The Girl from Baghdad (6 page)

For lunch, we all gathered in the dining room, sitting in a circle on the floor around a low table. The aunts and Mum brought out heaped plates of seasoned meats,
hummus
and rice. Everyone served themselves.

We didn't use cutlery at Grandma's house, like we did at our own. Rather, we used morsels of hot bread, ripped into pieces. The mothers taught the youngest children how to gather the meat with their fingertips and bring it to their mouths without letting any fall.

After lunch, when the air was still scented with cumin and turmeric, we moved the table and covered the majolica floor with thin mattresses. We all lay down together on the big soft rug. Despite the risk of getting a relative's foot in your face, those were the most magical hours. The blinds were closed and it was easy to shut your eyes and fall asleep in the dim light. The soft breathing of my littlest cousins, already drifting off to sleep, was slowly matched by the others, who followed, as if a spell had been cast over them. I spied the older kids still awake. The slight snore of some of the adults was funny. We were so close, all tight. Everyone was peacefully united by that sweet afternoon nap. From above, my family took the shape of a single animal with several heads, legs and arms. Indivisible.

Toward nightfall, the call of the muezzin invited another ritual. Extending our rug in the direction of Mecca, we kneeled, and the little ones, imitating the
gestures of the grown-ups, repeated the prayers of the Koran. I usually prayed with my cousins, covering my hair with a veil. I had never entered the mosque where my more religious cousins went, but I had been told about the splendid gardens. Like almost all Sunni families, we didn't go to the mosques regularly.

When we weren't chasing each other from one room to another, my cousins and I gossiped about clothes, jewels and acquaintances. Nothing that happened in our busy family life seemed to escape my cousins. They never worried themselves about the war, but they were really up-to-date about what other family members or some distant nephew did. Above all, they kept up with the drama of the most controversial family member of all: Aunt May.

They said a bunch of things about Aunt May. She was Kassid's wife and Dad's sister-in-law. I could tell the aunts didn't have great sympathy for her. I found her beautiful. But this wasn't something one could admit aloud, at least not in front of Aunt Kasside.

Mum sat with the others, even if she didn't participate in their discussions. She always maintained that she didn't like to put her nose in other people's business. Once she gestured at me to come closer. It was snack time and freshly baked bread with cheese was on offer. I remained to enjoy it, listening to the women.

Aunt Elham was talking about May again. ‘She thinks she's so important, just because she works for
Saddam's government. You should hear the attitude she gets when she talks about him: “I saw Saddam”, “I spoke with Saddam”, as if she were his friend! She's really sassy! And you all remember when she told the story about how the leader himself gave her a new car.'

‘May says he even gave her a house before she married our brother. I always knew that their marriage would be no good. Ever since he married her, nobody ever sees Kassid anymore. It's almost as if he has forgotten he has a family and a mother. Poor Bibi … how he betrays you!' Kasside exclaimed, bringing a hand to her mouth and raising her eyes to the sky, as if it were something very scandalous. Then she would glance at Bibi, who was seated imperiously like an empress on a throne. Although Grandma hardly ever spoke, she followed the conversation without missing a beat. When she agreed with Kasside, as in this case, she nodded with austere eyes and squeezed her cane.

‘Poor Kassid. We should have convinced him to leave her when we had the chance. There was still time …' Ahlam added timidly.

‘Yes, but that manipulative woman complained directly to Saddam and he was forced to go back to her,' Elham added. ‘Who does she think she is? Just because she has a career certainly doesn't mean she's better than us. We work too.'

‘And at least we take care of our houses and our children. Not like May, who only thinks of herself. She doesn't care about how her children grow up, or how they're raised,' continued Kasside. ‘She even chose which school to send them to without listening to Bibi's opinion. My poor mother!' She launched another look towards Grandma, who nodded again.

May was definitely one of their favourite topics; they reserved the worst and most fervent spite for her. However, when she came with Kassid to important parties at Bibi's, they welcomed her with great ceremony. As soon as she entered the living room, Kasside got up to greet her immediately. Aunt May advanced like a lioness in her dark outfit and long coloured hair, spilling down her shoulders. At those moments she seemed like the boss of the house. Kasside held her hands as she kissed her. With a slightly ostentatious smile, she oozed, ‘Welcome, dear. You're beautiful, as always. And what spectacular jewels! Who knows how much they're worth!'

