by Jean Sasson
As you may have guessed, I now live in Jordan with Fay and Ali. As I write this letter, I’m sitting on my roomy terrace in Amman. It’s a balcony that brings me cheer, for I can look east, toward Iraq. We are on Jabbal Amman, off the Fifth Circle, if that means anything to you. To my left, I can see a dim outline of the road toward Iraq. To my right, I see the road that leads to Jerusalem. Many buildings and villas surround us—beautiful white stone buildings with red sloping tops, a world mingled with sunshine and trees and beautiful homes. After dark, the sky fills with a million brilliant stars, and the shimmering lights of Amman glitter.
You would like sitting on this balcony with me, Samara. It seems such a paradise after Baladiyat.
The terrace is furnished with four white chairs, a round table and a bench. Beautiful flowering plants—colored red, white, pink and yellow—ring the terrace and lift their perfumed aroma into the air. These many-colored plants also dangle down the side of the balcony, where they attract vivid butterflies and industrious honeybees. The children and I often eat on the terrace. We stare off at the skies over Iraq and talk about days long past, when living in Iraq meant sunny days sitting by the beautiful Tigris, strolling through green gardens and living the good life.
Occasionally we’ll even bring the television set onto the terrace and watch a movie on the video player. When the weather is warm, Ali, now seventeen, sometimes sleeps there.
So you know already that my biggest worry did not come true. My children were not arrested. Nor were they physically harmed. For that, I thank God every time I pray.
As was her habit, my mother saved the day. She got me released from Baladiyat.
As you know, Mother knew practically everyone of consequence in Iraq. Luckily, she still had the private telephone number of the man who headed Saddam’s Presidential Office: General and Dr. Abid Mahmud al-Tikriti, the man who filters every call to Saddam (known as Dr. Abid Hmoud to those who know him well).
Mother had met the man years ago, when he invited her to the ceremony at which he defended his Ph.D. thesis. After Dr. Abid received his degree, he encouraged Mother to call him if she ever needed anything. Anything at all, he said. And so she did. He came through for her, as promised.
After some investigation, Dr. Abid told Mother why I was arrested. It seems that someone in Baghdad had printed leaflets against the government, but the secret police had no clue where they originated. So they arrested the owners of ten print shops in the area. It didn’t matter if the one arrested was guilty or innocent. I fear I am the only one of the ten ever released, although all were most likely innocent.
Dr. Abid told my mother that he had spoken with Saddam and that Saddam agreed to allow him to sign the papers for my temporary release, but that Saddam wanted my mother to give him her word, through Dr. Abid, that I would not try to escape Iraq. If it was found that the leaflets had originated from one of my computers, I would have to be brought back in for further questioning—so that they could find the real culprit. This was a national security situation, Saddam wanted her to know, although he believed I had nothing to do with the crime.
I’ve never known my mother to lie, not once. But faced now with this deadly choice, she didn’t mind lying one bit, she told me. So my mother gave Saddam her word, through Dr. Abid. She told him the blood of my father ran in my veins and that I would never commit a crime. She assured Dr. Abid that if I tried to flee Iraq before the investigation was complete, she would wash her hands of me.
Unfortunately, no one at Baladiyat knew that my release was working its way down from Saddam and the Presidential palace until the day after I was tortured, or I might have been saved that horrifying and painful experience. Once the order had been given, I was simply ignored until the paperwork received all the necessary signatures. So you were right from the first minute, Samara. I would have been tortured daily had the Baladiyat officials been unaware of my upcoming release.
Once my imminent release was common knowledge in Baladiyat, the blackmail started. When that rascal Mamoun saw the paper ordering my discharge, he rushed straight to my home. He assured my children that he could arrange my release if they would give him five hundred dollars. The children were frantic, and sought the help of their grandfather, Salam’s father, who gave them the money. That money was turned over to Mamoun.
Thankfully, the children received financial assistance from our neighbors, who had learned of our misfortune. At night, Fay told me, people would slip around to tuck anonymous envelopes stuffed with cash inside our glass outer door.
