Daughters of Iraq

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by Revital Shiri-Horowitz


  Sitting on the bus, bleary-eyed, she tried interpreting the dream. Angels going up and down, and Ima, and Guy . . . no wonder she’d woken up wearier than she’d been the night before. A multitude of thoughts scrolled through her mind, and she attempted to make sense of them. This was Noa’s second year of studying Hebrew literature. She supported herself by working in the university library. She believed in financial independence and refused to be a full-time student unless she could pay her own tuition and living costs.

  After her mother died, Noa had extended her tour of duty in the army. She needed the stability and was happy to be far from home. When she completed her military service as a lieutenant, she began saving for college and decided to see a bit of the world. She worked as a waitress, then traveled with Barak, her former boyfriend. When she attended university, she assumed a heavy course load and worked in the library as many hours as she could.

  Noa had never believed her strong, vigorous mother would succumb to the cancer that struck when Noa was fourteen. Violet’s stubbornness had bought her a few more years in the bosom of her family, but Noa, like most teenagers, was absorbed in her own life. She didn’t understand how little time her mother had left, so she hadn’t spent the last days at Violet’s bedside.

  One fall morning, as Violet underwent a round of chemotherapy, all the systems in her body failed. Noa received a summons in the midst of her tour, and Guy was called out of school. Violet never regained consciousness, and she died the same night, leaving her husband and children broken and aching. Noa was twenty.

  The bus was crammed with university students, teenagers, and old people. Noa rested her nose and forehead against the frame of the open window. Though only June, the hot mornings had become oppressive. People pushed up against one another, and the smells of sweat, spices, and fresh vegetables from the market blended into a pungent odor. Noa didn’t notice the chaos. She was in her head, floating to other destinations. The smell of spices and fresh vegetables conjured Aunt Farida, her mother’s sister. She heard Farida’s husky voice—a testament to many years of cigarette smoking. It was soothing and brought a faint smile to Noa’s lips. Noa saw her aunt’s stout body, heard the heavy Iraqi accent. Farida was Noa’s favorite aunt: a tender woman in a large, awkward body.

  Farida was truly an enormous woman: her breasts sagged upon her gargantuan belly and grazed her hips. Noa yearned for her aunt’s warm touch, which had quietly protected her over the years. Aunt Farida’s demeanor was kind and reassuring: her nose was as wide as her heart, and her forehead was plowed with wrinkles, which vanished when she smiled. She had a large chin with a dimple in the middle and dark, sympathetic eyes that always looked tired. Aunt Farida’s life had not been easy, but despite the hardships, she exuded optimism and love. Like a Bozo the Clown punching bag, when she went down, she popped right back up. She was always so encouraging, a safe haven in Noa’s turbulent life. Noa didn’t like to think about what she would have done without her.

  Noa continued deciphering her strange dream. She understood it had something to do with the exam, but she couldn’t remember the obscure words her brother had whispered. She searched for a connection between the dream and her current preoccupations and thoughts. Her mind returned to her mother, and her eyes teared up when she imagined sharing her thoughts and struggles with Violet. Noa yearned for the comforts of a real home. Her childhood house was nothing like it had been before her mother died; in fact, it was barely recognizable. Every inch of the house, it seemed, was steeped in sadness. The joy that once filled the home, that had almost burst through its walls, had disappeared; now it reminded her of a deserted, queenless castle on the verge of collapse. The study, once packed with papers, had been abandoned; the fragrance of spices was gone, too. And Noa’s grandfather had immersed himself in his own affairs. Since the death of his wife, Georgia, he had buried himself both in work and, in the last two years, his studies. He made a point of cooking dinner every Friday night in an attempt to maintain the family’s long-time tradition of eating together once a week. But the meals weren’t the same without Violet.

  Noa wanted to fall into Farida’s arms, rest there, recuperate. Maybe she’d visit her after the test. She had no plans for the rest of the day, and the test would only take three hours. If she caught the noon bus, she’d reach the village within two hours. Yes, that’s what she would do. She’d call Aunt Farida and ask what was for supper. She’d board the bus, wind through the streets to her aunt’s house. She recalled the smells of familiar and beloved Iraqi dishes. Aunt Farida would spoil her: feed her and send her home with packages of food for the rest of the week. Yes, she’d call her after the test. Noa remembered other times arriving at Aunt Farida’s house, forlorn, defiant, like a rebellious teenager. Farida always smiled, plied her with pots of good food and luscious pastries—all the comforts of a real home.

