Daughters of Iraq

by Revital Shiri-Horowitz

  Grandmother traveled through the villages on foot, her merchandise packed on the back of a donkey; she frequently encountered vicious highway robbers. Whenever she heard about a celebration in one family or another, she would find out what the mother wanted, and she would make that wish come true. For one woman, she sewed a dreamlike wedding gown based on a drawing in a British magazine; for another she made a ball gown out of lace and muslin. She fashioned clothes for men and children as well. I must point out that in those days, women like my grandmother were considered peculiar; wandering through villages and selling one’s wares was not considered suitable work for women. Those who made a living this way were treated as social outcasts, but my grandmother wasn’t concerned with honor and status; she worried about how to feed her children. She didn’t want to be a burden on her family, which was poor to begin with.

  During my grandmother’s era, most widows ended up penniless. Even those left with property were soon destitute, since they had no income aside from what their husbands left them. But Grandmother wasn’t like other women. Circumstances, you could say, made her a feminist. In addition to the financial hardships, tragedy seemed to pursue her. Grandmother lost her eldest son when an oil lamp set his robe on fire. My father, her second son, started accompanying her at a young age, traveling with her, helping carry her goods. When he grew up, he opened a small store and sold their wares.

  My mother, a strong, proud woman, never forgave my father’s mother for her low social status. She herself came from a rabbinic family on one side and a wealthy family on the other. Although my father was learned, there was a sense that my mother felt he wasn’t really worthy of her. And as for this old, simple woman who would be her mother-in-law . . . well, that was too much for her to bear. My mother didn’t see any good in her. She tended to look more at the envelope than at the letter inside. For my part, I loved my kind grandmother, and now, with the wisdom of years, I can say that she was worthy of admiration.

  My father spoke seven languages al burian, fluently. While working with my grandmother, he decided to study business administration. He was quite talented, and the government hired him for a high-ranking position. In 1930s and 40s Iraq, civil service was an honorable profession, second only to doctors and bank officers. My father, a very quick thinker, stayed in his coveted position for many years, until the birth of the State of Israel. Many Jews lost their jobs after the formation of the Jewish state, not just him. In any case, my father won my mother’s heart, partly because of his intelligence, and partly because he knew how to play the ud—the fat-bellied guitar so popular in those days.

  My mother selected her own husband, which was not the custom back then. Traditionally, the girl’s parents chose a groom for their daughter. My mother, the eldest daughter of the most learned and revered man in the village, liked to say she had grown up “like a son.” Her father—my grandfather—admired his daughter’s cleverness and worshiped the ground on which she walked. He asked her advice and considered her opinions when making decisions. In the end, my mother never forgave herself for marrying someone from such a lowly family. When they lived in Baghdad, she still showed him some respect, but that all changed when they moved to Israel and she—who was used to a life of luxury—was forced to live in a tent and, later, a crowded apartment.

  From everything you’ve just read, you can probably understand why I saw Grandmother so infrequently. I admired and loved her. She had life experience. She told spellbinding stories about her travels, about the different women she met and thieves she eluded. She was warm and open-hearted, and, best of all, she made me the most magnificent dresses, with muslin trim, in the latest London fashions. I longed for her visits. My father’s sister Madeline, on the other hand, I didn’t like at all. Aunt Madeline was conceited, and she considered children bothersome. I think I disliked her primarily because of one infamous story, the stain on our family’s name: she had insulted my mother by rejecting her dowry.

  Young people today, at the end of the second millennium, have a hard time grasping the magnitude of the insult, but in Iraqi families, the custom was for the bride to give her in-laws a dowry her parents had saved from the day she was born. My mother’s parents worked especially hard, since she was their first daughter after several miscarriages. Iraq in the early 1900s didn’t have the same health standards we have today, and a lot of babies died either at birth or soon thereafter. As the eldest daughter, my mother was her father’s favorite; in fact, the entire family doted upon her. My grandfather invested a great deal in her dowry. He made sure it was lavish, with elegant furniture, napkins woven with lace and gold, summer and winter curtains, anything a young couple might desire for their new home. The dowry was loaded onto a large wagon and conducted to the groom’s home for approval.

