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.


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