by Bee Rowlatt
Only got three hours’ sleep that night. Lucy had come down from Leeds for both the party and the run. We ate huge bowls of porridge for breakfast and then got a taxi, leaving Justin with the girls all shuffling through the party detritus of bottles and smelly rubbish. We found our group, registered and went for the warm-up. There were 15,000 women all getting ready to run, many in fancy dress. We took our places and there was an announcer on a massive tannoy saying stuff like, ‘Well, fifteen thousand women in Lycra – oh, my dreams have come true!’ TV and radio were there, and some Olympic heroines, including Christine Ohuruogu.
It was all buzzing, then after the starting gun was fired a strange quietness suddenly descended. Despite the crowds all around us, all you could hear was a light pattering noise: thousands of feet running. Lucy and I stuck together; at first everyone was overtaking us but at the end we got quicker and when I saw the finishing line I went mad and sprinted flat out with my head flung back. Justin was there with the girls (it was very sweet – being a women’s race there were rows and rows of dads holding up cheering kids) and we got given ‘goody bags’ with a medal, food and drink. Got back home and had to vacuum up the broken glass so the girls could relax. The floor was sticky with bits of salami and stuff, so I mopped it too. By now I was kind of going into a trance of tiredness so I flopped on the sofa and watched some cartoons with the girls.
I can’t really remember anything else that I’ve done, May. I’m still quite sleepy but I have Zola off school with tonsillitis, and now we have to go and get Eva from school. It’s hard when one of them is ill but the other full of beans, as you can’t really balance their needs. Whatever we do someone will think it’s inadequate.
Oh God, Zo is screaming at Elsa and now they’re both crying and I’m going to be late for Eva.
Sorry to rush.
Love you XXXXX
PS Still tickled at the thought of Saddam asking whether he was boring you!
09.09.08
Tension by phone
Dearest friend
All the details of the party sound lovely, but too tiring for me. Back in the 1970s I used to entertain and have a social life, but not since then. We actually stopped entertaining in the early 1980s when the Iraq–Iran war raged and soldiers filled the streets. And you know the rest. I imagine I would be out of place in such surroundings and wouldn’t know how to behave.
The internet café here in Amman is run by Iraqis and I’ve got a discount through some sort of subscription. Amman is more expensive than Baghdad, but much better – its peaceful environment cannot be compared in any way to Baghdad’s volatile and dusty atmosphere, yet we Iraqis seem to carry our pain with us wherever we go. It is, I think, ingrained in every fibre of our bodies and forms the nucleus of every cell. Even when I try to sweat it out, my efforts are in vain, and there is always that bitter taste at the back of my throat.
Ali is not making it any easier for me. I think the poor soul has gone insane. I can’t really blame him BUT he blames me! He says I have deserted him but, Bee, I haven’t. I don’t want to, and never will, dream of doing anything like that. I will back him up till the end, and I’ll be the happiest person on earth to see him back on his feet again. I keep telling him that it is only a matter of time, but it’s no use. One moment he is convinced everything will work out, and then the next he turns against me and makes the atmosphere all tense between us. He threatens to go to Syria and reminds me of how he left his family for my sake, and then threatens to divorce me. I usually hang up when it gets out of control. Then he calls again, apologizing for everything and promising to wait for the spelling mistake to be corrected.
I know we stand at a crossroads; I’ve kept nothing secret from him and all he really needs is patience. I hate his attitude. I have never been mean to him, and you know how hard I have worked to keep him comfortable in every way possible. He can at least show support by being patient. He thinks I should sacrifice my dreams at the altar of his ‘love’ for me. And I can’t do that. This is my life’s accomplishment and our safe haven, and I will not back out even if it means the end.
