About Baghdad Archive - Seite 3 von 4

About Djabbar

Veröffentlicht am 24. Februar 201924. Februar 2019 von RanaSchreib einen Kommentar

When I went to the first grade of elementary school, we had a driver who drove me almost every day to school and back. It wasn’t uncommon to have a driver in Baghdad’s early 80s, since most of the families had one car for driving to work and had to arrange a driver who had a car or a school bus for their children.

The name of our driver was Djabbar. Djabbar was in his early twenties. He was very kind, friendly and one of the most patient people I have ever known. I know he was patient, because I used to ask him question after question the second I got into the car until I got out. Questions like: „What’s that building?“, „How do you make the car go faster?“ or „What’s the name of your grandmother?“ and he answered and explained everything instead of telling me to shut up and just let him drive in peace. The car rides with him were like additional school lessons.

At the age of 6 I thought all the people in the world lived the way l did. I thought they all had a house, a car, plenty of food to eat and enough clothes in their wardrobes.

It was Djabbars stories, about his family, the way they lived and his daily struggles, that opened my eyes to a different side of life. Once he told me that his parents could not buy meat every day and that he was fed up with eggplants, potatoes and zucchinis. I asked him: „Why don’t you just buy enough meat to cook every day?“ he laughed and started to teach me about money, monthly salaries and prices. It was basically a math lesson. Way better than anything I’ve ever learned at school. He explained to me how much he earned by driving and how much he was able to spend on food. He told me that his father worked hard to pay the rent, that his mother was an illiterate housewife and that his two younger siblings were still in school. He was not at all complaining or trying to make me feel sorry for him, he was just explaining the facts. Suddenly money had a meaning to me and prices were not just numbers written on things. Those numbers made a big difference: the bigger they were the less people could afford the goods they were on. I didn’t know the word „affordable“ but I understood its meaning.

The thing I enjoyed the most was when he talked about driving. He loved driving. He explained everything in the car to me.

I watched him from the back seat and he pointed at the pedals: „See, when you want the car to go faster, you step on the accelerator. If you want to slow down you have to step on the brake pedal.“, „with the steering wheel you can change the cars direction, when you turn it to the left the front wheels do too!“
I asked him about an orange button on the side of the dashboard and he said: „If the back window is misted you have to press this button. It’s a heater. Do you see the narrow lines on the rear windows? They’re wires that get hot, thus warm the window and make the fog disappear.
We even fixed a puncture together one day. He let me lift the car with the jack and I felt as strong as hulk. That day I came home with black hands and I told my mother proudly: „I changed a flat tire.“

After almost a 6 months going to school with Djabbar I „theoretically“ knew how to drive. A knowledge that helped me 6 years later, when my sister started driving and I showed her where to turn on the car lights and the „anti-mist-button“.

Once he was telling me about his grandmother who used to make mats, hand fans and brooms from palm leaves for them. I couldn’t imagine what he meant. So the next day he took some leaves from a small palm tree that was growing in front of my school and braided a tiny mat, while he was waiting for me. He gave it to me and I used it as a mat for my Barbie.It was almost spring when he picked me up from school with a big smile on his face. As soon as I sat in the car he told me that he was getting engaged and that he was very happy and excited about it. He said his fiancée was very pretty and had just graduated from the teaching institute and was waiting to be assigned as a teacher for an elementary school. I felt happy for him and tried to picture his wedding. I was hoping that he would invite me.

The following days he always talked about the wedding preparations. He would live in his parents‘ house. He painted out his room with a friend and his mother sold an old piece of jewelry, that she had kept for this day, to buy him a bed and a cupboard. Everything was set for his wedding. The school year was almost over and summer spread out its heat all over Baghdad.

On one Saturday morning I left the house with the school bag on my back and headed to the car. But Djabbar and his light green Toyota Corona weren’t there, instead there was a white car with an elderly looking man standing outside the car and talking to my father.

