The Bridges We Will Build

Chapter 3

1

1 Hanan

HananHananDeath, she thinks, this is the freedom I long for.

Deaththis is the freedom I long for.Shifting her weight from right foot to left, arms drooping lifelessly at her sides, all that remains to be seen is the water, that endless expanse of life and death, sustenance and deprivation. Picturing the remnants of boat and bodies, the parts that never made it to shore, remaining forever in its depths, she doesn’t shiver but stands there stoically.

Unaware of how long she has been standing there, is the silent acknowledgement that time is of no consequence. She doesn’t care. The life pulsing inside of her died on that beach eleven months, thirteen days, five hours and six minutes ago. Glancing at the watch on her right wrist to confirm, knowledge of that moment being the beginning and end of whatever life remains for her to live from now on has been accepted. It is all that defines her, anchoring her, tethering her to the hell this world has become.

The car engines starts, signaling to her it is time to go. Baris had agreed to take her here one last time. He is the incarnation of his name, its meaning, peaceful. His mother had correctly predicted what his nature would be and labeled it accordingly. Despite all the c*****e, all the bodies, the death, disease and decay; despite the hopelessness of the refugee camp where the UN has stationed him and the approaching winter, he remains hopeful, jovial. He is kind and so he humors her, pities her. They all do.

peacefulThere are no waves, just the slow and consistent motion of sea meeting land. The only fracture in the silence is its soft lapping sound, water against pebble. With no shoes on, despite the rocky shore beneath her feet, it isn’t painful, just smooth and hard.

The water has worn down the rocks that now make this beach, taking jagged chunks of a far-off cliff and wearing them down over time, bringing them here to their final resting place. The air is cool and dry, typical of the Mediterranean mornings she is now accustomed to.

Tomorrow she leaves for America, alone. She was notified by United Nations High Commission for Refugees of her acceptance as a refugee two weeks ago. She was ready then and she is ready now. With nothing to pack beyond the clothes she is wearing, and no one to accompany her, she is free to go anywhere, anytime. That is the word the UN officer used when he told her of her updated status, free.

free“Hanan,” Baris had said in a rushed fervor when she informed him. His Greek-accented Arabic something she still spent time interpreting. “You are free! You have been admitted to the U.S. Someday you will be a citizen. You are free!”

The irony of that word, ringing in her ears every time he used it, made her want to choke him. In that moment she nodded complacently, passively, as he stared at her incredulously. “Hanan, do you know what this means?” he implored. She looked on, at him, through him, on and on.

She accepted this freedom, along with its chains. That is all this life represents for her now. Bearing the chains that hold her to this earth, she waits for the sweet blessing of death to call her name.

Strange that she would choose to come here, rather than the cemetery. Perhaps it is because here she can at least feel something. The horror of what came to pass is the only thing that makes her feel alive, the only thought she responds to. She does not need to see the three headstones, lined in a row, one large and two small, before leaving, because the truth is she never left this beach and never will. Regardless of where she physically resides, her soul will stand here, waiting to be called by Allah to join them at last.

Baris honks the horn twice, her final call. The grey water and darkening sky confirm what is already in her mind; there is nothing left to be said or done. Trudging up the beach toward the road, she climbs into the van, and rides toward the promise of nothingness that is her life without them.