May exchanged the same compliments with an identical smile on her lips. As soon as May was seated in the living room, the aunts surreptitiously took off to the kitchen to arrange the sweets on a tea tray. I followed them, knowing the comments would pour out.

‘Did you see her earrings?' one said.

‘Saddam must have given them to her!' another sister replied.

‘I didn't check to see if she greeted Bibi. Did she?'

‘Yes, but last. She's really rude!'

‘What a disaster. Our poor brother!'

As soon as they returned to the living room, they sat near her and offered her tea. All of a sudden they seemed to have become great friends again. Naturally, when May and Kassid left, the aunts had a lot to talk about: what their ‘favourite sister-in-law' had said and done.

Only one other topic was able to attract their attention as much as Aunt May: weddings. They always ended up arriving at this subject. And, when they did, we kept our ears open because we knew that they would talk about us. It was normal for cousins to marry each other. We grew up together, and together was how we were to remain; we had to keep the family together, and above all, the wealth.

Kasside had six children: Suhèr was the eldest, then came Esràr, Dunya, Samìr (who was destined from the beginning to marry one of the cousins) and Renà, who was my age. Renà had a love-hate relationship with me; she followed me everywhere, but then became terribly jealous and preferred Samar. The last was Alì: short and stocky, with a dark complexion. He was always in competition with everyone. Elham's daughters, older than us, were the most homely-looking of the family. They took after their mother, who was the plainest of the three sisters.

The beauties of the family were Ahlam's six children; three girls and three boys. Esmàa, Sundus and Samar were all very pretty with slender figures and long black hair. They had inherited their mother's good looks: big, dark eyes and lush lips, always carefully outlined with a little lipstick. According to Bibi, the eldest, Esmàa, was destined to marry Samìr, Kasside's son. I was very close to Samar, the youngest daughter. We were almost the same age and often spent afternoons making ourselves up and trying on my aunt's clothes, pretending to be grown-up. The eldest of Samar's three brothers was Omar: a handsome boy, a little older than me, with bright and sparkling eyes. He was very intelligent and determined; although he was short, he had a decisive and ambitious character. After him came Ahmed and Khalid. When we celebrated Khalid's circumcision, I was already old enough to watch, even though I still wasn't old enough to understand.

The preparation for the circumcision party was especially long and laborious: the aunts cooked for an entire week and decorated the living room with flowers, candles and streamers. But lavish celebrations were nothing new to the family. Every ‘special occasion' was celebrated with gifts and banquets. Even simple birthdays were an occasion to organise stupendous parties, although they were nothing compared to weddings and circumcisions when the house was an animated hive of activity.

Khalid was five years old. I was ten. My father explained to me what was about to happen: Khalid was becoming a man. It seemed bizarre to me, given that he was still a child, and I was curious to see what strange magic would make him big all of a sudden.

On the evening of the ceremony, an elderly man dressed in a white robe arrived. Traditional songs were sung and Ahlam entered the room with little Khalid in her arms. They made their way between the family members, many of whom had come from all over Iraq for the circumcision. Khalid looked around curiously. When he noticed the grown-ups were staring at him, he became scared and held tight to his mother's neck, hiding his face in her hair. Aunt Ahlam unwound his arms and placed him on a chair. He was immediately encircled by the women of the family, chanting and singing, who grabbed him by the arms. He burst out crying, terrified. His mother watched him with a mix of apprehension and tenderness, cradling his head as she tried to calm him down. But as soon as Khalid saw the old man come closer with a knife in his hand, he started to squirm and screech even louder. The surrounding women grabbed his legs to stop him kicking. The chants became louder, nearly drowning out Khalid's screams. The old man leaned over him and cut the foreskin off his tiny penis. A spurt of blood marked the snow-white cloth that covered his lap. His howls of pain were masked by shouts of joy
from the entire family; the women cried with happiness. As the old man shuffled out of the room, the blade of the knife, striped red, passed right before my eyes.

I was used to the sight of blood because I had seen goats being butchered for the banquet at the end of Ramadan, but I couldn't believe that they could do something similar to my cousin. I ran, alarmed, and threw myself into my mother's arms.

