Mohamed returned from his trip, bringing dozens of expensive gifts. Jana sat in a corner, anxious to tell him about her progress, to pronounce the words that she had learned, as the sisters clustered around him in a tight circle. The family always came first. Jana began to understand that privacy didn’t exist in that great clan: nobody minded their own business and everyone gave their advice about everything.
When they were finally left alone, Jana threw herself into his arms. She told him about the difficult days she had spent with her sisters-in-law. Mohamed comforted her, tenderly stroking her face, ‘Don’t worry, my love. We won’t be here much longer.’
A week later, on a warm April day, Mohamed invited her to accompany him for a drive. He seemed overjoyed and she let his happiness seep into her, like the rays of the sun. He drove her to a nearby neighbourhood called Al Mansùr, one of the city’s most beautiful districts.
‘Why are we stopping?’ she asked. ‘There isn’t anything here …’
‘You’re wrong. This is my surprise for you,’ he responded as he helped her get out of the car. ‘This is our new home.’ He pointed to an apartment in a three-storey, light-coloured stone building surrounded by a tall hedge. There was a large covered terrace on the right side.
If they had been behind closed doors, she would have covered him in kisses. She had endured three difficult months, but her dreams had come true – they finally had a place to call home.
It was in this very apartment in the district of Al Mansùr that I, the first of Jana and Mohamed’s three daughters, spent my early childhood. In 1973, just before I was born, my mother decided to return to Prague, near where my grandmother lived, as she felt safer giving birth in her home country. At the time she didn’t consider the fact that in doing this she was guaranteeing me dual citizenship, which, in retrospect, was a very fortunate decision. Back then, Czechoslovakia still consisted of the now independent states of the Czech Republic and Slovakia.
It was autumn when my mother gave birth to me in one of the city’s medical clinics. My mother remembers vividly the day that heralded the birth of her first child; the sky was grey, but the leaves of the trees were an explosion of red and yellow. Holding me in her arms as if she were afraid that I would fly away, she gently kissed my forehead. She softly blew the forelock of my chestnut hair from my round face, squeezed my little hand in hers and adoringly stroked my face. Even though our shared bloodline would always unite us, I had my father’s features. She silently prayed to God to make me a strong woman, capable of fusing the two souls that I had inherited, to allow the East and West to coexist within me.
My father came to Prague to take us home. He was open about the fact that his family would have preferred a baby boy, but he told them that their heir would arrive in good time. Still, he was overjoyed. He couldn’t have asked for more; his career was skyrocketing, he had a beautiful wife, a newborn daughter and a fine home. My mother had decorated it in Western fashion: sofas and curtains with simple lines and sophisticated furniture, as she didn’t like all that gold and crystal that sparkled at Bibi’s house. She unfurled large rugs onto the outdoor terraces, where we slept on hot summer nights. Um Butrus, the maid who came to tidy the apartment every day, quickly bonded with my mother. She always minded me when my parents, elegantly dressed for glamorous social functions, went out for the evening.
I was two and a half years old when Klara was born, and six when my mother became pregnant for the third time. In the last few months of her pregnancy, I placed my ear on her huge belly and asked, ‘This time it’s going to be a little brother, right?’
‘We don’t know, dear. And if it’s another little sister, another little girl like you?’
‘I don’t want a sister,’ I responded, sulking.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I want a brother! When he’s big and tall and strong, he’ll protect me.’ Although I was very young, I already had attitude.
‘You have your dad to defend you.’
‘I want a brother, like my cousins! Even Aunt Kasside says …’
‘What does Aunt Kasside say?’ she asked patiently.
‘She always says that you need a boy or else little girls get lost.’
‘No, they don’t get lost,’ she said, giving me a curious look. Then she caressed my head, smiling. ‘Stay close to your dad and you’ll see …’
‘She also says a boy is worth three girls, but I don’t know what that means.’
My mother looked at me, shocked.