When my father saw me coming he said: „This is Khudaier. From now on he will take you to school“.
I felt upset and asked: „Why? Where is Djabbar?“
My father opened the car door for me and said: „He was sent to the front!“

I sat in the back of the car, thinking of my father’s words „He was sent to the front“. I knew what he meant. Djabarr was gone; he was recruited to be on the front fighting against Iran in a war he hadn’t chosen. I never heard from him again. I always hoped that he came back safely and got married to that beautiful teacher.

After that day my drives to school were silent.

The Name of the Father and the Son

Veröffentlicht am 9. Dezember 20189. April 2020 von RanaSchreib einen Kommentar

George Bush senior passed away on Friday the 30th of November 2018, at the age of 94.

That was the first headline I read last Saturday morning, when I was checking the news on my mobile phone. I looked at his picture and automatically said: „May God take him in his mercy.“ This is a common phrase we use in Arabic when someone dies. But as it came out of my lips, I thought to myself: „Would I take him in my mercy?“

Bush (no matter senior or junior) is a name that, to me, will always be associated with embargo, war, destruction, bombing, no electricity, fear and so on, in other words, an endless list of very dark memories.

I would never deny that the invasion of Kuwait was a crime in its entire means, but the embargo and the wars on Iraq that followed weren’t any less of a crime. And they proved that diplomacy and good offices, unfortunately, fail in resolving critical problems.
If wars were given grades for their badness level, the „Operation Desert Storm“ would deserve an „A“ with an extra plus for the bombing of „Amiriyah shelter“ and the „highways of death“ the massacre of the withdrawing soldiers.

It is scary that some people on earth may gain such an enormous power in their lifetime that gives them the mightiness to act like Gods. In a way that a single decision they take could mean misery and death for millions.

It was the 17th of January 1991, when Bush senior spoke his word and the war on Iraq started. After the dramatic events, since we woke up in the morning of the 2^nd of August 1990, to find out that our troops have walked in to Kuwait and changed our status among the nations, to the most hated country on earth, the final act (as we thought at that time) started. And while most of the world watched the famous night camera recording on TV, showing a scene that looked more like fireworks than the actual hell it was, the Iraqi people were being targeted by those „firework“.

I’ll never forget that night. We woke up to the sound of bombing and shooting all around, the sirens didn’t stop crying and the dark night sky was filled with smoke and fire. Realizing that the promised war had started, we gathered in one room and sat stuck to one another. I was shivering from head to toe, covered in a thick blanket and praying to God not to be struck by next rocket. Fortunately my family and I survived, but a lot of people, who weren’t as lucky, lost their lives during this war. That day covered Iraq in a veil of poverty, destruction and death that it is still trying to get rid of.

War is always the wrong choice. There is nothing like a „good war“ and a „bad war“. Even if the first statement of Bush was: „As I report to you air attacks are on their way against military targets in Iraq.“ We all know today that the fire that fell from the sky burned a lot more than just military targets.

These thoughts and memories occupied my mind that whole day, as I kept seeing the headlines of Bush‘s death everywhere and the words of condolences that were spoken out for him. Then shortly before going to bed, I saw a post on Instagram, picturing the Kuwait towers lit up with the American flag and a portrait of Bush. It was subtitled with the words: „In memory of George W. Bush. Hero of freedom.“
An aspect that didn’t come to my mind earlier that day. But yes, of course, he must be a hero in Kuwait: he freed the country. It’s their right to celebrate him. My villain is their hero. Just two sides of one coin.

What a strange world I’m living in. Being responsible for crimes, such as the horrible death of more than 400 civilians (mostly women and children) in the „Amiriyah shelter“, does not mean a person won’t be honored and celebrated as a hero.

Well, I guess he doesn’t really need my mercy to rest in peace.

Big Picture

Veröffentlicht am 21. Januar 201827. Januar 2018 von Rana2 Kommentare

Sometimes things happen that you do not understand immediately but suddenly, maybe years later, a piece of the big life puzzle comes to you and everything starts to make sense.

