriveled under the
blankets and then did it in my bed.
    The cold crept into my bones, and time was still slow.
I plunged into distant memories to avoid my confused
feelings. My mother's serene voice sprang up from the past, telling me on one of the afternoons during a forgotten year, "I threw your umbilical cord in the Tigris; you
fell on the sand of its bank because I couldn't wait until
I arrived back home." I had placed my chin between my
palms while listening to her with clear eyes.

    "I was with my neighbors washing clothes and dishes
on the verge of the river. We had been laughing and joking when all of a sudden I cried out for help. My friends
rushed to me, repeating prayers. They tried to take me
back home, but you didn't wait, and you fell like a limp
worm. Suddenly, the place turned into a festival of joyful cries. One of the women wrapped you in her woolen
robe after she cut the umbilical cord and gave it to me. I
threw it into the river. Then they took me home. This is
how you came to life, easily and conveniently. I was hoping you would live with ease and comfort. But the river
that witnessed your birth and preserved you