  Noa emerged from her daydream. She hadn’t noticed the bus moving or the passengers getting on and off. She had no memory of traversing the usual route from her apartment on the Street of the Prophets to the gates of the university. She almost forgot to disembark near the Gilman building, where the test would be given. While entering the building she slammed her leg into the security guard’s table and stifled a scream. She plodded up the stairs, one step at a time. Only when she sat down for the exam did she feel her distracted mind focus. The morning daydreams receded. Noa bent over the paper, concentrating on her mission. She took a deep breath, rotated her head, shook out her arms, stretched her muscles. Everything had been leading up to this test. She had studied day and night, imbibed the material. She was like a trained soldier ready for battle. Wasn’t she?

  Noa lifted her head and looked around. She saw the heads of the other students bent over their work. She looked at the preceptor. The woman walked past her, offered a candy, and wished her luck, like she could read the doubt in her mind. She could do this, Noa thought. If she just relaxed a little, the lines of text would stop dancing before her. Noa took more deep breaths and again looked at the test. She read the first question, then the next four, and she knew her hard work had paid off. She began to write.

  Chapter Four: At Aunt Farida’s

  “Hello, my sweet girl, my soul, may God bless you, how did you know I was thinking about you all morning?” Farida hugged Noa and planted wet kisses on both cheeks. “I missed you—what were you thinking: why didn’t you call me all week?”

  “Hi, Aunt Farida,” Noa said, leaning into her aunt’s soft, warm body, wrapping her arms around her, absorbing warmth and security. “I was so busy—you know how it is. Work, school, exams . . . even today I had an exam. You see? I came to visit as soon as I could. What’s that fantastic smell? Okra?” She headed for the kitchen, following the scent.

  “You’ve always had a sharp sense of smell, a blessing on your head. I’m so glad you came—there’s okra with meat dumplings, just what you like, and as you can see, I’m also making machbuz,” she said, tempting her niece with the promise of Noa’s favorite Iraqi pastries. “Eat, eat,” urged Farida, taking a tray out of the oven, “and when you go, I’ll send you home with a bag of Purim goodies.” She laughed. “Now tell me, Noa, how was the test?”

  “It was fine.” Noa let out a loud sigh, popping a piece of cheese pastry into her mouth. “I’m glad it’s over. This exam was weighing on me. There was so much material, you can’t even imagine. I spent so much time at my desk my behind was starting to ache . . .”

  “Nu, I’m sure you did well. With your mother’s intelligence and your father’s good looks, you’ll go far,” Farida said, clasping her hands.

  Noa laughed. “Wait a minute, what are you saying? That my mother was ugly and my father stupid?”

  “God forbid!” Farida said, wringing her hands, spitting, doing whatever she could to disperse any evil spirits lingering outside her door. “Your mother, allah yirchama( may god bless her memory), was beautiful and good and smart, and your father—is there anything that man can’t do? Ya’
allah, come here and sit down.” Farida pointed to the empty chair across from her. “When you’ve finished eating, we’ll get to work. You see,” she said with a smile, “I already made the dough for the machbuz.”

  “I came at the right time,” Noa said, laughing. “As if you really need help. . . but, actually, I’m in the mood to bake something together.” Noa leaned back. “Do you remember when I was little, I would spend my vacations with you, and Sigali and I would help you bake? We each had our own little jobs: Sigali was in charge of rolling the date spread into little balls and stuffing them into the dough, and my job was to dip the dough in water and sprinkle it with sesame seeds.”

  “Yes, of course I remember, that’s what’s called ‘Tena Maca.’” Farida’s laugh disintegrated into a coughing fit, and she cursed her cigarettes.

  “Tena Maca? What’s that?”

  “Ah,” Farida sighed. “Tena Maca is a code word for babysitting. If a woman needed a little peace and quiet, she would ask her neighbor to give her children a Tena Maca—to keep them occupied for a few minutes . . . Oh, baking was such a Tena Maca.” She waved her hand. “You and Sigali helped me in the kitchen, and Uncle Moshe got to rest a little bit. Ya’allah, my sweet girl, even though Uncle Moshe’s been gone awhile, and nobody in this house needs a Tena Maca, I’ll still let you help me. But first, have a drink, taste my okra—I even have some rice ready. Work can wait a bit.”

