What We Think of America

Hanan al-Shaykh
'My sister used to picture herself disembarking from a passenger liner and being received by official welcomers, taken by the hand, patted on the shoulder, starting her new life in this model country warmed by their encouraging smiles.' Hanan al-Shaykh on an immigrant's rose-tinted view of America. am the one visiting America this time, but still remember America coming into our neighbourhood, our house, when was a child. remember pushing aside all the heads bending eagerly over it and the hands trying to touch it until was face to face with it! a red satin cushion with a statue of a good-hearted woman on it, wearing a crown on her head and holding a lamp, a torch. "he cushion was accompanied by a greetings card of high buildings which looked like the wooden art deco column in our sitting room, whose glass middle once saw lit up. My cousin sent America to our home after he went there to study aeronautical engineering. #hen he returned, four years later, sheep were slaughtered in his honour and he became an overnight celebrity. $ur house was the focus of attention, as if we were all famous. %ears later, come to visit my sister in America, in a state full of palm trees. As soon as we arrive, hear my mother sighing bitterly, and wonder why the sun isn't ashamed to shine. My mother sighs from the depths of her heart, as if she hopes this will find my sister and her three children a place to live. "hey are going to be made homeless the day after tomorrow. My mother has never been homeless in &eirut, despite the war and the violence. ' t's as if we're born with our houses on our backs in our country, like tortoises,' she says. My nephews and niece try to collect all their things together, but what about their posters, and the walls which have echoed to their music and their voices' My sister goes round gathering up clothes and books as if she is harvesting wheat, parcelling up bale after bale, only to have new shoots sprouting before her eyes. see a belt that used to be mine among the clothes and handbags. nstead of re(oicing in the memories it evokes of happy times in &eirut, feel sad for it, because it too has no home now. My nephews shout at my sister because she's throwing away papers, falling to bits with age, which they had put in a corner, ready to take with them. "heir noise alarms my mother, and my sister threatens to call the police. All this does is remind everyone that it was the police who came to evict them in the first place, after the neighbours complained. t wasn't the first time. My sister's children can only rela) when they listen to rap. ts rhythm restores their e*uilibrium. "hey are talented musicians who write their own lyrics and set them to music. f this were a different kind of area, this unsolicited music might be seen as nourishment for its audience's soul.

n the past my sister used to send me photos of my niece and nephews from time to time. Americans, e)cept for their Arab eyes. +on't ask me what Arab eyes are like. "hey have a kind of wariness, perhaps, with a hint of mischief in it. would smile as pictured them leaping through a mist, carrying lunch bo)es and baseball bats, munching popcorn in an aura of cookies and ,ool-Aid-that distinctive smell of their school lockers-and their rooms at home like toy departments, and later like caves where as teenagers they would take refuge with their dreams and pimples. &ut here in reality see cautious e)pressions, eyes that are dull yet rebellious, and the children living in rooms which are almost like garages or temporary refuges, where the body can rest, but not the soul. "he clock ticks. "ick tock. "ick tock. My mother climbs on top of her seven big suitcases and covers them with sheets so she can forget they e)ist. She is regretting having bought presents for her neighbours, friends, relatives and the local baker in &eirut, all of them e)pecting something from America, even (ust a tin ashtray from Mc+onald's. .veryone wants something from America, non-disposable nappies among other things, as if the bowels won't do what they are supposed to do if they're e)posed to the wrong kind of fabric. /eople want bedcovers, medicines, children's toys, nail varnish, nighties, shoes of all si0es. picture my mother throwing everything into the middle of the sitting room on her return! '1o on. "ry them on. "ake them if they fit.' My mother puts a hand to her forehead as if trying to dig out a name to contact in America. n vain. /eople here are like silkworms wrapped in their cocoons. #hy is America empty' #here are the people' want to see the owner of the property. My mother urges my sister to talk to him! 'He's a human being after all. %ou can beg him to be kind to you for your children's sake, and let you stay on here. #e'll tell him how all this country meant to your husband was women's breasts, blonde hair and alcohol, from the moment he set foot on American soil. How he left you for one of them, so it's hard for you to raise your children. #e can promise the landlord that the children won't play instruments or listen to music from now on. "his is meant to be the land of freedom...shouldn't freedom e)tend into the homes and streets, like blood and o)ygen flowing round the body'' My mother is pleased with her analogy and keeps repeating it until my sister tells her to be *uiet. She's ringing round, trying to find another flat. "o no avail! my sister has become well known among letting agencies, moving her children from one place to another like a cat. After numerous attempts she slams the phone down. '2ollateral, collateral. "hat's all they want. "hat's what held me back before, and nothing's changed.' My sister used to picture herself disembarking from a passenger liner and being received by official welcomers, taken by the hand, patted on the shoulder, starting her new life in this model country warmed by their encouraging smiles. America was the land of dreams, stretching to infinity, resembling no other country on earth. t had no anti*uated laws. ts

