Punch

I’m seriously a F**ed up individual. I broke my leg some time ago and am bored to death and left to my dark thoughts. Now I can’t keep busy like I use to and I will have to deal with this for a while, I’ll be seriously slowed down for another couple of months. I can’t run with my dog, ride horses or kick box.

Every morning as I lay in bed I think how lonely I am, I’d consider just for less than 60 seconds some recent attempt of my parents to stick me into a pre-arranged marriage. I’d think of some creepy men who’d recently approached me, I’d remember my ex. Then I’d remember my dead friends, something we did together, how I heard the bad news. Then I’d tell myself to bloody get over it because it’s been years. I’d remember some people with much more miserable lives, tell myself how lucky I have it and what a drama queen I can be. So I shut up, get out of bed, grab a book or watch TV and pretend to be cool and self sufficient.

The other day I applied for a new job, I browsed the web about the job and the boss. I’ve never met the boss and I developed a crush based on his search results! Just today I snapped at a friend and I remembered when I was a kid in England’s cruel public schools. I would see red most of the time. One time a teacher asked me what’s wrong, I said they’re laughing at me. She replied, word by word “so laugh WITH them!”

I wish ...

Until the murderer of one of my friends confessed on television a long time ago, I use to scare myself, scared that one day I’d go postal. But he looked pathetic and I felt sorry for the dirt bag. I didn’t want him to be executed. That is always comforting and a great relief.

So I can’t run, ride or punch. Here’s another blog post.

Angry, The Way of the World

I haven’t written in a while, I’ve been angry and I’m trying to keep it clean on the blog.I am terribly bummed for not being in Cairo right now, I was supposed to travel right when the protests started. I would have been in the protests filming. Jordan is being the quiet pressure cooker that I always thought it to be. A few days a week I go to a riding club, I’m struggling to afford it but I love being close to horses. I’m obsessed with them. There in the quiet open spaces outside Amman - not the slum outskirts, the other side - I see rich people. Polite, classy and detached. They remind me of the scene of the white room at the opening chapter of Great Gatsby or the Polo part scene in Passage to India. There I see giant horses who never leave the stables and foam at the mouth every time they are ridden and there I see “common” horses (Arabian half breeds) working 10 or 12 hours a day. It’s the way of the world some would say. I don’t believe that’s true, ways change. I stand inside the box of one common horse, a mare, holding a brush with one hand and sugar cubes in the other so she stops snapping at me trying to bite and kick, not that I blame her, and I think of protestors in Tahrir square in Cairo and wish that the masses overpower their corrupt leader.

I pray my little Jordanian country side bubble will not be burst. Where the hell will me and my family go if Jordan becomes the same as Egypt, we cannot go back to Iraq. Jordan needs reform and I believe it’s heading there. The rural parts of Jordan are neglected, the middle class is burdened with debt with little means to support them to get out of the rat-race and move up a notch. The economy in Jordan is a market open only to the big bucks, not small investments. Iraqis and Palestinians have the bare minimal of legal protection, health insurance, ability to travel and other basic rights. Honor killings still exist. Protests are not permitted without the government's permission, like I said, not permitted. It’s migrant labour force is treated like trash. Sure Jordan has problems.

But the economy is still growing at a healthy paste despite the global crisis in the economy, the infrastructure and basic services are good and cities are gorwing, Amman it’s one of the safest cities for single women and Jordan all-in-all still has chivalry, elections are held and the government is shuffled. The only one fixed here is the king and his most significant role is symbolic in the sense that Jordan’s competing tribes all agree on him and argue in parliament. I don’t see any other system working for a country of Jordan’s demographics. For a country with so little natural resources I think Jordan is functioning by some miracle or loads of international aid for it being one of the rare peaceful spots in this hellhole, if even on a surface level.

A friend of mine called Jordan a fake democracy. “So what if the King and Queen speak English and go on Oprah! They don’t represent us!” I asked him if he’d rather have the Islamic brotherhood instead. “why not!” “but you drink alcohol and your wife is in strapless gowns!” “This is democracy isn’t it! The Muslim Brotherhood represents the streets and the majority of the masses.” “Street credibility” Michael snapped his fingers at the realization, he’s an American who’s moved recently to Iraq and is disillusioned with the US foreign policies in Iraq. “Moderate people like you and me are a minority in the world today” he said and sunk in his chair. “We’re the minority” his words rang in my ears. It truly is a time for extremes and extremists. Do I really support democracy then? Will I still support the protesters if the Muslim brotherhood took over and dragged the entire region into wars?

The instructor asked a rider off his horse because the horse refused to jump a fence. He jerked the reigns and started hitting the Arab half breed horse in a frenzy, that horse belonged to the club, a working horse. K with her blond curls flew by on her giant European white mare. She hugged her mare around the neck when she jumped the fence smoothly. For a second I could see her look behind at the horse being hit. She quickly adjusted her eye sight to the next fence. It’s the way of the world.

Iraqi PM al-Maliki visits Iran - Middle East - Al Jazeera English

Iraqi PM al-Maliki visits Iran - Middle East - Al Jazeera English


In it's attempts to "liberate" Iraq the US created another Iran and brought to life one of Saddam's most feared prophesies, and I didn't even like him!

I was optimistic when I went to vote and I could tell that I was not the only one when I arrived to the vote ballot at a public school building in Amman, where Iraqi in Jordan went to vote. We smiled at each other gliding through the school corridors and felt proud dipping our fingers into that blue ink. Looking back I realize how stupid and gullible I was.

My interview for immigration is in two weeks.

Modern Day Slavery in Jordan

In this modern world of today - when we preach peachy speeches about compassion and tolerance; a time of human rights, women’s rights, child rights, civil rights, social and cultural rights, gay and lesbian rights, indigenous people’s rights, animal rights, democracy, orientalism, liberalism, freedom of speech, individuality, free trade, the Euro and Obama - at this modern marvelous world of today’s improved human race, somewhere in the city of Amman in a country called Jordan, which’s King and Queen are advocating for all of the above, lives a Philipino domestic worker named Trakhma. Trakhma gets beaten up by her employer at least once a week, is not allowed to use the phone, nor leave the house, is dispossessed of her passport, does not speak Arabic, has no idea where in Amman she is or how to go anywhere, is never given a day off and had her signature forged by her employer on her contract renewal when she clearly did not want to stay. Trakhma is one of thousands of abused female domestic workers from the Philippines, Sri Lanka, Indonesia and some other cheep-labour countries. Trakhma is a Filipino slave in Amman in the year 2010. She is still captive despite my relentless efforts for her to escape so far.

I got to know about her from Jenny our domestic worker. I feel guilty and wrong about hiring her. We always had help around the house in Iraq. We’re a big family with an even bigger social life. In Iraq domestic maids were not from a particular race, they were just the same as us, just less fortunate financially. Sometimes she was Shia Arab, Sunni Arab, Kurdish, Assyrian and they would come in for a few hours to work then go to other houses, they would clean 3 houses a day on average, it was a job in which they negotiated their fee and came and went as they pleased. But with Jenny it feels different.

When all the help is from a certain race which is not local, because the locals think they are above some jobs which they find demeaning, the labeling and the enslaving begins. I had a UN co-worker who was from the Philippines. He had a diplomatic passport and lived in an upscale part of Amman. The harassment him and his wife got were un-freaking-believable. They were ignored or shoved around at supermarkets or had to carry extra papers at airports to prove they were not runaway workers. The same labeling applies to Egyptian men for example, they are all born as janitors. I have another friend, a very high up regional manger in the UN who is married to a Dutch lady. The common assumption in Arab airports is that his wife is the diplomat and he is the butler.

Jenny was different when she first came to us from her former employer who treated her like most domestic workers are. She was always afraid and very quiet. My mother expected Jenny to help her self to anything in the fridge for example and realized that she was only having stale bread from the breakfast table. Now when I ask her for something and she’s too busy she tells me to buzz off and I like it!

Back to Trakhma, Jenny tells me she showed her bruises on her arms. Her employer, on the way to our house, threatened Trakhma not to show her bruises or say anything to my family. My family and Trakhma’s employer know each other, as much as I hate to admit this. She confided in Jenny and Jenny told me. Trakhma’s employer is woman married to a filthy rich Iraqi man which three self centered and arrogant children. Her oldest is a boy who hits Trakhma every day, throws furniture and glass and sharp object at her, pulls her hair and twists her wrists. Why does he get away with this, I can tell you this one, Trakhma does not need to explain, it’s because he lives in this culture that idealizes anything with a dick. He is the only son to a rich Iraqi family and he gets away with everything. Trakhma is nothing but a maid from an inferior country that produces nothing but maids in a land far far away and where not sure where it is on the map, Philip-something-land.

I called up the Philippine Embassy here in Amman and their first assumption was that my maid escaped. “No! No! No! I am trying to help one escape” “who is this!” I gave my name and job address. “You are from India right?” “no I’m Iraqi” “and your maid did not escape?” “no” “and you are calling to help another woman escape” “correct.” The advice I got was she should escape, the embassy may help her with her flight and legal travel documents. They also told me that she did not have the option of staying in Jordan and working for another employer, which I know is what she wants because she needs the money. The Philippines has stopped its agreement with Jordan which allow its labour force to come to Jordan. If she ends her contract and leave she cannot come back to Jordan.

So I looked for other options and found the Oversea Welfare and Workers Association. They gave me the same options as the embassy but said there is a loophole. I love loopholes! If Trakhma escapes and manages while in hiding to find another employer, the Association can try to talk to her former employer (i.e. snobby woman and her sadistic son) to persuade them to hand in her passport and work contract. That way she can have a work contract “before” she leaves Jordan which means she can come back.

I got exited, told Jenny who in turn told Trakhma. On her attempt to escape her employer found her phone and took it. It had our numbers on it. I want to go to her house and pull her out of there but Trakhma is too scared. I feel I must let her initiate. To me I strongly believe she should leave but she is thinking of the complications of going home with no money and she’s rather take a beating to save a penny to send to her family. She will only escape for another employer and I am deeply frustrated. I can only wait for her to make a move. I hope she does soon and I will be there.

