Daughters of Iraq

by Revital Shiri-Horowitz

  She looked out the window, at the street. An occasional car passed, but not a single soul ventured by on foot. Sliding her feet into her slippers, she sighed deeply, then limped back into the kitchen.

  She opened the cabinet and took out a finjan to make coffee. She put in a spoonful of freshly ground coffee it smelled of cardamom and added a generous amount of sugar. She filled a small mug with water from the tap and tossed it into the finjan. She turned the burner on low, placed the pot on the flame, and stirred. The coffee and sugar combined, and a light froth began to form. Farida slipped into her past: forlorn memories of unfulfilled love and a shattered heart.

  Like the coffee percolating in the finjan, her memories of Eddie were both bitter and sweet. She remembered the first time they were separated: she had moved to Israel, and Eddie, unwilling to abandon his fellow Resistance fighters, had stayed behind. She remembered, too, their passionate reunion after so many long months, and the stories of his dramatic escape to Israel—stories that seemed part “Tales of the Arabian Knights” and part a TV espionage series.

  “Eddie,” she murmured. “Eddie.” In Iraq they had almost hanged him, and later on, in Israel, war had killed him for good. People say time salves wounds, but Eddie’s absence still burned in her heart. Her widowhood and loneliness only intensified her longing. She still remembered his face. She still heard his voice. He was her first thought when she opened her eyes in the morning, and at night, his mischievous smile was the last thing she saw before she fell asleep. Every night she reminded him and herself that one day she would join him, and they would finally be together forever.

  Chapter Nineteen: Violet

  Friday, February 27, 1987

  Evening fell. From a distance, we could see the newly built villages. Small houses poked up from the treeless hills, like new teeth in a baby’s mouth; they were a soothing, pleasing sight. Some of the mountains were barren, but if you looked carefully, you could see a few pine trees through the fog. Lights flickered in the darkness, visible from miles away. As the bus wove its way through the twisted roads, I played a little game of hide-and-seek with myself, trying to predict when the next lights would appear. Groups of short, squat houses continued to dot the hills kibbutzim or Arab villages, I later learned. By the time we arrived, it was dark. The bus inched its way to the kibbutz gate.

  “Wake up, Farida,” I whispered. “We’re here.”

  Farida stretched and rubbed her eyes. “We’re here?”

  “Look,” I said, “we’re about to enter our new kibbutz.”

  “Why are we just sitting here?” Farida asked, sweeping her arms across the landscape.

  “I don’t know,” I said, looking around.

  We heard the driver talking to the kibbutz security guard.

  Every part of my body ached. My sister had been sleeping on my shoulder through the entire ride, and I couldn’t wait for her to get up. Finally, the guard opened the gate and we drove in. I saw little trees on both sides of the road and, beyond them, small houses. After a short drive, the bus came to a stop next to a larger building the dining room, I found out later.

  A heavyset woman welcomed us. She smiled broadly, pointed to herself, and said, “Miriam.” She did this for our benefit; the majority of passengers on our bus had come straight from the Sha’ar Aliyah and knew only a few Hebrew words. Farida and I knew a bit more, because our mother had taught us in Iraq. Miriam acted like a Super-Mother: there was no limit to the number of children she could accommodate. Many of them were even younger than Farida and me. Twelve- and thirteen-year-olds, separated from their families. There was room for all of us in Miriam’s generous heart, and I liked her from the moment I saw her. I knew she would relieve me of some of the burden I felt, worrying about Farida. I sensed she would support me, help me. For the first time in a long while, I felt a semblance of peace; we had finally reached a place we could call home.

  Miriam assigned us rooms and handed us work clothes. I looked at the garments, then at Farida, and the two of us burst out laughing. When leaving Iraq, we’d packed our best dresses, the ones Ima’s seamstress had made for us. But nobody could have been happier than I was that day on the kibbutz, trading in my fancy dress for loose-fitting work clothes. Later, when looking in the mirror, I realized the short pants accentuated the curves of my body and that between the buttons of my shirt people could catch a glimpse of my breasts. I shoved my hands in the pockets of my shorts, and Miriam took us for a short walk around the kibbutz. From that day, the only time I ever removed those clothes was on Friday nights, when we’d shower and put on the simplest dresses we could find. Here on the kibbutz, those dresses looked like they’d come right out of a fashion magazine.