‘If Khalid, instead of being a boy, had been a girl, three girl babies would have come out of Aunt Ahlam’s tummy?’
She smiled. ‘No, dear. Your aunt just wanted to say …’ she paused. ‘Your aunt wanted to say …’ She knew perfectly well what Kasside intended.
‘That boys eat a lot? As much as three girls?’
‘Yes, wonderful. That’s exactly what she meant!’ I had made her laugh.
‘On that note, let’s go have a nice snack!’
Watching her as she drizzled a little honey on a piece of soft bread, I thought I saw sadness cloud her face.
Back in Prague, a little girl was born: Linda, an identical vision of my mother, with the same round face and fair complexion. On our return to Iraq our family was immediately summoned to Bibi’s house to celebrate. I left my parents in the living room and ran to play with my cousins. My mother sat next to her sister-in-law Ahlam, who held her hands and congratulated her. Ahlam was beautiful and sweet. When I went to her house, she let her daughter, Samar, and I play with her makeup and dress up in her clothes. I always carried around a little purse with lip gloss inside. When I put it on, it made me feel big. Ahlam even played with us and taught us how to do our hair. She was my favourite aunt. Aunt Kasside was much rougher on all the children. Every once in a while she would smack Alì, the youngest and naughtiest of her kids. It was she who was in command at Bibi’s house and we all had to obey like little soldiers.
My father was radiant and showed little Linda to everyone. Then he took the baby into the room where Bibi waited for him with Kasside. I chased Samar down the hallway and, passing by the room where they were seated, stopped out of curiosity. I peeped in from the threshold. Grandma sat on the armchair, wrapped completely in her white dishdashe and veil. The dark birthmark on her right cheek stood out even more in the sea of white. Grandma had always scared me. She scrutinised everyone with squinting eyes from her chair and almost never spoke. My father brought little Linda to her. I heard Bibi say harshly, ‘Another girl.’ And, immediately after, Kasside’s voice: ‘Sorry to say.’
My mother started studying Arabic after I was born. Taking advantage of the fact Linda was still small, she spent entire afternoons reading the Koran, keeping her youngest daughter on her knee. When the baby started to say her first words, she had fun parroting those that Mum read aloud. They were learning to speak together. Klara and I, who already knew a lot more than the two of them, continued playing and, every once in a while, corrected Mum’s pronunciation, even if she had already become pretty good. She still preferred to speak English with Dad, but now she understood all the conversations. She frequently spoke a mix of Czech and English with us, even if we responded in Arabic.
When I was a little older, my parents would take me with them to the parties at their friends’ villas. There were sofas with gold legs, walls decorated with flowers or velvet curtains like at my aunts’ houses. The guests were Dad’s colleagues: men who worked at the embassy and important businessmen from around the world. Many of them had foreign wives, who were either European or Asian. My mother liked that environment; it was a very different world compared to Dad’s family. She got ready for those outings carefully, making herself beautiful. I watched while she made herself up with green eye shadow, a little lighter than the colour of her eyes. When she let down her hair, I helped her brush it. Then she dressed in a long gown and put on her most exquisite jewels. She sprayed a cloud of perfume around herself. To me she looked
like a queen. I wanted a little perfume too, so Mum told me to put out my hands and she put a drop on each wrist.
It was at one of those parties that Mum reunited with an old friend from Prague. Incandescent spotlights illuminated the pool and garden. The children chased after each other, making trouble for the waiters who were serving cocktails before dinner in their livery white gloves. I took refuge next to Mum, hiding behind her skirt.
‘Careful, Michelle, or I’ll knock the glass over!’ she scolded. She had just taken a flute of champagne from a passing tray and was talking to a friend of my father’s. Mum hadn’t noticed the elegant woman in an evening gown sneaking up behind her. She felt the light touch of a hand on her arm and turned around. She looked down, thinking it was me, but raised her eyes to see a brunette woman smiling at her. Her eyes widened.
