May God Rest Our Souls!

Every Baghdad neighbourhood must have a wall or a corner for black banners announcing recent deaths in the area so that people who recognize the names can attend the funerals and express their condolences to the bereaved families, if there were any family members left. On the other hand, white banners indicate that the victim was killed by the Americans.
Throughout the past three years, the number of banners was mounting. Calligraphy and coffin-making have become booming industries. I once read an interview with a coffin-maker, who said that his workshop was in full swing that he had to hire a large number of skillful carpenters to keep up with the increasing demand on his products.
Families started to refer to reasons for death, about which nobody gave a damn ten or fifteen years ago, when most people died of cancer thanks to the depleted uranium the US Administration have wholeheartedly bestowed upon us. Not surprisingly, the majority of banners these days read "Due to a Cowardly Accident". When there's no mention of any causes, people tend to raise their eyebrows and say, "oh! Natural causes, that's weird!", "he or she must be old!"
Ever since I was in high school, I've been obsessed with reading death banners. I've always wondered what mine will read, who will be interested to know whether I'm still alive or not.
One of the common scenes in Baghdad akin to banners is the large number of coffins roaming the streets of Baghdad on cars and minibuses' roofs. According to the Islamic tradition, you must greet the dead person inside the coffin, for he or she can hear you, but unfortunately you cannot hear the answer. I took advantage of this fact and started to pose some questions, "so tell me, who did this to you? And more importantly, why?", "was it worth the rows with your brother or sister over money or property?", "did you receive any signs prior to your last breath?" my mind has never run out of unanswered questions.
I was once in a bus, when a truck with two coffins passed. The bus driver mockingly said, "A wholesale death! I wonder why only good people die, while rogues are alive and kicking!"
So that makes us all rogues, eh!

Tomb Raider... The Iraqi Version

I was forced to go the Department of Civil Status and Passports to get my ID renewed. My stepdad wanted to do the following up of such tedious red tape. Yet, I wanted to do it myself, for one reason; I know that he's such a soft target for bribe-seekers, i.e., the little fish in the department who can finish your papers in no time for a few bucks, which I totally refuse, actually sometimes he's the one who looks for this kind of people. We used to wail and moan about power abuse and corrupt civil servants and then we ascribe it all to the ex-regime, and the ex-regime used to ascribe it to the sanctions imposed by the UN, I wonder what the UN have to say in their defense! I'm not trying to be a scrooge or something, it's just that I believe that those people are paid to do such jobs, and to be honest I feel I'm humiliating them when I offer them cash in return for some services I'm sure I can do with a bit of sweat.
All the desks outside the department had signs that read "our services are free of charge", but the employees say you must pay for the application, the files, and the Xerox copies of your papers. So I did.
My purse is searched. Fine, I don't mind, who wants to be blown up by some crazy suicide bomber anyway! But I do mind when a policeman practically barks in my face for having a cell-phone on me. "What's wrong with it? It doesn't even have a camera?" It turned out that I must leave it in the property and take a card to assure them that I'm the real owner when I'm out of this wretched place. So what was the problem? They ran out of cards. Uh-oh! I must wait. So I did.
Cards are brought. I'm inside a densely crowded place. Queues are unheard of. People step on each other, yell at each other, call each other names and quibble with each other, let alone the poor toddlers who were squeezed in the crowd but unfortunately they must be present lest no IDs will be issued for them. Inside the department, you don't know who to ask or where to go first. The civil servants tell you go to the department of "God-knows-what!", I scan the faces, can't tell a civil servant from a fellow poor citizen, "excuse me, where can I find the God-knows-what department?". "your guess is as good as mine", "I'm as lost as you are" are the usual answers. I find an open window or door, where people sit behind desks. Aha! Here's a civil servant, at last! "Excuse me, where can I find the God-knows-what department. "Go that way", without any directions left or right.
At last, I found the first desk that will grant me the magic stamp. The policeman had a row with the poor Iraqi citizens. So irritated, he refused to stamp any papers to punish them for they refused to stand in line, as if there was a line.
Women, who were kind enough to make their own line, started to beg His Majesty to stamp their papers, "see we're good people, we're standing in line". Puffing his smelly cigarette, he deliberately ignored their pleas and started chatting with his colleagues. Finally, doors of Heaven are open. His Majesty The Policeman announced that he'd condescend to stamp our papers. Hurrrrrrrrrrrrraaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah! "Now that your papers are stamped, go pay for a receipt". "Where can I pay?" What do you take me for, your guide or something! Go that way, also without directions! Hang on, there are people taking money out of their pockets, it must be it. It was.
I paid for the receipt. Now go to the Manager's office. Where is the Manager's office? No idea! It feels like one of the video games my brother used to play, in which he has to find the treasure.
I see some women standing in line. I came near the door just to check whether this was the place. An old woman with Abaya yells at me, "why are you not standing in line! Can't you see we're all waiting here". "Um…. I was… just …asking!" I wasn't planning to take over your place, if you're interested to know.
Standing in line, I managed to spot about sixteen Saddam Hussein replicas. They all yell at you, swear at you, and slam the manager's door in your face, just because His Highness The Manager couldn't bear the noises outside. I'm lucky I wasn't created a man, for I saw old and young men being beaten by the policemen who were supposed to help us.
Once my papers are adorned with the zillion signatures and stamps, the last civil servant I had to see in this chain of bureaucracy cheerfully said, "that's it you'll receive it at noon now beat it!". You mean today! Iraq is progressing after all.
We kept waiting for hours. Noon turned out to be AFTER-noon. Who cares, at least they were gracious enough to give you an ID.
The civil servant called out my name and handed me the little ID. It had the ugliest handwriting. It seems they were in so much hurry that they covered half my face with the glossy stamp. I went back home worn out, thirsty, starving and with aching bones, but at least with a paper signed by the Monarchs of the Ministry of Interior.

