The Girl from Baghdad (8 page)

I would see that palace again many years later, on television. I saw it on the news in my Milan apartment.
Saddam's palace was desecrated by the American army. It was the summer of 2003 and seeing my city destroyed like that was like suffering a blow to the stomach. The palace razed to the ground by the missiles, disoriented people wandering in panic, the streets covered in debris, women forced to cover themselves, dressed in black. Baghdad seemed to have collapsed, to be lost in the gloomy Middle Ages. During my adolescence it had been vibrant and full of life. While I watched, I asked myself what I would have done had I still been there. I too, like many others, would have probably been on the streets. Those Iraqis who survived the war with Iran were hit by the second Gulf War. The regime resisted, but it was the kiss of death for many of my family members; the second Gulf War and the Iraq War completed the task, sweeping away what little was left of the capital and the rest of the country after many years of fighting. In 2003, the entire world saw the arrest of Saddam Hussein and the bodies of his sons, Uday and Qusay. I do not know if they deserved this treatment. They were probably guilty of the atrocities they had been accused of committing. However, years before, at school, I never imagined that I would be examining the picture of a swollen face to find what remained of my happy adolescence.

At school Dani and I became inseparable. She was the daughter of an Iraqi attorney and his Syrian wife. Her family was rich. Her driver chauffeured us to school every morning and, on the back seat, sitting next to each other, we would plan our day. We couldn't wait for class to end so we could run out of the big doors and parade around in front of the older boys. They sat in flashy cars in front of our school, waiting for our show. Our school was very famous and they came deliberately to look at the girls. Of course, they weren't allowed to do anything else.

My curiosity for the opposite sex exploded during that time. I was still young, but no longer a child. In my parents' closet, my dad hid a copy of
Arabian Nights
. I knew it was there and that it was something we shouldn't touch. One afternoon, aroused by inquisitiveness and temptation, I took it out to read; I wanted to know why it was so dangerous that it had to be hidden. I was alone in the house. I grabbed the book and lay down on the couch. I slowly started turning the big, glossy pages. Some had illustrations, but at a glance, nothing seemed strange. After a while, however, my eyes came across a phrase in the middle of a page. I started reading. I discovered it was all about sex. I continued reading. I was in the middle of an erotic scene. ‘A child, playing with her cousin, accidentally …' The more I read, the more I felt my face burn. My heart beat faster. I felt
I was doing something dangerous and prohibited. Feelings of excitement, shame and fascination flooded through me. Suddenly the veil that separated me from a prohibited world fell, allowing me to see it with uncovered eyes.

The mysterious electric energy wasn't just concealed between the pages of that book. Every day, when we left school, the eyes of the boys came to us like magnets. Before exiting through the front door of the school, Dani and I would stop in the downstairs bathroom to take off our uniforms and put on more feminine clothes, sometimes dresses we had stolen from our mothers. Some of the boys waited outside and smoked cigarettes, coughing loudly. A few of them kissed and touched each other in a very risqué way, jokingly, making us laugh and turn red with embarrassment. We saw their reflections in the mirror as we made up our eyes with
kajal
. Dani laughed and elbowed me. I finished putting on my lipstick and I dragged her outside.

During the break, we used to go to a secluded corner of the courtyard to spy on the boys through a hole in the wall. Dani had a crush on the son of a famous architect, a boy a little older than us. One day, during one of her inspections, with her eye pushed to the hole in the wall, she started screaming and pulling my sleeve.

‘I can't believe it! It's him, Michelle, he's here in front of me!'

‘Be quiet or the entire school will hear you! Let me see,' I said, pushing her aside. ‘He really is a handsome boy! And look at his car!'

‘What do you think? Do you think he'll still be there when we go out?'

‘Maybe. If he's still there it's a good sign,' I replied.

The school bell rang, calling us back to class.

When school was dismissed, we found the young man lounging outside the front door. He was there again the day after, and the day after that. After a week something happened: during recess, in front of the same peephole, Dani jumped for joy. She held a little scrap of paper in her hand. He had asked her to meet him somewhere nearby after school. It was one of the most daring plans a young man could make.

‘Can you hang in there another two hours?' I asked her, jokingly.

‘I'll die much sooner …' she said in a weak voice, pretending to faint. I had to drag her down the length of the corridor, laughing like crazy as she pretended to collapse.

When we left, the young man was waiting, leaning against the car door. I looked at Dani. Her dark eyes were dramatically made up, more than usual. She lowered her sunglasses and smiled. We couldn't just stand there staring at him. It would be too risky. Somebody might see us, so I pulled her towards the place we were to meet,
certain he would follow us from a distance, without looking obvious about it. The strict rules of our culture meant Dani would never be able to talk to him and he, if he were a real gentleman, would never say a word to her in public. Therefore, we agreed she would simply leave him a note on a bench.

Dani scribbled a few lines on a piece of paper, then folded it and squeezed it into a crack in the chair.

‘Hurry up! You don't want anyone to see you!' I scolded.

‘I've almost finished. But where is he? Do you see him?'

‘He's at the entrance. He's pretending to read a magazine. He's waiting for us to leave.'

‘There. I'm ready,' Dani said, turning to look in his direction. As we walked away, she asked, ‘Do you think he'll answer me?'

