There Lived in Baghdad

Excerpt A

“I hope none of us die.”

The words hung in the air. A soft whisper, but clearly audible. Should she say anything in reply? Sameera wondered. Or would it be better to ignore the comment? She was familiar with the note of fear in it. The same fear haunted her own thoughts day and night - I hope none of us die…. I hope and wish and pray none of us die .….

“Inshallah,” she muttered, sitting up straighter in her chair, “Allah Willing, none of us will die.”

She glanced sympathetically at her sister-in-law. Mustapha was lying motionless on a couch near her. Nine months pregnant and with war looming ahead, she looked crushed with fear and despair.

Mustapha was her husband's sister. She and her mother-in-law, Amu Fouad, lived in poverty and it showed. Her husband had disappeared six months ago and they had had no news of him since then. They managed to get by on whatever they made stitching kaftans for other women.

“Are you crying again, Mustapha?” Amu Fouad glared at her daughter-in-law, “I have told you again and again not to cry. What’s the use of crying? How will it change anything? Whatever will happen will happen. If we die, we die, that’s all.”

Amu Fouad sat on a low divan placed against the wall, her legs crossed under her. A tall bony woman, she looked as if the scorching sun had sucked out every drop of moisture from her, leaving her as dry and as brittle as the desert sands. The three sharp straight lines on her forehead quivered, eyes dilated with fear.

“I am so scared,” a tear trickled down Mustapha’s nose. She wiped it away, sniffing.

“Who isn’t?” Sameera wanted to reply. But she didn’t. Today after all, could well be the day before the first day of war. It was a day for being afraid. A day for shared fear.

She looked at her watch and sucked in her breath with a sharp sss….ssssss, “3pm already! I am late! I’ll have to leave now.” She picked up her blue, plastic shopping bag and reached out to touch Mustapha’s arm.

“Don’t worry,” she said, “I’m sure everything will be all right.”

Amu Fouad stood up slowly to see her to the door.

Sameera walked quickly across the room looking around her as she did so.

Everything in the room was faded and old and worn. The furniture, the curtains, the bedspreads – everything. Even the mirror on the wall was spotted, its blue plastic frame faded to a patchy blue-white. A print hanging next to it showed a woman in a burqa peering out from behind a blue curtain. Across its base was written:

‘A woman in a veil,
Like a pearl in its shell.’

A fine layer of dust, like brown face powder, coated the frame.

The fridge in the corner squeaked, hesitated and then resumed its low hum. Sameera gave it a quick glance. Its rusted handle was broken on one side, Strips of white paint had peeled off its body - as if a particularly large cat had sharpened its claws on it. The brown iron underneath showed. A white ceramic plate stood on its tiny stand on the fridge. On it, in beautiful flowing Arabic alphabets was written in dark blue ‘Allah’.

There was an almost palpable smell of fear and uncertainty in the house.

“Don’t worry, Mustapha,” she said again glancing back as she reached the door, “you will be all right. Keep us informed. Salaam Aleikum.” Peace upon you.

“Ma’s Salaam,” Mustapha and Amu Fouad murmered in reply. Go without fear.

Sameera walked quickly through the narrow alley. A group of scraggy boys were playing street football. Tins filled with sand for goalposts. A small blue rubber ball. Somebody scored a goal and the boys jumped and cheered madly. They showed no signs of fear, of being aware of the war ahead.

She skirted the children carefully, keeping a cautious eye on the flying ball.

Walking out of the alley she took a shortcut through a rundown children’s park. Everything here was dusty and neglected. The swings coated in dust hung forlornly on the ropes, the see-saw was a resting place for dust, the slides played host to dusty windblown leaves.

Fallen leaves danced along the narrow path, raising spirals of dust at her feet. There was a dry smell of dust in the air. It was a depressing sight. But she was in too much of a hurry to notice. She walked briskly, a women alone in a lonely, dusty world.

