Mayada, Daughter of Iraq: One Woman's Survival Under Saddam Hussein

by Jean Sasson

  Hearing her own words caused Mayada to crack. The faces of her two children flashed before her eyes. She was going to take Fay to a luncheon and then to the dentist. Ali needed to go to the barber shop. Afterward they were going grocery shopping. Now she was frantic that Fay’s infected tooth was hurting.

  Only two days before, they had celebrated Fay’s sixteenth birthday. Mayada had spent more money than she possessed to make her daughter happy. She had arranged for a birthday celebration in the Alwiya Club, a fashionable social club in Baghdad. Mayada’s own grandparents and parents had held many celebrations in that club, so it was always fun to party there, a small way of anchoring Mayada and Fay and Ali firmly to their past.

  Now, with her arrest, all of their lives were jeopardized in a way that would have seemed unbelievable yesterday. Mayada could no longer restrain the sorrow eating away at her and she cried out, “My children! There is no one to take care of them!”

  Samara took one of Mayada’s hands into her own and said, “Listen, you need to build a wall around everything you left behind. For now, you must think only about saving yourself. Otherwise, you will go crazy.”

  Mayada couldn’t think normally, and she knew that nothing would ever make her stop worrying about her children. But something told her to take a deep breath and to listen. Samara could help her survive. Mayada nodded, but tears continued to stream down her cheeks. Mayada winced when she noticed for the first time that other than Samara, every face looked pale and hopeless.

  It was clear that Samara was a practical woman when she ignored Mayada’s tears and asked her, “Are you hungry? We will share what we have with you.”

  “No. Thank you. No, no.” The thought of eating was nauseating.

  Samara was so kindhearted that she insisted, “You must keep yourself strong. During the interrogations they try to break our spirit along with our bones.”

  When Samara saw a look of complete terror wash over Mayada’s face, she placed her hand on Mayada’s back. “Put the thought of your children in a little compartment for now. Surely someone on the outside will tend to their needs. Think only of yourself until you get out of here. They will bring us some lentils or rice soon, and if you do not want to eat now, I will save you a plate. But here is some advice.” She leaned toward Mayada and whispered in a conspiratorial tone, “Never eat the eggplant. They served eggplant soup a month ago and we were all poisoned and could do nothing but lie on the floor writhing in pain for many days. We later heard that many prisoners died, although everyone in our cell survived.”

  Samara’s advice chilled Mayada, and she thought she was going to collapse. Then, at first quietly but growing in volume, Mayada heard the most exquisite voice drifting through the cement walls of the prison. A male voice was reciting Surah 36 of the Quran, Al-Yasin. In the Muslim faith, it is believed that whoever recites those particular verses is granted the blessing of a wish. The beautiful voice was chanting, “For that my Lord has granted me forgiveness and has enrolled me among those held in honor!”

  Mayada leaned her head against the gritty cell wall with the other shadow women and listened to the soothing verses.

  The voice continued with the words of consolation, “Verily the companions of the garden shall that day have joy in all that they do. They and their associates will be in groves of (cool) shade, reclining on thrones (of dignity).”

  A tall woman with big brown eyes muttered, “They are going to kill that poor soul if he doesn’t stop.”

  Samara looked at the brown-eyed woman and said, “Roula, pray for him.”

  Her curiosity aroused by the superb voice she was hearing, Mayada lifted her head and asked, “Who is that?”

  “That is a young man named Ahmed,” Samara answered. “He’s a Shiite who has been arrested because he converted to the Wahhabi sect.”

  The strict Wahhabi sect originated in Saudi Arabia. The Iraqi government forbade Iraqis from joining the group, which was considered dangerously radical by most other Muslims.

  A third shadow woman, sitting on a metal bunk brushing her long red hair, added, “Ahmed has been here for six months. Every evening he recites the Quran. Every evening they take him out and beat him. His screams shatter the walls of our cell but the moment they return him to his cell, he begins reciting once again. He is very defiant.” She nodded her head sadly.

  “Yes, Wafae,” Samara noted, “and he steadfastly recites even as they are beating him.”

