Genre Fiction
![Yara Zgheib - [object Object] author](https://res.cloudinary.com/readsomnia/image/upload/authors/a_B07MPSW31M.jpg)
No Land to Light On: A Novel
Exit West meets An American Marriage in this breathtaking and evocative novel about a young Syrian couple in the throes of new love, on the cusp of their bright future…when a travel ban rips them apart on the eve of their son's birth-from the author of the "absorbing page-turner" (People) The Girls at 17 Swann Street.
Hadi and Sama are a young Syrian couple flying high on a whirlwind love, dreaming up a life in the country that brought them together. She had come to Boston years before chasing dreams of a bigger life; he'd landed there as a sponsored refugee from a bloody civil war. Now, they are giddily awaiting the birth of their son, a boy whose native language would be freedom and belonging.
When Sama is five months pregnant, Hadi's father dies suddenly in Jordan, the night before his visa appointment at the embassy. Hadi flies back for the funeral, promising his wife that he'll only be gone for a few days. On the day his flight is due to arrive in Boston, Sama is waiting for him at the airport, eager to bring him back home. But as the minutes and then hours pass, she continues to wait, unaware that Hadi has been stopped at the border and detained for questioning, trapped in a timeless, nightmarish limbo.
Worlds apart, suspended between hope and disillusion as hours become days become weeks, Sama and Hadi yearn for a way back to each other, and to the life they'd dreamed up together. But does that life exist anymore, or was it only an illusion?
Achingly intimate yet poignantly universal, No Land to Light On is the story of a family caught up in forces beyond their control, fighting for the freedom and home they found in one another.
Hadi and Sama are a young Syrian couple flying high on a whirlwind love, dreaming up a life in the country that brought them together. She had come to Boston years before chasing dreams of a bigger life; he'd landed there as a sponsored refugee from a bloody civil war. Now, they are giddily awaiting the birth of their son, a boy whose native language would be freedom and belonging.
When Sama is five months pregnant, Hadi's father dies suddenly in Jordan, the night before his visa appointment at the embassy. Hadi flies back for the funeral, promising his wife that he'll only be gone for a few days. On the day his flight is due to arrive in Boston, Sama is waiting for him at the airport, eager to bring him back home. But as the minutes and then hours pass, she continues to wait, unaware that Hadi has been stopped at the border and detained for questioning, trapped in a timeless, nightmarish limbo.
Worlds apart, suspended between hope and disillusion as hours become days become weeks, Sama and Hadi yearn for a way back to each other, and to the life they'd dreamed up together. But does that life exist anymore, or was it only an illusion?
Achingly intimate yet poignantly universal, No Land to Light On is the story of a family caught up in forces beyond their control, fighting for the freedom and home they found in one another.
Editorial Reviews
January 28, 2017: Sama January 28, 2017 SAMA
It is much too hot in here. Only my hands are freezing, even as they sweat onto the railing. Come on, Hadi, call.
So loud in this airport. Someone is shouting. More join in. I wish they would stop, that they would stop pushing. Officers and dogs. Angry protesters. Discombobulated chanting. Something is going on, but I don't have the strength, or the space, to turn around. I just want to sit down. My feet won't hold my weight, and the baby's, much longer. I contemplate dropping to the floor. If I do, I'll never get up. I think of the old woman I saw trip at a demonstration once.
The stampede crushed her fingers. How she screamed. This isn't Syria, this isn't Syria. People don't get crushed in Boston. People don't get crushed by frantic mobs at Logan Airport.
A heavy woman-her shirt is soaked-pushes me from behind, digging into my back, shoving me into the railing. A cramp. Too mild a word. A punch to my abdomen. I wish I could tell her to stop. I wish you were here; you would. But she knocked the air out of me, and you are somewhere beyond Arrivals. Another shove, cramp, like hot pliers reaching in, squeezing. I shield my stomach with my arm. A cowardly, futile attempt to protect the baby.
The iron rail seeps cold through my sweater, yours, the soft white one you wore the day before you traveled. I told you the stain would come out. I had to roll the sleeves. It doesn't smell of you since I washed it. Come on, Hadi, call. Please call.
You should be here. No, we should be home. Your plane landed too long ago. I didn't want to call; it would have ruined the surprise. Now, I don't want to because of the cold, heavy stone in my stomach. And another feeling, higher, like when you miss a step on the stairs, except longer.
The table is set at home. I left the hummus on the counter. A sudden force from behind hurls me into the barrier. My breath bursts out of my lungs. The phone nearly flies out of my hand, lighting up in the same moment.
"Hadi?"
"Allo? Sama!"
My breath catches. I know that Allo, those soft, gravelly as in my name.
"Hey! Where are you!"
There is much shouting around you too, but in your chaos, unlike mine, one voice thunders over the others, barking words I cannot distinguish.
"Hadi! Can you hear me?"
"Sama?"
You cannot. I press my mouth to the phone:
"I'm outside!"
"At the airport? What the hell are you doing here?!"
"I-"
"Are you crazy? Go home!"
"W...
It is much too hot in here. Only my hands are freezing, even as they sweat onto the railing. Come on, Hadi, call.