The wind was gusty and strong. It tugged at her abaya, making the black gown flap at her ankles. She held the hijab tightly against her head to prevent it from coming loose. A small, truant lock of hair escaped from the hijab and danced on her temple. She tucked it in firmly.

At 36 years, she was still a very beautiful woman. Her thick, naturally curly, dark brown hair reached her waist. Warm, honey brown eyes, sensitive lips. Her fair complexion was clear and had a radiance found only in the very young. She was proud of her complexion. Her hijab did a good job of protecting her from the scorching desert sun.

The sun was a hazy yellow against the dull, metallic blue sky. It beat down mercilessly on her head. Sweat coursed through her hair making her scalp itch. Patches of sweat showed on her back. Round half-circles of wetness spread under her armpits.

Her thighs were slick with sweat. They rubbed against each other as she walked, chaffing the inner sides. She should have put powder on them before she came out, she thought. Now, they would be all red and blistered by the time she reached home.

She reached the other side of the park and stepped out into a wide street. The bus-stop was not far and she walked faster.

There were not many people waiting for the bus today. An old man in a dirty white turban and distasa leaned against a lamppost. He pulled deeply at the cigarette in his hand and let out the smoke in dry coughs. Hack, Hack, Hack - and the smoke spurted out of his mouth and nostrils in quick leaps and bounds. He spat into the street. Tuberculosis? Perhaps, Sameera grimaced, moving away to a safer distance.

She craned her neck to look for the bus. It was late today. She wished it would come quickly. She wanted to reach home before dark. There were very few people on the streets nowadays, and it would become empty well before night fell.

She looked around her as she waited for it. The al-Ahmediya area was one of the posh areas of Baghdad. The streets were wide and straight, the pavements broad and well maintained. Heat waves shimmered over the street creating an illusion of flowing, sparkling water.

Tall trees with big leafy crowns stood like sentinels along the street at a regulation distance from each other. They cast a welcoming shade in the hot sun. But no one rested in this shade. This area housed the quarters of the ruling Ba’athist party. Anyone caught loitering would be immediately picked up and questioned.

The cars on the road here were new and gleaming - Volkswagon, Beetles, Mercedes. They passed over the smooth asphalt with a barely heard hiss. The drivers blew their horns with an arrogant and peremptory parp-parp. The rich in Baghdad did not walk. They zipped past in sleek cars with dark, tinted glasses.

The people who walked on these streets were mostly poor people like Sameera and they walked with their eyes on the ground, minding their own business.

The posh bungalows behind well guarded high walls were set among beautifully laid gardens filled with flowering plants and shrubs. Water - scarce in other parts of the city - gurgled from fountains. The bungalows, made in expensive pale-brown sandstone or white marble, were two or three floors high with terraces and balconies. They were luxuriously furnished with every comfort known to man.

She stood up straighter and clutched at her bag firmly as a red double-decker bus pulled to a creaking stop. Like everything else meant for the poor in Iraq, it too was nearing breaking point, its engines gasping out black smelly smoke from the exhaust pipes every minute.

Sameera clambered through the front door into the women’s section of the bus. It was near empty and she sank gratefully into a window seat. It was dry and hot inside the bus - an oven smelling of sweat. A woman sitting across the aisle raised the veil of her burqa over her face when she caught Sameera’s eye and smiled.

“Hot, isn’t it? Would you like some water?” she said, fishing out a plastic bottle half-filled with water from her bag.

Sameera took a small sip gratefully. The water was warm but at least she could wet her mouth with it. She rolled the water slowly around her mouth and swallowed it. She returned the bottle, having taken only a small drink. Water was scarce and she did not want to use up too much of the old woman’s supply.

Excerpt B

She walked rapidly, soon reaching the al-Shula vegetable bazaar. The street here had no pavement. The middle two-thirds were tarred. But the sides of the street were dusty and littered with pieces of paper, polythene packets, rusted tins, and small stones.