  Mayada was now so exhausted that her legs could no longer support her frame. She slowly slipped downward, until she sat crumpled on the cool cement floor like some of the mentally disturbed beggars she had seen sitting on Baghdad street corners.

  The other shadow women gathered around Mayada, and three or four lifted her from the floor and led her to one of the iron beds, as though she were a helpless baby. They tenderly sat her down, and she felt the comforting touch of a cotton cloak as it was laid upon her shivering body.

  Iraqis can readily gauge the social status of another Iraqi, an intuition no prison cell can erase. Despite her exhaustion, Mayada overheard one of the shadow women, addressed as Asia by a second woman, whisper, “This may be our lucky night. With one of the well-born bunked in this cell, perhaps the guards will increase our quota of food.”

  Mayada was so dispirited that she lay in silence while the shadow women continued to gently question her. She did not wish to appear ungracious, but she could not find the strength to utter a single word in response to their inquiries.

  Samara settled on the floor beside the iron bed and began to tell Mayada her story. “I am a Shiite. Despite the guaranteed difficulties awaiting Shiites at every official Iraqi corner, I am proud of my background.

  “I’ve been told by family members that I was born an unusually pretty child. My maternal grandfather favored me from the first moment. So he asked my father to let me carry his name forward. My parents agreed, because they had more children than they could feed.” Samara smiled. “Besides, I was but another daughter, not as valued as my brothers. So my official Iraqi identification papers were issued in the name of my grandfather, rather than my father’s.” She added proudly, “I grew up a bit of a legend in the region because many people claimed that I was very beautiful.”

  Mayada nodded in understanding. Iraqi society values nothing more than great beauty. And this shadow woman was a raving beauty.

  “When I reached puberty, many men asked my grandfather for permission to marry me. So I was married at an early age to the best man of the lot. I had known him from childhood. He was a good man. And, although we were poor, we had no troubles until the Iran-Iraq war began. As you know, Shiites were not given the advantage of any government benefits, yet our men were expected to slip on their army fatigues with the enthusiasm of someone enticed with a plate of gold.”

  She turned her green eyes toward Mayada. “My husband, like every other man in the village, dutifully went off to war. I was grateful that he was allowed to come home several times a year, but his war breaks meant I became pregnant each time he visited.” Her eyes suddenly narrowed. “Several days after the birth of my third child, I received word that my young husband had been killed during an important battle. Whether the battle was important or unimportant, nothing mattered to me but the fact my husband was dead. I was a young woman left alone with two sons and a daughter to feed. I became sleepless with worry.

  “A few weeks after my husband’s death, the government returned a coffin that they said contained his body. The accompanying official warned us not to open the coffin. We assumed the man was protecting our feelings, that he had been maimed. I didn’t want to see my husband. I was afraid he had been so disfigured by those Iranian artillery shells that my eyes would be haunted by the sight of him. But one of my husband’s brothers insisted that the coffin be opened.” Samara turned to stare at Mayada. “When my husband’s brothers disobeyed government orders and opened the coffin, what do you think they found?”

  Mayada sh
ook her head and asked, “What did they find?”

  Samara’s mouth flew open. “The coffin was filled with dirt!”

  “Dirt?”

  Samara clenched her jaw. “Yes. Dirt. Can you believe it?”

  “What did you do then?”

  Samara gestured, raising a hand in the air. “What could we do? If we complained about that dirt, then everyone would have been arrested for disobeying direct orders.”

  Samara continued, “The family had the burial service and everyone cried. We could never stop mourning, wondering if my husband was truly dead, or if he had been taken prisoner by the Iranians and was rotting in some Iranian cell. To this day, the truth of my husband’s body remains a mystery.”

  Samara bristled at her memory. “That is Iraq for you.”

  Mayada sat silent and motionless, a great sadness overwhelming her.

  “Then a second man proposed marriage soon after we buried that dirt. I was lucky once again. My second husband was a reasonable man who was kind to my poor, fatherless children.”

