The Girl from Baghdad (16 page)

My mother was kneeling on the bathroom floor in a pool of blood.

‘Get out of here, Michelle, don't come in! Leave me alone!' she screamed. She was sobbing, trying to gather something with her hands and cleaning the blood scattered around her.

‘What did you do? What happened?'

‘Don't look! Get out! Close the door!' she yelled hysterically.

I was petrified. I didn't understand what was happening, but I couldn't take my eyes off the bloodied baby she had between her legs.

‘Go away!' she ordered again.

I ran to the telephone but I didn't know who to call. Where was my father? I ran outside to the street and knocked on our neighbour's door, screaming desperately for her to come. She followed me into the house and I led her towards the bathroom. She locked herself inside with Mum. I remained outside with my hands clasped together, breathing fast. I heard Mum crying, her distressed movements and our neighbour telling her to calm down and take deep breaths.

The door opened a fraction and our neighbour appeared, poking her shoulders through the crack. I couldn't see Mum, just the bloodstained floor.

‘Call an ambulance,' the woman instructed.

‘How is she? Would you let me in!' I shouted hysterically. ‘I want to come in!' I was convinced my mother had died.

‘It's better you stay outside. Do as I say, call an ambulance.' I don't know how I was able to dial the number, but the ambulance arrived soon after. The bathroom door opened and I saw our neighbour help Mum get up off the floor. Her face was drained of colour, she could barely stand. She held a bundle of rags tightly under her arm and her clothes were soaked with blood. She staggered to the stretcher.

The paramedics carried her to the ambulance, closed the doors in a hurry and sped off, sirens blaring. I stayed at the front gate with the neighbour. She hugged me and told me not to worry; Mum would be better soon. She would take care of my sisters and me in the meantime.

My mother was in hospital for two weeks. We went to see her with Dad. She was ashen faced and looked very weak. Although she was happy to see her daughters, she barely greeted Dad. He told us to wait outside the room so he could be alone with her. I heard him from the hallway as he explained where he had buried the baby. Mum turned away. She didn't want to see him, much less speak to him. We left shortly afterwards.

Dad left us at Kasside's house, where we were to stay until our mother returned from the hospital. I thought of Mum constantly during those two weeks, but I wasn't allowed to visit her alone. My aunts, apart from Ahlam, had no interest in seeing her.

One evening, I heard my father speaking with Kasside
about what had happened. My aunt spoke bluntly about my mother.

‘She wasn't able to give you a son. It's all her fault the baby was stillborn. I'm sorry for you, poor brother. We've also got to think about your future, but now it's the girls we need to worry about.'

‘They'll stay with me.'

‘Of course, Mohamed, and with us. They belong in this family. Actually, you should bring them around more often. Leave them in this house for a while. It would be better if they came to live here. I'm saying it mostly for Raghdde. She's almost fourteen years old and somebody has to keep an eye on her. At that age girls want to do as they see fit.'

‘Jana will object.'

‘They're your daughters, Mohamed.'

That same evening, I begged my father to take us back home. I didn't say anything to him about what I had heard. I just promised him with the help of the neighbour, I would mind Linda and Klara. I also promised we would be good and helpful. He didn't agree, but I insisted. I used the excuse of needing our schoolbooks, which we had left at home. Plus, Mum would be released from the hospital soon, so we wouldn't be alone for very long.

After returning home from hospital, Mum wasn't the same. The first few days, she was almost always in bed.
She barely ate and looked as frail as a wounded bird. She was still very pale and continued to haemorrhage heavily. To try to make her smile, I brought her a glass of tea or a little bit of baklawa. I had to insist she taste it and she had to force herself to finish it to make me happy. I stayed by her side to keep her company and told her stories to distract her. Although she was still in physical pain and mental shock from what had happened, she hoped to be back on her feet as soon as possible; she didn't want us to bear the burden of the housework, even if our maid Um Butrus still came every day to deal with most of the domestic duties.

Dad was hardly ever around. He came home every now and then in the evening, but rarely stayed to sleep. He primarily came to see the three of us girls, playing out the charade that nothing had changed. In reality, he and Mum had practically stopped speaking. Now, more than ever, she was the one who seemed to harbour resentment towards him.

