Rain over Baghdad: A Novel of Iraq (63 page)

Why isn’t the taxi moving? Has everybody come out on the street just to delay my arrival home? Finally, my friend, the Nile, the Corniche, the Balloon Theatre. Turn here, please. Stop right here to the left. I gave the driver Egyptian pounds as I wondered why they did not take Egyptian money at the airport in Jordan. I looked up. I saw on the balcony an indoor clothesline with wet, small clothes. Those were Haytham’s clothes. Has he come here? How and when? Did my mother-in-law send him to meet me? Is Fattum with him or did they feed him infant formula? The doorman came. I left my
belongings with him and ran upstairs, extremely apprehensive. I opened the door as I rang the bell using my other hand. My mother came to welcome me.

“Thank God for your safe return. Why did you miss the plane?”

“Is Haytham here?”

She said as she kissed me, “Slow down! Yes, Haytham is here and he is fine.”

I got out of her embrace as I looked for my son. Then I asked her, “What’s he eating? Is Fattum with him?”

She said, “Patience. Have no fear. Everything is all right. Sit down first. Come, Haytham.”

The young servant girl came in carrying Haytham, whose face lit up with a big smile when he saw me. I burst into tears when I saw that my son was all skin and bones, having lost almost half his weight. I asked in alarm as I extended my arms to carry him, “What happened?”

My mother said, “Just a simple intestinal problem and he’s over it, thank God. Right after you left he had a mouth infection and refused to nurse. Your mother-in-law called and we brought him to the doctor. As usual he said to give him carrots and apples and to stop giving him milk. Today he put him on baby formula. He got only one bottle and would go back to normal gradually.”

I said as tears covered my face, “Poor baby, poor darling son. It’s all because of me.”

My mother said in a gentle rebuke, “Didn’t he get sick before, while you were with him? How was your trip, first of all?”

I replied as my eyes were glued to him, looking at his thin neck that miraculously supported his head and at his complexion that was no longer its usual rosy color, “Thank God. Where are Yasir and Hatim?”

My mother said, “Yasir went to buy candy and Hatim is in Alexandria. He’ll be back tomorrow.”

I dried my tears and opened the blouse, giving Haytham my left breast closer to my heart where he liked to nurse first. He took it
with a big smile and started sucking slowly, his eyes fixed on my eyes, which were now apologizing to him in all possible ways and telling him how much I loved him. He, in the meantime, was trying to make sense of what happened, with his laughing eyes and without a single look of reproof, as if I had never left.

My father, who had been performing his prayers in his room, came and saw my son nursing happily. He said, “Of course, the cow has arrived, you little pig! Thank God for your safe arrival, daughter.”

I couldn’t look at my father as I returned his greeting, for fear of confusing my son. “May God keep you safe, father.”

Yasir came in with my brother and flung himself in my arms. Haytham raised his face, then began to suckle again. My father told Yasir, “Let her alone until she feeds your brother.” Yasir shook his head and refused to move away, holding on even more closely to my waist. I said, “Let him be, father.” I patted him on the shoulder and kissed him.

I felt Haytham’s legs moving in my lap. He kicked his little blanket away, left my breast for a few seconds, and started singing a beautiful “aaaaa,” his face lighting up with a wonderful smile, then hastened to grab my nipple again. I thanked God for the miracle of my baby accepting my breast after being away for so long. I saw looks of surprise in my father’s and mother’s eyes. I felt the milk gushing forth anew. I moved Haytham to my right breast, fondling his hair with my hand as he resisted falling asleep. Then he was fast asleep. I moved him to the crib as Yasir followed me closely. We returned to the gathered family with Yasir still in tow. I hugged him hard, then placed my palms on my face, trying to stop all the images racing around in my mind and the sense of guilt gripping my heart and all the bitterness and anger. I gathered all my strength in order to ask about their news. My mother came carrying a glass of fruit juice.

My father laughed, saying, “I didn’t know you were so weak. Today’s piglet will grow up to be a big pig tomorrow. What happened?

I said, “I will never travel and leave my baby again.”

My father said, “Don’t be so hasty in your decisions. What matters is: was the trip worth the adventure?”