A Street I Once Knew

I spent some of my childhood years in a well-known ugly-looking block in Haifa Street. This very street was the feather in Saddam's cap- it's deemed one of the feats that he's proud of. He had hired Asian and European companies to build a number of blocks for Iraqi scholars and intellectuals, and one block for Syrian exiled families, which they fled after they were harassed by the hospitable Iraqis. Personally, I think when Saddam came up with the idea of such huge construction project he had an ax to grind. He deliberately wanted to separate the wealthy, so to speak, from the poor. He kept dirty slums in a very bad shape; sewage networks were in a mess, buildings were falling apart, and the gap between the poor and the rich was widening at an alarming rate. It was such a relief for me to leave that place for good. I hardly made any friends, eavesdropping was the norm amongst the neighbours, there was no place to play or ride bikes, it was killing me! I already shudder at the mention of the place, particularly when I catch a glimpse of our old balcony, which brings floods of unpleasant memories of our flat, and the visiting rights the judge forced on my siblings and me after my parents' divorcement.
This very place has recently acquired a new name, "Falluja look-alike". They say that "the insurgents" are at large, and neither the US army nor the Iraqi forces were able to control them.
There is only one way to get to college, and Haifa Street is the only option for bus drivers, once it's closed off, I should either walk to the university or get back home. First time I ever entered this street in almost twenty years was appalling. The buildings are already ugly, but this time it was much uglier. A number of windows were broken, if memory saved me correctly, those windows were the thickest and sturdiest. I could see hollows made by bullets and bombs in the concrete. The walls were the worst part; they had graffiti of obscene words and slogans condemning the US army, the ING, Ayad Allawi (the ex-PM, who was appointed by Bremer), the Ayatollah. It is often crammed with hordes of ING men, who were gratuitously aggressive to passers-by, drivers and commuters, which was typical of them. Yet, I was once taken by surprise at the sight of an ING man helping an old woman cross the street. "So they're not all as sleazy as I thought!" There's something to be said for that!
One day, fighting between the ING and the "insurgents" was in full swing. We were a few blocks away from the bridge leading to the garage. All of a sudden, the driver announced that the guards signaled him to stop. I had a class I couldn't miss, and there was still time. So I decided to walk amidst the shootout. Luckily I bumped into a lady, who was studying at a public institute next to the university. She knew the roads very well. All I had to do is keep her company, which she blithely welcomed. We kept walking and walking and walking until I entered the classroom, 30 minutes late. No big deal, I didn't miss much!
Walking on Haifa street while skirmishes were underway has become a daily ritual. With time, fears of imminent death had diminished, and gradually, this stroll has become a very interesting habit, which allows me to see and smell the brown Tigris and meet very interesting people, each with a more interesting story to tell. In one of my strolls, I met a man, who was complaining of the nasty Americans and ING men, he said they were no different from the Saddamists, maybe they're even worse. He was heading to the hospital, where he's taking his cancer medication, which he developed when he was a soldier in the north of Iraq, when Chemical Ali gave orders to massacre the people of Halabcha, with the US-made bombs, with which the Baathists used to pride themselves at the time. He was jobless and had to sell all his belongings in order to buy the medication which apparently costs a fortune. I wonder what happened to him. I wonder whether he died of cancer or of another cause
Haifa Street has become quieter lately. Graffiti was replaced with a different set of writings glorifying the ING, who called themselves wolves and scorpions – no wonder why everybody says Iraq has turned into a jungle - but it still jabs old bruises within me, not only because of sad memories but also of the fact that my country is no longer the place I am familiar with. Though I still hate the place, it has some slot in my mind, a mental picture that had no bullets or bombs or slanderous graffiti. It feels the same as bumping into a kid from school who used to bully you, meeting him may not be such a great thing, but when you see him beg in the streets you'd feel deeply hurt.