I know he is tired but so am I, and the difference is that he is still young and can start afresh, while I can’t. He should think about gaining skills and working hard to get qualified before the age of 40, just as I did. Oh Bee, I clung to the hard rock with bare fingers (figuratively speaking) at a time when the regime was cruel and the economic embargo at its worst. I used to study by candlelight and would sit up the whole night, not realizing how many hours had passed, till I heard the call to Morning Prayer at dawn announcing the start of a new day.
Well, Bee, this is what has been going on since I arrived. I’ve also met up with old friends, and when Ali found out he just flew off the handle and made me promise to stop seeing them.
Sorry for pouring all this out, but what are younger sisters for, eh? By the way, I slipped and bumped myself while showering this morning. Thank God nothing is broken, but my right leg hurts a bit.
Love you always.
Hugs
May XXXXXXXX
09.09.08
Huh, unreasonable men
Hello dearest
Well. May, my usual thoughts about Ali are supportive. Ali is all alone now, and his predicament is worse than yours was, because he has no contact with his family and it’s more dangerous for him to go out. Also there is the background worry of him not working but being supported by you, which I suspect isn’t easy for him. So generally I feel very sympathetic. I don’t blame him for getting depressed, and it’s natural that he will take it out on you up to a point.
But reading your email I am now quite cross with him. How dare he ask you not to see your friends? You would never ask him not to see his friends. And he really shouldn’t threaten you like this. I think it’s just his fear and paranoia coming out. You shouldn’t promise not to see your friends; he can’t ask that of you. You need your friends more than ever and he should appreciate that.
Maybe you are feeling a bit like I have felt these last few months. It’s a helpless feeling; all you can say is: ‘Be patient! Be patient!’ But you know it just seems impossible from the other person’s perspective. And like me you are doing all that you can, but it still doesn’t seem to be enough. It must be so much harder to feel the difference when you’re stuck in Baghdad and there’s no sense of progress.
I don’t know, May, but is there anyone I can call about the wretched spelling mistake? Will they speak English? Is there anything we can do at this end to try to speed things up a bit?
Dearest May, I hope you’re feeling OK. Despite the fact that I’m a bit indignant that Ali doesn’t want you to see your friends, I think that the best thing to do is to keep trying to reassure him. Basically, just keep doing what you’re doing.
Take care.
Bee XX
10.09.08
Wish me luck for tomorrow
Dearest friend
Thank you. Your letter was very supportive. From the title of your email I knew that all you’d say was true.
While roaming around the city I came across a shop that sold T-shirts and I went in and bought one. It turned out to be too small so I had to go back to the shop. I changed it without trying the new T-shirt on and it also turned out to be too small, so I returned for the third day in a row. The shop owner was friendly and laughed; I then asked about men’s T-shirts and he said, ‘Just bring your husband in and we’ll find suitable things for his size.’
I started telling him about Ali’s problem, and how long it has taken. I was even a bit blunt, telling him that the visa people were not corrupt but lazy – which is worse, because with corruption you can pay for things to be done, but there is no cure for laziness. The man was very sympathetic and told me that he used to have a friend at the Ministry of the Interior. He advised me to ask for a meeting with the minister himself, and to explain how time is running out for me to take up my fellowship.
He said that it is easy to meet an
y senior official in Jordan, and even if you request to see the king in person, you may well be granted the opportunity. This view was supported by the taxi driver on my way back, and then by Ban when she came to see me this afternoon. I WILL GO to the ministry tomorrow and meet whoever is available, and hope it works.
Ramadan in Jordan is more decorative than in Iraq and Syria. It is more like Christmas. You see lights resembling a crescent and stars at almost every window in the place where I live. A taxi driver asked if I was fasting and I was too shy to say no, and so he advised me to cover my hair if I were fasting so that it would be ‘accepted by God’. I did not argue and thanked him for being such a devout person.
