by Jean Sasson
“Then she related a wild tale about the mayor of Baghdad, Khayrallah Tilfah, who was Saddam’s uncle and the man who raised Saddam from childhood. She told me that Saddam’s uncle kept visiting Al Dora, pressuring her husband to sell him the family farm. Dr. Shawket, who was eighty-three at the time, didn’t want to sell his farm, and he knew he would never see any money from this man even if he said yes. Every Iraqi knows that Saddam’s relatives are famously greedy; they always ask to buy something and then simply take it. Dr. Shawket knew he would likely lose his farm sooner or later, so he offered to give this powerful uncle of Saddam’s half of the farmland. Khayrallah accepted the offer, but claimed he must have the half with the water pump. Dr. Shawket had paid a lot of money for the pump, and he knew his trees would die without its water. He rebuked Khayrallah’s insistence for the half of his farm that bears the pump. Then Khayrallah changed his mind once again, and insisted that nothing but the entire farm would satisfy him.
“The morning that Jalela appeared on our doorstep in her nightgown, the secret police had arrived at their home and arrested the doctor. They had taken him away in his pajamas. Samara, this doctor was Iraq’s top surgeon and the founder of Iraq’s first medical college, as well as one of Iraq’s first Ministers of Health. His arrest was a terrible shock to us all.
“I didn’t know what to do about this catastrophe, so I called my mother, who was already at her job. She was very upset and she instructed me to call Dr. Fadil immediately. She was afraid that the elderly Dr. Shawket would die of a heart attack if he was not rescued quickly.
“So I called Dr. Fadil and told him the story. He paused, then said, ‘You call our Vice President now. His hot line is open. Tell him the whole story.’
“I was surprised, but I followed his instructions. I called Saddam’s number and he answered after a couple of rings. I told him who I was and that I was speaking on behalf of Dr. Saib Shawket’s wife. Then I relayed part of the story, about Dr. Shawket being arrested because of the land. Saddam listened quietly. He said little more than that I should reassure Dr. Shawket’s wife that everything would be handled to her satisfaction. I was to advise her that her husband would return shortly. I was also to tell her that Dr. Shawket should come to the presidential palace at four o’clock that afternoon.
“Within five minutes, my telephone rang. The caller was Dr. Fadil. He told me, ‘Tell Dr. Shawket’s wife that her husband has just left prison and is being returned to his home as I speak.’ He hung up without saying goodbye.
“Later I understood the reason Dr. Fadil had told me to make that call. It would have been awkward for Saddam to hear from one of his assistants, like Dr. Fadil, that his uncle was a thief, but to hear the story over the telephone on behalf of the victim was less embarrassing for him.
“I was waiting with Dr. Shawket’s wife when he returned from prison. The doctor was still in his pajamas, of course. The poor man was in a state of shock. I remember his first words. He stood there with an astonished expression on his face and said, ‘That was an impolite group of men at that prison. Can you believe that they slapped me?’ He stood there, stooped and frail, patting his reddened cheeks in disbelief.
“But Dr. Shawket gathered himself and got properly dressed and left for the presidential palace. I remained with his wife, for the entire day, because she was still scared to death.” Mayada’s indignation returned as she told the story, even after all the intervening years. “These were two old people—people who had served Iraq from the modern nation’s first day. It was a scandal.”
“What happened at the palace?” Samara asked as she leaned forward, brushing a few locks of her black-and-white-streaked hair from her eyes.
“Dr. Shawket was gone for over an hour, but when he returned, he told us what had happened. Dr. Shawket said he was met at the door by Barzan Ibraheem Al-Hassan Al-Tikriti, Saddam’s half-brother from his mother, the man who was married to Sajida’s sister. Barzan greeted Dr. Shawket in a polite manner and told him that Abu Uday (Saddam) was also in the room. Dr. Shawket swiveled his head around at this news, but as far as he could see, the two of them were alone. He looked at Barzan puzzled, and Barzan pointed to a table in the center of the room. ‘There he is,’ Barzan explained. ‘Saddam is on that table.’ Dr. Shawket is old, mind you, and can’t see too well. So he walked over to the table. ‘I still don’t see him,’ he said, confused. Barzan laughed and picked up a tape recorder. ‘Here he is,’ he explained, hinting that Saddam would be listening later to everything that was said.
