Anas ponders, as they sit waiting in the restaurant, how he might best depict the steel-grey colour the man had worn, the suggestion of a taut body underneath, the scarf coiled on top of his head, the way his eyes moved restlessly as he spoke, and the mixture of dignity and defencelessness in his manner. Anas moves the empty plate in front of him to another corner of the table and begins to draw imaginary lines with his fingers on to the white tablecloth, shapes that mimic the waves of emotion inside him, the ups and downs of his sadness and perhaps something of God’s grace looking on.
From the corner of one eye, he notes that Hannah and Maysoun are watching him carefully but it is easy enough for him to ignore their attention. Once the idea for a piece takes shape in his head, there is no letting go of it, no distraction that can interrupt the flow. He pinches the tablecloth here and there to create peaks on its surface, the neatly ironed cotton stiff to the touch at first but eventually pliable. It reminds him of clay in some ways, its initial resistance and then the satisfaction of feeling it bend to his will.
Painting or sculpture, he is not certain yet which this will be, but he can feel something forming already, something that will live inside him for some time before it can come into physical being.
—Anas.
He feels a hand on his shoulder and looks up to see Peter smiling down at him. He moves further along the table to make room for his friend.
—Sit down, habibi. We’ve been waiting for you.
—Where are the ladies? Peter asks.
Anas looks around in surprise. The two chairs where the women were sitting earlier are empty.
—I didn’t see them leave.
Peter chuckles and points to the bar where Hannah and Maysoun are ordering drinks.
—You were too involved with the creative process to notice what was going on around you, weren’t you?
Anas smiles sheepishly.
—You know me well, he says.
—So what are you conjuring up this time, my friend?
—It’s this man we met, Fatima’s uncle. There’s something about him.
—What exactly?
—I’m not sure. He seemed to be the nominal head of the encampment, a group of about fifteen or so families – dozens of children running around in bare feet, the women too, not too shy about letting themselves be seen, and young men hanging around looking listless.
—The leader by virtue of his age, you mean?
Anas shakes his head.
—I mean they all stood around waiting for him to speak and really listened when he did, making the occasional comment but not interrupting his flow for more than a moment. He had an air of refinement about him that stuck out in that environment, you know? If I really wanted to pinpoint what it was that captured my attention I’d need to go back to see him …
He hesitates.
—I’m in two minds about that, though. What if my original impression is tarnished by a second visit?
—But I thought you had to study your subjects very closely before painting or sculpting them, Peter says. Surely it’s a process.
—That’s just it, you see, Anas replies. Sometimes it takes only a moment or two for a person or a situation to have that kind of impact, to stir my interest and demand that I do something about it. The rest, the time it takes to actually make something of it, represents only my interaction with it, my perception of what I saw and felt.
—Hello, there.
Maysoun and Hannah return to the table carrying four bottles of chilled beer between them.
—Excellent, Peter exclaims. Exactly what I need after a hard day at work.
Hannah hands him a beer and reaches out to touch his hand.
—Is Anas talking about that man again?
Peter nods.
—He’s besotted with him, it seems.
Maysoun joins in.
—From what I’ve heard so far, he must be really something, she says. To be Anas’s latest muse, I mean.
Anas looks at their faces, sees the entirety of them but also, with his artist’s eye, notes individual features, the different shades of dejection and its opposite hopefulness, and though he tries hard to discern behind their expressions a common bond, he sees only himself.
Hannah interrupts his thoughts.
—It’s what he told us about their situation that was so upsetting. This law the government recently introduced is making life really difficult for the refugees.
—Yes, I know, Maysoun replies. It demands a list of requirements for residence here that are virtually impossible for them to fulfil, including proof of accommodation and a Lebanese sponsor, as well as sworn affidavits that they will not seek employment. It’s a poorly orchestrated strategy to try to stem the tide of refugees.
—But when they’re officially registered with the United Nations, doesn’t that mean they’re here legally? And don’t they get some kind of financial help?
—They did get plenty of help in the beginning, both financial and otherwise, explains Maysoun. The UN commission on refugees played a part, and so did local communities and non-profits. But funds have been severely depleted, and the truth is that the longer the conflict continues, the worse the situation will become for them.
—It’s heartbreaking.