  Farida scanned her niece from head to toe. “What’s the matter, Noa’le? You don’t look good to me today.” She piled fresh-baked treats onto Noa’s plate. “What? You’re not sleeping at night? You’ve lost a little weight. What’s going on? Aren’t you eating?”

  “No, Aunt Farida, really, I’m fine. And what’s this about losing weight? I wish.” Noa gave her aunt a rueful smile. “Actually, it wouldn’t be so bad if I lost a few pounds. It’s this test,” she added. “I didn’t sleep well last night.” Noa sat next to the little table. It was loaded with delicacies, as if Farida were planning to feed an entire platoon. “Is someone else coming?”

  “No,” Aunt Farida said, a little sadly.

  “So who are you cooking for?”

  Aunt Farida sat in the chair opposite her, looked around, and sighed. “I don’t know how to cook for two people. Only for an army—that’s how it is. It’s not so bad; whatever’s left over, you can take back to your apartment.” She gazed out the little kitchen window.

  Children played outside, and the laughter made Farida forlorn. She remembered other days. For a moment there was a strained silence between the two women. Each seemed to be remembering: a house buoyant with life, crammed with people. So much had changed in recent years, leaving both of them yearning for the past.

  Of Farida’s children, Sigali had married and left the house first; then Oren got married. Sigali had two children before leaving her husband. “It killed me,” she had said, “that he wasn’t doing anything with his life.” Oren lived in Nahariya and rarely visited. Sigali lived near Aunt Farida, and whenever one of her kids got sick, she brought the child over. But most of the time Sigali was busy with her own affairs; she was a single mother, and it wasn’t easy. And Uncle Moshe . . . Uncle Moshe had died two years ago. Only Farida remained, and being alone was not easy for her.

  For many years, Uncle Moshe was out of work, and the family lived off social security. Moshe suffered from what we call shell shock. He had left for war as a confident man and returned shattered, unable to transcend the trauma. From conversation fragments gleaned over years, Noa collected an assortment of images, and from those images she pieced together the complete story.

  Uncle Moshe had fought in Sinai. He was the platoon’s cook, and one morning he woke from a dreadful dream, soaked in sweat. In his dream, all the men in his unit were killed in a surprise attack by the Egyptians. Uncle Moshe had just climbed out of his sleeping bag and was looking for a quiet spot to urinate and calm his nerves when the bombing started. His friends didn’t even make it out of their sleeping bags; only Uncle Moshe found shelter, and he was saved. When it was all over, he realized his nightmare had become a horrific reality.

  Uncle Moshe’s life, and the lives of everyone in his family, would never be the same after the Yom Kippur War. He couldn’t hold a job. Some nights he screamed and cried in his sleep; other nights he couldn’t sleep at all. Aunt Farida loved her family fiercely and strove to maintain a sense of normalcy for Uncle Moshe and their kids. She ministered to him, and made sure his children respected him. Two years ago, Uncle Moshe’s heart could no longer carry the burden of all those memories, and he died. Farida was left alone.

  “Ya’allah, Noa, start eating,” Farida urged. “The food is getting cold, and you haven’t even touched it. Eat already, before it cools and becomes jifa—nobody wants rotten food. Now, tell your Aunt Farida a little about Noa: how is she doing, and when will she get married already, with God’s help?”

  “Really, Aunt Farida,” Noa said, her mouth full. “Get married? Who exactly do you suggest I marry? I don’t even have a serious boyfriend. You know Barak and I broke up.”

  “Do I know? Of course I know. Okay, I’ll tell you the truth. You want the truth?” Farida hoped Noa would be willing to listen to her. Farida had a strong opinion on the issue—she had strong opinions on every issue—and it was hard to keep her thoughts to herself.

  “Sure, I want the truth—why not?” Noa said, laying her fork on her plate. She knew nothing would keep her aunt from voicing her thoughts about Barak. She looked at her and waited.

  “He’s all wrong for you,” Farida said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “He loves himself too much, what can I tell you? You need someone who loves you more than he loves himself. This young man is killing you.”