So loud in this airport. Someone is shouting. More join in. I wish they would stop, that they would stop pushing. Officers and dogs. Angry protesters. Discombobulated chanting. Something is going on, but I don't have the strength, or the space, to turn around. I just want to sit down. My feet won't hold my weight, and the baby's, much longer. I contemplate dropping to the floor. If I do, I'll never get up. I think of the old woman I saw trip at a demonstration once.
The stampede crushed her fingers. How she screamed. This isn't Syria, this isn't Syria. People don't get crushed in Boston. People don't get crushed by frantic mobs at Logan Airport.
A heavy woman-her shirt is soaked-pushes me from behind, digging into my back, shoving me into the railing. A cramp. Too mild a word. A punch to my abdomen. I wish I could tell her to stop. I wish you were here; you would. But she knocked the air out of me, and you are somewhere beyond Arrivals. Another shove, cramp, like hot pliers reaching in, squeezing. I shield my stomach with my arm. A cowardly, futile attempt to protect the baby.
The iron rail seeps cold through my sweater, yours, the soft white one you wore the day before you traveled. I told you the stain would come out. I had to roll the sleeves. It doesn't smell of you since I washed it. Come on, Hadi, call. Please call.
You should be here. No, we should be home. Your plane landed too long ago. I didn't want to call; it would have ruined the surprise. Now, I don't want to because of the cold, heavy stone in my stomach. And another feeling, higher, like when you miss a step on the stairs, except longer.
The table is set at home. I left the hummus on the counter. A sudden force from behind hurls me into the barrier. My breath bursts out of my lungs. The phone nearly flies out of my hand, lighting up in the same moment.
"Hadi?"
"Allo? Sama!"
My breath catches. I know that Allo, those soft, gravelly as in my name.
"Hey! Where are you!"
There is much shouting around you too, but in your chaos, unlike mine, one voice thunders over the others, barking words I cannot distinguish.
"Hadi! Can you hear me?"
"Sama?"
You cannot. I press my mouth to the phone:
"I'm outside!"
"At the airport? What the hell are you doing here?!"
"I-"
"Are you crazy? Go home!"
"W...
Short Excerpt Teaser
January 28, 2017: Sama January 28, 2017 SAMA
It is much too hot in here. Only my hands are freezing, even as they sweat onto the railing. Come on, Hadi, call.
So loud in this airport. Someone is shouting. More join in. I wish they would stop, that they would stop pushing. Officers and dogs. Angry protesters. Discombobulated chanting. Something is going on, but I don't have the strength, or the space, to turn around. I just want to sit down. My feet won't hold my weight, and the baby's, much longer. I contemplate dropping to the floor. If I do, I'll never get up. I think of the old woman I saw trip at a demonstration once.
The stampede crushed her fingers. How she screamed. This isn't Syria, this isn't Syria. People don't get crushed in Boston. People don't get crushed by frantic mobs at Logan Airport.
A heavy woman-her shirt is soaked-pushes me from behind, digging into my back, shoving me into the railing. A cramp. Too mild a word. A punch to my abdomen. I wish I could tell her to stop. I wish you were here; you would. But she knocked the air out of me, and you are somewhere beyond Arrivals. Another shove, cramp, like hot pliers reaching in, squeezing. I shield my stomach with my arm. A cowardly, futile attempt to protect the baby.
The iron rail seeps cold through my sweater, yours, the soft white one you wore the day before you traveled. I told you the stain would come out. I had to roll the sleeves. It doesn't smell of you since I washed it. Come on, Hadi, call. Please call.
You should be here. No, we should be home. Your plane landed too long ago. I didn't want to call; it would have ruined the surprise. Now, I don't want to because of the cold, heavy stone in my stomach. And another feeling, higher, like when you miss a step on the stairs, except longer.
The table is set at home. I left the hummus on the counter. A sudden force from behind hurls me into the barrier. My breath bursts out of my lungs. The phone nearly flies out of my hand, lighting up in the same moment.
"Hadi?"
"Allo? Sama!"
My breath catches. I know that Allo, those soft, gravelly as in my name.
"Hey! Where are you!"
There is much shouting around you too, but in your chaos, unlike mine, one voice thunders over the others, barking words I cannot distinguish.
"Hadi! Can you hear me?"
"Sama?"
You cannot. I press my mouth to the phone:
"I'm outside!"
"At the airport? What the hell are you doing here?!"
"I-"
"Are you crazy? Go home!"
"What? No, no, I'm waiting-"
"Sama, I can't come out!"
More shouting on both ends of the line. The shoving behind me. Crescendo. Distinct chanting, pounding: Let-them-go! Let-them-go! The ground shakes with their anger.
"What do you mean you can't come out?"
Another blow in my gut. I double over.
"I don't know! No one's told us anything! They took our passports… it's… What the hell is going on around you?"
"They took your passport?!"
Let-them-in! Let-them-in!
"Sama, the baby!"
I know.
"Is it your travel permit? It can't be!"
"No, they didn't even look at it! Listen-"
But the pounding, this time on your end of the line, drowns the rest.