  Mayada looked thoughtfully at Samara. Most Arab women widowed and left with three children would have a difficult time finding a husband willing to assume the responsibility of another man’s children. But this woman’s flawless beauty was so striking that many men would want to marry her, Mayada was certain.

  “We only had one problem. My second husband was not comfortable with the fact that I carried the name of my grandfather, rather than the name of my father. In his opinion, it was a sign of a father’s shame that his daughter would owe immediate allegiance to another, even to her mother’s father. So to make him happy I changed my official papers, in precisely the way the town officials advised.”

  For just a moment, Samara’s face wore a sorrowful expression, then she smiled and patted Mayada on the arm. “You see, after the Iran-Iraq war and the Gulf War and U.N. sanctions, my husband found it impossible to find any work. Then by 1997 we were so desperate that we decided to leave the children with my first husband’s family and go to Jordan. We had heard of other couples who had done this. So we bought cigarettes at a cheap price and sat on the pavement of Al-Hashimi in downtown Amman. We made a nice profit on those cigarettes. Not only were we able to support ourselves, but we had money left over to send back into Iraq, to help his family and mine. But we were stupid. We were so caught up in making enough money to feed everyone that we neglected our official papers. We overstayed our visa. We found ourselves stranded in Jordan. We didn’t know what we were going to do. But after the sad death of His Majesty King Hussein in February 1999, his son Abdullah, the new sovereign, graciously pardoned all Iraqis without proper papers. In our desire to remain legal, we decided to return to Iraq in order to get our passports stamped. Our desire was to return to Amman after a visit with our family in Iraq.” Her voice became wistful. “We loved Amman. I felt as free as a bird in that place.”

  She sighed deeply. “And so we came back to Iraq. I remember that trip like it was yesterday, even though so much has happened since then. I admit that my husband and I were feeling particularly happy on that day. We were relieved that our documents were in order and we knew we would soon see our loved ones. It had been nearly two years, you know. We made plans to treat his family and mine to some special fish and rice. But those dreams failed miserably. The minute we stepped inside Iraq, we were asked to step aside at the Iraqi border station. We were both startled and frightened. Despite our cries of innocence, we were detained and led away to prison. We were held in a shared cell in the Al-Ramadi secret police headquarters, the one near the Iraqi/Jordanian border. For six weeks. I was not tortured during our stay at Al-Ramadi. But my poor husband was beaten daily. After two weeks had passed, his torture got worse. The torturers at that place began to hoist him to the ceiling by his hands. Some days he was thrown back into our cell unconscious. I had nothing there. No water. Nothing. I remember I used to spit on his face to try to revive him.”

  Samara looked at Mayada. “I really did that. I spit on my poor husband’s face. But that spit was out of love, not hatred.” She tilted her head and looked to the ceiling. “We would have done anything to stop his torture. But how could we stop the torture if we did not know what it was we were accused of doing? Strangely enough, the guards didn’t even know. When my husband asked them what it was he had done, they said they didn’t know. The only thing they knew was that orders had come down to arrest us. But no cause for the arrests had been given, even to them.

  “I truly thought my husband was going to die from those beatings. But just when I thought, this is the end for him, we were transferred here, to Baladiyat. But then there was another big shock. They separated us. Now I haven’t seen my husband since March.” She counted on her fingers. “Four months. It’s been four months now. I don’t know if he’s dead or alive. And as far as I know, not a single member of my family or his knows where we are. They probably believe we’re dead. Or, perhaps the government has returned a couple of dirt-filled coffins claiming that our bodies are inside.” She then leaned down and whispered, “During my first interrogation here at Baladiyat, I finally discovered why we had been arrested in the first place.”

  Samara paused and took a cup of water offered by Wafae, the shadow woman with the long red hair, and held it against Mayada’s lips.

  Mayada insisted, “No. No. Really. I can drink nothing. Later.”

  Samara frowned but drank from the cup before continuing with her story.

