Rain over Baghdad: A Novel of Iraq (62 page)

I said, “I want to tell you something.”

He said, “I also want to tell you that I am sorry. It wasn’t worth all this anger. We have an invitation to the presidential palace and we must go now.”

I closed the notebook and let out a long moan. I was afraid that those sitting nearby, passengers like me traveling from the Amman airport, had heard it. So, Fayza was not the only obstacle between you two! Jealousy played the leading role in the scene. But could jealousy play such a role without the presence of such a formidable, irritating obstacle as Fayza, pushing the story to hopelessness and frustration? Maybe. I had noticed during one of Hilmi’s family’s visits that Fayza was miserable even though she was carrying Rana and playing with her, while her mind seemed to be totally somewhere else. I told myself at the time: why shouldn’t she be miserable when she was torn between two worlds: neither a wife nor an in-law, but a woman lost completely, sharing Hilmi’s life in the midst of the storm? Oh, dear God!

Three men took the seats right in front of me. Their Palestinian dialect was unmistakable. They looked like big businessmen. That brought to my mind the never-ending Palestinian diaspora.

*

As soon as I came into the office, Ustaz Hilmi Amin said to me, “We are going to meet some Palestinian intellectuals at Dar al-Salam.”

I asked him who they were and he said, “Writers, journalists, and students who have been expelled from Cairo suddenly. One of them is a political analyst, another a poet, the third one is a story writer and translator, the fourth is the head of the features section at the Middle East News Agency. There are some students with them.”

They welcomed us very warmly. Hilmi Amin introduced them: Abd al-Qadir Yasin, Mourid Barghouti, Ahmad Umar Shahin, and Muhammad Ahmad Ramadan.

We sat listening to the story of their deportation from Egypt. They looked distraught and unfocused and were startled by the slightest movement anywhere near them. Thousands of questions could be seen in their eyes.

Abd al-Qadir Yasin said, “On the first day of Eid al-Adha, before Sadat carried out his promise to go to Israel, and before his plane landed at Ben Gurion Airport, the four of us were arrested as part of a list of nine writers and journalists who were the leadership of the Union of Palestinian Writers and Journalists in Egypt. But two were not included because they belonged to Fatah.”

I asked, “What happened to the other three?”

He said, “One went to make the hajj, another was in Beirut, and last was Radwa Ashour, who is an Egyptian, so she could not be deported.”

I asked, “Was the reason for the deportation that you had participated in the demonstrations protesting the visit?”

Ahmad Umar Shahin, the calmest and shyest of them, said, “Yes. The students gathered to protest against Sadat’s visit and they read a strongly worded statement in the name of the Union of Writers and Journalists.”

Hilmi Amin asked, “Who wrote the statement?”

Abd al-Qadir Yasin said, “We had decided not to take a stand, because the issue was still quite hot, and to wait until the situation
was clear for the masses, because we could not stand against the people whom Sadat had attracted by convincing them that it was an attempt to stop the war, the sacrifices, and the bloodshed. So, the whole thing about the statement was a conspiracy by Fatah and the security forces to get rid of the four of us.”

I asked him, “Why?”

He said, “Because the Union of Writers and Journalists is the only union not in Fatah’s hands.”

Hilmi Amin asked, “Were you deported right away?”

Muhammad Ahmad Ramadan said, “First they arrested us at the Mugamma‘ and there, in the passport security office, they asked us if we had money for the tickets. Three of us said, ‘Yes,’ and Abd al-Qadir said, ‘No.’ So they took Abd al-Qadir home to get money and they took the three of us to the plane. And when we actually sat down, they got us off the plane and told us that the deportation had been postponed until Sadat came back from Jerusalem. Then they took the four of us to the Khalifa lockup at the Citadel, where they detained us for three days, after which we were deported.”

I asked, “Did you choose to come to Iraq or was that imposed on you?”

Mourid Barghouti said, “We requested to go to Syria or Lebanon to be with the PLO, but they told us that Iraq was the only country that didn’t require a visa, even though the plane ticket to Baghdad was the most expensive.”

Abd al-Qadir Yasin laughed and said, “While we were sitting in the plane, Mourid said, ‘Now Abu Nidal al-Banna will capture us and behead us.’ I said, ‘It’s not so lawless, my friend.’ A short while later a handsome blond young man came to us on the plane and asked, ‘Where is Ustaz Abd al-Qadir Yasin?’ Mourid said, ‘Didn’t I tell you?’ The young man, the one who was one of the Arab Nationalist leaders, what’s his name? Yes: Amir al-Helou came closer to us, saying, ‘I am the chief of staff of the minister of culture. I have been sent to welcome you. Please come to the VIP lounge.’”

