Baghdad: The Final Gathering

by Ahmad Ardalan

  Those were peaceful days, but now our family home back in Baghdad was temporarily occupied by my second cousin. It was dangerous for my family to live there again after what happened. I knew they missed it so much. Their home in Amman was nice, a beautiful three-bedroom flat, but it was not even close to our home in Baghdad. Whenever I visited them, I felt an emptiness, but I couldn’t risk taking them back. All I could do was think of another place they considered home, a place they talked about even when they were in Baghdad.

  Business was going smoothly, and the emotional rollercoaster I’d been on for so long had been on hiatus for a few months, so I knew it was the best time to rekindle some feelings for my parents. One day, I took their passports and applied for their visa, arranged everything with my brother, and surprised my family with a ten-day trip to Berlin. I rented a nice house on the outskirts, a beautiful place with a great garden. The trip was a blessing, and all the stress of life just melted away. Like many families in Iraq, we had suffered a lot. We needed that trip, and my parents needed it most of all, as their time was passing very quickly.

  We all flew together, on our first family trip in twenty or thirty years. The home I booked was lovely. There were three rooms, one for my parents, one my brother and I would share to help relive our childhood, and one that we didn’t intend to use, though my brother ended up there when I decided he was too noisy of a sleeper.

  It was a beautiful farmhouse, like any typical German house that area, very cozy. The cupboards were full of cutlery. The house was entirely made of wood from the local area. The bedrooms were warm, and lovely sheets, with soft, feather pillows. There was a fireplace in the middle of the living room. Outside, there was a small pond at the front, as well as a beautiful garden that led to the river. Squirrels jumped here and there, ducks waddled around, and a few geese joined in on the party.

  We ate breakfast together in the morning, and our mother made the same wonderful meals we enjoyed during our Eid festival days: a mix of scrambled eggs, butter, and potatoes, along with another dish of fried eggs with mincemeat and tomatoes. For something sweet, we enjoyed Kahi and Gaymar, a special type of bread soaked in sugar syrup, with a dollop of a special type of diary cream on top. No matter where we were in the world, Mom found the right ingredients and prepared wonderful meals with the same old taste.

  After we ate, we went out for a walk beside the river, talking about fond memories as we went. Every day, we arrived at the same place where my father, brother, and I used to fish for lunch; luckily, as the landlord promised, there was some fishing equipment stored in the basement, so we made that a daily activity. We failed the first day, but the following day, we harvested a whole feast of fish.

  At night, we sat outside, covered in blankets, and our parents told us tales about the old days of Baghdad, stories about much easier times, when the people were close and neighbors were more like family. . My father explained that many athletes came from the area, as every family seemed to rear a wrestler, boxer, or basketball or soccer player, if not all of them. Sports were a big part of my dad’s life. Mom talked about the lives of women in the fifties and sixties, a time when women began seeking higher education and fashion was followed closely. For the first time in our lives, my brother and I heard it all, in vivid detail. Sometimes, as my mother shared her memories of Baghdad she stopped talking, and tears ran down her cheeks. She talked about our childhood, our home, our garden, her sisters, and her friends, everything she had left behind and had been missing for the past ten years.

  Life sometimes takes its own path, and we Iraqis had to firmly believe that and hold on to it. That trip to Berlin, a place where we once made a home, strengthened us as a family, and we hoped that someday, in the near future, we would be back together again in our real home, our beloved Baghdad.

  Epilogue

  There is something about Baghdad that always pulls me back in. Any other person who was shot at, had to pay a ransom for his kidnapped brother, and was forced to close his business and leave his beautiful villa behind, damaged and tattered, would likely not turn the other cheek, but here I am again.

  Why? I don’t know. Spiritually, I never left. Physically, I’m here because some documents need to be signed for the project my friends and I have in mind to help give back to our hometown. Those documents have to be issued by the Health Ministry and another in the Baghdad municipality. Someone else could have handled the paperwork for me, but there is another thing that drew me back, a dream I had a fortnight ago, a dream that haunted me for days, like a clear sign, a beacon.

