I Have Iraq in My Shoe

by Gretchen Berg

  Dalzar had a loud, sharp cough that often distracted from the lessons, so one day after a sharp-cough interruption, I just said, “Dalzar, when are you going to quit smoking?”

  Dalzar: (with a curt nod of the head) Yes!

  Me: Okay, how many cigarettes do you smoke a day?

  Dalzar: Yes, I am smoking, I know. Not good, I know.

  Me: How. Many. Cigarettes. Do you smoke in one day?

  Dalzar: How many?

  Me: Yes!

  Dalzar: Cigarettes?

  Me: Yes!

  Dalzar: (thinking) Hmmmm. I don’t know. Twenty.

  We discussed a reasonable plan for cutting down the number of cigarettes each day. I wanted him to cut down to ten the next day, then five, then two, then zero. But he actually looked very thoughtful and said, “Today? April 7? Twenty. April 24? Zero,” with the flourishy head nod.

  The next few times I saw him, I asked, “How many cigarettes did you smoke today?” Each time the answer was “twelve,” and I hadn’t seen him smoking at all. During their break one night, Dalzar and Renas sat out on the deck, eating crunchy snacks, and Dalzar, looking very proud said, “Not cigarettes! THIS!” and shook the bag of crunchy snacks at me. So, if not English, they were at least learning healthy living habits.

  After the crunchy-snack break, I was attempting to explain the concept of indirect speech, which involved detailed punctuation.

  Indirect: I told my dad to stop complaining about my shopping habits.

  Direct: “Dad, stop complaining about my shopping habits.”

  My dad had sent several disgruntled emails in response to the number of UPS deliveries he had been receiving of late (period). A pair of Dolce & Gabbana gladiator sandals may or may not have been the most recent catalyst (period). But I was still managing to pay down my debt (exclamation point)! And was making monthly donations to the ASPCA (exclamation point)! No judging (exclamation point)!

  Many of the students here seemed to struggle with punctuation, as I had heard from other instructors and experienced with my own kids. (All the instructors called their students their “kids,” regardless of their age. We adored them and felt responsible for them.) Dalzar was one of the worst punctuation offenders. There were run-on sentences, and then there were Dalzar’s run-away sentences. There was almost no punctuation at all, and the thoughts just kept going and going. This was not surprising, since it was also how he spoke.

  I took the indirect/direct speech lesson as an opportunity to stress the importance of punctuation, which required a virtual visit from Victor Borge, one of my dad’s all-time favorites. (Dad, I’m not mingling with the locals, but I’m incorporating Victor Borge into my lessons!) I found a clip on YouTube, where Borge singsonged through a monologue, creating sounds to replace the punctuation marks. Like “Pfft” for a period, “Zzzwuit” for a question mark, etc. Renas and Dalzar loved it and would use some of the sounds in classroom conversation.

  Renas: Teacher (urrrt), have a nice weekend (ppppppt).

  Me: Thanks (zoink)! See you Sunday (zoink)!

  I would always end the last class of the week by saying, “See you Sunday,” to which Dalzar, or Renas, or both would answer, “Inshallah.” Just like the Muslim airline pilots. “If God wills it.”

  My problem with inshallah was that everyone here would say it, as if they truly would have no control over any of the events themselves. “Hopefully you will do well on your exams!” “Yes, inshallah.” “Well, inshallah, yes, but you are going to at least study, aren’t you?”

  I was encountering some interesting individuals in Iraq. There were expats here who had lived in other Middle Eastern countries like Syria or the United Arab Emirates, but those countries were veritable vacation destinations in comparison to Saudi Arabia. There was no Middle Eastern country I found more daunting.

  The university had sent someone from the ESL testing center up to Erbil for an appointment, and Adam and I took him to lunch. He was a middle-aged British man named Nigel, who had recently arrived in Iraq from Saudi Arabia. I was engaged with him in what I thought was a casual conversation about teaching English in foreign countries, and the conversation went a little like this:

  Nigel: I spent about two months teaching in Saudi but wasn’t impressed with the school. The other teachers really had no social skills, and I had no interest in interacting with them.

