Baghdad: The Final Gathering

by Ahmad Ardalan

  Mr. Boris was a thin, tall man who had nearly lost all his hair in the middle. What was left of it was whiter than snow; in fact, the man himself was snow white. His mouth was topped by a strange-looking mustache that stretched below his chin. His eyes were wide and scary, and we could feel his strict stare from several hundred feet away. He had the eyes of a hawk or an eagle; in hindsight, I realize that is not so strange for a person who was a pilot. Even more daunting, he had long legs and took giant steps as he walked.

  We studied his daily routine, and Mr. Boris’s life seemed to be dedicated to taking care of the many plants and various types of foliage that populated his enormous garden. He watered them twice daily, once in the early morning and then again just before sunset. The only time he left the house with his wife was when they took walks with their small, brownish bulldog, usually just prior to lunchtime. That was the prime opportunity for the four of us to sneak into his garden. We played hide-and-seek and found plenty of hiding spots on Mr. Boris’s property.

  One day, Ammar was nowhere to be found, so we assumed he had meandered into Mr. Boris’s garden. We searched for half an hour, and we knew time was ticking. Based on what we knew about Mr. Boris’s schedule, he would be back in fifteen minutes or less, especially since his giant steps carried him twice as fast as anyone else could walk. When all our attempts to find him failed, we resorted to desperately shouting his name: “Ammar! Ammaaar! The game is over. Come out, Ammar!”

  When we still saw no sign of my brother, my friends began to get scared and eventually panicked and left me all alone to look for him. I was worried as could be, sweating profusely. Many bad thoughts and worst-case scenarios crossed my mind: What if he went out in the streets and a stranger kidnapped him? Maybe something bit him while he was hiding and he’s stuck somewhere, hurt and in pain. Oh, Omar, you fool! How could you have lost track of your only brother? What kind of big brother are you anyway?

  I continued looking for him, exhausting myself with the search, when I suddenly noticed an open window at the far end of the Boris house. I quickly made my way inside, shivering in fear as I stepped into that forbidden castle, the mysterious mansion. I felt as if I’d stepped into Count Dracula’s palace, and I knew I had no business being there, but I was desperate to find Ammar. I walked on my tiptoes, fearfully darting my eyes around. The living room was neat, almost spotless, furnished with cozy brown leather furniture. Large paintings adorned the wall, and a small kitchen could be seen on the left. I checked quickly and saw no one there. On the right was another room, a dining area. All the furniture was covered in white sheets, giving the place a creepy feel, as if it had been abandoned for years. When I still saw no one, I decided to go back to where I started.

  In the middle of the foyer was a large staircase. Knowing it was my last resort, I trudged up each step, until I reached the second floor. “Ammar!” I called out in a throaty whisper.

  There was no response.

  I felt tears welling in my eyes as I searched one room after another.

  Finally, I heard a familiar voice: “Omar, come! I’m here!”

  In that moment, I felt both relief and anger. I ran toward the sound and discovered that it was coming from the third door on the right. When I opened the door and entered, I saw my brother, staring at the most remarkable room I’d ever seen, a room like I could never have even imagined. On my quest to find Ammar, my frustration had led me to vow that when I did ultimately find, him, I would teach him a lesson he wouldn’t soon forget, so he’d never run off again, but when I saw what had captivated him so, I couldn’t blame him.

  The dark room wasn’t big at all, but from the ceilings hung dozens of miniature planes in different colors and sizes, with various markings, as if they were replicas from all the airlines around the world. The windows had thick curtains, and the walls were painted dark blue. Small, sparkling lights were scattered about, like white stars in a clear night sky. On one wall was a large wooden cupboard with glass doors. Inside it were rotating shelves that held a collection of aviation trinkets, baubles, and collectibles. There were many pilot hats, silver and gold medals, and badges of every size and color, all the things a pilot would wear. The room was amazing, and we determined it had to be a very special place where Mr. Boris held his treasures and mementos.

