When the Grey Beetles Took Over Baghdad

by Mona Yahia

  Today he has finally exploded.

  Mother kneels at his side and attempts to appease him with words of hope and wisdom which even I no longer believe. Unable to watch him cry his heart out, I make off to my room and close the door. But his unrestrained sobs pursue me to the first floor and pour out, all in one morning, his unspoken grief of sixty years.

  I seek refuge on the roof.

  A cold, dry wind slaps me in the face. The sky is bright blue, like in children’s books, limpid, indifferent to the atrocities on earth. The sun has risen, as it does daily, to announce a golden winter morning. Not a grain of dust blurs the clarity of today’s light, not a cloud throws doubt upon its integrity.

  No, I was not expecting a solar eclipse.

  The list of the hanged men recurs in my mind. I have gone over their names so many times in the papers that I have learned them by heart. And still I fail to grasp that the same Mrad who sweltered in his oversize suit on TV last month is no more, that our date for a ping-pong match is cancelled for good. That Hai is dead, executed, hanged, perished, forever. Not even the sentence makes sense. Hai means life in Hebrew, or alive. How can he-who-is-alive be dead? It is hardly surprising that our hangmen do not bother their heads about Hebrew, but God, our beloved and only Lord, don’t You hear the paradox in Your own language?

  In the small hours of the night, Hai’s last wish, unuttered, unfulfilled, perished with him.

  Hai’s capital offence consisted of receiving a sealed envelope from the alleged ringleader in Basra. No matter how hard I try, I fail to reconstruct his face, fail to dress him in his trunks, tan his shoulders, hand him the two oars, glue his boat in one piece again. Only his black suit comes into my mind – the one they made him wear for the trial. It is damp, covered with holes, bearing traces of the needles with which they had injected water into his body before they assaulted it with electric shocks. I grab the tortured suit and cast it into the river. The trousers skim over the water, their legs outstretched, their flies gracelessly unbuttoned, their pockets pulled inside out. The sodden jacket lingers behind, its shoulders swollen, its sleeves twisted and distorted. Its collar soon catches on the stump of a tree near the shore. As the trousers drift rapidly downstream, the distance between the upper and lower halves of the suit increases. When the horizon settles between them, they take leave of one another and of their obligation to the human image.

  Treacherous waters. What of Hai’s shirt? Where is his tie? His shoes? His undershirt? Where are Hai’s socks?

  The river ripples and gurgles and burbles and swallows its answer. Underwater, the fish are celebrating the fall of a fisherman.

  I curse man and nature and their common Maker in heaven until the chill of January drives me indoors. Father’s sobs have subsided and a dubious silence has fallen upon the house. Not knowing what to think, I tiptoe down the stairs, fearing to intrude on the peace or to stumble into the abyss awaiting me in the living-room. The sight of my parents, sunk safe and sound in their armchairs, reassures me. Father’s green eyes have turned grey and hollow. Mother is smoking, her cloudy gaze staring past the walls. On the small table between them, a bottle of Valium stands empty.

  —Do you need anything? Water? Tea? Shall I fetch you a blanket?

  They shake their heads, without uttering a word or looking at me. As long as their eyes stay open, I decide not to worry – no matter how many pills are heaped in their stomachs. They might as well take the day off. I switch on the electric heater, lock the front door, and leave them to themselves, sagging in their solitude, each too shattered to endure the shock and despair of the other.

  Back in my room, I open the first book at hand and absorb myself in my homework.

  I start at the doorbell. For a fraction of a second I wonder what has kept me at home on a weekday, then I remember. I hear the front door open. My watch says it’s just past two. The guest is mounting the stairs. Heavy steps. Dudi staggers into my room, sweating, out of breath, and flings his hundred and sixty pounds on to my bed. The springs screech. I already regret the past hours when I was unaware of time and place. Without taking off his shoes, Dudi rolls himself up in my bedcover and wipes the sweat off his face with the corner.

  —Mama would kill you if she saw this!

  Dudi rests his hands under his head, and grins,

  —Your mother’s in love with me. She received me with such a mysterious look just now, you’d say she’s been waiting for me for years.

