My life in Baghdad

Baghdad Equestrian Club

2016-06-30T10:09:00.001+02:00

Between 1985 and 2003, I lived with my family in Al-Mansour district in Baghdad, near the equestrian club or the "Races" as everybody used to call it. The club was built in the 1920’s at the time when Iraq was under the British Administration. Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays were horse racing days. On these days the area was full of all kinds of people. If you are now thinking of a horse race like those in England, then I have to disappoint you. The horse races in Baghdad were nothing like that. At least not in my time. No dress code, no high society and not a single woman.

When I came home from school, the school bus dropped me in front of the main door of the races. I didn't like those days because many gamblers were upset after the race, and sometimes they even started a fight, so my strategy was to look down to the ground, cross the street and run home as fast as I could. But this was not always helpful.

One day I missed the school bus and I was walking along the street on the opposite side of the races. I saw a man in a dishdasha(Arab garment) heading towards a young man in jeans and asking him "Where is my money?". From his angry voice I sensed that this will escalate, so I started to walk faster. The young man answered "I had bad luck today. Give me another week." They started shouting to each other and I didn't understand what they were saying anymore. Suddenly the dishdasha clad man took out a gun. I didn't even know that it was possible to carry a gun in a dishdasha’s pocket, but it seems it was. In that same moment a policeman standing close by took out his gun and shouted as loud as he could: "stand where you are and don't move." To that time I was running but when he cried out: "don't move," everybody on the street stopped for a second, including me. I didn't look back as I ran into our side street and into our garden. I stayed for a minute in the garden to hear if there were shots but there was nothing, and my legs were shivering so I went into the house.

The second time I saw a fight near the races was without guns but one of the men fighting took a cola bottle and smashed it on the wall and ran after the other one. This time a lot of people gathered and separated the two fighting men from each other. I will never forget the smashed bottle with its sharp edges. It was even scarier than the gun. Thanks God moral courage was common in Baghdad and it was very usual that strangers interfere when two argued in public to stop the fight. I always admired that.

I didn't like the idea of being among audience of the races but I wished to be able to go and watch the race. Sometimes, on Fridays, I went up on our roof and watched it from there. I could hear the commentator, and I knew the horses were coming when the sand cloud arrived. I think what I managed to see was end line. It was hard to see the horses, but I could make out their heads and I saw the jockeys in their colorful outfits. When the race ended the audience mass mixed with the horses and the jockeys and they ended up in a big human, horse and sand mass.

Sometime in the nineties a new racing arena was built in the suburbs of Baghdad and the races in Al-Mansour was closed. I don't think anyone missed the racing days in our district.

In 1999 a project for building a giant mosque in place of the races was started. This giant construction stands unfinished till today. Sometimes when I feel homesick, I visit my Baghdad through Google Earth. The giant construction makes it easy find my home on the map. The view of this unfinished structure is just like a symbol for the Iraq I left: one giant unfinished project that is slowly falling into pieces.

Reading and Writing

2016-05-24T09:24:00.004+02:00

Sometimes a certain situation brings back a memory you didn't even know that it still existed in the depths of your mind.

This is what happened to me a few days ago, when my daughter asked me about adult education in Iraq, a program in the seventies for the eradication of illiteracy, she read about. She told me that the program reduced female illiteracy in Iraq from 70% to 30% within just a few years.

Wow, the last time I read, heard or thought about the campaign to eradicate illiteracy in Iraq must have been about 30 years ago. I didn't really know that it was such a big success. Talking with my daughter about it brought back a memory of my time in the kindergarten in Baghdad. And after so many years, the purpose of one of my favorite activities in kindergarten was clear for me.

When I was 5 going to 6, I visited Al-Mansour al-Tasisia kindergarten in Baghdad. Part of our kg program was playing short sketches in class. I loved getting dressed up and I wanted so much to get the chance to wear these miniature traditional Iraqi clothes. The white dress and head cover (dishdasha and yashmagh) for the men or the black body cover (abaya) for the women. Unfortunately I never got to play the role of an adult. In the two times I participated, I played the daughter and this role didn't need a custom. Anyway, the teacher used to pick five or four of us and train them on the role, while the rest of the children drew or played. Then they started to act and we all watched.

I remember two stories that we played, the first was about illiteracy and the second was about children vaccinations.

This is the one we played about illiteracy:

An illiterate woman, wearing the black abaya, is sitting at home while her husband is at work and her child is at school. The bell rings and she opens the door. The postman gives her an envelope and leaves. She opens the envelope to find a paper with red text written on it. She starts to talk to herself: "Oh my God. Something bad must have happened. Why is the text in red? It must be something really bad." She holds the paper, looking at the red letters and starts crying. "Oh, God help me. I hope my child and my husband are safe. Why is it red? Maybe my husband had an accident at work. Maybe he is in the hospital."

For those of us who were watching the play, this was the funniest part. We laughed with tears, looking at her holding the paper and crying.

Then her daughter or son (depending on the actor) comes home from school and finds her/his mother crying and shouting: "What happened? Oh my God, what happened?"