  I loved walking in the Kibbutz pathways in the evenings, especially on those Shabbat nights which were very special on the kibbutz. Seeing the other families walking out in their best clothes was a thrill: men and boys wore khaki pants and shirts, and women and girls wore dresses, skirts, or even pants, which in those days was very unusual. When I saw them making their way to the dining room for our weekly Shabbat meal, my heart ached. I’d look at Farida, and see my feelings reflected in her eyes, her expression full of longing. Oh, how we yearned for our family, scattered throughout the Middle East. Aba would visit us from time to time, but we rarely saw the rest of our family. Most of all, we longed for Ima and Eddie.

  That first night, our tour of the kibbutz took us past brightly lit houses, the dining room, the laundry (which was completely new to us), and the dormitory where we would sleep. Farida and I stepped into our new room and exchanged gratified smiles. We’d been living in a tent for a month, and now, finally, we were back in a real room, with four walls, a small closet, and a window looking out on an orchard. Next door lived two young men, Holocaust survivors from Poland. At first we were shocked at the thought of living next to men, but our discomfort was short-lived. We instantly found a way to communicate with them, primarily through primitive sign language that sometimes left us in hysterics. We kept this up until we’d all learned Hebrew.

  I will never forget our Hebrew classes. The older I get, the more ridiculous they seem. Our language teacher at the kibbutz was an old, bald man with a thick German accent; he believed using the works of our national poet Chaim Nachman Bialik was the best way to teach us. Poems like Gather Me Under Your Wing, and Be for Me both Mother and Sister were our texts. He had decided to teach us a highbrow, poetic version of Hebrew. Rather than teaching us the language of everyday conversation which is what we really needed—he used a refined lexicon culled from the poems of Bialik. We paid the price for this every time we spoke to native Israelis, particularly children, who stared at us when we spoke, as if we were a bunch of circus animals.

  The cultural gap between us the new immigrants and the Sabras was huge, but much goodwill existed on both sides, and a feeling of solidarity asserted itself and enabled us to overcome the challenges. I remember many funny incidents that highlighted the differences between both groups. One time, for example, I sat in the dining room eating rice with a spoon, as we had in Iraq. An Israeli man sitting across the table looked at me in bewilderment. “If you eat your rice with a spoon,” he chided, “you must drink your soup with a fork.” It had either not occurred to this gentleman that people from different places have different customs, that what is considered acceptable in one society is not acceptable in another, or he was having fun at my expense. I hoped the former but feared the latter.

  More than once, the linguistic challenges made me smile. I remember one time, working in the kitchen, when I asked another worker to pass me the matanah the gift when what I really wanted was the matateh the broom to sweep the kitchen floor. She didn’t understand, of course, until I pointed to the broom. Laughing, she said, “Matateh. Say it: matateh. That’s what you want, right?” She looked at another worker and rolled her eyes. “What a concept, like it’s a real gift to sweep up the kibbutz dining room.” It was embarrassing I felt like a little girl but
I learned the difference between the two words, and I never made that mistake again. For a long time after that incident, everyone referred to the broom as “the gift,” completely befuddling the newcomers. The broom-gift had become an inside joke, shared by all who worked with us.

  Chapter Twenty: Noa

  Late in the afternoon, Noa awoke from a deep sleep. A single, piercing ray of sunlight blinded her. She lifted her heavy head and looked around. She had a nasty headache. She dropped her head back onto the pillow and sighed. A large, warm hand caressed her brow, and for a moment she panicked: she didn’t know whose hand it was. She felt warm breath on her neck, and then someone kissed her. She remembered the previous night’s events and blushed.