On the drive home, Mamoun said I was not to leave my house until he came by to settle matters. I had no clue that he was laying the groundwork for weeks of intimidation and blackmail. Daily he came to my home, wanting money for this or that. He told me I would be arrested soon if I didn’t “keep the machinery oiled.” When he learned through the children’s father that I was making plans to leave the country, he warned that my name would be put on a “blacklist” of former prisoners forbidden to leave the country. These names are released to all government agencies and sent directly to the border police.
To satisfy his demands and keep him from reporting me to the authorities, I had to sell the pictures off my walls and borrow money from everyone I knew. And at the last minute, he concocted an additional scheme and held Fay ransom for $50,000! I’ll come back to this sorry tale later.
I’m happy to report to you that there was at least one good soul toiling among the staff in Baladiyat. That young doctor, Dr. Hadi Hameed, did telephone the number I outlined in the dust of his black plastic sheeting.
Besides safeguarding my children, only two compelling tasks held me in Baghdad as I made my plans to leave: I needed to contact the families of the shadow women, and I had to visit my father’s grave a final time.
I spent the first day of my release from Baladiyat calming my poor children.
The second day after my release I spent trying to contact relatives of the shadow women.
And on the third day of my release, I bade farewell to my father.
Samara, I believed you when you warned that every phone of every prisoner’s home would be kept under surveillance. So knowing that my own telephone was most likely listened in on, I went to the only place in Baghdad that boasts a pay phone: the old Alwiya Club in Baghdad. This social club, located next to the Sheraton and Meridian hotels in Al-Firdous Square, was established by the British in 1924. In those days, few Iraqis were even allowed inside the club. Of course, Jafar, Nouri and Sati were a few of the rare exceptions. Since members of my family ranked as some of the more prominent early members, I’ve often been accorded access there.
The pay phone at the Alwiya Club no longer uses coins, but it now offers a constant dial tone. An operator, hired by the government, listens to all calls from the phone, but the children and I developed a plan. (After learning about the shadow women still imprisoned in cell 52, the children insisted on helping me. I let them help, despite the danger. If I learned only one lesson in Baladiyat, it was that every Iraqi should fight Saddam’s tyranny, in whatever way possible.)
A few days before I was arrested, I had thrown Fay’s sixteenth birthday party at the Alwiya Club. There Fay and Ali had made friends with a few staff members, including the doorman and the pool lifeguard. I knew I would need a distraction to make the phone calls, so I baked a beautiful cake and urged Fay and Ali to offer some to the operator who listens to calls. The children gathered all the staff together, and after I heard noisy conversation and loud laughter there, I slipped over to use the phone.
I called Sara’s mother first and was relieved that she answered quickly. I told her, “Sara is at Amin Al-Amma. Sell the land. Bribe an official. Get your daughter out. Now. She needs you.”
Sara’s mother screamed in surprise and asked, “Is my daughter all right?”
I urged her, “You must get her out. Sara needs to get out and soon.” Then I remembered your caution to make every call short, so I told Sara�
�s mother one last thing before hanging up, “Sara says that the key is under the yellow pot next to the cactus plant.”
Although I wished I might risk a long talk or a visit with Sara’s mother, so I could stress to her the importance of fast action before Sara succumbed to torture, I forced myself to hang up.
Then I went down the list, calling every number I had memorized. As you recall, the morning of my release came so suddenly that I was unable to get the phone numbers for Asia and Hayat and Anwar. Some of my phone calls were answered by children who didn’t understand me, and who refused to call an adult to the phone. Some calls were answered by frightened adults, who hung up the moment they realized a former prisoner was making a forbidden call. I’m sad to report that I made reliable contact with only five families.
Samara, I’m also devastated to tell you that your telephone number was no longer functioning. I was unable to contact anyone for you. That’s one reason I have been so worried for your safety.
