Rain over Baghdad: A Novel of Iraq

RAIN
over
BAGHDAD

RAIN
over
BAGHDAD

Hala El Badry

Translated by
Farouk Abdel Wahab

The American University in Cairo Press
Cairo    New York

This electronic edition published in 2014 by

The American University in Cairo Press
113 Sharia Kasr el Aini, Cairo, Egypt
420 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10018
www.aucpress.com

Copyright © 2010 by Hala El Badry

First published in Arabic in 2010 as
Matar ala Baghdad
Protected under the Berne Convention

English translation copyright © 2014 by the estate of Farouk Abdel Wahab

First published in paperback in 2014

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

ISBN 978 977 416 588 7

eISBN 978 161 797 555 4

Version 1

My thanks and profound appreciation to Iraqi researcher in sociology and political science, Dr. Sadiq al-Ta’i, for his meticulous review of facts and social and political events.

To the people of Iraq

Three Knocks

December 1979

Disappearance

Where has Anhar Khayun disappeared to suddenly from Baghdad and why?

I inquired about her at the Iraqi News Agency where she worked during the day as an editor in the culture section. Her boss Abu Lu’ay said to me, “Hello, Sitt Nora Suleiman. Anhar has not gone on leave, has not called in sick, and we don’t know why she hasn’t come to work yesterday or today. Tomorrow is another day and who knows, maybe we’ll have news.”

I sensed tension in his voice as he answered my questions, knitting his brows, looking me in the eye as if trying to find the reason for my asking even though he knew that she worked with us in the Baghdad bureau of the Egyptian magazine
al-Zahra
after her day job at the agency.

I called her at home in the evening. Her mother’s tearful voice said, “Please, Nora. I implore you: if you find out anything new about her, let me know. I’m going crazy. She hasn’t come back since she went to work the day before yesterday. Her father, her brother, and the husbands of her sisters all looked for her in the hospitals, police stations, at her friends’ houses, everywhere. We’ve asked everywhere. Please, if you hear anything…”

“By all means, Tante Fatma. God willing we’ll hear good news soon.”

I asked Abu Ghayib, the doorman at the Sheikhaly Building who also cleans up and runs errands at our office, if Anhar had come to the office earlier and left when she didn’t find either of us.

“I haven’t seen her since she finished work at the office the day before yesterday,” he said.

I don’t know why we’re so worried about what could have happened to her. It’s only been two days since she went missing. Why are we all so pessimistic?

On the third day, when Anhar did not call or show up at the office, the anger of the bureau director Hilmi Amin, turned into that sort of tension that lies midway between vexation and worry. I expected he would contact his secret sources, who I guessed were comrades in the Iraqi Communist Party or Palestinian or Egyptian friends with close connections to the Ba‘th Party, who could help him figure out complicated situations. Today he was in dire need to know where Anhar was, whether Security was behind her disappearance, or love, or whether she had been, God forbid, the victim of an accident.

When Hilmi Amin opened the door for me on the fourth morning of her disappearance his red eyes told me at once that he hadn’t slept for some time. I grew apprehensive and asked him if he had any news about Anhar.

“No one knows anything,” he said despairingly as an almost spent cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth. “Do you have any news?”

I said, “I stopped by at the Agency as usual and got the morning bulletin. I noticed that a journalist friend, Imad al-Bazzaz, totally avoided me, returning my greeting in a faint voice as he headed for a distant room and closed the door behind him, and that Abu Lu’ay looked as if he had put on a wooden mask as he answered my question without taking his eyes off the newspaper he was reading, saying, “We don’t know anything, Sitt Nora,” then adding curtly,
“We don’t know. When we find out, we’ll let you know. In other words, don’t call us, we’ll call you.”

Hilmi Amin said, “I expected that. None of the comrades know anything about her whereabouts. Usually news of detention is confirmed only after a few days, when one ends up in a specific detention camp.”

A week after her disappearance, when we received no news of an accident or her being the subject of an interrogation or detention, we came to the conclusion that she had disappeared of her own free will, whether that was inside Iraq or somewhere abroad.

I said to myself that it didn’t make sense that Anhar did not think of hiding in her native village, built on sixteen hundred kibashas, or islands, in the Ahwar, or marshes, north of Basra, a lowland area located in the southern basin of the twin rivers, the Tigris and the Euphrates. The houses there are constructed of reeds and matting and from a distance would appear as if they were nests of mythical birds flying over the water’s surface. During the flood season when the dwellings are submerged the villagers build more permanent islands or ‘dibins’ of layered reeds, mud, and buffalo dung, each big enough for one small house and a few buffalos. These dibins could be pushed and moved around in the marshes. Anhar could hide in one of them and keep moving in the midst of bulrushes in the secret mazes of the marshes. How could anyone tell the difference between her and any of the marsh peasant women if she put on that long black dress and that turban with tassels on the sides? Anhar lived in that area the first ten years of her life before coming to Baghdad with her family and the Khayuns have retained their influence and could give her shelter there. Yes, she must have thought of that just as we are thinking of it now and just as Security also is thinking of it. It is a place that seems open and transparent on the surface with its expansive stretches of water covering thousands of acres, but under the cover of deceptive fog, it plays host to a myriad of mirages that provide fantastic means of escape, waiting for time to decipher it. Finding one’s way in it without help from its own
people and without some kind of betrayal is impossible. And Anhar knows that very well.

I found comfort in that line of thinking and when I shared it with Hilmi Amin I saw him murmuring softly, hoping that that was what happened, that Anhar was out of danger, if she had chosen to get away from him of her own free will.