  Me: (American—it is important to note that I am American in this conversation) Wow! Saudi Arabia! What was that like?

  Nigel: How d’you mean?

  Me: (now curious American) Well, I don’t really know anything about it, just that women aren’t allowed to drive there. And I’d heard that all women, even Westerners, have to be covered there, that it’s really strict.

  Although, this was information I had learned from Warren. The accuracy was suspect.

  Nigel: (nonchalant) Nah, I saw a few girls without head-scarves walking on the street.

  Me: (joking American) Did you have them arrested?

  Like “ha ha ha.” Get it? Like they were being super naughty? Try the veal! Tip your waiters! I’m here all week!

  Nigel: (now visibly angry) You know, you Americans, really…I hate talking to people like you about Islam. You’re all so…you really should get out and see more of the world.

  Me: (now stunned and slightly uncomfortable American) Well…I’ve seen a fair bit…I mean, I ask questions if I don’t know things.

  Have you seen my “Where I’ve Been” map app on Facebook? I’ve been places! I’ve gotten out and seen more of the world! Dammit!

  Nigel: (self-righteous, condescending) Yes, and then you go and say something like “did you have them arrested.”

  Me: (exhausted, exasperated American) Um…I was kidding…I joke around a lot…I am not a very serious person…

  Adam had committed to staring intently at his lunch plate and pretending to ignore the tense exchange that had bubbled up beside him at the table. I kept silently inshallahing the conversation to end. There was a time and a place for seriousness, and it was almost never when talking to me. I was so caught off guard with the sharp swerve the conversation had taken, I didn’t know how to escape. I just sort of stopped talking and joined Adam in trying to pretend to eat my chicken kebab.

  Oscar Wilde famously said, “Seriousness is the only refuge of the shallow.” And he was British. I considered the irony of Nigel being British and coming from the home of Monty Python, yet not having much of a sense of humor; and then there were my students who came from Iraq, home of Saddam, and were both pretty hilarious. Inshallah, everyone else I come into contact with will be a little less uptight.

  ASTOUNDING

  ACCOMPLISHMENTS OF PART 2

  Running total spent on overweight luggage: $2,920. We’re almost at the point where we can laugh about it. Almost.

  Debt eliminated: $8,882. Progress!

  Countries traveled: 2—Austria and France. Danke schoen and merci.

  Pairs of shoes purchased: 3

  Soul mates met: 0, but I’m seriously considering calling up one of those female security officers at the Erbil airport.

  Cultural tolerance level: 8—my assimilation and the friendliness of the Kurdish people bumped it up to 10, but the collective smell of the men reduced it by two.

  Part 3

  The Honeymoon is Over

  Chapter Eighteen

  Idle Threats

  The washer/dryer argument was the first of many between Warren and me. As the months went on, it just seemed to get worse. We had never argued before, but that was the Old Warren. Turkish-coffee episode aside, New Warren was the person I saw emerging more and more frequently. Director, Boss-Man, and Fearless Leader, and we argued.

  Some of the arguments were silly. For instance, based on one or two conversations he had with him, Warren was convinced Dalzar was the more advanced of my two students and would score higher on the TOEFL (Test of English as a Foreign Language) exam. After having taught both Dalzar and Renas for a coupl
e of months, I felt justified in my assessment that Renas was actually the more fluent of the two. My disagreeing with Warren really seemed to annoy him, and the fact that he was ignoring my credibility as an instructor was annoying me.

  The most taxing argument we had was regarding “my” villa, and how to deal with my alleged nonworking time. I pointed out that I shouldn’t have to answer the door or answer questions on the weekends. I deserved weekends like any of the other instructors, but because the villa and the campus were one and the same, Kurds would show up on the weekends, ringing the doorbell or knocking on the door, asking questions and wanting to enroll in the courses. It infringed on my privacy, sure, but also on my weekend.

