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.




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