  “Good morning,” Ofir whispered.

  “To you, too.” She turned to him and smiled.

  “Did you sleep well?”

  “It was a black sleep do you know what I mean?” She gazed into Ofir’s face and was struck by his handsomeness. His eyes kind, blue, familiar watched her, and his unruly hair grazed his bare shoulders.

  “My head kills,” said Noa.

  “No wonder, after all you drank yesterday. But don’t even think of telling me that last night happened because you were drunk.” He smiled.

  “Of course that’s what I’m telling you.” She returned his smile then haughtily turned her back on him.

  “If that’s the case,” he said, “then I know exactly what to do to get you to sleep with me.”

  “You wicked man,” she whispered. “On the other hand, I can always pretend I’m drunk so you’ll take advantage of my vulnerable state.” She pulled him close and kissed him.

  “So either way, you’re not responsible?” He was enjoying this.

  “Never.” Pleased with herself, Noa pushed her face between Ofir’s warm hands. “Would you mind bringing me a cup of coffee and an aspirin?”

  “I’ll promise you half my kingdom if we can spend the rest of the day in bed.”

  “Sounds good,” Noa said, pulling away from him, “but unfortunately I have to work on my seminar paper.”

  “What’s it about?”

  Noa sat up. “I’m writing about Yona Wallach, and it’s an absolute nightmare finding any written material about her. I’m really breaking new ground.”

  “That sounds interesting,” said Ofir, “very creative.”

  “Yona Wallach’s personality fascinates me,” Noa said, forgetting about her headache for a moment. She’s brave and provocative, just a fabulous poet. I suppose I admire her.”

  “From what I know about Yona Wallach’s poetry which isn’t much it seems to me that you can love her or hate her, but you can’t ignore her. I’d say she’s a little crazy,” Ofir said, giving Noa a sidelong glance. “What is it about her you love so much? Is it her provocative personality or her wild and complicated poems?”

  Noa considered Ofir. He had strong opinions about many topics outside physics, his area of expertise topics that, by his own admission, he knew little about. But he was smart, and while he might not intimately know a given subject, he usually made trenchant observations. She found their discussions interesting and challenging.

  She told him that if she wanted to answer his question properly she would have to research every aspect of Wallach’s work and life, but the more she understood about the poet, the more mystified she became. She’d begun by focusing on Wallach’s creative use of language, but now, studying her in the context of feminist theory, what she really admired was the woman’s courage. Wallach was willing to test all limits. She had no boundaries—not with sex or sexuality, nor with words. She did not distinguish between literary language and street talk. No Israeli poet had ever done this before.

  Ofir looked at Noa with amusement and admiration. He was touched by her enthusiasm, by her eagerness to prove to him that this poet who had insinuated herself into Noa’s heart was in fact worthy of her respect, and maybe of his respect as well. He stroked her hair and told her that having this kind of conversation so early in the morning made him hungry. He admired her fighting spirit, he said, even when her head was pounding.

  Noa gazed at Ofir’s naked behind as he climbed out of bed. She stretched and smiled with contentment as he walked into the kitchen to make coffee. The sun shined outside, and her pillow was soft. She heard Ofir in the kitchen, opening cupboards and running water, and inhaled the wonderful smell of fresh salad and fried eggs. This morning, life seemed beautiful. A few minutes later, Ofir returned, grinning, with a large tray loaded with a luscious breakfast and two aspirin. How was it that all this time, she hadn’t been able to see him as a sensual man? And what was it that caused the relationship to change so dramatically? And how could friendship blossom into something bordering on love? And what was love, anyway? Did she even know the meaning of the word? She felt unsettled and, to her astonishment, her eyes filled with tears.

  There were times, in the past, when Noa had thought she knew what love was. With Ehud, she thought it was the real thing, but in fact it was a one-sided, frustrating, painful kind of relationship. She and Barak had seemed to experience a genuine love but, in retrospect, it was selfish and all-consuming, something she’d seized on to help her through the difficult period after her mother died. She’d been dependent on this love, until realizing she couldn’t rightfully call it her own. She’d been in love, but she knew she still hadn’t gotten to the heart of the matter.

