Daughters of Iraq

by Revital Shiri-Horowitz

  “It’s really true everything is in God’s hands,” Victor agreed.

  “You ask me what kind of life I had?” Farida’s voice was bitter. “A hard life. After Eddie was gone, all my dreams were gone, too. I didn’t care about anything; living and dying were the same to me. But in the end, I got married, and I had two children, and I raised them like royalty. I gave them everything. Everything. I shielded them from this cruel world. I looked after my husband for many years, and then he died, too. And I’m still here!” She blew her nose. “You’re probably wondering, how could I have married after Eddie died? Well,” she said, not waiting for an answer, “I’ll tell you. One day, Moshe came to our house, and he told my mother he wanted me, and I said okay, whatever, and I married him. I would have married a donkey if it had asked me. I was lucky Moshe was a good man, and that he loved me, but things didn’t go well for us. During the Yom Kippur War, he became what they call shell-shocked, and after that our life was a nightmare. He would jump out of bed in the middle of the night; convinced people were trying to kill him. Then he got sick and died, left me alone, and that was that. So now, I’m telling you that, yes, I lived my life, but that’s all it was. Nothing extraordinary.”

  Victor had listened to Farida’s story patiently and without interruption. For a moment he thought that if he had been standing next to her he would have taken her hand and told her that her luck was about to change: he was alone, and she was alone, and why shouldn’t they be together? He was a good person, and she was a good person, and the family she came from well, that was really something. When they hung up the phone, they both felt they knew each other better. They didn’t talk about the future. They didn’t even talk about meeting each other. But they both felt a certain intimacy that hadn’t been there before.

  Chapter Forty-One: Violet

  Monday, May 11, 1987

  It’s been a month since I last wrote. It seems to me that my health is not improving; on the contrary, every treatment leaves me feeling weaker. My last few blood tests were not good. Every time I go to the hospital, they send me home without chemotherapy. I don’t bother to ask questions anymore; I don’t want to hear their evasive answers. The pain is unbearable; there are days when I can’t sleep at all; I don’t have the strength to get out of bed. It is only when the children come home that I muster the energy to rouse myself and greet them. Dan is in charge of running the household, and my wonderful sisters Farida and Chabiba are making sure we have a constant supply of food. When Noa comes home on leave, they go out of their way to make her favorite foods. Right now I have only one goal, and I am focusing on it: this diary that I am writing for you, my children. When I am awake I feel around for the thick notebook; the pen is attached to the book. I must keep writing, keep telling my story.

  Eddie came to the kibbutz and loaded our meager possessions onto his friend’s truck. Again, parting. I thought to myself, I have already parted from Chanan; I hadn’t seen him since that wretched picnic two days earlier. I have parted from my friends; I have parted from Miriam; and I have parted from the sights, smells, and sounds: the rocky landscape, the pine trees, the roads, the smell of the stable, the clatter of silverware in the dining hall. As our truck rumbled away from the kibbutz, I felt like I was leaving one of my limbs behind. I had nothing left. Eddie sensed my sadness and tried to lift my spirits. Farida seemed happy, but all I wanted was to be left alone. In the end, he directed his rambling toward my sister.

  The settlement camp was waiting for us in all its glory. Rows and rows of crowded, dirty, noisy tents. Ima had tried her best to make our tent nice and tidy, despite its lack of conveniences. Early the next morning, Farida and I went to look for work, and for the two years that followed, we took any kind of job we could find. We worked wherever we were needed: we did laundry at the hospital; we cleaned; we even worked at a chocolate factory. We didn’t get a proper apartment despite all the promises, and after work we helped Ima with cleaning, with laundry, and any other chore she requested.