On a Friday morning, when I was about nine years old, I was experimenting with my cassette recorder. I had a blank tape inside and went around the house trying to catch different sounds. In the garden I recorded the sound of the birds and the cats, I went to the kitchen and recorded my mother and grandmother talking about their plans for lunch and then I went to the living room, where my grandfather was sitting with Amo Kamal (Amo is Arabic for uncle), a relative of us, and I recorded their discussion. I didn’t really bother listening to them, their talk was boring for me. Filling my blank tape was my only concern.

I rewound the tape and went to the kitchen to make my mother and grandmother listen to it, but they didn’t pay attention to me, so I went to the living room to present my creative work to my grandfather and his guest. I told them with a big smile on my face: „Look what I did and you didn’t even notice.“ I played the tape and they listened for a short while. I was still smiling proudly but they didn’t laugh, they didn’t even smile, instead they seemed to get angry, especially Amo Kamal. His face turned red, and he almost yelled at me: „You cannot record people’s conversations. Delete this immediately.“ He turned to my grandfather saying: „She could get us in serious trouble. They could put us in jail. Tell her to delete it now.“

My grandfather spoke in a calmer tone but he was very firm: „Delete this now and don’t ever record people while they are talking again. This could end badly.“
„What’s wrong with them?“ I thought „I just wanted to be funny,“ I felt really annoyed because they did not understand my joke. „Fun spoilers“ I thought and deleted their part of the recording. I left the living room and went to my room feeling upset and somehow ashamed about what happed. I couldn’t understand the reason for their strange reaction.

Unfortunately, I grew up to learn that the world is more than just an endless playground. I started hearing stories of people who went to jail or even lost their lives because someone recorded them while they were criticizing the situation in the country or the government.

One of the easiest and most common ways to control people in surveillance states is to make them control each other. When trust and solidarity are kept to a minimum, mass protests and organized oppositions are very unlikely to happen. Eliminating „dangerous“ individuals is much easier than facing the crowd, especially in times before the internet, mobile technology and social media.

Back then, I didn’t connect these stories with the reaction of my grandfather and Amo Kamal, since I didn’t really like to remember that embarrassing situation. But not too many years ago, I was talking with my mother and we remembered Amo Kamal. He was always talking with my grandfather about the bad conditions, the ongoing war, the latest scandals of the politicians, how everything is getting worse and how the prices are rising rapidly.

I recall one conversation they had very often: Amu Kamal would say: „The prices are crazy, and no one is doing anything about it.“ My grandfather would reply: „Yes, that’s so true. Before, the cost of one orange was one fills. That meant I could have bought 1000 oranges for one Dinar.“ Amo Kamal would add: „And today one kilo of oranges is about 3 Dinars and that’s not more than 5 oranges.“ At that point my grandfather would take a deep breath and say a Turkish proverb he used a lot to explain his anger on times: „To what times we stayed!“

Only then the puzzle was complete, and the big picture appeared. I realized what made them so upset. I recorded them talking about the deplorable conditions in the country. A tape like that, if put in the wrong hands, could have brought them behind bars. My „funny“ sound constellation was actually an evidence against them.

I felt sorry but it was too late to apologize. Both of them died before having to witness that the price for one kilo of oranges has reached 1000 Dinar in the Iraq of today.

The best of both worlds

Veröffentlicht am 4. Dezember 201721. Dezember 2018 von Rana2 Kommentare

In the 1980s, there were a lot of foreigners living and working in Iraq. I’m sure it was just the same back in the 70s and before but I can only tell what I remember and my memories of Iraq start with the beginning of 1980.

Anyway….
Since my Austrian mother worked at the West German School in Baghdad, we knew a lot of people from the German speaking community that included German as well as Austrian and Swiss citizens. I had a lot of friends my age and I loved spending time with them at their european styled company complexes. Hanging out with them just felt like being at my grandparents’ place in Austria. I would spend the whole day playing, speaking German and eating German food and sweets.

