Brownies and Kalashnikovs Page 24
That night, my health took a sudden turn for the worse. My miscarriage in Italy had not been handled properly and I was overcome with sharp jabs of pain and a raging fever. My sister-in-law, Bushra, awoke to my moans at dawn, took one look at my condition, bundled me into the car and sped southwards towards Sidon, which was as yet battle free. A school friend of hers owned a hospital across the street from her parent’s home.
“We’re going to get his opinion only as a first opinion, Fadia. If I don’t feel convinced, we’re going to Beirut no matter what.”
I was too wracked with pain to answer, but prayed silently that some miracle would limit our trip to Sidon. The doctor examined me and I hit the roof from pain. That did it. We were back in the car, this time speeding northwards down a frighteningly empty highway in the direction of the American University Hospital (AUH), the best hospital in the Middle East and a stone’s throw from the epi-center of the battle zone in the hotel district and downtown area. Bushra’s daring gamble to heal me is sealed in my heart with eternal gratitude. To grasp the depth of Bushra’s act of bravery, I must explain my sister-in-law. Bushra had never needed to lift a finger throughout her pampered life. Her parents doted on her and her brothers outdid one another in showering her with gifts. Although she had a younger married sister, Malak, it was Bushra, as the eldest daughter, who reigned in my husband’s family. Now she was hurtling with me towards an active combat zone in order to save my life.
For the first time in our experience of Lebanese roads, there was no traffic … only terrifying silence. Suddenly, a jeep careened towards us, zigzagging wildly from side to side of the road with a grenade launcher strapped to its back. Clinging to it from all sides were young men in sleeveless vests and outfits of their favorite war movie characters, their heads wrapped in red and black strips of cloth, and bullet belts crisscrossing their chests and several machine guns apiece hanging from their shoulders. The reason for the wild driving became chillingly clear when the deadly pinnngg of a sniper’s bullet bounced off our car.
“Shit!” Bushra screamed. “Get down Fadia! Get down!”
I slid to the bottom of the car and she did too, guiding the steering wheel with the tips of her fingers, her eyes barely above the dashboard. We turned to check each other out when simultaneously and shockingly we were hopelessly overcome with laughter. Tears streamed down our cheeks as we mutually grasped the folly of our situation and the unreal get-up of the young fighters-to-be. We locked eyes briefly with the militiamen as they sped past us, staring slack-jawed at what possibly surpassed the joke of their war costumes. There we were, two petrified women, one dressed to the nines, the other in a dressing gown, our heads barely visible over the dashboard, laughing madly while racing at breakneck speed towards a battle zone ten minutes away.
Bushra drove up to the emergency center of AUH at the same time as an onslaught of the dead and wounded from the battle for downtown Beirut and its port. Fully-armed militiamen accompanied their wounded comrades, raising the situation to a highly-charged danger level as they met at the emergency ward’s doors with opposing militiamen and their wounded. Curses, shoves, and cocked machine guns caused more casualties at the entrance of the emergency ward. The helpless medical staff caught in the middle struggled to maintain a professional calm in a desperate attempt to save lives as battle-crazed militiamen shot wildly, demanding immediate medical attention for their injured.
My gregarious sister-in-law had friends in the hospital who promptly paged my doctor, Dr. Karam Karam, a childhood friend of the Khayyats. One of the best and brightest of the Lebanese medical profession and one of the few intrepid surgeons who refused to abandon the hospital, Dr. Karam came running in our direction in a blood-spattered white coat, shouting instructions to four sturdy nurses to fall in behind him. Gingerly, he helped me out of the car where Bushra had left me to do her reconnaissance work and guided me to a gurney in a far corner of the emergency ward. One quick look at the source of my pain was all he needed to decide to operate on the spot. I found out soon enough that the four sturdy nurses were Dr. Karam’s necessary alternative to an anesthetic. The rapidly dwindling supply of pain killers was saved for the miserable souls pouring in by the minute. Dr. Karam softly apologized for the pain I would endure but he had no other choice. At a signal from the doctor, the nurses took their positions and pinned me down sympathetically but firmly as he deftly dealt with the source of my agony. My cry of pain was lost amongst the exponentially more desperate screams and wails of the young men strewn all over the hospital’s sidewalks and corridors. That ‘flash’ of time remains permanently embedded in my memory as sirens wailed, men cursed, bullets flew, mortar shells crashed and the pale face of Bushra stood helplessly in the shadows of my corner of the emergency ward. Then it was all over. I had mercifully fainted and came to as I was being trundled into the eerily dark and empty obstetrics ward. Bushra was appointed as my head nurse as all hands were needed for the tragedies unfolding in the emergency ward.
