Baghdad ---- Clock's Ticking

Jetlag, busy schedules and attempts to cram seven months in a space of a few days through taking snapshots of quality moments and showing off my rudimentary culinary attempts are my only concerns because I know I am running out of time. I cannot get enough of my brother’s presence. One of the best bits about this trip is the fact that I could actually see him, talk to him and reminisce the old days. Our stale jokes now sound funnier. The all-time favourite music sound as good as new, but there’s a sad part of him that I don’t want to venture touch, but I could feel it and on my part, a big chunk of worries over his life that I wouldn’t venture show.

I have always hated planning and now that I am in Baghdad it is out of the question. If only life was normal after sunset, things would have been better. Traveling across one side of the Tigris is not easy, let alone both. I figured that it might be a better idea to leave things as they happen, so I did.

First Errand – Shaima’s House -- Kadhimiyya

Shaima and I agreed to meet at her place early in the morning so that I could check everything on my shopping list before it’s too late. I tried my best to be on time, but traffic in this country is as unpredictable as its politics and football scores. I found the right bus. Everything was normal, people still have manners, men still leave their seats for women [one of the advantages of inequality], but they no longer talk politics, which is good but not fun. Everything was fine until we were stranded. I had no other choice but hop out of the bus and take the first cab I saw.

I sensed some kind of progress in the air; a cab driving through a once Al-Qaida-infested area on its way to a still Badr-controlled one. Last time I was home, this was unheard of! I was amazed by the new changes; all checkpoints have tacky artificial plants as if to divert the beholders’ attention from the camouflage and rifles to the fact that the young servicemen mean no harm. Whereas the city housing one of Iraq’s famous golden-domed shrines proved that Iraqis are still creative; a motorcycle with a metal box, locally referred to as Sattuta, which looks risky, but commuters seem to be happy, I can almost see them stick their tongues at me for taking the old-fashioned cab.

From Shaima’s house we decided to go to the old Mutanabi book market. It no longer looks the same, neither are the bookshops keepers. I have been dealing with Mutanabi dealers for years, but never been ripped off, today I have and twice!

Then I moved to the once booming silver market. The bracelet I have been dreaming of is no longer there because the renowned silversmith who created the idea has immigrated to Australia and the ones left lack the talent. From there we headed to the trash-strewn Shorja marketplace, where I was almost run over by a porter with huge boxes, but it’s alright I found the stuff I was looking for, I could never be happier.

As I was promised, Shaima’s treat was a cruise across the Tigris. It was BREATH-TAKING! For the first time in my life, I was able to take pictures inside my city, on a boat though, pictures that scream I WAS IN BAGHDAD!





The last stop is my favourite place Kadhimiya marketplace, which seemed to have survived. No rip-offs, cheery faces and the good old Iraqi spirit seem to be buzzing with life.


Henna --- check
Souvenirs --- check
Books --- check
Jewelry --- check

It’s about time to satisfy my hankerings for Iraqi delicacies. I felt like a royalty today the Kubba, Kabab Tawa and Dolma I just said in passing that that I was craving in an online chat with Shaima are actually right there on the table.

I haven’t had tea in a cosy house in years. The last time I did it was in my aunt’s old house, from which she was displaced. With every sip I took I prayed for her to return to her old house, where my happiest memories are.

Baghdad ---- First Sleepover

Miraj’s Place --- Mansur

My arrival coincided with my friend Miraj’s roughest day ever; there was a blast on her way to work, claiming a large number of innocent lives, one of the over a dozen explosions celebrating the arrival of Ahmedinejad (nicknamed by Baghdadis as Najat (girl’s name), Najati, Najat As-Saghira (after a famous Egyptian diva) and Najat El-Chalib (Najad the dog). I so wanted to meet her on a homely turf, preferably not mine – it’s so embarrassing to ask friends to come over to my place while my mum is not home; no delicious food to serve, dust is gathering on each and every piece of furniture, floor is only mopped once a fortnight or on special occasions and it’s out of the question for me to waste precious moments in futile attempts to make the house look presentable, knowing that all it needs is mum’s magic touch.

Miraj’s house is only 10-minutes drive. Stepdad offered to give me a ride, I reluctantly agreed; as far as I can remember, checkpoints were more like mouse-traps for men living in our neighbourhood, but he and everybody say “it’s no longer the case.” I was not comfortable all the way through until he rang me to announce that he made a safe return home.