Swanky Cars.... What for????

Commuting is the most fun, educational, inspirational, and sometimes boring blessing bestowed upon Iraq – alright, alright, at least to me, some people think otherwise. It was difficult for me to come to terms with the fact that cabs were literally making holes in my pocket – in my case it's a purse, a huge one actually – they are so unpractical, I had to spend all my humble salary on cabdrivers, when I ran out of money I had to resort to my folks to lend me some.
One of the pros of buses and minibuses is that you don't have to talk or listen to a talkative cabdriver – whose only hearer is YOU -. They often pose the silliest questions of the lot, like, Why are you here? Oh, you must be visiting your husband's folks? What do you do for a living? One of them once handed me a flyer courtesy of some late Shiite man of religion, encouraging women to wear the headscarf, which I took with a smile, it was nice of him anyway, and I personally appreciate his attempt to encourage reading instead of talking crap. Some play ear-piercingly loud Iraqi pop songs, with the most hideous human voices I've ever heard. I sometimes couldn't stop myself from pleading to keep the volume down or at least shut it up, especially when I'm a bit edgy.
Buses are loads different. You don't have to make any conversations when you don't feel like it. You tend to develop very good listening skills. You hear different viewpoints and political analyses – mind you, Iraqis are the best political analysts in the whole world, old men and women, young people of all walks of life, they don't have to be doctors or Ph.D. holders, the majority of them are simple people, with maybe no education at all, all they have is love for their country which had all of a sudden become in tatters right before their eyes– You hear a variety of heartbreaking and funny stories. You get the feeling that the ugly world the news is talking about doesn't exist; people help each other, when they find a lady standing up, they leave their seats and ask her to take it, when someone tells the driver that he/she doesn't have any money on him/her, he says "it's ok, who cares, hop in!!!", Shiias and Sunnis sit next to each other, no one is bearing any grudges against the other, they both share jokes about politicians representing both entities, when someone doesn't know exactly where he/she wants to go, the driver and all commuters who know the neighbourhood in question start to help and give directions.
I like minibus drivers, they're the most skillful drivers, they know all shortcuts, some of which might be just right at your doorstep, particularly, when you're too tired to walk.
I was once trying to convince a friend of mine to use the public transports, which are much cheaper, and easier than cabs. She said, "Excuse me! you want me to sit next to riff-raffs!" Riff-raffs! I'm afraid I happened to be one of those RIFF-RAFFS! To tell you the truth, I'm proud of them, and more proud of my being one of them. Only in buses, you could see the true smiling face of Iraq, where an old man gives a speech about how the pre-Baath education system used to be, and sadly how it played out over the next generations, and how early teachers of Iraq made even walls talk, and the bad example the new teachers have become for children, who treat kids according to their religious backgrounds. Only in buses, you could hear the complaints of a widow, whose husband left her five boys with no income, and was trying to get some pension, which the government is too proud to give. Only in buses, you could see people collecting money for someone who just hopped in to beg people to save an injured child who's in hospital, they all agreed that whether the man was bluffing or not, one should help.
Riff-raffs!!!! SURE!!!
The route from my neighbourhood to my usual destination usually takes one hour. Yet, thanks to the countless checkpoints, car bombs, and Parliament conventions, which result in the worst traffic on planet Earth, the trips could take much longer than expected. It once happened that the woman sitting next to me was as bored as I was, so she started the usual conversation. What do you? How old are you? Do you have children? How many? Are you married? What was your major? My answers must be as brief as possible, keeping in my mind my mother's warnings "do not talk to strangers, they could be pro-Saddam, or pro-some-militia, so keep your views for yourself" – it's fun to be over twenty, but you still feel like five - The woman gave me a detailed family history of hers, and told me one of the saddest stories I've ever heard. She was a divorcee, with three lovely kids, who were living with their mean father, who used to lavishly shower them with goodies, money, candy, you name it, just to gain their affection and turn them against their mom. Being a feminist myself, and a by-product of an unsuccessful marriage, I couldn't help sympathizing with her. We kept talking and talking, and I'm afraid I took my mother's warning for granted this time and voiced my views. We reached our destination in no time. Each one of us went her own way, we never met again, but she's still on my mind. She didn't ask me whether I'm a Kurd or Arab, a Sunni or a Shiia. All she wanted was someone to listen, a shoulder to cry on. It sounds so naïve to confide in strangers, but, despite her tragedy, she showed me a bright side of Iraq. No matter how fed up we are with our lives, we still feel the urge to talk and socialize, share our good and bitter memories with others, even if they were strangers.
Few days ago, I read a news item in a subtitle, "a suicide bomber detonated himself in a crammed minibus". Few days later, such news items were repeated. It gave my mother the creeps, "why don't we give you a ride instead!", which I take with salt, "oh yeah, what about the odd and even number plates fad the authorities have come up with, gasoline shortage, let alone the time wasted in traffic, NO THANKS!!!" It seems that suicide bombers get inside each Iraqi's mind, they try to figure out what they like the most, so that they could come up with a plan for the next thing to destroy.