She/he takes the paper and reads: "Electricity bill for December 1979"

The mother stops crying and looks embarrassed. In that moment the father comes home and the daughter/son tells him what happened. The father turns to his wife and tells her: "You see my wife, reading is important to everyone. Not only for those who work. I will take you tomorrow to register you in the literacy center."

The wife replies: "Yes, I must go to school and learn how to read. Reading and writing is very important and I don't want to cry again because of an electricity bill."

The daughter/son gets very excited and says: "My mother will go to school and learn, just like me."

When the play ended and we clapped for the cast, the teacher started questioning around: "Who has someone illiterate in his family?"

Then she would ask those who raised their hands, who the illiterate person they knew was. Some said it was their mother or father but mostly it was their grandmother. The teacher then told them to go home and tell their parents or grandparents to register at one of the literacy centers, “because reading and writing is very important for everyone.”

I was always sad because we had no illiterate person in our family so I couldn't raise my hand nor get the mission to tell someone in my family to go to the literacy center.

Girls' Day Out

2016-04-21T23:21:00.001+02:00

It was the 2^ndof August 1990 when the Iraqi troops walked into Kuwait. In my opinion one of the biggest mistakes in modern history; but I don't want to talk about politics now. What happened, happened and we all had to pay and are still paying the price for that and a lot of other mistakes made by politicians all over the world.

Anyway after that day, things started to change dramatically in Iraq. After the first reaction of the international community that said: It is an internal Arabic matter in which it will not interfere, it was soon clear that if Iraq would not withdraw immediately from Kuwait, a big war was about to happen. As a result, the Iraqi government tried every possible way to keep the occupation of Kuwait and keep the war away. One of this ways was sending the people to the streets to protest against the upcoming war. On television the protests were called: "self-organized spontaneous protests". In reality, schools and government departments were instructed to send their students and employees to the streets to protest.

While the employees and teachers were not happy at all, having to walk for hours shouting slogans in the street, for us, students, anything other than school, homework and exams was most welcome.

We protested almost everywhere: in front of the American, British, French and Saudi Arabian embassies. I was 15 then and attending the Baghdad high school for girls. A day out for us girls was like a fun school trip. The first row was shouting slogans like: "down, down Bush. Long live Saddam." and "Bush, Bush! Listen well. We all love Saddam Hussein." and so on, while the back rows were busy talking, making fun of everything and everybody and gossiping. I was usually in the back, talking and laughing while moving with the crowd.

One day, I think it was the last time we went on a demonstration before the war broke out, we were walking in Haifa Street, heading to the British embassy. The street was filled with thousands of people shouting and holding Iraqi flags and slogans. My friends and I, a group of seven girls, were walking as usual at the end of our school group talking and talking when we suddenly noticed that we were not walking with our school anymore. We tried to find our teacher or anybody of our school but we couldn't find anyone. After running from one group to the other, we finally realized that our school went back with the bus that had brought us in the morning and left us behind. They forgot us! Going back on feet would have taken us at least one and half hour and we had no money with us to take a taxi.

We went to a police officer who was standing there to control the street blockades. We tried to explain what happened. We were all talking at the same time, that it was hard for him to follow our story. He took a deep breath and then shouted: "stop talking, all of you." We all shut up. Then he added "who is the class representative?" Fortunately, my friend was our class representative, so she stepped forward and told him the story. He said "fine I'll stop a minibus for you. The driver will take you to school free of charge." We all said: "But we can't go with a stranger. What if he kidnapped us?" First he laughed but then he noticed that we were serious. He told us: "You are seven girls, how can a single man kidnap you? If you start talking, he would immediately throw you out of the car." Still we had the warnings of our parents in mind and didn't want to take the risk. The policemen then said: "don't worry. I'll make sure he will take you to school safely." He stopped a minibus and told the driver to take us to our school. Then he took the driving license from the driver, wrote a note on a ticket and gave it to my friend, the class representative. He said: "When you arrive at school give this paper to the driver and he can come back to pick up his license."

At first, the driver looked a little bit surprised and he was not happy to give away his driving license, but then he took it easy. After all we were children between 14 and 15years. On the way back to school he was joking and saying that he shares the opinion of the police officer: "Why would anyone want to kidnap a bunch of loud-talking, crazy girls."

We got back to school and gave him the paper. We were missing for more than an hour and thought our teachers and colleagues would be looking for us, but when we arrived, the bell announcing the end of the school day was ringing and everyone was leaving. We took our bags from the classroom and left the school building.

No one noticed that we were missing.

From Nebuchadnezzar to Saddam Hussein, Babylon is rising again

2016-02-07T08:41:00.003+01:00

I remember the discussions of the people all over the country, sometime in 1985 or 1986, when former president Saddam Hussein ordered under the slogan: "From Nebuchadnezzar to Saddam Hussein, Babylon is rising again" to rebuild Babylon. The arguments went from: "He is ruining our history." to "Building over the ancient walls is the best way to save them for the future."
Well, no one asked us anyway and since most of the original Babylonian monuments were standing in museums all over the world, Babylon was for normal people (I mean not archeologists) a sight with more holes than ruins. So when the city was restored, one was able to get a feeling of how mighty Babylon must have been thousands of years ago. Moreover it offered a wonderful scene for an international festival, like the ones we knew from Verona in Italy and Jerash in Jordan.
This festival was the biggest cultural event in Iraq. Artistic groups, singers and musicians from different nationalities were invited to show their acts on one of three historic theatres in the ancient city.