As any group of people living abroad they arranged their lifestyle in Baghdad to be as close as possible to the life they were used to back home. For example, they knew where to get good fresh pork meat, or even where to hunt wild pigs, ducks and anything else the Iraqi countryside would offer. Moreover, and because at that time the Iraqi market only offered high quality but very restricted number of goods, some companies spoiled their employees by enabling them to order all kinds of European food once or twice a year. We were lucky enough to take advantage of this offer, when my mother was working for one of those companies. The yummy orders would reach Baghdad in big refrigerated „Bofrost“ trucks.

There even was a lovely German lady pastor working in Baghdad. She held the first and last thanksgiving mass (in German „Erntedankmesse“) I ever attended. In my family we used to celebrate Easter and Christmas in addition to the Islamic feasts but never thanksgiving. Being thankful for the harvest of the year is really something everyone living on fertile ground should do. When the mass started people of different nationalities and religions filled the church. They sat side by side listing to the German prayers that, for sure, a lot of them didn’t understand. At one point the door opened and the little children from the German kindergarten walked in singing while heading to the altar. They carried baskets full of local Iraqi fruit and vegetables crowned with fresh yellow dates. A lovely sight that gave those present goose bumps. At the end of the ceremony, the fruit and vegetables were spread among the people.

My favorite event of the year was definatly the German school’s Christmas market.
The preparations started very early. The first signs of Christmas were the smell of gingerbread that the kindergarten kids baked with a lot of joy and the notes handed out to the parents asking them to collect material for handcrafts. As soon as the school staff had enough material, a month of creative work started. Big boxes would be filled with delicious jars of jam with beautiful toppers, handmade greeting cards, knitted stuff, macramé work, Christmas cookies, cakes and almost everything one can find on a traditional Christmas market in Europe.

When the wooden stalls, decorated with colored crepe paper, were set up in the school yard and filled with all the beautiful things, the Christmas bells rang and the fun began. Soon the place was full of people talking, eating, buying stuff and enjoying the European Christmas atmosphere in the middle of Baghdad. The highlight of the evening was the announcement of the tombola winners, where the first price usually was a flight for two, sponsored by Lufthansa.

The last German Christmas market in Baghdad must have been in the winter of 1989. When all the foreigners left the country, after the invasion of Kuwait by the Iraqi troupes on the 2nd of August 1990, and the bells rang announcing a new era. An era of embargo, war and slow downfall.

It was the combination of cultural events, friendships with locals, gatherings and even love stories that made life in that very different country more than just bearable for the foreign communities. Most of them truly loved living in Iraq and appreciate that the country (in spite of the ongoing war with Iran at that time) was stable, had a strong economy, the citizens were extremely foreigner-friendly and it offered endless interesting historical and natural locations to visite. I miss those times, when I had the best of both worlds on one spot.

I’m not saying, Iraq was perfect then but it was good and had the potential to change towards the better. Sadly the modern history of Iraq showed that things can rapedly change from good to bad and that whenever we say: „It definitely can’t get worse!“ Destiny replies by saying: „Yes, it can.“

Photograph Prohibited

Veröffentlicht am 1. Juli 20172. Juli 2017 von Rana4 Kommentare

Although satellites were up in the sky since the sixties and it was known that observation satellites can identify a coin lying on the ground, the „Photograph Prohibited“ sign, or as we called it “no photo” sign, was a popular one in Iraq. No government building was so unimportant that it wouldn’t deserve its own sign. But the most confusing thing about the no-photo-policy was that even if the sign wasn’t there, taking a photo in a public place could make a suspect out of you in a second. One click, and you would find yourself accused of crimes like: damaging the image of the country, espionage or threatening the national security.

Most people affected by this law, besides the foreigners, were the students of architecture.

One of those students was my sister. I remember the day she and her colleague came home from a visit to Kadhumiya. They were exhausted and upset but also had to laugh a lot while telling my mother and me what an adventures day they had.

They were working on a project for college about modernizing the part of Baghdad they choose. Their choice fell on Kadhumiya, the part of the city with the golden Mosque, which holds the shrine of the Imam Musa Al-Kadhuim, the nearby bazar and the surrounding old residential area.