I said, “What adventure? The adventure was not here, father. It was there.”

My tears came flowing down. My mother ordered a glass of water for me and insisted that I drink it, saying, “Be steadfast in your faith! Babies are a lot stronger than you think.”

I remembered Basyuni. I asked, “Where’s the telephone?”

My mother said, “Where it’s always been. You’ve been here only a few minutes. Have some patience.”

I said as I dialed, “No. This is important. I must do it right away.”

Thuraya’s voice came to me, happy and ebullient, “Thank God for your safe arrival! Basyuni has arrived safely in Lebanon and said several times to make sure to call you to reassure you. I called yesterday but your mom said you hadn’t come back yet. We were all very worried about you. We were afraid Basyuni’s escape was the reason you were late. But we didn’t tell your mom anything.”

I said, “Thank God. But why did Basyuni leave one country at war to go to another country at war?”

She said, “What can we do? The PLO is in Lebanon and he’ll find someone to help him there.”

I said, “Didn’t he try entering a country for political reasons? Wasn’t the Iraqi experience enough for him?”

She said, “With no college degree or any expertise he thinks he’s a revolutionary fighter.”

I said, “How did he escape?”

She said, “He told the story of his leaving from a town called Zakhou with some sheep. Thank God for your safe return again. I hope we meet soon, after you are rested.”

I went back to my family, who were anxious to hear details of my trip. I started telling them some of what I had been through, but all the time, all I really wanted was just to get some sleep.

A few days later I received a letter with a Lebanese postage stamp. I opened it and read:

Dear Abla Nora

Warm greetings. Now then:

I write to you from beautiful Beirut, land of Arab struggle now, to reassure you about myself. I wish that when I saw you in Basra I could tell you when I was planning to leave Iraq. I had noticed while working there that roads were being tamped in a way that I had never seen in my life before. I asked my colleagues about those specifications and they told me they were paved to the international specifications H1, H2, and H3, which applied to airport runways. I said: “Why go to all this expense?” They said: “They would be considered spare or reserve airports in war situations.” I followed the work of the prisoners and learned a lot from their precision work. But at the same time I wondered why preparations were being made for war at a time when all was quiet on the Iranian front after the Algiers Accord. Please bear with me. These are things I have to tell you before I go on with my story. When the department where I worked was moved to the region of Abu Gharb al-Shahrani, I told Engineer Fathallah that I didn’t want to comply with the move order. He exerted great efforts to keep me in Mosul. One of my Iraqi bosses said to me: “You are a mechanical technician. If we keep some tamping workers here, we won’t give up any Egyptian technical workers. So, don’t get Fathallah involved, because it wouldn’t do you any good. You will not be recruited into the army, but, together with your team, you will continue the same kind of work that you were doing there to directly facilitate the movement of the armed forces.”

I went on the same evening to the bar, tired and angry even though he had told me that my salary would be tripled. There I saw an Egyptian engineer named Salah whom I had met earlier by chance. His story was very strange. He had graduated from the College of Engineering, electronics department, and served in the Egyptian army in the missile division. He had just arrived in Mosul two weeks earlier at his sister’s house to look for work. To his misfortune he sat with an Iraqi friend of his sister’s husband and told
him his whole story. So the man told him to worry about nothing. A few days later he was surprised when that Iraqi man, together with a man from the Ba‘th Party, knocked on his door. They told him that he was wanted to work for the Iraqi army. When Salah apologized, telling them he had had enough war and that he thanked God that the war with Israel was over and he had gotten out safely and gone back to his family, they told him that he was not going to fight, but that he would serve with the technical support division in the engineer corps. They induced him with all kinds of temptations. But he refused. So they threatened him, telling him it was a matter of life and death, that they needed him and that he wouldn’t get out alive. I met him in the bar in the evening; he was extremely perturbed, and cried as he told me his story. He told me that he had given in, that he had done so under duress. When I asked him why he hadn’t gone back to Egypt, he said to me, “How can I go back? I borrowed money from all my friends to come up with the price of the ticket and got a one-year leave from my job. Besides, my sister and her family have done nothing wrong. They were living in peace until I came.”