Off to steal some of dad’s liquor,

Your’s Drama Queen

The City of Ghosts and Sand Storms: Trip to Baghdad

Baghdad April 9, Baghdad International Airport:
Our morning flight from Amman to Baghdad was postponed to the afternoon. Then while on the jet we were told the flight might get canceled, I prayed it would. I kept telling myself I’m crazy for traveling at such a bad time. It’s been a crazy week after some relevant calm in Baghdad for months. This past week over 200 were killed more than twice as many injured, Al Qaida declared responsibility for the bombing against the Iranian, Egyptian and German embassies, no one came forward on the 5 apartment buildings. The flight wasn’t canceled and the pilot told us we were about to take off. when he said his name on the speakers I couldn’t hold back a small chuckle; I turned to the man next to me “hehe our pilot’s name is Jihad.”

Frank was an older gentleman, an American contractor and retired military man from Florida and a pure Republican. With us being mostly at odds when it came to war and how things were managed in Iraq and the US’s intentions towards Iraq, we had quite an interesting chat. He could tell I was anxious at takeoff and landing and thankfully got my mind off them with his chat. When we were close to Baghdad my heart began to race, we got totally submerged into red-brown clouds; we were encountering a ‘mild’ sand storm by Baghdad standards. We landed, wished each other luck when went on our very separate ways.

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When I stepped out of the airport my heart began racing again with fear, sadness, nostalgia and extreme love and hate for Baghdad. There was a small roundabout with grass and roses. It had been watered and the pavements hosed down to wash the sand off. The smell of sand, wet grass, roses and a faint diesel smell from the generators and something else I couldn’t quite detect that smelled like home. It made the air feel like it had a flavor and texture that made Amman, with its landscape of clean new apartment buildings, feel like a chemically enhanced tasteless apple, smooth shape at but tastes like cardboard when you take a bite.

My fear grew as we drove off, me and two other co-workers both Iraqi. I noticed we were all clutching to our cell phones like they were our lifelines. “How long will it take us” one of them asked. “Oh it depends on the explosions” our driver said casually. I felt a kick in the stomach. Everyone and everything looked suspicious, every car moving or parking felt like it could explode. Streets were dirty and full of holes. It seemed the government was slow in fixing the roads after explosions, this was not the case until I left in 2005. Houses were covered with a uniform of beige that looked like it came from not just one sandstorm but years of them. Houses inhibited and deserted all looked the same, neglected and in need of maintenance. I was on full alert, not because I thought I could spot a bomber nor because I could do anything about if I did spot one, but because I wanted to maximize my vision taking all of Baghdad in, my eyes were like wide scope lenses capturing everything. We got to Al Rasheed hotel. The taxi could only drop us across the street, we had to carry our suitcases and walk across and into the maze of concrete walls and checkpoints before reaching the hotel. My suitcase had wheels, it tipped to its side twice while I was rushing across to plunge into the maze where it was safe. After all, Al Rasheed hotel hosts diplomats and expatriates and Iraqi officials, all of whom fit the profile of jackpot targets. I need to be behind a concrete wall if a bomb explodes.

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To enter Al Rasheed Hotel, we went past the 8 check points. The first was Africans, they were terribly flirty. Then we got to a Kurdish check point, they carried my suitcase after I played the damsel in distress card. At the next check point were the Nepalese. that is where dogs got to sniff our bags for explosives. I love dogs and I’m not a traditional Muslim. My co-workers were disgusted at dogs sniffing their clothes. Muslims consider dogs to be unclean. At the last check point – Iraqi – I saw a sign that read ‘please remove any copies of the Quran (Muslim holly book) before putting the bags in the cage. Here dogs sniffed our suitcases from outside the cage without physically touching them. You could see how the Islamic culture was represented at this check point but not at the earlier Nepalese one.

Rasheed Hotel was empty and washed out. There was a romantic paining by Widad Al Orfali where Baghdad depicted with peacock feathers, mosque minarets and other romantic details. I find her too fancy and prefer the real reflection of Iraq with its innate aggressiveness that I know Iraq to have. Give me a sculpture from someone like Faik Hassan, give me a work of art that will slap one in the face with violence and noise! Damn it that’s what Iraq is made of, you romantic decorative softies! Then again, we don’t want to scare off the “tourists”i guess the feathers have to stay.

I called my mother and my sister to tell them I made it to the hotel and was safe. So how is it? My sister asked. I said its fine, I’m on the 13th floor and have quite the view. ‘Step away from the window you idiot’ my sister yelled. ‘why?’ ‘Because of bombs stupid! Last time aunt what’s her name stayed there a bomb shattered the windows of that entire front’ ‘nah I think the 13th floor is too high up for bombs’ I dismissed her fears. I wanted to wash off a whole day of airports and check points. I stood under the shower, note to self, next time wait to see what comes down first, before it pours down on you. A reddish brown mud came down. It cleared after a few seconds and I continued to shower. There was the odd looking tap coming out of the wall with a steel plate drilled in the wall above it that said 'press here for chilled water'. We never drank bottled water in Iraq before 2003. I wondered where the pipes led to, where would the chilled water have came from? Does it go downwards towards one massive source for the entire hotel? Or from room to room where there's some refrigerator on each floor? Needless to say, it was now covered with rust. Room service guy was offering his “services” at 2 AM. I shoved furniture behind the door because the only lock on the door could be unlocked with a master card. I got over that and ignored the funky smell of the bed sheets. I slept like a baby, I was that tired.

First thing I did when I woke up was walk to the window. The windows looked like they’ve not been cleaned in years. I tried to open them but they were sealed. I looked out at the city. The Green Zone was to my right, traffic to the front and left. The Salhea apartment buildings were ahead. I remembered the last time I was there. Duraid lived there with his wife. He had insisted on putting up his rock band posters on the living room walls, much to the protest of his wife. Last time we met he was telling me what a bad idea it was to join the English broadcasting radio station because Uday Saddam managed it. He was shot dead years ago for working with CNN. His widow is now living in some far eastern county, as far as she could possibly be from Baghdad. There were lots of new compounds and junk yards with lots of damaged cars and trucks. The scene reminded me a lot of the Valley of Ashes from Fitzgerald’s American classic ‘The Great Gatsby’. Except I don’t think Fitzgerald would have visualized billboards with faces of men with haggard looks and scruffy beards named as terrorist and calling for their arrest. I don’t think he would have visualized all the Islamic propaganda as green flags flapped on ministry buildings, green is for Shia Muslim. I was especially depressed about how far Islamic propaganda had taken over the city when, on our way out of the airport, I saw a large sculpture with a man dressed in a traditional Islamic garb standing and a women sitting by his knees covered in a abbaya or chadour. This does not represent Iraq! This doesn’t represent me! I hated it. On top there was scrip that read ‘no to injustices and dictatorship.’ What the hell do you call that then!

I got dressed carefully. I remembered in the old days Rasheed hotel had cameras in every room. The brother of a friend of mine was a small time officer in the Iraqi intelligence. He told us once he knew guys who use to turn on the cameras on newly weds. I wondered if those cameras still existed.

I walked to the breakfast area ‘Rayhana Café.’ It was empty and the food was cold. There were cold hotdogs like they were just defrosted. The omelets were oily and cold. The tea was great though, I had two cups and bread and jam. I sat with a lady from the Prime Minister’s office, ex or current I did not ask. She lives at the hotel. Her daughter is studying journalism in the UK and was doing an internship with the BBC. She was very proud of her and all she talked about. My father thinks the new government is all a bunch of ignorant riffraff. I thought of him at that moment. The last time I was at ‘Rayhana Café was in the late 1990s when a couple of my father’s European friends stayed there. The food was good, the place was totally packed with Europeans and there was A LOT of Iraqi Intelligence officers around. She left and I sat alone looking at the tall palm trees, the sun coming in, the African and Nepalese security guards are laughing at something, the large beautiful fountain with a theme from A Thousand and One Nights gleaming with the water trickling down. This could be a very pleasant place. Baghdad is so beautiful.

I sat and waited for our security escorts in the lobby. The furniture was the same from 18 years ago just washed out. The windows were fractured from explosions but intact, some had been shattered and replaced with wooden planks. There was a pub that looked like no one stepped into to it for the past few years. it was so quiet and covered with dust. It made me feel lonely. I thought it made a great setting for a horror movie with ghosts or zombies.

Our security escorts arrived to take us into the Green or International Zone. We hopped into the car and cruised through the maze of concrete walls, ruined palaces and barricaded buildings with sand bags and bricks, nothing but sand and silence. We got to the conference center where there were lots of armored cars and hunky security guys with big tattoos. A girl’s got to love conferences in the Green Zone!

With Baghdad being ever the absurd city, the US owned conference facility has Saddam’s initials in the carving on the ceiling all across the room. I sat down with a smirk on my face, because it felt absurd. I didn't like Saddam but to have his initials on a facility owned by occupation was just too funny. Years ago reaching the moon would have been easier for me than to set foot into a place as exclusive as one of Saddam’s villas. ‘Did you see Saddam’s bed room?’ a co-worker asks all exited. It was an average room with a high ceiling and a bad ostentatious taste. It was all the folks at work could talk about and they talked about it until the repeated reference to Saddam's bed room became kinky then redundant.

The night before our travel back to Amman, I sat in the lobby because staying in my room felt too depressive and I was trying to keep my mind off tomorrow’s ride to the airport. I was scared again. The lobby was full of men and only one other woman. There was a Sheikh sitting to my left talking loud on the phone about money trying to catch my attention. As much as I was enjoying the attention I don’t think I want to have dinner alone in this environment. I hated to eat alone so I just went to bed. I couldn’t get a wink of sleep, I was anxious about tomorrow’s trip. The road to the airport is known to be one of the most dangerous.