  “Omar, look at this,” my brother said as he pressed a button near the door.

  As if the room was full of magic, the hanging planes started to move slowly back and forth, and more lights sparkled. We stood there for another minute before I took his hand and practically had to pull him out of the mesmerizing room.

  We made our way downstairs and were close to the window when we heard Max barking. Realizing, much to our horror, that the family was about to open the door, we jumped out the window, traversed the yard, climbed the fence, and breathlessly ran back home.

  Even though we had to rush out of there in a blur, the thought of that room never left my mind. I left that day dreaming of world travels, of flying above the clouds in all sorts of airplanes. That was a dream I somehow managed to achieve, but for Ammar, that sneaky visit to Mr. Boris’s place had an even more profound effect and remained with him forever.

  After that day, my brother dreamt of being a pilot. He began watching every movie with planes in it and read stories about flying and heroic aerial feats. He finally made it a reality six years ago, when he graduated from college and became a pilot himself. My father gave him a share of his land, and my mother helped with the revenue from one of her art shows. All in all, that extra $3,000 dollars helped Ammar leave Iraq to go to Jordan, to continue his training so he could pursue a career abroad, as aerial flights were banned in Iraq during the years of the embargo. After a year of training in Jordan and several extensive interviews in Amman, and thanks to his enthusiasm and tenacity in his pursuits, he landed a job with Royal Jordanian Airways. Ammar and four others were chosen out of the sixty ambitious applicants, and he has been working for them ever since. So far, he has logged over 10,000 hours of flying from one end of our beautiful world to the other. Sometimes in life, a sudden situation, a moment in time, alters your whole life, forever changes the road ahead. For Ammar, it was that hide-and-seek journey into Mr. Boris’s treasure room.

  When I look at my brother now, I can’t help but smile. He’s done so well for himself, and I am happy for him and his family, his wife and two sons. Sadly, I cannot say that about all my kin.

  My cousin simply isn’t doing so well in life, I realize as he sits just opposite my parents, next to his mother, my closest aunt. She is only a few years older than my father, but she is the anchor of the family, a woman of substance. She took on the burden of taking care of my cousin and his three sisters when their father went MIA during the first year of the Iraqi-Iranian War. Rumors had it that he was a P.O.W., but six years later, they received news that he had actually died in combat. Twenty years later, his body was still not recovered. Almost immediately upon hearing that he’d gone missing, my strong aunt stood up to the task of providing for the family. She started her own catering business, and within a few years, she amassed a client list of hundreds all over Baghdad. I cannot blame them for coming back to her and referring others to her, because she is a great cook like no other. No one makes better kubbas, meat-stuffed rice or potato balls. That tasty biryani rice with all its spices, the yummy hummus appetizers, and the tabula salad are experiences all their own, but her masterpiece is definitely the dolma, a most common Iraqi dish that is certainly more outstanding than common when she makes it. I am so glad she prepared this special dish for my guests and me tonight. I smile at the delicious-looking dish sitting there with pride in the middle of the table, but it surely won’t be there long.

  My aunt puts much loving care into her culinary delights. For this dish, she likely spent hours cutting tomatoes, onions, eggplant, green peppers, and grape leaves and stuffing them with her secret mix of rice, meat, and spices. After preparing them, she arranges them carefully i
n a large cooking pot, layer by layer, and leaves it on a low fire for a few hours, to be cooked slowly. The end result is always many satisfied bellies and several grateful kisses on her cheek.

  She really has done a lot for our family. Whenever any of her brothers or sisters has needed support, she has been there. As kids and even when we grew older, if there was something we wanted or needed or if we got in trouble and sought a place to hide from our parents, she was the one to go to. Not even once did that great lady turn us down. Now, it is sad to see that her son, who is almost more like a brother to me, is facing crippling depression. Even with an iron woman for a mother, he is in very bad shape, crumbling at the core.