—Yes, it is, agrees Maysoun, but it’s also true that this country is simply too small and too unstable to continue to provide safe harbour for nearly two million refugees.
—But other countries in the region are taking them.
—Turkey and Jordan have taken in hundreds of thousands but they’ve closed their doors to them now. The truth is nobody wants them, especially not with the rise of the Islamic State.
—And now the exodus towards Europe …
There is a pause in the conversation, their heads filled with images they have seen in the news of refugees risking their lives in lifeboats on the Mediterranean, the long journey towards central Europe, often on foot and across hostile borders, to a future unknown but still better than that which they had left behind.
Maysoun shrugs.
—Governments and people in the West are not exactly enamoured with Muslims at the moment. Germany is the only country that has admitted to a responsibility for them.
Hannah frowns.
—The real truth is that had these refugees been white and Christian, European countries would have welcomed them with open arms, she says. This is as much about racism as it is about war and the inevitable movement of people away from it.
—Has anyone heard about the group that’s planning a vigil in Washington? Peter asks. They’re going to stand in front of the White House and take turns reciting the names of all those killed in the war in Syria. I wonder how long it’ll take them to read out over a quarter of a million names.
He pauses.
—It’s not as if the act will bring anyone back to life, but there’s something in it, don’t you think?
An image comes to Anas of a scroll unfolding on which words, in the loops, arcs and elegant contours of the Arabic script he loves, appear, and then suddenly extricate themselves and escape towards open skies, shadows released, a history of words and a confident belief in their power to change what is intolerable.
—It may be true that no one wants the refugees – Hannah returns to the original discussion – but they’re happy to see the conflict in Syria continue. It’s a convenient place for them to fight their little wars.
—Please, Hannah, Peter says. Let’s not start this whole conspiracy theory against Arabs thing again.
—That’s not what I’m saying at all, she protests. There’s no denying that this war is accommodating internal as well as regional and international conflicts. Someone is training Islamic State fighters and providing them with weapons. As for the Syrian government, it’s very clear who its supporters are. There are lots of interests at stake here, including those of Israel and its allies in the West.
—You’re right, Hannah, Peter interrupts her. We all know this isn’t merely about Syrians fighting among themselves, or even about a sectarian conflict between Sunni Islam and Shia Islam. I just think it’s time the Arab world took some responsibility for the mess it finds itself in.
He shakes his head before continuing.
—It’s just so frustrating. Look at what’s going on around you, for heaven’s sake. It’s forty years since Lebanon’s civil war began, over twenty since it ended, and this country is worse off now than it ever was. And after all the protests, the deaths that occurred in Egypt, the promises made, another dictator is in power there today. Not to mention the war in Yemen, the fighting in Libya, and the mayhem, oppression and displacement everywhere else. As for the Palestinians, how far have they got in their struggle to regain their homeland and who among their Arab brothers is willing to help them? It’s an unholy mess, I’m telling you, and sometimes I wish I were much further away from it.
Hannah looks at him, her mouth open.
—Is that really how you feel? she asks.
The others remain silent, waiting for Peter’s reply.
—You’re surprised that I want to get away from all this madness, that I feel so frustrated at what’s going on? Peter continues, his face turning red.
—What shocks me is that you now seem to be on the outside looking in, she says, looking pained. I always thought you considered yourself one of us.
—That’s what you understood from what I just said, that I’m betraying you and this country in some way? His voice is harsh and uncompromising. Why can’t I talk frankly about what I see happening around me? he continues. Does being an American mean I have to keep quiet or that I won’t be accepted into this society any more?
—No, of course that’s not it.
—Then what do you mean, Hannah? he asks quietly now. You don’t think I belong here any more?
—Surely that’s not what you’re trying to say, Hannah? Maysoun intervenes.
But Hannah does not reply to the question.
—Habibi, Anas says after a long pause. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so worked up before. Yours is usually the voice of reason amongst us hotheaded Arabs.
This makes Peter smile and the tension in the air dissipates somewhat.
—Let’s order and eat, says Maysoun.
Peter turns to Hannah.
—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to shout.
—I know you didn’t, she says, reaching out to touch his arm.
—If you ask me, Anas says, laughing, this kind of outburst must mean you’re turning into one of us. God help you!