Rain over Baghdad: A Novel of Iraq (12 page)

Like a sailor lost between coasts.

I wiped away the tears flowing from my eyes and began to recall our days, so crowded with events.

Second Text

Three knocks on the door of my memory restored life to days that were lingering as they turned toward disappearing forever. I tugged at the end of the thread of time that used to tame mountains and humans. The days broke loose and came tumbling down on my heart. I tried to stop their ruthless flow and pay attention to what was happening around me, but I couldn’t. Inside of me there was a rush seeking to recapture the flow of the days and once again feel the pleasure of the pain that didn’t contain the moment. I was carrying my suitcase to the airport on my way to Baghdad, to take part in a conference about educating Iraqi women after teaching them to read and write, not believing that I had indeed left my six-month-old son with my mother-in-law in Maghagha, two and half hours away from Cairo. I was hoping to find out why and how my Iraqi friend and colleague at
al-Zahra
had disappeared. I also wanted to visit my house in Dora, hit by Iranian bombers, and see if my neighbors there were all right. I also hoped to meet Basyuni Abd al-Mu‘in who joined the Iraqi army and became part of the war with Iran with no prior knowledge of the horrors of war, and to give him a letter from his family urging him to go back to Egypt.

They took us from the cramped arrival lounge to passport control. Members of the delegation objected. Kamilia Sabri said, “We are an official delegation to Iraq. This is unacceptable.”

The passport officer said, “This is our system. Wait outside until the plane that will carry you to Baghdad arrives. This is a small airport; we cannot handle all the passengers.”

Shahira al-Asi said, “We want the manager of the airport.”

The officer said, “He’s unavailable for the time being.”

Salma turned to us and said, “Would you ladies accept to wait in the street for seven hours or longer?”

We all said in unison, “No, absolutely not.”

Kamilia said to the officer, “There you have it. You’ve listened to what they think. They will not go out. We were told that the organizers of the conference had an agreement with the management
of the Amman airport that it would be our host until we get on the plane.”

Another officer came and after consulting with his colleague he told us, “This procedure is not meant to be against you in particular. This is the system that applies to all. I do not have any special instructions regarding you.”

We said, “Where is the Iraqi official in charge? Please open the VIP lounge so we can sit there.”

He said, “There is no Iraqi official in charge. I don’t have any instructions. Please, make room for other passengers to go out or stand in line.”

We all moved away from the exits. A small group of other passengers stood watching us without saying anything. We saw them later going past the baggage area, going out of the gate, grumbling. An officer came and told us in a commanding tone, “Stand in line to get your passports stamped. Another plane has landed and there is not enough room for all the passengers.”

Kamilia said, “Please, speak in a more suitable tone.”

He said, “I don’t know any other tone. Please obey the instructions. Wait outside.”

Mona Abed said, “Aren’t you used to dealing with delegations going to Iraq?”

He said, “Yes.”

She said, “Why don’t you deal with us the same way then?”

He said, “Their representative arrives early, pays the fees, and acts as your host.”

I said in disbelief, recalling the Iraqi strict discipline, “Where are the Iraqis now?”

He said, “I don’t know, Ustaza.”

Tahani said, “It doesn’t make sense that the manager of the airport would not be available. This is still the workday.”

I did not believe that the Iraqi representatives could be absent. Has Iraq changed that much? I had been away from Iraq for only two years. Maybe the war has caused everything to come unglued.

One of the officers came back and said, “You’ll get your passports stamped and I’ll personally accompany you to the departure lounge where you’ll sit until it’s time for your plane to take off, then you’ll go to passport control and pay the fees.”

There were several protests and objections, “This is not logical. We will not go out.”

The officer said, “When the Iraqi representative comes, he will reimburse you for what you’ve paid and you’ll wait in the VIP lounge.”

We discussed the matter among ourselves. There was no other way but to accept this compromise.

I said, “There’s nothing outside except rain, strong winds, and great crowds at the doors. If the plane is late—and this happens a lot—we’ll find ourselves in the street for days and they will not take us to the airport hotel. They use water hoses to disperse the passengers who jam the entrance when they announce an airplane’s imminent departure.”

Mona Abed said, “Oh my God! I didn’t know that.”