"… just go home! I'll figure it out and-"
"Hadi? Are you there?"
Another spasm. My awareness crashes back into Arrivals. The crowd in furious waves. Let-them-in! A shove. I lose the phone. The next blow throws me headlong, belly, baby first, to the ground. Instinct buckles my knees; they take the impact.
The mob rages. My memory hears that woman's fingers break, but through blurry patches in my vision, I see the phone and lunge for it. Bursts of fire in my stomach, but I nab it.
Gasps for air and light. I grab someone's jeans.
"Help me, please!"
But my voice is too hoarse, the chorus too loud. I pull, and pull, and pull at those jeans. Then I bite. The foot kicks me in the nose. I yelp but do not let go, crying through my clenched teeth until I am yanked, finally, up, feeling something wet and sticky run down my upper lip. I taste salt.
Surface. White spots of light and cool, cool air.
"Please!"
I sputter, begging the faceless arms that lifted me.
"Please, I'm pregnant!"
The grip tightens. A voice shouts:
"The lady's pregnant! Get out of the way! Get her out of here!"
In lurches, he pulls me, using his back to p...
It is much too hot in here. Only my hands are freezing, even as they sweat onto the railing. Come on, Hadi, call.
So loud in this airport. Someone is shouting. More join in. I wish they would stop, that they would stop pushing. Officers and dogs. Angry protesters. Discombobulated chanting. Something is going on, but I don't have the strength, or the space, to turn around. I just want to sit down. My feet won't hold my weight, and the baby's, much longer. I contemplate dropping to the floor. If I do, I'll never get up. I think of the old woman I saw trip at a demonstration once.
The stampede crushed her fingers. How she screamed. This isn't Syria, this isn't Syria. People don't get crushed in Boston. People don't get crushed by frantic mobs at Logan Airport.
A heavy woman-her shirt is soaked-pushes me from behind, digging into my back, shoving me into the railing. A cramp. Too mild a word. A punch to my abdomen. I wish I could tell her to stop. I wish you were here; you would. But she knocked the air out of me, and you are somewhere beyond Arrivals. Another shove, cramp, like hot pliers reaching in, squeezing. I shield my stomach with my arm. A cowardly, futile attempt to protect the baby.
The iron rail seeps cold through my sweater, yours, the soft white one you wore the day before you traveled. I told you the stain would come out. I had to roll the sleeves. It doesn't smell of you since I washed it. Come on, Hadi, call. Please call.
You should be here. No, we should be home. Your plane landed too long ago. I didn't want to call; it would have ruined the surprise. Now, I don't want to because of the cold, heavy stone in my stomach. And another feeling, higher, like when you miss a step on the stairs, except longer.
The table is set at home. I left the hummus on the counter. A sudden force from behind hurls me into the barrier. My breath bursts out of my lungs. The phone nearly flies out of my hand, lighting up in the same moment.
"Hadi?"
"Allo? Sama!"
My breath catches. I know that Allo, those soft, gravelly as in my name.
"Hey! Where are you!"
There is much shouting around you too, but in your chaos, unlike mine, one voice thunders over the others, barking words I cannot distinguish.
"Hadi! Can you hear me?"
"Sama?"
You cannot. I press my mouth to the phone:
"I'm outside!"
"At the airport? What the hell are you doing here?!"
"I-"
"Are you crazy? Go home!"
"What? No, no, I'm waiting-"
"Sama, I can't come out!"
More shouting on both ends of the line. The shoving behind me. Crescendo. Distinct chanting, pounding: Let-them-go! Let-them-go! The ground shakes with their anger.
"What do you mean you can't come out?"
Another blow in my gut. I double over.
"I don't know! No one's told us anything! They took our passports… it's… What the hell is going on around you?"
"They took your passport?!"
Let-them-in! Let-them-in!
"Sama, the baby!"
I know.
"Is it your travel permit? It can't be!"
"No, they didn't even look at it! Listen-"
But the pounding, this time on your end of the line, drowns the rest.
"… just go home! I'll figure it out and-"
"Hadi? Are you there?"
Another spasm. My awareness crashes back into Arrivals. The crowd in furious waves. Let-them-in! A shove. I lose the phone. The next blow throws me headlong, belly, baby first, to the ground. Instinct buckles my knees; they take the impact.
The mob rages. My memory hears that woman's fingers break, but through blurry patches in my vision, I see the phone and lunge for it. Bursts of fire in my stomach, but I nab it.
Gasps for air and light. I grab someone's jeans.
"Help me, please!"
But my voice is too hoarse, the chorus too loud. I pull, and pull, and pull at those jeans. Then I bite. The foot kicks me in the nose. I yelp but do not let go, crying through my clenched teeth until I am yanked, finally, up, feeling something wet and sticky run down my upper lip. I taste salt.
Surface. White spots of light and cool, cool air.
"Please!"
I sputter, begging the faceless arms that lifted me.
"Please, I'm pregnant!"
The grip tightens. A voice shouts:
"The lady's pregnant! Get out of the way! Get her out of here!"
In lurches, he pulls me, using his back to p...