  —There’s nothing behind Mama’s look, Dudi. Neither meaning nor feeling. Nothing but Valium.

  Dudi twiddles with the fringe of my bedcover,

  —Only Valium? What a pity. And your father? He looked like a philosopher reflecting upon the meaning of life. He didn’t stir a bit when I greeted him. Did he stuff himself with Valium too?

  I do not reply. The last thing I feel like is to strike up a conversation with Dudi, who is now chewing my bedcover. I glance demonstratively at my watch, hoping he will take the hint and shorten his visit.

  Dudi kicks the bedcover off and gets up. But only to look over my shoulder.

  —I don’t believe it! You’re solving physics problems! Aren’t sensitive girls supposed to keep diaries, in which they confide their secret wishes and feelings?

  I immediately slam the exercise book closed, as though it were in fact my diary. Dudi drops himself on my bed again.

  —The government has granted us this sunny day off, and here she is shutting herself up in her room and doing homework!

  It clicks at last.

  —Heavens, why didn’t you say it right from the start? You’re dying to be asked about what you’ve been doing today, right?

  Dudi starts chewing my bedcover again.

  —All right, Edward Lawy, go ahead, tell me how you spent your morning. Only be short and keep to the point. I’ve got plenty of homework to do.

  In a casual tone, Dudi says that he has just returned from Tahrir Square.

  —Tah …!

  A smile of triumph flashes over his face.

  —All Baghdad is celebrating in Tahrir Square. Schools and shops and factories have closed. Buses are free today. Thousands of people are swarming through the streets, ululating, hailing the heroism of their leaders, shaking their bodies in a frenzy …

  —Dudi, I could watch TV if I felt like horror stories.

  He goes on as if he has not heard me.

  —Three hundred thousand participants, the speaker in the square announced over and over again. He kept increasing his number as if at an auction. Two hundred and thirty thousand … two hundred and fifty thousand … two hundred and eighty thousand … I guess I was the only Jew there. The only one alive, I mean.

  He waits for me to respond, but I am too stupefied for words.

  —Can you imagine – one in three hundred thousand? I’ve just savoured minority in its naked physical aspect!

  —You’re nuts. They could’ve torn you to pieces.

  —How would anybody recognise me as a Jew? I don’t write it on my shirt, like … like …

  —Like who? What on earth are you talking about? What’s written on whose shirt?

  Dudi giggles,

  —Not my own, wallah, not my own! The patent belongs to our Council of the Revolution. Every convict had a sheet of paper pinned to the front of his shirt. They’ve written his full name on it, preceded by the title, “The Spy”. The Spy, Hai Rahamin. The Spy, Mrad Aboudi. Wait, I’m not finished yet. Title and name were followed by profession. The Spy, Mrad Aboudi, student. After that came religion. The Spy, Mrad Aboudi, student, Jewish. Then their place of residence. The Spy, Mrad Aboudi, student, Jewish, resident of Baghdad. Eight Jews, two Moslems, and one Christian. At least in one respect we are in the majority.

  —Spare me your humour. How could you bear such a scene? Why did you go in the first place?

  —There were children, five and six-year-olds, riding piggyback on their daddys’ shoulders to get a better view. Are you suggesting their hearts a
re stronger than mine?

  —Stop prattling, for God’s sake!

  Dudi giggles again,

  —All right. I wanted to see our President! Unfortunately I missed him by half an hour. When I arrived it was only the Minister of Youth Affairs, the Minister of Defence, and the Minister of Culture and Publicity who were on the platform. Each of them gave a long speech.

  —I don’t want to hear it!

  —I didn’t bother to listen either.

  —No? So what did you do?