  Sometimes they would show up when I was in my bikini, crouched out of sight on the second-floor balcony. The villa balconies had waist-high railings around them, and I would drape sheets and blankets all the way around mine to create a little private solarium for myself. It was the weekend; I wanted to lay out. Or, if not in my bikini, I might have been wearing shorts and a tank top around the villa. It was freaking hot (forty degrees Celsius!), and there was no air-conditioning in the hallways, foyer, bathrooms, or kitchen. I knew I couldn’t answer the door in shorts and a tank top, but I also didn’t think it was fair to expect me to wear long sleeves and pants all the time, you know, just in case.

  During one of the villa/classroom arguments, Warren grew irritated and blurted out, “Well, Gretch, you know, if you’ve got such a problem with it, we can just bring you down to Suli to teach.”

  Warren knew I didn’t like Suli, but he didn’t know the reason was he was there, and when he was around, it always had to be The Warren Show. Drama seemed to follow him wherever he went, and it was exhausting. And since drama always followed him, it seemed to follow our entire department. There was an unspoken divide between CED and the rest of the university, and I could feel the separation whenever I went down there.

  The CED staff didn’t really mingle with the other instructors or staff, and I felt like a big part of that was because Warren considered everyone else to be outsiders. We’re the cool kids. It was a little junior high. I felt like being in Erbil was the easiest way to disassociate myself from the dramatics and the clique-ishness and the general gossiping that is inevitable in any workplace. I wanted to be Switzerland and remain neutral.

  He knew I preferred Erbil and he was threatening me. Since we were no longer coworkers, these were not simple disagreements. He pretty much had absolute power. It was just like Tara. When Jonas Wilkerson, that ugly, ruthless Yankee overseer, suddenly became a carpetbagger and didn’t have to listen to Scarlett anymore, he threatened to buy Tara when it was auctioned off for taxes. The horror! “We’ll bring you down to Suli” was the one weapon Warren could pull out of his petty arsenal to win the argument.

  I would never have come here, knowing he would be my boss. He was not Santa. New Warren was one mustache short of a dictator, wielding his power with all the subtlety of a battering ram and casting out confidants if they dared to disobey him or forgot to show their undying gratitude.

  Take Johnny and Chady. They were two Canadian Lebanese cousins from Warren’s hometown whom he had hired to work at the university. After a year or so, Johnny applied for and got the position of director of general services; then, not too shortly after, Chady was made the director of procurement. The director positions were great promotions, but instead of being proud and happy for them, Warren behaved as if both had betrayed him, and before you knew it, they were among “the outsiders.”

  I didn’t react to Warren’s threat to banish me to Suli. I just sat, holding the phone away from my ear, waiting for him to finish his tantrum, and silently praying he wouldn’t follow through with it.

  Although it was my preference, Erbil wasn’t all sunshine and lollipops. In addition to the privacy issues, there were the bugs. Lots and lots of bugs. I hated the mosquitoes that would zip into the villa when the students left the doors open, which was all the time. Dalzar and Renas quickly learned the phrase “Were you born in a barn?” I hated the quick-slithering silverfish that wiggled across the walls and ceilings. I hated the little black something-or-others (which I just called “dirty flies”) that had made themselves at home in the upstairs bathroom.

  But I loved the spiders. Spiders ate the mosquitoes and bugs, and I just always appreciated them.

  I was a huge fan of Charlotte’s Web.

  The spiders living in the villa had become my version of household pets. I’m not saying I had gone completely crazy, but I would talk to them. Mostly just friendly greetings like “Hello, there!” when one would surprise me in the hallway or “Don’t forget to eat the mosquitoes!” or “Okay, but please just don’t crawl into my bed” when I saw that one had made a little web in between the bed and the nightstand.

