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

the peach tree from which it
had just fallen. He suggested climbing the tree, then
put the bird in his pocket and climbed. He placed the
bird inside the nest while the mother hovered around
angrily. Before he came down, he picked a few peaches
and threw them to me. As soon as he set his feet on
the ground, the guard whistled. We ran away, terrified that he would whip us. When we were out of the
garden, we threw ourselves on the ground, breathless,
convulsing with loud laughter. Suddenly we were surprised by the guard's steps. We cried from fright, but
he didn't hit us as we'd feared. He even let us take the
peaches but warned us to keep away from his master's
garden and insulted our fathers and grandfathers. We
ran away crying.

    My mother was crying out at the top of her hoarse
voice when the dome of Imam Ali loomed nearer.
    "I came to you, my imam, 0 father of the Hassanayn. This is your grandson. They killed him."
    She was crying painfully, and the driver didn't
interfere this time. My mother beat her face, which
was covered in burning tears, but I had to search for
my tears and found that I had none. Perhaps they had
turned to stone inside me, or perhaps fate had hidden
them somewhere to save them for dark days to come.
    The car was moving slowly. Burial processions
were leaving the place of the imam, and other people
were getting through Bab al-Taous, spreading out toward the vast cemetery, accompanied by the sounds of continuous lamentations There were two funeral processions ahead of us, and many behind. We entered the cemetery through the gate leading to the burial offices. My uncle got out of the car and went into the offices; after a few minutes, he came out with the grave digger. My mother continued her painful sobbing; her heart seemed to be breaking with every cry. I wished I could cry like her to empty my soul of its pain at the loss of my twin. I begged for tears from my eyes and cries from my throat, but in vain.

    We drove through narrow streets amid tombs and headed toward the family cemetery. After three hundred yards, we stopped, stupefied. Before me stretched an infinite number of tombs, tombs as far as the eye could see. When had the cemetery's womb grown so enormous? How did all these people die? Who had driven them to a fate that could have been delayed? It was amazing how death's machinery could work with such incredible speed. Tall tombs, layers on top of layers ... marble tombs, low tombs, stone tombs, tombs made of baked bricks and of sandstone ... tombs in the form of houses that the poor could not afford. Those with money had fancy tombs with pictures of their owners on the decorated doors. Martyrs occupied a large area in the cemetery. In pictures of them, their eyes uttered the burning question: "Why?" No one could answer that question. Some tombs were obliterated, forgotten by their people. Others were new, and yet others were still being carved. No peace
in Najaf's cemetery. The grave diggers' hands were
always busy, and their livelihood would prosper as
long as the wars had no end.

    Some funeral processions halted next to us. The
lamentations had never stopped: some women were
crying and beating their chests, others were beating
their heads and rending their cheeks-their tired faces
sharing the same misfortunes and looking equally
sad and devastated. The grave diggers were digging
up the soil and carrying the corpses they would cover
with sand, while the beggars hovered near.
    We remember Death only when we enter cemeteries or when he approaches. Then we remove our
masks and shrink away. We beg him to forgive us, to
give us a respite just to settle past accounts, but Death
doesn't pay attention. Undaunted by our supplications, he continues on. Everyone has his hour except
the betrayed ones-war victims and the innocents.
    My mother insisted on opening the coffin to take
a last look at the boy who had delighted his father
when he had come into the world.