Rain over Baghdad: A Novel of Iraq (8 page)

Karima told me, “All the tenants are Christian except for my apartment and
al-Zahra
magazine.”

I laughed and told her, “And an Iraqi family and an Indian family.”

The dual use of the office as a place of work and residence had created an interesting problem for the bureau director. He used to go to the roof to hang his clothes to dry, because he was too embarrassed to hang them in the balcony. He noticed that his Indian neighbor did not return his greetings if he met him on the street
and looked away, knitting his brow. One Friday morning the director went up on the roof and found the clothesline moved away from the apartment of the Indian neighbor. When he met him he moved directly toward him and said, “Please don’t be offended if I hang my washing on the roof because I have no choice in the matter.”

The neighbor said, “We are an oriental family and we have certain traditions.”

The director said, “We are also oriental and we have the same kinds of traditions which I respect.”

He never went up on the roof again. The problem was resolved with help from the cleaning and ironing shop.

An increasing number of Iraqi and Egyptian journalists pay the office visits from time to time. Hilmi Amin invited one of them, Muzaffar al-Mosuli, to write critiques of Iraqi art. A few days later the director told me that some of these journalists invited us to a picnic on Friday morning. During a quick visit to the Journalists’ Union the following day I ran into some of them and told them that I’d go with them. One of them said, “In the future we will organize an outing somewhere outside Baghdad every Friday and let the beautiful days begin!”

I said, “Great! These outings would be a good opportunity for me and my husband to meet your families.”

Some of them said in a soft voice, “Yes.”

The bureau director told me on Thursday that the colleagues have expressed their regret for not going on the picnic because they would be busy preparing for a conference. We were not invited by these colleagues to any social events after that.

One day we decided to begin our day by visiting
al-Mar’a al-Iraqiya
magazine where Sajida, Ilham, and Naglaa worked, women journalists about my age, and a veteran managing editor, Amal al-Sharqi. I had gone to them earlier to obtain photos from their archives to use in an article I was writing about Iraqi women, the development in whose lives I was fondly following. They welcomed me and gave me a whole year’s worth of back issues. To reciprocate their gift,
Hilmi Amin wrote for them an article on Egyptian women. During our meeting with Amal al-Sharqi, we realized that she and Hilmi had met five years earlier at a conference in Baghdad. They began to reminisce about the conference, wondering about the colleagues that had taken part in it and whatever became of them. A friendship between Hilmi and Amal developed and the director decided to have stronger relations with the magazine.

We asked the receptionist about Amal al-Sharqi but she was not there. We asked to meet with Sajida or Ilham or Naglaa. The receptionist led us to the newsroom. Naglaa welcomed us and ordered tea for us. I took out of my bag two copies of
al-Zahra
magazine and put them on Naglaa’s desk saying, “Here is your weekly share.”

Naglaa said, “We love Egyptian magazines, and we are trying to develop our own. What do you think of our magazine?”

I said, “I love it.”

Sajida came in, with Ilham in tow. We got up to say hello. I noticed that Ilham said nothing while Sajida asked us sharply, “Who are you? What exactly are you doing in Iraq? Do you distribute magazines?”

Her questions came as a surprise to me. I looked at Hilmi Amin to gauge his reaction, since I thought we had already explained to them what we were doing in Iraq and there was no need for such an outburst on Sajida’s part. Did she seize upon the absence of the managing editor to confront us so aggressively?

Hilmi Amin smiled calmly and said, “We are a press bureau working in Iraq. We do not distribute
al-Zahra
magazine. That’s done by the National Company. But we bring you these copies by way of professional courtesy. A press bureau anywhere in the world depends on relations with national newspapers and magazines.”

Ilham and Naglaa joined in the discussion and the three of them began to ask detailed questions in quick succession: “Who pays your salaries? Exactly how many journalists work in the office? Are there Iraqis among them? Do you work for the Zahra organization only? What plans do you have for expanding your work? Are you
a branch of the organization? What do your activities include in addition to writing articles and press features? What is your relationship with Iraqi political parties? What is your purpose having dealings with a small magazine like
al-Mar’a
? Do you plan to give other articles as gifts to the magazine? Would such articles be from the two of you only or will you invite other journalists to contribute to the magazine?”