Since the festival started in 1987, we used to go to see at least two shows every year. We saw Italien Operas, like: Le nozze di Figaro, la traviata and Il barbiere di Siviglia, breathtaking Russian ballet: the 12^thnight and 1001 nights as well as colorful and loud Spanish flamenco group shows. In 1992 we even had the chance to attend Kazem Al-Saher's concert, who was and still is the most popular Iraqi and Arab singer.
We never had the chance to see the opening nor the closing ceremony because the tickets were only for invited guests. That's why I was very excited when our Austrian friend, gave us four invitations for the closing ceremony because she and her group had to go back to Austria earlier than expected.

Although our car was in service and there was no one else who could take us, my mother, my two friends and I decided to go. The friend who gave us the tickets said that she had read on the leaflet they handed her out, that there were shuttle busses taking the foreign guests from the Al-Mansour Melia hotel to Babylon.

As we arrived at Al-Mansour Melia hotel on the morning of the closing ceremony, the lobby was full with people from all nations, the hotel staff and security staff.
We asked at the reception for the shuttle bus going to Babylon and it seemed to be a big puzzle. The receptionist went to ask another lady at the reception and then she went to the back office and came out in the company of a young man, who asked my mother what exactly she meant by a shuttle bus and who gave her this information. At last we ended up at a desk of a security officer, who had a badge with the text: "In charge of the delegations" on it. The lady who took us to him, told him: "this foreign lady and her three daughters want to take a bus to Babylon. They have invitations for today’s evening show."
The man looked at us with a big smile and said: "Who told you that we have busses going to Babylon?" My mother explained to him how we got the tickets and who told us about the bus. "Well" he said "We have busses for the delegations but not for locals. Each bus is dedicated to a group and has a translator and a security office on board. You cannot go with them."
When he ended the last sentence, he saw our disappointed faces and I think he felt sorry for us. So he added: "but I'll arrange for you to go with the bus of the Iraqi TV staff." He called one of the security men standing close by and talked to him. We thanked him and followed the man, he just instructed, to the bus. He told the driver: "Take the foreign lady and her three daughters with you." We accepted that they thought we were sisters and didn't bother to explain.

At last we were on the bus in the parking of the hotel. The bus was almost empty but slowly it got filled with the TV staff. Cameramen, sound technicians and 2 TV-hosts we knew from the daily news.

While we were waiting in the Bus, something wonderful and unexpected happened. A Silver Mercedes drove into the parking, stopped near the bus and out came Kazem Al-Saher. It was him! the most popular Arab singer, standing just a few meters from us. My friends and I ran out of the bus saying to each other: "It's Kazem! it's really him!" I don't know which one of us had the paper and the pen in her bag but we went to him and shook his hand. We introduced ourselves and asked him for an autograph. He was very nice and welcoming and wrote a personal autograph for each one of us. Years later I was silly enough to give my very personal autograph to a relative of mine. She was crazy about Kazem Al-Saher, but today I really regret it.

Full with joy, we got back on the bus and waited for it to move. Shortly before the bus started, a man we saw in the lobby before, jumped in and sat near the driver.

We had a good time on the bus. We laughed a lot and enjoyed listening to the stories of the TV staff.
One of the TV hosts was saying to the man sitting near him: "The singer who sang yesterday in Babylon was very stupid"
The other one asked: "Why? I like Basim."
"I like his songs too, but he was on the stage and told the people: "I'll sing a new song." and when the music started and the people began clapping he said: "sing, sing." holding the microphone to the audience. How can they sing if the song was a new song?" they burst into laughter.
Listening to such stories, the hour and fifteen minutes we needed to arrive to Babylon went by very fast.

We reached the parking of the city. We memorized the place of the bus so we can find it when we got back and started our way to the arena.

The sun was still shining on the ancient city. There was one color dominating the scene. Except for the turquoise replica of the Ishtar Gate and some palm trees, everything had the color of the yellow sand. The ground, the buildings and even the pale blue sky was covered by a sand veil.
After the security check we entered the big theater. I couldn’t see anyone from the people who were with us on the bus, except that man who came in shortly before we left. He sat a few rows behind us.
When it got dark the show finally started. First we had to listen to some speeches of the minister of culture and information, the organizer of the festival and some personalities I don't remember anymore. After that boring part, the final show finally began. It was a colorful fashion show by the Iraqi house of fashion. The show took us through the history of Iraq and Iraqi fashion. It started with the imaginative wedding of the Tigris and the Euphrates and moved through ages. The stage was full of lovely men and female models in stunning, colorful costumes. Joined by the sound of two speakers, a man and a woman, who told the story in Arabic and in English with music, light and sound effects.