  —I wormed my way through the crowds. You see, the square was packed with unions and associations – the teachers, the workers, the scouts, the soldiers, the students – all roaring victory and carrying banners. “Today Marks the End of One History and the Beginning of a New One” – waved by the Students’ Union. Terribly academic, don’t you think? I wonder how many years it requires to develop such critical faculties. However, the Union of Women and Mothers of Soldiers surpassed the students in their insight. Their slogan went like this: “The Execution of the Spies is the First Step to Liberation”. Now that phrase finally convinced me that the fair sex can be as intelligent as us! Don’t stare at me as if you were about to devour me, Lina, I’m just quoting what I’ve read. Not the trivial ones, only the sayings which left an impression on me. Take this for instance: “The Fatah Revolution and the Ba’ath Revolution Walk Hand in Hand Against Imperialism and Its Agents”. The Palestinian commandos put in quite an appearance, by the way. They were rollicking and romping – so elated, you’d think they were at last at the gates of Haifa and Yaffa.

  —Stop it, Dudi. I can’t take any more.

  Dudi wags his finger,

  —What do you mean you can’t? If Hai and Mrad can dangle there for the whole day, and if I can endure the sight, then you can definitely hear my story.

  —-Just who the hell do you think you are? A model of morality all of a sudden – wagging your finger at me like a judge and declaring it my duty to listen to your gruesome report?

  —Gruesome? I haven’t started yet! Dudi quietly replies, a sad note in his voice.

  His eyes turn watery. Damn it! Is he too going to burst into tears now? Male tears, so rare, but once they start, they never stop. Am I supposed to take this pest in my arms and pacify him? Never on my life.

  Fortunately, Dudi clears his throat and continues.

  —I haven’t told you yet about the masses of Bedouins and peasants who kept spilling into the square. Illiterate as they are, they carried no banners – thank God – only food baskets for the picnic in the capital. Oh yes, and there were the Ba’ath’s flags, how could I forget them? Please Lina, one more sentence, the last, I promise. I beg you, just listen to the Ba’aths’ slogan, theirs was at least to the point: “This is Only the Beginning. The Squares of our Noble Iraq Will Be Filled with the Corpses of Spies”. That’s what they wrote, word for word, I swear by my father’s life.

  It strikes me that Dudi hardly ever mentions his father, apart from swearing by his life.

  —Imagine such a revolutionary spectacle three or four times a year! Promising vision isn’t it? One detail still excapes me though, what will they do when they run out of Jews to hang? They can’t import us like … like lamp-shades, can they?

  —Dudi, I’m tired of you. Do me a favour and get lost. Go and tell the rest to your mother and sisters. It’s their fate to put up with you, not mine.

  Dudi frowns,

  —No, it’s to you that I want to tell my story. You and nobody else.

  —But why? I raise my voice.

  —Because I love you!

  I heave a deep sigh,

  —No! Oh no. It’s because you’re a nuisance, a pain in the neck, a thorn in the flesh, an enema in the arse. This is the worst day in my life, in your life, in the life of every Jew trapped in this accursed country. And even on a day like this, you can’t help making a fool of yourself?

  —No! Dudi coldly replies. Not even on a day like this.

  Staring at me with defiance, he carries on,

  —The crowds were dancing under the corpses, swinging them, hitting them with sticks and palm branches. Boys my age were catapulting stones at them – the way they sling them at birds and pigeons. I saw men, city men in shirts and trousers – not barefoot shirgawis – jump in the air to touch the toe or to tickle the sole of a hanged man’s foot. Just for fun, for the sake of boasting to their wives and amusing their children.

  —People climbed up the scaffolds? The spectators were allowed to come that near?

  —What scaffolds, what bettich. Their feet were swaying above my head.

  —What do you mean above your head? How close did you get?

  —I went near each one.

  —But … what for? What’s the point?

  —Because their heads were twisted. Because their necks were broken. Because their tongues were sticking out, like idiots in an asylum. Because their faces were deep blue, like your beloved Cadbury bars. Because their eyes were bursting out, about to pounce on you any moment. Because they reeked of … shit, yes, it was shit. Because their stiff lifeless bodies reeked of shit.

  —You’re lying! Hai never …

  —Lina, allow me to point out some general knowledge to you. Maybe we’ll be taught this subject at school. When you hang a man, any man, Jew or Moslem, innocent or guilty, handsome or ugly, without exception, when you hang a man, his bowels open immediately afterwards. That’s all!