  Fares is three years older than me, and he was my first friend when we came back from Berlin. In the beginning, he was the one who taught me how to deal with the environment, how to act and what to say to the kids my age. He taught me how they think and even enlightened me to which curse words I should use. In so many ways, Fares was a mentor to me, like the older brother I never had.

  For my part, I shared general knowledge with him, all the things I was fortunate enough to learn about at school in East Germany—things like history and geography, the cultural discoveries I made from my diverse classmates, and the language of English. We shared a lot of common interests, from sports to movies to books. Although we both had a love for soccer, when it came to choosing sides, we tended to like the opposite teams; I was a fan of France, the Air Force Club in Iraq, and Everton, while he rooted for England, Al Zawraa Club, and Liverpool. To this day, I wear my blue Air Force jersey, but he wears the white of his beloved Zawraa. Continuous arguments about our teams went on all season long. When match day arrived between our favorites, we were prepared to go to war in our fandom. Iraqis breathe soccer, and we were a living example of that. If my team lost, I found the biggest rock to hide behind. Fares did the same when his team ended up on the losing side of the scoreboard. When we went to the stadium to watch the games live, it seemed all hell broke loose.

  When we didn’t talk sports, we loved watching movies together, especially on summer nights. We sometimes watched two or three back to back, not even going to sleep till the sun was just about to rise. We even shared clothes, taking turns wearing each other’s nicest shirts and jackets for special occasions. For the longest time, we were as close as two cousins could be.

  I used to spend summer months at their home, and I enjoyed every bit of it. When school commenced, we only saw each other on weekends. For a few years, we had many mutual friends between us, but I eventually found other friends of my own. In time, we saw each other less and less, perhaps catching a soccer game together now and then, but it has always been Omar and Fares, even as time has drifted us apart.

  Of all the things Fares taught me, watching soccer live at the stadium is closest to my heart. Nothing beats the feeling of seeing a favorite team scoring or the elation of watching them climb up the stairs and out of the tunnel, to a loud, warm reception from their screaming fans. There is beauty in the waving blue flags all over the stadium, the voices of thousands upon thousands, screaming and cheering for the team, the synchronized applause of countless hands, all chorusing support in perfect rhythm. It is a sound that scares the hell out of the visiting team but causes a soccer lover’s heart to leap in his chest each and every time.

  Throughout my twenty years of watching soccer in Iraq, I realized that nothing unites the rich, the poor, and people of different beliefs like that game does. It is a sedative for even the worst social pain. No matter what was going on, be it war, the worst days of the embargo, or the skin-scalding heat of August, fans would flock to the stadiums to cheer for their teams, finding commonality in their hopes and dreams, even if only for a sporting goal.

  I recall a game that was played on December 16, 1998. Fares and I were in the Shaab Stadium, the biggest in Baghdad, as it could easily seat up to 40,000 roaring fans. My Air Force team, the Blue Hawks, were set to play one of the strongest opponents of that time, a team of rising stars, Al Karkh, in their fancy yellow jerseys. It was a late night game, so there were only about 19,500 spectators that night. The first half ended with Al Karkh leading by a goal to nil that came against the way of play. The second half was so intense, with constant pressure by the Blue Hawks, but the stubborn ball just wouldn’t go in the goal. Twice, the crossbar was struck, to no avail. Then, suddenly, in the sixtieth minute, the game was interrupted by the blaring of sirens. Baghdad was under attack.

  “The bastard did it,” Fares said. “He actually did it.”

  For months, U.S. President Bill Clinton had been threatening to bomb what the USA and UK had identified as military and security targets in Iraq, accused of contributing to Iraq’s ability to produce, store, maintain, and deliver the alleged WMDs. On that day, while we were sitting in that soccer stadium, they struck with what they called Operation Desert Fox. The referee stopped the game for a minute and spoke to the officials, questioning whether or not it was the appropriate time to postpone the game. What happened next was something I knew I would not forget.

