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

by Jean Sasson

  Samara followed her and murmured happily, “If a judge has come to this building to see you, you will be released.”

  Mayada began to sense a miracle in the making.

  During the few minutes she spent at the toilet, hopeful shadow women filed by, passing her phone numbers or whispering addresses and names.

  “In case you leave straightaway, without coming back to the cell,” Dr. Sabah explained, as she lifted Mayada’s skirt and painstakingly wrote her telephone number on Mayada’s slip with a half-broken ballpoint pen.

  The guard shouted, “Mayada! Come!”

  Mayada rushed forward, names and numbers and addresses ringing in her ears.

  When she stepped out from the cell, Mayada noted that another guard waited in the hall. This unattractive officer was very tall and heavyset. His skin was yellow-tinged, and when he opened his mouth to speak, Mayada noticed that his large teeth were as yellow as his face.

  The officer dismissed the guard and turned to Mayada to ask, “How are you, Um Ali?”

  Mayada questioned him, “Have I seen you before?”

  The officer did not answer, but instead quickly whispered, “My name is Mamoun. I have a special interest in your case. I saw Ali and Fay yesterday. Their father, Salam, will be back from Hilla tomorrow to be with them. You are going to a judge that knows your family. He has orders to close your case. You should be released from Baladiyat within a couple of days. Once you are released, do not leave your home until I come and visit Ali.” In the Arab world, a visit with the man of the house is a sign of respect. Ali, though a young teenage boy, was considered to be the man of Mayada’s household.

  Mayada raised her hand to her scarf and adjusted it. She brushed the front of her dress. The single most important meeting of her life awaited her, yet her clothes were dirty and she smelled. She felt a momentary flash of envy for Samara’s hygiene discipline. What kind of an impression could she make on a judge in her filthy clothes and unclean body?

  After walking a short distance down the prison hallway, Mayada and her ungainly escort turned left to confront an unmarked mahogany door.

  Mamoun held up his hand and ordered Mayada, “Wait here.” He knocked before he entered the room and pulled the door closed behind him. Very soon, the door opened again and Mamoun stepped out, this time commanding, “Come in.”

  Mayada walked into the room. A distinguished man sat behind a wooden desk. He looked vaguely familiar to Mayada.

  He spoke. “My name is Judge Muayad Al-Jaddir.”

  Mayada instantly knew that this man was a nephew of Adib Al-Jaddir, Iraq’s Minister of Information during the mid-1960s.

  The judge was polite. “How is your mother, Salwa?”

  A fleeting smile crossed Mayada’s face. “Before I was brought here, she was fine. Now I do not know. But thank you for asking.”

  “Mayada, my uncle Al-Jaddir was a very good friend of your mother, and of your father. He considered himself the spiritual son of your grandfather, Sati Al-Husri.”

  Mayada nodded slightly, feeling more confident by the minute that this man was here to help her.

  Judge Jaddir then shuffled some papers, lifted a pen and began signing documents. He looked up at her and said, “Mayada, this was a mistake. I want you to go out and live and forget this experience. Wipe these days from your mind.”

  The shadows of the pain she had endured for the past month passed through her body, but she bit her tongue to keep from telling him that she would never forget Baladiyat and the thousands of innocent Iraqis who suffered inside its walls. Instead she asked, “Do you know why I was arrested?”

  “Yes. I do. Someone working for you printed some leaflets against the government. But this shows that justice prevails in this good land. All of this is best forgotten.”

  “Will I be released today?”

  “This will be taken care of very soon. For now, go back. Take comfort from knowing that you will be released.” Then he put his pen down and said warmly, “You know I visited your home in 1980, with Abu Ali.” He was referring to Dr. Fadil Al-Barrak, whose eldest son was named Ali.

  Mayada nodded again, now dimly recalling the social visit. She also recognized that this man referred to Dr. Fadil as “Abu Ali” because Saddam had deemed Dr. Fadil a spy. No clear-thinking person in Iraq would flaunt an association with a man accused of treason and put to death.

  The judge was ready to dismiss her. “You may go now, Mayada,” he said. “The next time you speak with your mother, please convey my best wishes.”

