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

from its
treacherous currents took your father two months later.
He was a skilled fisherman, and I just couldn't believe
that he had drowned. They said that the strong current
swept him away after his fishing boat capsized, but I still
don't believe it. No one ever tried to find out the truth.
The police were convinced by the witnesses, but the witnesses' motives were suspicious; they might have wanted
to get rid of him because he was their only rival in the
fish-marketing trade."
    I knew my father only through photographs. Most of
them were taken on the river among fishermen-he was
usually holding a fish he had just caught, stretching the
fishing net, standing on the shore. In some of the photos,
he was with my mother. I wasn't nostalgic about him, for
he was simply a picture in my imagination. But sweeping nostalgic emotions still drew me to my mother. I was
still pressed by the desire to touch her fingers, to listen to
her voice, to follow in her footsteps as I used to do in my
childhood. She was a strong woman. She patiently faced
the difficulties of raising me, and after my father's death,
she refused to remarry, although she was still young.
She lived under my uncle's protection for two years, and
when he got married, she lived independently in a small
house with my paternal grandmother, with whom I had
been much closer. My mother was very busy securing our
living, working until she died in a vegetable oil factory.
When she died, I was in my second year of college in the
Faculty of Arts.

    My nostalgia was interrupted when the car stopped
at a checkpoint. A soldier who couldnt have been more
than twenty appeared at the window; he stared at our
faces and looked at me. I forced a smile. He didn't search
our belongings and didn't ask for anything. He gave his
signal to the driver to move on. As the car crept forward,
I shuddered. The checkpoint's lights retreated; once again
we were plunged into the night's darkness. I stuck my
face to the window glass. Nothing. The night was endless, and the sky distant-no moon, not a single star. I felt
as though we were in a dark tunnel with no end in sight.
My soul flew ahead of me and over the border blockades,
fleeing as though pursued by a hunter's bullet, going as
high as it could in hopes that the bullet would miss the
mark. Suddenly I was shaking, and my teeth were chattering. I pulled myself together, searching for strength.
The checkpoints were endless: rapid questions and
strange looks ... cold ... fear ... heavy hours ... until we
reached Tribil, the last station.

    When the driver asked me to get out of the car there,
I was terrified, and my fear felt like sharp canine teeth.
My throat dried up, and my lips hardened. I gripped
the beads of the camel necklace, hoping that they would
bring me good fortune. But my throbbing heart continued its agitated leaps, one after another. The most horrible moment was when I stood before the passport officer.
He ordered me to wait after he took my passport. I looked
around me; there was no place to sit. Passengers from
other cars had taken all the chairs, and some remained
standing. Exhausted, I leaned against the wall. I tried in
vain to push away the black ideas devouring my spirit,
sinking their talons deep into my heart. I could see the
officers dragging me into a small room and taking turns
interrogating me in the nastiest way. They would drive
me back to the dark face of Baghdad. Then anonymous
hands would grab me and drag me into a basement,
where they would strip me of my clothes and fall upon
me with whips and blows. Before I could scream from the
horror of the anticipated pain, the passport officer yelled,
"Samia Shahine Hassan!"
    My heart stopped beating, and I couldn't make a
sound. The call was repeated twice. My heart started
beating again. I panicked as I ran to the window. The officer looked at me angrily. "Are you deaf?"
    I couldn't believe it when he handed me