Crossing to Jordan

Makan Al’amal

(Place of Hope)

When I am Overcome by Weakness

I bandage it with the steadiness of a child’s steps in the snow of a refugee camp, a child wearing a small black shoe on one foot and a large blue sandal on the other, wandering off and singing to butterflies flying in the sunny skies, butterflies and skies seen only by his eyes.

Najat Abdul Samad

Trans. Dr. Ghada Alatrash

Chapter One

As soon as she heard it—the death rattle—how could anyone connect that choking gurgle to a baby’s toy—Leah knew it wouldn’t be, couldn’t be much longer, and she knew she couldn’t watch. She places the child’s head back on the pillow, gives her cheek and hair one last caress then backs away from the gurney. At the doorway, she turns and stumbles through the dim hallways, a pinball ricocheting from wall to wall. Then, finally, the child’s last rasping breath propels her through the double doors into the chill pre-dawn. Startled by her abrupt exit, the resident flock of carrion buzzards churn, lift, and blend into the steel-blue sky. The flurry of their wings triggers a translucent wave of decomposing cabbage and sulphurous eggs. The swell reaches and overwhelms her. She retches, drops into a comma on the sand and squeezes her knees tight to her chest. Her arms are a mottled red below the sleeves of the green scrubs, the hands still encased in mucous and blood-stained latex. Still, she hears it—the rattle. It’s followed. The sound passes overhead and echoes across the desert floor until halted by the dune rippled horizon.

Thick, heavy elastic bands tighten around her chest. She can’t get a breath, not here in this damned camp. Five square kilometres of desert sand rimmed in concrete barriers, taut steel-mesh fencing and barbed wire. She’s never been sure of its purpose—to keep the refugees in or others out. Inside, eighty thousand people, narrow lanes sandwiched between rows of squat pre-fabs, corrugated tin shanties, and canvas tents. Then there’s the unabated rumble of water trucks zigzagging around the line-ups surrounding the distribution centres. Women and children haul mattresses and blankets, bags of rice, flour, and plastic jugs of water. The constant babble is a soundtrack of shrieking children, weeping women, and angry men. Leah kicks at the coarse sand. Even in the few open spaces, the windswept sand is alien to her, nothing like the shores of home.

To the Fitzgerald clan, home is New Brunswick’s Bay of Fundy. Generations of the family made Black’s Harbour home. There, fishing boats rock in the bay, are swarmed by grey-white kittiwakes and skimmers. She and Dad wandered barefoot along the shore, sand trickling through their toes from receding wavelets. Pant-legs rolled halfway up their shins; they dug soft-shelled crabs and sea potatoes and harvested red-feathered dulse. Home—crabs steaming in kettles over open backyard fires and dulse crisping in a frypan. Leah doubles over, her longing a punch in the gut.

“Why are you still here?” Sean eases onto the sand beside her. “Let it go, Leah. It happens. Grab a shower before the next shift shows up, then get some sleep. It’s been a long night.”

She droops against his chest. He wraps an arm across her shoulders and pulls her close. A wisp of copper hair brushes his cheek, and he tucks it back behind her ear.

“I can’t. How could I? You saw her. Just a little girl. She fought so hard, and the only thing I could do was cuddle her.” Leah trembles, swipes at her eyes, replaying the images—stroking the tangled hair, swabbing the dirt and grains of sand from the girl’s face. “She would have been beautiful, you know. It's just not right.”

“Come on, Leah. This isn’t Black's Harbour. What did you expect?” Sean tightens his arm around her shoulders. “Okay, look. Maybe it doesn’t help much, but we were with her. That’s worth something."

"Not enough. Not nearly enough. I need to know her name, where she came from. Not to have to bury her with a lousy number. How many Baby Jane Does have we got now? Over three hundred, I bet.”

"If it makes you feel better, try and find out, but I'll tell you right now it's a lost cause." Sean’s arm tightens around her shoulder. He feels the blade of it shift against his chest.

"What about the woman who found her? Maybe she knows something. We could ask."

"I told you that already. She figured the girl probably came in with that group of kids who trudged in here last week. The ones we checked over, remember? So, yeah, if she did come in with them, and if you can recognize one from any other kid, and if they'll talk to you, you might get a who or where. That’s a big bunch of ‘ifs.’ Then what? You plan on finding her parents? Think about it for a second. Would you let your kids straggle in here by themselves if you could help it? What does that say? Say you do manage to find her folks. What happens then? They’ll take her back home and bury her with all the bells and whistles? Leah, half the Syrian population are refugees. There is no home."

Leah shoves his hand off her shoulder and scrambles to her feet. She looks down at him, arms crossed, her face a mix of hurt, confusion and anger. Though Sean’s a doctor and her supervisor, he’s also been a friend, a big brother in his own clumsy, awkward way. She doesn’t understand what’s happened. He stares up at her, then drops his eyes.