In Jordan freedoms are respected. You see all sorts of people wearing all sorts of things. Some young women are half naked, others decently dressed, and some are covered from head to toe with even their faces covered. They all enjoy their freedoms and no one interferes. The other thing I noticed about Amman is that public transport is rare – unlike Damascus, which enjoys an almost perfect 24-hour system of public transport and is very cheap as well. Ban tells me that there is almost no middle class in Jordan; people are either filthy rich or strikingly poor. This I haven’t seen, but I will keep my eyes open because it is rather interesting. I’ve also heard that salaries are inadequate and many people have two jobs or more.
Well, love, wish me all the luck you can for tomorrow. Maybe I’ll make some progress.
By the way, if Justin is a Gemini it is really impossible to cure him of working all hours and being away. The wife of a Gemini friend succumbed to depression trying to get hold of her husband, who was always at work and enjoying it. She used to travel during summer with the children, while he would be away working on some case or another. OK, lovely, I’ll go now. It is getting rather late and I will have to walk on my own for quite a distance (still phobic).
Love you always.
May XXX
12.09.08
Ministry visit
Dear Bee
I went to the ministry but didn’t accomplish anything tangible. An official there couldn’t spare me even five minutes of his time to explain, and the juniors said it was outside their authority. But I insist on carrying on with my battle for Ali. I did make a fool of myself at one point, when I failed to overcome my tears, but never mind.
As you know, the advice I got from the Jordanians to seek an audience with the minister indicated some kind of democracy, and the idea sounded attractive and presented an almost perfect solution to my problem. So I woke up before 7 a.m. and put on a new black and white top, a pair of black trousers with a formal handbag and matching shoes, and then climbed into a taxi. The building was small and humble; it lacked all the luxurious fittings and marble walls and floors of most government offices in Baghdad. Entering the building was relatively easy; I had expected very strict measures but there was nothing like that and the security people were nice and friendly. I approached the information desk, told the man that I wanted to meet the minister, and he directed me to an ordinary wooden door with a soldier standing at it. I went right up to the soldier and asked for a meeting; he said that work had not yet started and I would have to wait.
By 12.15 I had been waiting all morning and my feet were killing me. I asked the soldier, who was beginning to look a bit sympathetic, if there was any influential person behind that door other than the minister, and he pointed to a room and let me in. I went into that room, where an important-looking man (Faisel Beg) was sitting behind the desk reading through some papers. The man who couldn’t spare me five minutes of his time the day before was also there. When the official had finished his reading, I told him my story in a hurry, trying to insert as much detail as I could. I choked, trying to suppress my tears.
Faisel Beg looked at the other man and said, ‘Something has to be done about these spelling mistakes; there are too many.’ Then he tore a piece of yellow paper from a notebook and wrote a few words to some employee in the other building requesting him to help me. The man who could not spare me the five minutes asked in a sharp tone, ‘Who sent you here?’ and I said, ‘The people.’ He repeated, ‘NO, I mean which official recommended that you should come here?’ and I said, ‘No one. It was the taxi driver, the shop owner and other ordinary Jordanians.’
I took the yellow paper and went to the other building but the man I was referred to was on leave, so I returned to the minister’s building again and this time the soldier let me in immediately. Faisel Beg was not really happy to see me again; he took the paper, wrote another name on it and grumbled that this was not his job. The other man was still there. I realized that this was futile, and decided to continue standing at the wooden door until someone let me see the minister.
When ‘Mr Five Minutes’ came out he saw that I was still standing there. He finally asked me what the problem was. My efforts to suppress my tears failed, and so I talked to him with tears dropping on to Ali’s documents. I explained about the separation, the fellowship offer, and I don’t remember what else. He looked at me and said, ‘Can you give me till Sunday (the first working day of next week) because I have to run to the bank now?’ He added that he is in charge of all corrections.
I told him another two or three days are nothing in comparison to the past three months of waiting. I got him to sign the back of Ali’s passport copy to say that I should come back on Sunday, and then he left in a hurry. I didn’t really catch his name, but it was either Saleh or Salah Beg.
