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

Search No. 10

We had something to celebrate last week. After a long lull, our house was blessed with routine search NUMBER TEN, by the Iraqi army this time. They said they were clearing the area of terrorists and just wanted to make sure everything was in place, and nobody was trespassing on nobody’s residence.

Mum and I know it before tanks and Humvees blip in our radars. This time I was enjoying the breeze so much that I lost my sense of smelling uniforms and armoured vehicles. Unfortunately, mum had a dream of an Iraqi politician, whom we’re not huge fans. Without having a chance to interpret the nightmare, she jolted me to wake up before somebody breaks in and do it in a more startling way – as if I wasn’t startled anyway. It was 7:00 A.M for Heaven’s sake!

I hate this waiting bit so much. I felt like the urge to go out and ask them to raid our house and get it over with. They didn’t knock until 9:00. With it I had what I call my math-test-symptoms, which I developed since high school – I sucked at maths, I still do actually –heart beats fast, mouth dries, stomach churns, knees wobble, hands shake and face blanches – though I have not looked in the mirror, I just know it.

The soldiers were nice, but I just couldn’t help my fears. Of all ten times, we were abused and humiliated only once, which was the first encounter with people in camouflage. If anyone should be blamed for this phobic attitude, it should be the sadistic commandos who helped instill those fears. Had they been nicer when they broke into our house on that scary April day, I’d reacted differently!

I thought I’d be enraged to see the National guards. The sight of them on every street conjures images of my brother being beaten and tortured and images of young and old men humiliatingly bound and blindfold posing for the ING cameras to glorify the crackdown. This time I saw the fellow humans within, whose eyes beamed at the fresh tea mum offered and shy smiles were drawn at the mention of cold water, which they haven’t tasted in days. I didn’t feel guilty for stereotyping them as the evil robots, who beat the lives out of unarmed civilians without qualms and take away free men’s freedom and sometimes last breaths, but I wished they could give their humanity a chance and treat people like flesh and blood. I also wondered about the insurgents who attack them, if only they both had a chance to talk to each other, the whole country would have been different, so would our wretched Iraqi type of life.



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

At Least He's Safe

Not feeling good, can’t explain why! Not unusual in a place, where bracing for bad news has become a habit. But still I could sense something bad. I could not find out what it was until 5:00 P.M. Saturday June 9, 2007. Camp Bucca was mortared.

I’m sure some people would beam at the mention of such news, “Serves them right,” some would announce. No it doesn’t. Al-Qaeda, Jaish Al-Mahdi, and God knows who else are wreaking havoc all over the country and go unpunished, but there are good people in that prison facility. I happened to share a family name and blood and parents and cousins, funny and bitter memories, laughs and tiffs and a roof with one of them.

I spent the rest of the day trying to keep mum away from the news. I didn’t blurt it out until I was sure he wasn’t hurt, but what about the families whose loved ones were not as lucky, do they know they should mourn their dead or are they still hopeful!

Now I’m not sure is it really safer for him to stay there and rub shoulders with fanatics or is it better to have him back and think of where will the Americans drop him; in a safe area, or in a war zone teeming with militiamen, who cannot wait to quench their thirst with a young man’s blood, will he be able to leave Iraq undamaged, will he be as fun as he used to be, will his soul be as bruised as the scars on his body!

I’m still praying, but I sure am helpless and dead sick of worrying.


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

Evolution

Based on our theory that Iraqis tend to lose interest in everything good or bad so fast, my friend and I were baffled by the fact that the cycle of violence has been on for unbearably long stretches of time.

Based on the same theory, I could not help noticing how people’s reactions have evolved. I have a friend who is always online to brief me on the latest incidents in Iraq, so that I don’t have to watch TV. Following what television reports described as “The Second Black Wednesday” i.e. the bombing of the shrines, my friend, honouring his role to keep me in the know, said some mosques have been torched in retaliation so far and a handful of nameless bodies were found and only recently our national Taekwondo team had their necks cold-bloodedly slit. Trying to snatch some bright sides off the jaws of calamity by comparing today with the first Black Wednesday, apart from the bodies, of course, and the poor players who might have thought that representing a bleeding country in international events could ease some of the pain was not good enough a reason to spare their lives, I said good news you know; no lynching, no mass killings, no severed heads by the hundreds, no storming into civilian homes and executing entire families, what more do we need. Mosques could be rebuilt and repainted, couldn’t they?

My friend was worried that hatred would prevail and it would be too late to forgive and forget. I told him not to worry, it is prevalent already and time heals all wounds.

To spice things up we chose to diss one of the turbans, who seems to have colluded with Al-Qaeda or whoever is lurking in the dark to slaughter as many of his followers as possible and who sounds like he cannot tell real life from that of video games. We both wondered is it possible for his followers to wake up and realize that he’s such loony and decide to act as responsible human beings who are controlled by nothing other than their own reason.

On second thought, I think they might, I might not live long enough to see that day, but I have seen everything , why can’t I see that!

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

Life After Curfew

When the curfew was imposed and the repercussions of the bombings of the shrines belied expectations, I was told to brace for the mayhem to come and that it was premature to pin too much hope on fellow Iraqis’ resilience.

Apprehensive of venturing outside the house, I told mum that her dentist appointment could be rescheduled, but she was determined to go and I didn’t want to argue.

Shops at our neighbourhood were all open, though veggie stalls had nothing to hawk but tomatoes and cucumbers, which reflects poor meals but quite a good sign, few days earlier, they were not able to sell a pip.

