In her mother’s face, in its gently sloping lines and heavy-lidded eyes, Maysoun sees elements of the past and the possibility of a more accommodating future; and if there are hints of dissatisfaction there, if life has left traces of shadow on features where light had once been, it has not managed to diminish its beauty, nor robbed it of its grace.
Like many women of her generation in Iraq, Nazha married young to a man nearly twenty years her senior and has now, in outliving him, discovered opportunity in aloneness, seen a gateway to herself that often leaves her breathless with joy, though it is enjoyment that is not felt without some degree of guilt. In this final stage of her life, the years move slowly, do not impose undue demands or rush her into decisions she has neither the desire nor the will to make. It is not that she is merely awaiting the end – she remains vital and strong – but that she is content to go through life one day at a time, with little expectation of happiness besides that which she derives from simply being, from observing and taking part only when and in the manner she chooses.
I know all this about my mother, Maysoun ponders, because understanding her state of mind is a preoccupation of mine, because for some reason I believe that grasping what motivates her may help repair the opening into the soft tissues of my own heart that has been hollowed out by heartbreak.
Her parents’ marriage had not been ideal, had experienced moments when Maysoun, having grown up to become her mother’s confidante, thought it might come to an end.
I want more than this, Nazha would protest, having stolen into Maysoun’s room late at night to talk. Look at you, working now and with a life of your own. I never had that opportunity, Maysoun, and I want it now.
But Maysoun had never known just how she should respond to these confessions, had felt that, though she sympathized with her mother, siding with her would be a betrayal of a father whom she had always loved, and continued to love even after his death.
The unease between mother and daughter these days is not because they do not get along – Maysoun often despairs at how alike they really are – but because now that Nazha has come to Beirut at Maysoun’s insistence and largely against her own will, they are at an impasse, caught in a place beyond which they cannot move forward. Their conversations go in circles, beginning in anger then relenting into reluctant recognition of one another’s point of view, then moving again towards stubborn intransigence, a pattern at once familiar and exhausting and one from which neither knows how to extricate herself.
—But, Mother, you couldn’t possibly have stayed a moment longer, Maysoun protests one morning over breakfast. Do you think what’s happening in the north is going to stay there? The extremists are now threatening to advance on Baghdad.
—Don’t be ridiculous. There’s no way they’ll let them get to Baghdad. Anyway, I never venture out much so it would have been perfectly safe for me to remain there.
—Who is ‘they’, Mother? Do you mean our corrupt government or is it Western countries that you’re relying on to come and protect us, the ones who invaded and destroyed the country ten years ago?
—Don’t talk to me as though I were a fool, Maysoun. I understand very well why we find ourselves in this position now. And it’s not just Iraq; the whole region is on fire. You insisted I come to Beirut but how safe is it here really?
—Despite all the problems in this country, the situation can’t be compared to what’s going on back home. You watched the news with me last night. Those the extremists don’t kill are either being expelled or forced to fight with them. How can you want to go back to that?
Nazha sighs.
—Suffering is an inevitable part of living, my darling. Surely you know that.
—But, Mama, says Maysoun, her voice softening now, you and I are lucky because we can improve our situation if we want to and not continue to live our lives in fear.
—What are you suggesting we do exactly, Maysoun?
—I don’t know. Maybe leave this part of the world altogether and live elsewhere.
A look of frustration passes over Nazha’s face.
—How easy do you think it was for me to leave my home, my country, this time, at my age and after all I’ve been through? It’s the only home I’ve known, Maysoun. Isn’t it enough that relatives of your father’s who escaped the fighting in Mosul moved into our house as soon as I left and are still living there now? How do I know they’ll leave when I get back? How can I be sure I’ll even have a place to go back to?
—But you’re safe now, Mama. Isn’t that what matters most?
Nazha stands up.
—You know, I’m not sure that survival is what matters most any more. Not any longer and not for me, anyway. Sometimes the price that has to be paid merely to survive is not worth it.
—But what is important for you, Mother?
—You are, of course, Nazha says. But you don’t need me any more, Maysoun. You’re perfectly capable of taking care of yourself and I thank God for that. I spent most of my life doing what I was expected to do, looking after you and your father. I … I’m not looking for new adventures, new places to go to. All I want is to be left alone in my home, my little corner of the world. That’s all I’m asking for.
Maysoun looks into her mother’s eyes and notes the kind of resolve there that she has not been able to find in herself. Is that what old age does, she wonders, convinces us that life lies not in the variety of outcomes we perceive for ourselves, but rather in our determination to survive the very lack of them?