The third day after leaving Baladiyat, I went to visit my father’s grave. It’s at the Bab Al-Muaadam cemetery, not far from my childhood home on the Tigris. Over the years, I’ve rarely visited my father’s burial place. Much sadness surrounds his gravesite for me. Even after all this time, I find it difficult to believe that my father is a dead body lying in a dirt grave.
Despite my sorrow, I felt a strong need to bid my gentle father farewell, for I knew I would never return to Iraq as long as Saddam ruled, which might stretch for my entire life.
Father had been laid to rest next to the grave of his mother, Fakhriya Al-Said. His burial place is a restful spot, shaded by a large palm tree. His tombstone is simple, just as he requested. The flat white marble headstone reads,Here lies Nizar Jafar Al-Askari,
born in 1922 and died on March 2, 1974.
May Allah rest his soul in Paradise.
(Al-Fatiha on his soul)
Because it had been some time since I had been at my father’s grave, I was shocked by something extraordinary that I saw there on this visit.
In 1955, the year I was born, my mother ordered an African jasmine plant for our garden at the house on the Tigris. It was a beautiful bush with white flowers centered with a violet blush. The leaves were thick and dark green.
That African jasmine was the healthiest little plant, and it grew and grew and grew. Within a few short years, the bush had grown huge. Even before Saddam confiscated our homes on the Tigris, that little bush had grown into a massive one. It was so large that many people thought it was a tree.
When I was a child, our gardener complained of it, saying he had never seen a bush grow so rapidly. That old man swore that the African jasmine was a magical plant that was going to take over the entire yard and cover the house. And I had heard several years ago that the little plant had actually spread all over the area, becoming a bush of legend that carried itself from garden to garden.
Can you believe that that bush had reached my father’s grave? As if by magic, the same African jasmine I had often seen my father admire and caress—the bush from which he often plucked a flower for one of his “girls”—now peacefully entwined his grave.
The message-song of the qabaj bird, the mindful African jasmine plant . . . Samara, I’m beginning to believe in miracles.
After saying goodbye to my father and reading prayers for his soul, I returned home and began to seriously plan my escape.
Samara, there was much bitterness attached to leaving. I was forced to remarry Salam, since I would not be allowed to travel outside Iraq without that marriage certificate. It was so traumatic to remarry him that I refuse to think about it. I did what I had to do to save myself and my children.
After marrying Salam, I had to buy my way out of Iraq. Mamoun extorted money for every little thing. When he put that huge price on Fay’s head, believing that I could somehow come up with $50,000 to ransom her escape from Iraq, I despaired. I feared I would have to remain in Iraq with Fay, and so run the real risk of being arrested and returned to Baladiyat. But Fay was so terrified that I would be taken away from her again that she insisted she remain behind with her father’s family while I fled. She encouraged me to flee, and explained I could arrange her escape once I was safe in Amman.
I was in a terrible bind, just like that good doctor at Baladiyat. My head told me to leave, but my heart urged me to stay. It was a terrible struggle and I didn’t know what to do. And then a little miracle happened: You, Samara, came to me in a night’s dream and encouraged me, “Mayada, flee. Take your son, Ali, with you, and negotiate for Fay from a stronger vantage point. You can do nothing for either of them from Baladiyat.” As the image of your form slowly faded, I heard your voice again. “Flee, Mayada, flee.”
As horrified as I was at leaving Fay behind, I felt that the dream was a true omen. I understood you were warning me not to risk Baladiyat, cautioning me that I might not survive a second visit. Knowing that you are the most sensible woman in the world, I decided I had better heed your advice, even if it was delivered in a dream. I knew I could move mountains if I could only leave Iraq.
Samara, the saddest day of my life was the day I went to the bus station in Al-Nadha to board a bus for Amman. The station was crowded with people and vendors, and the walls were covered with ugly pictures of Saddam. I saw a dozen signs reminding Iraqis to wash their faces in the morning or brush their teeth at night. Those infantile slogans so irritated me that I wanted to slap somebody, preferably the Baathist who posted them there. The bus station teemed with families surrounded by tattered luggage. It was obvious from all the boxes and bags that most of the people boarding buses were leaving Iraq for good. And who could blame them?