In the darkened ward Bushra, myself, and Fadia Tarraf (a close friend of Bushra’s, who had been stranded in her office where she worked as a secretary to Dr. Phillip Salem, today, a world-famous oncologist) waited as I slowly came to. The battles had cut Fadia off from her home in Ashrafiyeh. Eventually, Bushra kissed me good night and left with Fadia; there was nowhere for her to sleep in my room and I was stable. I lay in my bed and stared silently out of the window, a square of pitch black night, as I listened to the insanity of people killing and people dying. It did not feel real. This was not how I imagined my first pregnancy would be. There was nothing to distract me from the ugliness surrounding me. Where was my mother and why was I alone without her? I yearned to hear her comfort me with her unshakeable belief in Fate. I imagined her small shrug and rueful smile while she gently smoothed my hair, consoling me. I heard her words in my head that what had happened was meant to happen, that it would all pass, that it was God’s will, as she had quietly told me during our agonizing wait for Fatin and Marwan in Maidstone. That day was in a faraway world, another world that had been so full of hope and love, a world that now seemed dreamlike. I lay on my hospital bed in darkened solitude while butchery and screaming violence continued outside my window.
I was jolted from my fitful sleep the following morning in sheer panic by a thundering explosion that came from the direction of the sea, a five-minute walk from the hospital. I did not expect to survive, thinking that the hospital had been the target of the explosion. Bushra rushed in, her face as white as a sheet.
“A charter plane has just crashed into the sea just over the Corniche,” she whispered, desperately trying not to panic. It was widely rumored but never verified that the gold bullions stolen from the banks in downtown Beirut were being smuggled out of the country on that plane and it had been shot down by those who also wanted the stolen gold bars. Mafias were already hard at work, stoking the fires of this indiscriminating war. There was no stopping the killing.
My period of convalescence at the AUH became longer than necessary as we waited for a truce long enough to ensure our safe passage home. But my stay was put to good use by the AUB’s Medical School professors. A few days into my recuperation I discovered that I had become a live model for lectures on emergency measures in a war zone. Daily, a group of young students trooped into my room led by their professor who acknowledged my humanness with a curt perfunctory greeting, before launching into a detailed explanation of the methods Dr. Karam had needed to use to heal what was a small but potentially life-threatening complication. As he pointed to particularly important details on my person, the medical students jostled for a better look while attentively following their professor’s lecture. I did my best to look as wooden as possible throughout the ordeal, thinking over and over “This too shall pass.”
At long last, a two-day ceasefire took hold. It was payday and the guns fell silent. Adnan, who had flown back to Beirut on the first flight in, was finally able to reach me in my hospital room, w
here he found me dressed, packed and ready. I shut the door firmly behind me in a desperate gesture to lock away all that had transpired. We drove through a silent city with war hanging heavily in the air. The devil-may-care vibrancy of Beirut had vanished. The guns were silent but this time there were no illusions of peace. There was no electricity and no water. There were no vendors selling their wares, no housewives gossiping from balcony to sidewalk, no horns blaring, no traffic on the streets, and no children’s laughter. Pedestrians moved wordlessly, keeping close to the protective walls of buildings, hunched over their jerry cans of water, flashlights in hand. They bought whatever foodstuffs they could find in the few stores that had dared to open, keeping their heads down, fearful of arousing the unpredictable wrath of the trigger-happy gunmen who now owned the streets. ‘Amneh’ (safe) and ‘Salkeh’ (free from holdups), terminologies normally used on Beirut radio to advise motorists on streets best avoided due to traffic congestion or heavy snow, began to be used as a warning on streets best avoided due to sectarian kidnappings and sniper fire. They became the catchwords of the war. The National Alliance led by the Druze chieftain Kamal Jumblatt had won this battle against the Phalange Maronites … one down and fifteen more years of battles to go.
11
Life Will Go On
The absurdity being played out before us was painful to watch. One Arab country was being built at a mad pace by both Arab and foreign hands as another was being torn apart at an equally mad pace by the selfsame Arab and foreign hands. Adnan’s predictions for Lebanon proved sadly all too true. The war became more and more monstrous with each passing day as it fed on itself, sprouting a confusion of tentacles that choked everyone and everything in its path. What was sadder yet was that the self-serving politics that had lead to the unnecessary bloodshed of Lebanon’s civil war would remain entrenched through the sons and daughters of those who sparked the conflagration. Allies turned against one another, and then became allies once more. Each warring faction without exception had a turn of being friend and foe to the other. Generous benefactors from the neighboring Arab one-party states stoked the fires as each party leader chose the side that would further his personal power. Their agents swarmed everywhere.
Mercifully for my own well being, it did not take me long to get pregnant again. During the final trimester of my pregnancy, Adnan’s parents were forced to leave their home after the Soviets, Americans, Israelis, Lebanese, Syrians, Iraqis, Libyans, Iranians, Irish, Cubans, and Palestinians clashed in every corner of the tiny country, literally leaving no stone unturned.
My parents-in-law’s arrival at our Abu Dhabi home brought the number of adults waiting for my baby to arrive to five, an event that became both an occasion of joy and a very welcome distraction. With Im Bashar, Abu Bashar, Bushra, Adnan and I all focusing on my delivery, my pregnancy naturally became a communal one and with each week that passed the anticipation heightened. Any trip to the bathroom, and the number of trips increased with each passing day, would sound the alarm that I might be ready to have my/our baby. I would end up ensconced in the bathroom as they gathered chattering excitedly outside the door, while they waited for an update. I would finally emerge to face their animated, expectant faces, squeak “not yet” and dash in flaming embarrassment to my room. I began to dread going to the bathroom as my due date came closer and most particularly after I became overdue. So it was for more reasons than having my baby that I was ecstatic when my pains finally came.
