Rain over Baghdad: A Novel of Iraq (3 page)

I came to when I heard Hatim’s voice as he was driving us to the airport. I smiled. He laughed and said, “Where did you go? Don’t have any fear on Haytham’s account: Thank God his problem has been solved. Take care of yourself and say hello to everyone in Baghdad.” His pats on my shoulder reassured me and led me to images chasing each other in my mind’s eye.

My mother and I were visiting my mother-in-law one week before taking off for Baghdad. I had bought the plane ticket for Haytham and added him to my new passport. I closely watched
Fattum, my mother-in-law’s maid, whose round, very kindly face was constantly smiling as she walked swaying from side to side like a duck while carrying her daughter. She sat in front of the kitchen door and took out her breast that was swelling with milk to feed her daughter.

My mother asked her, “When are you going to wean her?”

Fattum said, “I’ve gotten tired, Ma’am. I swear I’d like to, today rather than tomorrow. She eats all kinds of food but gives me a heartache all night long.”

The child hit her on the face as she was trying to move her breast away, which was hanging down to her belly, so she could put it back in the galabiya to take out her other breast, but the girl had no patience until she held onto it with both hands and we could hear her regular slurping sound.

Fattum added, “I was afraid to wean her so that I wouldn’t get pregnant again while she’s still an infant, but I had my period and she is getting close to two years. So I figured, it’s a boon from God for her, so why should we deprive her? But, I swear, I got tired and the doctor told me, ‘Come the fifth day of the period and I’ll fit you with an IUD.’”

My mother said, “Postpone weaning her for two weeks and nurse Haytham. Nora will go to Baghdad for a week. What do you say we leave Haytham with you until his mother comes back?”

Fattum said, “I’d do anything for Umm Yasir. No one is dearer than her. Two weeks is not that long.”

I said, still taken by surprise, “Haytham is used to you and he loves you.”

Hatim’s sisters showed great enthusiasm for the idea and said, “Leave him here. Have no fear. He’ll eat and sleep.”

My mother-in-law said, laughing, “The land raises the child.”

I said, “What will I do if my milk dries up?”

My mother-in-law said, “You have a breast pump, of course. Just pump the milk at times of feeding as you would when he has a tummy ache.”

I said, “I can pump the milk for a day or two or even three, but a whole week? I am afraid the milk will dry up and so I would be doing Haytham an injustice. This way we’ll lose both worlds.”

My mother said, “Have no fear on Haytham’s account. Just make sure you pump the milk out on time and make sure your breasts are totally empty. Each drop of milk you leave behind you will lose.”

Haytham did not understand my tears. He burst out crying. He thought I was mad at him. I tried in vain to laugh as I said goodbye to him, but it was no use. My mother took him and moved away until he stopped crying.

Yasir confidently said to him, “Don’t cry, Mom will buy you a big toy from Baghdad.”

My husband carried my bag, urging me not to tarry so as not to miss the plane. My mother said, “Take a heavy coat. You can’t trust how cold it will be at the airports at night.”

I checked my travel papers: the passport and the ticket. I opened the conference invitation.

Yasir said, “Mommy, the airport.”

I said, “I know; you are a good boy and I love you very much. I’ll call you on the telephone whenever I can because telephone service in Baghdad is difficult.”

He said, “Say hello to Madu, my friend.”

Members of the Egyptian delegation started arriving. We waited until most of us were there, then we made our way to passport control. Direct flights between Cairo and Baghdad had stopped since relations between Egypt and Iraq were severed because of the signing of the Camp David agreement. I looked at the large number of women colleagues in the delegation: journalists, members of the Women’s Unions of Egyptian political parties, members of the People’s Assembly and the Shura Council, women activists and business women, and some artists and writers, a mix of different age groups and ideological affiliations. It was my first time in such a large official Egyptian delegation. Usually I would be waiting for their arrival and welcoming them in Baghdad. We waited in the VIP lounge. Nuha,
a young lawyer and daughter of a famous lawyer sat next to me. She asked me, “You think our lives are in danger on this trip?”

I said, smiling, “No, the Iraqis would never arrange such an event before taking everything into consideration, even if they had to reach an agreement with Iran to protect us.”