I said, “Guests usually are not subjected to such treatment. Something very serious must have happened. These Iraqi officials will be disciplined harshly. Anyway, the most important thing is for them to arrange for us to get on our plane. We have to make this a condition before entering Jordan.”

Kamilia said to the officer, “We agree on condition that you give us a piece of paper giving us the right to get on the first plane to Baghdad.”

He said, “Getting into the departure lounge means that you’ve already finished passport procedures before the outer door is opened for other passengers. That’s the best I can do.”

We agreed reluctantly. They stamped our passports for entering Jordan. We asked about our bags and he said, “You don’t need to get them now. You’ll get them in Baghdad.”

Salma said, “I want my suitcase. In the midst of this chaos, I won’t be sure of anything.”

There was a lot of arguing back and forth and she ended up getting her suitcase amid shouts of anger and frustration. We went out to the street. We were shocked to see huge numbers of Egyptians waiting in the open air, some sleeping while holding on to their bags. Some huddled against the gusts of wind that slapped us across the face, catching us by surprise. Two policemen made a clear path for us in the midst of people by using clubs that gave off red flashes. One of the Egyptian workers waiting for their planes said, “Three days, you godless people!” Another said, “They seized the opportunity because we are a people whose government would not stand up to them. So they can get away with anything!” People realized we were on our way to the departure lounge so they followed us.

The officer said, shooing off the people, “Move out of the way. There are no planes now.” Security men saw to it that we got in. The other passengers stood there watching what was happening and trying to rush through the narrow passage at the same time. We got through, one by one. The other passengers’ shouts grew louder, “Three days in the rain! Do you have no fear of God? You Godforsaken country!”

The officer went to one of the other officers guarding a controlled entrance and told him, “This is a delegation. Let them go through for the 10:30 a.m. plane before the main gate opens. Understood?”

Then he turned to us and said, “Sorry. This is how things are these days.”

We sat in a line like obedient schoolgirls, watching from a distance those standing behind the glass wall. We got to talking about the conditions of workers who left Egypt looking to make a living and the injustice and oppression they suffered, from their native sponsors right through to their low wages. My tears flowed as I murmured the words of the song written by Salah Jahin:

A marble statue at the irrigation canal,

An opera house in every Arab village:

These are not just dreams or words of songs,

These point the way to a new era.

I went to the bathroom to empty the milk from my breasts. Why didn’t I feel this rush in Cairo, even though I often left Haytham with my mother for many hours? Have you forgotten the day Salim Ahmad, the executive editor, asked you to leave the meeting right away? At the door he told you, “Go home.” When you didn’t understand he said, “Nora, you’re soaked!” I looked at my chest and found the blouse dripping wet and the fabric clinging to my chest as it I were naked, looking like those women that went into the water while wearing their galabiyas, revealing the contours of their bodies. I thanked him and got out of there. But it was a rare occurrence.

I stood in front of the sink and took out of my handbag the pump and a small towel that I moistened with water. An attendant came in. She had a very red wrinkled complexion with her hair, which was also red, coiled in a braid and wrapped around her head covered with a scarf. She looked at me and asked me if I was a mother and where did I leave my baby, with my mother or my mother-in-law? Then she told me to leave everything just as it was because things were safe there.

I took the things I needed to the toilet, fighting off tears of longing for Haytham. I asked myself, “Has he gotten used to Fattum’s breasts? Did he get to sleep or is he crying because I left?” The tears came. I wiped them quickly. I haven’t even made it to Baghdad yet. I kept squeezing my breasts dry until I felt exhausted. I wiped them with the wet towel, then applied lotion and waited for that to dry, getting very tired. I went out of the stall spraying cologne on my body. Sarah Badr came in. She asked me, “What are you doing, Nora?”

I fell silent then said, “My son is still nursing.”

She said, “You nursing mothers bring all this heartache on your-selves. You carry a bag, a towel, a pump, eau de cologne, and lotion: a whole pharmacy. I didn’t get married or have babies and I don’t plan to.”

I said, “Good for you, you’re tough!”