I lived up to my promise to have breakfast with my friend who forced her dad to hunt high and low for my favourite Iraqi traditional cheese – the combination with black tea is soooooo yummy – sadly the poor man couldn’t find any, but I felt like punching Miraj for making him check every shop he knows for my gluttonous majesty’s delight. I don’t usually have two cups of tea in one sitting, but this is once in a lifetime; good company, real tea [not tasteless teabags], and my favourite Iraqi bread.

Mansur is the neighbourhood where I spent a big chunk of my life. Even when my family moved to other areas, I still have this extraordinary affection towards this spot of Baghdad. News reports of bombings in Iraq are heart-wrenching but when Mansur is involved it’s a different story, it’s like my own house has caught fire. Too many lives were lost there, too many women were widowed and too much blood has been spilt on its asphalt. Looking around I couldn’t see any signs of death; ice cream lovers are swarming around Ar-Rwad shop and the whole street was buzzing with life and I could actually see trendy young girls not wearing headscarves, which was the case in my younger days, when women like me were free to choose to wear it as I did, or not wear it as the majority of my friends did.

Miraj insisted on having lunch in the famous Samad Restaurant. I have always hated restaurants and crowded places, but I’m glad I said yes. We hardly found a table for the two of us; it looked as if all Baghdadi families had a rendezvous to reassure me that things are getting better so just shut up and feast your eyes on this new kind of non-violent normalcy. Food was not bad, service was crummy, windows are non-existent, waiters are rude but the whole place was so alive that day.

I blithely submitted to my friend’s pleas for a typical girly sleepover. We had a whale of a time; we watched a Simon Baker movie and wrapped up the night with Disney’s Monsters Inc., both are brilliantly well-made, but had we been in a movie theatre, we’d be shushed and kicked out in no time!

We made plans to go for a shopping spree for the next day. We’re lucky for the talkative cab driver, who also added up to the shots of hope and optimism in the air. “I just came from Jamia neighbourhood,” he said, “displaced families are getting back to their homes, more shops are open [I saw that too], I am a Shia and drove all the way to the furthest point in [the former predominantly Sunni land of bogymen].” I was silent almost all the time for two reasons; I was busy jotting down notes in my mind and deep, deep down I still have those superstitions that too much hope almost always wind up in frustration. Mind you, I have given up on my people’s awakening. This cab driver says things are normal, in other words Shias and Sunnis have woken up and are now tired of bloodletting. I have never stopped praying for peace and prosperity in my country, but I just cannot bring myself to pin any hopes on early upbeat signs, but I want to wait to see the end whether countrymen would put their petty differences aside once and for all and be united like Kenya McQueen and Brian Kelly and come up with optimum solutions like Boo and Sully.

Deja Vue

For 48 long hours, mum had fitful sleeps, hairy nightmares, frightening what-might-happens – not because we have not seen those things known as City Electricity or Tap Water for over a week – and muttering uninterruptible words – not to curse the government or wonder if they too have mosquitoes and scorching bedrooms. All this tossing and turning are instigated by the fact that Chikitita had some important errands to run and the muttering is but tearful prayers to keep me safe from the likes of gun-powdered injuries.

The errands in question had been planned and delayed on way too many occasions thanks to my countless fears of not finding a cabdriver that could venture into rival sect areas, or bumping into other cabdrivers who would agree to give me a ride back home. Yet my biggest fear was I might not be able to finish the almost gripping paperback I was reading.

Finally, I defeated the worries and decided to break a leg before it is too late to regret the time I have wasted.

Nothing has changed as far as the topography of the frontline was concerned; debris in place, same barricades and same wary faces.

Two cabdrivers shot me an are-you-crazy look. The third named an outrageous fare, but to his dismay, I hopped in anyway; I didn’t dress up to get back home empty-handed. Two other women were also waiting for a chance to find a taxi, the driver asked me if I minded their joining me. Not a bit! Sounds as cool as minibuses of yore! I’d listen to conversations without having to give my take on the situation and any I’d avoid any yapping that requires responses.

I promised not to cry like I did two months ago but it seems I have failed myself. I still cannot get used to Baghdad in the new look, neither can I stomach the fact that we Iraqis are no longer ashamed of dissing ourselves for our lack of “morals, neighbourly manners and mutual respect” as the driver put it, nor can I consider a drive-by shooting an inseparable part of normalcy.

Once he dropped off the two women, who thanked me profusely for letting them share the car, the cabdriver apologized for the hefty fare and said he was too scared of the militias in that treacherous area I was going to, but by the end of the day “our lives is in God’s hands,” he said.

The ride back home was loads harder. The mention of Chikitita’s neighbourhood spurred similar reactions to rival sect area. The last one, who might be the fifth or sixth, said with a toothy smile, “You mean the BATTLEFIELD!”