Muhammad Ramadan said, “Tell them about Samaan.”

Abd al-Qadir said, “Something strange happened yesterday, brother Hilmi. I met by chance at the hotel the communist journalist and poet Alfred Samaan, whom you know. He apologized that the newspaper
Tariq al-Shaab
did not publish the news of our arrival in Baghdad and said that that had happened because they feared that the Ba‘thists might turn against us. What’s the story, Hilmi? Isn’t the government in the hands of a coalition front?”

Hilmi laughed, saying, “I know you are a very judicious and patient man. You haven’t rested enough after the trip. But let me tell you that the front is one for the struggle rather than for the spoils of battle.”

Ahmad Umar Shahin said, “What will the Iraqis do with us? Will they have us as guests until we make arrangements somewhere else? Will we work in their newspapers? I can’t live away from Cairo or away from my apartment in the Sayyida Zaynab neighborhood.”

None of us had an answer even though we knew that several Palestinian organizations had opened offices in Baghdad. Hilmi Amin said, “The situation will be studied according to relations with Palestinian organizations. As for working in newspapers, that should not be difficult. They have extended their hospitality to you, so await their decisions. You know that it’s all political.”

We said to them, “Welcome to Baghdad, and please feel free to visit our homes at any time. The hotel is right in the center of town; try to acquaint yourselves with it. You won’t be bored and don’t worry about anything. We’ll stay in touch all the time.”

Baghdad during that time had turned into a marketplace that attracted Egyptian political entrepreneurs. Some of them got money on the pretext of starting Ba‘thist cells in Cairo. Others got money for secret political opposition parties in Egypt. None of the money ever made it to the “parties.” Even women got into the game. I remember one woman who asked for Iraqi funding for the party to which she belonged, then transferred the money to a cultural organization bearing her name. News spread fast all over Baghdad and many of the players felt no shame talking about their
real aims. I sighed in sorrow as the pictures came before my eyes. At the end of 1978 Ahmad Abbas Salih asked Amin Ezzeddin, who was close to Saddam Hussein, to intercede on his behalf to publish an Egyptian opposition newspaper outside Egypt to be funded by Iraq. When Amin Ezzeddin went to the Ba‘thist official in charge and asked him, the man said to him, “Why didn’t you come before? Only yesterday we gave Dr. Yusri al-Kamil three million dollars to publish a newspaper.”

Of course the newspaper has not come out to this day, four years later. What really infuriated Hilmi Amin was the sycophancy of such Egyptian politicians in their dealings with the Ba‘th Party. Some of these politicians were considered friends by Hilmi Amin. One of those was Abd al-Samad al-Kholi, who shouted slogans in support of the regional and national leadership of the Ba‘th Party, and who took part in establishing a regional leadership for the party branch in Egypt. Hilmi Amin told me in sorrow, “Abd al-Samad needed delicate, complicated eye surgery, which Iraq paid for. But is this enough for him to sell out his history of struggle in this manner?”

Hilmi Amin got caught between a rock and a hard place: sycophants currying favor with the Ba‘th Party, on the one hand, and his inability to look the other way when it came to Sadat’s government, on the other. I think that was the real reason for his furious rage when I brought him Abd al-Rahim and Atef.

We left the Palestinians and started walking on Saadun Street. I noticed how sad Hilmi was. I said to him, “Iraq has opened its doors for the Palestinian splinter groups, what is called ‘the front of the forces rejecting surrender solutions,’ and is supporting them to spite Syria, but to this day I don’t understand why.”

Hilmi Amin said, “I think it was Iraq that called for the forming of this front. When the Syrian forces entered Beirut last year, 1976, to support the Maronites, the leaders of that front and their members fled to Baghdad and opened offices to be against Fatah.”

I said, “You mean the Abu Abbas group and Wadie Haddad who split with George Habash?”

Hilmi said, “We are living in hard times, Nora. Hard times.”

I wondered where they were now.

