M arc insisted on taking a taxi back to his hotel. It was late, he said, and everyone was tired. To Sameh’s surprise, Miriam agreed. There was a regular taxi service owned by a neighbor, and they entrusted even Bisan to his drivers. They made arrangements to meet Marc for another morning prayer service at the church. They said their farewells, finished cleaning up after dinner, and went to bed.
Sameh lay next to his wife, listening to Bisan softly sing in the next room. When the child had been five, she announced she would like to sing her mother to sleep. Even though Bisan was the one in bed and her mother was seated beside her. The child had seen how her mother needed comforting. Bisan still continued the practice, often falling asleep in the middle of a song. Tonight, before Sameh drifted away, he dreaded the night when Bisan was not there to heal his heart with her song.
After the service the next morning, Sameh took them all to breakfast at a nearby shopping center. It had been bombed and rebuilt and recently reopened. The restaurant included a shaded veranda on the mall’s top floor. They looked down on rooftops and minarets and the green fronds of palm trees. A faint scent of eucalyptus wafted upward through the traffic fumes. A wall fountain played the music of water. The chatter from surrounding tables was subdued and the laughter comforting. There were such havens popping up all over Baghdad, places where it was possible to momentarily forget the danger and the din waiting beyond the barriers.
They were supposed to be at the hospital in two hours, to begin the formal process of rejoining the families with their children. Sameh had intended to use the breakfast to describe for Marc what had happened with Hassan the previous day. See if this uncommonly perceptive American could shed light on the confusion and the unwoven strands.
But before Sameh could start, Marc said, “Every day I spend here reveals something new, a tiny glimmer of a secret. I wake up filled with things I urgently want to understand better.”
Leyla asked, “Such as?”
“Well, like the difference between Shia and Sunni.”
Leyla and Miriam glanced at Sameh, who replied, “It is easiest to understand if you look at parallels within the West’s Christian communities. You have the Protestants, which are segmenting more every day. Then there are the Pentecostals and the free church movements. And you have the Catholics. And the Orthodox. And on and on. Now, consider how it would be if I, an Arab, asked you to explain the differences.”
“I probably could explain some distinctions, but certainly not fully.”
“Many lives have been lost in the conflict between the Christian divisions. Many wars fought. Yet now there is mostly peace. Of course we still argue among ourselves. But nowadays these are mostly polite arguments. There is little bloodshed. And here lies a very real difference between the Western mind and the Arab. For you in the West, the past is over. Finished. Mostly forgotten. For the Arab, it is now . The past does not merely live. The past defines the present.”
Leyla added, “For many Arabs, the Crusades did not end centuries ago. They are still with us today. This very moment. It is the reason many Arabs will never fully trust a Westerner.”
Bisan’s voice picked up the conversation with a cadence that suggested she was reciting a lesson from school. “The division between Shia and Sunni dates to the death of the prophet Mohammed, and the argument over who was to lead the new Muslim nation. Sunnis insisted that the leader should be elected. But Shias argued that the leaders should come from Mohammed’s own family. The Sunnis won, but Shias insisted on following Mohammed’s cousin and son-in-law, a man named Ali. Ever since then, Shias have refused to recognize the authority of elected Muslim leaders. They follow a line of imams who trace their lineage back to Mohammed.”
“Like Jaffar,” Leyla said.
Sameh went on, “This quarrel is not something from the past. It is here and it is now. The conflict is a dreadful legacy that still tears at the heart of Islam. Conservative Sunni clerics describe the Shias as outcasts. Evil. People to be destroyed at will. The Shias remain persecuted minorities in Saudi Arabia, the Gulf states, Yemen, and Syria.”
“Enough,” Miriam said, waving her hand toward the view. “This is no discussion for such a lovely morning.”
“I apologize for my question,” Marc said.
“There is no need,” Leyla said.
“You are an extremely gracious people. Particularly with strangers. Your hospitality is incredible. But…” Marc glanced at Miriam, the elder woman. “I don’t want to offend.”
“We are friends. You are learning. Speak your heart.”
“Beneath this face your people show the outer world, I feel as though I’m catching hints of emotions as powerful as lava,” Marc said. “The force of love, of family, of hate, of vengeance, of respect for generations. The way you care for your children. The importance of your clan, your family. The power of faith. It seems these passions are so powerful, you have no choice but to hold them in check.”
“Remarkable,” Miriam murmured. “I am impressed.”
Bisan ate her shredded croissant with her fingers, getting butter and jam on her face. She endured her mother’s napkin for a time, then pushed Leyla’s hand away and asked Sameh, “Are we going to accept the green cards?”
Marc nodded slowly as though he had been waiting for the question. And for this woman-child to address the issue. “We need to decide that,” he said. “Before five this afternoon, somebody has to contact the ambassador.”
Miriam asked, “What would you do?”
Sameh had no choice but to smile. For his wife to ask this man’s advice about her family’s future meant only one thing. The American was a stranger no more.