  Aba was barely able to scrape together a living. Ima, clearly in charge of the whole operation, growled about her bitter fate, about the fact that Aba brought her to this difficult land and this pathetic tent. She directed most of her rage at Aba. As I wrote earlier, as soon as she landed in Israel she turned her back on him and would no longer share a bed with him. He disgusted her, with his shabby clothes, his pathetic attempts at work, his failure to support the lifestyle to which she was accustomed. She mocked him, and she encouraged all of us his children and grandchildren to mock him, too. When Aba expressed an opinion about something, Ima made him look weak, foolish, irresponsible. She cast herself as the head of the family and took it upon herself to fight for an apartment. We stood behind her, rejecting Aba. To this day I regret it, and I am embarrassed by my behavior. I am especially sorry that I never had a chance to ask his forgiveness. Aba was always in a good mood, and he never complained. He didn’t ask anything of us. He adhered to his principles and his tradition and observed the mitzvot until his dying day. We tried to erase our foreignness, our Iraqi origins; we even learned songs in Yiddish. It was much more acceptable than singing the songs of Leila Mauraud or Farid al-Atrash.

  In the end, we did get an apartment, thanks to Ima’s persistence, Eddie’s history, and Eddie’s Kurdish-Iraqi friend who had hidden in our house while waiting to escape to Israel. This young man never forgot the risks we took on his behalf. Had they found him in our house, we would all have been taken directly to the town square and hanged. He lent us three hundred lirot, which in those days was a lot. Without that money, we would never have been able to secure the apartment in Lod.

  When it was time to move, we were overjoyed. Finally, a real home to protect the family from the ravages of both winter and summer. A home of our own. But the joy was short-lived. Eddie, our pride and joy, died unexpectedly, and darkness descended over our lives. Farida was inconsolable. She never said a word to me, but in my heart I know that to this day, she hasn’t recovered from his death. As for Chabiba and Yaakov, my sister and brother-in-law, their lives lost all meaning. The loss of their oldest son created a huge gap between them. Sadness filled our hearts, slammed our doors, and marked our past like a tombstone. Eddie’s name was rarely spoken, but his specter haunted every family gathering, every Shabbat dinner, every wedding, every birth. Brilliant, handsome, wonderful Eddie, who had been dealt such a cruel hand. We never got over Eddie’s loss, and we never will. And you, my children, it is your loss that you never knew him. I hope that through these stories, he will be a present in your lives, too. He never had a chance to have a family, and there is nobody to carry on his name. For me, Eddie is there in Guy’s smile, in Farida’s son, Oren, with the dimple on his chin. He is there at every family event, and every so often, my siblings and I look at each other and know that we are all feeling the same thing: the pain of Eddie’s absence.

  Chapter Forty-Two: Noa

  Friday, October 15, 1993

  Dear Aba’le,

  How are you? The photos you sent me in your last letter from Oregon made me very happy. Hiking does you good. You look tanned and relaxed, and why not? If I were at a beautiful, magical place like Crater Lake, with its crystal-clear water, I’d be smiling, too. Your plan to continue south to the Mexican border sounds like a dream come true. Someday I hope to follow in your footsteps and make my way down America’s west coast, but in the meantime I’m working hard. The semester started yesterday, and it looks very challenging. I’m trying to work more hours, too; I need the money. Other than that, everything here is fine. Except for the horrible suicide attacks on the buses, of course. I’m using your car, like I promised, and even though driving through the city is impossible, and parking is a nightmare, I never take the bus anymore.

  You asked if I’ve finished my thesis on Yona Wallach. The answer is yes, I finished it, but as soon as I was done I felt like there was so much more to explore. Her curiosity, her need to dig below the surface, to expose layer aft
er layer until she unearthed the truth—they’ve bewitched me. It must have taken so much courage and an extraordinary amount of creativity. I have no doubt she lived before her time. I have a hunch that one day I will return to her work and explore it further.

  You also asked about Ima’s journal, if it’s too painful for me to read, if Guy has read it yet. The answer to your second question is yes: I gave Guy the journal last week. I confess, it was hard to hand it over, but Guy also deserves to read it, and I am eager to hear his thoughts. As to your first question . . . well, it’s complicated. Until now, I wasn’t ready to discuss the journal with you. I couldn’t get over the feeling that you had betrayed me. For a long time, I couldn’t distinguish between what I was feeling and what I was thinking. Rationally, I understood that you and Aunt Farida had only the best of intentions, you weren’t planning on keeping the journal from me forever, but deep inside I felt deceived. I wondered what other tricks you had up your sleeve. I kept asking myself: who gave you the right to keep something so precious to yourself, especially something Ima had written explicitly for me and Guy? The more I read, though, the more I understood your decision, which must not have been an easy one to make. It’s not like Ima had written us personal messages; she wrote about her past. She wasn’t trying to convey any instructions or moral admonitions, only her love for us. Still, I did learn some important lessons from her journal. I had to read it numerous times before I could decipher these lessons. I’m not sure I would have understood all the nuances had I read it earlier.

