Maysoun places stacks of documents on to the shelves behind her desk to be filed away tomorrow. It has been a busy day, during which she has thought a great deal about Anas as she reviewed applications for a programme designed for the many Iraqi and Syrian artists who have fled to Lebanon. It is a project that is dear to her heart since it offers those whose applications are successful three-month residences at an artist colony in Denmark, after which the few whose work is deemed exemplary and of international standard will be allowed to remain and acquire a European passport.
She picks up off her desk a statuette that was given to her by one of the men who came in that morning, despite her protestations that she could not keep it. It is a representation of a dove in clay, one in a series the sculptor had explained, with its neck extended forward, wings closed and hollowness where its back should have been. She looks at it closely, runs her hands over it and realizes she does not like works so heavy with symbolism; she admires art that is beautiful for its own sake more. Still, given the negative experiences so many of these artists have gone through, she thinks, is it any wonder that they seek to depict suffering in their work?
She places the sculpture in her handbag, pulls on her cardigan and had just got up when there is a knock at her door.
—Maysoun, you’re still here. Peter smiles at her. Typical of me to turn up just when you’re about to leave.
She smiles back, and then leans over to one side to see who is standing behind him. —Come in, Peter. Come in.
He makes way for the young woman and little boy accompanying him. Maysoun realizes there is something vaguely familiar about the woman, who is veiled and dressed in clothes that are far too big for her. She is clearly a refugee, the little boy too; he has the anxiety she has become accustomed to seeing in others on his little face.
—This is Fatima, says Peter, and that is Wassim. Do you remember, Maysoun, I asked you to look into the whereabouts of her family not long ago?
—Yes, of course. Fatima knows that her parents and siblings are in Turkey?
Peter nods.
Maysoun turns to Fatima and speaks in Arabic.
—We’re still working on getting you to join your family in Turkey, Fatima. I’m hoping to be given an answer soon. These situations are very complicated and it can take time to resolve them.
—But it’s impossible for me to wait any longer, Fatima says, urgency in her voice. Please, you have to help me.
—What’s the matter, Fatima? What are you afraid of?
Fatima shakes her head impatiently.
—Look, I just want to go back to my family. Why can’t you understand that?
Maysoun looks at Peter, realizing that any attempt at reasoning with Fatima will not succeed.
She turns once again to Fatima.
—I’m going to call someone and make further enquiries about your case, try to find out what’s happening. Would you like to wait outside?
She shows Fatima to the office’s waiting area where there are also toys for Wassim to play with.
—Let me make that call and find out once and for all what the situation is, she tells Peter when she gets back.
—I’m really sorry to be lumbering you with this, Maysoun.
—Not to worry. The poor woman is clearly afraid and wants to get away. Has anything happened to make her so anxious, do you think?
—I’m not sure, Peter replies. She turned up at our place with the boy and also with an infant, a baby girl. She won’t even tell us whether or not it’s hers. We had to stop asking because she got so agitated.
—A baby? No wonder she’s so upset. Thousands of babies have been born among the Syrian refugee population in Lebanon alone, so many of them out of wedlock. If, as you told me, her husband has been dead for a few years, of course she’s afraid she’ll be found out. I wonder who the father is?
—She’s living with an uncle and all his family. Surely they would know if she had been pregnant and had a child?
—Not necessarily. She may have kept it secret and then given it to someone after its birth until she could figure out what to do. She may have been raped or had an affair. Either way, she will be blamed for it. She thinks she’s brought shame to her family and cannot possibly take the baby back with her as her own.
—On the other hand, the child may not be hers, Maysoun continues after a pause. It’s always useful to have a baby in your arms when you’re on the street begging for money. You get more sympathy that way. She may have borrowed it for the day.
—I can’t really see her doing anything like that, Peter says, but I guess you never know.
—Surely you come across this sort of thing in your own work too, Peter?
—The truth is I spend a lot more time shuffling papers around on my desk than I do in the field. I’m very rarely in direct contact with patients, it’s incredibly frustrating.
Maysoun shakes her head.
—Your talents as a physician shouldn’t be wasted on bureaucracy, Peter. But I’ve told you this before.
—Well, I’m finally going to do something about it.
—Oh?
—I’ve applied for a position with Médecins Sans Frontières. If I get it, I’ll be working in their clinics in the Bekaa.
—I’m so glad, Peter. That’s wonderful news.
He laughs.
—I haven’t got it yet, Maysoun.
—I’ll keep my fingers crossed for you then. OK, let me make that call now.
It takes close to an hour for Maysoun to get the information they need.
—I’ve been told that if Fatima turns up at the refugee camp where her family is, she explains to Peter, then the authorities will be hard put to refuse her entry since she is a widow with two young children.
—That’s good news.
—Well, not necessarily. The problem will be actually to get her there. It would take ages to organize the requisite papers for her to fly into Turkey, if we can do that at all, and the only way by land is through Syria.
Peter frowns.
—There must be a way to get them out, he says.
—There might be a solution, Peter. I’ve been playing around with an idea in my head, to do with getting Fatima to her family without the hassles of officialdom.
—What idea is that?
—It could be risky, though, and that worries me much more than the thought that it’s not entirely above board.
—Given the circumstances, I don’t think we should worry about the authorities and their approval, Peter says with a wry smile. What were you thinking?
—Well, we send ambulances into Syria on a regular basis, to carry supplies and pick up and transport patients to this country if needed, Maysoun begins. There’s a route northwards from here that runs along Syria’s coastline. It’s long but relatively safe and we haven’t had a problem using it so far.
She leans towards Peter and lowers her voice.
—The ambulance drivers have been known to ignore the presence of stowaways in the back of their vehicles. They’re brave and take pride in being able to help the refugees as much as they can.
Peter’s eyes light up.
—Brilliant, he exclaims.
—Let’s bring Fatima in here and ask her what she thinks.
Maysoun is not surprised when the young woman readily agrees to the arrangement.
—It might be risky, Maysoun warns her.
—It’s not going to be any worse than what I’ve been through so far, Fatima says. Wassim and I will still be refugees but at least we’ll be with my family, where we belong. Just tell me what I have to do.
—Peter tells me you have a baby girl too. She could be a problem if she makes too much noise at a checkpoint and arouses suspicion.
—She won’t be coming with us, Fatima says, her voice almost a whisper. Just tell me what I need to do. Please.
Maysoun looks at Peter as if to confirm her earlier suspicions.
—The ambulances set out early in the morning, she continues, before daybreak, from the car park just behind this building. When the time comes, I’ll tell the driver you’ll be there and he’ll take care of you.
Maysoun turns to Peter.
—I’ll have to see when the next ambulance is going and will let you know. You’ll have to make sure she gets there on time on the day. It’s within walking distance of your place, so it shouldn’t be a problem.
He embraces her and leaves, Fatima and Wassim trailing behind him.