‘What did you write on the note?'

‘I gave him my phone number.'

It was a very audacious move, but making phone dates like this was the only way to talk to a boy. Unfortunately, this still did not eliminate the family surveillance problem. Everything went smoothly on the first call between Dani and her admirer. However, on the second phone call, Dani's father picked up the receiver, perhaps only because he thought his daughter's behaviour seemed suspicious. The young man was caught unawares, and
because he spoke into the phone, Dani's dad discovered their flirtation. From that moment, Dani was forbidden to use the phone, even to call me. And worse, her brother was designated to watch her every move.

As girls, we couldn't visit public places or meet a male friend alone. We were only granted permission to meet boys in public places provided a brother or a male cousin accompanied us. It was useless to do things in secret; there was always a family member or acquaintance who somehow found out what we'd been doing. And they were all too ready to intervene, sometimes physically, to impede even a simple chat. However, we had learned to take advantage of all of those prohibitions.

We already knew how to catch a man's attention at twelve years old, playing with his desire. No contact, no words: barely showing oneself, then immediately disappearing, to appear untouchable. The sound of our sandals squeaking, with a strategic walk down the sidewalk, was sufficient to arouse their curiosity. My cousins used to chew American gum in a visibly provocative way. It seemed terribly vulgar to me. A look, to Iraqi women, was an effective weapon.

‘A woman has to stay as silent as possible,' our aunts used to repeat to us. ‘You have to learn to be silent and beautiful to find a good husband.' It was up to the man to choose whether he should act upon a woman's charms, but a woman's main weapon was the ability to exploit her
charms to the maximum effect. Thus, from the time we were seven or eight, we were taught to make ourselves look pretty and take care of ourselves. It started as a game. In front of the mirror, with our hands still shaky and imprecise, we learned how to put eye shadow on, curl our eyelashes and apply lipstick. We played with our mothers' cosmetics, imitating their ways. Aunt Ahlam showed us little tricks and revealed the secret of drawing a straight line on the eyelid to us. ‘Manicured hands: a real woman is distinguished by these,' she often declared. She also taught us how to do our hair and decorate it with jewels for special occasions.

My passion, however, was clothes. I was obsessed. I was always drawing princesses wearing sumptuous ceremonial gowns. I spent entire afternoons refining the details. My father, one day, suggested I take one of my drawings to the dressmaker and ask her to make me an identical outfit. And so, at ten years old, I had already become a designer: I sketched the dress, chose the material and gave instructions. When I was twelve I even designed clothes for Linda and Klara to wear to a party. The dressmaker sewed the three marvellous princess dresses, which were added to our collections. Although having our clothes made was normal for us, my sisters and I still had the most lavish wardrobes in the family. This aroused the envy of our cousins, especially Kasside's and Elham's daughters, who secretly stole our
skirts and bodices. When the red dress I had designed for my birthday disappeared from my closet, I was certain Renà had taken it.

It was confirmed the following Saturday when I found it in her dresser at Bibi's house. I was infuriated and decided to denounce my cousin. I would embarrass her in front of everyone. I ran to the living room with the dress in my hand, but had to stop at the door as the room was full of family members – the entire family was there. I scanned the room, looking for my mother, until I saw her sitting in a corner with Ahlam. She was holding Ahlam's hands, as if she was congratulating her about something.

‘Mami, I found my dress! Look, I was right, Renà had taken it! Come on, I'll show you where I found it,' I said as I pulled her by the arm.

‘Not now, dear. It's not the right time.' She and my aunt looked at me, smiling. They had something to tell me. Mum continued, ‘Your aunt just gave me some news: Esmàa will marry Samìr soon.'

‘Really? When?' Not that it was a surprise. The family had favoured their union for a long time.

‘In two months,' Ahlam stated. ‘There will be a great party to celebrate. Aren't you happy?'

Esmàa and Kasside's elder son Samìr had been promised to each other practically since birth, and naturally it wasn't just this marriage they had planned in
advance. My sisters and I, according to tradition, would be designated as wives of Ahlam's three sons: Omar, Ahmed and Khalid. I would have been married to Omar, the eldest, who over the years had become very cute and would grow into a handsome man. The idea of becoming his wife didn't seem all that bad a prospect, and I wasn't completely indifferent.

The afternoon Esmàa's marriage was announced, while we all had tea together, I couldn't stop staring at the bride-to-be.

‘Hey, Raghdde! Are you in a trance?' Aunt Ahlam awakened me.

I blushed with embarrassment and quickly lowered my eyes.

‘Look! Look how red she is!' Samar added.

‘No, what are you saying?' I tried to defend myself.

‘There's nothing wrong … on the contrary!' Ahlam said. Then she looked at my mother, who rapidly changed the subject, ending the discussion.

Mum didn't like them talking about marriages and wedding arrangements at the table, in front of her children. When I asked her if one day I would really marry Omar, she replied, ‘You will marry the man you fall in love with.'

‘Then with whom shall I fall in love? With Omar or with Alì?'

‘What kind of silly questions are these?'

‘I heard Aunt Kasside say Alì is my future husband.' It was true: Kasside secretly plotted to tie my family to hers, rather than to Ahlam's; that's why she often said I would end up married to her younger son.