“Dr. Shawket said he was a bit bewildered after that ridiculous episode, but he tried to explain to Barzan in the most delicate words possible what had happened. He was cautious in his wording because his tale shed unflattering light on Khayrallah, who was Barzan’s uncle and the man who raised Saddam. The family link is even stronger because both Saddam and Barzan were married to Khayrallah’s daughters. Fully understanding all these family connections, Dr. Shawket realized that there was an invisible line over which he shouldn’t step, or he might end up back in prison.
“Finally Barzan told Dr. Shawket, ‘Doctor, tell Saddam and me exactly what happened, and do not concern yourself with good manners. ’ He patted the old doctor on his shoulders and reassured him it was safe to speak openly. Barzan insulted Saddam’s uncle, and his own, when he joked, ‘Believe me, if Abu Uday had not been called and informed of your situation, our uncle and father-in-law would have confiscated everything you own, even the jacket you wear on your back.’ Barzan shocked Dr. Shawket further when he admitted, ‘Our uncle is a greedy old man. We are forced to watch him carefully.’
“Dr. Shawket was incredulous that the nephews of Khayrallah would admit such a thing, but he was delighted to hear it.
“So Dr. Shawket’s valuable land remained intact. Afterward, the doctor and his wife visited us in our home. The couple was so grateful for my intervention that Dr. Shawket offered to give me a few acres of the farm as a gift, but of course I refused to accept. I told him that seeing his face was gift enough for me. I suggested instead that he give me an interview for Alef Ba magazine about his work as a physician from the earliest days of Iraq’s formation. He happily agreed.
“The interview was published, and it was read by Saddam Hussein. A few days after the piece ran, Saddam’s staff called Dr. Shawket and told him that his medical work was so important that he would be decorated by Saddam. A very pleased Dr. Fadil called and told us to watch for him on television. Dr. Fadil had a good laugh, saying that I was responsible for getting Dr. Shawket a medal in exchange for a prison term.
“As part of a televised event, Dr. Shawket was decorated. When the program ended, I traumatized my mother when I leapt from the sofa and somersaulted across the Persian carpet. I ended in a split, laughing up at Mother. I was so happy to have played a role in the agreeable outcome. Mother, too proper at times, was so shocked by my shenanigans that she scolded me and urged me to act my age. But I smiled for weeks over the outcome, knowing that a single phone call had essentially saved Dr. Shawket’s life.”
“See, one life saved,” Samara congratulated Mayada, holding up a delicate white finger. “Without you, that poor man would never have seen the light of day again.”
Just remembering that day helped Mayada overcome her despair over her current situation in Baladiyat. Then she half hid her face in her hands and laughed quietly. “Can you believe that Saddam’s uncle never gave up on that land? Dr. Shawket died a natural death six years later, in 1986. That sorry Khayrallah was still waiting for the land, despite the fact that he was old and ill and had lost both his legs to gangrene. Khayrallah was ready for the grave himself, yet he couldn’t get that farm and that water pump out of his mind. After Dr. Shawket’s funeral, Khayrallah went straight to the grieving widow and sat outside her house in a parked car. When Jalela came to investigate, he called her over and bluntly asked, ‘Now are you willing to sell the land?’
“Dr. Shawket’s widow was so brave. Even kno
wing what had happened to her husband six years earlier, she screamed, ‘Never!’ and walked away. The widow glanced back to glare at Khayrallah, a man accustomed to getting almost anything he wanted. He gave her a filthy look as he ordered his driver to pull away. But he was afraid Saddam would be notified if he pursued the farm further, so there was nothing more he could do. That land remained in the family, where it belonged.”
“Knowing that you might call Dr. Fadil helped to keep the widow’s farm safe, I bet.”
Mayada was plunged into faraway thought. “Well, I even saved my husband Salam’s life once, believe it or not.”