Abu Bashar, Im Bashar, Bushra, Adnan and I headed for Rashid Hospital in the nearby Emirate of Dubai, the best hospital in the area, with Bushra driving the 160 kilometers as Adnan could not trust his nerves. We arrived at the hospital reception desk, the entire family of six jovial adults and asked for my doctor and a room. A formidable looking Indian head nurse met us unsmilingly with her arms folded sternly across her chest. She ordered me with unarguable authority to be whisked away to the labor room and ordered my in-laws and husband to leave. Looks of disbelief gripped our faces. They were not going anywhere, my in-laws told her, this was my first baby and they were not going to leave me to have it without their support. Unmoved, the nurse informed them punctiliously that they would be contacted after I had given birth and handed them the visiting hours. This, predictably, did not go down well with my in-laws. Adnan, having been warned of the strictness of the British-run hospital, realized that there was no use in arguing and turned to leave. Not so with Bushra or Im Bashar, who could not bring themselves to let me face the trials of having my first baby alone. They put up a fight to remain next to me. The head nurse fought back. She had the final word and Im Bashar and Bushra were banished from the hospital premises. They left in an unmitigated huff. But the moment they stepped into their hotel room, Bushra was on the phone demanding to speak to me, to the head administrator, to my obstetrician, in brief, to any one she could catch on the line to reverse the head nurse’s orders. She made that day a very difficult one for the maternity ward. Meanwhile, I lay in an empty room with a single window to my right where I could see only the white cloudless October sky. A large round clock with a minute hand ticked away on the wall in front of me. I was ordered to count the minutes between my contractions. No phone calls were passed to me. And that’s how I spent the next sixteen painful hours: watching the minute hand move, minute by tortuous minute.
The baby was finally ready to enter the world, and I was at last released from my mind-bending solitary confinement. I was wheeled into the birthing room in absolute joy at freedom from that clock. The Indian head nurse, Indian midwife and two smiling Indian nurses awaited me. As I was wheeled into position, I was suddenly overcome by what seemed to be a gigantic pincer grasping my back. No one had had the heart to warn me how painful childbirth would be. While I struggled to regain my breath, the Indian midwife who had been receiving Bushra’s hate calls launched an angry monologue about the arguments she’d been having with my sister-in-law as she mechanically prepared me for the birth. She was livid and needed to recount every word both of them had exchanged, stopping every now and then to demand an opinion from me. In between pants and soul-shattering contractions (I had breezily waved away any painkiller – before having the pains of course), I tried to partake in the conversation as diplomatically as I could. After all, she did have my life and my baby’s in her control. My English obstetrician walked in at the moment of birth and double waves of relief washed over me, one because I was closer to being with my baby and the other was because the midwife became otherwise occupied.
Munira was born into the two smiling nurses’ arms. They held up my surprisingly plump, pink, furious baby with her back towards me. Both politely ignored my repeated question concerning the baby’s gender: “Girl? Boy? Girl? Boy?” While one laid my baby tenderly on my stomach upside down, the other patted my cheeks with a cool cloth. With the prevalent pressure in the Arab world to have sons, it was hospital regulations not to reveal the sex of the baby to protect the mother from possible complications should her disappointment be strong enough to interrupt the birthing process. My first rush of motherly love and bonding was directed at my baby’s tiny delicate pink soles. I fell in love with my daughter before knowing what sex she was and that is one of the wisest birthing customs I have ever come across in our part of the world.
Bathed and wrapped, but still protesting furiously, Munira was carried to her father who had spent the hour and a half of his daughter’s delivery standing forlornly outside the door under the watchful eye of two alert Filipino nurses. It was unheard of back then that a father could, or even wanted to, attend the birth of his child. The two watch nurses ran into the labor room giggling to relay Adnan’s first meeting with his baby to me. “Madame, he just looked and looked at her. Then, Madame, he started to speak to her. He introduced himself and said, “Munira, I am your father Adnan. I love your spirit and I love your hairstyle. You’re beautiful, Munira, and I’m proud that you will carry my mother’s name.”
I was wheeled into my cool,
darkened room. I did not feel my bed. I did not feel any of the discomforts of having just given birth. I was levitated from all of my surroundings on a soft cloud of euphoria enveloped by a profound sense of accomplishment. I was a mother to a daughter. A pretty, young Indian nurse appeared at the door and with her was Munira tightly bundled in her bassinet and finally at peace with the world. I stared with awe and wonder at Munira while she stared back steadily through large oval eyes. Instead of asking to hold Munira, I blurted out, “Is she mine?”
The nurse laughed heartily, “Yes, Mrs. Khayyat, she’s your very own daughter,” she said as she carried her from the bassinet and placed her expertly in my arms. “Here,” she told me still laughing, “Relax. You will know what to do. Just follow your instincts. You’re her mother.”