I told Salah of what happened with me and we both decided to accept facts and we each went where we had been ordered to go. I waited for an opportunity to escape. I had my eyes on the car that had come to the shop for repair and I had to go the following day to another unit to secure the extra spare part for it. I chose the time carefully so that no one would miss me or realize I was gone. I traveled at night, covering a long distance, driving the car for thirty-six hours without anyone suspecting anything. I stopped at every checkpoint and crossed it with the papers that I had, which were considered military orders, having amended the route miraculously. I entered Mosul to take my passport and some important papers and photos and letters from my mother, my fiancée, and my family. Then I left the car at a far distance from Mosul and headed for Zakhou near the Syrian and Turkish borders. I had heard from my colleagues that the Bedouins who moved among the sheep markets to sell them to butchers were the ones in charge of smuggling,
especially since they belonged to nomadic tribes and had relatives all over the place. I met a sheep merchant and made a deal with him to travel the following day. In the morning he got me a driver, who gave me Bedouin garb and made me sit with the sheep in the back of the truck, in place of the attendant who usually helped him unload the truck upon concluding the sale. I kept telling myself that I had been through worse things: I lived for two years under constant shelling, that life and death were matters that God alone decided, and that I should not be afraid, that fear would give me away. The wind got quite brisk so it helped me cover up half my face with the kuffiya they called yashmagh there. I discovered that the driver was well-known to customs officials, that they greeted him and his attendant all the time since he and his car crossed the borders twice every day, morning and evening. When I heard him saying to the soldier on duty, “May God help you, brother,” and heard the soldier say, “Go, in God’s peace,” I breathed a sigh of relief. We crossed the Syrian borders, from Zakhou to Qamishli and other points with the same routine. It was then, and only after a hundred meters, that I danced for joy, not believing that I had gotten away. But I did it thanks to my parents’ prayers, thank God. I entered the very first hotel I came upon in Syrian territory and I slept very soundly for twenty-four hours, after which I went to Damascus and took the first service cab to Beirut. I called Mom to tell her everything was fine. Then I contacted a friend who knew Engineer Fathallah, so as not to cause him any problems. Then I wrote you this letter to reassure you and also so that you’ll forgive me.

My utmost love,
Your younger brother,
Basyuni Abd al-Mu‘in
Beirut, February 1982

Glossary

Abaya:
A long, loose-fitting overgarment concealing the shape of the wearer.

Abla:
A child’s respectful form of address to a female teacher or older sister; sometimes used by adults as a noun to refer to a female teacher of children.

Abu, Umm:
Father (of), mother (of): used in combination with the name of a firstborn son (or daughter, if there are no sons). The use of such a name shows respect, and some familiarity or affection.

Abuna:
A title used by Coptic Christians to refer to a priest.

al-Ahali
: “The Population;” opposition newspaper published by the socialist al-Tagammu‘ party in Egypt.

Ajami:
A term used to designate non-Arabs, especially Persians.

Amudi poetry:
“Columnar poetry,” i.e., poetry written in the classical style according to specific meters and with a single rhyme. The division of each line into two hemistiches creates the appearance of columns.

Balam:
A boat used by the Marsh Arabs of southern Iraq.

Dabka:
A line dance popular in the Eastern Mediterranean.

al-Da‘wa Party:
A Shi‘i religious party founded in 1957 in Iraq.

Dunam:
An Ottoman land measure; approximately 1,000 square meters or about one-quarter of an acre.

Fitir mishaltit:
A thin, layered pastry with a sweet or savory filling.

Halawa:
“Sweet”; a homemade candy mixture used like wax for hair removal.

al-Hallaj:
An Iraqi Sufi (mystic) and teacher, executed in 922 for heresy.

Hawza:
A center for training Shi‘i men of religion.

al-Jumhuriya
: “The Republic;” official Iraqi newspaper, founded in 1976.

Kahi:
A breakfast dish of thin pastry drenched with syrup after baking; sometimes eaten with cream.

Kaka:
A polite form of address to a Kurdish male (although some Ba‘th Party members used the term in a derogatory way.)