‘Irena! Is it really you? It’s impossible!’
They embraced each other warmly. Then my mother, still grasping her friend’s hand, added, ‘How long has it been? Let me see you. You look splendid.’
‘I was anxious to see you again, Jana! Adel told me there was going to be a surprise tonight, but I never would have thought it would be you! You don’t know what a joy it is to see you again.’
‘I didn’t know you were in town. When did you get here?’
‘Two months ago. Adel and I got married here in Baghdad. But then we left for our honeymoon and came back a few days ago.’
‘And work? Did you quit?’
‘I had to. But it’s fine this way. The new house has to be completely fixed up. And I still have to get used to this new life. It’s been a big move, relocating here. I imagine it was for you too. You have to tell me everything!’
‘It was tough in the beginning. We didn’t have our own home and we had to stay with Mohamed’s family. But we’ve had an apartment to ourselves for a few years now. We’re settled. We’re happy.’
‘And this little girl who’s hiding behind you? She wouldn’t by any chance be your daughter?’
‘Yes, my eldest. I have three.’ Mum pushed me gently towards the woman. ‘Go ahead, Michelle, say hello to my friend Irena.’
Very shy, I murmured a hello. Irena smiled and bowed down to give me a kiss.
‘You’re a very pretty little girl, Michelle. How old are you?’
I showed five fingers on one hand and a thumb on the other.
‘Six? And where are your little sisters?’
Mum answered for me. ‘They’re at home. They’re still too little to come with us. Klara is three years old, and Linda, just a few months.’
‘I can’t wait to see them! You have no idea how happy I am now that we’re neighbours again.’ Irena turned to me. ‘You know, Michelle, your Mum and I worked together at the airport, where she met your dad.’
‘Gosh, it seems like ages ago! And I’ve missed you a lot. It’s as if I’ve been reunited with a sister. You don’t know how easy it is to feel alone, in a foreign city …’
‘It won’t happen again, now that I’m here. We’ll stay together and you’ll teach me everything about Baghdad.’
‘To tell the truth, I don’t get out much. As you’ll notice, women without a chaperone aren’t viewed well here. But with a little caution, one can do many things. I, for example, now go shopping or to the hairdresser alone.’
‘Well, my dear, from today I will come with you, just like old times!’ concluded Irena, also taking a flute of champagne from the tray passing by.
‘Cheers! Who would have ever thought that destiny would have a tale of Arabian Nights in store for both of us?’
‘May I join you?’ my father asked, approaching closer. He tilted his glass towards the two women then greeted Irena, glad to see her again. He lovingly drew himself to my mother and embraced her in a way he was never able to in front of his family. I heard him whisper in her ear, ‘You’re beautiful. I love you.’
She returned his gaze with the eyes of a woman in love.
We moved to a new house after Linda was born. It was in the same neighbourhood, Al Mansùr, but unlike our previous apartment, it was much larger. I had fun running around on the big terrace. From there you could see and hear everything that took place on the main street of Baghdad, Arba’taash Ramadàn.
In the mornings, our driver waited for Mum and me in front of the house. Mum accompanied me to school and said goodbye, giving me a kiss on the forehead. After school I played with the other kids on our street. As Al Mansùr was a calm neighbourhood, we were allowed to stay out until dusk and to go as far as the kiosk at the end of the street where they made delicious ice-cream.
Bàn and Otůr were my best friends. We were inseparable. Bàn was Muslim, like me. She was blonde with big blue eyes, which were always looking around. She had two brothers who followed her everywhere. When we tired of racing our bicycles, we went to play dolls or ‘school’ in Otůr’s big yard, which also had a swing. There was a big pomegranate tree near the jasmine bushes that released clouds of perfume in spring. At the end of summer the pomegranates swelled with ruby-red seeds. We ripped them from their branches, careful not to prick ourselves with the thorns, and husked the kernels. Then we stuffed them in our mouths, laughing and enjoying the tart flavour. The chant of the muezzin from the minarets nearby told us when it was time to go back home. Only then did I think of the scolding Mum would give me when she saw my shirt horribly marked with red.
