Baghdad: The Final Gathering

by Ahmad Ardalan

  Once we graduated, everything changed. The days of laziness were over, and it was time for us to take our own paths of life. It was the real deal, but before that, we had to contend with military service.

  At that time, every healthy Iraqi male who hit the age of 18 had to undertake compulsory military service. If he did not enter college or desired to opt out of studying, his service would start as soon as he reached 18. Those who continued their education would commence military service after they graduated from their respective colleges.

  Essam and I were just 22 when we donned the khaki military uniforms for the first time, just six months after we graduated. We laughed at one another as we stood outside my parents’ home, waiting for my father. He planned to drop us off at our training camp in the province of Kirkuk, four hours from Baghdad. He had some business there and timed it well with our first day.

  Through his contacts, my father managed to pair Essam and me at the same station. We were together again. Unfortunately, this time, we would be hundreds of miles from home, in northern Iraq, where temperatures wouldn’t be kind in the winter.

  With the exception of times of war, military service generally lasted for around two years, counting the time it took for release paperwork to be issued. We were lucky, for the men born just a decade earlier than we were had to serve in the Iraqi-Iranian war. Some served the full eight years of that war, others a bit less. No matter how long they served, they were there in the most dangerous of times. They were scattered all over Iraq, in different stations on the frontlines of a war that took the lives of nearly half a million Iraqi soldiers. Hundreds of thousands were taken captive by Iran, and some still sat in Iranian jails years after the war ended. It was really the same on the other side, for the Iranian men. We were even fortunate enough to miss the first Gulf War, another conflict that took the lives of thousands of our men.

  Besides being born at the right time to avoid all that, Essam and I were lucky that we would not spend the whole two years in service, because we could afford to pay a compensation that ensured that we would only serve three months. The cost was a hefty fee of two million dinars ($700), paid to the Ministry of Defense, and it exempted us from serving a whole term. That amount was equivalent to a seven-month budget for a family of five during the embargo; in those difficult times, every dinar counted. My mother sold some of her jewelry, and my father had some money aside to help me pay the amount. Essam, basically an orphan since his young years, depended on his uncle, a single man who loved Essam like his own. With the help of our family, we had our ticket for a shorter stay, but those three months would still be utterly exhausting.

  Apart from the few words of advice my father, the general, spoke, it was a very quiet ride. We arrived at our post at quarter till six, and we had to report to the captain in charge at that hour. It was a chilly day, breaking into drizzles every few minutes. We gave our papers to the captain, and, just like that, we were soldiers, under his command. We instantly received our first order to run three laps alone, then assemble with the rest. Our first day ended with me throwing up twice, Essam once, and cramps in every part of my body. We were not used to that kind of training and physical exertion, and we certainly didn’t expect it on our first day. Eight of us shared a room, and the beds were creaky and squeaky and uncomfortable, but I couldn’t have be happier to collapse into one.

  The next day, we were awakened by an alarm as loud as a fire siren at a quarter till five. We had exactly fourteen minutes to take a bath, shave, and get into our uniforms, as the morning headcount would be at precisely five a.m. One second beyond that, we would have to face the wrath of the captain, and no one wanted that.

  There were 1,948 soldiers stationed there, young men from every part of the country. Some had never been to school, others knew how to read and write only at a beginner’s level, some were graduates from reputable colleges with educations in engineering, languages, or law. None of that really mattered though. In the end, we were all equal, united and wearing the same uniforms, living under the command and merciless rule of our ruthless Captain Mazin.

  The captain was a well-built tall man, with a carefully trimmed broad, black mustache. He had a nose like the beak of a hawk and big, sharp, black eyes. He had been in the army for the past twenty years. He fought all eight years on the battlefront in the Iranian war and was based in the north during the Gulf War. There was not a drop of mercy in his heart, and he seemed to have some angst against all soldiers who were lucky enough to escape service during the war. He felt we were weak, so he pounded his anger out on us, in an attempt to make us stronger.

