Suspended, like dust in midair, like the helpless sand outside, flailing and ravaged by the wind. And insignificant, phone still in hand. Nowhereman in his Nowhereland, nowhere to land. And dry. Parched. I need a drink. I need air. I need to get out of here. This room… these stained papered walls, so beige.
What if I ram my skull into one, just to give it some red?
I use my fist instead, but sand and stone don’t feel pain. I don’t have fifty days to wait, Baba! I try again, and again, until the beige is red and maroon and my knuckles are split open, bits of flesh flapping, pathetic. The wall remains intact.
I need to leave this room! And go where? A bar? A liquor store? A gas station where I can drink the gas straight out of the hose? I’ll pay, of course, with my shiny American credit card. I need my wallet. Oh look! My passport! A man needs a passport.
Exodus. Outside, khamsin. I can hardly see. A dikkan around the corner. I stumble in. All he has are the little travel-size bottles of liquor. I am not picky. I buy a bagful of jeweled bottles.
On the sidewalk—where else do the homeless belong?—I unscrew the first, blue. COTE D’AZUR BLUE, says the label. Cruel. The thought outlasts the bottle. Green is next. Then orange. One by one, the little shots of amber, ruby, fire turn into flashes of magnificent burning.
It doesn’t last. The bottles don’t last. Nothing does. I’m still thirsty. Where do I go? There is no water in Douma. They shut it off.
There is no water in my country. This storm is choking me dry. There must be water at the US Embassy. Maybe they’ll give me some.
Three p.m. The last visa applicants brush past me, shadows and dust and the promise of America. Twelve million lucky bastards went through Ellis Island. How many lucky ikhwan sharameet got shiny new visas today? I want to start a riot, pick a fight, throw rocks, for me, for Baba, for Mama, for every person who didn’t. But I don’t see any rocks, just dust, thick, everywhere.
The guards are locking up the gate. The guards are leaving. Tomorrow morning there will be a new queue of visa beggars. I want to cry, shout: Yil’aankon! I don’t want your visa! I changed my mind! No more groveling on sidewalks like a dog. I don’t need your fucking stamp! You’re no better than me! No better! Just fucking lucky, with your liberty…
I choke on my spit and sand. Coughing fit. It turns to rasping, desperate laughs. This is hilarious. So devastatingly funny, this nightmare. All of it. Omar, Baba, Mama, Far’ Falastin, sama. I can’t see sky. Sama, Naseem. I bend over, leaning against…
A pipe! A water pipe! Rusty brown and spindly, lining the facade behind me. I punch it. Mal’ouneh, it doesn’t even fight back!
It bursts immediately, soaking my shoes, flooding everything, sharmouta, making a fucking mess on a sidewalk in Jordan.
Across the street from the US Embassy, my feet are in the mud, and I have no other shoes. And they have no water in Syria. And Sama, look, it’s all here! The water is all here! It’s everywhere, Sama. Isn’t that the funniest thing?!
There’s so much water, everywhere, look! Going wherever it wants, and I… am thirsty. Drained. I collapse on the sidewalk.
Water flows around me and I’m jealous of the water. People walk past and I don’t think they see me. No one stops. They all see the water. They’re all careful to step around it. No one sees a grown man on the sidewalk, slapping his thigh, howling. Maybe I’m laughing. My God, I’m drunk. My God, I’m not drunk enough. Rising, ebbing, howling waves. And the people walk on! Maybe it’s because the streets here are full of men crying on sidewalks. Maybe all the streets…
A jingle.
I look up, horrified, but the hand that tossed the coins has disappeared. They glisten on the wet concrete, like drops of honey. I pick them up, one by one, hold them up in the dusty air. At least you asked the homeless man in Harvard Square for his name.
What was his name, Sama? It doesn’t matter. I put them in my pocket. It doesn’t matter…
I see it now. It’s a terrible truth. We don’t matter, Sama. Whatever we do will make no difference at all. The borders won’t change, the laws, our passports. The world will keep moving, and the people, and the water still gushing out of that pipe, all over…
And suddenly, I’m ravenous.
I want water, bread, meat. I stagger to my feet and away, as far and fast away as I can from the embassy.
There it is: freedom! Walking away, even defeated, nowhere to go or be. I’m drunk and it doesn’t matter! Veering left and right like I’m at sea. Let others stand in line. I’m hungry. I’m thirsty. I make it down the street and turn the first, filthy right. There’s a filthy shawarma stand. I order three. Three large wraps of hummus-drenched bread overflowing with meat, fries, onions. I stuff the first in my mouth. It falls apart in my hands, dribbling with tahini. I wipe it with my sleeve. I’d wipe it with my passport. I swallow—ecstasy—without chewing, the second, third, with the urgency of survival, tasting my dignity, freedom…
No credit card. No problem! I hand the man my coins.
“Not enough, Oustaz.”