  She thanked Ofir for the splendid breakfast, and for his attention and friendship. “Why don’t you sit here next to me,” she said, “and I’ll feed you. One bite for me, one for you.” Noa offered a forkful of food, then another. With each bite, he kissed her knuckles.

  Noa savored both the attention and the reciprocity. She felt strong, alive, and full of optimism.

  When they finished eating, Ofir drew her close, caressed her face, and whispered into her ear. He told her she was the one. That he’d loved her from the moment they met. He told her about the day he’d replied to her advertisement at the university: how he’d climbed to the third floor and rang the bell, how the sight of her dried his throat, how her long black hair, dark eyes, and luminous face bewitched him. He had decided, on the spot, to share the apartment, and ever since that day, nearly two years ago, he had been waiting for her. He didn’t dare take the first step until he knew she was open to love; he waited until she was ready to love him back. He couldn’t believe he was telling her this, he whispered.

  Noa sat on the bed and listened, smiling to herself. Her legs were drawn up, her arms rested on her knees, and her head lay on her forearms. She told him she’d been drawn to him, too, from the moment she saw him, but she’d never thought they’d be anything more than friends. She said she was touched, and very happy, but he needed to be patient, because she still felt confused.

  The color drained from Ofir’s face. In the past, women had fallen in love with him easily, but not so with Noa. Nevertheless, he had assumed, after their passionate night together, that Noa would feel as he did.

  She took his hand, pressed it to her heart, and looked him in the eye. She told him he was her best friend in the world. That everything was still so new, he had to be patient. She wasn’t emotionally prepared for what had happened last night, and, as lovely as it had been, she still needed time.

  “Best friend in the world,” Ofir said. “I hope you don’t mean best buddy.”

  “I don’t mean best buddy,” Noa replied with a smile. After a moment, he told her he thought he understood what she was trying to say—or at least he hoped he understood. He hoped she didn’t consider last night a momentary lapse or an exploited opportunity, but she assured him it had been mutual and that, with time, everything would be clear.

  Ofir pulled her close again, and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “I have all the time you need,” he whispered, “and all the patience. I’ll wait for you forever.”

  Chapter Twenty-One: Violet

  Monday, February 16, 1987


  I just finished another grueling round of treatment. Most of my hair has fallen out; I gather the remaining hair into what I call a “savings-and-loan” hairdo, on account of its attempts to make a little bit look like a lot. Then I cover it up with a wig that I bought in B’nei Brak. It’s awful. My beautiful hair.

  I lie in bed for days at a time, exhausted. I stare at the ceiling and I wait, not knowing exactly what it is I’m waiting for. Sometimes I imagine I’m a captured princess and that at any minute my knight will come and carry me far, far away. Then I pull myself together and smile weakly. Who could possibly save me from myself? It is my own malevolent body holding me prisoner. I feel like someone sentenced to a lifetime of hard labor: he comes home at the end of the day, lies down in his berth, and stares hopelessly at the ceiling. All of his limbs throb, and he knows that the next day, and the day after that, and all the days after that, will be just as tortuous, and he doesn’t know what to pray for—that tomorrow will arrive quickly or not at all.

  And if it weren’t for Dan—my dearest friend, my rock—and for our wonderful children who look after me, whose happiness, I know, is dependent upon my happiness—if it weren’t for them, I would have given up long ago. But you are my beloved, my safety net. You are my princes and princesses. It is for you that I battle this cursed disease, and it is for you that I write. I have to bear witness. What started out as a mission—to tell you about my past, to share my life with you—has turned into a sanctuary, a warm and welcoming reprieve from my suffering. Writing frees me; it feels good to remember the past. My life was rich and beautiful, and I have no regrets. And so, back to Eddie, my incredible nephew. There has never been anyone quite like him, and there will never be.