  The very fact that Ima wrote a journal just for us never ceases to move me. I learned a lot this summer about Ima and the family, and, to be perfectly honest, about myself as well. Ima was a very strong person. She knew what it was like to immigrate to another country, and she knew about loss. From a very young age, she had to support her family and at the same time see to her own future. I also experienced loss at a young age, but my life was much easier than hers. I can learn a great deal from Ima, even if she’s not here next to me, and this learning makes me stronger. Ima didn’t say it explicitly, but I think I can speak for her: in our family, the women are strong. Chabiba, Farida, Savta, and Ima, and even me, know what it means to face hardship. And maybe, like Yona Wallach, we also seek the truth—and aren’t afraid to face it.

  My darling Aba, I miss you so much. Your trip abroad has also taught me something about myself, something I hadn’t known before. Wherever you are, wherever Ima is, wherever Guy is, I am there, too. We are a unit; we are a family. The powerful connection between us fortifies me. I know that I am a part of your life, just as you are a part of mine, and the same goes for Ima and Guy. I know it’s going to be alright.

  Much love,

  Noa

  Chapter Forty-Three: Dan

  June 15, 1987

  Violet, the love of my life, passed away on Shavuot, the seventh day of the Jewish month of Sivan, June 1987, in Ichilov Hospital in Tel Aviv. She didn’t have a chance to say goodbye to anyone; her body simply shut down in the middle of one of her treatments. She fell into a coma and never woke up. We called Noa and told her to come home immediately. Guy was there right away, and all of us crowded into the room. You will always be missed, my dear. May you rest in peace.

  July 2, 1987

  My heart is broken. I long for you so much, my soulmate. There are so many things you’ll never be able to do, Violet, mother of my children. You will never be able to walk your children down the aisle. Or see your grandchildren. Never again will you hold my hand, and we won’t grow old together. You didn’t have the chance to write everything in your journal: how you managed to go to university despite having to work so hard to support your family and pay tuition. You did it all by yourself. You didn’t write about your academic success, about how we met in the library, and how we fell in love. I am filling in those blanks, adding them to your uncompleted journal—for your sake and for the sake of our children. I am telling Noa and Guy how lucky they were to have you for a mother, what a privilege it was for me to be your partner. When we have grandchildren, I will tell them all about the grandmother they never met. I love you today as much as I loved you when I first laid eyes on you, as much as I loved you through all our years together. You are in my heart. You always will be.

  January 21, 1988

  Noa completed her army service today. She is talking about taking a trip to Europe, but she doesn’t have any definite plans. Time passes, and we miss you so much.

  March 3, 1988

  Five days ago, Guy was drafted. He’s in basic training, and will be serving in Intelligence.

  June 4, 1988

  I’ve been without you for an entire year, and every day feels like an eternity.

  February 2, 1989

  Guy has begun an officer’s training course. Noa and I are so proud of him, and you would be, too, if you were here.

  June 15, 1989

  Two years without you. We went to the cemetery today. Your grave is cold and impersonal, and you are nowhere to be found.

  May 2, 1990

  Noa is back from abroad, and she’s decided to live at home. I’m pleased with her decision.

  June 4, 1990

  Three years without you, my love. I can’t believe that three years have already passed. I long for you terribly.

  February 1, 1991

  I decided to go back to school; I’m now working part-time. I took classes in geography and Jewish philosophy. Simply amazing. Noa decided to go to university. She starts in October.

  May 15, 1991

  Noa’s moved out and is renting an apartment. Guy is serving in the army, stationed at a base near Tsfat. I barely see him. It’s so sad without you. So empty . . .