Baskets of vegetables lined the dusty verge, making a splash of colour in the otherwise drab street. Potatoes, beans, tomatoes, cabbages, zucchinis and onions were arranged in neat, high piles. The sellers sprinkled water on them from time to time to keep them fresh. Or at least to make them appear fresh.

The entire stretch of the street was crowded. The tall hawknosed men wore either jeans or distasas but the women were mostly dressed in the traditional black burqas. The younger women preferred the better looking, light blue burqas with soft pleats all around. Some however, wore trousers and long shirts. Only the hejab around their faces were a sign of tradition. A few did not even wear the hejab.

On first glance it appeared to be just like any other day – a normal day in a normal city.

The undercurrent of tension seeped into her consciousness slowly. Like the muddy, murky still layer under the clear water in a stagnant lake, it lurked just below the apparently normal market day. An occasional comment broke the surface and was quickly shushed. Like swirls of mud drifting up to the surface. Then gradually settling to the bottom again.

“Will they really attack?”

“Impossible, how can they…………”

“Why us, why……………..?”

There was tension in the haunted eyes of the women buying vegetables. It flickered in the darting eyes of the vendors. It was there in the taut muscles and clenched jaws of the man walking rapidly with his hands in the pocket of his jeans.

It could be seen hovering like a cloud of grey cigarette smoke, over a group of men, young and old, heads together, whispering in quick, sharp voices.

The thick cloying smell of the fear and tension stung her nose. Sweet-sour. Like cheap hair-oil.

A white Volkswagon turned the corner and cruised down the street. Four men - two in the front seat, two at the back – in olive green uniforms stared out of the car. Their eyes roved over the crowd, missing nothing. Instantly the street was hushed, quiet. No one said anything. Not a single voice was heard. Everyone concentrated on whatever they were doing. There was no indication that anyone had even noticed the car.

Sameera stood quietly before a basket piled high with red glistening tomatoes. She peered at the tomatoes intently, as if she had never seen such tomatoes before. She said nothing. Neither did the tomatoe seller who stared at the vegetables with an intensity that rivaled hers. The car disappeared down the street.

The moment passed.

The street settled back to its routine business.

“How much?” Sameera asked the man.

“1000 Dinars per kg.”

“This is a supermarket? Looks more like the corner department store back home,” the nasal voice cut through the babble of the crowd around her.

Sameera turned around sharply to stare at the white man and woman who had just stopped behind her. They were staring at a large store crammed full with stock.

Sameera thought that they looked like twins. Both of them wore white T-shirts with ‘PEACE FOR IRAQ’ written across them in large black letters. Both wore faded blue jeans. Dirty blonde hair and a scatter of freckles on their noses. Pale blue eyes.

But it was the woman’s clothes which held her attention. Not very tall, she was on the plump side. The thin knit material of her T-shirt clung to her large droopy breasts, revealing the outline of her bra. Her jeans, a money belt looped through it, hung on her thick hips. A pair of large sunglasses were pushed up on her head, holding back the windswept hair. The flat, leather strap of her large bag was slung across her shoulders and passed in front between her breasts – like an asphalt highway between large sand dunes.

Sameera flushed with embarrassment. How could the woman expose herself like this? Did she feel no shame? She could not stop staring at her.

Janet Leeks of Rockford, Illinois, stared back. Poor woman, she thought, being forced to wear that clumsy black gown. How could she? Didn’t she feel hot? She wondered if the woman would understand any English. She would have liked to ask her some questions, find out how she felt about the coming war. But, she was probably illiterate. It was sad, she thought, how suppressed and helpless the women in this region were. She was glad she herself had been born in a more free society, well able to take care of herself in all situations.

She tried to muffle her feelings of superiority. After all, she was here to help them. So she gave the woman a warm and friendly smile.

Sameera watched the white woman smiling at her. She nodded politely but was too embarrassed to smile back. She did not want to attract any attention to herself.

People had stopped to gape at the couple. Some practically goggled.

She did not bother to bargain with the grocer and left, paying a substantial amount. It was much more than what she would have paid even one week ago.