  We discovered that during the last days of war, Captain Mazin and forty other men were trapped six kilometers behind Iranian lines for twenty-three days, with no food, no first aid, and nothing but a knife, five rifles, a few grenades, and two torchlights. They hid themselves in different barricades, empty burnt tanks, between dead corpses. They ate whatever they could find, like feral dogs, lizards, snakes, scorpions, and even leaves, just to stay alive. Out of the forty men, only one died. After sleepless, tiring nights, Captain Mazin helped them master an escape back to the Iraqi camp, and he was considered a hero. After hearing that heroic story, we understood where his cold-heartened nature came from, and we had to respect him, regardless of how ruthless he was with us. We realized he just wanted to make the most out of us, and he did.

  Each day started with us running a few laps, then hours of extensive physical training, including pushups, sit-ups, moving rocks, climbing walls, and working with weapons. We were also commanded to dig tunnels and build barricades.

  The weather worsened as the days passed. Rarely did a day go by without rain. The sand in the training field was really just thick mud that stuck to our boots, and our pounding legs felt heavier and heavier during our runs. Digging got harder, but if anyone dared to quit or show any sign of weakness, he was punished and ordered to do hard labor all night, while the rest of us rested in the stinky but warm green blankets on our thin beds. Even worse, the punished had to take two cold showers during that night; I still remember hearing their screams coming from the bathroom. The captain’s plan worked, however, because none of the quitters ever dared to quit again.

  I understood why the Iraqi Army was the seventh-strongest in the world, because all the training and strict rules made a difference. We all started weak, but within a month, every single man there felt and acted differently. We were stronger, physically and mentally, than we’d ever been before.

  At night, we sat together for a few hours and talked about our lives. That short time I served in the army taught me a lot, as it allowed me to mingle with people I never would have met in my regular life. I learned about the habits and nature of people from all over Iraq. I had friends from villages as far as the most southern point in Iraq, and others came from mountainous regions in the north. We shared our daily lives with them, and they shared theirs with us. We entertained one another with funny stories and jokes, and we commiserated with sad tales. In the end, my military service was not just about tactics and endurance; it was also about understanding life from different angles.

  After serving for three months and a few days, we were granted our release papers. We said our goodbyes and headed back to Baghdad. On our last day, I thanked the captain for the training and for all he had done for our country. It was not easy to serve under him, but I would gladly have done it again, because he was an honorable man and a hero in my eyes too.

  ***

  The military phase in our lives came to an end, and we stepped into a new chapter. As planned, both Aws and I married the same year. Farah and I married in May, and Aws and Hana wed in July. Most of the people who attended my ceremony also attended his. My wedding was classy, with a white and gold color scheme. Over 180 people were invited, seated at 22 tables that held centerpieces of red roses in beautiful Austrian crystal vases.

  Our entrance was also quite unique. All the lights were dimmed in the hall at exactl
y nine p.m. A lady dressed in white satin, with a crown of daisies on her head and a harp in her hand, took her place in the right corner of the main entrance. Under a spotlight, she strummed a few tunes. Next, eight violinists in beautiful costumes lined the walkway, four on each side. They began to play Johann Pachelbel. Just before they finished, the whole room darkened, and the audience gasped. When the spotlight came back on, Farah and I were in the middle of all of them. From that point on, the theme changed from classy to being wild. The night became crazy, a celebration that lasted till two a.m., and we flew into Beirut the next day.

  The week I spent there was the quietest of my life. Our honeymoon only lasted seven nights, but the weather favored us in that beautiful, romantic resort, with a spectacular beach nearby. It was a wonderful time that ended far too quickly, and before we knew it, we were on our way back to Baghdad, newlyweds who were happy in love.

  My family built an extension next to our home, a cozy, one-bedroom apartment. The living/dining room had big windows that overlooked our garden, dressed with white satin curtains. For dining, we had a glass table that seated four, and the living room area was furnished with one white leather sofa with two gray pillows. There was a black shelf that showcased my books, as well as many small bohemian crystals from Czechoslovakia and a few handmade statues my parents gave us, from Hungary. One the small wall behind the sofa was a beautiful painting, gifted to us by my aunt. The living room opened up to the kitchen. Although small, it was beautifully designed, very modern, in black and red. All the amenities were there, packed in practical drawers and compartments. We had a relatively large stove and oven, a refrigerator, and a small microwave, and our cutlery was hung beautifully, like something I’d seen in a magazine.