Dad then started to do suspicious things. He filled enormous bags with his personal belongings, loaded them in the car and took them away. Those suitcases left with him and never returned. If we asked about them, he responded evasively, saying that they were just his clothes and it made his life easier to take them to Bibi's house. But when we went to my grandma's house, there was no trace of those suitcases.

Mum didn't come with us anymore. When we left on our usual trips to Bibi's house she and Dad didn't say a word to each other. The dreadful silence was broken only by Linda's voice as she pulled Dad by the arm towards the car parked outside.

The atmosphere had also changed at our aunts' respective houses. When Linda, Klara or I entered a room, everyone went quiet as if our presence was embarrassing. I spent the days with my cousins as I had always done. I didn't think that these adult problems would contaminate our friendships. But I was wrong.

If I crept silently around my grandma's big house, I would often hear Bibi and Kasside speaking with Dad and making plans for us three girls. Eventually they decided we should live with them. At that point, I ran to Ahlam in search of consolation, but she calmly reiterated what was going on, ‘You see, Michelle, your mum isn't well. She can't take care of you girls anymore. You and your sisters would be better off here. We'll take care of you.'

I was confused. I couldn't believe that distancing myself from my mother was really the best solution.

Sitting alone in the corner of the living room, I looked around thinking about how I had once been happy here. Nothing seemed the same to me anymore. The long afternoons in these rooms, the games with my cousins, the laughter and my aunts' affection, the big lunches, the
parties, the afternoon naps when we all dozed together. Where had it all gone? Was it lost forever? I wanted everything back: my old happy family, my peace of mind. I felt like my world had broken into fragments, and that nothing could ever reassemble the pieces.

Everything I had filled my days with lost its significance: my relationship with Uday, the afternoons with Dani, school, playing with my friends. All of a sudden, everything seemed futile to me. I could have continued to pretend everything was all right – which was exactly what my family suggested I do – but it was clear that this would have just been an illusion.

After six months recovering in bed, Mum forced herself to make breakfast for us before we left for school in the morning. Her pretty green eyes were full of sorrow, yet she was always able to give me a smile. I went to school with Linda and Klara but I was always distracted, my mind full of confused thoughts.

I continued seeing Uday a few times a week. Mum gave me permission to go to the club with Dani, as she understood I needed that break from what was going on with our family. I had stopped talking to her about Uday, and maybe she thought we had stopped seeing each other, although we had been dating for nearly a year by then. Time flew without me realising it. Uday and I would only meet at Al Sayade, and our relationship
remained confined within the club walls. We spent the afternoons together playing tennis, going to concerts and shows. Even though we were getting to know each other, our relationship was still very innocent. I was only a young girl and he would always be the son of Saddam. We never went further than chaste kisses.

In the space of a year so much had changed. I couldn't remember how long it had been since Dad had spent a night at home. Bizarrely, he continued to stop by almost every afternoon. It was his way of pretending that he was still part of the family. On one afternoon when Uday phoned, Dad walked into the house.

‘Hello?'

‘It's me. I finally get to talk to you! Where have you been?' his voice rang out happily. I looked at my father fearing that he would discover everything.

‘Who is it?' he queried.

Pressing the receiver against my chest so he wouldn't hear Uday's voice, I hastily replied, ‘It's Dani. She called to see how I am. I haven't seen her for a while.'

I don't know if he believed me, but he threw me a doubtful look. Then, distracted by the things he had to do, Dad let me carry on with the phone call. I don't think Dad knew anything about my relationship with Uday. I certainly didn't have permission to talk on the phone with a boy – whoever he might be. Uday often called me when he didn't see me at Al Sayade, and my
father picked up the phone more than once. ‘Hello? Hello? Honestly! Who is this?' he'd ask. Then he'd hang up annoyed when there was no answer.

‘Hello? Are you still there?' Uday's voice boomed out, strong and clear. I looked for my father. Fortunately he was already in the other room.

‘I'm still here. I told Dad I'm on the phone with Dani so he'll leave me alone. But speak quietly, for the love of God. If Dad figures it out, there will be hell to pay,' I whispered.

‘How come you haven't shown yourself round these parts? It's been a week since you've been here. In a month I'll have seen you just twice.'

‘Um, I've had a lot to do at school. You know, exams,' I lied. Uday was right. Lately I had tried to stay away from the club. I had never spoken to him about all that had happened at my house. For months I had continued to hope that the storm would pass.

Uday must have picked up on something from the tone of my voice. ‘Is everything okay?' he asked.