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Our driver showed up in his beaten up Hyundai. We take this crap while my boss gets into an armored vehicle. Maybe we Iraqis are a dozen a dime, maybe we are. The driver was on the phone the entire time checking with other drivers where there were shootings, bombings, check points and so on to avoid traffic jams. It almost sounded like he was going to abduct us, I wasn’t that paranoid, he just sounded that way.

We crossed the first few check points and made it close to the airport building. There were Iraqi and African women where we were inspected. I could not tell from the accent where in Africa they come from, I admit to be ignorant to the tens of cultures of Africa. I do find it surreal to find them in Baghdad. They feel so out of place. We went back to the taxi and waited for the bomb sniffing dogs. On the other lane were the cars leaving Baghdad International Airport, or BIAP for short, former Saddam International Airport. I realized as I was leaving Baghdad, and because they more visible at BIAP, that it was totally taken over by privet security companies. I saw very few Iraqi police and army at the airport and I had not encountered a single US military personnel. Is this the plan for US withdrawal from Iraq, remove the marines and replace them with privet security companies. What is their accountability? Where would their chain of command lead? Which government if at all would be held accountable if they go postal on a group of civilians?

On the other lane was a convey of an Iraqi security company or so the name implied. The security guys were Iraqi, American and African. They were armed to their teeth. I could tell because I saw them put their weapons back on. How many weapons can you wear on your hips, thighs and ankles! Standing in between these big armed hulks with short trimmed hair and tattoos, was a skinny smiley civilian. He was American and looked like he worked for State Department or maybe a privet business company. His haircut, neatly pressed trousers, white shirt and watch all gave that impression. Minutes after they drove off we heard machine guns. “they must be aiming at that American convey” our driver said. Thank god we made it this far I thought.

When we finally reached the main building by the arrival gate we said good bye to our driver. I felt a mix of relief and guilt. I was very glad I arrived safely at the airport but I felt sorry for the driver. He picked up his cell phone again and started asking other drives about that shooting. I would have been most depressed if I had to turn back. I can only imagine how he must feel ferrying people to safety, to this portal out of this hellhole called Iraq then heading back into hell.

On the plain I pulled out a silver pendent I bought from a gift shop at Al Rasheed. It was at least 50 years old and had a scene from the marshlands in the south of Iraq. I felt nostalgic the minute the flight took off, how psychotic of me. How I love and hate Iraq.

Valentines and the Amiriyah Bombing

I always remember Valentines as the day right after the Amiriyah shelter bombing in 1991. More than 400 people, mostly women, children and elderly were cooked to death when the shelter was hit by US ‘smart bombs.’ Husbands and older sons stayed behind to protect their houses from being looted risking the air raids and sending their elder, younger and souses for protection – tragically. This was almost 20 years ago but I remember the stories vividly like I had heard them yesterday.

One of my relatives worked in the army. He was among the team pulling dead people out of the shelter. He didn’t recall seeing any survivors. Because the shelter was ‘bomb-proof’ ironically all its doors were sealed solid when the first missile hit. The second missile penetrated the shelter and the flames burned people alive.

I was with my family in Mousil where we had escaped Baghdad during the 1991 war. My relative came to visit every leave he got from the army. On one of his visits he sat to my aunt’s kitchen table and began to tell us about what he had seen 2 days ago. The things he said were so horrific that they forgot there were children, me and my siblings and cousins, around with mouths gaping and finger tips gone cold with horror. It was not until he had said enough that someone noticed and yelled at us to go play outside. Snaps of what I remember include;

‘We had to be so careful when taking out the bodies. We were moving one charcoaled man/woman we couldn’t tell, very slowly but then the leg came off entirely and I was left with the soft foot and a long bone that came out in my hand clean with no flesh on it.’

‘Most bodied were still burning that we burnt our hands trying to carry them. They were charcoaled on the outside and ruby red under .’

There was one heap we could identify as a mother and a baby. She was curled around the small infant.’

‘There was a man sitting outside the shelter holding a revolver. He was shooting his gun at the ground, crying and yelling I am going to kill them all.’

‘There were many bodies we had to scrape off the walls. It looked like they ran to the ends of the shelter to go further away from the flame then just hugged the walls and burned standing that way.’

‘They were all burned completely until all was charcoal. We couldn’t tell a person from an object from the walls sometimes. It was all one black heap, like they all became infused into one thing, they just melted.’

Those are the images that immediately come to mind.

I strongly believe that life should move on. That the families of those killed in the Amiriyah shelter should be allowed to grief in privet and move on to the best of their capacity. This blog post is not for them. This is a cry for the rest of the world to bring justice to these families. Those responsible should be charged for war crimes and massacre. Iraq and humanity owes it to them to bring a sense of justice in this chaotic world.

here are some links on the Amiriyah Bombing
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Amiriyah_shelter_massacre

http://www.nodo50.org/csca/english/al-amiriya/al-amiriya_eng.html

Your haunted drama queen,

Happy Valentines.

Abuse

My relationship with men is strange, or I seem to deliberately come across bad apples because they fit a pre-fabricated image of what a relationship looks like to me, because I tend to victimize myself, because this is what I grew up with. Good men confuse me and I become undeceive as to what I should feel towards them.

My mother got home late tonight. My father is with his second wife tonight and my mother exploits every minute of freedom when he is not home. She threw her self at the couch, kicked off her high heels, slipped of her leather red jacket exposing a top with bear shoulders. My mother started telling me, my sisters and her mother about this Iraqi woman who lives in Jordan with her husband and three children. The husband has put her under house arrest and he hits her. My mother's advice was to tolerate him for the sake of her children. In the past I would attack my mother for such statements. Now I keep quiet but my resentment shows on my face. “what do you want me to tell her!” mother gives me a defensive look. “She has no degree, no skills and no residency in Jordan. She should keep her children in school, under a roof, in warm clothes what am I suppose to advise her!” she was trying to convince me that she was right. Again I said nothing. I felt helpless.

I can't begin to tell how often I heard women justify their husbands' and fathers' abusiveness. From the horrors of Noor's father who called a man a stud for molesting his daughter while calling his daughter – 15 at the time – a whore, to Wassan being raped on her wedding night while the husband's brothers and cousins waited outside the bedroom cheering and demanding to see the blood-stained wedding sheet to prove her virginity to many other stories of the sort that I grew up repulsed at the thought of intimacy. I must give my ex husband the credit for being a very patient man.

Now that I find myself sexually and intellectually more open I hit uninhibited territories and I'm confused. Non Arab men are exceptionally confusing to me. I want all the liberties their societies have. I suppose I find them just as exotic as they find me. “you need to stop doing this to yourself, it's very destructive behavior.” he told me on the phone the other night. I thought of him and remembered some of the positive things he told me about myself such as the potential I have, all the men who will want to keep me company and all the successes I will have once I am out of this strict environment. He sees in me the woman I want to become but I still feel clumsy around him because I can't shake the victim in me that I am accustomed to. “and why are you telling her this, its not like she could hold on to HER husband.” my grandmother said to my mother thus closing the argument. I rest my case. I'm off to bed.

Webdeh & Gibran

Webdeh is an old and artsy neighborhood in Amman. I use to go there a lot as a student in 2001,2,3. It and Jabal Amman – a more youthful and hip neighborhood, also old but renovated – are my two hang out places. Jabal Amman is where I lived with my ex and going there makes me feel intensely sad, breathing feels like scarring. Webdeh is a place I reserve for myself. He was never into that part of town. I rarely went there when I was married but now I’m back to my old ways.

Webdeh always had something magical about it; I’d often bump into artists or musicians and start chatting. Or I’d see a stunning piece of art that would haunt me for long. But most times it would just be the feel of the old hood, the smell of a homemade meal, a view from a park with children, elderly people watching passers-by and shy couples, the friendly stray cats. Then there is the view down the valley, Webdeh is on a hill top. Down there would be the hustle and bustle of the busy downtown area. Webdeh, like a refined elegant old lady looks down quietly with its old villas, schools, churches, mosques, art galleries and parks.

As a student I use to go to Darat al Funon in Webdeh to study or read for leasure. Darat al Funon always got me creative, sometimes I would write. When I went today it had a different experience. I was lonely. I didn't feel the place the same way I use to. And I remembered, the last time I went I wasn't scarred. I didn't breathe pins and needles. Today I was lonely and craving for company. And there was not a single charming stranger to talk to and all the art work was boring.

I sat with my book at a café. Two waiters asked me the same question “are you alone.” I was defensive in my answers. Yes! And yes! I pulled the cushion from behind my back and put it in my lap, as I often do when I feel insecure, opened my book and begun to read. “you are far greater than you know, and all is well” I read Khalil Gibran’s line and sighed.

After two cups of coffee and some 50 pages – the waiters got on my nerves - I left and went off wandering. I reached Dar Al Anda art gallery. It has a large terrace that stretches off the cliff like it was hanging in air. I leaned towards the railing resting my entire weight on it, waiting to fly or fall, watching the sun set on the valley with all its little doll houses. “you are far greater than you know, and all is well.” All is well. I breathed. It still hurt. Life is full of pleasant surprises, any minute now a charming stranger will walk over, doing exactly what I’m doing. We will exchange a glance and a smile. Hi my name is … and I’ll reach across to shake his hand. All the pins and needles I breathe will instantly turn to rubber and bounce off me. I looked around, the gallery was closed and I was the only one standing. The mosques echoed each others call for Maghreb - sunset – prayer.

“You are far greater than you know, and all is well.” I brushed a red fig leaf off my shoulder, rolled my hair up and held it with a pen. I stood straight now, missy miss independent. I took a cab home. All is well. All is well.

Happiness in a Jar

I sit to my kitchen table and gaze at the jar with a purple label. It’s suppose to me a mild anti-depressant that I should take only if I’ve been sad for over 4 days. That sounds silly. On days 4 I place the purple jar on the table, gaze at it and see which of us two wins.