  The glorious dowry of the daughter of Reuven was sent off with a flurry of trills from all the neighbors, Arab and Jewish alike. It traveled from the poor side of the Jewish neighborhood to the rich side. Aunt Madeline, who was jealous and bitter and had never made a life for herself, who never had a family of her own, who always followed my father, decided the dowry was insufficient. Without telling my grandfather, she sent it back to my grandparents’ house. The neighbors saw the wagon return and understood what had happened. They beat their chests and shrieked, “Ya buya, Ya buya, something terrible has happened! They’ve broken up!” The rejection of a dowry was considered a grave insult, and my mother never forgave my aunt for this abasement. Following an abject apology from my father’s parents, during which they did their best to reduce the ignominy through ingratiation, preparation for the marriage finally resumed. Right before the wedding my father got a job in Baghdad—the big city. My mother was relieved; she wouldn’t have to see the evil Madeline’s face on a daily basis, nor those of her brazen parents-in-law.

  I’m happy I committed all of this to paper. One day it will assume a different meaning for the young generation that knew nothing about life in Iraq. I feel compelled to write this for the sake of future generations. If my generation doesn’t recount the story of The Exodus from Iraq, nothing will be known about our culture, nothing will remain. But now I’m tired. I’ll write more another time.

  Chapter Seven: Farida and Ruthie

  The following day, Sigal and her two children, Ruthie and Shai, paid a visit to Farida. Farida hugged and kissed them all. After everyone ate, Sigal and Shai lay down to rest in Farida’s bedroom.

  “Come here, Ruthie,” said Farida. “Let’s take some machbuz and chai (tea in Arabic) into the living room and have a private tea party, just the two of us. What do you say?”

  “Oh, what fun, Grandmother! You have the best ideas. I love visiting you,” said Ruthie. “I miss you so much when we’re apart, and I count the days until we see each other again. This time it was five whole days! From Saturday until today. Every day I ask Ima when we can visit you, and every day Ima says, ‘Tomorrow.’”

  “I also count the days between visits, my sweet soul, may God bless you, a blessing on your head,” said Farida. She held her granddaughter close and breathed in her sweet smell. “There’s nothing we can do, my Ruthie. This is how it is. You’re a big girl now, and you understand your mother works hard so you and your brother Shai can have a good life. Since your parents split up, things are tougher for Sigal. If I lived closer, I could do more, but now it’s up to you to help as much as you can.”

  “Yes,” Ruthie said, taking a deep breath. “I do help her, but I don’t understand why I’m always counting days. I count the days until I see my father, then I count the days before I see you. Ugh, I cannot stand counting days.” She looked at Farida, searching for answers she rarely got from adults.

  “My sweet one, I know it’s not easy for you.” Farida felt pangs of anguish for her small granddaughter. “Would you like me to read you a book, my love? I bought you a new Caspian. You like Paul Kor’s books, right? Come, look at this. Caspian’s Great Journey.”

  “Caspian?” said Ruthie, r
olling her eyes. “Caspian is a baby book. Read it to Shai.” She gave a truculent shake of the head, but then turned a pleading look on Farida. “But can you tell me more about what it was like when you were a little girl? You know how much I love your stories, Grandmother.”

  “Oh, fine.” Farida’s smile lit up her face, and she nuzzled her nose into Ruthie’s cheek. “How can I refuse those gorgeous eyes and that adorable nose? Okay. So which story do you want to hear today?”

  “Umm . . .” Ruthie thought for a moment, then said, “Maybe you can tell me about Noa’s mother, Aunt Violet. I love to hear about the silly things you used to do together. Okay?”

  “Alright. You’re the boss, Munchkin.” Farida saluted her granddaughter. “I will tell you anything you want to know. In fact,” she said, placing her hands on her granddaughter’s shoulders. “Today I’m going to tell you about a very special person’s Bar Mitzvah.”

  “Whose Bar Mitzvah, Grandmother? Whose?”

  “It’s someone you don’t know.” Farida led Ruthie to the bulky living room sofa. “Did you know that Grandmother Habiba had a son named Edward?”

  “You mean Grandmother Candy, with the funny nose?” asked Ruthie.

  “Yes.” Farida smiled. “Grandmother Candy, who always has candies in her purse. And you’re right, she does have a funny nose. But,” she said, “don’t ever tell her that—she’d be very offended.” She wagged her finger at Ruthie, half joking and half threatening.