Samara joked with soft laughter, for Mayada had told her about Salam’s past conduct. “You are a saint, then!”
“This happened later, in 1984. I had been away for two months on an official trip to Sudan. When I arrived at Baghdad airport, I called to check on Fay, who was only a year old. During the call, I was told that my husband had just been taken away by the army’s secret police.
“Salam was serving his compulsory army service as a soldier in the Iran-Iraq war. One night he was ordered by his commander to transport a soldier who had deserted. This soldier had stupidly gone straight home, to a place called Qalat Sukar in Umara, in the south, and was quickly apprehended. After this deserter was arrested, Salam was told to take the man to army headquarters.
“Despite being a useless husband, Salam is not a violent man. So he good-heartedly transported the man without restraining him. Well, when Salam stopped at a red light, the deserter seized the opportunity to open the car door and run away, disappearing into the night. Because of this incident, Salam was about to be sentenced to life imprisonment.
“So I did the only thing I knew to do: I called Dr. Fadil. I shared the devastating news. He told me to remain at the airport; he would send a car and driver for me. By now it was late at night, but Dr. Fadil met me at his office. I rushed in and he asked me for the name of Salam’s army unit. He pressed a button on a switchboard and was connected instantly to Salam’s commander. Dr. Fadil asked him about the incident. He then asked where Salam had been taken. He was informed that Salam was already in jail. Dr. Fadil ordered the commander to drop all the charges and release Salam immediately. Further, he told the commander to return Salam safely to his home within the hour.
“I remember that night as clearly as yesterday. Dr. Fadil looked at me with a sweet smile. He tilted his head and scratched his temple, saying, ‘Do not worry. Your lovely husband will soon be with you.’
“Then, right before my eyes, this kind man turned into an unfeeling monster. He called the commander back and barked, ‘Tell me about this deserter.’ The commander told him the deserter was from Qalat Sukar. Dr. Fadil then telephoned the secret police in that district and ordered the commander there to go to the soldier’s house and arrest every relative, down to the last child. The family was to be held until the son turned himself in.
“I was astonished to see this man do a good deed and then instantly flip to do such an evil deed. I remember I urged him, ‘Please, do not arrest more innocent people.’
“With a hard look on his face, Dr. Fadil told me that other than Salam, nothing else in the affair was my business.
“So, for me, a painful sting was attached to Salam’s return: All I could think about was that innocent family. But there was nothing I could do. A very happy Salam returned home within the hour. Salam later learned that the deserter turned himself in to the authorities within the hour, as well.”
Samara spoke in an unusually intense and somber manner. “This Dr. Fadil was a strange man. I wonder how he could turn back and forth so quickly between good and evil.”
“That’s the mystery, Samara,” Mayada agreed. “Dr. Fadil even saved me from imprisonment twice. The first time, I had foolishly posted a Khomeini photograph in my bedroom—which was discovered. And nothing happened to me, because of Dr. Fadil. The second time was in 1985. I was married, Fay was two years old, and I was pregnant with Ali. I was working with the Arab Labor Organization and was so naïve that I had no idea that just about everyone working there, but me, was working for Mukhabarat.
“Every employee was ordered to listen for remarks that could be misconstrued. One of my coworkers wrote a negative report about me. The report insisted that I did not have enough respect for the President and that I talked too freely to everyone. Further, the report described that I did not use Baath slogans in my speech.
“So one day I was surprised by a telephone call from the secret police. A man by the name of Abu Jabbar was on the line, and he ordered me to pass by his office that morning. I had no idea what the man wanted, but I knew it couldn’t be good. So I called Dr. Fadil and told him about my summons. Dr. Fadil found the situation strange, as well, but he told me to go ahead and keep the appointment. Meanwhile he would do some checking. Dr. Fadil stressed that I was to call him the moment I returned from the appointment.
“I went to the appointment, although I was not frightened because I knew Dr. Fadil was aware of my goings and comings. I knew that if I didn’t call him within a few hours, he would seek the reason.