The group sitting nearby laughed and we got into a group discussion of the circumstances of the war. I noticed that they were not well informed about the situation, but I didn’t comment. The journalist Siham Fathi asked, “Were they really able to erase women’s illiteracy up to the age of forty-five or is it just propaganda?”

I said, “They actually succeeded. I followed the project’s progress and wrote about it. It was a good program and they implemented it over a three-year period. May it be our turn!”

I remember them waiting together close to their houses for the group to be complete before going to school together. The ‘erasure of illiteracy school’ in the mid-afternoon turned into a compulsory opportunity for the women to leave behind all family responsibilities and to go out. Joy replaced fear and they experienced the whole episode as if it were a long, beautiful picnic. Once again they were young women full of hope. I remember a road trip that Hatim and I took in the company of a group of these women. They were laughing and making fun of Rashid, the leading man in the literacy campaign textbook. They made up different sentences to express candidly what they thought of men:

Rashid drank thirty bottles of beer.

Rashid came back from the tavern at two in the morning.

Rashid sold his mother’s and his wife’s and his sister’s gold (ha ha).

Rashid rode the Toyota and left his wife working in the orchard.

I loved those women and I learned a lot from them. They deserve some sacrifice on my part, but Haytham?

Time passed. The plane did not take off on time. My breast filled up and the sensation of the milk rushing kept creeping gradually
until I feared it might gush forth and soak my bra. Where would I find an opportunity to pump the milk out if I left Cairo airport? I hurried toward the restroom and took the pump out of my handbag. There were several sinks in a line facing toilet stalls. How would I take off my clothes in front of the other women passengers and the attendant? I entered a narrow stall where I could barely stand. I started pumping the milk, which took a long time even as it was gushing out of the nipple. The whole process is designed for a baby to suck as much as he can. I finished pumping my left breast, with which I nursed Haytham first because it is closer to the heart, and I moved on to the right breast. The minutes passed slowly. I heard the voice of the attendant outside calling out and asking, “Do you need anything, Ma’am?”

“No, thanks,” I said.

She could hear me moving about and sitting down and standing up and couldn’t understand what was happening inside. A few minutes later she asked me again if I needed anything. I said, “I am pumping my breastmilk. I am traveling without my baby.”

“I feel your pain, sister. Why did you leave him behind? It must be work, also. Who is comfortable in this world? Neither the poor nor the rich. Come out and empty it in the sink. We are all women and there’s hot water here.”

“I am almost done.”

“Take your time. If you need anything, just call me.”

I finished the job. If I started doing it in a hurry the first time, what am I going to do every three hours? And during the panel presentations and discussions? I adjusted my clothes and came out wondering what Baghdad was like. What has changed in you since I left, almost two years ago? I looked forward to visiting my house which I missed very much after my return to Cairo. I remembered Anhar Khayun. Would I find someone in Baghdad who could tell me where to find you, and solve the riddle of your disappearance?

I opened my handbag to take out a cotton handkerchief with embroidered edges. I still like them despite the widespread use
of tissues lately. My fingers hit my keychain. I still have the key to my house in Dora and the key to my office in Bab Sharqi and a third key for my mailbox at the Rashid Street post office. This is a letter from Basyuni’s family to him. His sister gave it to me yesterday after making me swear by all that is holy in all religions to contact our friend Fathallah Hasan and his wife Maha, for they were the only ones who knew where he was. They were also the only ones to whom he would listen. She said, “Please see him and convince him to come back to Egypt. He got entangled in the Iraqi army unnecessarily.” I promised her to try. I remembered my first and only meeting with him.

A beautiful Iraqi winter morning. I began it, as usual, by going to the Iraqi News Agency to get their morning bulletin. In
al-Zahra
magazine bureau we have no telephone and no ticker. We conduct our business the old-fashioned way. I arrived at my office in a good mood because of the soft rays of the sun, which I loved after a rainy night. I found a young man sitting with Ustaz Hilmi Amin, the director of the bureau. He couldn’t be more than seventeen. I imagined he was one of the Egyptian students who had begun to go to Iraqi universities. Ustaz Hilmi introduced him to me saying, “Basyuni Abd al-Mu‘in, one of the detainees of the January 1977 incident. He came with a recommendation from al-Tagammu‘ to look for work.”

  I said, “A detainee? Is it possible? He’s just a child.”

