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

the
grave that was still open.
    "Listen to me carefully. The body I found in the
coffin is not that of my son. Perhaps there is a mistake."
    My uncle joined us and continued, "Didn't you
come with us from that big prison?"
    They immediately stopped pouring the sand and
started digging up the grave. A woman in the crowd
said, "Didn't I ask you to check it?"
    No one answered. The grave digger objected,
warning about the authorities, but no one listened to
him amid the chaotic wailing and general cacophony. I
sought refuge behind my mother, drawn by the smells
of death and the sounds of lamentation emerging
from the depths of the cemetery. My mother started
running in different directions, looking for coffins
and corpses. The others had identified their body just
by looking at its face.
    A voice came from another corner, "We have
three legs here."
    My mother ran with wild eyes and stricken
heart. My uncle and I followed her. We made our way
through the crowd surrounding the coffin, which
revealed a dismembered man with a third leg packed
among his limbs. At this point, the grave digger came and grabbed my uncle's shoulder, "What should I do?
You are disrupting my work!"

    My uncle said, "Go ahead and bury the body, and
you will get your pay."
    My mother collapsed near the open tomb while
the grave digger covered the wrong corpse quickly,
ignoring the funeral rituals because we knew the
body wasn't ours. We spent that night in the shrine,
and at dawn we returned to Basra. During the journey, my mother was silent except to answer questions
or comments from others. Sometimes she muttered,
seeking answers to the question running through all
our minds: Where was Nadir's body?
    I was also torn by other questions, thinking of my
twin soul.
    No doubt they tortured you. Perhaps they gouged out
your beautiful eyes? Did you weaken at the last moment?
Did you scream, asking for mercy from those whose hearts
would never know mercy? Or did your strong body finally
become numb to the pain? Did they blindfold your eyes? Or
did they make you see yourself get shot and enjoy the look of
fear on your face? How did your soul depart, my twin? How
many moments did your last breath linger? What was the
last image you saw? Was it my mother? Was it me? Or was
it the executioner? I'm afraid they dismembered your body
while you were still alive. What a beautiful body you had!
    Between one question and another, my soul was
screaming: "Where is Nadir's body?"
    I HAD PLENTY OF TIME, but I wasn't doing anything.
My days moved like a tortoise with flabby legs. I spent
that time doing nothing, either in my room or the Refugee Office or wandering around town, talking to myself
because I had no one else to talk to. After plunging into
Nadia's diary, I stopped going to Amman's library. I was
feeling burdened and confused. A longing-for Baghdad
dug deeply into my heart. Time was slow. I spent long
hours looking at the corners and ceiling of my room,
although I knew nothing was there. My head was stuffed
with memories. Youssef's face and my grandmother's
alternated in my head, consuming me. The alleys I had
walked in Baghdad shone in my memory. I was drawn
to the ebb and flow of the Tigris, on whose banks I had
been born. Large banks, sweet clover, Indian fig and spinach, polished rocks, myrtle trees flanking the fences of the
houses-all exhaled their fragrance in the corners of my
memory and colored it with the henna of love. My memory
would make its way to the Shourja Market crowded with
customers on feast and holy days. The scents of herbs and
spices would spread out from the market and tickle noses:
pepper, essence of rose, aniseed, nutmeg, henna, rose
water, pomegranate shell, and kohl of Mecca. I wouldn't
know which of us was enticing the other, the memory or
me. What a crowded memory, moving in a flash from one
place to another. At one moment I would again be in Kadhimiya, wandering its streets,