  Mayada said, “Thank you. Goodbye.” And she stepped back out through the wooden door.

  Mamoun was there. He told her, “Wait here.” The large man entered the room once again and quickly returned with Mayada’s file. He leaned close. Despite his new pleasant manner, the man’s face still intimidated Mayada. He told her, “Your paperwork must be processed. Another guard will take you back to cell 52. I will come to get you when it is time for you to go home.”

  Mayada was frantic to know when she was going to see her children and risked asking, “When will you come back?”

  Mamoun’s face twitched with impatience and he pulled himself up to tower over her. He barked at her over his puffed-out chest, “As I told you, when your paperwork is processed. Today, or tomorrow, or the next day. Go back and wait.” He snapped his fingers at another guard to come and take her and then he walked away.

  Walking back to cell 52, Mayada couldn’t believe the day’s events. First the qabaj bird and now the judge. For once she kept pace with the fast tread of the guard, eager to share her news with Samara and the other shadow women.

  The moment Mayada entered the cell, the qabaj bird ceased its singing.

  Every woman there quickly shot a glance at the cell’s small, barred window, puzzled over the bird’s singing—and at its sudden cessation.

  Roula, who had been jailed for reading the Quran at work and praying too much, said, “That qabaj bird was sent from God. To remind us of his power.”

  Several women nodded in agreement.

  Samara stepped forward with a bright smile and open arms. “We cannot stand the suspense. Tell us,” she said.

  Mayada announced, “Samara was right. That qabaj bird delivered God’s message. I am leaving!”

  Samara twirled around and around on her toes, like a trained ballerina.

  A small roar rose to fill the tiny room as the shadow women began hugging and crying. In the turmoil, Iman’s glasses were knocked off her face and she indulged in a moment of hysterical searching for them until they were recovered, unbroken. “I would be blind without them, you know,” Iman said with a smile as she replaced the heavy spectacles on her nose.

  Even Safana and Sara, both still weak from torture, sat up in their bunks to smile and congratulate Mayada.

  Sara whispered, “Will you call my mother for me?”

  Mayada smiled. “Yes, Sara. I will call your mother.”

  Samara was seized with a joy so profound she couldn’t stop jumping around. “She will call all our mothers.” She grabbed Mayada by her arm. “Tell us. Tell us. Did they say when you are leaving?”

  “The judge did not say. He signed the documents while I was there, but an officer told me that my paperwork had to be processed.”

  “Wonderful,” Samara replied in a sing-song voice. “Then you can expect no more than ten days.”

  Mayada frowned over that answer. “Ten days? I thought I might go today or tomorrow. I cannot bear ten days more.”

  Samara wrapped her small hands around Mayada’s face. “Only ten days, Mayada?” She nodded toward the other shadow women. “Each of us would give a limb,” she smiled affectionately, “or perhaps two limbs, to learn that our time here was limited to only ten more days.”

  “It’s as though you’ve been given all of Iraq’s riches,” Muna said with a small, happy smile.

  Not one shadow woman appeared jealous of Mayada’s good fortune. No one was angry that she was leavin
g while they were forced to remain behind.

  Mayada was ashamed of her insensitivity before these selfless women. And her heart contracted as she gazed around the cell at them. As desperately as she wanted to walk out the prison door and rejoin Fay and Ali, Mayada was heartbroken to leave these good women behind.

  Mayada believed that Samara could read minds when she said, “Mayada, you must not feel guilty. We are glad you are leaving, although we will hold you in our hearts. Mayada, you can help us from out there.”

  Other than Sara and Safana, all of the shadow women began to gather around Mayada.

  Muna voiced what they were all thinking. “Mayada, do not forget us when you get out of here. You must swear by Allah that one day you will tell the world what has happened in this cell.”

  Mayada hugged Muna and pledged, “I swear by Allah that one day the world will know all our stories, Muna.”

  Samara, always sensible, looked from Muna to Mayada. “It is good if the world knows, but for now, the most important thing is for Mayada to call our families,” she said. “Now that we know Mayada is leaving, we must seriously begin her memorization process—now,” she persisted. Samara looked at Mayada with a smile that lit her face with hope. “You are our only chance, Mayada.”