To fight the jar I list snippets of happy times;

Al Qush – Ninewa Iraq October 2008.
I climbed into a cave on top of Rabban Hermizd monastery built in the 6th century. People there believe that a saint worshiped there and that the cave is inhibited my angels. I went looking for the angels. It was steep and my foot slipped. My friend, a Kurdish photographer who spent a lot of his time tracking the PKK in the mountains leaped after me and caught me, just in time. He actually had his heels placed solid in the dirt and was hugging me with both arms. ‘Are you crazy!’ he let go, ‘follow me’ he said. The cave was carved into a chamber that led to another chamber. There were two arched doorways into the cave. When I stood at the foot of one it felt like I was in a room of a house that defied gravity and way flying. The wind was strong and smelled like dry grass and the earth. Clouds felt so close like I could touch them. I could have sat there alone for an hour without blinking. I inhaled as much as my lungs could take of mountains, clouds, god, saints and angels.

Jazz pub – Paris November 2008
I was out to party with a fantastic group of hip multi-ethnic strangers. Something my strict upbringing didn't allow. We took the subway to Saint-Michel. We wandered around the Quartier latin and had dinner at a small diner that smelled like strong cheese. I tried oysters cooked in white wine, I've never tried either before. We had lots to eat and drink. We got lost in the maze of streets and crowds and cuisine from all over the world. Then we wandered into a hidden jazz pub in the basement of a building. I had never experienced jazz either. We sat on barrels and benches. The place was crowded and everyone there was in a jazz trance. There was a very sexy vibe in the air. Before we left I took a photo of the carving on the wall, it said jazz 1921. we kept walking by the Seine river then wandered into an Irish pub. We walked for three hours to our hotel at 5AM. We'd been out since 9PM the day before. I had experienced Paris and it was like nothing I've tasted.


A morning with my dog – last week:
My dog gets impatient with me because I won't get out of bed to take him out to play. After his whimpering and bed sheet tugging fails he gets his tennis ball, jumps on the bed, lays on top of me and hit my forehead with the tennis ball. I give up and open my eyes. We wrestle and I laugh to tears. He wins and I slip into a coat, a pair of jeans and sneakers and we run to the street at 6.30AM. I leave behind some sappy love loves plying on the radio every morning. I hate the silence. My mother jokes that I like to entertain ghosts. I walk my dog up to a hilltop where I live in Amman. On that hill steep valley. From there I can see the sun hanging low in the sky as it does early mornings. I hear every sound up there. My skin is all open for perceptions and sensations. My dog rests his head in my lap, I lean over, bury my face between his large pointy ears and I rub behind his ears and stroke his back. He surrenders to my hands and stands still – just for a minute – before he's back to his hyper active self. We slowly walk back home to sappy love songs and ghosts. I turn the radio off. I sit and stare hard at the purple jar. I think of all that I've experienced in life, of all that has made me who I am. I think of my weaknesses, my dreams, desires, fears. I hug myself and fall cheek down on the table. I surrender and cry a little. I put the purple jar of anti-depressant back in the fridge and post a blog. My blog, the one place I don't I fake courage and indifference.

Torture(r)

I replied to a phone call from a woman who heard I could save her life. I couldn't. But I listened as she told her story with sobs and statements of protests. We sat in her kitchen the next day sipping Turkish coffee, her with a cigarette. She took a deep breathe, sighed – her face now in a mist of smoke – pressed her fingers on her eyelids so she won't cry and she began to tell her story.

In 1995 the Iraqi Intelligence tried squeezing information out of her young sister who worked at a tourist company. They were interested in the tourists, a certain profile of tourists. The sister declined time after time. Months later they ask her to escort them in a privet car, they used their official badges and told her she'd been called in for questioning. They gang rape her and drive her back to her work, telling her she will be killed and her family if she doesn't comply.

Out of fear for her sister's safety she smuggles her – at great risks – to Jordan. The rape incident was kept between the two sisters. She never went to a doctor, a therapist, never told her mother – nothing. After all, rape by itself is a death sentence. In 1996 the Intelligence notice the sister is gone and come to her – let's call her Hanan. Hanan is told she must participate in torture. She is a dentist and they needed someone to pull out teeth during interrogation and – pulling them out right so prisoners don't die too soon. Hanan, out of sheer horror of facing her sister's fate and for fear for her elderly parents , complies. She partook in three torture sessions and fainted the third time. She woke up to find herself back in her clinic. She quickly brushes her skirt and feels her legs. She had not been raped. Not raped yet, Hanan thought. She tells her parents about her situation and her sister's – dropping the rape part out. They decided to smuggle their second daughter into Jordan. The plan was for them to follow. Hanan makes it to Jordan in 1996. Three months later the Intelligence realize both sisters are gone. They burn their house down . The father dies of sever burns, the mother lives. She is taken in by relatives until 2003 when the government is overthrown. That year the two sisters travel to Baghdad for the first time in years and bring their mother with then to Jordan. All three seek asylum to the United States. It takes years. Finally Hanan's mother and sister are accepted. Her case is pending. They wait for months so they can travel together as a family. But then Hanan learns that the US State Department has rejected her case because she has participated in 'crimes against humanity' referring to torture. Hanan is shattered. She urges her mother and sister to travel to the US promising them she will find a way to follow. Her brief yet intense involvement with the Intelligence scared her. She felt that some one must want her dead after what she had done and did not want to go back to Iraq. The mother and sister are now living in a gang infested hood in California, with no work or language skills. Hanan learns as soon as they leave that she has cancer.

She looks out her kitchen window gazing at nothing. She takes another breath of her cigarette. The smoke floats upwards and scatters. I have one hand in a fist on my lap the second supporting my chin. “I just want to be with my family, I don't want to die alone. Don't they understand I was forced! What could I have done! This is not fair!”

I think she knew from the start that there was nothing in my power I could do to help. She thanked me for visiting and I left. I never went back there again. I don't know what happened with her, if she's still alive. It's been months now and I'm still haunted by her.

Identity Crisis

this post was triggered by, and dedicated to Michael

I was looking at some websites talking about Iraqi women writers. I came across a popular website (River Bend). I read the reviews, most were favorable but there's always the other point of view. The critical crowd said she was Americanized, that she was probably not really Iraqi, or that she was some Iraqi-American expat working in the green zone for big bucks, detached by the rest of Iraq. Sheesh! If SHE isn't Iraqi then I'm toast.

And I raise my-ever-pressing question; what defines Iraqi? Should Riverbend, me and other Iraqi bloggers fluent in English write in bad English to come across as Iraqi? Would I be more Iraqi if I dropped the swear words and the slang off the blog? Should I wave the 'we hate America' banners, tattoo the Iraqi flag on my forehead and play Iraqi music so loud that I piss off every Jordanian to my left and right.

Edward Said, a prestigious Palestinian American political and social scholar, was pivotal in defending the Palestinian cause giving an image other than hooded men with rifles or strapped with explosives. But he was called 'Americanized' and not true to his cause. Its either hard core or nothing.

When the Iraq/Jordanian border first re-opened after the toppling of the former Iraqi government in 2003 I took the first buss home. I lost all contact with my family and didn’t know if they were dead or alive. I had my headphones on the entire time during the 16 hour drive. I needed a distraction. I had Counting Crows, Guns’n’Roses, Noah Jones and some other bands. Coincidence had it that I had no Arabic music on me. I grew up speaking English and Arabic, it didn’t bother me. Not until I got to the border and saw American soldiers examining our passports. They were polite but all I could think of is I have a total stranger, a total outsider, AN OCCUPIER running my country for me. It was a moment to take sides. I pulled back, pretended not to speak English, and I turned my music off.

When I got home I looked around my old room. I had my grandfather’s gramophone records, either classical like Vivaldi and Mozart or oriental like Arabic and Turkish. What the hell was I afraid of? I’ve always been a little bit of everything. I use to spend hours on the roof drinking tea, the really strong cardamom flavored tea. I read poetry to my grandfather, written in Iraqi slang, the kind of Arabic only Iraqis could understand. I asked my grand mother if I looked like AJANIB "foreign" a term we use for westerners. ‘Nonsense’, she said, ‘why do you ask?’ god bless grand parents.

Yesterday I was chatting online with a Michael. A man from a multicultural background who's traveled a good deal and been exposed to so many cultures. His nationality comfortably floats between two continents, if he chooses to claim any of the two. He doesn't care about terms like 'patriotic' 'dogma' and such. I'm trying to find my middle ground – trying to find flexible interpretations to these terms, trying to belong. A wise man from India once made me a compliment when I took him in a tour around Baghdad in the early 1990s. He said that I belonged to no one and that I had a universal character. It was a compliment but I felt like I was walking on quicksand.

In the meantime I've decided to watch Michael lean back in his chair like it was a solid extension to him,look around like he owns the place and fill the room with his cosmopolitan character. Maybe I'll learn a thing or two.

The Twig

Tomorrow is the Eid celebration. My grandmother has been watching the Haj ceremonies on TV. There are pilgrims in white pushing and shoving by the millions soaked under the rain. 50 died today because of the cold and exhaustion. I wondered why they kept going to the point of exhaustion and death instead of getting out of the rain. And I tried keeping a straight face when my mother talked about miracles, miracles I don't believe in. Family members around me are fasting, praying, humming with prayer beads today and the Islamic TV shows are in my face all day. My ears are humming and I'm all religious'ed-out.

I feel their comfort in belonging to something. I respect that. But it all feels too naive for me. My argumentative nature doesn't help because I feel lost. Thinking gives one a headache, doubt depresses, not belonging brings loneliness. We're social creatures and my interpretation is we feel safe by following a pack and a norm, a symbol, a god, a prophet, saint, pope, imam, a cross, a Budah, a Meqqa anything, something. Religions and beliefs are not a bad thing. Societies need rules and regulations with their reward and retribution. The world would have been chaotic otherwise. But they are also a dangerous tool to direct masses into hatred, lack of common sense, to dictatorships.

