288. Opening Up
Psychiatry was his domain. No medical director in the Republic had such a high reputation as Dr. Salam, but only within the walls of his own hospital. Hanna Bishara had a free hand there. It was she who had arranged for soft classical music by Bach or Mozart, to be played in all the wards.
Hanna Bishara always gave a straight answer when Rana asked her a question. Dr. Salam phrased his answers so carefully that sometimes Rana wasn’t sure whether he meant yes or no.
“Why do many of the patients here have burn marks on their temples?” Rana asked. Hanna Bishara told her about the electric shocks that such patients needed to cure them.
Dr. Bishara was a happy woman, but in general she didn’t mention her private life much. However, when Rana asked to see photographs of her husband and her children, she brought some next day. They talked about the wedding night, and the doctor asked if Rana had been prepared for that first time with her husband. She didn’t feel like telling the doctor yet that he had raped her, but confined herself to a “no”. “My mother can’t talk about either love or sex,” she added. The doctor nodded, and wrote it down in her little notebook.
When Hanna Bishara left that afternoon, Rana watched her go, and felt that it wasn’t fair for her to leave this woman in the dark. A woman who helped her, who didn’t ask insistent questions, and she, Rana, was leaving her to puzzle over the reason for her sadness. A little later she got to her feet and ran after her, but the doctor was not in the ward any more. The nurse on duty tried to reach her by phone, and was in luck.
“There’s something important I’d like to tell you. When will you have time?”
“Any time, for you,” replied the doctor. She sensed that the gate which had been closed to her so long had just opened at least a crack, and hurried back to the ward.
Then Rana told her the whole story of herself and Farid, and Hanna Bishara listened for four hours. She made not a single note, but every word was imprinted on her mind.
289. Two Doctors and One Patient
December 1968 brought more rain than the country had seen all year. A strong wind whipped heavy raindrops against the window. Dr. Salam was watching one of the male patients who had been dancing in the garden, and was now being led back indoors by two male nurses.
“Go on. I’m listening,” he prompted Dr. Bishara, who had briefly paused in the middle of reading her report.
“After a difficult start, a definitely productive mental process has now developed, one in which Rana can admit to her grief over her forbidden love for Farid, her fears and uncertainty since his arrest, and can carry on without falling into despair. She also feels able to stand up to her conflicts with her own family, in particular her mother, who offered her neither protection nor emotional warmth. Equally positive has been her overcoming of her anorexic tendencies, with slow but steady weight gain, and she is becoming physically stronger. So we are reaching a phase of stabilization which makes it seem appropriate to prepare her for discharge in the near future …”
“But that would require her to make a personal decision to go back to her husband,” Dr. Salam interrupted, turning slowly back to his desk. Dr. Bishara gave him her case notes, with a question in her eyes. The medical director shook his head. “She ought to stay here a little longer. It’s still too soon!”
Why, Hanna Bishara wondered that evening on her way home, is he so set on postponing Rana’s return home? Does he suspect that she never will want to go back to her husband? But what chance does she stand if she leaves him now — a woman on her own, without a profession, here in Damascus? Or is that itself his reason: to keep her here until she knows her own mind?
Hanna Bishara could find no answer. By now she had come to realize that sometimes there is no clear answer.
290. Third Report
Dr. Salam, chief medical director, 22 March 1969, 15.00hrs.
Patient surprised to find that I know about relationship with Farid M., yet do not condemn her for it. Does not seem to have expected understanding. Obviously entertains great hostility towards mother and brother on this subject. Disappointed rather than hostile towards father for ranging himself on mother’s side. Clearly feels very much alone. Will allow her to get in touch with Farid’s mother by telephone. Once a month, from my office. Farid M. obviously still detained, but patient wept for joy on learning that he is still alive. She should talk to Dr. Bishara about it, but discretion is key. For now she seems to feel safe and protected in the hospital.
Continue imipramine and levomepromazine until further notice. Can go for walks alone as long as she likes, but not in the evening.
Still no special wish for family visits. According to Head Nurse Kadira, husband is very cold towards her. Comes once a month and talks to patient, who never answers.
291. Kisses
When Farid kissed her, his kiss was like a pebble and she like a lake rippling all the way from her mouth to her toes.
She had never been kissed by her parents, only by other relations, but she shrank from those kisses. Uncle Bulos, who always smelled of sour milk, had been particularly nauseating. He used to hold her so tight that she could scarcely breathe, and the dense stubble on his chin was scratchy. Kisses from Aunt Basma, her mother’s sister, were even nastier; her mouth had smelled of decay. When Rana was little, her father once whispered to her, “Aunt Basma died ages ago.”
And her father had laughed. Aunt Basma reminded Rana of the dead mouse that her father had found behind the couch years ago, after a long search. The drawing room stank of it for days.
Aunt Basma had died on a Sunday in May 1945. Rana remembered precisely. It had been a beautiful spring day. She was playing indoors when the first French bombs dropped on the city. Her parents were still at the funeral, and Rana and her brother had gone to the neighbours. Suddenly her father arrived. He took her hand and ran ahead with her, while her mother hurried along behind with Jack in her arms. The French bombers and heavy artillery were aiming at targets in Damascus. One of them was the parliament building, very close to her parents’ house. It seemed to take the four of them forever to reach Bab Tuma, and then they had to spend a week staying with George Abiad, a lawyer who was a friend of her father’s, in a large house with lemon trees and in the company of his horrible children, until at last the fighting stopped.
The French withdrew from Damascus, leaving six hundred Syrian dead and three thousand wounded. Many houses were destroyed.
Her parents were glad to get home and find their house still standing. “Our Lady protected it,” said her mother. But Rana felt sure it was the evil spirit under the stairs who — even though he was evil — needed a place to live too. She was glad, all the same. Riad and Fuad, George Abiad’s children, had been spiteful, calling Rana and her brother refugees and hitting them when the grown-ups weren’t looking. The two boys were big and strong, particularly Riad, who was a colossus, and liked to sit on Rana’s stomach saying he wouldn’t get off until she kissed him on the mouth, and she’d better not tell tales, because if she did he’d put a rat in her bed one night, and rats liked to eat little girls’ ears. After that Rana often woke up in the night and felt her ears. But she’d had to kiss Riad three times because he was pressing all the breath out of her.