Aware of the laws, the college used to provide its students with a photographing and data gathering permission for the research and documentation part of such assignments.

Armed with the permission paper they walked through the bazar heading to the mosque, stopping here and there to take photos. My sister had a big canon reflex camera, with a giant zoom. Alone the zoom was enough reason to make her a suspect of espionage. On top of that was their outfit that didn’t really help to appease their suspicious appearance. They wore T-Shirts, Jeans and trainers and over it black traditional Abayas. The Abayas were borrowed and it was obviously for the way they wore it, trying hard to keep them on the heads and shoulders, that they were not familiar with wearing an Abaya.

Well, it didn’t take long. Soon, a man, he said he was a security officer, appeared and told them: „What on earth are you doing here? Don’t you know that it is strictly forbidden to take photos in this area?“

The young ladies tried to explain to him that they are students working on a project and showed him the permission they had from the college. But no matter what they said, the man was unimpressed and he insisted to take them to the main office to clear the matter. He asked them to get into his car, but my sister and her friend refused, since they couldn’t be sure of his identity as a secret service officer. He could be lying just to make them go with him.

The man tried to persuade them to join him in a taxi, but they made it clear that they will not go in any kind of car with him. They suggested walking but he said it was too far to go on foot. Almost losing his patience he had the glorious idea to stop a passing by horse carriage and asked them to get in. They finally agreed. At the end it is easier to jump out from a moving carriage then from a car in motion.

Few minutes later they arrived at a small official building. It had a sign saying „District Security Office“ at the entrance. They went in and he asked them to wait in the lobby. It took him a while before he came back an asked the girls to follow him to his supervisor’s office. Their hearts were beating strongly, and their stomachs ached while they walked behind him. They entered the office were a middle-aged man was sitting behind the desk.

He was looking at the college permission lying in front of him, then raised his eyes and gazed at them with a serious expression on his face. He asked them some questions about their project and their studies. He started to tell them how important the national security was and what harm could be caused by photographing sensitive places.

After a long speech, the supervisor, who seemed more open minded than his employee, handed them their permission and wished them good luck for their project. But before they stepped out of his office, he told them with a hardly noticeable smile on this face: „Girls, you are like my daughters, take this advice from me: don’t go around making photos of the city. There are a lot of people out there who could use them to harm our country.”

You can imagine how happy and relieved my mother and I were, hearing that this story ended in such a harmless way.

The birds will fall from the sky

Veröffentlicht am 20. Mai 201720. Mai 2017 von RanaSchreib einen Kommentar

„There are things that should never ever happen.“ That was my thought, when I heard the terrible news about the use of chemical weapons in Syria a few weeks ago. As usual, my mind took me back to a certain memory of an unforgettable day in Baghdad.

When it became clear that war was coming, we had several information sessions at school on war preparation measures. Usually, those sessions were held in class with a teacher or on Thursdays at the weekly flag ceremony. But a few days before the 17th of January 1991, we had a big gathering in the school theater and a military officer held a presentation about safety measures in relation to the possible weapons that will be used in the war.

At the beginning, he asked us to listen carefully and to spread the information he was about to tell us, among our families and relatives. Then he went on with a speech about the recent situation and why the occupation of Kuwait was the only right decision the Iraqi government could make. He said things like: „bringing back what once belonged to us“, “ bringing the branch back to the tree“, „The Kuwaiti people are happy to be united with Iraq“ and so on, but really neither he nor anyone in the hall seemed to be convinced of what he was saying.

Even we, the teenage school girls, who grew up with the propaganda of the Baath party since our first school day in 1980, were aware that what happened was a terrible mistake and what would follow would be even worse.

Anyway, he finished the mandatory opening speech and started talking about the preparations we should make in the coming days; starting from buying canned food and medicine, storing water and fuel and ending up with setting a safety room in the house in case of the use of chemical weapons in the upcoming war.