  “Okay, I promise,” said Ruthie. “Now can you please get on with it?”

  “Alright,” Farida began. “I’ll start by telling you who Edward was, then I’ll tell you about his Bar Mitzvah. Deal?”

  “Deal,” Ruthie said, her eyes shining.

  “Edward was Grandmother Habiba’s son,” Farida said. “He was older than me. Now I know you’re going to laugh”—she took Ruthie’s hands in hers—“he was two or three years older than me, but I was his aunt, and he was—what’s the word? my nephew. This must be very confusing. Listen,” she said. “I’ll tell you how it happened.” Ruthie’s hands nestled in her grandmother’s. “In Iraq, people got married very young, and they had children very young, and sometimes”—she shot Ruthie a serious look—“not often, but sometimes, your best friend can also be your uncle. A mother and her daughter can even be pregnant at the same time . . .” Farida laughed, and Ruthie looked at her, completely befuddled. “That’s how it was with us. We weren’t even the same age—he was older than me, but I was his aunt. Does any of this make sense to you?”

  “A little bit,” giggled Ruthie. “Grandmother, are you saying you wanted to marry your nephew?”

  “I wanted to, yes, but it didn’t turn out that way.” Farida sighed. “I know it must seem strange in this day and age, but that’s how it was back then. Sometimes people married their relatives. There were families that preferred it that way; they knew the groom, they knew his mother and father. It was just easier—do you see?”

  “A little bit—it doesn’t matter, just go on, Grandmother. Tell me about Edward.” Ruthie didn’t care about lineage; she was just happy to be so close to her grandmother.

  “Everyone called him Eddie,” said Farida, “because Edward seemed like a long name for a little boy. He was my very best friend. He was fun . . . or, as you say, ‘cool.’”

  “But Grandmother,” said Ruthie, cocking her head. “You once told

  me that Violet was your best friend.”

  “Yes, you’re right. Violet was my best girlfriend.” She stroked her granddaughter’s hair. “But Eddie was my best boyfriend.”

  “Okay. Now I get it. Now . . . oh, whatever, just go on.” Ruthie nuzzled closer.

  “Eddie was smart, and as handsome as a Swede,” said Farida, her face lighting up like that of a ten-year old falling in love for the first time. “He looked like my grandfather: blonde with the greenest eyes, the exact color of your shirt.” Farida sighed deeply, then looked down at her granddaughter. She squared her shoulders and went on.

  “The three of us were, well, our own little circle. We did all kinds of silly things. Sometimes we did things that were downright dangerous. Thinking back, I can’t understand how nothing bad ever happened to us. I hope you will behave better than we did,” she added with a grin.

  “Grandmother, I already behave—ask Mom. I help her take care of Shai, and I never get into trouble,” said Ruthie, her proud chin jutting forth.

  “Yes. I know you are a good girl. Now where were we?”

  “The silly things you did.”

  “We did all kinds of stupid things, but that’s a whole other story. Now I want to tell you about Eddie’s Bar Mitzvah, which I will never forget as long as I live.” Farida brow wrinkled.

  “Why not?” asked Ruthie.

  “Because it was his Bar Mitzvah, and I was only ten years old, maybe eleven, but I loved him in a way I had never loved anyone before.” Farida couldn’t believe she was confiding in her granddaughter, who may or may not have understood what she was saying.

  “Not even Grandpa?” Ruthie asked, shocked.

  “If you promise not to tell anyone what I’m about to tell you, I’ll answer your question.”

  “I promise. I swear to God: I will never tell a soul.”

  “Okay then,” Farida smiled. “I think I can trust you.” She took a deep breath and looked down, like a girl caught being naughty. “I loved him even more than I loved your grandfather, may his memory be blessed, and you know how much I loved him. Eddie was my first love. When you grow up, you’ll understand.” She winked at Ruthie. “There’s nothing like first love. That stays in your heart forever.”

  “Ugh, adults always say that,” Ruthie complained. “‘When you grow up, you’ll understand,’” she said, mimicking her grandmother’s voice.

  “Do you want to be angry, or do you want me to go on?”

  “Oh, fine, go on, Grandmother.” Ruthie rolled her eyes and exhaled loudly.

  “At home, I remember, we spent weeks preparing for the party, which would take place in the winter, right before Chanukah.”