  In that dream, I saw myself standing at the Tigris River, on two occasions. Once, I was deep in thought, watching the sunset, as the sun sank into the river on the horizon, and everything turned dark. In another instant, I saw myself standing at the same place, only watching the sunrise this time. Baghdad changed from dark to light, from all the quietness to the live city it was before the whole mess started. To me, that was a calling, and I obliged.

  Now, I am here, and nothing seems different from my last visit. The electricity situation isn’t any better. Some of the roads are still closed, and there are useless checkpoints everywhere, so traffic is hectic. People are still complaining, and most seem tired, after suffering years and years of misery. I have to stand in line for four hours at the municipality, and all in all, some things seem to have gotten worse. The lovely weather is really the only good thing about the day.

  My next stop is at my good old home, where I need to sign some papers for my relatives to deliver to the area council. When I arrive, I go directly to the back, as I can’t bear to go inside. I want to remember my house as it was before, not the war-ravaged place I left behind.

  I stand on the terrace, looking out at the dead, yellow grass. The fountain is dirty and hasn’t worked for years. It has been over a decade since I had my gathering here. Out of all the people who attended, only my uncle remains in Baghdad. My older relatives, my aunts, have passed away, and the rest are scattered around the world. That gathering was such a great day, but those memories seem so far away now.

  My uncle is out, so I give the documents to his daughter’s husband and go on my way.

  I look at my watch and realize I have nothing to do for the next few hours. “I’ll go visit the old café,” I say to myself. A friend in Amman told me it had reopened a few years back. I still find it hard to believe that I haven’t been there in over ten years.

  After three security checkpoints and forty-five minutes of traffic, I finally arrive. The place looks bigger from the outside, and the sign is new. On the inside, it’s newly refurbished, with the walls repainted and different tables and chairs, yet the smell is still the same: that mixed odor of coal, Hookah, coffee, tea, and the river outside. Even painting can’t get rid of decades and decades of that, I silently muse.

  A few people are sitting to the right, young people in their 20s, about the same age we were in when we practically lived in this place for four or five hours a day, seven days a week, nearly all year long. On the left side, beside the window, I see something I can’t believe. The same old guys who sat beside us over a decade ago are still there, still bickering, but one of them is missing. I don’t ask why; I am sure time is the culprit once again.

  I take my seat in the middle of the café, then order some coffee and a Hookah. As I sit, I look back on the past, staring at the young people to the right and recalling how young we were back then. I then stare over to my left, at our future. I’ve had many ups and downs throughout my life, but it has been a great one, I decide. I enjoy my last few puffs in that nostalgic place, pay the bill, and make my way out.

  I ride the car a few meters and see that lovely big house on the river again. This has been twenty years in the making. I park my car just outside and just stand and look at the place for a few minutes.

  My phone rings, and I cannot believe Fatima is calling me after all this time. Mixed feelings run through me. I really don’t know if I should answer it or
leave it forever. Am I better off? Have I moved on? Has she finally made a decision, or will she just drag me back to those same old feelings if I give in? Is there any hope left for us? I just stare at the ringing phone, confused and unable to face that moment of truth.

  In that instant, an old man steps out of the big garden just outside the place. He looks lively for his age. He glances at me for a few seconds, then points with his walking cane. “Nice place, right?”

  “I am very sorry, but I’ve passed in front of this place for over twenty years, and I’ve never really known what it is,” I reply shyly.

  The old man laughs. “Do you believe in love and hope?” he asks.

  Who is this man, and why now? I wonder, taken aback by his question. I peer at him for a moment and see no harm in answering. “Yes, sir,” I say. “Love and hope are not just words. They are a way of life, or at least that was what I used to believe and live by,” I answer, shaking my head.

  “My son, love will always conquer,” he retorts. “Let’s go inside and have some lovely tea. I will tell you everything, down to the last detail, and I’m sure you’ll find it all amusing. I will tell you about Ali.”

  “Ali?” I reply.

  “Yes,” the old man answered, “The Gardener of Baghdad.”

