At seven fifty-nine and fifty-nine seconds, the guard unlocks the gate. The queue advances, slowly, politely. Were this not the US Embassy, were the stakes not so high, had the guards not been wielding guns, the line would have, I’m sure, morphed into a rabid mob.
Each person is screened twice: once by hand, once by machine. The precious folders are opened, their contents scattered, glanced at, and left for their owners to gather; no one protests. They are nodded to, walk in, triumphant. None look back. Those outside look ahead, in silence. No more exchanges of quips and looks. Survival of the slyest.
Only two people remain ahead of me: the moody young man and a small woman I had not noticed before, who now takes a tube of lipstick from her purse—light pink, almost brand-new—and tries so clumsily to apply it to her lips that something in me catches.
Her red stubby fingers. Cuts and burns from chopping onions, stirring stews in pots. But her wrists are frail, sticking out of a padded coat. Which is black, not brown, so large the sleeves slide back to her elbows. The hopeless awkwardness with that lipstick she has never used before.
But it’s the dress that grips me. The coarse cotton sleeve, blue flowers… She gives up on the lipstick and puts it back. She looks down. Her shoes are plain black, but polished, her hair undyed but clean and combed in thin, even lines.
She is called forward and gives the purse, worn but still decent, to the guard. With both hands. The gesture is painfully hopeful. He automatically empties the bag onto a tray, exposing its contents. It feels like some sort of violation. The lipstick breaks.
A pink mess. She jumps and her distress escapes her lips before she has time to catch it, and—
“Yalla! Let us in ba’a! I don’t have all day!”
It happened so fast that by the time I turn my head toward him, the boy is already on the ground. Stupid, impatient boy, his nylon leather jacket torn. The woman is crying, also on the floor.
The contents of her purse are rolling out onto the street. He must have pushed her, trying to get past. The guard’s black army boot is on his face, pressing it into the pavement. The boy’s neck, exposed, like a bird’s. It could snap like one. The M16 swings by the strap, midair, above him.
I knew that boy would be the first one shot in a demonstration. But this is not a demonstration. And this is Jordan, not Syria.
The guard merely yanks the boy up. Lucky akhou sharmouta. I think of Shadi, Ghaith, Omar…
“Go home! Yalla! Take your things and go home, now!”
“But I have an appointment!” the boy squeals.
How different from the fiery indignation of a few seconds ago. Young, so fucking young.
“You have nothing, ya kalb!” the guard howls. “Get out of here before I crush your face!”
They both know his boot could.
The boy yelps away like a wounded dog. When he is far enough, he shouts, “Ayri feek!” and runs.