I loved my little friend Otůr, who lived next door. She was thin, with an elfin face and a crown of brown curls. When she smiled, she displayed a funny row of little teeth. All she had to do was look up at me with her big dark eyes and she could convince me to do anything. Her family was from the south and her parents came from different backgrounds: her father was Muslim; her mother, Christian. A large crucifix hung in their living room and, when I went to visit her home, I stopped to stare at that strange object on the wall.
My family had explained it was haràm, prohibited, bad; it was shameful to keep it in the house, like all things of that faith. My parents, although from different religious backgrounds themselves, once told me the tragic story of a Muslim girl who had gone crazy after falling in love with a Christian boy. She locked herself in her room and never came out. They said that nobody could touch her anymore because she would shake hysterically and scream. Stories like this greatly influenced us, but when it came to our friendships, religion was no barrier. It was normal to have Muslim, Catholic or Orthodox friends; the only thing that mattered was knowing how to pedal your bike faster than the others.
When he wasn’t travelling for work, Dad spent a lot of time with us. Linda and Klara were still very young, but by this time I was already eight years old and he and I shared a special bond. He would come to me when he suffered from a bad back. I understood my help was needed when I saw him get up and sit down with difficulty, wincing with pain. Then he asked me to give him one of my special massages. I took off my slippers while he lay face down on the rug. I climbed on his back and with my hands against the wall, tried out a series of light dances, massaging his aching muscles with my toes. At the end, he sat down with a blissful expression on his face and told me that I was his magic nurse.
Friday morning was another of our special moments. I remember one in particular, when Dad came to wake me with a kiss and a little brown paper bag. What a surprise! He had left early in the morning to gather nabùc (small, sweet, apple-shaped fruits I went crazy for) from a tree only he knew about. I jumped on his back and covered him with kisses. Happy, I went downstairs with my sisters to have breakfast. Chubuz, hot Arab bread, was on the table. I helped Linda smear soft cheese and honey on it, then looked at Klara and gave her a wink before starting to patter the little spoon on the plate, keeping up the rhythm like a real drummer. Klara ran to the kitchen to get a pot from the bottom cabinet. Linda clapped her hands excitedly and, in a few minutes, we had put together our own improvised rock band. We sang, ‘Linde Linde ya Hayati …’ at the top of our lungs, making a terrible racke
t that woke the neighbours. We stopped only when we saw Tom & Jerry and Popeye appear on the television screen.
Linda and I always sat on the rug to watch the cartoons. My favourite was Lady Oscar, the story of a girl who, pretending to be a boy, became a swordsman for the King of France. Her strength was superhuman. She challenged the enemies of the King and made them respect her like a real soldier. The image of Lady Oscar with her sword raised, while her long blonde hair blew in the wind, was printed on my lunchbox, a little tin suitcase with a coloured plastic handle. I liked the way she looked and tried to copy her in my drawings. I dreamed of being like her: strong and full of courage; a real warrior princess.
My father waited patiently for the cartoons to be over before telling me to hurry up and get dressed. I was to accompany him to the market. I was so delighted to walk by his side. He was my tall and handsome king. Everyone had to serve us and treat us like royalty. We stopped in front of a stand where fruit was piled up in pyramids. My father negotiated the price. Then, winking at the vendor, he stole a date and made me taste it. He bent down to my ear, inviting me to choose a watermelon. They were bright green and enormous. I instinctively chose the one with the most regular shape.
My father started laughing, ‘It doesn’t have to be pretty; it has to be good. Choose the ripest.’
‘And how do you know which one, Baba?’ I always called him that.
‘Put your ear here.’ He made me place my head against a particularly enormous watermelon, then gave it a little knock with his hand. ‘What sound does it make? Does it sound like a drum?’
The Girl from Baghdad Page 3