“Whatever,” I said smiling back. He named the same price but warned me that he will drop me off at another area, where I could switch cars and he could spare his life.

As promised, I rang mum every few minutes to assure her I was still safe. I could feel her panic on my end of the phone, but nothing seemed to work to stop her worrying.

I was blessed with the last car. The nice old driver did not in the least wince at the mention of my neighbourhood, he even dropped me at my doorstep and helped shoo stepdad’s dogs for me. So I was back home in one piece with two things to celebrate; a successful errand ticked on a long list of risky missions and the Ninja Turtle I have promised my nephew.




For further news and views from the mouths of Iraqi people log on to http://olivebranchoptimism.net

ring...ring...ring

Once my friends tie the knot, I x them from my must-call-list, unless they live in troubled neighborhoods, which forces me to check on them via text messaging. No reply! I’d condescend and give them a ring to make sure they’re still breathing. This has nothing to do with being an envious old maid, I just know that some men are not huge fans of their wives or fiancées’ chums; once tiffs break out, all fingers point to that vixen from school days.

My rule of thumb no longer applies once my friends break the news of pregnancy. It means my role as a best friend develops to a combination of a diet watch, a patronizing gynecologist and a caring granny speaking from firsthand experience, though in my case it is secondhand given the fact that I have a sister, who mothered two healthy kids and I happened to watch every moment of her burdensome ordeal.

One of those mothers-to-be friends is Shaima, the most stubborn of the lot; she wouldn’t listen to a word I say, refuses to have more milk, hates the taste of date and would not stop watching the news. Having a diet related argument is pointless, so I figured if I rack my brain a bit and think of some good news to cheer her up, it would be something, but she was the first to ask.

“So you’ve got your degree?”

“Naaah, I officially flunked,” I said offhandedly. “Not to worry, I will have it when I want it,” I reassured her.
“Aha! And your brother, any news?”
“Why, I guess they’ll pickle and jar him as memento,” I sneered. Again trying to assure her I said, “But he’s ok, people told us he is.”

“Oh Lord!” she exclaimed, “You know, my cousin’s husband is held there too in that prison camp with the funny name. He had gone missing for some time, she looked all over for him and almost lost hope, but she gave stacks of dollars and managed to find him, they didn’t even give him a serial number all this time. And they arrested so many of my parent’s neighbours. I can’t believe it, all Iraqis are terrorists? It does not make any sense.”
“Typical,” I said knowingly.
So dumb of me, I was trying to ward off bad news, it turned out they were coming her way already. From what she had seen and heard, I proved to be none the wiser.

The whole conversation was all too depressing for me, let alone an expectant woman. It ranged from the dead bodies she saw on her way to work and her shock by the fact that she no longer flinches or looks away, to the news bar on the notorious national television declaring the detention of senior terrorists in the hundreds, one of whom happened to be a nice guy next door, who was blindfold and forced to pose on a backdrop of stockpile of weapons to glorify the successful crackdown, to her 17-year-old cousin who was grabbed and beaten by Mehdi Army just because of his Sunni name, to her parents showing aging signs despite the fact that they are barely in their 50s, to the US snipers who have taken over a civilian house, who not only target their enemy but also terrorize the owners of the house, to her brother, who despite his fine degree, was not greeted with open arms in brotherly Gulf States, to her co-worker who survived brutal killing by simply proving his religious background, which finally gave her and me some indication about the nameless bodies dumped near her workplace, all Shias.

After all this I insisted on imparting some word of advice to live up to my role, “Shaima for the love of God, don’t watch the news, it’s bad for the baby!”

“I’m not, honest,” she said, “Nothing but stupid Hollywood stuff, I swear!” And before we could say our good byes, the phone line had it its way.


For further news and views from the mouths of Iraqi people log on to http://olivebranchoptimism.net

The President and I Talked

Not too long ago, I was barraged with questions of how it felt to witness the fourth invasion anniversary. I usually greet dates to be marked and fanfare studded anniversaries with indifference - it is the event that counts not when it occurred. I kept racking my brain and fumbling for answers until it dawned on me that on April 9, 2003, I did not know it was April 9. I had no calendar at the time. Besides, I was more drawn into buying the reports of former Minister of Culture and Media than the BBC, Radio Monte Carlo or Radio Sawa’s, which means I did not believe Iraq was officially occupied until I saw US Marines walking past my house to corroborate what I had heard through the grapevine. More importantly, all my life I have been bracing myself to the prophecies that all Iraqis would eventually die of cancer, depression, rage, smart and stupid bombs, torture chambers, fear, helplessness, depleted uranium, poverty, anemia, wailing sirens, to name but a few and Saddam would be the last to leave this world. I have always had this mental picture of a pile of dust and rubble with him on top, inspired by the eternal words that were ascribed to his Excellency “I won’t step down until I reduce Iraq to a pile of dust.”