The whole arena, holding thousands of people, was silent; everyone was caught up in the magical world on the stage and then, suddenly, when the show reached the Akkadian Empire, something exploded on the stage. We heard a loud blast that almost damaged our ears, some pieces went through the air and the smell of gunpowder and a dark smoke cloud filled the arena.
When the cloud was almost gone, we were able to see again. We saw that there was a hole in the middle of the stage. The artists were gone, the minister was standing surrounded by security and bodyguards and an incredible number of security officers were standing all over the theater, as if they came out of the ground. No one made a sound; only the security officers were moving and talking. Then fifteen minutes later the minister sat down again and the security officers started to disappear. The music started again and four men models came out carrying a big white piece of cloth, with which they covered the hole in the stage and the show went on. Nothing reminded of the explosion, except that the models had to change the path and walk on the side of the stage instead of the middle to avoid falling into the hole.

It wasn't till the next day that we got to know what happened. It was a problem with the pyrotechnics effects, and sadly one of the pyrotechnicians lost his arm while we were enjoying the show.

The show reached the end with the fashion of the current time, a big firework and a song in praise of Iraq and the government.

It was almost eleven thirty when we left the arena. The show was very nice but the explosion left a bad feeling that we couldn’t ignore. We went to the parking to take our bus but when we tried to get in, the driver told us: "sorry, you can't come back with me. I'm taking the Russian delegation back."
My mother told him: "This must be a joke. You can't leave us here! How are we going to go back?"
The driver made it clear that it was our problem and it didn't concern him. He just added: "I'm not allowed to take anyone except the Russians."

The bus left and we were standing in the parking like a herd of lost sheep. We didn't have a plan. Suddenly the man who was with us on the bus, the last one that joined us, came and said: "Oh good, I found you. I was looking for you. I lost you when you left the theater. Follow me."
We were really happy to see a familiar face and we had no better option than to follow him. He took us to an old bus and asked us to get on it. He sat in the front and we took the empty places in the middle. Most of the people on the bus were young men but there were also two women with maybe two or three children, who were sleeping. I still don't know if they were in Babylon to watch the show or if they were employees who worked for the festival. When we reached Baghdad, the man came back to us and asked my mother about our address. He went to the driver and talked to him and then came back to us again and said: "The driver will take you to your house." Then he smiled and said: "You know you gave me a hard time today. At the hotel my boss told me ‘Keep your eyes on the foreign lady and her three daughters and don't leave them unless you are sure they get home safe.’ He worried about you. I'm so happy my duty is over. This morning I didn't think I'll be spending my day in Babylon watching the closing ceremony. I wish you a good night."
We were surprised, touched and grateful that this man spent most of his day looking after us and at the end even saved us from a very bad situation. We thanked him a lot and left the bus.

The next day I wrote down all what happened on that special day because I didn't want to forget anything. It was the first, and I'm sure, last time in my life that I had an almost personal security guard.

The Rhythm of Bolero

2016-01-07T20:34:00.004+01:00

Yesterday I was searching YouTube for classic music when I stumbled upon Jorge Donn dancing to the rhythm of Ravel’s Bolero. The video took me back at least 30 Years. This Video was one of the time-fillers on the Iraqi TV in the 80s; mostly broadcasted before the 8 or 10 o’clock news. It was not the only wonderful music act used for filling the gaps between the programs, there was also Mozart’s requiem and his Opera The Magic Flute (a lovely and colorful cartoon version I couldn’t find on the net), the Swan Lake Ballet and some others I don’t remember anymore. But I like the Bolero most of all, and although it played in France, I had my own movie running in my mind whenever I listened to it.

I imagined that the war with Iran was over and the soldiers were rising slowly from the ruins of the battle and walking back to their families and loved ones. The more instruments start to play the more soldiers were walking home. When they reached Baghdad, the women and children came out of the houses and welcomed them. That was when Geraldine Chaplin starts singing: “Ahhhhh ahhhhh”. Finally everyone was home safe and sound celebrating the endless peace with the beat of the drums.

My dream came true on the 8^th of August, 1988 when the war ended. Hope and Happiness filled the country. It was the biggest Party I had ever seen. The whole country was celebrating and for the first time Iraqis didn’t celebrate with gun shots. No, instead of shooting in to the air, as they used to do on weddings or when Iraq won an important football game, they celebrated with water. Everybody was splashing water around. Turning the country into one big water splash party for almost a month.

Unfortunately, this happiness didn’t last for long, as in my dream.

We had only the chance to celebrate the first anniversary in 1989. The second was destructed by the loud drums of war announcing a new age of violence and misery.

Although the melody is not very joyful, listening to Bolero still fills my heart with hope.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zKTwvo8gx68&feature=related

Copyright

2015-12-14T17:34:00.001+01:00

When I came back to Vienna to settle down with my family, I had to prepare myself to be able to look for a job. As a first step, I decided to take all the 7 exams needed to obtain the ECDL (European Computer Driving License). I studied and went to the exam for the first module. It was a multiple chose test about computer essentials. The questions were very easy and I finished in half of the required time. I gave the test paper to the examiner and went out to wait for the result. He came out, called my name and gave me the test, saying: "congratulation you passed the exam."