Marc said, “If you would like me to, I could make the call. You haven’t told me your decision, so you or I are not caught in a lie. If I can, I will draw this out for a few more days. Things are moving fast. We’ll see what we can find. And we must hurry. We have to. The longer this takes, the less chance we have of finding the missing four alive.”
Sameh watched a sparrow flitter over the railing and come to rest at the fountain’s edge. It drank and flew so close to him, he could hear the drumbeat of wings. He wondered if this was what it felt to be an expatriate. An outcast from his beloved homeland. Where life was no longer his to control.
But his wife was saying, “It is a good plan. Don’t you agree, husband?”
Sameh wanted to speak. There was so much to be said. Yet all he could think of was the mournful note playing in his heart, of coming loss and upheaval.
Leyla must have read his response upon his features, for she said, “Thank you for your suggestion, Marc. We have a few more hours to decide. We will tell you then.”
– – Miriam left with the car to take Bisan to school. Sameh flagged a taxi and asked for the three of them to be dropped near the hospital. The only vehicles permitted inside the hospital complex were ambulances and police cars and troop carriers. Like all Baghdad hospitals, the buildings were hidden behind blast walls eighteen feet high.
Major Lahm emerged through the security gate and offered them a solemn greeting. As they approached the security guards, Major Lahm settled a hand on Marc’s shoulder, showing the soldiers that Marc was indeed both with him and welcome. Sameh wondered if the American had any idea how rare this was, a foreigner accepted in Iraq as one of their own.
Major Lahm led them around the perimeter, which meant they did not use the main entrance. A Baghdad hospital’s main lobby area often served as overflow for the emergency department. The bomb blast that had shattered the previous evening could well have turned the hospital lobby into a nightmarish place. Major Lahm led them down the shaded walk between the main building and the blast walls, and then through the doors leading into the rear building, the one housing the children’s wing.
This was bad enough, filled as it was with families waiting to collect their children. An official of the Justice Ministry and six of Lahm’s men struggled to keep the emotions from boiling over.
Leyla and Sameh began working with the parents, serving as spokespeople with the justice official. A senior nurse guarded the doors leading into the children’s wing. One by one the forms were filled out, reviewed, and the children brought forth.
When the first child emerged, the entire lobby area froze. All the parents, the nurses, police, doctors, Marc, Sameh, and Leyla. All lost the ability to draw breath, the reunion was that wrenching. The mother screamed, the father wept, the child wailed. They clung to one another in an embrace almost as tragic as the event itself.
Sameh endured a half dozen more reunions, then noticed Marc had disappeared.
Sameh walked over to where Major Lahm ensured that waiting families held themselves in some decorum. After Lahm promised a tearful mother the little ones would all be processed that day, Sameh asked in a low voice, “Have you seen Marc?”
Lahm scanned the room, then asked one of his men standing duty by the exit. The guard pointed them outside.
They found Marc leaning against the blast wall, staring at the dusty ground by his feet. Sameh said, “Something is wrong, my friend?”
Marc did not reply. His foot dug a trench in the sand.
Major Lahm stepped over next to the American. He stood there for a time, then said, “You hear them, yes?”
Marc continued marking a trough with one shoe.
Lahm said, “The children. Those who have not come home.”
Marc slowly lifted his head.
Lahm said, “And their parents. The families with missing little ones. You hear them too.” Hamid Lahm reached over and prodded Marc’s chest with one finger. “In here. Where it matters.”
Marc might have nodded. Or it could have been a shudder.
Lahm turned to Sameh and asked in Arabic for the translation of a certain word.
Sameh had to swallow hard before he could reply, “Lament.”
“Yes, is so. My friend, you hear my city’s silent lament.”
Sameh swallowed a second time. “It wakes me up at night.”
“Of course, yes. Sameh el-Jacobi is a good man. How can this good man not hear?” Lahm stared straight at Marc. “Just as you. Another good man.”
They remained there, enclosed in the heat radiating from the concrete, until Marc’s phone rang. He checked the readout, cleared his throat, and said, “This is Royce.”
He listened for a moment, then said, “I am going to bring a friend.” Another moment passed. “I was not asking permission.”
He shut the phone. To Sameh’s surprise, Marc spoke to the policeman and not him. “There’s something heavy about to go down.”
Lahm’s forehead creased. “I do not understand.”
“A sortie by U.S. Special Forces. They have word of a possible attack. They have invited me along. I think you should come, Hamid. Sameh, can you handle the families?”
“Of course. But why-?”
“The officer in charge, Josh Reames, is engaged to Hannah Brimsley, the missing missionary.”
“You know this how?”
“He told me. He wants to help us. But he needs to bring his men on board.”
Lahm nodded. “I know this type of man.”
Marc explained to Sameh, “It’s one thing for his guys to include Hamid’s team because they’re loyal to Josh. It’s another if they see us in action.”
“And this is important so they know us when we go after the missing four adults.” Hamid gave Marc a soldier’s grin, a slight tightening of adrenaline-taut features. “We will also be involved in that, yes?”
Marc replied, “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”