  I cover my face with my hands, and wish the earth would swallow up Dudi forever. Then, to my astonishment, it is my own voice which breaks the silence and asks about Hai, about whom I was most dreading to hear.

  —Yes, I’ve told you already. I saw them all. They were spread out around the square, dressed in red linen pyjamas. I dragged myself from one corpse to the other until I came full circle. Hai and Mrad were hanged on the same gallows. Both were facing our gigantic nasb al-hurryiah, our Liberty Monument. Mrad was wearing a white cotton glove on his right hand.

  Dudi pauses, scowls at me with hatred,

  —Well, aren’t you going to ask “why”? What happened to your “whys”? Did you run out of them? Come on, don’t tell me you can’t spare a “why” for Mrad’s white glove. Go ahead, Lina, ask! Ask me “why” …

  —I don’t know … why what? What’d you want of me? What’s the matter with you?

  Dudi quavers with rage,

  —Just ask me “why” for God’s sake! It won’t cost you anything. Are you afraid to ask all of a sudden?

  I concede him my “why”. Dudi responds with an ugly smile.

  —Now that you’ve asked, I owe you an answer! You see, I asked myself the question, “why the glove?”, because it certainly wasn’t there to warm Mrad’s frozen hand. So I hung around, busied myself with fizzy drinks, cracked pumpkin seeds, and kept an eye on the white glove. As the playful mood of the demonstrators got more and more heated, two boy scouts started to shove the corpses against each other. One used a flagpole, the other a broomstick. Hai and Mrad collided like dodgems in a fun fair, swinging and spinning, before they were pushed at each other again, each time with merrier whistles and wilder applause from the onlookers.

  Dudi clears his throat, then goes on, stammering for the first time,

  —After a few prods the cotton glove … dented. I refused to believe my eyes at first, until … not only the fingers but the palm itself was flattened. Do you get me? There were no fingers, no thumb, no palm, no wrist … the white glove was hollow … Mrad’s right hand had been chopped off.

  I push my desk away and rise to my feet. Dudi raises his voice,

  —Do you understand now why they wouldn’t show the trials on TV? Security reasons, my arse! We all knew it was bullshit. We assumed they just couldn’t be bothered to invent a coherent story. We could only think that far. But did it occur to us that some of the defendants were disfigured or mutilated while they were still alive and standing trial?

  —Dudi, if you’re not leaving, I am!


  I cross the room towards the door. Dudi starts to sing,

  —Ssemiiit, har el-semiit!! Semiiit har.

  I look back at him.

  —Familiar, isn’t it? So familiar that for a moment I thought I was at school. Yes, it was our little pretzel hawker in flesh and blood, struggling to keep the tray straight on his head. One heroic word from him, and I would have been lynched by the masses.

  —Al-a’awer, the one-eyed, was there! Did he see you? Did he say anything?

  —Wait, wait a second! A moment ago you were trying to get me to shut up, now you’re impatient to hear every gory detail. Relax. Sit down. Don’t worry about me. Am I in one piece or am I not?

  —Don’t try my patience, Dudi! I know you won’t calm down before you’ve told me everything, so spit it out once and for all.

  —All right, all right. I moved further into the crowd until I couldn’t hear him any more. What a relief it was, as if I’d been granted a second life.

  Dudi sighs like an old man.

  —But I soon heard another urchin crying out “semit”, and although I’d never seen this one before, I was just as alarmed. I was sure every semit vendor in Baghdad knew who I was. I was sure one of them would point at me and scream “yehudi” instead of “semit” at the top of his voice. The picture stuck in my mind the way chewing gum sticks to the sole of your shoe. I kept bumping into semit hawkers, and was startled each time as if they were the security police, and not just slum kids. Imagine Lina, if you can’t hide in such a massive crowd, where on earth can you ever be safe?

  I return to my seat.

  —Why didn’t you just leave?

  —Why! Why! You and your irrelevant whys! “Why” makes no sense today, don’t you see? Because it was impossible. Because I was scared to death. Because I was so agitated that I wouldn’t have walked away but run away, and that would have looked suspicious. It would have been asking for trouble.