  Since Mayada clung to the wish that her release would come sooner than Samara predicted, she decided to start memorizing numbers as soon as possible. “Yes, Samara, you are right. Let us start, tonight.”

  “The important thing is to call our families and tell them exactly where we are being held. That is the first key to our release. Then, tell them that the only way to get us out of here is through bribery. They must sell land or cars, if that is what it takes. Practically every guard here will accept a bribe.

  “But Mayada, when you do call, make it quick. As you know, all telephones in Iraq are bugged. Say what you have to say and hang up. Do not wait for questions, and do not answer questions. Never, ever, speak your own name. If you are tempted to comfort our loved ones, know that your kindness will get them arrested, as well.”

  Samara was thinking of every angle. “You will memorize as many phone numbers and addresses as you can today. The rest, tomorrow. Then every day until you leave, I will test you. We want you to remember all these numbers,” Samara said with determination.

  It was an unusual night. Mayada was taken to the furthermost corner of the cell, so no guard in the corridor could hear the odd reciting that emitted from cell 52.

  Aliya was first to line up behind Samara’s shoulders, her beautiful face bright with anticipation. Her imprisonment had separated her from her baby daughter, Suzan, whom she had not seen for over a year. The prospect of Mayada’s release had conjured a happy vision of reunion with her darling Suzan.

  Rasha was next. She proffered her information to Mayada in an aggressive whisper and wore her usual scowl, despite the happy possibilities of the occasion.

  Mayada was determined to remember every number, every word, the two women urged on her. Mayada knew that Aliya and Rasha had now been in prison for nearly three years, and that no end to their imprisonment was in sight.

  Dr. Sabah, serious but kind, checked Mayada’s slip to ensure that her number was still visible there. She needlessly entreated Mayada not to wash the slip until Mayada had called Dr. Sabah’s family.

  Iman twisted her glasses in her hands and spoke her information to Mayada clearly and slowly.

  Wafae wrung her handmade worry beads as she earnestly repeated her information for Mayada over and over, until Samara urged Wafae to move along, that she would test Mayada’s memory later.

  A woman named Eman came next. She was only twenty-eight, pretty with her Elizabeth Taylor coloring: pale skin, jet black hair and deep, sapphire-colored eyes. Eman was so petite that she looked no older than a pubescent girl. Along with her contact information, Eman related again to Mayada the story of how she came to be imprisoned. “I never thought of breaking any Iraqi laws, but these torturers claim I criticized Saddam Hussein,” Eman reminded her. Mayada knew that condemning Saddam was a crime that would cost Eman her tongue, so she prayed she could contact Eman’s family in time to save her.

  May was a dark-skinned, thirty-five-year-old woman with short brown hair, attractive sloping eyes and delicate features. Her crime, she had been told, was “favoring communists,” but as far as May knew, she had never even met a communist. May sat with Mayada for the longest, concerned Mayada would forget her number, 521-8429.

  It was after midnight when Mayada’s concentration faltered. Samara promised the waiting shadow women, “Tomorrow. You can give Mayada your information tomorrow.”

  When Mayada retired, her spirit was surprisingly low, considering the day’s happy events. She was plagued by the sad realization that Saddam’s prisons offered no guarantees. What if the decision to free her had been reversed? Mayada would remain skeptical of her promised freedom until she walked out of Baladiyat.

  The following morning she awoke to find her cheeks wet with tears. She had awakened from a nightmare in which a man wielding a dagger held her apart from her children.

  That morning bore yet another surprise. As soon as dawn prayers ended, the door to cell 52 banged open and a guard bellowed, “Mayada! Out!”

  Mayada was so shocked that she was unable to move.

  He shouted once again. “Mayada! You are released!”

  Samara, remembering that Mayada had not yet memorized all the telephone numbers of the shadow women, quickly thought of an excuse to keep Mayada another few moments. “She just told us she had to use the toilet. Give her a few minutes.”

  The guard looked at them disgusted and slammed the door. “Five minutes. No more!”