  Samara looked around at the peeling walls. “When I was called in for interrogation, I thought perhaps government officials had discovered we were innocent of all wrongdoing. The officer who questioned me was so polished and polite and nothing like the men who had imprisoned us at the border prison. He even asked me to sit down and have a cup of tea. He treated me like I was the lady of the house and he was the servant.”

  Samara continued. “This is what he asked me: ‘Tell me, would you like to wear some earrings or would you like to wear some pantaloons?’

  “I began to relax. His behavior convinced me that he was going to present me with a government-sanctioned gift for all the hardship I had endured. But I was embarrassed at his talk of pantaloons. I told him that ladies from my region did not wear pantaloons, but I let him know that I would be pleased with earrings, something I could sell for cash in Baghdad to buy presents for my children.

  “He seemed relaxed, as well. He leaned on the edge of his desk. He smiled at me and then stood up. I thought he was going to get the earrings. My heart leaped with hope when he said, ‘Our esteemed guest requests earrings, and earrings it will be.’

  “I sat there like a fool with a big smile, but that smile left my face in a hurry. That man called in his assistants and they began to tie me up. They bound my hands and feet to the chair I was sitting in. Then, imagine my horror when they hooked a battery charger up to my ears. Before I could protest, that polite man turned the electricity on full force and stood there laughing at my pain and terror. The pain of that torture was far beyond that of childbirth. Each time the pain eased slightly, he flipped the switch again and again. Suddenly he stopped and I thought the nightmare was over, but then he said that in his opinion my feet needed some attention.”

  Samara held one small foot up in the air and Mayada thought that she had never seen such delicate white feet. But when Samara flipped her foot to the side, Mayada gasped in horror. The bottom of Samara’s foot was crisscrossed with vivid scars of red that cut deep into her flesh.

  Samara said, “Those pantaloons he mentioned now came as a surprise. As I sat there limp, waiting for the wood-like taste in my mouth to disappear, one of his assistants entered with a big pair of black pantaloon-like slacks that they slipped over my legs. I was picked up in the air and laid down on a special table. Those pantaloons were used to restrain my legs and feet. Then my feet were bound together in a wooden restraining device. That same evil man began to beat the soles of my feet with a special stick, and I soon found ou
t what it was they believed I had done. He shouted at me as he beat my feet, ‘Why did you change your name? Why did you change your papers? Who are you spying for? Is it Israel? Is it Iran?’ ”

  Samara surprised Mayada with a smile and said, “For many weeks I had to lie in bed like a baby and couldn’t even hobble to the toilet. The beatings took all the flesh from the soles of my feet. Then they became infected and I believed I was going to die. But I slowly recovered, and now I can walk again. Since that first day, I’ve been called in on a daily basis. Some days they just question me. Other days they beat me on my back. Then the next day they beat me on my feet. Sometimes they will put me on the electricity. They ask the same questions. I give the same answers.”

  Samara bent her head over her drawn-up knees. “I’ve told them over and over. I am a simple woman. Fate made me the favorite of a doting grandfather. This grandfather wanted me to carry his name. My second husband asked me to go back to my father’s name. And that is the only reason I changed my documents. That is the whole story.”

  Samara’s face crumpled. “They have told me that I will stay here until I confess to being a spy, but I have nothing to confess. I am not a spy, and no matter how many times they shoot me with electricity or how many times they beat me, I will never say I am something I am not.”

  Samara was in an impossible situation. The men of Baladiyat would not stop the torture until she confessed to spying for Iran or for Israel, yet if she admitted such a thing, whether true or false, she would be put to death.

  Samara looked at Mayada and smiled widely. “The only positive thing that has happened to me in the last week is that my torturer has been transferred to oversee a prison in Basra, and the man who has replaced him is not as obsessed with the stick or with the electricity. Be glad for that, because the first man was so evil that I believe if he were bitten by the most poisonous snake, the snake would die!”

  At that moment Mayada felt a rushing pain down her arm and into her chest. It was the first time she had ever suffered such throbbing, but she knew such running pains were the symptom of a heart attack. In the next second, her fingers began to go numb. She reached for Samara and told her, “I believe I am having a heart attack. Can you get a doctor, please?”