‘Mum, why did they cut him? Why did they hurt him?' The chanting and applause continued. I felt like I was the only one who realised the gravity of the situation.

‘It's nothing, Michelle. They didn't do anything to him,' Mum replied, caressing my head.

‘But he's bleeding!'

‘It's just a little cut, just a little skin,' she insisted. ‘See? Your aunt already took him over there. Now they'll put a nice bandaid on his wound.'

‘And why do they do this?' I asked, still disturbed.

Mum looked around the room, perhaps trying to find Dad. She hesitated a bit before responding, ‘What did Baba tell you?'

‘He said that after, Khalid could go to the mosques with the grown-ups and that this would make him a man. But I don't want it!' I grabbed onto her again.

‘What don't you want?'

‘I don't want them to do the same thing to me!'

Mum laughed softly and took my face between her hands. ‘Don't worry. They won't do anything to you. Only boys get circumcised.'

‘And little girls?' I wasn't completely convinced.

‘Little girls become big all by themselves.'

‘Alone, I'm telling you. He lets them go out by themselves after school. Raghdde is eleven years old now; she's not a child anymore. Mohamed should be more careful.' Aunt Elham's voice drifted from the kitchen. She and Kasside hadn't heard me come in. I knew they were talking about my family because my aunts had called me Raghdde since I was small. I stood to listen, hiding behind the wall.

‘You're right. He shouldn't give the girls so much freedom. Now Raghdde's taking drawing lessons too. And not to mention ballet!' the other one replied.

‘That is too much! Dancing half-naked in front of strangers? I would never let my daughters do something like that!'

‘And Jana lets them do whatever they want. It's no wonder Raghdde puts strange ideas into my Renà's head. The other day she got upset because she wanted to be like her cousin. But I said, “No, I don't want to hear about ballet.” Girls who play around in their underwear with their legs uncovered … What shame! If only Mohamed would listen to us a little bit more. He doesn't understand how hard it is to teach a girl to become a good and obedient wife!' said Kasside. ‘The other two are still little, but Raghdde is almost grown-up. And she's too spoiled.'

My aunts first called me Raghdde as a game when I was seven, but it ended up sticking. That day, my cousins and I were lying in front of the television in Ahlam's living room. It was late afternoon. Our favourite television show, an Egyptian soap opera, was about to come on. It was about a poor woman who had an unrequited crush on a charming married man. We would chat about our favourite characters, and make bets about what would happen in the next episode. We even learned Egyptian slang, spoken by many people in Iraq, to imitate our beloved characters. A talk show that came on before our soap opera had a famous Egyptian ballerina among its guests. Her name was ‘Raghdde', which means moonlight. She was performing a traditional dance in a veiled costume, shimmering with golden ornaments.

‘Michelle, look how good she is,' my cousin Samar said to me.

‘I can do that!' I remarked confidently. Following the music, I started swaying my arms and hips to the rhythm of the drums. I had always had an instinctive passion for dance.

‘Good! Very good!' My sister Klara clapped her hands.

‘You really are a miniature Raghdde,' replied Aunt Ahlam. ‘You move really well. You'd be a perfect belly dancer.'

‘Raghdde! Raghdde!' Klara and Samar chanted.

My aunts began clapping their hands to the rhythm of my feet, laughing. ‘Raghdde! Raghdde!' they echoed.

From that day I was always called Raghdde at Bibi's house. My aunts were happy to have found an Arabic name for me as an alternative to Michelle, which always sounded too foreign.

Klara and Linda weren't nicknamed, they kept their Czech names. But I finally felt closer to my cousins with a name similar to theirs. Nevertheless, there were many moments when the gulf between us and the other nieces seemed wide. Our mother, after all, was a foreigner, and we were only half-Iraqi. I understood this for the first time during a late afternoon at Bibi's house, when Grandma gathered us in the bathroom to bathe us. She
took off her veil, uncovering her grey hair, which was pulled back in a bun.

Renà helped her take off the dishdashe, as it was difficult for her to move with only one leg. She let herself fall on a chair, as soon as she took off her vest, completely naked. We were used to seeing her like this and even the big scar from the amputation above her knee didn't shock us anymore.