  The bedroom was classy black and white, small but warm and comfy. I loved that room most of all. I had to, because it was the place where our daughter was eventually conceived, the greatest gift life ever gave me.

  Sarah was born on February 21, a rainy day, and all of my relatives were present at the hospital when she came into the world. She was the first grandchild on both sides, so it was a very exciting occasion for mine and Farah’s families. To make the occasion even more special, my daughter was born at the same hospital where her mother and I were born decades earlier. That hospital has witnessed the birth of many generations in Baghdad, and it still has a good reputation and employs the best gynecologists.

  As beautiful as the day was, it was hectic for everyone, especially for Farah, who was in labor for ten long hours. Sarah just did not want to come out. Despite the long wait, none of our relatives dared to leave the hospital. We thought we would have to wait till the next day, but exactly twelve minutes before midnight, Sarah came into our lives. I was called in minutes later, and I saw my glowing, laughing wife, holding our tiny baby in her arms. I couldn’t believe it was the same women who was in labor such a short time ago, screaming her lungs out from the pain. All the stress and tiredness were gone, and the moment I looked at Sarah, I knew why. Our child was absolutely angelic, a glowing soul, wrapped in white, and so tiny I could not believe she was a living human.

  “Such a cute doll!” I said, peering down at the little one who was sleeping, with a smile on her face, completely content in her beautiful mother’s embrace.

  I was scared to hold her, terrified I would break her. After all, she was just a bit bigger than my palm. Afraid to touch her, I just looked at her for the next hour.

  Only after the nurse showed me what to do, and with the encouragement of those around, did I finally pick her up. At the very moment when she cuddled in my arms, I felt the joy and the burden of being a father. I knew it was time to take things seriously, for my princess needed protection. I knew, without a doubt, that she deserved everything in the world, and I vowed to give that to her. I promised, a whisper in her little dot of an ear, “My love, you will have everything you wish for. I will make sure of that.”

  Sarah brought a new joy to our family. I loved watching my family twist their faces up in funny, weird expressions, trying to garner a little laugh from her. My parents became children when she was around. Those were precious moments, beautiful times I will never forget.

  ***

  A week after Sarah’s birth, inspired by my promise to my newborn daughter, I started my adventure in the business world. It was time to venture out on my own adult path. Luck came my way via Mr. Shadi, the man sitting at my party, the man my ruthless but faithful friends had such fun with. I will always be grateful for him.

  I visited Mr. Haider, my father’s wealthy, successful friend once again. He believed in me when I told him about my idea, but I did not follow his advice of acting quick on my plan. I procrastinated for four years, but fortunately, there was still opportunity for what I had in mind. With the right design and the perfect location, I knew it would work out.

  Most successful gaming centers had two things in common: SEGA. The home video console of our time, particularly Mortal Kombat and Konami Soccer games that were played on it, and billiard halls. People were obsessed with those, and those businesses brought in lots of money. For a week, I traveled the various areas of Baghdad, and I finally found my spot.

  Mr. Haider was generous enough to lend me $2,000 for the startup. I had already taken a lot from my family. They scrounged up the money to pay for my short military service, helped me with the marriage, and built a nice little love nest for Farah and me to start out in. Now, I wanted to do things on my own, without depending on them too much. With the right planning, I was sure I’d have enough money to rent a nice, 100-square-meter space on a street that was always busy with pedestrians and shoppers. I could install four docking stations for popular SEGA games, as well as three billiard tables. I could also provide a small canteen to sell chips and soft drinks. I expected it would be a good start. Little did I know that luck would make that an understatement. In reality, my business was explosive, and it turned out that timing was the reason. A ten-minute delay one day changed everything for me, became one of the best things that had ever happened to me, because I met Mr. Shadi.