This was the longest and most scary part of his presentation. There was a strange silence in the hall, that was full of some hundred girls under 18, who all looked at him with wide eyes as he said: „Every house should arrange a room for that case. The windows and all air circulation gaps should be sealed with big plastic sheets and tape. The room should contain bottled water, medicine, a radio that runs on batteries and canned food.“ He went on explaining that there are two kinds of common chemical weapons: skin burning gases like mustard gas or Nervous-system-destroying gases. In case of an attack with chemical weapons, the siren will repeat the starting signal three times, all people should immediately gather in their safety rooms, seal the door and open the radio to get further instructions. It is advisable to look out of a window to observe the effect of the gas on animals, „At first the birds will die. They will fall from the sky. From the dead birds‘ bodies, you can determine which gas was used; either they would have burns on their bodies or there would be fluids coming out of their body orifices.“ He continued talking about the effects and the ways to stay safe as long as possible.

But his methods didn’t convince me. If this was really going to happen, we would end up dying in one of the most horrible ways to die.

At this point, I remembered what a classmate said to me that morning: „Yesterday my father got a gas mask in the office. The authorities handed out one for each employee.“ She added: „He came home, placed the mask on the table and said ironically: „I got one mask for all six of us. Cheer up! We will survive the war.“
Then he turned to my mother and said: „I know exactly how I will use it. I have enough bullets in my gun to save us from suffering. In case of a chemical attack, I’ll put on the mask and shoot us all.““ Finally she said in a sad voice: „My mother looked really shocked and told him not to talk like that in front of us. Then they went into the kitchen and closed the door. I have never seen my father as depressed as I saw him yesterday.“

Listening to the presentation, I understood what her father meant by saving the family from suffering. I thought of my family. We had neither a mask nor a gun at home. My stomach started aching.

When I came home from school, I found my mother and sister arranging my mother’s sleeping room as a shelter. My sister had a similar information session at the university. I put down my schoolbag and joined them. We covered the windows with plastic sheets, and we talked about what we will do in the room if we are forced to stay in it for a long time.

Somehow, we started joking and having fun taping the windows. We didn’t store food and water in the room, there was still time to do so, but we prepared games like Uno and Ludo, knitting stuff and books. We managed to prepare for a disaster with a happy mood. The stomachache went away and I felt strong, safe and sheltered with my family.

A lot of things happened in Baghdad since January 1991 but the birds kept flying and the safety rooms were never used.

Years later, a lot of houses still had marks of brown tape around some windows to remind us of a war that should never been given a reason to happen.

Empty Streets

Veröffentlicht am 25. März 201726. März 2017 von RanaSchreib einen Kommentar

The sunny, but still cold, spring weather we had the last few days in Vienna, brought back memories of the sunny winter days in Baghdad. I was thinking of one particular Friday morning in 1995, which stayed in my mind as if it was yesterday. That morning, it must have been at the end of February, I drove my car to my relative’s house in Waziriyah to have lunch. The weather was still cold but the sun rays warmed up the spots they fell on. I loved driving on Fridays, with the streets almost empty, my mind could run free.

During that time, Iraq was still trying to recover from the severe damages of the war in 1991. A lot of rebuilding and construction work was going on all over the country and people had somehow learned to adapt their lives to the ongoing embargo and the isolation from the rest of the world.

On my way from Mansour to Waziriyah I passed by the „Baghdad International Fairground“. Seeing the long line of flagpoles made me think about the big difference in the number of exhibiting countries before and after 1990. The number of participating countries decreased so much that the name „International“ wasn’t really suitable anymore. The gloomy feeling that joined this thought was wiped away, when I turned right into Al-Zaitoon Street (in English Olive street). This broad way surrounded by olive trees and date palms had a calming effect on me. I could drive for hours and hours on this road. However, because of the light Friday traffic, I left this street very soon and passed by Al-Rasheed Hotel, the hotel with one of the best brunch buffets in Baghdad; although this was not the reason for the hotel’s international reputation. It came under the spotlight when a mosaic of George Bush Senior was installed on the floor of its lobby. The drive stayed smooth when I crossed the Jumhuriya Bridge, over the Tigris, to the Liberation Square and took the Muhammad Al-Qasim Expressway that led me, a few minutes later, to the road of Al-Mustansiriya University and to my destination.