  In a flurry of activity, Samara pulled Mayada to the back of the room and urged, “Repeat the numbers you have memorized, quickly. I will gather the remaining shadow women.” Samara looked panicked. “Do not let that Al-Askari brain of yours fail us!”

  Mayada was so familiar with most of the women’s stories that she had no need to be told the names of their towns or neighborhoods. Instead, she urged them to focus solely on critical contact names and telephone numbers. While Samara lined up the remaining women to brief Mayada, Mayada thought of Sara, who was still unable to walk. Mayada rushed to Sara’s bedside, tugging at the young woman’s shoulder. “Sara, tell me how to contact your mother. Quickly!”

  Sara slowly raised her head. “Oh, yes, Mayada, yes. Please do tell my mother that I’m here. Tell her to save me. Call her at 422-9182. Tell her that I told you she keeps the house key under the yellow pot, next to the cactus plant. She will know then that I have sent you.”

  Sara was so weak that her head now began to wobble on her shoulders.

  Mayada assured her, “Your mother will bribe someone, I am sure of it. She will get you out of here, Sara.”

  Sara’s sweet face broke into a smile. “Yes. My mother will arrange it. She will sell the land and pay for me to leave. She will do that if she only knows where I am.” And Sara slumped back onto her bed. “Tell her I am waiting on her. I am waiting.”

  By now Samara had arranged all the remaining shadow women into a short line.

  “Mayada! Come!”

  Mayada moved quickly.

  Roula was the first waiting and she bent down to cling to Mayada’s neck.

  Roula was a twenty-five-year-old single woman with a simple-hearted appearance, who stood accused of being an Islamic activist. She hastened to unburden herself, reminding Mayada that her coworkers had reported her as an activist because she read the Quran too much and prayed in her office during prayer times.

  Mayada promised Roula she would do the best she could. Amani was a married woman of thirty-two with dark skin, rosy cheeks and light brown hair. Like Rasha, Amani could trace her imprisonment to having once lost her passport.

  Anwar was next, thanking Mayada more than once.

  Hayat and Asia stood together, their eyes bright with hope.

  Mayada tri
ed to memorize all these numbers in a matter of minutes. With a sinking heart, she realized she would likely never remember them all. She told Samara, “Get that pen from Dr. Sabah. I will write the rest of the numbers on my slip.”

  Samara quickly returned with the pen, but the instrument would barely write. Its ink supply was nearly emptied.

  The door banged open again.

  From the doorway, a different guard—not Mayada’s intended escort—snorted maliciously, “Samara! You are wanted.” Samara was being called to torture. Every shadow woman was jolted by this turn of events, and a low groan swept through the cell.

  The guard that had earlier come to escort Mayada appeared now at the new guard’s shoulder to shout, “Mayada! Come! You are released!”

  The last moments Mayada would spend with the shadow women in cell 52 slipped by, one by one. Samara’s beautiful face was grave as her green eyes met Mayada’s. The two women looked at each other with sincere love. Samara held out her arms and pulled Mayada to her. They kissed, first on one cheek and then on the other, and as they clung to each other, Mayada whispered, “Samara, you are the most unselfish person I have ever known. Thank you for everything. I will never forget you. And I will help you from the outside. I will!”

  Samara’s eyes filled with tears. “I will miss you, Mayada, and your wonderful stories.”

  “Samara!” the guard bellowed impatiently, as he marched to the back of the cell to snatch Samara from Mayada’s arms.

  Samara’s feet left the floor as she was dragged along by the angry guard.

  Mayada quickly followed, touching each of the shadow women she passed on her way out. Tears of grief stung her eyes. Her freedom would wrench her away from these magnificent shadow women, and she and they would now live in wholly different worlds.

  The last thing she heard as the door slammed was Muna’s low voice calling out, “Mayada, please do not forget us.”

  Fighting back sobs, Mayada knew that if she lived forever, she would never forget these women.

  The same officer she had met the day before, the large man named Mamoun, waited in the hallway for Mayada. “It is Mamoun, once again,” he said. “We will get your things and I will take you out of here.”