Early Days in a God-forsaken country

Not too long ago I was such an ardent fan of Radio Free Iraq locally dubbed Radio Al-Mu'aradha "Radio Opposition". Tuning into it was the secret shared by almost all Iraqi homes; we all listened but nobody said so. We heard that some people's tongues were cut, thanks to their big mouths, for they openly discussed a comedy sketch making fun of the beloved leader. My brother was such a brave guy. He actually taped a number of sketches, he even used to make impressions, of Saddam, Uday, Azzooz (aka Izzat Ibraheem, Saddam's deputy). On the other hand, mom used to beg him to erase them, she was like "you wanna get us all flogged for God's sake!!!"
Personally, I thought "these people ROCK!!!", they're so hilarious, stomach-hurtingly funny actually. I was so looking forward to them to assume power in Iraq, for they will make it such a nice fun place to live. Now I wish I could turn back time to the year before my parents got married, no, before my dad proposed to my mom, when she made the biggest mistake of her life, bringing innocent souls to this wretched Godforsaken country, which unfortunately, happened to be the dearest spot to my heart.
I still remember this scene in a Kevin Costner movie, the postman, when hordes of POWs, or whatever, started to boo in protest of displaying an action movie. Yet, when the Sound of Music was played, they were gleefully relaxed. I guess the movie did not get any raves, but I'm thankful to Mr. Costner or the director – or is it the same person, no idea - for he actually simulated my own feelings. To me Arnie, and Van Dam are sissies, they have no idea what a real explosion sounds or looks like, they don't have the faintest idea how many lives could such horrible things claim all in one go.
When the so-called Shock and Awe (locally known as Hawasim, which evolved to be the euphemistic expression of looting) kicked off, radio, TV, word of mouth, or any mention of politics was my worst enemy ever. I wanted to live in my own bubble, taking everything in stride. I hated the wailing sound of the sirens, the scary sounds of bombing, which were later introduced to us as non other than cluster bombs, Apache, and every silly name I cannot spell or pronounce, to be honest I'm not in the least embarrassed for my incompetence when it comes to matching the sounds to the arms, I'm not even interested. Wars are not my cup of tea.
I never got as scared as I did in 1991. Rather, I was mad; my 9-month-old nephew was just starting to speak and crawl. I was introducing him to words like Haa-yit (wall), Par-da (curtains), Ba-ba (Dad). It gnawed deep in my heart for I the words I used to teach him Sha-jara (tree), Sima (sky), Ghi-yoom (clouds), were no longer visible, he started to forget them, which confined his dictionary to the inside parts of the house.
Now he's much older, and he knows almost every word, except the bad ones. His ammunition of vocabulary is much bigger now; he can say Mu-fakhakha (car bomb), Infijar (explosion), Tal-qat (bullets), which are the sounds that he hears on an hourly basis. He can form complete sentences, Mkhabeel Yudhurboon Talqat (crazy people shooting), he once asked me, "what are these sounds for?", I told him "they're lunatics, only lunatics have guns and shoot so hysterically", and so it caught on.
Sadly, he has no idea what's the word for playground, roller coaster, merry-go-round, ice cream cone in Mansur street at 10:00 PM, for he never had the chance to see them. Brave people do take their kids out, but we're too scared to let him go, we're caging him in a room, where TV and animated movies are his only outing. He's a fan of Tom and Jerry. I'm afraid I'm even more scared now, for he's such a bright child, and I believe that TV usually spawns stupid minds, I guess I could see the signs of stupidity looming in the air. I bought his mother some children books, hopefully he can learn to read at such a ripe age, but he's not interested. He'd rather see things move than use his own imagination. When I was his age, I never pestered my mom to let me go out play, for playing was a daily routine, we didn't even have to beg to get it. Now, it's such a scarce commodity for almost all children, who were destined to be born in paranoid families.