Hilmi answered most of the questions at the same speed that they were asked and I answered some of them. We left feeling that we had absorbed part of the anger that the three young women had toward us. I couldn’t get over my surprise at their outburst since, up to that very morning, I thought we were friends. We went out agreeing to meet again the following week. We stood waiting for a cab. Still in a state of shock I asked Hilmi, “I thought Sajida, with her hostile attitude and gruff manner, was behind this confrontation, but the fact that poised Naglaa and jovial Ilham took part made me realize that they all shared the anxiety.”

He said, “These questions reflect the three women’s insecurity about our presence on the scene: are we going to work in
al-Mar’a
magazine and become their competitors? Especially as it’s a new magazine staffed by young journalists, even with the presence of an experienced editor like Amal al-Sharqi, because, as you know, she is only there on a part-time basis. Her primary writing job is with
al-Jumhuriya
newspaper. They are aware of
al-Zahra’s
long history in the Arab press. Would
al-Zahra
play a role in their magazine or not? That, briefly, was what they wanted to find out.”

We went back the following week and many weeks after that and our relationship with the staff there grew stronger. Amal al-Sharqi invited me to work with them. She said in the presence of Sajida, Ilham, and Naglaa: “Write features for us about each of your trips. Consider yourself a reporter for the magazine.”

I looked at the three friends and saw that they were smiling and opening their arms for me and gesturing that I should accept. I said, as I received their kisses, “I accept wholeheartedly.”

Amal al-Sharqi signed my application for membership in the Iraqi Journalists Union. I was elated, wondering when I would get the Egyptian Journalists Union membership.

I heard some movement. I looked up at the aisle. I saw the stewardess pushing the food carts forward and one steward closing the first-class curtains. Each cart stopped in the front of an aisle and the stewardess began distributing the meals. I leaned my head on the headrest and turned to look through the open window next to Salma. The sky above the clouds was so clear it seemed unreal. Once again I heard the knocks on the door of my memory.

Hamid Marmarji, director of culture in Erbil, invited us to the inauguration of the new cultural season. It was a rather long jaunt this time, eight days. Before we got on the bus, Hilmi Amin warned me, “Last trip we lost all the Russian correspondents in one fell swoop. Let’s not lose anyone else this time.”

I had promised myself to write many features on the places that we merely went through in the past. I was happy that Hatim had granted me freedom of movement without resenting my being away.

I tried to forget the pangs of being away from my son. The director’s words hurt me and put me on notice that I would be under observation, rather than a full participant. I made no comment on his words and throughout the bus trip followed the shepherds in the desert and the herds of camels and sheep. We passed by the sacred fire so I remembered Ur and Sayyidna Ibrahim and also the priestesses of the temple about whom I read with intense interest. Hamid welcomed us very warmly, saying, “The city is teeming with Kurds who feel defeated. Having a dialogue with them is hard, but involving them in a literary gathering is one way the party is trying to reach them and reassure them. The presence of two Egyptian journalists, a male and a female, would be quite attractive for them, especially as Kurdish men and women of letters consider
themselves neglected because they are away from the capital. They feel their works are not getting the attention they deserve.”

Hilmi Amin said, “Don’t worry.”

I said, “That is the general feeling of writers from the provinces, even in Egypt, even though being away from the capital gives them greater opportunity to write.”

He said, “The problem here is more complicated.”

In the evening Hilmi Amin spoke about Egyptian culture before a Kurdish audience that understood Arabic and spoke it fluently. I spoke about the role of women in Egyptian culture. I noticed that the Kurdish intellectuals followed Egyptian culture closely. We got to discussing Arabic magazines and periodicals and how only a few Kurdish authors’ works were published in them. Hilmi Amin invited them to publish in
al-Zahra
magazine. Then the discussion got heated and touched upon literature and the struggle for freedom. One member of the audience spoke in response to Hilmi Amin’s presentation, “There are only three pillars of literature in Egypt now and you are forty million. In Kurdistan we have thirty literary pillars.”

