left them for so long.
The first time you and I met at the bus stop around the corner from my flat in London, I wanted to tell you my story because there seemed something familiar about you. You were perched next to me under the awning and stared, not rudely but in a curious way, as if you saw something recognizable in me too.
When I spoke, you blushed and lifted a trembling hand to smooth back the white hair on your elegant head.
I told you my name and you said: Aneesa, the kind and friendly one. It seemed understandable then that you spoke Arabic and that we were natural companions. You reached out to shake my hand and told me your name and for a moment, as we held on to each other amidst the crowd, it was as though we were the only two people standing there, on a grey day when sunlight was not a possibility.
They sit on the top deck of the number nine bus headed for a leafy suburb. This is their second trip there and Salah has on his lap a bagful of stale bread.
Salah is in his suede jacket and Aneesa has on a new plaid cloak with slits on either side for her arms to go through.
‘I didn’t think you’d be willing to come out in this weather,’ Salah turns and says.
The windows have misted over from the rain and cold and the bus is moving slowly through the traffic.
Aneesa reaches over and pulls the window open slightly to let the fresh air in.
‘What does Samir think of our excursions?’ she asks.
Salah looks startled at her question and shrugs his shoulders.
‘Doesn’t he ever ask you what you do with your time while he’s at work?’
‘I suppose we don’t talk very much, my son and I,’ Salah says.
They look out of the window again, down at the rows of semi-detached houses and at the figures on the pavement carrying umbrellas and wrapped up in coats and heavy rainwear. Aneesa pulls her cloak more tightly around herself.
‘When I first came here, I’d always ride upstairs on the buses,’ she says.
By the time the bus reaches the end of the line, Aneesa and Salah are the only passengers. They make their way down the winding steps, Salah opening his large umbrella once they are in the street. They huddle beneath it and walk briskly towards the park where they stand beneath the empty branches of a large tree by the water, both reaching into the plastic bag at the same time. Aneesa breaks the bread into small pieces, throws them into the pond and watches as noisy ducks and geese move effortlessly into the water towards them. Once Salah and Aneesa have thrown all the bread into the water and the bag is finally empty, the birds turn their backs and pedal furiously towards the other edge of the pond.
‘Let’s sit on the bench there,’ Aneesa says, pointing just beyond the tree.
‘It may be wet.’ Salah opens up the umbrella again.
‘Don’t worry, this cloak is waterproof. We’ll be fine.’
Salah chuckles, puts the plastic bag on the bench and they sit down on it.
The rain has turned into a fine drizzle and a low fog covers the park, somehow intensifying the quiet. Suddenly, they hear song rising from the other side of the pond. The male voice, strong and tender, expertly meanders in and out of the unfamiliar melody, enveloping them in its beauty. Aneesa cannot make out the words to the song and when she turns to look at Salah, his eyes are opened wide with astonishment. She reaches out to him. They sit, gloved hands held tightly together, their breath floating back into the music and the mist.
‘When your father collapsed at work, it was Bassam who told me about it,’ Waddad says, looking at Aneesa to make sure she is listening. ‘He was only fifteen. He came in carrying heavy shopping bags. I was just pleased at the time that he’d thought to get the groceries.
‘While I was emptying the bags in the kitchen, I found a bottle of flower water among the things. I couldn’t think why he’d bought it. I’d never known him ask for anything like that.’
Waddad is sitting on Aneesa’s bed. She looks down and pulls at her nightgown. It is white and much too large for her small frame.
‘He seemed irritated when I asked him about it and said I should know that he liked it in his rice pudding.’ Waddad looks up at Aneesa again and blinks. ‘He always hated rice pudding, even as a child.’
Aneesa leans against the headboard of her bed, her eyes half-closed with tiredness, and waits for her mother to continue.
‘Then I realized later, after Bassam told me about your father, when he poured the flower water on a handkerchief and placed it over my face to revive me, I realized that he’d bought it for me all along.’
My mother’s search for Bassam began soon after my departure. It took her to distant corners of the city, through streets where the buildings rested close against one another, and the people moved shoulder to shoulder, jostling for space. She climbed up endless stairways, knocking on doors, sipping cups of coffee and waiting to hear a sign of recognition at her story.
I wish I could help you, friends and strangers said. May Allah give you all the strength you need to endure this great sorrow.
She heard about an organization set up by families of the missing and went to one of their meetings. They sat in a small room in an apartment not far from the city centre. There were many of them, men and women, young and old, all with the same anticipatory look in their eyes, as if their loved one might suddenly appear to hold and reassure them, as if the answer lay in talking to each other, in making words of their loss and weaving the uncertainty into the stories of their lives. When it was my mother’s turn to speak, she shook her head and stepped determinedly out of the room muttering under her breath, I am not one of them. This is not my place.
She went to the police station in her area and asked to see the officer in charge. He gave her a cup of unsweetened coffee and listened politely until she finished speaking, then he opened a drawer in his dilapidated old desk and took out a ream of paper. I have here a list of all the people who have gone missing in this war, he said. Their families are all desperate for news, just like you, but all I can do is write names down and put them away again.
It was then, dear Salah, that she noticed how tattered his uniform looked. The grey material was frayed at the edges and the buttons down the front of his jacket did not match.
When she finally decided to go and and see the leader of the community, a politician, at his mountain palace, my mother had not yet given up hope.
He looked younger than she had thought he would and kept shifting restlessly in the seat of his armchair. She confided in him her worst nightmare. I just want to know, Waddad said, I want to know what happened. Even if he’s never coming back, I need to know what happened to him.
The man only shook his head and she sensed that he might be getting impatient with her.
You must try to forget him, he declared, leaning forward and putting a hand on her arm. It all happened a long time ago. Why don’t you busy yourself with some charity work? If you like children, we’re always looking for help at our community centres.
Once outside, Waddad walked into the palace courtyard and sat
