Daughters of Iraq

by Revital Shiri-Horowitz

  Eddie stayed in Iraq with my mother, and the house continued to serve as headquarters for the Resistance. During the day, Eddie supported Ima and himself by working as a junior accountant at a haberdashery; his boss was a Muslim willing to hire Jews. At night he worked with the Resistance, performing military exercises both inside the house and on the streets of the Jewish neighborhoods. They wanted to be sure that there were no disturbances where they lived, that nobody was plotting against them from within.

  The prevailing mood had it that Jews were responsible for Baghdad’s problems. If a person didn’t get a job, it was because “the Jews took all the positions.” The same was true if someone didn’t get accepted to school. If the cost of housing went up, or if it went down, or if there was any kind of shortage, it was always the fault of the Jews. Our family had had enough of the hatred, and we knew that at our first opportunity we would leave this country and go to the land we’d dreamed of, the land of our fathers, our eternal home. And we did.

  Most of those who left Iraq moved to the Holy Land. There were some who tried their luck in other places, usually following in the footsteps of a relative who’d sent them tickets and money, but the vast majority went to Israel. The land we had dreamed about for so many generations could now become real. Every Passover, for countless years, the Jews of Baghdad had greeted each other with the words next year in Jerusalem, and now they could actually fulfill the quest and move their families to the nascent state. People left everything and just took off. Most couldn’t even take money. They exchanged lovely homes and warm beds for a life of austerity and hardship. Their tents were leaky in the winter and sweltering in the summer. Their days were exhausting, and their new homeland was fighting for survival. But regardless of the cost, they finally had a home of their own. Most paid the price with love and never regretted it.

  And so the number of Jews in Iraq dwindled each week. Both my grandfathers, along with my maternal grandmother, passed away in Iraq. My other grandmother, Daisy, moved to Israel shortly after we did; my uncles and aunts were already there; our close friends, too. Muslims were moving into what had been the Jewish neighborhoods, and there was a feeling of insecurity. Eddie never considered leaving his friends. He was confident no harm would befall him. And Ima she opened her home to the whole group. Aside from Evelyn, our one non-Jewish servant, the household help had moved to Israel. Ima had to learn to take care of the house by herself. If it had been up to her, she would have gone with the others, but she had promised my sister Chabiba that she would take care of Eddie. She would protect him, she said, as if he was a rare gem, and she kept her word.

  For the first time, Ima did all the cooking and the cleaning. Eddie’s friends came over every evening. Evelyn helped, but since Ima couldn’t pay her, Evelyn worked mostly in other people’s homes. If possible, she would have moved to Israel with the rest of us.

  Every so often, Ima would implore Eddie to leave Iraq. His response was always the same: “I have a responsibility to those who are still here. As long as they’re here, I’m not going anywhere.”

  Ima waited for weeks, then months, for Eddie to agree to go. As the Jewish community grew smaller, her longing for the rest of us intensified. She was tired of this unsettled life, tired of the constant worrying. But Eddie showed no signs of wavering. In fact, as more of his comrades left for Israel, his role in the movement became more crucial. He worked to smuggle his friends out of the country before the Iraqis could catch and hang them in the town square. Sometimes, while waiting for the next flight out of Baghdad, they took refuge in Ima’s house.

  Ima soon realized that Eddie had no intention of leaving. At first she tried persuading him, appealing to his conscience: “Your mother is going crazy,” she told him. “She doesn’t sleep at night, doesn’t eat during the day it’s hell for her. There’s nothing here for us anymore. What if something happens to you? How will I be able to look your mother in the eye? What about your father, and your brothers? and what about Farida and Violet? Don’t you miss them?”

  But Eddie was intractable. He continued to tell my mother that he had a responsibility, and he couldn’t walk away from his friends. It would just be a little longer, he said. Only a few more people had to leave. How could he even consider abandoning his confederates in a place like this? Ima waited. As time passed, she sank deeper and deeper into despair. The noose was tightening, she felt, and if she didn’t get them out soon, they would both hang from the same gallows, like other Jews, many of whom they’d known. One morning Ima woke and knew she couldn’t continue living this way. She had to do something, now, before it was too late. It was time for her to stop him from putting both their lives at risk, and that’s exactly what she did.

