‘Yes! Yes!’ I responded enthusiastically.
‘When it sounds like this, it means that it’s red and juicy inside. You’ll see when we cut it open.’
When we came back from the market, more chubuz was baking in the clay oven. Mum knew how to do it well: she kneaded it, then applied it to the ceiling of the red-hot dome. I sat in front of the oven and stared at it impatiently. The bread fell down when it was cooked. I could hardly wait until it was ready so I could enjoy it with the watermelon, as Dad had taught me.
Every week I asked him to measure how much I had grown. I took him by the hand and led him towards the wall already full of little marks. I stood upright against the wall and he drew a new line above my head with a pencil. Every time Dad measured my height I was thrilled. I was in a hurry to grow up and be big like him.
In the evening, before dinner, there was another family ritual: my father would take all three of us children into the large bathroom. There was a shower in the corner with small taps to wash our feet. He soaped us up and was forced to move acrobatically as his three laughing girls tried to escape his hands. My mother watched and smiled, leaning against the door where she waited for us with a towel. She often let me sit in front of her mirror as she brushed my hair, singing the Beatles song ‘Michelle’ to me in a soft voice. ‘Is that my song, Mami? Did you invent it for me?’ I asked her every time. I liked to hear the story.
‘No, dear, it’s an English song. I used to listen to it when I was a girl. When you were born, you were so tiny, and the first time I took you in my arms, you started to scream like crazy. So, to make you stop crying, I sang, “Michelle, ma belle …” to you.’
‘And did I?’
‘You immediately calmed down. At that point, I thought if I called you Michelle, you would always be a wonderful little girl … instead you became a real little pest!’ She tickled me and covered me in kisses.
Mum often listened to the Beatles or ABBA tapes at home. She played them so often she had almost worn the tapes out. We knew all the songs by heart, and they became the soundtrack to our games.
We were spirited little girls. One of our favourite games was to create a swing out of a sheet, which we nailed to the two sides of a door. It obviously didn’t hold for more than a few minutes and we soon finished with our legs in the air. Another of our inventions was an imaginary horse, made by placing a pillow inside the window of the wall that connected the living room to Klara’s room. We squabbled loudly every time, fighting over who was going to get to ride the steed first. When we played with Lego, Klara always fought with Linda because she hid the pieces. At that point, tired of hearing us scream, Mum sent us to play on the terrace. One morning, with our elbows placed on the balustrade and a pencil for a cigarette in each of our mouths, we counted the cars as they passed, competing to see who had seen the most beautiful car.
Like all kids, I had many aspirations growing up. I already knew that I loved dancing and singing, but what fascinated me the most was the world of television. I spent some afternoons in front of the mirror, imitating the glamorous female presenters I admired on TV. Holding a hairbrush, I pretended to speak through a microphone to a huge audience that was watching me from behind the camera-mirror. I made imaginary announcements.
‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen!’ Applause! ‘And now this evening for a new episode of Play with Us!’ Applause!
I styled my hair with colourful little clips and applied Mum’s red lipstick, which made me feel like a sophisticated grown-up. I repeated the scene a couple of times in front of the ‘cameras’ until I was sure that I had the right introduction. When I grew up I wanted to be a presenter for real.
Dad knew a thousand stories. One afternoon he found me in front of the big living room window, watching a strange pink cloud making its way towards the city from afar. The sunlight made it appear redder. My father stood next to me and we stayed in silence for a while. He then drew me closer for one of his magical stories:
‘A long time ago, the wind lived in a faraway place – in the heart of the desert. But he felt alone and wanted to see the city up close, where all the men lived. He took a trip there and, to make sure he wouldn’t forget where he came from, filled his pockets with the red sand that the dunes were made out of. The grains of sand were as fine as sugar. When he arrived in the city, he realised the houses and streets were all white, and discovered that men had never seen the desert. So he decided to give them a gift. He put his hand in his pocket and started to sprinkle his sand on every house, until everything was coloured pink. After he had finished, tired from all the work, he stopped blowing.’
‘And where did he go?’ I asked, worried about the wind’s fate.