“Okay, so I know it’s not the first time, but there was something about her. Her eyes. It was her eyes—so…old, so…knowing. You’re a hypocrite, Sean. Where do you get off lecturing me? You were no better a few days ago.”

“Fine. Score one for you, but you need to think about a few things. Like why you’re here, for starters. Most other volunteers here make a career out of chasing trouble; run from one hot spot to another. Maybe it’s an adrenaline rush. For us, it’s just a job. We’re all MedWorld hires. If it wasn’t for them and Makan Al’amal, I’d be—. But you—you should be home, going to university, finding a good guy. You could help the refugee organizations back there. Amnesty, the Rainbow Railroad, take your pick but figure it out. Do anything, go anywhere. Anywhere but here."

"Why? Why should I be different from the rest of you? Why is that whole school-marriage-baby-thing what I’m supposed to do? Yeah, sure. That’s the answer to everything. You sound like my mother. Get hooked up with some guy who figures he owns me, thinks he has the right to tell me what to do, and when, and how often. Some guy that beats the crap out of me because I forget to salt the fish or smile at somebody else. Just like my—Oh, forget it, just forget it."

She sags like a balloon losing its air, sinks back onto the sand beside him. Sean sighs, lifts her chin, then slides his finger down her cheek.

"What are you talking about? I didn’t mean it that way, and you know it. You’re tired, upset. Get some sleep. I need to finish up the kid’s paperwork, what little there is, then I've got Amira's surgery. Carly will be out here any minute to give me hell. You know what our beloved head nurse is like. "

Sean lumbers to his feet. He hesitates, hands jammed in the pockets of his scrubs, then plods toward the hospital’s rear door. Leah’s oblivious to his departure. She craves the cocoon of sleep but knows the dead girl will follow her there. Shuddering at the thought of those dark eyes, she clambers onto the sick benches lined up outside the hospital's wall, lifts the steel shutters and jams the holding pins into place. Morning is the only time of the day—before the sun peers over the top of the dunes, and the winds are quiet—that the mesh windows can be opened to let the cooler air try to dilute the rusted metal odour of blood and decay inside. With the last pin in place, Leah slips onto the bench then rests her head on her knees. She watches the sunrise, how cobalt brightens to fuchsia, marigold, and daffodil.

By mid-morning, that sun will send heat devils dancing across the sand, and soon after, the Shamals will return. Each country has its own name for their vile winds: the Santa Anas, the mistrals, the siroccos. In the Middle East, these, the summer Shamals, come as siblings. First, the Al-Haffar—The Driller, then its sister, the Morning Star—Barih Thorayya. This last, the Al-Dabaran comes in late June. The Follower rages out of the Turkish mountains, tears across the sand and brings with it the fine grit that sandblasts skin, gums eyes, and cements lungs. Only for a few hours each night does its incessant moaning cease. It was this, the Al-Dabaran that took the child, filled her throat and chest with sand. Another day or two, and the storm will pass, but for the little girl shrouded on a gurney inside, far too late.

Leah has never got used to them, the winds. But then, few have. May and June are the months to fray tempers and set nerve ends jumping. The sky brightens. Now the sun is a thin crescent highlighting the ragged edges of the dunes. She watches her shadow stretch and elongate like a reflection in a fun-house mirror. The first of five daily prayers begin. The pre-dawn fajr: I offer Dawn prayers, two Rakats, seeking nearness to God, in obedience to Him reverberates from mosques scattered throughout the camp. She’s reluctant to face her bed but can’t face the incoming day shift, either. Leah manages to garner enough energy to wander to the children’s playground on the patch of sand at the hospital's front. Barely five foot tall, with the bones of a quail, she looks like a child herself as she hoists herself onto a swing’s canvas strap seat. For a moment, she sways idly, then pushes off, soars higher and higher, until even with the crossbeam. A few more minutes, and maybe, just maybe, she can sleep.

Chapter Two

Sean slumps against the door frame. He scrubs at his forehead, not understanding why he’d been so…rough on Leah.

What’s wrong with me? he wonders. I should go back, try to figure out how to make it right. But there’s Amira. Carly’ll come looking if I don’t get in there. Damn.

He punches the door frame, then reaches for the handle. His throat closes, and he feels his heart race, the gallop of a horse crossing the finish line. The door squeals open beside him.

"Hey. Get a move on.” Carly, surgical mask dangling below her chin, pokes her head through the crack. “We’re waiting to put Amira under, and you haven't even scrubbed yet. If you're going to do this, let's get on with it. Do I need to call Roger in? Looks like that’s a better idea anyway. He's not emotionally attached, and the circles under your eyes look like somebody took a couple of swings at you. Make a decision one way or the other and make it quick."