Having said that I must get off my high and mighty pedestal and confess – I wish I had the comfort and security of having an idol to look up to. I remember over the years how I clung to things of religious and sentimental value growing up. When I was around 10 or so my grandmother brought me a green ribbon she tugged off a cloth on the shrine of a Muslim saint in Baghdad. She fastened it on top of my bed to protect me from evil spirits. I'd lay in my bed on exam nights, lift my arm up and rub it, hoping for good grades. When I was in my early 20s I too made a wish and tied a ribbon on the ancient fig tree on the side of the mountain by Mar Meti monastery. A year ago I found a new object to idolize, a twig – yep you got that right, a tiny dry branch, a twig.

When my ex first broke the news of his desire to split, I was pretending to have that fuck-it attitude. So I went with some girl friends to get pampered. One of the things I did was go to a spa. I was feeling particularly vulnerable laying face down on the massage table near naked allowing a total stranger to touch me. She was a large Russian woman with a motherly touch. Something in me clicked and I cried my heart out. In between sobs I told her my husband left me. I bit my tongue after that and sobbed quietly for the rest of the massage. A week later I go to the pool there, the large Russian woman calls me to the massage room and then with great care, like she's about to show me a gem or the secret of life, she unfolds a plastic wrapping and with a smile carefully places her hand onto mine and reveals THE TWIG.

Dummified I look at her. She explains that she knows this old witch who does miracles. She went to the witch and asked her for a charm to make men go crazy about a woman. 'sew into the hem of your shirt or hide it inside your bra and men will go crazy about you.' she smiled and added confidently 'you'll have your husband back' and gave me two assuring taps on the shoulder. I was very moved by her kindness. There she was, a total stranger who went out of her way to try fix my life. I tugged it into my bra the next time I saw him – how desperate of me! - and it didn't work, naturally.

Despite my knowing its just a stupid dry branch that smells funny, I still keep it. It's wrapped snug in its original plastic and placed in a small jewelry box on my dresser table. I kept it for the symbolic value of hope in it and for the kindness a stranger displayed for me. Today the twig is my little lucky charm, not that I believe it works, but just because – like all those masses on TV, I need something – even tiny - to cling to.

Heart and Home

When we’re alone, as in not emotionally involved, we tell our selves all sorts of crap about how great it is to be free and single, how we’re going to travel, go bohemian with zero responsibility towards anyone and how we are going to ‘experience romance’ i.e. screw everyone in sight. We tell ourselves that being tied down restrains us from these adventures. This leads to the final argument that … it is great to be single. What a load of crap we feed ourselves. In the end, we are all looking for that great mono-relationship.

If we do some sincere soul seeking we realize that these are all defenses the lonely use to keep their head above water. We all play cool when we’re alone; we take our books and newspapers and go to our regular cafes. We sit there and keep occupied so we won’t feel awkward about sitting alone. And who has never lifted his or her head and looked up when they notice or feel someone looking at them. How many of you out there – I dare you – have not looked back at them. If you are anything like me, then, just like me, you try to go through this phase with dignity and try not to act desperate or do or say something stupid. And if you are like me and most of us, you inevitably will say something to someone attractive, that makes you want to put your foot in your mouth. But can you blame us! We, like all species, need to be in pairs and groups. After all, doesn’t the old saying go, home is where the heart is.

Years ago a friend in school asked me, what is home to you. I answered ‘my room.’ He found that strange. He said I was the only one who gave that answer. I was not involved with anyone, in fact at that point in my life I had never had a boyfriend or even a crush. My relationship with my family was tense and I was a discrete kid who kept to my books, dvds and music. My room had everything I needed and I made it to be a very cozy nest. I stopped doing that close to 10 years ago. I rarely put any effort to decorate any of the apartments I’ve lived in since I got to Jordan. I’ve lost that enthusiasm. I have a few friends who work in jobs that keep them traveling. When I see how homey their houses are , I wonder how they have the energy to decorate their transit houses – won’t call them homes. How do you invest in a place you know you’re leaving in a year or two? How do you invest in anything you are going to leave behind?

When I use to be married I felt ‘at home’ with him. I felt safe. I told him and myself that over and over. Now that he’s been out of my life for a while I realize that I didn’t quite invest in the house me and him lived in either. I ask myself this question and I don’t know how to answer it; had I lost that sense of home – that energy to nest - when I left Iraq, regardless of being in a relationship or not? Had I lost it for good? Or is it still there and maybe he was a factor to my instability. Did I on some unconscious level feel insecure with him while on the surface I was just believing in a lie to keep me secure – that he’s my for-ever-after? Is it losing him or is it losing Iraq that caused me to lose my inner home. What is home after all?

Justice; killers of Iraqi journalist caught

A dog took a chunk of meat off my arm this week and I screamed my lungs out. God! I could not stop screaming. When I calmed down, looking at the hole in my arm on the way to the hospital a realization hit me. All that scramming was an excuse to scream and not just over the bite. I don’t scream when I’m in pain usually. It worked. Sometimes I have to punch something solid and get a bruise, sometimes I scream, other times I do something obscenely stupid and try to cheat death. Those are the things that help me calm down when I’m angry over some injustice in this God-forgotten-world!

Last night something amazing happened, there’s a god yet. A murderer of a high school friend, a tv anchor and reporter, was brought to justice. His confessions were televised. I raised the volume and almost glued my nose to the tv screen. I don’t think I even blinked. He said he was following orders. He didn’t know why he was suppose to kill her. He said he shot her first in the head, then in the neck. It was a slight comfort when he said the first shot to the head killed her instantly. At least it was quick and painless, I hope.

They showed footage of her when she was alive. Reporting from bombing sites, the parliament, on the streets of Baghdad, Anbar, Najaf; of her goofing around the office with her camera man – who was killed with her that day – chasing her around and her waving hello at him, her putting on her makeup. Then I saw her mother and sister at the funeral. Her covered in blankets and held from arm to arm to settle in her coffin with tens of mourners. Tears streamed down my face but unlike most of my recent storms this was a quiet one. I was morning her and finally, coming to terms with her death and moving on. I don’t need another dog bit to scream, justice has finally been served.

Saving a life; Rainy Days

I love helping people because on a rainy day one of those folks will randomly call back and say thank you, or how are you, or we’re praying for you. I guess I’ve always been lonely but never alone.

She sent me a hand written letter – the old fashion way – some photos and some drawings she made. Her drawings made me feel how, despite all her hardship, she was still a little girl on the inside. I’m glad she’s still is a little girl in spirit.

JJ ran away from home after her parents found out she had a boyfriend. That was not tolerated in most of Iraq, or tolerated to different extents. JJ’s family beat her up and broke her wrists and ankles. They locked her in from the outside world. She quit school. She couldn’t talk to anyone, not even on the phone. She didn’t have tv, radio or any other distraction. It was solitary confinement for months. So she ran away first chance she got.

In her attempt to cross the border out of Iraq, she was raped. Then she was arrested. Then she bargained her way out by agreeing to become an interpreter on some US base in Iraq. On one of her R&Rs to Jordan she called it quits and stayed. She approached the UN to seek asylum. The staff doing the filing, one conservative Muslim woman, scorned and rejected her. She told her there were no run-away-girls here and that she should go find her family. JJ tried to explain that she was older 20, thus a legal adult and that her parents would kill her if they found her. It didn’t work and she was sent away.

That’s when she came to me. I redirected her to another organization. I also introduced her to a friend of mine in the US. To cut a long story short, she made it to the US and was hosted by my friend. Her ghosts still haunt her and she’s in culture shock but she seems optimistic. Or so her letters read.

So when I have a rainy day, like today, I take out her letter and read it. In it she wrote that she and a close friend of hers use to dream together about their future when they were children. They dreamt of unrealistic things like a magic world underground, clouds of cotton candy. JJ use to tell her friend that one day she will be able to travel around the world and live independently with no husband and have a career. Her friend called her crazy. In her letter JJ wrote that her friend ended up in a forced marriage to a husband who didn’t let her go to collage. She wrote that her friend got depressed because her parents didn’t understand her nor did her husband. JJ’s friend set her self on fire and died in 2008. Her parents were enraged that their daughter could shame the family as such. It’s a taboo to kill yourself in Islam. They didn’t announce the actual cause of her death but JJ knew.

Such a letter would set anyone over the edge had JJ not ended it the way she did. JJ wrote to thank me for saving her life because now that she is in the US she feels she has an endless world of possibilities, possibilities her friend would have never imagined or dreamed of. She said had she not left Iraq that could have been her, burned and buried in some over-populated over-zealous Shia neighborhood in Baghdad.

So on a rainy day like today when I’m lonely, tired, losing my confidence and cool, I like to take out JJ’s letters, photos and drawings and I tell myself, I saved JJ’s life! And maybe I can save mine.

My New Situation; Divorce

So it’s a divorce. I moved into my OWN apartment – miracle of miracles! In case you’re thinking what’s the big deal, divorced women are not allowed to live on their own. A woman who’s .. um ... what’s the word ‘experienced’ i.e. is no longer virgin, will come under pressure to live with family. Actually any single, divorced or widowed woman will be forced to live with her family. On rare occasions women will live on their own such as the woman having too many kids to be accommodated by relatives, if she is older than 40, if her family is in another country or if she’s already of notorious reputation and doesn’t care.

I am none of the above; though I have a fascination with notorious women in Iraq. They always strike me as strong and sexually powerful. My mother – a woman who’s as persistent and as weak as an ant carrying a bread crumb up a 4 meter wall - manages to persuade my father after months of nagging that I am a miss independent and cannot move back in with them. She told my father, which is true, that I was stuck in my marriage because I didn’t want to move back in with them.

In case you’re exited that I’m not a sheep in the flock, hold on, I am. My apartment is one floor up from my parents’; this was my dad’s condition. No apartment to the left, right, two buildings down the street, just around the corner would do. My social life has changed and half my wardrobe is tossed out the window because if my father sees me in most of them, I’ll never hear the end of it. In case you’re letting your imagination go wild, I’m talking about sleeve close to bare shoulders but not bare and hem lines right on the knee. I need my parents to approve of how I dress, who I hang out with, where I go and how late I stay out; me a 30 year old career woman, need to be chaperoned like a child. I am, I am a sheep in the flock, for now.