  Chapter Twenty-Two: Farida

  Early the next morning, Farida awakened to the sound of the telephone ringing. She struggled from her armchair and shuffled to the phone. I suppose I did fall asleep after all, she thought to herself.

  “Ima?”

  “Sigi? Why are you calling so early? Is everything alright?”

  “Everything’s fine,” Sigi said. “But I need to ask you a favor. Ruthie didn’t feel well last night, and I don’t want her in school today.”

  “A blessing on her head, my soul, may God watch over her. What does she have?” Farida ran a hand across her face.

  “Don’t get so upset, Ima. It’s really nothing. She has a little fever, that’s all. Listen, I have to get to work, I have an 8:00 meeting. I’m dropping her off at your house, okay? Can you be downstairs in twenty minutes?”

  “A blessing on your head. Of course, bring her over?”

  Sigal thanked her mother, and Farida began putting the house in order. She washed coffee dregs out of the mugs and opened the blinds and windows to air out the house. The smell of cigarettes lingered, but a pleasant breeze blew through the small apartment.

  Farida took some machbuz out of the freezer and put them on a plate decorated with white flowers, a plate Ruthie adored. Then she went to the bathroom and put in her false teeth. She dressed, combed her hair, and looked at her reflection in the mirror. “Ya walli,” Farida muttered. “An old lady . . . it is what it is, every day a little older . . . and those wrinkles….” Sometimes she couldn’t find herself in the lines of the face looking back at her. She left the apartment.

  Farida sat on the stone fence outside the building and waited for Sigal. She imagined she wasn’t a wizened old woman, but a young lady waiting for her suitor. She looked at everything familiar to her: the bus that came by at precisely 7:15, the children reluctantly walking to school with bags slung over their shoulders, the grocer stacking milk cartons and bringing in fresh rolls.

  She looked at the sun, basked in its warmth, enjoyed the wonderful morning nature had bestowed upon her. She spotted Sigal’s car and straightened her clothes, leaned forward, and wrapped her arms around herself, as if her granddaughter were already standing there. When the car stopped, Ruthie jumped out and ran into her grandmother’s arms. Sigal said goodbye and went on her way. Farida held her granddaughter’s small hand, looked into her innocent face, and wondered how such a tiny creature could be the source of so much happiness.

  “Okay, Tutti. What should we do today?” she said with a wide smile.

  “Whatever you want,” the little one answered.

  “You know what, let’s go upstairs first, have something to eat, something to drink, and then we can go for a little walk.” Farida kissed Ruthie’s forehead. “I see your fever has gone down.” Farida ruffled Ruthie’s hair. “A lot of new flowers have blossomed in the field across the way. And there are a lot of stories for me to tell.”

  “Hooray, Safta! That’s what I love more than anything else in the world.” Ruthie smiled and looked into her grandmother’s eyes. She took Farida’s wrinkled hands in her own and gave them a tiny squeeze. Ruthie’s small hands couldn’t cover the spotted, calloused hands of her grandmother, but Farida felt their touch keenly, and a sense of fulfillment, joy
and purpose filled her.

  The two of them walked upstairs: one in the dawn of her life, young and innocent, inexperienced, and the other in her twilight, seeing the world with clear open eyes, counting her days, trying not to think about the impending sunset. This day was a gift for them both: Farida would inhale the sweetness and bustling joy of youth, and Ruthie would reap the fruit of her grandmother’s experience, wisdom, and unlimited generosity.

  Chapter Twenty-Three: Violet

  Sunday, March 1, 1987

  Spring is in the air, and I, too, feel myself coming back to life. The blossoming of the almond trees and the smell of citrus awaken me, lure me outside. Yesterday Danny took me to Sidney Ali beach in Herziliya. We wanted to see the poppies peeking from underground, enjoy the view of my beloved sea, bask in its salty air. Guy has gone on a field trip with his class for a few days. Noa’s in the army. And we, the young couple, are free to do as we wish.