"Damn … it, Carly. Give … me a … minute. You’re not … in … the army … anymore. Not … your own … private …boot camp.” He bends, tries to catch his breath, then grits his teeth, expecting a tirade, but she’s already disappeared inside.

Sean fumbles in his pocket, feeling for the aspirin tin he keeps there. He struggles with the lid. Finally, it opens, spilling a half-dozen tablets into his palm. He gulps two, swallowing hard as they stick in his throat. Tipping the remainder of the pills back into the container, he counts as they ting against the aluminum base. One yellow, one blue, two more red. Enough to get him through until dark. Then he’ll have to slip unseen through the winding lanes and clusters of makeshift shops to meet with Dafer in his tent near the Strip. The Strip is a replica of the outdoor markets in every city and town in the Middle East. The vendors sell everything from food and clothing to furniture and birdcages. Dafer sells none of these innocuous goods, instead controls Makan Al’amal’s arms, prostitution, and drug trade. The pressure in Sean’s chest eases. He whoops in a deep breath.

He stares at the empty patch of sand where Leah sat, then at the staff quarters—a mix of pre-fabs and tents— huddled a hundred and fifty metres across the road from the hospital. Each is identical to the next, distinguished only by the hand-written numbers scrawled on the walls. Still, he hones in on her tent without hesitation. He imagines her curled in bed, hand cupping a freckled cheek, he tucked against the curve of her back, holding her tight. Damn, damn, and damn, Sean mutters, pushing open the door. He makes his way through the hospital’s barely lit halls past the administrative office and labs to the surgical suite at the far end of the building. Most of these rooms are empty or very nearly. The Jordanian government closed the borders a couple of years ago, then stripped the place of all but essential equipment. Though it had since reopened, little had been replaced. Makan Al’amal’s operating room was still not much better than a Korean War army hospital.

“About time. Two minutes longer, and I would’ve turned ugly," Carly calls from the scrub room. She elbows the door open. "You could call it off. The husband knows it's a long shot. We've explained the procedure and the outcome. He also knows there won’t be enough healthy tissue left to support a prosthetic."

Carly McKenna is the best surgical nurse he’s ever worked with, but she’s also a pain in his ass. Sighing, Sean slides the medical school ring off his finger and drops it in the soap tray on the sink. Through the plastic strips that serve as the door between the operating theatre and the scrub room, he can see Amira on the narrow table, black hair wrapped in a turban of green surgical towels. The anesthetist lowers the mask, hiding her face. Sean squirts pink soap over his hands and forearms, rasping the scrub brush cross-grain over the tan hair, sending lightning jabs through the skin and up the nerve endings. The brush slips from his fingers.

"Sean, think about this. Who you’re doing this for. Amira or you? The chance she’ll survive the surgery is next to zero and even less in excising all the gangrenous tissue. And let’s say she does make it. She’ll spend the next month—two at the most—bedridden, drugged insensible and still in agony. The daughter’s what, eleven, twelve? Do you really want to put the weight of looking after her mother and family on that kid’s shoulders? How can you figure that’s good for anyone?”

"Yeah, so you tell me, what’s the difference? Amira dies; it ends up the kid’s responsibility anyway. How about you go to med school, you be the doctor, then you can make the decision." Yet, even as he argues with Carly, inwardly, he cringes at the thought of what he has to do, can hear the rasp of the saw teeth cutting through bone, can taste the Grape-Nut-like burnt ash. "Why the hell didn’t they clear out sooner? I hope her husband thinks staying in some crappy mud-brick hut in some lousy village was worth it. "

"Jesus, Sean. I can’t believe you said that. Honestly, I swear your head is so far up your ass, you need to open your mouth to see daylight. How is any of this their fault? What were they supposed to do? The Syrian Army on one side and the extremists on the other? Maybe they could have gotten away, left the village, their family and friends, everything they owned, but Al-Hasakah was their home. It might be a pile of crap to you, but to them, it was everything. Just what is your problem?"

“You’re right. It's just—.” Sean slouches against the scrub sink. “We tried it all—the surgery, the antibiotics were useless. I don’t know. Maybe I should have been more aggressive with the amputation; took it to mid-thigh instead of stopping at the knee.”

"So you don’t have a crystal ball. None of that’s an excuse, and you know it. Get with the program. Shit happens fast, and sometimes it's too late. Most of their village was wiped out in that raid. They lost their son and barely got out alive themselves. We’re twelve hundred kilometres from Al-Hasakah. Twelve hundred! And that five-foot-five, sixty-kilogram man yoked himself to a rickety-ass cart and pulled Amira every inch of the way."

"I said you're right. What do you want from me?"

"Fine. Let’s get on with it then." Carly's tone could slice steel.