I was too busy to notice my ‘new situation’ with the logistical hassle and the emotional baggage of leaving my old apartment. When I closed the door and left it felt like kissing an entire chunk of my life good bye. It felt like all of my life until then died when that door slammed shut. It’s amazing how every hurt feels as fresh as the one before when you’d think you’ve gotten over it. It felt like my heart was being pushed down by a giant thumb. I wanted things to go back to the way they were. But I slammed the door and left. My life as I knew it was over. I felt and still do, incredibly vulnerable, lonely and longing for my ex even when I knew it was not working. But that door was shut.

My new image in the eyes of society was the last thing on my mind. It was not until last week, when a co-worker called to see if I wanted to meet for a cup of coffee and catch up, that it hit me in the face. I agreed to meet him after work at a shopping mall – anything but an intimate setting. I got into my jeans and sneakers and head out. My father caught me on the out. He asked where I was going. I told him. He frowned and said with words that cut me like a knife “you don’t appreciate your new situation”. My new situation! I felt like me, all the same. But sadly, I am not who I think I am, I am who the society projects me to be. And in the eyes of this society I am a disaster waiting to happen, a family honor hanging by a thread, an emotional naïve damsel in distress who will fall into vise – silly me – for the first man who winks at me.

This will be one bumpy ride; My New Situation.

Nadim Al Ghazali, Nostalgia

Today it just so happened that all the Iraqis at the office decided to go on a lunch break together. The most fun outings are those unplanned. We were loud – as Iraqis normally are – and we spoke in our strong Iraqi accent – which makes Americans think we’re arguing and leaves Jordanians with an L shape on their forehead trying to catch up on what the hell we’re talking about.

After lunch we went back to the office and – as Iraqis are accustomed – had strong Iraqi tea after a big meal. We did the best we could with mugs and a microwave because we don’t have a stove at the office to brew it the proper way. I am slowly sipping on it because it’s giving me a nostalgic feeling I don’t want to lose. With tea I have Nadim Al Ghazali on my i-tunes. The tea and Al Ghazali brought back old sensations, tastes and smells.

I remembered the winter days when I was at my grandparents’ house. I would lie on the ground spreading all my homework across their Persian rugs. When I got bored I would look at the fine details on the rug. They had this large Russian heater that had a pipe going across the wall and out the window where its chimney went. Even the walls were warm. My grandmother always had a tea pot brewing on the heater. The room smelled like cardamom, my grandfathers’ after-shave, which I haven’t smelled in years, our Assyrian cook’s kleja – Iraqi sweats of biscuit-like dough stuffed with dates or crushed almonds and other kinds of nuts – and there was another smell. I can’t link it to anything but that smell was the small of their living room in winter.

I remembered the times it rained washing the big orange tree right outside the dinning and guest room letting in an aroma of rain and honeysuckle or fresh oranges. I remembered the times we all sat for a meal on the weekend and my grandfather repeated his regular quote “sh’kad hilwa el lamah” how nice our gathering is. My grandparents, parents, my uncle and his wife, me and my 5 brothers and sisters all sat together talking loud, laughing, arguing, rattling our plates and spoons. My grandmother had the habit of tossing more food into her grand childrens’ plates –eat, eat! I miss that.

I live in an apartment suspended away from the ground, barren of children, has few rooms, small windows, no garden, and I have one foot in the door taking me to which ever next country. Sometimes I think it’s a blessing that I’m as free as a bird to go wherever and whenever for now.

When I’m old and gray I am going to own a house on the tigress. It will be surrounded by a big garden and wide terraces. It will have paintings and plants all around. My kitchen will be big and sunny. There will be a second small house where I will host a homeless family to take care of the house and garden – for a fee of course. I will have two dogs. I will feed guests at least twice a week. I will always have leftovers for a dozen stray cats. I will have a library with at least 500 books, many signed by their authors. I will have roots. By God, I will have roots.

But what if another war breaks? The dogs and cats will starve, the books and paintings will burn, the garden will dry and the house will die. Maybe I am better off where I am now after all.

Why can’t I just enjoy a good tea and music and shut up!

Anti Depressants

- How was your childhood?
- Glad it’s over!
- What’s your marriage like?
- Going down the drain.
- Have you been depressed before?
- Yes.
- What’s your sex life like?
- Puff!

He smiles and hands me a Prozac.’

Yep it’s official I’ve caught up with the millions of adults on anti-depressants in this glorious 21st century. It’s like a sign of maturity. First I got my period, then it’s my first job, then the first time I had sex, then the first encounter with marital problems, then it’s the first stab in back in the work place and now … the first anti-depressant.

I sat back and spaced out not convinced while he pointed with his pen on a diagram of the brain and nerves explaining what an anti-depressant does. I don’t want to grow any older than I already am. I remember laughing at my dog an hour before I made it to his clinic while we rolled on the floor playing. I kept telling myself, I’m ok. Life can be a shit hole, no argument with that. But I’m better off than others. I was resentful of him insisting that I was sick and need to be medicated before I slit my wrist.

On the way out of his clinic I grabbed a pamphlet about depression. One of the things on it says depressed people get these waves of panic from mild to extreme. I don’t ‘panic’ but I get this feeling like something bad is going to happen. I use to take pride in my sixth sense. It has saved me and people close to me from a few bombs and some domestic accidents in Baghdad. I trusted my gut feeling. Now my gut feeling has its signals all scrambled.

To prove to myself that I wasn’t crazy I started browsing the web on depression in Iraq. I quote the World Health Organization on one of its recent assessments;

“424 adult from 159 households were surveyed. According to the Iraqi version of the Harvard Trauma Questionnaire, Hopkins Symptoms Checklist, Coping mechanism used, 98% of respondents reported at least 4 trauma events, while 26% reported experienced between 5-10 trauma events, and 18% experienced more than 10. A total of 43% showed symptoms of depression, 60% anxiety, and 26% PTSD. Symptoms were more prevalent in women than in men. Rates were higher with higher numbers of traumatic events. Religion and family were the main resources for emotional support.”

http://www.emro.who.int/iraq/pdf/mentalhealth_launch_en.pdf

I remembered all the people I knew first hand who were depressed and suicidal. Four of my friends in school and collage and the mother of one friend confessed contemplating or trying to kill themselves. Then there are tens of people who want to die but are too religious to attempt it. These are people who repeat phrases like ‘when will Allah take our lives and let us rest?’ These are the same people who lack ambition because they feel that this life – so full of sorrow – is a transit unreal stage. Why bother. Suicide bombers have the same way of thinking.

One of my suicidal friends was Hind – not her real name. Hind’s father was an officer in the Iraqi army. After eight vicious years of being on the front line during the Iraq-Iran war he suddenly had nothing to do. One drunken night he raped Hind. She only told me, no one else, not even her mother knew. This dark secret created a strong bond between me and her. One evening Hind and I were sitting on the roof of my house with our school books. When the sun set and we found it hard to read we swung up and sat on one of the walls. We sat on the wall like we were riding horses with one foot dangling outside. Hind’s flip-flop slipped off her foot and made a strong slapping sound as it fell three stores towards the cement pavement behind the kitchen where my mother kept some junk and empty gas containers.

Hind gazed down and was quiet for a few seconds.
- ‘Suppose I jumped.’ She says. I looked down and said in an indifferent tone
- ‘You’ll smash your skull against the gas container and half your brain will ooze down that side and the rest of your brain will splash over there.’
- ‘Do you think I’d die?’
- ‘Maybe, but maybe you’d live and be a vegetable and no one wants that.’
- ‘Let’s jump.’ Now she’s testing me.
- ‘Ok, lets.’ I look her in the eye.
We stand up. I was indulging her but I knew she wouldn’t jump. I don’t know how I was sure but I just felt it. We both stood up balancing on the wall and clinging to the thin palm-tree reefs as if they would support us if we fell. The sun had set half an hour ago and all that was left was a dark pink and purple line on the horizon. It was beautiful. Then a cool breeze came, the kind that tickles the spine. My mother calls us for dinner and we hop off the wall me with two flip-flops and Hind with one.

That was 15 years ago. Hind confronted her father. Her parents got divorced. She married and has children of her own. Life moved on. I saw her in Baghdad last December. We have that way of talking without saying a word. We looked at her baby girl and thought what a loss had her mother jumped and she would have never been born. For a second I felt we were back in school, two teenage girls ourselves and here we were with this baby! It felt like we had never grew a day older than the day we were when we could have jumped. The baby cooing and giggling brings me back to 2008. I sigh and do my cynical half-smile at the chubby cute little thing, what a life!

Moment of clarity; Iraq Perspectives

It’s 6AM, my dog is sick, my husband is out of town and I’ve had no sleep giving my pooch his medication, keeping him hydrated, and taking him out to poop so often, the poor thing has a bad diarrhea. In the midst of all that, I was talking on the phone to a friend in New York City a couple of hours ago, bitching about my finances and my marriage, when the conversation took its inevitable turn, politics.

She was telling me about some event in Washington where a number of Iraqi expatriates and Americans of Iraqi origins were discussing a what-next sort of agenda for Iraq. Then we got to talk about books written about Iraq including ‘Imperial Life in the Emerald City’ by Rajiv Chandrasesaran and ‘The Forever War’ by Dexter Filkins which is about Iraq and Afghanistan. They are both good reads, though I felt Chandrasesaran was more real than Filkins who’s book was more of a romantic exotic depiction of Iraq and Afghanistan. I’ve never been to Afghanistan and I fell for his fist half of the book about Afghanistan. I could not put the book down, especially that I recently finished a novel titled ‘The Kyte Runner’ by Khaled Hosseini which was the best novel I’ve read in years. So I loved the first half of ‘The Endless War’ then when I got to the part about Iraq I realized his writing was more of a personal perspective – in many cases biased – of one American advancer journalist. I love his way of writing, as in the way he tells a story but his depiction of Iraq is lacking. It is mere impressions of an outsider who has not lived in Iraq long enough. Also I can tell he’s been having a hard time adapting to his accommodation, the weather, the food, I don’t know, his personal life, that he hated Iraq and didn’t give it a chance. But I’m Iraqi, so I’m equally biased. And this got me thinking, what would an educated Afghan think of his book? Chandrasesaran had a more hands-on experience not of Iraq and Iraqis but of what the US is doing in Iraq and why things have gone wrong which was all about economics and politics. With every page I went yes! Yes! That’s what we Iraqis keep trying to tell the US administration in Iraq god damn it!

