Baghdad ---- The Finale

My vacation is over. I did make the most of it and yes my muse will get back to its beauty sleep, which might take forever, because I don’t think I will return to Iraq until the Baghdad airport is in better shape. The departure was as terrible as the arrival though no neighbouring head of state was involved this time; of all flights mine was cancelled and of all the people I was one of the few fellow passengers who were not informed earlier of the disastrous inconvenience.

I do learn from my mistakes and I guess I must impart the dos and don’ts at Baghdad airport:

Always wear grey or beige, clothes will be smeared all over.
Never wear footwear with tricky shoelaces. If you have smelly feet, don’t worry, no one will notice, other passengers are busy cursing the funny regulations. Always make space for a comfy pillow; you’ll never know you might spend the night there. Never trust your instinct and have some sense of adventure, not all cab drivers who look like thugs are true militiamen, and if they were, cheer up, they might be the key to your demise, an option you’d rather consider than go through debilitating experience. Don’t bother ask the information desk or anyone in uniform, they’re always clueless. Look for grumpy passengers who like to complain, they’re the ones who will tell you when HER MAJESTY THE PLANE will show up.

Oh Gosh! This is too spiteful. Some credit must be given to the Iraqi staff members, they were so very courteous and tried their best to make matters look less ugly than they really are; it’s just beyond their control.


This wraps up my Baghdad series. Thanks for being such ardent readers and زوج ابن 16 زوج الي يفكر يمر بهالمطار الزبالة.

Baghdad --- Snapshots

You think you can read the neon sign?

We have a WINNER

Call the Ministry of Electricity to collect your prize

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Answer: restaurant formerly known as happy time, yeah right!

Who turned the lights on???

Why don't I miss the sandstorms!

My fave BLACK TEA with cardamom

Positive Thoughts

Baghdad ---- I Can't Help But Notice

Somebody pinch me I cannot believe I have actually reunited with my favourite aunt; still cheery but this time her wistful eyes reflect the bewilderment over the calamities that have struck her family. I couldn’t hide my dislike to the new neighbourhood or the fact that I miss their old garden, particularly the jasmine tree, which is almost my age but sadly it’s no longer there to welcome me with its soft fragrance. My cousins didn’t concur with me, they miss their home but it’s now more of a nightmare to them. One of them said she can still hear the loud screams of their neighbour and the gunshots that ended his life, the early premonitions of their own displacement. Theirs is one of the luckiest families living in the militias’ stronghold of Saydiyya, they might be the only ones who left without bereavement.

I was so worn out but so reluctant to take a nap, I didn’t want to miss a moment at this new cozy house; I had loads of laughs and plenty of fun. Despite their heart-wrenching concerns they tried their best to convince me that life is normal and whenever I try to dwell on a sad subject, they change it right away, for them I’m one of the relics of the good old days that they don’t want to be marred by sad thoughts, so I succumbed to their wishes, stifled my goodbye tears and promised to come over more often.


University of Baghdad





Since I didn’t know how to reach my aunt’s house, I had no other choice but meet her daughter at her workplace so that we go together to the new neighbourhood. That workplace happened to be the University of Baghdad. Last time I came to this place was in 1998, when my sister was still a computer science student. It’s good that it hasn’t changed like the now religiously cloaked University of Mustansiriya. It felt so exhilarating to learn that guys named Omar haven’t gone extinct, young and old men named after one of the great leaders of Islam were killed and mutilated in droves two years ago, when humanity lost its face in the new Iraq. My friend was irritated by my comment that more female students in headscarves these days is a bad sign. She mistook it for having intentions to take mine off, which is out of the question, “Back in my university years, only a handful of girls took the decision to abide by the Islamic dress code, which used to be greeted with congrats and pleas for prayers to be just as brave to make the move, but now they do it to have their lives spared, because obviously militias have resolved all their problems and nothing seems to be left but women’s heads,” I explained.

I was chuffed by the sight of a group of students singing along and dancing. “So they do the things we used to do,” I said, only the song was patriotic, had it been my generation it would have been a sappy ballad.


On the way back, three cab drivers refused to pick me up, the last one agreed but didn’t hide his fears “is it ok there?” he questioned. I explained that I wouldn’t take a cab if it wasn’t, he believed me but was tense all the way through until he saw the Iraqi army checkpoint and servicemen all over my neighbourhood. Only then he realized that he wasn’t going to be ambushed by the enemy.

Baghdad --- Ooops, Almost Forgot

I don’t need to check the calendar, it’s my stepdad’s job to remind me every now and then about how many days left. Everyday passes I feel my heart sink but I really hate it when my schedule is muddled by reasons beyond my control, had it been within my control I’d know how to get even with myself for oversleeping or wasting time on breakfast. Today I woke up as early as 6:00, getting ready for a long distance to the other side of the Tigris. It was not unusual to hear loud sounds of a series of bombings, I thought they would stop soon but they didn’t. Why would I let bombs scare me off, I need to meet my family and friends and I will. I changed my clothes and grabbed my bag, as luck would have it a friend texted me begging me to stay home “bombings everywhere.” “So!” I texted back, “it’s not news.” I took the message for granted until my brother too rang me warning me that the road I was planning to take was closed off. Shoot! I will not put the pyjamas back on I said I must go out and I did, but this time in nearby areas, where bad traffic could be overcome by walking.