  On a Monday at ten a.m., I was supposed to meet Mrs. Sameera, from the Baghdad municipality. She was in charge of the division that issued commercial licenses, including gaming licenses. She was always busy with meetings, and it was not easy to get an appointment with her. Mrs. Sameera was also known to be very strict and somewhat moody; if she was having a bad day, she might refuse the license, and it could take ages to get another chance for approval. On the other hand, if all went well, I would pay the license price of $300, and $75 every year thereafter to renew my license.

  I left home at quarter past nine. Any other day that would have left me plenty of time for the commute but that day was different. There was a car accident in the right lane, right in the center of one of our beautiful Baghdad bridges, which connected one bank of the Tigris to another. The Hanging Bridge, as we used to call it, was right next to the Saddam’s presidential palace. During the Gulf War, it was hit and partially destroyed by American forces, but it was refurbished within just two years. The Iraqi motto during that time of restoration, with all the necessary restructuring and rebuilding, was, “Nothing is impossible.”

  In all the years I could recall, that particular bridge had never been busy. Due to its sensitive location and its importance, traffic always flew by and flowed smoothly there. On that Monday, though, the radiator of an old Fiat blew up, and the car caught fire within minutes. That disabled vehicle was just three cars in front of mine, and the car trouble caused a long backup. Security personnel rushed into the area with fire extinguishers, and a firetruck arrived within five minutes. All precautions were taken, and the ordeal was under control within twenty-five minutes. Still, the delay was detrimental to my schedule, because by the time I reached the municipality, my turn with Mrs. Sameera had come and gone. I was told I would have to wait until the other appointments finished, and she would meet with me if she had time after that. Having no
other choice, I sat in the waiting room, cursing my luck.

  A man sat next to me, about fifteen years my senior. He saw me sweating and noticed how angry I was. He rose from his chair and returned with a bottle of water. “Have a drink,” he said, handing it to me. “Are you okay? You are not sick, are you? I am Shadi, by the way.”

  “Omar here. Yes, I’m fine. I don’t have a health problem or anything. It is just—d”

  “Then nothing is worth your anger. All will be solved,” he interrupted.

  “I am afraid I might lose my chance. All I need is one chance, and I will do it. I am sure, for I have it all planned—the place and even the colors of the walls. Baghdad will talk about my place, but it all might be for nothing now, because I was late. You’ve heard of Mrs. Sameera, haven’t you?” I replied.

  “Yes, I have, and I can tell you she is a pain,” Mr. Shadi replied.

  “It is true then. Well, there goes my future.” I said sadly.

  “Omar, you said?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, Omar, I assure you she is worse at home,” he said, with a grin on his face.

  I looked at him with my forehead wrinkled in confusion, but he continued before I could say another word.

  “She is my wife.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

  “Think nothing of it,” he said, still smiling. “I called her a pain, not you! Look, let me hear your plan. I sense real passion in your voice. Let’s get out of here and have some coffee, and you can tell me all about it. Don’t you worry one bit about Sameera.”

  I sat with him for an hour and showed him all my blueprints of the designs I had in mind. I discussed cost and profit and everything with him, still very excited about my plans.

  He just smiled and nodded, and when I finally finished, out of breath, he said, much to my shock, “Scrap your blueprints and your design. Leave your car here and come with me.”

  We drove to the Al Mansour area, one of the nicest in Baghdad. The streets were flanked by shops and restaurants of all kind, and youth congregated there, especially on the weekends, for shopping, eating, and just hanging out and enjoying life. Mr. Shadi parked in front of a fast food joint that was very successful back in the eighties, before the embargo. It buzzed with life, and diners were willing to wait in line for an hour for a tasty bite. It was especially known for juicy burgers, made with a signature collection of spices. Many tried to copy their recipe, but none of their competitors came close. Just looking at the place flooded memories back into my head, and I could still almost smell the burgers they used to barbecue right in front of hungry customers. A year after the Gulf War, the place went out of business. It reopened two years later, but it quickly failed again, and it had been in ruins ever since.