Under the Coat

By Adnan Farzat

Among the lines of this novel the dilemma of immigrants , who are living between a lost homeland and a strange one, is highlighted.

Here is a story of a woman who fell as a prey to a terrorist group consisted of her countrymen who preceded her to migration land. They turned her dream, for which she migrated, to a hell.

A woman who was not saved by the love that someone tried to give her, even though he was suffering from a mental illness the writer called it “love phobia”. This woman was hiding something under the coat she was wearing, that was the secret of her end.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Feb 6, 2019
• ISBN: 9781532067754

Adnan Farzat

Adnan Farzat is a Syrian journalist and novelist he also has intellectual interested in the dialogue among civilizations. He was the chief editor of the Syrian newspaper “Al Doumari” which was the first independent newspaper that was banned after forty years. In addition, he worked as a secretary of edition of “Al Bayan” magazine that is published by the writers’ union he worked at Radio and Television in the preparation of very important cultural programs as well, which has had very positive effects on the public and got several golden awards. He has published several exceptional novels in which he discussed the situation in Syria in particular and Arab countries in general these novels have become an added value to the Arab literature. Some of his novels: 1- Embers of Spites 2- the head of the big man 3- the president was my freind 4- a silver crown of your heart 5- one week of love

Book preview

Introduction

I

Under the Coat is dedicated, first, to the strangers who weave a home from loss with threads from the darkness of the human soul, but it is in fact written from a heart that suffered the pangs of perdition, a mind that struggled with the forces of meaninglessness, and a will that defied the daemons of alienation, despair, and rebellion. It is written with eyes that witnessed the blazing fire of perdition, with fingers that were seared by that fire, and with tears that were baptized by the flames of that very fire. Only a mind that delved deep into the abyss of perdition—human perdition, I mean—and drank a cup from its bitter water, can grasp the meaning of perdition—of being dead and alive at the same time, of drifting aimlessly in a wasteland. Only such a mind can infuse his or her words with the sense of perdition. Only such a mind can lead us by the hand to the portal of that abyss! Under the Coat leads the reader to that portal. But the wasteland in which the illegal immigrants of this novel drift is not one we encounter in nature or in the works of poets and novelists, no! It is the kind that is created by human beings for their fellow human beings. It is created when despots ascend to the throne on the backs of the people. It is created when Reason goes to sleep, when greed rules the passions, when lust for power tramples on human values, when the instinct of animal survival dominates the will, and when the fountain of love in the human heart dries up.

To die before one begins to live is the crime of all crimes. This is the kind of death the despot wreaks upon his people. The despot is an arch criminal not because he sits on the throne, or because he desires to sit in it, but because he is a thief and a murderer—because he deprives his people of the opportunity to grow as human beings, which is their destiny, because he takes away their humanity, which is their true possession, and because he robs them of their identity as human beings and as individuals, which is their essence. When the Sidewalk Woman, a homeless Arab immigrant who chose to remain nameless because her essence, her destiny, and her identity were taken away from her, asked Maysara, a main character of the story, What is your name? Who are you? he was able to answer the first question but not the second: My name is Maysara, but who am I? All I could say was expressed in a few words… yes, who am I? I am a lump of human flesh. I have two feet, but I do not have a way. I have a heart that beats, but only to save my body from the living death. From a scientific point of view, I am classified as a human being, but from the standpoint of humanity, I am a number among billions of human beings. My days are replicas of other days. If I die, the only being that will miss me is a swallow.

What is it like for two nameless human beings, who have been deprived of their homes, of the possibility to grow in their humanity, of the opportunity to participate in the dance of human life, to speak? How can two nameless, and speechless, human beings speak? And yet they speak! But if they speak, what language do they speak? What do they speak about? What secrets can they exchange? This kind of encounter is, in my view, the locus of the tragedy many a human being, women and men, not only in the Middle East but also everywhere in the world, live today.

II

Philosophers, social scientists, and ordinary people speak of the oppression of woman—of what it means for a woman to be oppressed, to struggle to be free, to suffer the torment of this struggle; and they also speak of how she frequently fumbles and how she sometimes triumphs against the forces of oppression. But Under the Coat is a portrayal of the oppressed woman. In this novel the reader sees with the eye of her mind and heart not only what it is like for a woman to be oppressed but also how she feels and suffers the ugliness of this oppression. Farzat’s camera is a novel of engagement. He was able to delve deep into the heart of Naziha, the main character, a paradigmatic example of the oppressed woman, and, standing in the midst of her hopes, frustrations, and agony, enabled her to speak and in speaking make the voice of Woman heard.

III

Under the Coat is dedicated, second, to the women who weave on their shoulders wings that spread beyond the limits of the sky, but it is in fact a loud cry from the human depth against injustice, exploitation, and waste—human waste. It is a cry for freedom, for dignity, for the dignity of the Arab women who were evicted from their home, culture, and family and who, like the phoenix of antiquity, endeavored to weave a life of meaning from the ashes of the meaninglessness they left behind and the forces of rejection in the land of expatriation. But the meaninglessness that drove them away from their homes, from their culture, indeed from themselves, haunted them, and still haunts them, in the so-called land of milk and honey.