Everyone laughed boisterously and the program came to an end. Their chauvinism and reluctance to acknowledge another, parallel world made them overstep the boundaries of decorum and logic, so they acted in an extremist manner. We met Jamal, the short-story writer, and Sulafa, the poet who assisted Hamid at the directorate of culture. They took us downtown to the old city to meet people in the stores and old-style markets. I noticed extreme poverty and a kindness covering and softening a deepseated nervousness whose cause I couldn’t discern. The houses here in the low-income neighborhoods, as in all Iraqi cities, were one-story structures separated by small gardens. Open sewers ran through all the streets of the city. I had not seen such sewers before. I looked closely at the black matter floating in soapy filth and I was disgusted. I didn’t understand how they lived side by side with this filth. When heavy rain fell and I saw the water in
the streets rushing toward the lower-lying sewers and disappear, I understood why, but this did not lessen my discomfort.

We talked with people about the question of autonomy, although they were reluctant at the beginning. Then after a gesture from Jamal or Sulafa they relaxed and began to talk to us. The outcome of these conversations was almost always the same: “We want autonomy, but we don’t know what the future holds. This is not the first time that governments have talked about autonomy.” That was news to us. We thought that autonomy was a new achievement on the part of the Ba‘th Party. We went to the wealthy neighborhoods and noticed the obvious differences in the sizes of the houses and the large public parks. We felt as we delved deeper into Kurdish society that we were losing our own footholds. One evening Hamid took us to Jamal’s house in a suburb of Erbil. We went into a simply and tastefully furnished house. We found a number of writers there. A fair Kurdish woman, uncharacteristically plump, welcomed us. Jamal said, “My wife, Umm Sargon.”

He placed his hand on his heart and added, “Sister of the communist martyr As‘ad Khalis who was executed in the events of February 8.” Sulafa came in a blue dress, the color of her eyes. She had left her long black hair playfully cascading down her shoulders. She was a picture of vitality and joy. My heart sank as I asked myself, “What does love do to us? How is this lady faring in the midst of all of these swirling currents of which she is not aware? Who said she is not aware?”

Umm Sargon led us to a room in the center of which was a round dining table with dozens of bottles of liquor from all over the world and Iraqi beer and araq.

Jamal said very proudly, “This is Iraqi araq made secretly at home.”

I asked Hilmi Amin, “Is making araq at home illegal?”

Hamid said, “It’s a crime like possession of hashish in Egypt but it’s more a health risk.”

We sat around many dishes cooked and baked by Umm Sargon herself: trays of kibbeh, kibbeh with cracked wheat, and Aleppo kibbeh made with rice. We ate and laughed and had a good time.
Jamal asked me suddenly, “Why don’t you drink? An Egyptian intellectual who doesn’t drink or smoke?”

I said, my heart shaking as I remembered the problem with Izak, “I don’t drink.”

Hilmi, laughing, said, “Any kind of juice will do.”

Sulafa got up to open a bottle of Pepsi for me. During the time I spent with them I got to know the tender love story between Jamal and Sulafa. I had known that Jamal was a married man, but it hadn’t bothered me; his presence alone was a cause of great happiness, and that was enough for me. But when I saw the wife, I felt I couldn’t deal with the matter easily, even though it was none of my business.

We talked with Jamal about autonomy. I noticed that he was wary of Hamid, which was unusual since Hamid was also a Kurd and it was he who introduced him to us. I asked him about the law and how it was followed on the ground. He said, “In the law of March 11, 1975 an amnesty was declared for all who took part in the revolt which at that time was called ‘the lackey pocket.’ So everyone came down from the rough mountainous areas where they had barricaded themselves and they surrendered their weapons: students went back to school, employees back to their posts and, for the first time, five Kurds became government ministers and Taha Ma‘ruf became vice president.”

A voice next to me whispered, “Just a ceremonial post.” I turned and found Sulafa laughing and pointing with her eye to Hamid, who had just left the room to answer the telephone.

Jamal went on to say, “Two ministers: One, Idris the son of Mullah Mustafa al-Barzani, is now the minister of labor, and Darwish Adha is now minster of social affairs, a portfolio that has become a Kurdish monopoly, and three state ministers without portfolios.”