The desert road to the southern Iraqi border stretched out ahead. The road was barely distinguishable in the sand and seemed to Sanaa to be endless, surrounded by an eternity of anonymity – sand with barely a tuft of green in sight. A series of trucks that gave the illusion of being a sort of convoy due to their stately, sedate pace, were gradually passing the dilapidated, squat, old passenger car Sanaa was in. Sanaa’s driver, Ali, a young, reckless-looking Iraqi with a mustache, seemed indifferent to the convoy. His other passengers besides Sanaa were his family – his wife and children, and that was what occupied his attention. Sanaa had been included because, Ali being an Iraqi, and a Muslim, and of course chivalrous, could not let a young, beautiful woman like Sanaa travel alone unprotected.
Sanaa, looking out the window, noticed one of the trucks pulling up, and a young Arab boy alight at the side of the road. The boy peeked under his jacket, and seemed to be tugging at something. She forgot about the Arab boy when suddenly high barbed-wire demarcating the continuation of the road indicated another presence, a rather ominous presence.
“It’s the Iraqi border,” the driver’s wife shyly informed Sanaa. “My husband brought me before. He sometimes stays in Kuwait for a long time.”
“Don’t be afraid,” the little boy said. “My father is a mighty man, an Iraqi hero.”
“Don’t forget,” the driver said to Sanaa. “Don’t talk. But, if you have to say something . . . .”
“What if they want to see my passport?” Sanaa interrupted.
“Unlikely. They’ll assume you are on mine,” the driver said. “But if they do, then say you can’t find it!”
Sanaa scarcely had time to reflect on all the barbed-wire when she heard a loud blast that seemed to come from somewhere in the distance . . . And she heard shouts! The rear windscreen of the car clouded over. Now the convoy of trucks, seemed to be racing with each other as they zoomed by Ali’s dilapidated passenger car. In the distance, Sanaa could detect two high archways, also of barbed-wire, looming above the horizon. As they drew near, she could see that there were gates between the archways, obstructing the road. Ambulance sirens filled the air now, as an ambulance pulled up at the gate. The border patrol officers at the side of the gates were fully occupied with a line-up of agitated trucks trying to push through with their various deliveries. But, the border patrol officers were suspicious of the ambulance and signalled to the driver to halt. Sanaa’s driver, on the other hand, received little attention.
“Let’s see your passport!” someone shouted.
And Ali sticking his hand out the window, said: “Here it is!”
“Get a move on,” the patrol guard shouted. “Can’t you see we’re busy!”
Sanaa’s new-found friends drove on in the now blazing sun to Nasiriya where they lived. Nasiriya in sight, they extended a warm invitation to Sanaa to spend the night with them. Sanaa knew she had to make enquiries about Yasin. She hoped that someone in Nasiriya would at least have heard about Cherrug’s whereabouts. In any case although relieved about getting through the border, she was tired and bewildered! She accepted the so very kind invitation of the Iraqi family.
Sanaa sighed, and stretched out on the mattress offered her, and then Sanaa and the Iraqi family went to sleep in the coolness and tranquility of the conventional thick-walled Arab house. It had been a hard drive.
End of Episode
avivabutt 