Bibi loosened the long braid that fell like a snake down her back. Propping herself up with her foot on the floor, she grabbed the rough sponge, the
lefa
, and moved toward me.

‘Come here, Raghdde. I have to soap your back.' She grabbed my arm and sat me in front of her, between her legs. ‘Bend over. Otherwise I can't reach,' she said as she clamped my head with her jaw-like thighs.

I hated being stuck in that position, even if it was just for a moment. The more I tried to wriggle out, the tighter the tops of her legs gripped to keep me still.

‘Stop moving and let me soap you!' she yelled, scrubbing me harder with the sponge. I felt the coarse lefa grate my skin.

‘Stop! You're hurting me,' I whined. But she continued, even harder, as if she couldn't hear. ‘Stop! Bibi, I'm begging you!' I screamed.

‘Stay still! A good wash will make you feel better!' she yelled, ignoring my pleas for her to stop. She had never
done this to me before. It seemed as if she was trying to wash away something that couldn't be removed despite all the scrubbing.

That night, when I went to bed, I could still feel my skin burn.

When I went back home, I told my parents everything. My mother looked at my father, shocked, but he tried to justify Bibi's actions by saying that I had surely done something wrong. Dad didn't like the fact that we questioned Grandma or my aunts' decisions.

The war was in its fifth year, but little had changed in our lives. We continued going to Wonderland and having picnics in the large public gardens of Baghdad with the entire family. My aunts laid blankets on the grass and set out food, while us nieces and nephews ran around on the lawns fringed by tall palm trees and jasmine bushes. We were a celebratory tribe.

On our own weekend family outings, Dad, Mum, my sisters and I would go to a farm on the fringe of Baghdad. Despite the war, the owners were still hospitable. We would buy oranges and they would invite us to stay for lunch. They roasted fish on the barbecue and set an outside table for us. I enjoyed the delicious food, eating with my hands. At the end of the meal, a little before
our departure, Dad would leave some gifts behind for their kindness. He would then give us a few slices of the sun-ripened orange he had peeled.

It was the summer of 1985 and school was finishing for the year. For the moment, I couldn't think of anything but the holidays, which we would take a month earlier than the rest of our classmates. Every August, Dad took Mum, my sisters and me on a long trip to another exciting country. On our overseas holidays we visited Beirut, Cairo, Paris, London and the United States. We stayed in San Francisco for a few weeks, then Dad took us to Disneyland, where I rode a roller-coaster and went on a replica pirate ship. We also visited Hollywood, where we were entranced by the magic of Universal Studios' special effects: fake houses burning like they did in Western movies; trains that hurtled into space; and Superman, flying across a movie screen, soaring above glittering buildings, although lying on a table in reality! That year, as usual, we were also going to Czechoslovakia for a month.

From the time we were really small, Mum, my sisters and I visited Babička, our grandmother in Dobříč, every summer. My father convinced my school principal not to protest our absences by presenting her with lavish gifts. After all, we would still have lessons in Czechoslovakia, continuing our education. It was very important to Mum that we studied Czech. The month before our
real vacation, she enrolled us in school, in a small town called Nučice, a few kilometres from Babička's village. I hated that school. It was sad and grey, just like Dobříč's sky. Even the children seemed to have had their colour washed out; they were all pale and blonde. Our family's olive skin stood out next to their porcelain faces. We seemed out of place and too bright for that picture. We weren't accepted by our classmates and were treated like aliens. They could also be very mean, mocking us and calling us gypsies.

I didn't like Mum's Czech friends either. They gossiped all the time and were envious she had married Dad because he took her away to live in a huge villa like a queen. As soon as we arrived in Dobříč, they'd lean out their windows and stick their noses into our lives, congratulating Mum and asking her questions. They'd ask her to show off her dresses and jewels. Unfortunately for them, Mum wasn't vain and didn't like to put herself on display. Although they weren't able to get any real gossip from her, they would come back day after day with the excuse that they just wanted to have tea with us.

