Rain over Baghdad: A Novel of Iraq (6 page)

“I don’t want to know who misbehaved toward whom.”

I found out a few days later that Izak had been reprimanded and forbidden to travel with us for a long time. We avoided the Soviet correspondents after that whenever we met. It seemed that his colleague had informed his bosses about the incident and they dealt with him harshly. I held my peace after that and avoided talking with all men. I turned into a listener unless I was the one asking the questions or gathering material for a feature. Several factors contributed to keep my attitude that way for years.

We received a lot of information and news about the Kurds, some officially in the morning and other items unofficially in the
evening. We got some of that informal information from Hilmi Amin’s meetings with Iraqi intellectuals and some of it from Hatim and his factory colleagues. Where did Iran fit in all of this?

I asked myself at the time, “What would a country do if it found thousands of refugees crossing its borders from the Saffayn mountains to its land? It had to set up camps for them until the crisis was over. But was the Shah supporting the Iraqi Kurdish secession? And why did he do that when he had his own Kurds who also would want to secede from his rule? Was America behind all the troubles in the region? Why? What is its interest? What exactly do the Kurds want? Who are they? What is their history?”

I started collecting material about the history of the Kurds. Hilmi Amin decided to submit to the Iraqi Ministry of Information a list of books that
al-Zahra
bureau could prepare in collaboration with the ministry, foremost among which would be a book on the Kurds and autonomy. The official in charge of these affairs in the ministry agreed to the project, promising to provide hotel accommodations, to give us freedom of movement, and to allow us to gather as much information about the Kurds’ conditions as we cared to and meet whomever we wanted to meet.

Did we meet Anhar at that time? Yes. In various places in Baghdad and elsewhere during celebrations and conferences. But she hadn’t started to work with us yet. She joined us a short time later.

I noticed some commotion around me. The official in charge of the VIP lounge came himself to tell us that the bus was waiting for us outside. There was a sudden flurry of activity and we started moving, welcoming the news despite the fact that the plane had been delayed for a whole hour. We knew that the wait at Amman airport was seven hours, so, spending one of those seven hours at the Cairo airport was not such a bad thing. We boarded the plane as if it were our private jet. Salma sat next to me and gave me a piece of chewing gum, saying, “I am very tired. I didn’t sleep at all last night. Now I can sleep for an hour and get some rest and energy.”
She fell asleep as soon as she shut her eyes. The knocks on the door of my memory wanting to come through got louder. I had been overwhelmed in my work life by the tumultuous events that put me face to face with what was authentic and deep-rooted in the Iraqi experience. I had to start from Kufa when a star in the sky of my memory shone, opening the way for the flood of days to follow.

I felt compelled to visit Kufa because of what I had read and heard about the tragedy of the conflict between the Alids (who supported Ali) and the Umayyads and the story I heard from my Iraqi women neighbors in which they asserted that in the center of town was a spring that erupted under Noah’s ark, raising it gradually and causing the flood to begin. The bureau organized a trip to Najaf and Kufa. We went at seven in the morning to the Allawi stop in down-town Baghdad and we rode in one of the Ford intercity cabs. Hilmi Amin and I had each visited both towns previously, but we had not been together. I noticed a large number of tombs covering an expansive stretch of land a few miles before the entrance to Najaf. I said, “Look at all these tombs.”

Hilmi Amin said, “The Shia are buried in Najaf to be close to Imam Ali; as for al-Husayn, he is buried in Karbala.”

“Isn’t al-Husayn buried in Egypt?” I asked.

He said, “Most likely that’s a myth. They say that his friends carried his head and escaped, taking it with them. They said that they carried his body and buried it in Cairo or in Syria or in some secret tomb here in Iraq. But whether he was buried here or buried there, he will always be an eternal symbol for martyrdom.”

“Do you remember the play
al-Husayn the Martyr
and the problems it created?”

“Of course. Abd al-Rahman al-Sharqawi is my friend. Al-Azhar could not tolerate his vision.”

“We need to get these minds working again.”

“This is exactly what an intellectual should do. He should look at history impartially except for his thoughts and what he believes
to be true, not those things imposed on him. In other words, he should use his reason and put it to work.”