It was a small lunch gathering with a lot of delicious Iraqi food. We talked about the usual things, like the unstable electricity, the sky-rocketing prices, the lack of work opportunities and the increasing poverty related to it. But the main subject among the students and graduates at the time was the future. The two senior medical students were talking about their plans for leaving Iraq after graduation. At that time, there was a travel ban on all doctors, engineers and people with higher education degrees. Leaving the country was only possible with fake documents, which meant a great risk. Being caught on the borders with a false passport could cost the person’s life. But it was more than understandable that they wanted to complete their studies abroad, just as their parents did in the 60s and as it was common among ambitious students till the 90s. Studying abroad, before 1991, didn’t mean leaving the country forever. Most of the students got their higher degrees and came back to work in Iraq. After the ban this changed, because once leaving the country with false documents a way back was not possible anymore; and of course, the low quality of life after the embargo was one reason more not to come back. Listing to their plans made me worry. What if they get caught? What if we will never meet again? A lot of „What ifs“ went through my mind. They weren’t the only persons I knew talking about leaving. My friend at college just told me a few days before that she will leave this summer, as soon as she gets her BSc. and two of my friends had already left last summer, one to the UAE and one to the U.K.

I left in the afternoon and decided to drive through Adamiya on my way home. I passed the new car spare parts shop, run by my cousin. I parked my car and went in to say hello and to congratulate him on his shop. He was happy and surprised to see me. He offered me a seat in his small shop. I told him: „Congratulations. It’s a good location and, for a spare parts shop, it is really nice and organized.“ He laughed and said: „Well, it’s not my dream to have this shop. It’s sure better than nothing. But I didn’t study engineering to sit in a shop.“ Of course, I knew what he meant. When he started studying in 1989, the situation in Iraq looked completely different. He thought he would graduate then work for one of the many international companies that were commissioned to do a huge number of projects after the long war with Iran. He started studying in times of peace and hope, but graduated in the times of embargo and despair. He, too, talked about his plans of travelling aboard. He told me that he was trying to apply for jobs in the UAE and Malaysia. I just said: „Wow! Malaysia. That is really far!“ but the „What ifs“ started to fill my head again.

I stepped out of his shop and went back to the car. Suddenly I imagined a big spaceship was moving toward the country sucking up one person after the other on its way. Sooner or later, everyone I know will leave, seeking a better life. The emptiness of the Friday streets that I enjoyed in the morning, now, made me feel lonely and melancholic. I remembered an article I had read when I was in Jordan which mentioned that the middle class was leaving Iraq and that the consequence of such a migration has a dramatic effect on the community. I drove my car back home and noticed that, in almost every neighborhood I passed through, there was a house of someone I knew who had left Iraq for good.

Waving to the Lost Presidents

Veröffentlicht am 4. Januar 201724. Januar 2017 von RanaSchreib einen Kommentar

It must have been the 15^th or 16^th of February 1989, when I came to school in the morning, as usual, and immediately noticed that we will not take our lessons that day. There were buses waiting outside the school and a couple of students were standing at the school entrance, telling everybody to drop their school backpacks in the classes and gather in the school yard.

It was obvious that we were going to march on a „spontaneous“ demonstration, as they were called by the media. Well, it was spontaneous, wasn’t it?

Soon, the girls of „Al-Qadissiya Middle School“ filled the school yard, as if it was Thursday morning when we used to gather for the weekly flag ceremony. The principal came out and turned on the microphone. The mic made an earsplitting sound, then she knocked on it twice to split our eardrums even more, and finally she started talking: „ahm, ahhhm, good morning girls! Today is an important day; we will have the honor to welcome three great personalities in Baghdad: the king of Jordan, the president of Egypt and the president of North Yemen. I’m sure you have heard about the upcoming event on TV. They are coming to Iraq to sign an agreement to establish the Arab Cooperation Council.“

She talked a lot about the advantages of this agreement and that it was going to be a historical moment and so on, but I didn’t really listen. It was eight in the morning, time for daydreaming in the first lesson, not standing in the fresh morning breeze to listen to political blah blah.