June 1975

A Wedding

I put on my white bridal gown and veil and got into the car on my way to the airport, followed by several cars carrying my family and friends in a morning bridal procession to join Hatim, who had to go to Baghdad ahead of me. I had not yet taken my finals in college when he signed a contract to work in Baghdad. We arrived at the airport at the last moment: eleven o’clock, just one hour before departure. I found my father waiting for me, having taken care of the ticket and weighing the bags. They took me running from the car to passport control. I said a quick and distracted goodbye to my mother as everyone kissed me. Loud ululations of joy erupted accompanied with grains of salt showered on me as my father extricated me, saying calmly, “Say goodbye. Seventy kilos? What did your mother put in your bags?”

I smiled. My mother had insisted that I take in my carry-on bag a box of bridal cookies with sugar and another box in which she had put a roasted duck, two squabs, some shish kebab, and kofta, and rice with nuts and raisins, saying, “This is your nuptial meal. I hope they will let you take it with you.”

I said, “Father will see to that. As you can see, he has enlisted everyone at the airport to make my trip go smoothly. It is getting it into Baghdad that is problematic.”

She said, “Do what you can, anyway. They’ll understand these customs of ours.”

I said to my friend, Salwa, “It doesn’t matter what rung of the social ladder the bride comes from. They’ll say she is from Sayyida Zaynab or Shubra and not from Zamalek!”

My family had a reception last night for the extended family and a few friends, a sort of henna ceremony, without the henna or the ceremony, in which the women, away from men’s eyes or ears, exchanged stories and experiences of the first night. My aunt nudged me in the thigh, saying, “Be a good girl. Don’t make a scene and don’t be afraid.”

I said, “Why should I be afraid? I’ve never heard of a bride dying on her wedding night.”

The other women caught the drift of the conversation and mother said to my aunt in a soft voice, “Who are you advising?”

My mother had taken pains to keep me from visiting any bride the morning after the wedding night. I remembered that when I heard my grandmother saying, “Who will take care of her first morning after? Oh, my dear Nora!”

My cousin came in with a large platter of hot mumbar, saying merrily, “I know it’s your favorite dish. Take some of it with you in case you crave it.”

Salwa said, “Don’t they have mumbar in Baghdad?”

“Not like ours, of course,” my cousin said.

My other cousin said, “Of course. Our mumbar is bigger and harder, like iron rods!”

My aunt said, “If they see it at the airport they’ll say the bridegroom is no good and the bride is bringing a spare instrument!”

All the women present burst out laughing. I remembered the day my cousin Mona, in tears after visiting her sister, Hind, on the first morning after the first night when she said to my mother, “He savaged her, Auntie. Her face and whole body are covered with wounds.” Then, after catching her breath she added, “He’s an animal!”

My mother chided me and motioned me to move away when she discovered that I’d heard those comments. I watched Hind closely as she was wrapping a shawl around her hips and happily joining my women friends in belly dancing. I asked myself, “Where have the wounds gone?”

They played Hurriya Hasan’s beautiful wedding song about the zaghruda ululation that rang out in the house and gathered all the neighbors to celebrate.

They let me go to sleep at 3:00 a.m. and slept on mattresses spread out in every room of the house. Their whispers continued and I could make out bits and pieces about pinpricks and rubbery hymens. I got up at six in the morning to find my mother, moving on tiptoes, having made a light breakfast for me and Salwa. After breakfast I went with Salwa to the beauty parlor which had opened early especially for me.

I told Salwa, who was studying medicine, that I had my period a few days earlier for the first time in my life and that it had ended only yesterday. “Can you imagine, in the midst of thinking and preparing for the wedding, traveling, the heat, my period, and all this worrying?”

Salwa said it must have been the excitement. “Thank God you purified yourself yesterday.”

I said, “Mom told me to recite the shahada again while bathing in the morning.”

Salwa smiled and said, “Mothers!”

I couldn’t tell her that my mom had dealt me quite a blow in the afternoon. I had opted to use halawa to remove hair by myself at home before going to the beauty parlor on henna night. I took a shower and wrapped my hair in a large towel. I poured glycerin and lemon juice all over my body, trying to avoid thinking about giving myself over to the massage and the Moroccan bath, wondering why I had to bare myself before women who were complete strangers. I heard some knocks on the door and my mother’s voice asking if she could come in.

“I haven’t put my clothes on yet,” I said.

“Put a robe on and open the door,” she replied. I let her in, wondering in astonishment what was so urgent. She said, “Sit on this chair and raise your arms and stretch them out.”

She placed her palms on my armpits and felt them. Then she said, “Spread your legs.” She turned me over while I was in total shock, telling her, “Everything is fine.”

She said, “I refused to let a professional do this. You are a bride and we have to be absolutely certain that you’re one hundred percent intact.”

She raised my legs to inspect me below the abdomen. I screamed. She said in a commanding tone, “We are not going to let you disgrace us.”

Her fingers parted my labia. She was not looking for a hair here and there that may have strayed from the halawa. She was looking for God’s seal.

She let me go. Other hands would complete my makeover. I didn’t exchange a word with her until I got on the plane. I put on a smiling mask, but my happiness with the warm feelings of my friends and family was diminished by my mom’s insulting behavior, a behavior I couldn’t do anything about. I believe the insult will remain with me forever.

My eyes welled up with tears. My father said, “Hatim is a beautiful human being and he will take good care of you.”

I smiled. He got on the bus with me. The bus took us up to the ladder of the airplane. The passengers made way for me and let me go ahead of them. My father kissed me and gave me a paper bag that had two bottles of whiskey and one champagne bottle, saying, “A gift for Hatim.”