‘Yes, of course,' I replied with fake confidence. ‘I've just been really busy.'

‘The afternoons are really empty without you, princess,' he added, seemingly upset. I suddenly wanted to tell him to wait for me so I could run to him, but I felt very removed from this romantic delusion.

‘When are we going to see each other?' he continued.

‘Soon. Maybe next week.'

‘I'll wait for you then. There's a nice show on Wednesday evening. Meet me at our usual table, okay?'

‘Yes, of course. I'll be there,' I lied again, knowing very well that wouldn't be the case. With a lump in my throat I croaked, ‘I've got to go now. We'll see each other soon. Bye.'

I hung up the phone without hearing his goodbye. I stared mute at the wall for a few seconds, thinking of the date I wouldn't keep, and those that would have followed had Uday kept calling.

I didn't know this would be our last conversation. I wouldn't see him again. I went back to the club a few times, but he wasn't there. Maybe our paths weren't destined to cross again. He attempted to call me once after that, but I didn't reply; I couldn't respond anymore. I slowly surrendered to the fact that our love story had ended. Perhaps one day, I thought without regret, we would meet again.

For a while I hardly went out in the afternoons. I saw Dani every now and then but never at the club. The first few times she asked why I wasn't there I made up some type of excuse, saying I couldn't go with her. She told me about Uday, about what he was up to at the club. It seemed that he was moving on easily and that my absence hadn't particularly pained him. I was hurt. Maybe for him our relationship was just an indulgence
that had lasted longer than usual, although I didn't want to believe I had been wrong about his intentions. Perhaps Uday simply suffered in silence. I tried to imagine his reactions, his thoughts, his gestures. Then I quickly returned to reality and reminded myself that I had to stop fantasising and simply try to forget him. I didn't need anything more to worry about, my home life was already complicated enough.

My parents remained tense and withdrawn, and now Dad was becoming even more emotionally distant from Klara, Linda and me. Even though he still found the time to take us to Bibi's and our aunts' houses and exchange a few conversational words, he became increasingly cold. He continued taking bags and boxes of things from our house. I didn't ask questions. There was no trace of the removed items at Bibi's house. Who knew where he was taking them all?

I confided to Dani about what was happening to my parents, but I didn't have the courage to talk about it openly with the rest of my friends. My pride and her embarrassment caused us to see each other less frequently outside school and limited our chats to frivolous, inconsequential matters. I remember she spoke to me for hours about an American singer she was infatuated with. I tried to listen, but it all seemed so trivial to me. Dani wished she could go to the US to get his autograph. She talked about it as if it were a matter of life and death.
She may have thought that she was distracting me from my troubles, and she didn't know any another way to show her affection.

Instead, I found I spent more time with the girls I grew up with: Bàn and Otůr, and sometimes Dani joined us. We strolled around the block or hid beneath a tree in Dani's garden, attempting to roll cigarettes. We had never smoked and it felt particularly rebellious. Dani was the most experienced and she took the first puff. Bàn started coughing immediately and went red in the face. We laughed hysterically. They certainly weren't like the afternoons at the club, but at least they didn't remind me of the carefree days I had lost. For that reason those ordinary afternoons were precious.

The war continued and the frontline was drawing dangerously close to our neighbourhood. Dani, Otůr and I often went to see a building that had been bombed in the night. People gathered around the craters and rubble as if it were a show. There had been many attacks by aircraft bombers on Al Mansùr villas. At night, the Iraqi soldiers pointed their machine guns towards the sky and fired off numerous shots. I often stayed awake to watch the tracers of the missiles leave their vaporous trail in the night sky. People were afraid, but I naively observed the attacks from behind my window as if they weren't dangerous, as if they couldn't reach me. There were other things to fear in my life that felt a lot more menacing.

My father started raiding our house at the most unexpected hours. He had taken away paintings and removed some larger pieces of furniture. His demeanour was even more intimidating, more brazen. Mum tried to stop him from taking things, but he continued ignoring her. Sometimes they'd argue violently, almost to the point of hitting each other. My sisters and I took refuge in my bedroom, embracing each other until the yelling had stopped and he'd gone. My mother would then come to us to try to calm us down. She was exhausted but, despite everything, claimed that they were just arguing about the furniture. We feared Dad was mad at us, but she assured us he wasn't; he loved us and would never hurt us. There were just a few problems between them.