‘He went back to his house, but first he promised the men that he would be back to show their children a little of the desert.’
‘Does he come back every year?’
‘Yes. Look, that’s him coming right now.’ He pointed at the pink fog that was nearing, shrouding houses and office buildings with fine red dust.
‘I’m scared. Will the wind hurt us, Baba?’
‘No, Michelle, the wind isn’t mean. He’ll go away in two days. In the meantime, we have to keep the windows shut tight because, if we don’t, the wind will colour our living room pink too.’
‘And we can’t leave?’
‘No. Otherwise it will colour us too. But after it finishes its job, we’ll collect the leftover sand together. This way you’ll have a handful of the desert, too.’
My father had to go on business trips a few times each month to check on offices in far-off countries. I accompanied him to the airport: a place that I knew very well because Dad brought me with him often. He let me play in his big office while he did his duties. He also brought me to Shar’ El Saadùn, the largest commercial street in Baghdad, where his company had another office. His secretaries spoiled me with sweets and toys. They would give me little model aeroplanes, or let me draw using the hundreds of coloured pencils I found on the desks. Every time he flew away for another business trip, I stayed to watch him from the airport while he boarded the plane. He waved to me from the porthole, an instant before taking off. I would go back home in silence, already dreaming of his next welcome-home party when he would burst into the house with armfuls of gifts: toys, chocolate, cartoons or movies in English.
On those occasions, my mother cooked a special dinner and we gave her a hand setting the dining room table. We lit the fragrant candles, which we had carefully placed in every corner of the house. She sent me to buy liben, yogurt to be diluted with water, salt and ice and served with dinner. When I got back, the perfume of the spices and rice with raisins and tomato sauce had already taken over the house, even if there were still many hours before Dad would walk through the door. I knew we would have our favourite dessert, baklawa, pastry with a super-thin crust dripping with honey, studded with pistachios inside. Mum sang while she cooked, as if the music had the power of transmitting her love into the dishes. She made meatballs with grapes, and chicken cooked in spicy sauces, flavoured with a pinch of cumin. She cooked garbanzo beans in a separate pot, served hot, accompanied by bamiye, or okra, little vegetables similar to zucchini, which were stewed together with the sauce and mutton.
My little sisters helped her, mixing bran grain with parsley, garlic, onion and wheat, to make tabule salad. Even if Linda always wound up making a little bit of a mess, cooking together was a great way to while away the time and was our present for Dad.
The sound of the car stopping at the gate was enough to make us shout with joy. My mother let us climb on the mountain of packages he had brought, as they distracted us so she would finally be able to hold tight to my father; her tall, strong, devoted prince. I couldn’t believe another man of his calibre could exist.
Among his many arrivals home, one in particular stands out in my mind. Dad had three big packages in his hand, one for each of us. Klara rushed to him immediately. Mum, who was holding baby Linda in her
arms, put her down and let her stagger towards Dad with her uneasy steps. We seized the presents and went to the rug in the living room, anxious to open them.
‘Hey! You don’t even have a kiss for your baba?’ Mum protested. Dad, after having hugged her, came and sat by our side. He helped Linda open her box, which was as tall as her.
‘It’s the most beautiful doll in the world!’ Klara exclaimed raising her marvellous doll in the air.
Mine was identical and looked like a real baby. It was wearing rompers, had little fisted hands, and cheeks as soft as a newborn’s. I turned toward Dad and, without letting the doll go, smothered him with kisses. ‘Thank you, Baba! It’s wonderful! Look, Mum, this baby is just like Linda!’
Everyone turned to look at Linda playing with the toy; they were practically the same size. She continued staring at it, puzzled. Then she pointed at her doll and asked, ‘Does it cry?’ We all started laughing, even if Linda was right; the three dolls looked so much like real babies that it wouldn’t have been a surprise if they had burst into tears.
‘These dolls must be tired,’ Dad said seriously. ‘They had a long trip. You should make a nice bed for them and put them to sleep.’
‘Don’t they need to have something to eat?’ Klara asked thoughtfully.