I took the test and looked at the only mistake I made. The question was: if you buy software license, on how many devices are you allowed to install it?

A. 1B. 2

C. 5D. "As much devices as you like."

Well, now after living 12 years in Europe I can only laugh when I think back, because my answer was "D". I really thought that if I buy software I can install it on as many devices as I want, but really, I had a good reason to think so.

Most of the software we used in Iraq were copies of copies of copies. I hardly remember seeing an original floppy, or later a compact installation disk. I'm sure we had one software key on thousands of computers in the country. As if "copyright" was interpreted into “the right to copy.”

I don’t think anyone really bothered to think about it. No one would consider copying a CD as robbery. It was just common because long before software was copied, music tapes were also sold that way. We went to a record shop, gave them a list of songs, and an hour or two later we picked our cassettes up. If it was a really good record shop, they had originals and always made the copy directly from it. One could get almost everything from Arabic songs to classic music, operas and the newest international pop and rock albums. It was a little problem when I went to order a mix of song and I didn’t know the exact song title, because it was only clear for me what song I meant when I sang: "mmmmm hmmmmm yehhhh hmmmmmmmmm …." to the music in my mind; but for the seller,it was just the: "mmmmm hmmmm yehhh hmmmm …" That didn't sound like anything at all. So I preferred, to avoid embarrassment, to wait for maybe weeks till I find out the title of the song. Life was really hard before YouTube and Shazam.

Film tapes had a different story. I don't remember video shops in the 80s in Baghdad, but the video tapes (originals, copies or records from the TV) were lent from one person to another and spread by changing owners. Lent Tapes hardly found their way back to their original owner. Every family had missing video tapes and used family gatherings to ask questions like: "Did you take Gone with the wind?" or "Who has Grease?" and when they don't get an answer: "I will never lend a film to anyone of you again." It was a never ending story.

The really big turn in the copy business came with the embargo on Iraq and the invention of the CD. We could get anything on a disk: software, games, films and music. CD shops filled Baghdad and people were just hungry to be up to date with the rest of the world, since we had a strict ban on satellite dishes and almost no Internet. Even the free TV started to broadcast copies. It was a big event when the film Titanic came out in the U.S. and we saw it on free TV just a few weeks after the film prime. We prepared popcorn, drinks and blankets waiting for the film and then went teary-eyed to bed.

After that, the film song of Celine Dion "my heart will go on" was broadcasted almost every day as a background song when the closing credits of the TV Chanel were displayed.

At that time we didn't realize that we were also living on a Titanic that was slowly drowning into the sea.

Heart Shaped Pendant

2015-12-10T10:20:00.001+01:00

Today in my office, I was looking at the heart shaped ceramic pendant with an engraved "R" hanging from my table lamp. It was 7:30 in the morning and I was still alone. I went to open the window and the ice cold December breeze came in. Looking down at Vienna from the 10th floor, I went back in my mind to Baghdad in the middle of the 80s.

Itihad was the name of the shop I bought that lovely heart from. A unique shop and atelier in a side street of Al-Mansoor main road. The front was shaped like a red eye of an alien or a webcam. A modern design ahead of its time. The owner was the sculptor and artist Itihad Kareem. The shop was our number one destination for buying gifts. He had all kinds of traditional ceramic in modern designs beside his art collection of sculptures. I loved the pendants with letters or star signs on them. I'm sure I gave all my friends one of those pendants as a birthday present.

The sculptures were wonderful but for me, a school girl at that time, unaffordable. I didn’t even think of going near them. I just looked from a distance, far enough to make sure I can't break anything.

The most expensive piece I bought with my sister was a Christmas gift for my mother. A table lamp stand for a batik shade she got from her friend.

I sat back at my computer; I was still alone and had 5 minutes to Google Itihad Kareem. I wanted to find a picture of him or his shop, but unfortunately the only thing I found in the net, was an article reporting his death.

I hardly remember his face. I only remember the atmosphere of warmth and peace in his atelier and his low but clear voice.

He didn't live to be very old and I don't think he really got the fame he deserved as an artist and sculpture.

He lived in the future. Unfortunately, Iraq has still not caught up with the time he lived in. Instead, the country today is farther away from that future than it was in the early 80s.

Pomegranate and Lemon

2014-05-01T19:38:00.003+02:00

Every step I take, every move I make
Every single day, every time I pray
I’ll be missing you
Thinking of the day, when you went away.......
Every day we pray for you
Till the day we meet again....

This song was on the TV. I never really listened to the lyrics before. It's sad and three days after the 32nd anniversary of my father’s death, the sentence "till the day we meet again" made me think. What would I tell my father if I would meet him again?

A strange thought I know, but I wanted to imagine this situation.

"Hello Baba. I'm sure you recognize me. I know you were watching me all the past years. Wish you could have stayed longer. I missed you."