One afternoon while I was at home taking a bath, a terrible rumbling shook the ground. Petrified, I froze, the sponge scrunched tightly in my hand. The bathroom window had shattered and a dense yellow dust cloud covered everything. Two long cracks had appeared in the walls.

I heard my mother and sisters scream. I threw on the first thing I could find and sprinted to them. They were up on the terrace. I looked over the balcony. A missile had hit a house a few metres from ours. As the
dust settled, we could see the debris: the building was completely wrecked, less than half of it was left standing. The rest had been pulverised into a pile of rubble. Then it was as if I felt the impact of the explosion resonate inside of me.

It was Otůr's house.

We ran outside. Many of our neighbours poured into the street. The ambulances and emergency services were on their way. It was total chaos. People were screaming and running in every direction. Sirens were blaring. Through the swirling dust that burned our eyes, I passed through the growing crowd until I arrived at what remained of my friend's house. The top storey had almost completely collapsed and only a section of the living room remained. I recognised Otůr's mother's crucifix, still hanging on the wall. Completely shocked, I didn't hear the deafening noise around me, only a long whistling in my ears. I've heard people say this a lot, and for once I finally understood it: time stood still. I don't know how much time passed until I was brought back to reality by a woman crying on my shoulder. Rescue workers were simultaneously trying to dig into the debris and contain the increasingly hysterical crowd. Somebody's words reached me, overlapping the woman's cries, ‘Nobody was spared. They're looking for the girl's body. We think she was in the bathroom when the missile hit.'

I looked around. It couldn't have been true. My eyes darted frantically over what was once my friend's home, looking for Otůr, desperately asking people in the terrified crowd. I seized them by the arm and screamed, ‘Where is Otůr? Are you sure she was in the house?' But they shook their heads and ran elsewhere, perhaps attempting to find others who could've been buried under the still-smoking debris. I stopped a man whose face was obscured by dust and whose arms were completely covered in earth. I asked him too. He said that there was no hope of finding any survivors; everyone must have perished in the collapse.

I looked at the skeleton of the house again and that cross, still stubbornly attached to the wall. My eyes were stinging; a combination of the dust from the explosion and my very own tears. They had to find her. Otůr had to be somewhere. Maybe she wasn't even home when it happened? If that God, who remained attached to her wall was as powerful as she said, He had to have saved her. An hour passed, maybe two. Then suddenly a man who was lifting one of the fallen beams, from what seemed to have been the bathroom, yelled, ‘There's a girl here. She's dead too. Help me pull her body out!'

I ran from the crowd to escape the cacophony of sirens and screaming people. I thought about the moment of the explosion: I was in the bathroom too, just like Otůr was in hers. If the missile had fallen only a few metres
closer, my house would have been the one blown into a pile of rubble. I wouldn't have had a chance. The tears born from my fear and anger for this unjust and absurd tragedy streamed down my face. In a daze, I found myself outside Dani's church. I stopped in front of the enormous dark front door. Instinct told me to push the heavy wooden panel and enter. The darkness drew me in like a hug and I smelled the calming scent of incense and wood. Everything was still and quiet inside; you couldn't have guessed that a shattering explosion had taken place outside.

I kneeled on one of the last pews. The soft, dimly lit atmosphere stilled my crying. I thought about Otůr: her unexpected death was still unreal. I prayed to God that it wasn't true, that I would leave the church and meet her in front of her house, still intact, and she would smile at me with those big dark eyes and funny row of little teeth. Then my gaze fell on my dust-covered clothes. At that point – thinking of my little Otůr, of her life interrupted at thirteen – I began to sob again. She would never become an adult. She would never have a husband, children or her own house. She would never tell stories to her grandchildren. For the first time, I understood the true horror of the war in our country.

I left the church, remembering my mother and sisters who would be worried about me. Outside, I saw a booth that sold sacred objects – religious images and jewellery.
I picked up a small metal cross, but realised I didn't have any money with me. The elderly vendor, seated to the side of the stall, must have gathered from my dishevelled appearance and weary look that I was in trouble. She placed the little cross in the palm of my hand and closed my fingers. ‘Keep it with you. It will protect you.' Later, at home, I put it on a string and fastened it around my neck, under my clothes. I didn't know if it would protect me, but it was there close to my heart, in memory of Otůr.