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

as well. Highlevel officials or their friends attended execution ceremonies. On a video smuggled to many humanitarian
organizations, the president's cousin Chemical Ali could
be seen beating many young men to death with his shoes
and the butt of his gun.

    Emir vanished, like many others who died, escaped,
or disappeared in secret prisons. Nadia had written in her
diary, "One friend told me that Emir didnt fall into the
hands of the regime, and the last time he saw Emir, Emir
had said to him that he intended to return to Basra. But he
never returned, and I have no news from him now."
    This was how so many lost touch. Fathers didn't
know anything about what had happened to their missing children and were unable to search for or ask
about them. Perhaps they accepted their fate, for the
missing ones never returned. Family, wives, and lovers
convinced themselves that there was no way for them to
meet each other again. But Nadia had kept flirting with
hope, believing that Emir might have left the country,
like those who succeeded in fleeing through Kurdistan
or through the desert to Saudi Arabia.

    EVERY TIME I went to the Refugee Office, I would see
new faces. Since it was too early to let us in, the policeman
at the door asked everybody to withdraw to the sidewalk.
Some listened, and others grumbled. When the officer
finally opened the door, everybody rushed in. I pushed
my way through the crowd to hand in my appeal application. The policeman shouted, "Don't push!" A man
asked about his residency permit renewal, and the officer
pointed at the announcement board.
    "Brothers! Please read the posted announcements.
There are new instructions. There is a day for general consulting, another for residency and renewal-of-residency
applications, and specific days to pick up renewals."
    The man who had asked about residency said, "It is
best like this."
    The officer didn't reply, and others went to check the
instructions on the announcement board. The women
waited on the sidewalk or leaned on the fence while the
officer admitted some families. I didn't know who was
standing behind or next to me, and my body was becoming tense. I handed in the application and moved away
with difficulty. Before I left, I noticed the young man from
the other day, the one I had been suspicious about. Why did I slow down? He greeted me, and we walked together,
almost as though we had prearranged it. Our steps were
slow and rhythmic on the asphalt.

    "Things are slow in the Refugee Office," he said.
"Some will now desperately try illegal immigration.
What about you?"
    "I just appealed. What about you?"
    "I'm accepted. I'm now waiting for an interview
with the Australian delegation. I'll join my brother there.
Where do you live?"
    "On Mount al-Hussein. And you?"
    "I live with a roommate, my friend Faisal, in
al-Jandawil."
    I waited for him as he bought cigarettes from one of
the kiosks. He returned with two bottles of strawberry
juice, and we sat on a bench. I looked at him while he was
lighting up a cigarette. His face looked different, but his
features were difficult to forget: mysterious black eyes,
a coffee-colored complexion with the trace of a healed
wound above his left eyebrow. This time his features
inspired confidence, and I didnt feel suspicious about
him, but I was still uncertain. I felt that he was concealing
something, and this impression would be confirmed in
subsequent encounters.
    When the bus came, he wrote his cell phone number
on a piece of paper. "If you need anything, don't hesitate
to contact me."
    I took the paper, looking at him as though promising
him an appointment. When the bus started moving, we
waved to each other, each of us hiding something confused deep inside.

    EVERY TIME I dialed the number for home, I was disappointed. Baghdad preferred to keep silent, as if punishing
me for having abandoned it. Every time I asked myself
questions, I developed a headache. Days and months