What he would say? I didn't think of that. I only thought of my part of the speech. I thought I could tell him "Wish you would have had the chance to meet your grandchildren" but no. Sure I wish he had, but I would be telling him he missed so much. Or I could say "Baba, I'm just selling the house you started to build" but I would be telling him I’m selling your dream of living in your house with your family. I want to tell him something that says: "you left but continued living in me."

I found it, this is what I'll tell him "Baba, I didn't get to know you well. You left so early. I tried my best to keep you in my memory and it was you who made it possible for me. I am so grateful for that one day you spent with me alone. As if you were giving me a gift for my life, a memory I can hold on to whenever I miss you or when I'm afraid I might forget you.

Do you remember that day? It must have been only a few weeks before you left. I was eight. You asked me on a Friday morning if I would like to join you. I had a soar throat but I wanted to go with you so I didn't tell you.I sat on the front seat in the car and I felt myself so grown up. We talked the whole way from our house to the street of Abu Noaas on the riverside of the Tigris. You told me that you have put the ashtray I gave to you on your birthday, on your desk in the office. I was so happy. I told you how I made that copper ashtray. You laughed because I gave you an ashtray but always asked you to stop smoking. Talking about smoking you lit a cigarette. You know when I recall your picture in my mind that's how I see you: a grey suite, a white shirt, your omega watch on your wrist and a cigarette in you hand. The smell of your aftershave and the smoke complete the picture.

Looking back, it was good you didn’t stop smoking. After all it was not the cigarette that killed you at 45.

You parked the car and I told you my throat is aching, you took me to the juice shop of Jabaar Abu el Sharbat and you bought me a pomegranate juice. You told me "the best medicine for a soar throat is pomegranate. If you can't get fresh juice you can take a spoon of pomegranate syrup. But the syrup is very sour, you will not like it." You know, three years later, I was sick and your mother gave me a dark red, almost black syrup. It was the pomegranate syrup you told me about. When I took a spoon-full in my mouth, I remembered you. It was so sour I thought my teeth will shatter. It was horribly sour. You were right I didn't like it.

Well, sure you remember what we did after that? We went to a traditional fish restaurant. I could never have gone there again as a grown up lady. They were only for men. But for an eight-year-old girl it was fine to join her father. We met two friends of you and I felt as if I was the most important girl in the universe. Although I'm sure that you talked with your friends, in my memory everyone was talking with me, from the restaurant owner to the nice waiter who served the grilled fish. I think I had to answer the questions "what's your name?" and "how old are you?" more than 5 times.

We ate the fish with our fingers. You showed me how to remove the bones carefully. I used to eat everything with you. I never hesitated to put a frog leg or a snail in my mouth as long as you were eating it too. You enjoyed food so much; watching you eat made me want to join you. After finishing the fish, you took me to the washing room to wash my hand. It seems you knew they had no soap. You picked the lemon slice from the plate and rubbed my hands with it and you told me one more thing I kept in mind since then "when you have no soap, use a lemon. It takes away the grease and the bad smell."

Those things, a lemon slice on a plate with fish, a spoon of pomegranate syrup I add to a salad dressing and a lot of other small details keep you present in my life.

Thank you Baba."

Meeting Muhammad Ali Clay

2011-12-14T09:57:00.000+01:00

screenshot

Of course we didn't get the news from the New York Times back in Baghdad in 1990. I googled it today and thought it will make a good start for my story.

We heard about the visit of Muhammad Ali from the local television and we were so excited that someone as great as him was visiting Baghdad. My sister totally adored him. She used to watch his fights when she was a little girl. As for me, well; I have somehow inherited this love, although I never really cared for boxing.

We decided to go and meet him. We knew that it won't be easy to find him but it's a once-in-a-life-time chance and we had to take it. Several locations in Baghdad were provided to host the state visitors. We recognized the place when they showed an interview with Muhammad Ali on TV. He was staying in a small resort on the Tigris side called the Weddings Island (before becoming a resort it was called the Pigs’ Island; even though I have never seen a single pig in Baghdad, but never mind).

We started our mission on Friday morning. My sister, her two best friends and I. We drove to the resort without a plan, as if we were expecting Muhammad Ali to be waiting for us at the entrance! Reaching the resort, we noticed how difficult our mission was; the resort was surrounded by safety barriers and about 50 guards to keep unauthorized people out. "OK, that won’t be easy!" we parked the car and headed to the checkpoint putting a big and helpless smile on our faces. The eyes of the guards were following us as we walked towards the one sitting at the checkpoint's gate. We greeted the man but he didn't even wait for us to end the phrase, he stood up and told us "You shouldn't be here. The state visitors are staying in the resort and locals are not allowed to enter!" We all cried out at once "Please, we want to meet Muhammad Ali." He just laughed and turned his back on us. But we didn't give up. We followed him and started to explain how important it was for us to meet him and that we adore him. We were all talking at the same time that we sounded like a bunch of chattering chicken.