  Guy has a new hobby: photography. Right now, I am his subject, and he chases me around the house night and day, photographing me from every possible angle. I get out of bed, he takes a picture. When he follows me to the bathroom, I have to laugh. That’s it, I say, enough! There are some places even he is not permitted to go. Guy sits and waits patiently for me to get out of the shower, then surprises me again. Sometimes it can be irritating, but I try to encourage him. He is talented, and if this is what he needs in order to learn, so be it.

  When we drive, Danny holds the steering wheel with one hand and squeezes my hand with the other. Sometimes he brings my hand to his lips and kisses it. I get very emotional. Even now, after all these years, romance triumphs over all. I feel Danny’s love and devotion, and I am afraid. I am afraid of two diametrically opposed things. On the one hand, I’m scared that if I don’t win this battle against cancer, Danny’s sadness will break him. I often tell him that if something does happen to me, I want him to build a new life for himself, but he always cuts me off and changes the subject. On the other hand, I’m afraid that he will build a new life for himself and forget me. I know this isn’t a reasonable fear, that the children will always remind him of me, but jealousy and possessiveness still assault me, driving me to the brink of insanity.

  I am besieged by painful feelings. I am afraid of leaving Danny, and I fear the loneliness he will experience when I’m gone. I feel guilty, too: for being so possessive, so inconsiderate, so insensitive, for wanting to be the one and only woman in his life. It simply isn’t possible. Maybe these thoughts are natural, who knows? I don’t dare say a word to him about my feelings. Why hurt him? But being able to put these thoughts on paper is very therapeutic. It puts my mind in order and liberates me from the distress that weighs upon me.

  Never love another,

  Never take her hand on an autumn night

  Or whisper words of love in her ear

  This is part of a poem I wrote many years ago; these words resonate in my tormented mind. To be his forever. A popular Israeli folk song runs through my head: “You and I will change the world.” I hum the tune to myself, and my frustration turns to rage. Not only did we not change the world, but it’s gaining on us every day, controlling our lives, turning them upside-down without any warning. Fate tricks us, and laughs its bitter laugh.

  When we arrived at the Sidney Ali beach, we gazed down at the water. Normally, we would have approached the water’s edge and hiked among the ruins, but yesterday I was too weak. This place brings back so many memories: Shabbat mornings with the kids, long walks along the shore, breathtaking sunsets. Little things, tiny moments of contentment imprinted on my heart. My eyes filled with tears, and Danny ran over to hug me.

  This morning, the house is quiet. Even Danny’s not here. This is a good opportunity to write about Ima and Eddie’s immigration to Israel. I return to the spring of 1951. In the end, after waiting for many long months, Ima finally understood that she couldn’t wait for Eddie to decide. She couldn’t count on him to make the necessary arrangements for their Aliyah. It was clear to Ima that time was short, and the longer they waited, the more dangerous it would be. She decided to take action.

  One has to understand: Eddie was young and fervent, an uncompromising idealist. He had lost all perspective. From a meek and undistinguished member of the Resistance, he’d risen to a high-ranking officer, and he believed it was his duty to stay until the end. And so Ima, who knew it was up to her to initiate the process, started investigating different avenues. She learned that the Resistance oversaw the Aliyah process. In order to move to Israel, the first thing she’d have to do was renounce their Iraqi citizenship. She knew that if she wanted to keep this from Eddie, she would have to go to a city where the concept of Aliyah didn’t exist. Ima asked her servant, Evelyn, to speak to her relatives in Hili. After Evelyn confirmed there was no formal Aliyah activity in that city, Ima decided to try her luck there. She would go to Hili, and quietly renounce their citizenship. If Eddie figured out what she was doing, she knew, all was lost.