  About the Author

  Ahmad Ardalan was born in Baghdad in 1979. At the age of two, he moved with his parents to Vienna, Austria, where he spent most of his childhood and underwent his primary studies. After his father's diplomatic mission finished at the end of 1989, he returned to Iraq, where he continued his studies and graduated from the University of Dentistry. As a result of the unstable political, military, social, and economic conditions in his home country, Ahmad decided to leave Iraq and move to the UAE. After facing difficulties to pursue his career in dentistry, he opted to pursue employment in the business world. Since then, Ardalan has held several senior roles within the pharmaceutical and FMCG industries, throughout much of the Middle East. His early childhood in a mixed cultural environment, as well as his world travels, increased his passion for learning about cultures of the world and inspired him to pen The Clout of Gen, his first novel. After eleven years of being away, Ahmad returned to Baghdad in January 2013 on a visit that was full of mixed emotions. Inspired by his trip to Iraq, he wrote his second novel, The Gardener of Baghdad. He did not stop there, as "Matt" his latest Short Story Thriller Series became available beginning 2015. The Gardener of Baghdad, opened readers’ eyes to a different picture of the city they had heard of. With hope and love as his message, Ardalan released Baghdad: The Final Gathering.

  Other Publications by Ahmad Ardalan:

  ~ Historical Fiction~

  “The Gardener of Baghdad”

  “Two people, one city, different times; connected by a memoir. Can love exist in a city destined for decades of misery?”

  Adnan leads a weary existence as a bookshop owner in modern-day, war-torn Baghdad, where bombings, corruption and assault are everyday occurrences and the struggle to survive has suffocated the joy out of life for most. But when he begins to clean out his bookshop of forty years to leave his city in search of somewhere safer, he comes across the story of Ali, the Gardener of Baghdad, Adnan rediscovers through a memoir handwritten by the gardener decades ago that beauty, love and hope can still exist, even in the darkest corners of the world.

  http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00M91LJGW

  Mystery Fiction ~The Clout of Gen~

  "What if major events in modern history were planned decades ago?"

  Newspaper reporter John Teddy’s miserable life is turned upside down when he uncovers a voice from the past—a voice that suspiciously knows far too much about the would-be future. John’s natural curiosity to understand the hidden message takes him to places he never imagined seeing, and ongoing conspiracies he never thought existed. The more John gets involved, the more he is led towards mysteries that are beyond his understanding. The circle of people involved grows bigger stretching from west to east; each step forward is like a step backward.

  http://www.amazon.com/dp/B008J0BSZO

  Short Story Thriller Series:

  Matt Vol I:

  "They murdered my wife two years ago...

  Tonight, you die.

  I am Matt, your nightmare!"

  On a quiet night like any other, Matt, a successful entrepreneur, returns home to his gorgeous villa, only to find his wife brutally murdered. A soft verdict against the culprits, a gang of violent teenagers, spins Matt's relatively calm and collected demeanor into something far more sinister. In a manic rage, he seeks vengeance for what has been stolen from him, and he lashes out against the weak system. Sleepless, lonely, tormented nights torture him, filling his head and his heart with frustration, hate, and anger, unleashing an entirely different side of the man--a monster even he did not know existed within him. From Berlin to Rome to Paris, the great cities of the world suffer in the wake of his wrath, as brutal, barbaric killings seem to be the only temporary antidote for his fuming, blood-boiling rage. His victims, so easily deprived of life, seem to be the only cure, the only way to soothe his yearning for revenge, or are they?

  http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00QKVWNLW

  Matt Vol II: Chaos in Dubai

  “They tried hard to stop me. But, even I can't stop myself”

  In the bustling city of Dubai, the new theater for his manic actions, Matt faces his worst enemy: a deep inner struggle for identity. Part of him craves the recognition a media frenzy and a new infamous nickname grant him, for he feels his murders are works of art that demand attention, but a love interest reawakens another part of him, reigniting an innocence he once carried within. Can love overcome hate in a city that prides itself on being a luxurious safe haven? As the end nears, which version of Matt will he be?

  http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00RN69YX8

  Matt Vol III: Hunterman

  "Am I being hunted?

  Think again. I am Matt, I am the hunter.."

  The dark trilogy reaches its ultimatum, as Manic Matt approaches The Feds to takedown Hunterman.

  Would they work with a serial killer for a better cause? Could The Feds trust a man, half the world is chasing? A psychopath of many faces?

  http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00V2GY40S

  Facebook Page: https://www.facebook.com/AhmadArdalan799

  Author website: http://www.ahmadardalan.net/

  Instagram: @Ahmad_Ardalan

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