I visited my two aunts who were both so happy to see me and both had developed serious health problems, not sure which are the culprits; bad unhealthy diet or unhealthy surroundings!

For the first time in days I checked the national and international TVs for sound bites on the strange sounds of bombings and shootouts. They can’t be in Lahore, can they? Then again I realized that for splits of seconds I almost forgot that I am in Baghdad, I think I should have my radio fixed so that I could tune into the World Service to know what’s going on in the environs of where I live.

Baghdad --- The Jinx Was Here

I seemed to have counted my chickens way too early in my previous post. A fellow commuter, barely catching his breath and checking his trousers for traces of dust, said he survived a bombing by a miracle. Whoever said I jinx the places I visit must be right, the IED tore through the very same childhood neighbourhood of mine. What confused me about this young commuter was the fact that he was smiling as he was running at full speed to catch the bus and his funny comment “it’s good it wasn’t a car bomb!” Aren’t we lucky!

Hiba, my college chum, is furious; I could not be impressed by the huge pot of stuffed leaves and onion she spent an entire day to cook because I couldn’t reach her house on time, neither could she sympathize with me because I wasn’t actually bogged down by traffic as she expected, rather I was hanging out with another friend. Oh dear, oh dear, I was in big trouble!

The situation on the ground did not turn out to be the same as the supposedly normal one she droned on during our online conversations. Only when I reached her area it hit me that Hiba is still wearing the very same rosy spectacles; I have ceased to look at bright sides in Iraq and given up hope on positive changes, but she hasn’t. She was so eager to show me life through her eyes, just anything that could give me a false sense of peace and co-existence. She failed. She was right about shops opening after 5:00 p.m., but they close down at 7:00, I couldn’t see any progress there. But mosques are still protected by barbed wires, a proof of ongoing mistrust. I heard commuters exchange sectarian insults with each other, not a good sign either and it was her own mother who told me about a private school for girls next door that received threats by militias to expel the qualified senior male teachers or else they blow up the whole school premise.

I had loads of fun with my friend’s family. Last time I saw her daughter she was barely 20 days old, now she’s talking and called me Tita, just like my nephew and niece and actually instructed me to hold her, a privilege given to family members only.


It’s good that my uncle lives across the street from Hiba’s house. He turned 72 this year and sounded preoccupied with the idea of death and so concerned for the chicken feed his divorced daughter will earn thanks to the screwed up pension law. He couldn’t be disappointed by this government because he has seen it all and “lived long enough under the rule of the monarchs, the communists, baathists, militias, and now the-new-Iraqists,” which look so alike that he often confuses their names. My uncle was once a young Air Force Lieutenant Colonel, whose career screeched to a halt in the early 1970s by a plane crash. His eyes beamed as he was showing off old photographs of his “handsome” self.

His last words of advice for me were not to pin too much hope on progress in this country, “read our blood-soaked history and you’ll see for yourself that this land is doomed!”

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.

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 ---- Day One

The vanilla-cheap-chocolate combination of clouds and the same old sandstorms was the first thing of Iraq that said welcome back to me. I was so happy to see the familiar places from above and so looking forwarding to physically taking strolls in them. Last time I checked the time for a non-work, or non-fave-soaps related reason was April 22, 2005, that is when I was waiting for my sister to come back home with her second newborn. This time, I could not wait to see the landing. The screen in front of me read expected arrival time 3:30 but obviously watches freeze when you want them to fly.

Sadly for me, the romantic mental picture of my comeback was marred by the presence of the neighbouring head of state. I was shocked by the fact that I have already agreed with three drivers to pick me up from the airport, but none of them showed up. I didn’t mind taking the risk of any regular cab as long as they take me home, but there was not a single one around. Waiting inside the airport is out of the question. I didn’t know what else to do but follow the crowds. Fellow unlucky passengers rushed to minibuses that are supposed to take them to some checkpoint near the now shabby statue of the first man who attempted to fly with artificial wings, so did I. The congestion was unbearable. Everybody was cursing and sulking and snapping on the phone, so was I.

Ahmedi nejad must be happy to know that he has something in common with Bush, Saddam, Maliki, Talabani et al, he too is in the Iraqis’ most-hated list.

So my prayers were answered; I finally found a cab that could go to my neighbourhood. Yet the way to my once-15-minute-drive-from-the-airport home did not turn out to be as easy as it was. Traffic was at its worst, it was almost 6:00 p.m. and students were still not home, they all seem to have preferred to walk than spend the night in their minibuses. Watching them gave me flashbacks of the Baghdad flood back in the late 1990s, when my colleagues and I were stranded by rain and sewage water on our way home.

The unknown driver did his utmost to drive the two nameless guys and myself to our destinations. He drove on wrong sides, used his connections to I.S.F. men, bowed and scraped for the ones he didn’t know just to let us pass. He was so immersed in finding the easiest shortcuts through bumpy dirt roads that ruined his car but still he found the time to curse Ahmedinejad.

After almost two hours of torment, I made it home in one piece, safe but not mentally sound.

But it was worth it :)