Imagine our terror when the station door burst open and in walked Uday Saddam Hussein with his entourage. Even though Uday hobbled with a cane, he held an enormous Asian tiger on a leash. Everyone in the station pushed to get away from that dangerous creature, which growled and bared its huge fangs. I truly feared that Uday might turn the tiger loose on the crowd. I had heard of several Iraqis who, while dining in a Baghdad restaurant, had had to fight off Uday’s tigers. One man said the only thing that saved him was his expensive lamb dinner, which in desperation he threw into the tiger’s mouth.
Samara, I stood near my luggage with my jaw hanging open. I could scarcely imagine that after all I had survived, I would be mauled to death by a tiger in the Al-Nadha bus station. Surprisingly, Uday kept the beast on the lead, although two grown men protecting their families got swatted hard by a large paw.
Uday hobbled through the station, spitting on people and screaming at them. He called everyone a traitor for leaving Iraq. Thankfully, Ali and I were at the back of a long line and the madman couldn’t get to us. I was terrified that Fay might be attacked, however, as she and her father had been separated from us by that frantic pushing crowd. But she didn’t.
Uday spat until he exhausted himself and left the building. Everyone then began boarding buses, praising God they had survived yet another day in the zoo that was Iraq.
Ali and I finally got on our bus, and I was blinded by tears when I looked out the bus window to wave at my weeping daughter. Poor Ali, only twelve at the time, was tearful that he had been unable to say goodbye to a single friend. Unfortunately, Salam had to travel with us, making the trip to Amman even more miserable.
Both Ali and I were so struck by grief and confusion and relief that we barely said a word, to each other, or to Salam. I stared out the bus window for hours, watching the desert pass, entranced by the sparkling sand that glittered like pearls under the moon. I mused that the land remains the same, no matter what is happening to the humans living on the land.
As we neared the Iraqi border station, I got the same chest pains I had experienced my first night in Baladiyat. I knew that Mamoun was fully capable of tricking me. What if he had notified the authorities at the border that a certain Mayada Al-Askari was illegally leaving the country? If so, Samara, I knew that Ali and I would be detain
ed in the same prison at Ramadi that held you before your transfer to Baladiyat. I cannot describe the fear that knotted in my throat when the border guard asked, “Why are you leaving Iraq?” I lied, “My mother is ill in Amman and I am going to take care of her.” Salam stood smirking, without offering to support my story. The guard glared at me like I was a murderer, but he stamped my passport and we were on our way.
After our passports were stamped and we passed into Jordan, a huge burden lifted from my heart. I had escaped Iraq. Now, I told myself, I could spend all my energy raising money to pay for Fay’s escape, too.
I’m sorry to report that Salam returned to Baghdad, without giving me the divorce he had promised.
But, Samara, I found that even more bitterness awaited me in Amman.
After my searing time in prison and the anxiety of our plot to escape Iraq, it was wonderful to see my mother again. She is the strongest-willed woman ever to live. Yet I still faced many serious problems. Shorn of the privilege I had always enjoyed as the granddaughter of Sati Al-Husri and Jafar Al-Askari, my weakened finances now limited my options. My mother had spent a great deal of money on me and my children over the years, and I knew that she now had to think of her old age and how she was going to live. So I could not bear to ask her for money. I ended in a terrible bind, trying to pay my son’s tuition and at the same time find the funds to pay Fay’s ransom. I learned that Mamoun was still blackmailing her, claiming she would find trouble if the authorities discovered that I had fled the country.
But luckily, my life has long been mingled with both miracles and tragedy. Just as I was about to give up, a new miracle appeared. About a year after I left Iraq, a dear friend heard about my dilemma and gave me $25,000 for Fay’s ransom. Mamoun greedily agreed to this sum, and my daughter soon came to join me in Amman.