  “What?” Ruthie asked, stunned. “You had Chanukah in Iraq, too?”

  “Of course!” Farida laughed loudly, then quieted as she remembered Sigal and Shai napping in the next room. “People celebrate holidays all over the world, even in Iraq. Chanukah has been around for a long time,” she said, stroking Ruthie’s face.

  “The party was going to be in our house. We had to prepare weeks in advance. We had winter curtains and summer curtains—can you believe it? The summer curtains were white with the most gorgeous embroidery. We took them down and put up the winter curtains, which were also beautiful. They were velvet, like the dress I bought you before your birthday—remember?”

  “Which dress, Grandmother? The red one?”

  “Yes,” said Farida, “the red dress I bought you. It’s made from the exact same material as the curtains. You know something? Now that I think about it, every year, before Chanukah, we’d put away our regular menorah, which was the light source for everyday, and replace it with a special one. We did it every year, including the year of the Bar Mitzvah, allah yirchamu.” She pointed toward the heavens. “And Eddie’s Bar Mitzvah fell right on Chanukah.”

  Ruthie’s eyes shimmered, and her mouth hung open, slack in anticipation. Farida continued: “This menorah, the one we put out for Chanukah and Eddie’s Bar Mitzvah, was made of real silver.” With her hands, she formed the shape of a candelabrum. “It had nine branches. Ach, what a gorgeous menorah.” Longing infused her voice. “I’m telling you, never in my life have I seen a lamp that beautiful. It was truly one-of-a-kind. And the servants had to polish it every year—it took them hours.”

  “Why?” asked Ruthie.

  “Because silver tarnishes over time. If you really want it to shine, you have to scour it with a special solution. When they finished, you could see your face in the menorah—that’s how much it sparkled.” Farida laughed.

  “Wo
w,” said Ruthie. “But where is it now?”

  “Ach,” Farida muttered. “Who knows? Maybe they sold it in Iraq; maybe someone took it. It didn’t come with us; it stayed there. They wouldn’t let us bring anything, those Iraqi bastards—they should all go to hell. They barely let us take the clothes on our backs.”

  “Too bad,” Ruthie said, “because the menorah you have now isn’t nice at all—”

  “Well, that’s another matter entirely,” Farida snapped. “Do you want me to go on?”

  “Of course, Grandmother. Tell me what else you had there.”

  “I remember . . .” Farida thought back over the span of many years. “I remember that, for Eddie’s Bar Mitzvah, we took out the good rugs we had rolled up and stored for the summer. Every year we took the rugs out during summer and packed them up for winter. Do you know why they brought out the rugs?”

  “Why?” asked Ruthie, her little eyes wide.

  “Because it was very hot in Iraq. Do you remember when we went to Eilat? How hot it was?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “In Iraq, it was even hotter. And there were sandstorms that blotted out everything. And my mother didn’t want the rugs ruined. But before the Bar Mitzvah, and before Chanukah, she took them out of storage and unfurled them. Ach,” she inhaled deeply, “I will never forget those cleaning smells as long as I live. To this day, they’re still somewhere inside my nose.”

  “Where, Grandmother? Show me!” laughed Ruthie, reaching out to press her grandmother’s nose.

  “Right here!” Farida gently honked her granddaughter’s nose. “You know, cleaning the house, that was really something. And the wonderful smells drifting out of the kitchen . . . wow.” Again she inhaled, breathing in sweet memories.

  “Go on!” Ruthie tugged on her grandmother’s shirt. Farida shivered, and her demeanor turned serious.

  “There must have been ten servants working in our house, maybe more, just to prepare the feast we needed. And to ready the house for the party.” Farida coughed, and the flesh of her large shoulders jiggled. “Most times, we had several servants: one to clean, one to cook, and one to look after me and Violet, and my brothers’ children, too . . . She used to play with us, poor thing. Imagine, a girl just a little bit older than you, taking care of so many children, and every one of them driving her crazy. Sometimes she even had to watch Anwar’s children, my sister Habiba’s children, and my sister Farcha’s children. Everyone had little kids, about your age, even younger, and when the grown-ups went out, she looked after us all.” Farida put her arms around Ruthie’s neck and hugged. After planting several loud, wet kisses on the girl’s forehead, she continued. “We even had one servant, a man, who worked for my mother: he shopped, drove the carriage, ran errands . . .”