‘They already ate on the plane,’ Dad assured her. I looked at him dubiously, but he winked at me and smiled as he started extracting other packages from a bag. Then he stood up and left us alone, following Mum into the kitchen. While my sisters continued unwrapping their gifts, I looked up at my parents. Dad squeezed Mum tightly to him, glad to have her in his arms again.
After dinner, Dad turned on the television and the expression on his face changed, becoming terribly pensive. He’d been reacting like that for a while when he saw the stories about the impending war. It seemed like a big, ugly situation.
The mood at the evening parties that our parents attended was changing. When the adults started speaking of politics, soldiers and war, us children knew to stay away. But I was still too young to understand what was really going on.
Two years earlier, in the autumn of 1979, Khomeini’s troops in Iran had kidnapped the staff of the American embassy, keeping the entire world on tenterhooks. In 1980, the political situation was worsening and, by the end of the year, the conflict started to directly involve Iraq. One evening around that time, as soon as the news started, Mum and Dad turned up the volume and told us to be quiet so they could hear what the journalist was saying. He spoke of an attack, of a war between Iran and Iraq. He repeated the words ‘war’, ‘soldiers’ and ‘bombs’ frequently. I understood that they were bad words, but they still didn’t scare me. I didn’t know much about what was going on then, and I wouldn’t until the war became the backdrop to the gradual breakdown of our peaceful lives.
We were in the car, all five of us, heading to a barbecue at Adel’s house. He and his wife, Irena, Mum’s friend, had purchased a grand villa outside Baghdad where they spent the summer. The property was in the desert, but the green of the parklands surrounding their home made it seem like an oasis. Going to visit them was always a joy. They had a daughter, Silva, whom I had a lot of fun playing with, and my mother spent hours chatting with Irena. Dad spoke of work-related matters with the men the entire time. For us children, that trip to the country was guaranteed fun and we couldn’t wait to go swimming in the pool at the grand villa.
Driving to their place, we were clapping our hands to the rhythm of the music on the radio. All of a sudden, we heard a loud explosion. Dad immediately pulled the car over, turned off the engine and the radio. Sitting in the back seat, my sisters and I were shocked into silence. We looked at Dad, waiting for him to say something, but he didn’t speak. He sat still for a few minutes, with his hands on the wheel and eyes staring at the road. Then he turned to my mother. She looked frightened. We all stayed quiet. He turned toward us and said, ‘Girls, the war has begun.’ Then, after another pause, he started the engine and we took off.
It was June 1981. The war had already broken out more than eight months before, but the battlelines had only now moved to the outskirts of Baghdad. From that day, the noise of the distant explosions became a constant echo to our lives. Even if we could hear the sound of the bombs nearing the periphery of the city from our house, to us girls the war still seemed like a far-off thing. We were sure that it would never arrive at our house; to us, the war was only on television. The news showed graphic images of gunfights and of the dead. The leader of the Iraqi people, Saddam Hussein, appeared on television, pinning medals of honour on the chests of the bravest soldiers.
At the Didjle (‘Stars’) elementary school, we were taught to honour Saddam’s image and to consider him the great patriarch of our country. In addition to these lessons, we were all issued with a military uniform, which we stored with great care and wore every week for a training session, where we learnt to march like soldiers. Once a month, a parade in Saddam’s name was organised in the streets of Baghdad. We marched proudly with our heads held high. Of course, in our innocent minds, this didn’t have anything to do with the war we saw on television.
During the parade, mothers queued in long lines in front of Saddam. He was standing in front of a table that held a series of small cardboard boxes that the women had offered upon their arrival. These boxes were filled with gold and other possessions they had donated to the patriarch. Some, pointing to their child dressed like a soldier at their side, said to Saddam, ‘I beg you, take my son! He’ll fight for you. Let him die in glory, for the patriarch!’ Saddam took a medal out of a little box, pinned it on their chest and shook their hand.
At my house, nobody commented on the situation and we never spoke about politics. Everyone had a picture of the Raìs (the term we used for a person in authority, such as Saddam) in their house; it was normal. What Saddam said was obeyed. He had said the war was necessary so we needed to fight it. Nobody protested, even if everyone was scared.