“I walked into Abu Jabbar’s office and there he stood, a fat man with a bald head. On his face were the thickest eyeglasses I’ve ever seen, which magnified his eyeballs and gave him the appearance of a frog. I sensed immediately that Dr. Fadil had already phoned this Abu Jabbar, because the man was more nervous than I was. Before Dr. Fadil’s call, Abu Jabbar had most likely planned to arrest me, but now he knew I was poison to him. The man didn’t know what to do—he had to make up some excuse that wouldn’t anger Dr. Fadil for bringing out this heavily pregnant woman who was obviously well-connected. He kept mumbling, pacing and shaking his head. I asked him what was wrong and he repeated, ‘Nothing, nothing,’ over and over. Finally he explained that he had asked me over for a cup of coffee. I couldn’t believe my ears. My voice grew shrill as I complained, questioning if he had really asked a woman eight months pregnant to come over for a cup of coffee. Feeling brave with Dr. Fadil’s power behind me, I asked, ‘Do you realize that I was up all night worrying and could have had a miscarriage?’
“Abu Jabbar stopped pacing, stared at me and said, ‘You must be joking. Why should you be frightened? Have I offended you in some manner?’
“I asked again, ‘Tell me why I was summoned!’
“He was so stressed by this time that he raised his voice. ‘I am sorry that I summoned you. Forget the coffee. Now go home and relax.’
“I left in a huff and went home to call Dr. Fadil. He told me of my coworker’s report about my attitudes, and lectured me that I was criticized because I didn’t talk ‘Baathist speak.’
“Looking back, I suppose I should have adopted some of their ridiculous phrases, such as ‘Plant and eat,’ or some other similar nonsense that they so highly prized. Every word they spoke was a waste of good breath, in my opinion.
“Dr. Fadil told me that everyone in that place reported on one another. He told me I should keep my flippant mouth shut and tend only to business. He urged me not to trust a single colleague. This sort of insight made my time at the job less than pleasant, but I became more cautious. I refused, however, to join them in quoting socialist verses.
“Samara, Dr. Fadil was always there for us.”
“God will have a hard time deciding whether Dr. Fadil will rise up to heaven or plunge down to hell,” Samara said with a slow shake of her head.
“Yes. You are right. He is a man that mingled good acts among a skein of the darkest deeds. Do you remember when the Iranian Tabaeya document deportations began? In 1980?”
Samara gazed dismally at her hands, before looking back up at Mayada. “I knew something of it. Shiites were the ones marked for deportation. I heard about that, but never quite knew what was happening or even why it was happening. I had neighbors who were caught up in the deportation. What was that about?”
“Being Sunni of Ottoman descent, I was not touched by it,” Mayada
explained. “At least not in the beginning. But I soon learned that many Iraqis were getting into serious trouble with their Nationality Certificate. This document was instituted in 1921, when the modern Iraqi state was created upon the collapse of the Ottoman Empire. When the earliest census was taken, Iraqis were given the choice to declare whether they were of Ottoman origin or Iranian origin. If they described themselves as Iranian, their sons would be exempt from the army. Therefore, to protect their sons, many families chose to declare they were of Iranian origin, even if they were truly of Ottoman origin. Within a single family, sons might be declared Iranian and daughters Ottoman. Sadly, after the Iranian revolution, these choices came back to haunt many Iraqi families.
“When Khomeini returned with acclaim to lead Iran, Saddam decided to deport anyone in Iraq whose nationality papers were marked, ‘Tabaeya Iraniya.’ Saddam deported these people despite the fact that they were wholly Iraqi, many from as long ago as their great-great-great-grandfathers.
“I know of cases in which people were thrown out of their homes with no prior notice, forbidden to take anything with them. Those poor people were deported on foot and abandoned at the Iranian border. Anyone who tried to return was shot. Whole families were treated in this manner. It didn’t matter if the people were old, handicapped, sick or pregnant. Mothers with infants were not allowed to take as much as a baby bottle to feed their babies.
“Iranians under Khomeini were distrustful of these Iraqis, too. They feared Saddam was sending a lot of spies into Iran. But after a time, the Iranians relented and built some refugee tent cities to house the poor deported Iraqis.