And yet, the illegal immigrants did no bow to the new adversity. They stood on their two feet and faced it with courage. They fought their battle to the end, to the bitter end, without yielding to the forces of oppression, deprivation, betrayal, alienation, and manipulation. They were resourceful, hopeful, and loyal to the voice of their hearts. But who was the author of this voice? It was the same voice that nourished the wings that strove to fly in a sky that could not accommodate them. Oh, how small is the human-made sky! Oh, how infinite is the depth of the human heart! Naziha’s eyes, which were willing to face all the storms of nature as well as those of human beings, and Maysara’s heart, which radiated innocence, open up a window to that infinity! This depth is an endless spring of ingenuity, of hope, and of the desire to live from within. No less than these two characters, the Sidewalk Woman expresses this point admirably. When Maysara asked her, out of concern for her safety, whether she had a home, she answered, Yes, I have a house, but once in a while I wake up and find myself in the street. I choose the sidewalk I like, I arrange it the way I choose, sometimes I decorate it with the ice-cream and candy wrappers I find on the street, and when I feel self-indulgent I collect flowers from the side of the road, spread them around this mat, lie down on it, and then I fall asleep.

IV

Under the Coat is dedicated, third, to Lubana, who weaves a shirt for me from the radiant silk of her heart, but it is in fact an ode to love—to the sun that illuminates our minds, transmits warmth to our hearts, and gives power to our wills. Love is the birthplace of the creative act; it is the mystery that makes us care for the swallow, commiserate with the sick, console the lonely, fight the forces of evil, seek the truth, the good, and the beautiful. Love is the spring that irrigates the wasteland created by the despot and transforms it into a garden. And, yes, it is the source of the bricks by which we build our true homes. All I feel, Maysara says, is that I am half a home and you are half a home. Both of us have suffered the same misery. Our warmth will be perfect when we are together. Again we read: Inside me there is a small ember. Maybe together we can keep it burning, and who knows, we might even add some wood to it in days to come, and it could give more warmth. Come with me, Naziha, come back to my home. Maysara’s home, or his room? He knows it is his room, but he also knows that his room will become a home when they live together and when the flame of love kindles in their hearts. Where else can illegal immigrants find a home? There is no place they can claim as their own: They are homeless! The only thing they can do is create a home, and this home is love!

V

Under the Coat is a camera with a human mind and a human heart that focuses its lens on the material, psychological, and spiritual destiny of illegal Arab immigrants in Europe, on human beings who were abandoned by a state that was their home and ignored by a state that refused to give them one, human beings who walked on the streets of Madrid like ghosts but in fact suffered the agony of abandonment with loving and lonely hearts, with hearts that craves to live, to be productive, to eat an apple from the tree of human knowledge, to delight in the rite of beauty, to look upward and take a peek into the mystery that lies behind the blue sky and spreads over their head as a warm blanket of infinity! The story that unfolds under the lens of this camera is a drama of the trials, fears, anxieties, suffering, frustration, hopelessness, and cynicism of those illegal immigrants, but it is also a drama of their defiance, perseverance, faith in the powers of the human spirit, and, most of all, of the human will to live. In spite of the sadness that oozes from almost every scene of this novel, the reader cannot but feel the power of this spirit and of this will in every gesture, every decision, and every action of the characters. They are examples of what it means to be a human being.

The Spanish people who walked on the streets of Madrid did not see the illegal immigrants who were in search of a home and did not hear the cries that were chasing their dreams, but the eyes and ears of Farzat’s camera saw them and heard their cries. It made the invisible visible and the inaudible audible. When love flows through our hearts, Maysara reflected upon Naziha as she reclined the way Scheherazade did some centuries ago, we hear with our eyes, but we also see with our ears and feel with our minds. What we see and hear in the world of Under the Coat are dehumanized beings, beings who do not qualify for human attention. Maysara, an illegal immigrant who was accomplished in Psychology and Anthropology, was spending his time in the cafés of Madrid practicing Physiognomy. Is there a more glaring sight of human degradation, of dehumanization, than the sight of a man like Maysara? How can people be human when they cannot use their minds, when they cannot function usefully in society, and when they cannot love? Drowned in a lake of loneliness, sorrowful before the corpse of his aspirations, and crushed by the ruthless foot of anonymity, he says, My life is not glorious. I have never influenced anybody except for a few passing moments at railways stations when passengers wait for their next journey. My life is a series of fast moments which last as long as the wager with my client lasts. Its only merit is the flicker of happiness I produce in his life during a wagering episode. He may mention it to a friend or express a feeling of surprise, or make a joke about it, otherwise I remain unknown. No one knows who I am, not even my name. For them, I am ‘the Confessor.’ And yet Maysara conducted himself with the dignity of a human being. The ember that sparkled in his heart never died. He was a spring of love, of wisdom, of loyalty to the values that made him the individual he was. In spite of the social environment that stifled his aspirations, he still showed the deepest respect for the larger environment God created: Nature. The swallow was not merely a friend and a source of solace; it was a life and as such sacred. In spite of the wounds that were inflicted on Naziha by the strictures of a long-standing tradition, a tradition that practically strangled her spirit by betrayal, deprivation, poverty, and rejection, he was able to feel the warmth of her loving heart and he was willing to fall in love with that heart. What nobility!

Yes, those immigrants are not lumps of flesh; they are not numbers in the book of some statistician; and they are not instruments to be used by some businessman or jihadist. No, they are shining candles of humanity. They are subjects and authors of destinies. And if they cannot realize their destinies, they nevertheless glitter as jewels in virtue of the candles that shine in their hearts. Despots can torture them, they can imprison them, they can mutilate this or that part of their bodies, and they can evict them from their physical homes, but they cannot put out the light that shines in their hearts. Farzat’s camera captured the effulgence of this light in Under the Coat.

And, yes, in spite of the death of Naziha, a