We got out of the car. We encountered a small town that looked like all desert towns with its few large houses covered with lead-colored cement paint. We walked downtown on its main commercial street. I saw stores covered with small mirrors cut up in Arabesque geometrical lines. I said, “These are Najafi mirrors.”

“Charming. Let’s go buy some cigarettes first.”

I said, “But these mirrors are used as emblems of what is false or not authentic. When an Iraqi says ‘Najaf’ he means it is not genuine, an imitation. Because the gleaming lights are reflections on the mirrors and are not captured. That’s what I understood.”

He said, “No, it is not because of the mirrors but rather because the people of Najaf during World War II were famous for manufacturing car chassis and spare parts and they called that skill ‘Najafi craft style.’”

We entered a store. I said, “Can I please have a pack of Sumer cigarettes?”

The store owner said, “Are you from Egypt? Home to Abd al-Wahab, Umm Kulthum, and Shawqi?”

I said, “Yes. Do you like artists?”

He said, “Yes. And I mean Ahmad Shawqi.”

I noticed many poems hanging on the wall. I asked, “This is traditional amudi poetry. Who’s the poet?”

He said, “This is real authentic poetry. Poetry is amudi poetry. These are my poems. We are all poets here.”

We took another car to Kufa. We were struck by the Wadi of Khadd al-Adhraa, thirty-five thousand feddans of rice, a green carpet that the eye cannot encompass. I did not expect the history of the world to be awaiting me here in the country, along with such a special mosque. I saw people circumambulating around twelve shrines and praying a predetermined number of prostrations at each. I began with the Sayyidna Ibrahim shrine where according to tradition he used to pray. On a sheet of parchment it said to perform
four prostrations. I stood a short distance from the shrine of Sayyidna al-Khidr, who enjoys a special status among Egyptians. Here two prostrations were prescribed. Then I got to Ali ibn Abi Talib’s court, called Bayt al-Qada’. An elderly lady came up to me and asked why I didn’t buy an abaya after she noticed that I had borrowed one from a nearby store that lent out abayas to female visitors. Then I found out that two prostrations were recommended. I did not know beforehand that the Prophet Muhammad had visited Iraq but it was related that when he was taken on his midnight journey to the seven heavens, the angel Gabriel said to him, “Do you know where you are now, Muhammad? You are in front of the Mosque of Kufan.” The Prophet, peace be upon him, asked for permission that he may perform two prostrations and he descended and performed prayer there. At the shrine for Adam’s atonement, two prostrations were prescribed. Imam Ali’s place of prayer was marked by a shrine and so was that of Zayn al-Abidin. There was another shrine, Bayt al-Tasht, then the last one belonged to Imam Jaafar al-Sadiq.

A little girl asked me, “Why don’t you pray?”

I explained to her that we were on a working visit and that we would come some other time. The place was quite awe-inspiring. Did the flood actually begin here? Or in one of the other places that compete for the credit? I went out to al-Sahla Mosque, which was the house where the Prophet Idris sewed and prayed, then to the garden of Muslim ibn Aqil, the first Shia martyr. We asked about the house of Sayyidna Ali and they pointed to a very small house no bigger than the house of a poor Egyptian peasant in Egypt. It was built of mud bricks and comprised one room, one hall, and a water well. I saw on the walls three line drawings of Imam Ali in front of Iraq’s famous date palm trees. I stood among the people as they sobbed fervently. I found myself catching the mood so I hurried out as my tears flowed profusely. I said, “Sayyidna Ali refused to live in the official amir’s residence and preferred this modest house to it.”

Hilmi Amin said, “This is a true revered scholar among the companions of the prophet.”

I said, “I loved the way he sat in judgment and how he decided his cases. I loved his truthfulness and his sacrifice, even though it is impossible to compare him to Umar ibn al-Khattab because of Umar’s charisma and his legend, which has reached us in a more dazzling manner in Egypt, but I don’t know why I love Sayyidna Ali better, regardless of the politicized problem that divided the Muslim community because of the fight over the caliphate.”

He said, “Politics has deposited all of its poison on this land and the result was the killing of all members of the family of the Prophet, peace be upon him, and the victory of the merchants, Nora.”