  June 4, 1991

  Four years without you. I put roses on your grave. The summer is so hot, and you are not here. Noa decided to study Hebrew literature. Guy is still in the army.

  March 15, 1992

  Guy finished his army service and is looking for work as a waiter. For now, he’s living with me until further notice. Noa finished her first semester with excellent grades; apparently she takes after her mother.

  June 4, 1992

  Five years, and you are not here. Sometimes I dream about you and you are so real, then I wake to another day without you. It’s hard for me.

  December 31, 1992

  Everyone is going out for New Year’s Eve, and I’m thinking about you. Without you, I’m not in the mood to celebrate.

  June 4, 1993

  Six whole years without you, my love. I’ve gotten used to your absence, but not a day goes by when I don’t think about you. Noa’s already finished her second year of school, and Guy has enrolled at the “Technion Institute of Technology”. He left home a few months ago, and once again I am living in an empty house, without you. Each day, the pain is fresh. I’ve decided to take a trip to Seattle: a change of scenery, a chance to hike. It won’t be the same without you. I am entrusting Farida with the journal in my absence. (Even when I’m here, she occasionally asks to borrow it, and I lend it to her until I miss it so much and ask for it back.)

  I am thinking about when to let our children read your journal. I have a feeling the right time is fast approaching. They are adults now. I am waiting for a sign, a signal that they are ready for it; then I will know the time has come. I want the journal to serve its purpose.

  Chapter Forty-Four: Noa

  The pen slipped from Noa’s hand and fell to the ground. She picked it up, rested it on the folded letter, and contemplated the sea. If there was anywhere in the world where Noa could let her emotions run wild, she thought, this was it. She focused on the horizon, and formed a picture in her mind: a father, a mother, a girl, and a boy sitting on the beach. Noa and Guy building a sand castle, Ima helping to build a wall, Aba giving out slices of cold watermelon. Soon the ice cream man would come with his popsicles, calling out, “Ice cream, ice cream, makes you fat, makes you thin, good for your body, good for your skin . . .” Every summer t
he same vendor, the same jingle. Every summer they’d look at each other and laugh; every summer they’d buy his popsicles. Noa looked down at the letter. She read it over, then read it again. There was more that she wanted to tell her father, to ask him about, but how could she? He was so far away.

  It was only yesterday that Ofir had left for reserve duty, and she missed him already. When she looked at the water she couldn’t help but think of his eyes. The apartment felt empty without him, and, as she had often done before, she escaped to the café across from the beach. At this early hour, she was the only customer. The sound of the waves mingled with the clinking of the dishes, which mingled with the noise of the congested streets. Everyone was rushing off somewhere, but there was no place Noa had to be. She sat in the corner and sipped her coffee slowly. The ice cream man didn’t come here anymore; maybe, she thought, he had gone into a different business. She tried to concentrate, but it was difficult. Random thoughts kept popping into her head: her tenth or eleventh birthday party; her mother’s embrace when she came home from the army; Farida heaping food onto her plate in her small apartment; Ofir admiring the new dress she was modeling. There was nothing better, she decided, than letting your imagination take you to all kinds of secret places. She felt a relief that was almost dizzying. The distress that had been gathering inside her for the last few weeks seemed to be dissipating.

  She smiled to herself. When she opened her purse to pay, she came across a scrap of paper with Ehud’s phone number scribbled on it. She’d had it for so long, it was practically an antique. She remembered the thrill she had felt the night of the reunion, how she had hoped to get to the heart of things. She also remembered how Ehud tightened up when he sensed her trying to shift their conversation to something more personal. His excuses bordered on ridiculous. That evening Noa understood that intimacy scared Ehud. The mysterious halo that had surrounded him all those years, that had enchanted her so much, disappeared, and he suddenly struck her as foolish, and a bit childish. When she’d come home, she’d knew that she’d never yearn for him again. And now, in the café, Noa looked at the familiar handwriting, ripped up the note, and threw the scraps into the ashtray. She paid for her coffee, and left.