The guards started gathering and looking at us as if we were aliens. Trying to meet a celebrity is not a usual seen in Baghdad. We talked and argued with him but it seemed that he didn't care. We were almost giving up when one of the guards (he looked important) came out of a van and told us to follow him. We walked with him towards our car, while the rest of the guards slowly went back to their position. When we reached the car he asked us: "What do you want from Muhammad Ali?" "We want to take pictures with him and shake his hand!" "That’s all? You were arguing for half an hour, just to take a picture with him?" "Yes, yes!" he smiled and said: "I'll take you to him on two conditions: first you don't tell anyone that I did and second you take a picture of me with Muhammad Ali too." He made a short pause then added: "and you bring the developed photo to me, OK? Or I will have to find you!" Yepppiiii that's easy, isn't it? Ammm, but was the last sentence a threat? OK, we will bring him his photo for sure. Why would we keep it?

We all got in to the car; he sat on the front seat and gave a sign with his hand to the guards to open the gate. We were all silent as if we were afraid to say anything that might make him change his mind. We drove slowly through the resort. The place was full of security guards who looked surprised to see us. He told us to stop in front of one of the small houses. He stepped out of the car and went to a group of guards standing there. He talked to them and they all laughed out lowed (I'm sure they were joking about us). He came back telling us that Muhammad Ali was in the restaurant having lunch. We drove to the restaurant holding our breath "please let him be there". Again lots of guards were surrounding the place. He opened the window and asked one of them: "Is Muhammad Ali inside?" "Haaaaaa? Who is Muhammad what?" the man replayed "The Boxer Muhammad Ali, is he inside?" "Ah, the big one, yes, yes he just went inside."

At last, we did it. We went into the restaurant and saw him sitting at the head of a large table with his delegation. Our companion was greeting the guards and freeing the way for us to get through. One of the gentlemen standing near Muhammad Ali came to us and told us: "don't stay long. Say Hello; take your pictures and leave. Lunch will be served in minutes, OK?" he turned back and told Mr. Muhammad Ali: "The girls came to meet you!" Muhammad Ali turned his head and looked at us with a smile on his face and stood up. "God is he BIG!!!" when I shook his hand my hand totally disappeared in his. You know I don't remember what we said. I think we just kept repeating "hello, nice to meet you, blah blah blah…" we were too excited to build a meaning full conversation. Never mind, we did it. We shook hands, took several pictures with him and of course took two pictures of Muhammad Ali with our guardian Angel. We left the restaurant with shining faces. We thanked our companion for his efforts and kindness and we promised to bring him the photos as soon as they are developed and he reminded us again "If you don't bring them I'll have to find you!" "Hmm, OK, we will bring them don't worry."

We developed the film a month later. By that time the resort was emptied and the smell of war was filling the air. We didn't search for him and he didn't find us. I still feel guilty when I go through my photos and see him smiling next to Muhammad Ali Clay.

I Will Never Forget Mr. Laszlo

2011-10-16T23:02:00.000+02:00

Mr. Laszlo was a Hungarian musician working in Baghdad. He was a member of the Iraqi philharmonic orchestra in the 80’s and on top of that, he had the hard job of teaching me music. I wasn’t the worst 10-year-old student he ever had, but I wasn’t a natural talent either. It is not the music he taught me that kept him in my mind; actually I haven’t played any instrument for more than 10 Years. What made him so unforgettable are the things that happened to him while teaching me. The last time I saw him I had the feeling he was very happy that it was the LAST TIME.

One day we were sitting on our corner sofa and I was holding the guitar trying to do what he just taught me. Playing the guitar looks very easy but learning to play it is very hard. At least it was for me. He wanted to help me, so he sat beside me on the sofa arm. I was just about to warn him when I heard a sound like “CRACK” and the next thing I saw, was Mr. Laszlo and the sofa arm lying on the ground. His face turned red, he stood up holding the sofa arm in his hand and repeating un-understandable words of apology. I tried hard to keep myself from laughing out loud. I fixed the sofa telling him not to worry and that it was broken before he sat on it. He looked at me and said: “And why didn’t you tell me?” “Hmm, I was just about to tell you!!!” but I don’t think he believed me. I could almost see his thought bubble “Little girl trying to get rid of her music teacher…”

Our lessons were once a week. He used to come to our house; we started with a guitar lesson and then the piano. He taught me how to read music, but I used to learn the music pieces by heart. I watched his long artist’s fingers and copied every move in my mind. For the piano this method worked very well but it didn’t work at all for the guitar. His fingers moved too fast so I was unable to memorize the movements. I told my mom that my fingertips were sore from pressing the guitar strings (WHAT??? Believe me, they really were!!!) so we stopped the guitar lessons. I’m sure he was very pleased when we told him.