I left the ladies room after returning the “pharmacy,” as Sarah put it, to my handbag. I noticed that my colleagues had gathered around large tables. Kamilia waved and I went to the empty seat next to her. She said to me, “Nora, we were talking about Baghdad’s stand vis-à-vis the Iranian revolution. Naturally we disagreed. You were there during that period. We would like you to tell us in detail what the Iraqis thought of the revolution and why they turned against it, especially since they are Shia.”

I said, “The ruling clique is Sunni even though the majority of Iraqis are Shia. And the story of the Sunnis and the Shia is quite different from what we, as Egyptians, think it is.”

Mona Abed interrupted, mimicking the Egyptian comic actor, Fuad al-Muhandis, “Keep us apprised of the situation, step-by-step, I beseech you.”

We all laughed. I said, “I was sitting in my garden at night. I think it was February 1979. Hayam’s coquettish voice came on the radio saying, ‘This is radio Monte Carlo.’”

Mona said, “Yes, that is quite coquettish. Please trill your ‘r’ as she does and step-by-step, I beseech you.”

We laughed. “It was martial music and Qur’an!” I said mimicking the Egyptian actor Ahmad Zaki, then added, “No, no, seriously. The news was announced on all radio stations as follows: ‘Riots continued in the capital, Tehran, and all Iranian cities, for the second week in a row. Informed sources have said that the shah of Iran has today left the country with his family heading for Paris. Radio Tehran has announced that Prince Huwayda, the prime minister, has ordered the army to be deployed in the streets to quell the riots. The Associated Press has reported that all Iranian political parties have declared an open rebellion and civil disobedience.’

“I turned on the television. The Iraqi announcer on the official channel mentioned the news in passing, just a neutral, matter-of-fact report about riots in Tehran in which all Iranian political parties had taken part. The early morning Iraqi News Agency bulletin did
not add much. My Iraqi colleagues made no comments, waiting for an official Iraqi position. Hilmi Amin, director of
al-Zahra
bureau, was happy when I saw him. He gave me some additional information about an Islamic revolution that aimed at bringing justice to the Iranian people, who lived in abject poverty, and at returning their looted resources to them. The news kept coming, fresh news almost every hour. Tehran recognized the Palestine Liberation Organization and the Palestinian people’s right to Jerusalem as the capital of Palestine. We requested a meeting with Abu Abbas, the official in charge of external information. We noticed that the news from Tehran was received cautiously.

“I said to Abu Abbas, ‘Congratulations, finally Iran is joining the Arabs against Israel.’

“He said, ‘That’s okay.’

“Hilmi Amin said, ‘Baghdad’s position has been a little late in coming, don’t you think?’

“Abu Abbas said, ‘We are waiting for a statement from the party. The situation with Iran is very complex as you know, and we have to wait until things clear up.’

“We went to the cafeteria on the first floor of the ministry building. That’s where we used to meet our journalist friends and media personalities. We gathered around a light meal, exchanging bits of news from international news agencies, sensing the caution all around us.

“Abu Ziyad said, ‘Khomeini has lived in exile here even after Iraq signed the Algiers Treaty with the shah. And he continued to live among us until the government asked him to leave.’

“I said, ‘The Shia in Najaf await a nod from the religious authorities in Tehran to begin fasting the month of Ramadan or settling on the first day of Eid al-Fitr.’

“Jassim said, ‘We have strong organic relations. It’s one contiguous region as you know.’

“I said, ‘I’ve seen Iranian pilgrims praying in Najaf before going to Mecca.’ When I asked them the reason, they wondered at my
question and said, ‘Is hajj accepted without prayer first for blessing on Sayyidna Ali and al-Hasan and al-Husayn?’

“We returned to the office with one impression: caution.

“Hilmi Amin said, ‘In the Algiers Treaty, also known as the Algiers Accord, there were some political articles and others that were topographical in nature. Iraq’s main concern was to stop Iranian support for the Kurdish rebellion and that was why it accepted the treaty, even though Saddam gave up half of the Shatt al-Arab and that part became part of Iranian territorial waters. And, indeed, the shah of Iran stopped supporting the Kurds, and Iraq, in turn, stopped supporting Khomeini and the Iranian revolution. Khomeini was living in Najaf and his speeches were recorded on cassette tapes and smuggled into Iran.’