I said, “This is the Marxist interpretation of the events of Islamic history.”

Laughing, he said, “We’ll talk about the Marxist interpretation later. For now we have to see the palace, then the mosque.”

A short distance from where we were, I read a sign on a small piece of wood that said “The Amir’s Palace,” and saw an arrow pointing at a big crater with the rubble of the foundation of a building and nothing more. This palace had been built by Saad ibn Abi Waqqas when he built the mosque of Kufa and had it not been for a famous incident, the palace would still be standing. It was related that Abd al-Malik ibn Marwan sat, placing the head of Mus‘ab in front of him. Abd al-Malik ibn Umayr said to him, “O Commander of the Faithful, I sat with Ubayd Allah ibn Ziyad in this place and the head of al-Husayn ibn Ali, peace be upon him, was in front of him. Then I sat with al-Mukhtar ibn Ubayda and, lo and behold, the head of Ubayd Allah ibn Ziyad was in front of him. Then I sat with Mus‘ab, and lo and behold, Mukhtar’s head was in front of him. Then I sat with the Commander of the Faithful and Mus‘ab’s head was in front of him. I pray to God to guard against placing the Commander of the Faithful in such an evil spot.” The Commander of the Faithful said, “May God not show you the fifth (head),” and he right away commanded that the palace be demolished.

I went to Sayyidna Ali’s majlis. It was very crowded with people moving about or praying, each carrying a piece of clay that they
placed on the floor in such a way that their foreheads ended up touching it when completing their prostration.

I said, “Isn’t this a form of idolatry?”

He said, “No. It’s a piece of the soil of Karbala blessed by al-Husayn’s martyrdom there. It’s just a belief.”

I said, “Do you see how people touch this sundial? It has dwindled with the passage of time and now has the same stature as a human body. Thank God for the spread of scientific knowledge, otherwise we’d wake up one day and find ourselves worshiping idols again.”

We performed a prayer as a greeting to the mosque and toured the place honoring Sayyidna Ali, his majlis, and his life. Then we went downtown where we chose an inexpensive restaurant serving tikka with rice and freshly baked bread. We sat down to eat, pleased with our work so far. Then we started snapping photos and talking with people again until we got tired. Time passed quickly and we didn’t have a chance to visit Karbala, site of the famous battle around which much lore has been spun and which ended with the killing of Sayyidna al-Husayn, may God be pleased with him. We decided to visit it at some point in the future. We hired a car to take us back to Baghdad. I remembered Abd al-Wahab al-Bayyati’s lines of poetry: “For more than a thousand years people have been weeping for the martyr of Karbala whose shed blood still colors the water and the palm trees in the evening.”

I didn’t find Hatim at home and when he came home later he told me that he had to go to the bank to transfer money to his brother Imad. I was tired and did not want to go into a discussion that would spoil my day. I went to bed in silence. He followed me, saying, “Why are you angry? I’ve told you before that I have to share what money I make with my brother.”

I said, “You don’t have that right any more since we were blessed with Yasir.”

He said, “When my father died leaving behind five young children, my brother took the responsibility all by himself because I went to Germany, as you know.”

I said, “And your father left them enough and then some. And you gave up your inheritance so they could continue their education and so that your mother would feel that she was still in control of things. And I have no objection to that at all.”

He said, “My brother could have gone to work in any Arab country and abandoned my siblings, but he has chosen to stay in Egypt for their sake. Therefore he is entitled to share what money I make here.”

I said, “But you don’t share his profit from the business he set up thanks to your father’s properties and you don’t have a share in the income of his wife the doctor nor a share in his good health and progeny. Only God can distribute his bounty, not you.”

He said, “Nora, you are a reasonable woman and I have never deceived you. Ever since we came to Baghdad I have decided to split our savings and give him his share. So, why are you upset now?”

I said, “You and I and our son are already paying a price by being away from home and family and being separated from each other, while they are taking the fruit of our labor without sharing in the labor. You want to give him a large sum as a gift? That’s fine. But to take a share of our livelihood for life? That won’t happen.”

He said, “Well then you’ll have to accept my going back to Egypt to look after my siblings and reverse roles, and he and his wife can go to work abroad.”

I said, “I am tired. Let me go to sleep.”