Another piano lesson started and Mr. Laszlo was sitting on the chair beside me at the piano. We didn’t have a typical piano bench, so we used the chairs of the dining table instead. My chair had no arms but the one he used to sit on had iron chair arms with a sharp edge. I played my homework and we went through the mistakes I made. I played it again and again while listing to him saying “Tempo tempo… Pamm pamm pamm … pamm pamm pamm …” At the end we were both happy with the result. I played the Mozart piece without mistakes and with the right TEMPO. He looked at me happily and with pride. He Stood up to pick a music book that was on the piano and honestly I was just about to warn him but it was again toooooooo LATE. “OUUUUCH” just thinking of what happened gave me the creeps. He came down with all his weight and sat on the edge of the iron chair arm. He jumped up with a silent scream and sat down immediately. He tried to hide his pain or maybe his tears? He didn’t say a word; he pressed his lips together and started to play the piano. He played wonderfully and very loud, not tickling but hitting the ivories. By the end of the music piece, (he played it three times) he was relaxed again. He turned to me and said: “This is your homework for next week. Good bye” he stood up and went without waiting for my mom to pay him for the lesson as usual. What was that? Did he cry out after slamming the door? No, no, I’m sure it was just my imagination!!!
I wasn’t sure if he would ever come again, but I was happy when he did. Even if it’s hard to believe, I loved playing piano. I only hated the learning process and wished I was talented enough to play anything I liked right away.

The lessons went on for a while without accidents, until one day he came early and asked to talk with my mom. We didn’t really understand what he was trying to say. We had this little communication problem. Although we speak and understand both English and German, it was hard for us to decode his mix of English and broken German. We thought he was telling us that his wife and daughter are invited to a party and need some clothes for the occasion. We also thought that he was asking us to help them out with some old stuff we didn’t need any more. I found it strange, but well why not! At the end he said “I will be leaving Iraq by the end of next month”. I was sorry to hear that he will leave and that my lessons will stop, but he promised to find me a new teacher before leaving.

My mother prepared a bag with some old dresses we didn’t wear anymore and kept it near the piano to give it to him next time he comes. At the end of the next lesson I gave him the bag. He looked with surprise at me and asked: “what’s this?” I told him it was the clothes he asked my mom for. He opened his eyes wide and said: “No, no, no, I want give old stuff before leaving to Hungary!!!” Ooopppsss, I got it. He was trying to get rid of old clothes before traveling back home. Do you know this feeling when you wish you could vanish? This moment was so ridiculous and embarrassing that I wished it would never have happened. I felt the blood flushing into my face when I put the bag down. I told him that I was very sorry for the misunderstanding. He looked at me and murmured something I didn’t really understand (maybe it was Hungarian?). When he left I thought “ok, that was embarrassing but at least he didn’t get hurt this time”.

He came one last time the next week. It was not a spectacular lesson. He told me that if I would concentrate more on learning how to read music I would be able to play anything I’d like. He gave me some training tips and home work. He didn’t recommend a friend (strange isn’t it?) (Maybe he didn’t want the substitute teacher to face the same misfortune accidents!). He said he couldn’t find a substitute. He shook my hand and said “Good bye and good luck ……….”

Good bye Laszlo I will never forget you and you will always bring a smile to my face whenever you cross my mind.

In memory of my lost country

2011-09-02T22:23:00.000+02:00

I can’t believe that nine years have already passed since we left our house heading to our farm in a small village, about 60 km north of Baghdad. The house there was built in a way good enough to spend a day there but not to host 36 people for almost one month.

It had four rooms and a toilet that we modified into a bathroom, but don’t ask me “HOW?”

We spent the whole war period there; a time full of hard work, fear and worries about the future.

Hard work in a way that we had to do things the way they were done 70 years ago: heating water on the oil heater for bathing, cooking and washing dishes. Washing our clothes in a big bowel sitting almost on the floor and then hanging them on the ropes we span on the trees. Digging holes to bury the sewage coming out of the WC and a lot more things I only knew from the stories of my grandmother. And still that was only the fun part now I come to the second part, the feeling of fear: a feeling I knew well from the previous wars but I experienced it in a new perspective, having two little children.

I used to sleep with them trying to keep our heads close together so if any thing happens it will happen to all of us, the fear of loosing someone or keeping someone behind was the greatest.

I still recall that moment when that loud sound came from the sky as if something was falling, a sound that could only end with a big BOMM tearing all of us in pieces. I was outside and my children in the house. I only knew that I ran as fast as I could to be with them and put our heads together, but thank God nothing happened. The sound ended with nothing. On the next day we learned that this sound had a name; “Sound Bomb” as if the real sounds of the real bombs falling all over the country all day long was not enough. Should I really say something about the least part, the one about the worries? Actually it is still going on and it has never ended ever since. It has just changed: first they were about when the war will end, and when we will go back to our home and what will come after. Now I know that what came after was just what we were afraid of at most. We made our way back to Baghdad. “The war has stopped” they said, but the streets were telling another story; The burned-out military vehicle on the road side, the mud covering the streets, the damaged check points, and the chaos were telling a sad story of a country that fell. Nothing looked the same, not even the people. Something was missing in their faces. They were all strangers. I never really went back home. A home is where everything is safe and familiar, and that was taken away from us the day they killed Baghdad. I left Iraq with eyes full of tears to offer my children a safe and stable life. But I’ll keep telling them not to forget that once, we had a house with two palm trees at the front and we were happy and safe until …