  This was right before the spring holiday of Shavuot. In Iraq, we referred to this holiday as “Visitor’s Day” because Iraqi Jews had a custom on this day of visiting the burial places of the pious. They would prostrate themselves upon the graves of Ezra the Scribe, near Chara, and Ezekiel the Prophet, in the village of Chifel, right outside Hili. Ima left a note for Eddie saying she was going to the cemetery in Chifel to pray for her family’s welfare, and she’d be back the following evening. Eddie thought it a bit odd, since his grandmother was not particularly religious, but he was very busy and ignored his misgivings.

  Ima left the house early the next morning, taking a small pocketbook and a lot of money for bribes, to ensure the immigration process would be quick, efficient, and discreet. She stuffed the money into her bra and wrapped herself in a big black shawl, like an Arab woman. All that could be seen were her two coal-black eyes. She climbed into a carriage and rode to the train station.

  Aromas at the bustling train station aroused her senses. The morning smell of chubiz, a kind of Iraqi bread, filled her nostrils. Peddlers sold their wares, people were pushing, being pushed. Even at this early hour, the heat was oppressive. Ima bought a ticket and strode toward the train; she looked for Evelyn, who was going to accompany her on the journey. The faithful servant waited next to the train. She was flustered: she and Mrs. Twaina would take the train together! It wasn’t every day someone of her standing had the opportunity to travel with such a distinguished woman. Not only would they spend several hours with each other, but Mrs. Twaina, because this was a secret mission, planned to spend the night with Evelyn’s family!

  The two women boarded the train, crowding inside with everyone else. They walked through one car after another, and when it was clear there were no seats available, they stood in a corner. Ima stared at a male passenger, and he stood and offered his seat. In those days, men were gallant toward women of high social status. When I remember those days, I feel sick to my stomach: the concept of one person being worth more than another never sat well with me. My mother, on the other hand, never altered her worldview, and even in her death, many years later, she thought of herself as a queen stepping down from her throne.

  Ima sat the entire time, while Evelyn stood next to her, fanning the noblewoman’s face. I heard later that my mother did not stop complaining about the heat and the stench, and it never occurred to her to let Evelyn rest her feet, not even for a few minutes. And Evelyn stood there, shielding her from the heat and the pickpockets, tending to her. Years later, I encountered Evelyn on a busy street in Ramat Gan, a suburb of Tel Aviv largely populated by Iraqis. She smiled when she told me about their long train ride. When she talked about my mother, her eyes shone with admiration. I was uneasy: in the young, idealistic state of Israel, the concept of class didn’t exist. I thanked her for being so devoted to our family for so many years, but I felt awkward with guilt.

  After a long journey, they finally arrived at Evelyn’s family’s home in Hili. There, too, my moth
er was treated like royalty. In honor of her visit, the hosts had cleaned and scoured, cooked and baked, even given up their bedroom. Ima accepted their hospitality with equanimity; after all, wasn’t a woman of her status entitled to such treatment?

  The next day, the two women set out at dawn. They went to the municipality, where Ima filled out forms for renouncing citizenship; she had to forge Eddie’s signature. After their citizenship was annulled, she submitted her request for a visa to Israel. In exchange for a small bribe, she was able to get the right forms that same day. Usually the process of moving to another country took weeks, or even months, but to Ima’s good fortune, the combination of her charm and money moved things along. From there, the two women took the train to Chifel, where they prostrated themselves at the prophet’s grave.

  Ima prayed for a long time, asking God to bless our family. That was the last time any relative of ours visited the cemetery. It’s been over four decades since then, and who knows how many more years will pass before someone from our family visits the prophet’s grave. After their visit, Ima and Evelyn caught the train back to Baghdad. A few days later, Ima and Eddie boarded a plane that took them to Israel, to their family. Ima never could have imagined the two formidable challenges of her life: First, getting out of Iraq, second and much more difficult spending the rest of her life in Israel. A life that was about to change forever.

  Chapter Twenty-Four: Noa

  The weekend passed pleasantly for Noa and Ofir. On Saturday afternoon, Noa’s brother Guy stopped by. He came through the front door, vaulted onto the living room sofa, put his hand on his belly, and said, “Is there anything to eat around here? I’m dying of hunger.”