  The crowd began to scream and cry out national chants, chants of resistance, and chants for Baghdad, our city. Those chants intermingled with chants of support for the home team. Hearing all of that, the officials decided to go on with the game. The last thirty minutes of play commenced, with a backdrop of missile fire and rockets flying to and from everywhere. The players gave it their all, but it wasn’t until the last minute of the game, through a precise corner played by the substitute, that the Blue Hawks scored the equalizer, and the stands erupted in celebrations and shouts, even louder than the battle raging in the sky above us. That illustrated the power of soccer in Iraq, overcoming even a harsh military operation that would carry on for four days.

  Due to the great support the fans showed in that game, the Iraqi Football Association decided that from that day on, whenever the Air Force takes on Al Karkh at Shaab Stadium, the free admission will be offered, as a small gift to the loyal fans who showed such great inner strength in such a trying time. Fares and I always mention that to our friends, because we were there that night.

  It really breaks my heart seeing Fares this way, so miserable, deflated, and beaten down. He has always been a very sensitive guy. He is the kind of person whose mood actually darkens if he watches a movie that does not have such a happy ending. I have always thought him a bit too emotional, but I did not realize it would take such a toll on him. I never suspected that would be his downfall in life. Of course, my cousin’s real-life love story is a bit of a tragedy, far more tragic and emotional than any movie I’ve ever seen.

  It all started when Fares was 15 and I was 12. It was a hot day in mid-July, with temperatures staggering into the low 100s. Soaked with sweat, we were playing soccer at the back side of their corner villa, just like we did every other summer day. Some new neighbors moved into the last house on the street, about four houses to the right of Fares’s place. A clean, shiny, white 1979 Toyota Crown model was parked in the driveway, and a man and his wife got out, both in their early 40s. A teenager also exited the car, a tall girl who looked to be our age or a slight bit older. Fares and I stopped playing with our soccer ball and watched the family carry their luggage and boxes inside, but the girl struggled to carry hers.

  At that point, Fares sprinted toward them, and, within seconds, offered to help her. He took the heavy box and followed them inside. A minute later, he came out with the man, who thanked him profusely for his help. Fares slowly made his way back to me and gave me a sharp look when he spotted me laughing. “Stop, Omar! Hush up, or I’ll kill you!” he commanded.

  I did stop laughing, but as soon as the father was out of sight, I burst out in chuckles again and continued teasing him. I only stopped when he promised to buy me a burger and a bottle of cola from the fast-food diner close by.

  Later that night, all he could think of was Deena, the new girl on the block. It was like love at first sight, and he was dazzle
d by her. He repeated the story of their first encounter to me about a dozen times. We were supposed to watch Jaws that night, the iconic American movie I’d gotten my hands on through one of my father’s friends who had just returned from San Francisco with a VHS copy. In the end, I gave up; there was no use trying to watch a rather intense, serious movie while Fares kept on blubbering and mumbling about the beautiful girl next door.

  “Omar, she is so soft. I could barely hear her when she thanked me. She turned as red as rose when I went over to help her, and when she smiled, I swear the world just ceased to exist! She’s so beautiful! Did I tell you about her long, black hair, like pure silk? Oh, Omar, that hair! I’m sure it covers her whole back when she lets it down, and I can’t even begin to tell you about those eyes of hers.”

  I really did not reply to any of that, so I kept my mouth shut.

  “You know, you’re useless as a friend. You haven’t said a word. Anyway, when she walks, it’s like a feather floating in the air, and…”

  That day spawned the fateful story of Fares, Deena, and the three claps. The three claps, something we often joked about, was their mode of communication, the secret way Fares lured Deena out of her house when they wanted to see each other. It consisted of one long clap, followed by two fast, consecutive ones seconds later. He repeated that customized summoning several times, until she came out of her house. We used to pretend we were engaged with playing football, and Fares’s girl pretended she was just casually watering the plants outside her home, reading a book in her garden, or taking a walk. Of course, every few minutes, to keep up with the romantic ruse, I had to deliberately kick the ball hard toward Deena’s home, and Fares sprinted after it, just to get a glance at her or toss a few words toward the girl he called Dandoon.