  There were several different varieties of my villa spider pets: some were thick, and the color of the Saudi Arabian dust that blew into Iraq; some were plain brown, skinny, and spindly; and the one I almost stepped on, walking into the kitchen one day, was small, slim, and had faint stripes. I had no idea if any of these were poisonous. I jumped out of his way and then leaned down to scrutinize him. After a minute or so I whispered, “Don’t get stepped on by other people.”

  I then slowly straightened up, thinking, This must be one of those Oprah Aha! Moments. Ahaaaaaaaaaaaa. I am going to take my own advice.

  A few weeks after arriving in Iraq, I had started an online blog, which was basically just me recounting my initial impressions and then day-to-day stuff (Nutella, my blender, my scale, the usual) for my family and friends back in the States. The awkward conversation with Nigel made it into a post. I needed support from the people at home after that, and they confirmed that Nigel was humor-free and oblivious to irony.

  It wasn’t a private blog, so I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised when I received this comment:

  Well, I kinda agree with Nigel. In general most of American peoples are ignorant and shoot the darkness without knowing anything.

  Ruh-roh. Someone’s angry—angry and unable to properly use English slang.

  For example, its really pissing me off, the way you write about the people where you live with…

  Grammatical errors were a pet peeve of mine. At this point it was clear the person writing the tirade was not a native English speaker; however, that didn’t make me any less anxious to correct the errors with my red pen.

  …first thing you should be aware is that, you do not live in The Iraq..its called Kurdistan (you are offending people, or simply say Hawler “if you think your are an educated person’).

  Erbil was the Arabic name for the city. The Kurdish name was Hawler. This person was obviously unfamiliar with Miss Teen South Carolina 2007.

  Secondly, you think you came from another planet or a paradise called USA to a such shitty place which you call it The Iraq.

  Where is this person getting “shitty place” from? I had never said anything remotely close to that on the blog.

  You should know this by now, when people lived in that place where you are know, your country never exist and when people were educated from the land you call it the Iraq, your people and country were never born and exist

  I had a headache.

  also if you think you are in a shitty or in such a dumb place,

  Again, when did I say that? And who is teaching you English? I hate when people only know two or three phrases in a foreign language but go to great lengths to make sure they know how to swear properly.

  why don’t you go back to your country and get a shop assistant job, cause am sure the level of education you have is only enough to work in a news agent or a food store not in a university.—Arie

  Why you gotta insult the news agents and food store people? What did they do to you?

  Why was this person even reading my blog? I was used to comments like “More photos of the shoes please!” or “What did you make in the blender today? Love, Mom.” Angry A
rie was very clearly on a different page, of a different book, shelved in a different library far, far from mine. If I have to explain my writing to you, you are not my target audience. That is okay. It takes diff’rent strokes to rule the world, yes it does! Not everyone enjoys the same things, be they movies, or food, or hairstyles, or Disney characters, or tattoos, or sartorial ensembles; the list goes on. I can guarantee you, you will never see Mariah Carey in a loose-fitting fisherman’s sweater and baggy cargo pants, and that is okay. It’s just not her thing!

  I publicly (via blog post) recommended that Arie stop reading my blog, as it was obviously not his cup of tea. I was perpetually baffled by people who would voluntarily spend time fuming over something (movie, book, music, etc.) that was not to their liking, when they easily could have shifted focus to something they enjoyed. Life is short, people. Use your energy wisely.

  My mom freaked out a bit after reading that blog comment. She was like, “What if they come and find you???”, and I had to agree that was a distinct possibility. I was living in the Erbil school building, and anyone interested in English classes, or stalking an unknowingly offensive teacher/blog writer, could easily find us. I hadn’t even told my mom about the two additional attempted comments from angry Arie, which I blocked without publishing. One was more ranting about how I was probably “stupid and uneducated,” and he hoped I wasn’t being paid very much, and he and his friends would read my blog and laugh about the stupid things I said; blah, blah, angry, angry. The second comment called me a “Chicken Shit” for not publishing the previous comment. I wondered if “Chicken Shit” came up on Google Translator.