The mention of “The Fourth Year” intrigued me to do some math to see how many years we have left to beat the Lebanon, Algeria and Serbia experiences, which are strikingly similar to ours. I sulked at the fact that if the post February 22nd madness is really a civil war, it means we have only just begun.

I tried to remember how I reacted after I finally came to terms with the fact that this time was no game. What I did was I took a broom and decided to sweep the Sahara-like rooftop, not a single thought in my mind until I caught a glimpse of an old man in dishdasha with a hump and a cane. A flood of scenarios started to brew in my head, “What if this man is none other than the ousted President who is believed to be wandering around Baghdad in disguise?” Still sweeping, I kept following him with my eyes and thinking of what I needed to say to him ages ago.

Mr. Hussein tops the list of the five men - including three US Presidents - I have wished they could just shut up for once in their lives and listen to me as I let them have it. I had countless questions in my mind at the time, to which, to this day, I cannot find good answers.

We had a nice imaginary conversation, which was a very good way to vent my anger and concluded with me having the last word, “Mr. President, it was good riddance if you ask me!”


For further news and views from the mouths of Iraqi people log on to http://olivebranchoptimism.net

My Diploma

Life has taught me to waste no time envying others for what they have and appreciate the fact that I am blessed with special things of my own. Life has taught me that places and loved ones maybe blown up, but vivid memories are indelible and timeless. Life has taught me to wish for my brother/sister what I wish for myself. Life has taught me to read the inscription engraved on every person’s forehead, including mine, “I Matter”. Life has taught me that selfishness breeds arrogance and arrogance breeds bigotry and bigotry breeds unnecessary bloodshed. Life has taught me that I may be right and others might be wrong, and I may be wrong and others might be right. Life has taught me blue blood does not exist; my deeds are who I am. Life has taught me that it is made of ups and downs; too much of each is equally creepy. Life has taught me that I will wind up six-feet-under; a prelude to bitter or sweet end based on what I have learned from the school of life.

In contrast, life in Iraq has opened my eyes to the fact that people hold funerals for bricks and gilded domes, but human souls must deal with the fact that they are but faceless numbers. Life in Iraq has made me see my seemingly monotheist nation littered with neo and would-be lords with hordes of robots, who know for sure they are doomed to be tossed in junkyards once their votes and lives are depleted, but they would not care less as long as their revered lords are climbing their shoulders safely with heartfelt pledges to be their one-way ticket to heaven.


For further news and views from the mouths of Iraqi people log on to http://olivebranchoptimism.net

No More Curses

Not sure on which side I should lie, back seems to be a lesser evil, one shot to the head or stomach I’d be painlessly dead in no time, front means I could get a bullet in my spinal cord and end up like mum’s friend - vegetable because of one tiny metal chunk fired in the late ‘80s to celebrate Iraq’s so-called victory. But what if my legs or arms get shot, do people shot in the extremities live with disabilities?


These were my thoughts for the first hour or so on my first night’s sleep on the rooftop. The thoughts and bad dreams were forced by a neighbour’s comments on the US soldiers on board of their noisy aircrafts firing their weapons on sleeping Iraqis and stepdad’s account of the flames that had once engulfed a neighbour’s bed when a plane dropped some ball of fire right on their house – true or not I was freaking out already - and recurrent nighttime shootouts next door, by the end of each we find little bits of bullets.


Fortunately, my tossing and turning and murky thoughts barraging my drowsy head ground to a halt by the first touch of soothing God-made breeze that beats Japanese air conditioners. Kicking the habit of cursing the government, insurgents, US soldiers, Saddam and Bush each scorching night, I muttered a thousand thank-yous and God-I’m-happys for the fact that this beautifully adorned sky and natural AC are not controlled by the Electricity Ministry or the Air Force.


I might live with such nightmares every night and I might complain of lugging the matters and pillow to and from the roof and I might miss bedtime reading – because I m not allowed to use my torchlight in a roofless war zone - but the fact that I woke up without bags under my eyes for the first time in months and the fact that I wake up for the morning prayer without my handset alarm are just too tempting.





For further news and views from the mouths of Iraqi people log on to http://olivebranchoptimism.net