My friend thinks I should write about how Iraqis look at the before 2003 and after. So, here I am. I’m sitting at footsteps of my apartment in Amman Jordan at dawn. I’ve had 3 hours of sleep in the last 24 hours. I’m surrounded by dog shit. And I’m having a moment of clarity; this should be the focus of this blog from now on, an Iraqi take on things and less of my pathetic personal life.

Tribute to Renos

Renos was a Sri Lankan woman I knew. She was skin and bones, sick all the time with wood and steel splinters under her nails and she had the driest feet I’ve ever seen. She was quiet. She never dropped her smile around me. And Renos was a mystery. She stopped showing up nine months ago – she use to visit me on the weekend and help me clean the house. She changed her number and just dropped off the face of the earth. I knew she was in some sort of trouble. Yesterday she came into my life again, just like that and disappeared one last time.

Yesterday I got a call from a total stranger, another migrant domestic worker, probably a housemaid, telling me Renos died a night before and that she told her a day or two before her death that “I” could help her, but with what! This woman on the phone tells me that she met Renos at a local hospital while visiting another patient and felt sorry for Renos. She kept visiting for a week and making her food. She, like myself, only knew Renos by her first name and nothing else. This woman who I think is afraid to give me her name said she needed to know where Renos lived so she could find her passport to ship her body home. I did not have a clue. I’m restless because I don’t know what I can do or if I can do anything at all. Why in the world did she pick me! What did she want?

What shocks me is the reaction – or lack of it - among local Arab colleagues. I think if I had been talking about a dead stray cat I would have gotten more sympathy out of them. I’m still trying to trace her family.

Here is the little I did know about her;
When I first met Renos I was amazed at how tiny she was. She was about 4.5 feet maybe and her wrists were tiny, had high cheek bones, sunken eyes, dark tanned skin, ashy black hair with plenty of sliver hair though she was hardly 35. She was timid, too timid and I never managed to persuade her to call me by my name instead of ‘madam’ or look me straight in the eye. If we had lunch together she’d feel anxious if I carried a plate or a pot. She was more comfortable eating alone rather than sitting to the same table with me. If we did sit together she’d pick every morsel of rice or bread crumbs the minute any fell off her plate. Renos made me think, how in the world do you break a human spirit that bad? How are you born to serve and nothing else? How can your race be inferior to others by default?

Renos took a job in the Middle East to escape her abusive husband who used to get drunk and beat her. I remember how angry I got when she told me once that she still sent money to him so he could buy booze. She was oceans away and still afraid of him. Her only family – at least the only one she spoke of – was her elderly and ailing mother. Renos told me that after paying for rent and her basic needs here in Jordan, she’d send all her money to her mother. She never spoke of her father or siblings and had no children.

When Renos use to dust around the house she used to turn statues of female figures towards the windows facing the outside of the house and male figures towards the walls and corners. She loved tea but not coffee. She loved the pasta I made and that was the only time I saw her eat with an apatite and laugh when a string of spaghetti made a line across her cheek. She refused to reach into my refrigerator even though I told her she could take out and eat anything she liked. She taught me how to make a special curry and coconut sauce. I still cook that. She didn’t like my vacuum machine and preferred to clean the carpets with a small brush by hand. I felt guilty to walk in with my shoes for two days every time she did that. The TV and radio annoyed her and she turned them off when she worked. I never heard Renos sing or hum a tune to herself.

Last time we spoke on the phone she had broken her promise to come to my house for a third week on a row. I told her that if she had found another better paying job that was ok with me but she needs to tell me. She started crying on the phone after we failed to communicate in the modest English she spoke and very poor Arabic and me not speaking a word of her language. I’m feeling guilty about that.

That is all I have to say about Renos the tiny, timid and tired Sri Lankan woman. I hope she found her peace at last. I really hope so, first for Renos and second for my own sanity and faith.

Seeking answers; Baghdad, December 2008

It’s been a month since I came back from my short trip to Baghdad. I’ve been asking myself a lot of questions since. I’ve always felt like a tourist in my own country which has its good and its bad; good that I appreciate beauty around me and am keen on art, folklore, local literature and anything unique to the Iraqi identity like I was some western adventurer exploring Iraq in the early 20th century taking it all in for the first time. Often things that make me hold my breath in Iraq pass as an undetected what-ever by fellow Iraqis. I suppose I’m a hopeless romantic. The bad part is I don’t fit in. I’m always an outsider who’s assumed to be half Iraqi and half something else. I’ve heard it hundreds of times ‘you don’t look Iraqi’. I suspect that I blend in with my European, Australian and American friends better, passing as less local more ‘normal’ for that same reason.

I do know one thing with certainty, that when I sat on my rooftop for the first time in years I belonged to something and I felt at home. It’s hard to describe the sensation. I feel like my spine becomes defused into the brick wall and all my anger and pain get absorbed into that wall I’ve been escaping to since I was 12. I felt cleansed, I felt ok. And a breeze would gush into every particle of my skin and the trees around me make that familiar shush and that warm sun on my face and into my joints. I don’t know if I can become a dual national with a US or other passport without being a hypocrite. I don’t know if I’m 100% Iraqi either, my closest of Iraqi friends say I look like ‘ajanib’ - foreigners. But I do know one fact for sure, that house in Baghdad is my home and it felt good, so good, to be home.

Without further ado, here’s the story of my recent trip to Baghdad;

Going to Baghdad:
The driver picked me up at 5AM. It was raining and I thought, maybe that’s a good sign. Jordanians have been praying for rain for weeks and on the night I finally leave, it rains at last. I was struggling to keep the veil from sliding down. It was annoying and suffocating and I hated it with every vibe in my being. I don’t hate veiled women at all, I just felt like so many liberties were being taken away from me by wearing it and by that I don’t mean the ability to style my hair. When I put on the hijab or veil I adapted another character, a more timid, conservative one. I became someone else. I had to pretend for my safety. So with the hijab on and my UN ID inside the padding of my shoe, I was off to Baghdad. I did feel scared and wanted to tell the driver to take me back. When we got to the border I felt the same way I feel when I’m on a rollercoaster and it’s time to make a speeding sudden plunge downwards. This is the point of no return, I am going to Baghdad. Oh my God! We’re at the border, and we’re gone.

Iraqi Border:
When we crossed to the Iraqi side I felt strange. I had not seen the land border point since early 2004. Back then statues and a large portrait of Saddam were still there. They were destroyed, shot at and peed on. The writing on an arch at the entrance of the border point was sprayed on and the words ‘welcome to Iraq the land of Arab brotherhood .. something, something’ I don’t remember, now read ‘welcome to Iraq the land of death and sculls.’ To my surprise the graffiti was still there. Saddam was gone. There were few travelers, three cars to be precise with less than 20 passengers. The rest were all trucks around 40 of them. Our driver told me that there are about 15 cars driving passengers across the border two to three times a week between Amman and Baghdad. When the officers gave us our passports back they would ask what we do for a living or why we were in Jordan. I prayed they would let my passport go with no questions because there was a crowd squeezing against that window and I didn’t want them t know I worked for a UN-affiliated organization; For one there’s a chance I’d be a target: and two, the folks I am traveling with would know I was lying to them when I said I was a housewife. I needed to keep that tightly wrapped image of me in a hijab intact at least until I made it back safely to Jordan a week later. Thank God the officers let it go and didn’t ask, I suppose they understood my situation. I still didn’t feel safe because a year ago these border offices would tip hijacker on the highway in Anbar. Not to brag but I am worth some ransom. As an Iraqi working with the UN my abduction could be a political statement since most Iraqis feel that the UN works for US interests in Iraq. That and my step brother was abducted and returned for a fat ransom years ago, I’m way better looking than him : ) I should be worth more. I soon realized how ridiculous my fears were. Anbar was safe and I perfectly blend in with my fake hijab.

Anbar:
Now Anbar has character. My first impression of Anbar was that it was safe. There were Iraq police patrols every few kilometers. We did not stop for each and every one on them but they were there with their trucks and their guns. Abu Omar – not his real name – our driver would swell with pride and stick his arm out the window and wave to each and every one of them. Those are ‘our’ boys he’d say in his husky voice of a heavy smoker with emphasis. We saw only one US convoy in Anbar, Abu Omar cursed at them as we drove by. He was a member of the Awakening Council, called Al Sahwa by locals, in Anbar and a supporter of the former Sunni insurgency. There were posters of Sheihk Abu Resha, three meter high. He was the founder of the awakening who was killed by Al Qaida over a year ago. The few checkpoints we did stop at had bomb detectors that were so sensitive that we were pulled over and yelled at, at one. Turns out a small bottle of perfume I had in my purse got the bomb detector flashing. Yes Abu Omar didn’t like me much.

Baghdad:
I did not feel at risk once I reached Baghdad either. The first checkpoint into Baghdad was operated by Shia police. Abu Omar cursed them like he did the Americans and called the police ‘shroog’ a derogative term meaning ‘vulgar.’ The term refers to those who come from poor farmers who came to Baghdad for a better life in the 40s and settled in the far east part of Baghdad. Abdul Karim who ruled Iraq at the time build houses for them, sort of like the projects some parts of the US. They are still poor. Militias and crime come from those slums such as Shula, Cader City, Al Thawra and Al Hurrea. They talk Arabic in a southern Iraqi accent and have darker skin. Men like Abu Omar and others like that policeman have killed each other these past four years.

My aunt and her husband picked me up from Liqaa square – Liqaa is the Arabic word for meeting or reunion - it is where all GMC cars stop to drop their passengers who just made it from Amman. You will only see GMC four-wheel drives and large Chevrolet nicknamed ‘dolphins’ because of their long sleek shape. Only American cars will be working the Amman-Baghdad rout. Drivers will not drive anything but American cars because of their monster engines, how ironic.