A month after that took place, we heard that Abd al-Qadir Yasin had gone to Romania for medical treatment and from there to Beirut. Hilmi Amin told me that he met him there. Mourid went to Hungary and I think he is still there. As for Ahmad Umar Shahin, he couldn’t stand Baghdad’s summer heat and traveled to Cairo where he stayed at the airport for two weeks before they let him in. They couldn’t find anything they could hold against him. Muhammad Ahmad Ramadan left for New York to work as an interpreter for the United Nations. Hilmi Amin wrote a wonderful article in
al-Jumhuriya
newspaper about Abd al-Qadir Yasin with the title: “I Still Remember Your Smiling Face, Abd al-Qadir Yasin,” in which he related the story of their detention together in the Oases detention center.

Oh, my God! How could I forget Hilmi’s screaming voice in a public telephone booth talking to someone I didn’t know after he came back from Beirut, “I am not going to let Iraq turn the national movement into a copy of the Palestinian organizations in which every group speaks on behalf of the country giving them shelter. The Egyptian opposition in exile are not going to be a pawn in the hands of Iraq or Libya to express its point of view or speak in its, or anyone else’s, name. We will not be so fragmented.”

I asked him in alarm after we attracted the attention of the passersby on the street, “What happened?”

He said, “Do you remember Herman Melville?”

I said, “Yes, of course. He wrote
Moby Dick
.”

Then I laughed and added, “The Don Quixote of the sea.”

He said, “Melville says that when the whale is surrounded by whaling boats and sailors, and when the harpoons attack it intensely and pierce its skin, and when the sea is filled with its blood, it becomes very quiet and motionless, so much so that the whalers think that it has died and happily come close, ecstatic about their catch. Then it surprises them with a fatal blow of its tail, splitting their boat while
it goes back to sea, victorious. That’s what we Egyptians engaged in struggle are like!”

I said, “I don’t understand anything.”

“The time will come. The time will come,” he said.

I dozed off. Then I woke up feeling pain in various parts of my body. The lounge was lit but outside it was pitch dark. I heard the call: “Egypt Air announces its flight to Cairo.”

I went to the gate. I saw people had gathered in a long line. I recognized some of the faces I had seen at passport control. I asked about the flight even though everything was written clearly on the board in front of me. I went back to the bathroom after I asked the man standing in front of me to keep my place behind him. It was stupid and naïve but I did it. I washed my face and retrieved the dry towel and thanked the attendant. I presented my passport to the officer. He looked at me closely, then signaled to one of his colleagues who was standing at a distance. His colleague gestured his approval.

I couldn’t believe that I was at the very last gate while the plane was standing there right in front of me. I moved forward confidently and with a perfectly neutral face, even though I could blow up at any moment. I handed another officer the ticket mechanically. I got on the bus, climbed the plane ladder, then took my seat, without hearing what was happening around me, and I slept. I awoke to the flight attendant’s voice as he was giving me a food tray. I ate semiconsciously and started trembling again even though I had not taken off my overcoat. I felt my ears almost exploding as the plane was landing at Cairo airport: I was about to scream as I tried to swallow, to no avail. I placed my palms on my ears. I wanted to wrench my ears off. The plane came to a stop. I dragged my body outside with difficulty. No one would be waiting for me because they didn’t know my new time of arrival. The airport limousine would solve the problem. Tomorrow I go to Maghagha to bring my son home since going now was impossible. I presented my passport to the passport officer and told him what happened in Jordan. He looked at the picture and the
papers I had just filled out and matched them with the passport, saying: “There’s no problem. The photo is a little faded, that’s all. Go back to the passport office at the Mugamma‘ in Tahrir Square and change the photo. Is the baby with you?”

“No. Do I need to check with the Jordanian embassy?”

“I don’t think so. It’s just that the passport officer there was not sure about the photo. I don’t blame him. Welcome home and thank God for your safe return.”

“Thanks a lot.”

I waited for my luggage to arrive at the carousel, fidgeting in exhaustion. The book box arrived first. I started sobbing as I read on a big board: “Enter Egypt safely, God willing.” I began to look closely at the streets from the window of the taxi. It was a whole separate world. I needed an hour to arrive at my house. I was here only ten days ago. Does it make sense for all these events to have taken place in ten days? Ten Days That Shook the World. People here are clueless. They don’t realize that what is happening in Iraq will actually affect them. But what can they do? The prices they have paid in the Arab–Israeli conflict are exorbitant and the experience they had dealing directly with the Arabs is totally different. The Egyptian worker likes the way the Iraqis do business and he likes Arab Gulf money. How would that impact Egyptian society? I’ve often asked myself: why does the Arab Gulf accommodate such large numbers of Asian workers? Are they afraid of the concentration of large numbers of Egyptians?