What I liked the most about running an errand after curfew was the traffic. The 15-minute-trip took us only five minutes. Feels like the old days!

On the trip back home, we dropped by the drugstore and kind of liked what we saw. Baghdadis strangely wore smiles on their faces, I thought I’d never see those again. Shops were bustling. People are reverting to their Iraqi manners, mum noted, referring to a policeman who helped a woman get into a minibus. This too was non-existent few weeks ago.

Mum’s words reminded me of what she once told me, you’ll never know which people are good and which ones are bad until you’re struck by a crippling crisis.

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

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 ---- 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.

Asbestos Threat Still Prevalent for Military Personnel

Asbestos was widely used in various industrial products throughout the 20th century due to its heat and flame resistant qualities, it was regularly considered as a form of insulation and piping. The United States military ordered the use of asbestos in all of its sectors, including the Navy.

Hundreds of thousands, if not millions of living veterans were exposed to asbestos-containing materials during their service. Asbestos was valued so high that its use was widespread until the 1970’s, when it began to be phased out.

Asbestos-laden materials were utilized in almost every vessel built prior to World War II. Shipyard workers, sailors and tradesman aboard these ships were wrongfully exposed aboard navigation rooms, sleeping quarters and mess halls. These shipyards were vital in efforts to build and repair ships on the west and east coasts of the country. The military also used asbestos as insulation aircraft, vehicles and buildings. Although asbestos exposure does not always lead to an illness, frequent and long term exposure will greatly raise those risks.

The danger for asbestos exposure is still present today with over $194,000 worth of asbestos imported to Iraq in 2003. Aside from daily threats from military assignments and enemy fire,

Soldiers stationed in Iraq based in the country are at risk because intense desert winds can carry asbestos dust many miles.

Asbestos exposure can cause serious illnesses such as asbestosis and mesothelioma, a severe lung ailment that accounts for three percent of cancer diagnoses in the United States. Mesothelioma metastasis can occur when the illness spreads through the lymph nodes or the blood stream. This can occur in the disease later stages as it can take anywhere from 20 to 50 years for mesothelioma to develop, making it extremely difficult for physicians to accurately diagnose this disease.

The amount of asbestos-related incidents in the country has resulted in mesothelioma lawyer firms advocating and protecting victim’s individual rights. Asbestos manufactures have been heavily criticized for concealing and not acting enough to inform the public of the dangers associated with asbestos exposure. Any incoming presidents have the authority to change any executive orders by a previous administration but these actions will make it a more strenuous process.

Currently, mesothelioma is not readily recognized as a service-related medical ailment. However, veterans can apply for Veteran Affairs (VA) benefits for asbestos-related illness and must provide proof that their exposure occurred at the time of their military service.It appears that until there is a vehement change in policies enforced on a federal level against the use of asbestos, it will continue to inflict damage and harm to yet another generation of innocent by standards.

War Has no winners (No I'm not back to the blogosphere)

I received this note from Veteran Liaison for the MesotheliomaCancer Center; an organization devoted to assisting veteransthrough their application processes for VA benefits, and helping them obtainthe maximum benefits for which they are entitled. I’m also a VeteransBenefit Counselor for the Veterans Assistance Network, and a retiredLieutenant Commander in the US Navy. I came across your site while searchingfor bloggers who post about veterans' issues.Countless veterans are currently suffering from life-threatening illnessesthat are a result of exposure to asbestos, a material that was commonly usedin hundreds of military applications, products, and ships primarily becauseof its resistance to fire. Unfortunately, asbestos-related diseases are notalways recognized by the VA, which is why I’m reaching out to veterans -- inhopes of helping them win the rights to their benefits.The Mesothelioma Cancer Center provides a complete list of occupations,ships, and shipyards that could have put our Veterans at risk for developingasbestos-related diseases. In addition, they have thousands of articlesregarding asbestos and mesothelioma and they’ve even created aveterans-specific section on their website in order to help inform themabout the dangers of asbestos exposure. The main reason I’m contacting you is to see if you’d be interested inposting an article about military asbestos exposure on your blog.

Return of the Jinx

They say I’ve jinxed the place again. Iraqis are too superstitious and once they read this, they will collectively sign a petition to the PM asking him to send me away. Iraq was heaven on earth until my return. All those deadly explosions ripped through the quiet streets of Baghdad because of … well make a wild guess!

I could feel the bad vibes the moment I set foot on Baghdad International Airport. First time in my life I’m treated like a criminal on my own turf. The guy behind the booth seemed to have smelled a rat once he browsed my passport; called a man in a suit, who looked like his supervisor, whispered something and then the latter asked me what I do for a living, I didn’t know whether I should lie, but I thought it’s better to say the truth and come what may, if they’re militiamen so be it, I was too exhausted anyway and getting killed sounded like a perfect idea at the time, I was in a very bad need to sleep. Finally they asked me to pose for their security camera, so I did, not knowing whether it’s just routine procedure or I just looked familiar, as in a wanted terrorist maybe!

My early nights in Baghdad were the hardest; It’s been almost a year since I last had a fitful sleep over possible 2:30-a.m.-break-ins. “Those days are gone,” says my family. I wish I could be as relaxed as they are or explain that terrible premonition that’s washing over me. To my surprise, I contracted their attitude eventually, but still don’t want to overdo it lest I won’t see the blow when it’s coming!

I haven’t seen Baghdad until now nor have I ventured outside not for fear of explosions, I’m just being lazy and believe I need to make the most of my now boss-free life!