My family did not go unnoticed in that small town. Every time Dad accompanied us to Dobříč, he brought Babička gifts, and money to placate her and, above all, to ensure we wouldn't go without anything. Even if they were civil towards each other, Dad and Babička
still didn't get along. Dad always preferred to stay at a hotel and leave the day after he accompanied us. Babička never insisted he stay at her place, though I often heard her showing off her gifts to the neighbours, boasting about the things she could get my father to buy for her on the black market.

The month in Dobříč passed slowly. Babička's house was small and gloomy, and located in the middle of deserted countryside. What really made us feel uncomfortable wasn't how completely different it was from our beautiful house in Baghdad, but the oppressive atmosphere. I felt imprisoned. Inside Babička's house the rooms were tiny. There was a living room with a small kitchen in the corner, and a cramped room with two beds and a television where Linda, Klara and I slept. My grandmother usually slept with Mum in the living room. Grandpa slept in another room, with his son, Jarda, born from his previous marriage with another woman.

Jarda was older than us and had been brain damaged since birth. He had a delicate, feminine face and he was almost always alone. He didn't speak much and was shy and gentle. He was often eerily still as if staring at an imaginary point in space. Even if we called him, pulling on his sleeves, he wouldn't answer. Babička hardly treated anyone kindly, not even him, but Jarda didn't know any better. When Grandpa went to gather
firewood, he took Jarda with him and I followed them. A little green gate opened to a small yard where chickens and rabbits were kept. While Jarda stood still, Grandpa chopped the branches with his axe and piled the wood into his arms to take home.

Although there was running water in the house, it was not drinkable. In order to get drinking water, we had to go out into the yard and manually push an extremely heavy pump. The toilet was also outside, in a wooden shed near the well. Everything was disorganised at Babička's: the yard was full of sheets of metal, planks of wood, old furniture and animal cages. My sisters and I transformed everything into a game, spending our afternoons playing with the garbage. By nightfall, our hands were completely black from running and jumping around in the yard. Our clothes were stained with fruit juices and paw marks from Maida, the mangy little black dog that guarded the house and barked at anyone who came too close to the gate. Babička had grown fond of Maida, but was less patient with the numerous cats that occupied the yard.

One morning we saw Grandmother kneeling near a bush, picking something up. Klara and I, holding cups of milk in our hands, went over to her but all we could see were her large hips, surrounded by a flowery apron.

‘What are you doing, Babička?' We noticed that her short white hair was more unkempt than usual.

‘Nothing.' She waved her hand as if to say ‘get away'. ‘Go back inside and finish your breakfast. There is nothing here for you to see.'

Klara went around her to look. ‘They're kittens! Michelle, come and look!' she cried excitedly.

‘Don't touch them!' Babička scolded as she pulled Klara aside. ‘They are filthy and full of diseases. Come on, darling, come inside with me.' Babička then asked Linda to close the door after entering the house.

Klara stayed behind. Once Grandmother was inside, I heard her say something to Grandpa. Then I heard him murmur something tiredly. I approached Klara and saw five newborn kittens. They looked like mice. Their eyes were still shut and they trembled, meowing softly, looking for their mother. Grandpa came out of the house and walked toward us, dropping a small basin of water on the ground close to the litter.

‘Move, Michelle.' Grandpa pushed me out of the way. He took a kitten and plunged it under the water. A few bubbles of air came up to the surface, then nothing more.

‘What are you doing?' I shrieked. ‘You're going to kill it that way! It'll drown!'

‘Don't worry. They don't feel anything. They won't even realise it.' He removed the little dead body from the water and dropped it on the ground. He grabbed another.

Klara ran to the door. ‘Mum! Mum! Grandpa is killing the kitties! Run!'

I clung to Grandpa's arm and tried to put myself between him and the cluster of mewling kittens.

‘Jana, get rid of this little pest,' he shouted, losing his temper.

‘Don't kill them. I beg you!' I pleaded.

My mother arrived to separate us. She dragged Klara and me inside the house. We were both crying and screaming; she comforted us while Grandpa finished what he had started.

‘Those beasts. They have litters all the time,' murmured Babička. I tried to protest, saying it wasn't right, but it was no use. ‘Do you want to live among a colony of stray cats? There is no other way. If we don't kill them there will be a dozen full-grown cats in our yard in a few months. Don't you understand?' Babička scolded.