Christmas of 1981 was the same as any other Christmas. Even if we were at war, even if the adults had become more sombre, to us kids it didn’t seem any different. It was a sacred occasion for the Christians, but for Baghdad’s Muslim families like us, it was simply a big party with the whole family getting together to exchange gifts. The week before Christmas Day, Dad knocked on the door with a surprise: a tree to decorate.
‘It’s enormous! It’s bigger than me!’ I squealed with joy. ‘Do we have enough lights for such a huge tree?’
Dad put it on the floor in the living room. ‘Come on, give me a hand. Klara, get the decorations.’
Linda, who was just two years old, stayed in our mother’s arms, watching with wide eyes. In just a few minutes, the floor was covered in tinsel, decorations and cords full of little lights.
Klara and I, in a frenzy of excitement, passed everything to Dad, who was the only one who could reach the tallest branches.
‘Now for the grand finale!’ Dad announced, after we had finished adorning the tree. ‘Klara, turn off all the lights and come sit next to me, Mum and Linda here on the couch. And you, Michelle, are you ready?’
‘Yes, Baba,’ I answered from my place.
‘Go!’
I switched on the lights and the tree lit up with a thousand colours. We all applauded our little masterpiece.
The night before Christmas, Dad took us to dine at our favourite restaurant at Hotel Al Rashid. It was a marvellous moment: just us five, gathered around the table, happy together. We went to that restaurant every Christmas Eve. On Christmas Day, we gathered at Bibi’s house with the rest of the family as usual.
During 1982 the parties at the homes of my parents’ friends continued, along with the dinners at big restaurants in the city. Mum and Dad were besotted with each other, like young lovers. At the end of one evening, hugging her closely, Dad covered Mum’s shoulders with his jacket to keep her from shivering in the night air.
When we went to Bibi’s or Ahlam’s house, Mum didn’t dres
s like she did at the parties. She wore normal clothes, but nothing glamorous, and barely wore makeup. Even Dad behaved differently; he was always nice to her, but I never saw him touch her like he did when they were alone or with their foreign friends.
Despite this, Bibi’s house was the place I felt really at home; we spent every weekend there. It was normal to stay even two or three days, in which case the enormous villa transformed into a marvellous campsite of endless fun. When I was ten years old, there were already more than twenty grandchildren, a horde of energetic kids running wild. We loved everything around us: the flashy colours of the rugs and curtains, the scent of the food that wafted from the kitchen. A different world lay behind each door, there was always someone in every room. Our mothers prepared tea, seated in a circle, while bread baked on the little stove. Some rooms held cousins still too little to take part in our adventures. Exhausted from running around, we sidled up to our mothers to steal a little treat or watermelon seed. But the quietness lasted just a few minutes. The flurry immediately started again, only to be interrupted by Aunt Kasside’s loud voice announcing it was time to eat.
For lunch, we all gathered in the dining room, sitting in a circle on the floor around a low table. The aunts and Mum brought out heaped plates of seasoned meats, hummus and rice. Everyone served themselves.
We didn’t use cutlery at Grandma’s house, like we did at our own. Rather, we used morsels of hot bread, ripped into pieces. The mothers taught the youngest children how to gather the meat with their fingertips and bring it to their mouths without letting any fall.
After lunch, when the air was still scented with cumin and turmeric, we moved the table and covered the majolica floor with thin mattresses. We all lay down together on the big soft rug. Despite the risk of getting a relative’s foot in your face, those were the most magical hours. The blinds were closed and it was easy to shut your eyes and fall asleep in the dim light. The soft breathing of my littlest cousins, already drifting off to sleep, was slowly matched by the others, who followed, as if a spell had been cast over them. I spied the older kids still awake. The slight snore of some of the adults was funny. We were so close, all tight. Everyone was peacefully united by that sweet afternoon nap. From above, my family took the shape of a single animal with several heads, legs and arms. Indivisible.
The Girl from Baghdad Page 4