It was nice to see that, after more than three years of being away, Baghdad looked almost the same as when I left it, or so I initially thought. I felt that tingle under my skin like Baghdad was a living creature and it was welcoming me, I needed to hug Baghdad back.

It did not take me long to realize how much has changed. People in Baghdad were worn out. They had a dark cynical sense of humor joking about bombs and death. When people make plans they always end it with ‘if we’re still alive by then’ or ‘I’m not lending you that much money! What if you die on me ..’ chuckles. The Al Jilawi toy store in Mansuir – one of the largest in Baghdad at the time - had closed after hooded men ambushed the three sons and one grandson of the owner and killed them all in one day. Seeing the shop sign sway, now hanging from one bolt with the second lose, at the front of the shop was very sad. One of those three sons was with me in collage. We use to love going there, even as adults. The dairy shop my mother always went to was also closed. Again, some hooded men ran in there, shot the shopkeeper and his 10 year son, trashed the place and tossed a hand grenade in there on their way out. And here’s the butcher with one arm, he lost it to a bomb in 2004.

My neighborhood had also aged. Young ones immigrated and the old were growing older. Some had stokes that left them half paralyzed; others had such week knees they needed a wheel chair and stopped show up on their front lawns drinking chie like before. The trees in the back yards, which I use to admire from my roof when I grabbed my tea and book and spend hours up there, those trees had gone dry. The gardens had dry wild weeds in them instead of fresh grass and rows of flowers around them. There were no more children playing in the street, I use to be one of them.

My old house, the one I was born in, was now occupied by another family. They welcomed me in, let me look around the rooms, the garden, the roof. I wanted to spend time in each room but felt embarrassed because this is not our stuff and we don’t use these rooms any more. I felt like I had violated their privacy. I sat on my old swing and went high-high up like I use to. It was a bitter sweet feeling. Part of me will never grow old. the women who now lived there stood in my mother’s kitchen looking at me like I was mad, a 30 year old woman acting like a child.

Al Mutanabi book market:
But there was a resilient side to Baghdad which made my trip even a million times more worth while, the book bazaar. Fundamentalists bombed the book market last year. It was renovated, up and running less than a year later. I could still see some remains of the damage. There was one very old building of colonial style and it had a rusty red sign hanging on the side that said ‘post office’. It was something the British left behind decades ago. That was now gone and the only thing remaining was one wall, the other three walls and the roof were now charcoaled rubble. I went with two girlfriends and we instantly split when we got there scouring for the books we liked. The ‘Shah Bandar’ coffee house was also reopened. It is a gathering place for intellectuals and has been for nearly 100 years now. The walls were covered with photos of academics, all regular customers, killed with black ribbons on the picture frames. At Mutanabi you could find books about anything. Islamic books sat next to atheist books, Baathest next to autobiographies of Shia aimams killed by Baathests, no one bothered, a book is a book, read it or leave it. This is not the case in many Muslim countries where fanatics issue ‘fatwas’ to have writers killed in Iran, Saudi Arabia, Jordan, Egypt to name a few.

The suspense of being on my knees digging into piles of used books not knowing what I’d find, the smell of old paper and dust, the spider web at one top corner of the shop, the wooden staircase that squeaks as I climb to the second floor where there are hundreds of more used and new books, the call for prayer, the clatter of tea cups, the snaps of conversations about art, philosophy, politics, the sound of the Dijla river, the smell of oil paint and canvases, the sight of small ferries taking people up and down the river for 10 cents or less … all of it, all of Mutanabi street came amplified in audio, visual and sensual affect. Just typing these lines gives me goose bumps. The idiots who bombed Mutanabi deserve to be bombed back!

Friends:
Hala was married and had two children and started wearing a hijab after she got married, by choice. Her husband, an engineer, worked for some US funded project and she feared for his safety. She looked 10 years older than me, though we are the same age. She played a Tom&Jerry cartoon on DVD for her two kids. We sat at a corner sipping tea and she told me tales of bombs, abduction and horror. I remembered my manicure-pedicure and shopping spree outings in Amman, how shallow I felt. Hala told me about her eating disorders where at some point she went on for three days not eating and was rushed to a hospital, diagnosed clinically depressed. And she told me about the times when she got hooked on candy and munchies that she gained weight like crazy her knees began to hurt when she stood or walked. She said that for the past year, with security improving and her moving back in with her mother – while her husband was on the field – made her feel better. Her mother lived in a safe district and she could take her kids walking, playing at a nearby park and so on. She now became a health fanatic looking up healthy recipes for her self and kids off the internet. “We’re all eating healthy now, munchies only once a week” she said.

Noor I marveled at. She looked more alive than I ever remembered her and she went from total doormat to a strong woman. Noor was single, focused on her career, doing great at it, looking great and .. how can I put it words, like someone finally switched a light bulb on that girl. Noor is from Tikrit, Saddam’s home town, and her family has close family ties with Saddam’s. Before 2003, she could not move around Baghdad without a driver and a guard. I needed a ‘security clearance’ to see her. And she had no choice when it came to whom she should marry and she would never be anything but a housewife. 2003 bought it’s tragedies to her family, her family was threatened, her brother abducted and tortured and all their assists frozen. But she is taking evening classes at collage, has a job, is providing for her whole family, and she was the one who chased her brother’s abductors and got him out after a pursuit that took over a year. She was so bright eyed and bushy tailed when I took her to the book bazaar with us. She has never in her life been there before! She said she had no idea how big Baghdad was until after 2003.

Anbar again:
The drive back to Amman was not as smooth. The highway heading north to Jordan had a lot of US convoys. If you’re stuck behind one you have to stay 100 meters away or get shot at and they drive very slow. Abu Omar curses at them again and waits for a crack in the fence and all of a sudden he was driving on the other lane – heading from Amman to Baghdad. I never get bored of telling this story.

Picture this; we’re speeding on a 120 on a highway, driving against traffic with speeding tucks heading our way. Abu Omar blinks the front lights at them to notice us, though it’s sunny midday. We’re ‘intimately’ close to the convoy now driving right next to them. I’m thinking if he makes a sudden swerve towards them avoiding a tuck, they will shoot at us, not to mention that if a bomb blows up they are in the armored vehicle not us. And he’s talking on the cell phone.

Now take a look inside the car; Abu Omar has filled it with cartons of eggs, tomatoes and bread – basically any food he finds being sold on the highway. With every bump a bag of bread smacks me on the back of my head and the eggs jiggle. He has ‘insurgency’ music on where music mixes with the sound of machine guns. Next to him is an old man snoring, not aware of what’s happening. His wife, sitting in the back to my right is tugging at my sleeve nervously with one hand and holding a rosary with the other and is praying loud. To my left is another woman who travels regularly on this route, reading her newspaper totally indifferent and chewing gum also loud. One women annoyed me and the other made me want to vomit and Abu Omar’s driving made me close my eyes for a few. Then I open them again and – me being me – I wanted to laugh. I thought what a hilarious story this would be to tell to my friends back in Amman. If not, this has been awesome and my death will be quick and painless. Abu Omar did this stunt twice before we reached Jordan and was pulled over by an Iraqi check point each time.


Jordanian Border:
The Jordan border was a nightmare and I can’t blame them for their tight security. I couldn’t help think how indifferent they were when we left Jordan into Iraq. No one came near us or our suitcases when we left Jordan into Iraq. The woman with the chewing gum had her suitcase flipped inside out and torn because the bomb-sniffing dogs kept going back to her suitcase. ‘We were grilling kebab last night, maybe it’s the scent of the meat’ the women scratched her head all confused. ‘I don’t have anything suspicious!’

When I went to get inspected by the female border inspectors I felt violated. We were searched twice by the way by four female officers. If you have chewing gum, they’ll ask you to chew on it. If you have hand cream they’ll ask you to put some on. Family photos, tell them who each person is. When I got to ‘physical inspection’ part I remembered a common catch-phrase and smiled faintly despite my humiliation “shouldn’t you take me to dinner first!” I wanted to mumble, she would not have gotten the joke. When I was at the first inspection I smiled at them – little did I know what lies ahead – and asked permission to take off my shoe ‘please’ and before I could explain why it hit the fan! What’s in your shoe!? Keep that foot down! Slowly! What’s in your shoe?! I told them I hid my ID in there and explained why I did so though I felt my reasons were - duh! - Obvious. The old man who was, god bless him, in his 70s had his passport confiscated and was suspected of ‘terror’ affiliations … it took us another two hours on the border to sort that out because we could not leave without them.

Back to Amman:
When I got back it was raining again. I didn’t mind, I love rain. Amman is not home but I felt a little less estranged from it and liked it better. I liked it for its little luxuries and I liked it because unlike last time, this time I traveled to Amman by choice and knowing that I can always go back to Baghdad anytime with security improving in Iraq. I thought I’d sleep like a baby once I got home because I was so tired being on the road from 5AM to 8PM. Instead I had a huge fight with my husband – oh yes he’s back – and then went out for a walk. I had a lot of energy in me and I wanted to let it out. I guess I resented him when he didn’t receive me with some enthusiasm. I thought ‘I almost got killed! Now do something grand’. It’s not his fault, I admit to going overboard sometimes.

The next morning I was in that same coffee shop in Abdon as last time sipping my expensive cup of coffee, feeling the same fresh pain and guilt about my dead friends and wishing they were here. But this time I had a drawing my little six year old cousin made for me. She was glued to me the whole time and we did things together, like bedtime stories, watching cartoons and playing football. I don’t have kids, I don’t know if I will. I don’t know what’s going on with my marriage. I have no idea where I’m heading to next. I don’t feel like my apartment, in Amman, is a home, as it is neglected and barren from any ‘homey’ items like a family photo. But her colored scrabbles warmed my heart. I went back home and put a fridge magnet on it. From there on every time I walk into my kitchen, I can’t help but smile at my little trace of home.