constitution was founded on e*uality and (ustice. 3ow she finds herself like a fish trapped in a net if she can't come up with some collateral. &ut if she does find some, they'll drown her in debt. +ebts will rain down on her from all sides, once she starts the ball rolling. She's discovered that her hands are tied. &ureaucracy has in(ected her with a deadly substance, sapping her resolve. As an immigrant, she has to have ready cash, or she's dead. She who came to the land of dreams like 4enus emerging from the sea, naked e)cept for her long hair. She had no references allowing her to open a bank account, no permanent address, no ac*uaintances with influence or status or property, who could give her credit and support her until she found her feet, e*uip her to rent a flat, buy a car, open a bank account. She had to find a (ob at once, and it was impossible. "he competition for (obs was like a war, showing her what a harsh society she was living in. She pleaded for a little time to become ac*uainted with the surroundings, the new culture, the unfamiliar way of life. t all reinforced her sense of insecurity and stripped her of her self-confidence. She went through one interview after another. 3ow the whole process is repeating itself in front of me and my mother. 5inally one of the letting agencies responds positively and a few hours later an employee from the agency arrives to negotiate the contract. My mother and feel pleased that this woman has come in person from the agency, but my sister takes it as a bad sign! 'She must want to make sure that 'm not a vagrant.' "he woman sits in the middle of the room, cradling her laptop, looking around her apprehensively. She refuses my mother's offer of coffee and asks my sister if she really has a (ob, as she has tried her office number and had no luck. My sister replies that she didn't go into work today. My mother interrupts. 'Sick,' she e)plains, pointing at her heart. ' f your mother's sick, does that mean she'll be living with you too'' My sister answers that my mother is (ust visiting, and will be gone ne)t week. '&ut how do you know that' /erhaps your mother will change her mind and stay in the 6nited States.' 'Me'' interrupts my mother again. 'Stay here' 'd rather die.' "he woman doesn't understand what she means, and asks my sister to produce her driving licence. My sister replies awkwardly, ' don't have a car. don't know how to drive.' 'So how do you get to work then' %ou (ust told me you have a (ob7' ' go by bus.'

'#hat' &y bus7 Surely only old people take the bus7' "he woman casts her eyes round the empty room, unable to believe her ears, pleading with the few remaining ob(ects and my mother's seven suitcases to tell her the truth. "hen she asks my sister again, or rather interrogates her! ' s it possible that you don't have a car'' '+id you hear the (oke about the man who was given a ticket by the police because they caught him walking'' "he woman doesn't smile. She asks my sister to give her the names of the people she works with. My sister flushes and turns as red as a pomegranate, especially when the woman refuses to accept two months' rent and demands four months, in advance because she doesn't have collateral. After the woman has left, my mother sighs. 'Ah7 f that ta)i driver in &eirut only knew what was happening to you and your children. don't even know why 'm visiting you. knew you'd be walking on shifting sands, being buried bit by bit, hardly able to keep your heads above the surface. f only he knew what really goes on in America...but he'd never believe it.' "he ta)i driver had struck his face in a torment of envy when he found that his passenger had a return ticket to the States, and an entry visa. '#hy doesn't your photo with 8eagan save us'' we say (okingly to my mother. "his is a photo of her with a poster of 8eagan behind her, looking so real that some simple people in &eirut believe my mother is friendly with him, and have asked her to use her influence with him to get them a 6S visa. #e sleep, or rather close our eyes to rela), so that we can make decisions. My mother and sister take refuge with a friend. Although my nephews assure us that one of their friends will put them up, they are going to sleep on the beach as they have often done before, warmed by the bright stars and wept over by the dew. My niece will sleep in a friend's car. My mother's heart will be on fire, and icy cold. And will no longer cling to my memory of an old American woman with earrings like little birds in cages, who gasped in wonder at the 8oman ruins in &aalbek, and made me want my grandmother to be able to travel abroad like her. will forget the feel of the 'cowboys', as we used to call (eans, which my father borrowed for me from a friend of his who owned a clothes store. He made me promise only to wear them at the school party. n the end, never dared wear them at all, but was content to look at them and touch them. #hen saw them, saw a piece of America running ahead of me, disregarding the cries of 'Shame7' Translated from the Arabic by Catherine Cobham