  “Right.” Noa smiled. There was no ambiguity in Aunt Farida’s outlook on the world; there was right, and there was wrong. “In the meantime, I’m kissing a lot of frogs,” she said with a wink, “until I find a real prince.”

  “I pity those boys when you’re around,” Farida laughed. “Do they know they’re just frogs in your eyes?” Her plump arms fell to her sides. “So some day, one of these frogs will turn into a prince? I like that idea. Now that I think about it, most of the men I’ve known were frogs, too. A couple were princes, including your father, God protect him. Do you know I saw him yesterday at Uncle Anwar’s house? He is a good man, your father. I hear he’s taking a class in geography, and sometimes you two meet between classes?”

  “That’s true,” Noa said. She picked up her fork and took a bite, surprised and relieved the Barak conversation was over. “We do meet from time to time, and it’s great we have new topics to discuss. He’s quite the student,” she said. “He never misses a lecture. You won’t believe his latest kick: he wants to earn a doctorate in geography—Ima’s field—and complete her research.”

  “Are you serious? I had no idea. Good for him,” Farida said.

  “You know, it’s really nice to see him there,” Noa said. “He’s smiling again. He looks much younger.”

  “Good,” Farida said, “very good. I’m happy for him. It’s time he started looking for a wife, don’t you think?” She grinned.

  “It is time, but you know how it is. At that age, it’s not so simple.”

  “Tell me about it!” Farida said. “I’m in the same predicament.”

  Noa felt uncomfortable. It would be difficult seeing her father with another woman. “So what’s new with you, Aunt Farida?” Noa looked at her aunt’s large hands. “Look how rude I’m being, I haven’t even complimented you on your delicious okra. The crust is amazing. Gute, gute, like my grandmother would say. Just how I like it. We’ve been talking about me this whole time. What’s going on in your life? How are Sigali and the kids? I haven’t seen them in ages.”

  “Bless God’s name forever and ever, may his name be blessed, I can’t complain,” Farida said, staring at the kitchen ceiling and shaking her hands toward heaven. “Look, I’m keeping busy, as you can se
e. I couldn’t even make it to the hairdresser, and tomorrow Sigali’s taking half a day’s vacation and bringing the kids for a visit. Can you believe that Ruthie’s in second grade already? You should see this little slip of a girl reading and writing like the devil. And Shai is in his last year of preschool, driving his teacher crazy. Did you know he has a male teacher this year?”

  “What? A man teaching preschool?”

  “That’s right. You don’t need breasts to enter the profession anymore. He’s a fantastic teacher,” Farida said. “He takes the kids on nature walks, teaches them plant names. He knows all the songs, and on Pesach (Passover) he taught the kids how to stomp grapes and make wine.”

  “Nice,” Noa said, impressed.

  “But while we’re on the subject of me,” Farida said, “it’s not easy living alone. The days are one thing, I keep busy, but the nights . . .” She tried to recline, but her corpulent body slid forward on the seat, and she couldn’t get comfortable.

  “I can’t fall asleep at night,” said Farida. “The nights go on forever—they have a beginning, but no end. I go to bed as late as I can, I watch the late shows, and I still can’t fall asleep. I wander the house like a sleepwalker. I have no idea what’s going on . . . maybe it’s my age or the approach of summer . . . maybe it’s the heat.” She looked at Noa’s plate. “You ate everything, a blessing on your head—come, let’s clean up and start baking.”

  Aunt Farida stood and walked to the counter, which was covered with delicious food. She bent to pick up the huge platter that sat beside the neat rows of spices; her house dress rose, reavealing a pair of thick legs. She rummaged around one of the shelves for the baking implements she’d had for so many years. After clearing the table, Farida put down the yeasty dough that had already risen. Taking pleasure in its appearance, in its very presence, she rolled it into a log and split it into two pieces, one of which she gave to Noa. The two women, one young, one old, sat by the table and rolled the dough into tiny balls. They were making sambusak bejiben, a cheese-filled pastry. Later, they’d fill some of the dough with dates and sprinkle it with sesame seeds. The sweet smell of these yeast cookies, or baba, would fill the room. The women fell silent as they concentrated on their tasks. Both focused on their own work, engrossed in their own thoughts.

 

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