I realized what I was saying without thinking when I saw the young man’s face turn pale. I went on to say, “I am sorry. I didn’t mean it that way. I just calculated in my mind: two years ago, you would have been fifteen most likely. So do they detain boys now?”

He said, “I am eighteen now and they did detain me. I was as big then as I am now. They imagined I was one of the university students who were demonstrating. So I was taken to the detention center and inside I got to meet the leader of the political struggle and the big names about which you hear. They became my friends and cell mates.” He laughed and blushed. “Then I got into politics after I was released and joined al-Tagammu‘ political party.”

I asked him, “Didn’t you finish school?”

He said, “I studied in a vocational school and specialized in auto mechanics, but I haven’t obtained my diploma yet.”

I said, “Why didn’t you stay in Cairo until you finished? Do you want to study here?”

“I want to get a job. Unfortunately life here in Baghdad is difficult because of the millions of Egyptian workers who have flooded the market. Getting a job without a diploma has become almost impossible, except in construction,” he replied.

I asked him where he stayed.

“In a small hotel in Shuhada’ Square.”

I said, “I think most guests there are Egyptian workers.”

He said, “From my village alone, I found between eighty and ninety young men. I felt I hadn’t left Egypt or my village, but when I went to the hotel I couldn’t stay there. I must find some other place, quick. They put a foam rubber mattress, designed for one person, for three people to sleep on. I am not used to this kind of life. I would like to start working right away so I can move to a place where I can feel comfortable, otherwise I’ll go back to Egypt. The hotel reminds me of the prison experience, so why should I go back there of my own free will? I won’t stay there one more moment. One of my colleagues got in touch with me and told me that Fathallah Hasan was in Mosul. I’ll go there. Do you know his telephone number or address?”

Hilmi said, “Give him Fathallah’s telephone number, Nora. Right now he is at the factory and his wife is at the university. Wait until the evening and call him. Come back here tomorrow, I’ll have arranged something with him.”

I found out that Fathallah was very happy when Basyuni contacted him and told him to jump in the first available taxi going to Mosul. I never saw Basyuni after that but I asked Fathallah about him on his first visit to Baghdad afterward. He said, “I appointed him to work with me in the roads and bridges department for a large salary. Now everyone envies him. He is working on a project extending paved roads from Mosul northward.”

I asked him to give me more information about these projects and said that I might write a feature about them. He said, “We are now extending the roads between Mosul as a big city and the regions where Kurdish Yazidis, who have been neglected for a long time, are now living. These roads will enable them to build hospitals and factories and to reclaim nearby land for use. This would help them build a better world and a higher standard of living.”

I said, “This is what is happening to Kurds throughout the north.”

He said, “Well, not really. These belong to a different group of clans who are not followers of Mullah Mustafa al-Barzani and they don’t like Talabani and they believe both have sold them out to the authorities.”

I asked, “On what route does Basyuni work?”

He said, “The Mosul–al-Sheikhan route. He comes to Mosul once a week. The department has set up good and comfortable camps near the work sites. Basyuni has made many friends among the Kurds and sometimes he prefers to travel to their villages and spend his days off with them. This is quite rare, the Kurds don’t usually let strangers into their homes. He’s won their confidence rather quickly.” Then laughing, “Quite a little devil!”

My colleague, Salwa al-Attar, an editor at
al-Zahra
, asked me, “Are you still in touch with Hilmi Amin’s daughters?”

“Yes, of course,” I replied.

“What a tragedy! We’ll have time in Baghdad to speak a lot. I want to make sure they are all right. One gets distracted. He’s a life long friend,” she said.

I said, “I know and he was my friend, too.”

Anhar has taken up residence in a lofty place in my memory. It is difficult to hear Hilmi Amin’s name without remembering her and remembering her disappearance, which is still a riddle puzzling everyone. It’s a riddle that Hilmi Amin with all his contacts and acquaintances couldn’t solve, as he could never arrive at any
real information about her. I thought to myself, “How do you know, Nora? Maybe he’s found out, but for one reason or another hasn’t told you, either for fear for her life or to keep his own pride intact.” Despite the noise created by all the women sitting there and their laughter and loud voices, I remembered my first meeting with Hilmi Amin. I had known him by name only by following his articles and I also knew a few facts about the history of his political struggles.