I cried all the way back and burst into tears when Ali called and asked what had happened. The taxi driver, listening to the whole conversation, suggested that I go to the minister’s house after breaking my fast and talk to his wife about my problem. This sounds absurd but I might just consider doing it if things don’t work out through the proper channels.
You know, Bee, this drives me to say that before the invasion, Iraq was the only country that functioned properly, and maybe Saddam’s policies were not that bad after all. Nowadays this is no longer applicable and the country is mired in corruption. But, Bee, don’t you think that paying to get your rights is better than not getting them at all?
Anyway, this is what has happened. I will go on Sunday and see. I think I will do just what little Jimmy Osmond sang in the 1970s: ‘I’m gonna knock on their door, ring on their bell, tap on their windows too.’
Will go now.
Love
May XXXXX
12.09.08
Well done, my tenacious friend
MAY, Magic May, I’m very, very impressed. You know, there’s nothing wrong with crying if you feel like it, and sometimes it actually helps in those hopeless anonymous bureaucratic situations. I once cried in a small Colombian airport when they’d sold off my mum’s and my tickets, and they miraculously got us new ones. Maybe it helps to get through to their humanity. I guess they have to develop a hard shell and not be moved by people’s plights. I think it’s very nice that the taxi driver and shop people are trying to help and offer you advice. The taxi driver is right, you know: you should go and talk to the minister’s wife. If she has any compassion at all she must try to help you. After all, it’s still Ramadan.
But it sounds like it’s Mr Five Minutes who is the key: he can really help, so you should pursue him as much as you can. Do you think he really is the person in charge of such things? Can you check with another person inside the ministry building? Find out what his exact name is too, as it makes more impact when you ask for a person by name. Oh, I wish I could be there, May. I’d stand by you and help chase down these people. Between us we’d make it impossible to ignore you. I wish I was there.
It was very busy at work yesterday (9/11 anniversary so lots of ‘War on Terror’ stuff), which is why I didn’t write. Three days’ work might not sound much but I felt I’d missed a lot of the girls’ first full week at school. So today I’ve gone to the other extreme: Super-Mum Overdrive. I went in and did cooking with Eva’s class this morning, and then after school I�
�m taking the girls plus three friends to the circus. We go each year. It’s strangely kitsch and old-fashioned, but the kids just love it. We’ve got ringside seats; I will just try to avoid eye contact with the clowns so as not to do any horrible parent participation. And try not to lose anyone.
Am planning a quiet weekend. I will think about you all day Sunday and hope that luck is on your side this time.
All my love and hugs and a new surge of hope and optimism (where does it keep coming from!?).
B XX
14.09.08
DONE
Bee
I succeeded. I did it, and sent the corrected paper via email to Ali. If all goes well, he should be with me Tuesday night. Oh Bee, I am so HAPPY. Can’t describe how I feel. Happy, overjoyed perhaps? I do hope you have a stronger term for me to learn. I went as planned this morning and was there at 9 a.m. sharp. The man kept his word. I waved to him as he came into his office and he recognized me, took the papers and in a matter of 45 minutes it was all done.
I hereby declare my thanks to Mr Saleh al-Zaban, Deputy Head of the Department of Nationality and Foreigners, for the care and help he has shown over our case.
I phoned Ali as soon as I left the building, not really believing it myself.
There is one other obstacle, though, and that is crossing the border. Someone at the visa office told me that it might take about 10 days for Ali’s name to get on the computer at the border, and it would be better if he came by plane. I told the man that it may be unsafe for Sunnis to use the airports, as there could be militias. I will only relax when I see Ali in front of me with all 130 kg of his net weight.
He’s been calling me like mad every 20 minutes, asking whether to bring this or that, and telling me to get a haircut and highlights and prepare him a hearty meal because he has vowed to fast all the way into Jordan and will not break his fast until he reaches our little flat. I kept laughing and the tension just faded away. Oh Bee, thank God, it was getting so hard.