The really important information to us was when she said: „A lot of the students in Baghdad will celebrate this historical event by lining up on the road sides to welcome the arriving guests. The busses will take us now and we should be back to school at noon!“

Any event that kept us from studying was welcome. We didn’t really mind leaving school. We got into a bus and were taken to the main street that led from the airport to the city center.

The whole road was closed off for traffic. The teachers distributed paper flags of the four countries to us and we took our places on the sandy road bank behind the crash barriers. It was still cold in February but it wasn’t very bad since we stood in the sun. At first, we were chatting all the time and looking at the road, waiting excitedly to see the presidents and the king. But after two hours of waiting, we started to get bored, tired, thirsty and our feet started to ache. Then the rumors started going through the rows of students: „The plane of president Mubarak was delayed.“; „They’ve arrived and took another way.“; „We will stay here till late afternoon.“ and a lot more. I always wondered where such rumors came from. We had no mobile phones at that time, nor a Walkie-Talkie. Nothing could possibly bring this information from the airport to us. Was there someone standing somewhere, saying something and enjoying his words traveling through the masses? I never figured it out and I’m afraid this will stay an unsolved mystery for me.

Anyway, the real trouble was that most of us started to get very thirsty, so a teacher went to a house nearby, rang the bell and asked them for water. A woman came out with a bottle of water and a tray of cups. From almost every house of the neighborhood people came out offering us water, food and even asked if we needed to use the toilet or the phone. These gestures made waiting much easier.

I don’t know how long we waited till the motorcade appeared at last. It was led by many police motorcycles, followed by a lot of black Mercedes cars with the security staff, and in the middle, the car carrying president Saddam Hussein and one of the guests. I think the first was king Husain of Jordan. We waved, clapped and we sure called out some slogans that I don’t remember anymore. When that convoy passed, it was clear that only one guest was going to be escorted at a time, which meant more waiting and standing on the road side for us.

Time passed somehow and we waved for Mubarak, the president of Egypt and for Salih, the president of Northern Yemen. After the last guest arrived, the exhausted mass of students returned to the buses and the road was opened for traffic. When I came home I had blisters on my feet and I was starving.

The next day, pictures of that historical meeting of the three presidents and the king were all over the newspapers. The most popular picture was one on which the four of them are seen holding each other’s’ hands and raising them in the air; a photo, that soon became a symbol for the beginning of a new era of unity and peace in the Arab world. At that moment, no one would have thought, that except for king Husain of Jordan, who lived and died as a king, the rest of the members of the Cooperation Council would fall, one after the other in very unfortunate ways.

The light of hope that was lit in Baghdad on the 16^th of February 1989 didn’t last for long. The work of the Arab Cooperation Council was put on ice after Iraq’s invasion of Kuwait in 1990 and was never resumed again.

Apples for Christmas

Veröffentlicht am 15. Dezember 201616. Dezember 2016 von Rana2 Kommentare

In the winter of 1988, my Austrian grandmother came to spend Christmas with us in Baghdad. It was her third and last visit to Baghdad. We went to pick her up from the airport in the evening. There were only few people at the airport, because of the travel ban we had in Iraq since 1982. I’m not quite sure but I think travelling was allowed again sometime in 1989. The Airport, at that time called „Saddam International Airport“, was built between 1979 and 1982 by French and English companies. It was one of the biggest and most modern Airports in the Middle East. Unfortunately not many Iraqis got the chance or had a reason to see this beautiful building at that time.

Anyway, we went to the arrival area and stood in front of the thick transparent glass wall separating the reception area from the arrival area. On the display we saw that the Austrian airlines plane coming from Vienna had landed, but it took a while till the first passenger appeared. Slowly, the passengers started to fill the hall and at the end of the crowd we saw her, my dear grandmother.

She was wearing an elegant beige trench coat and her short curly hair was white and shiny as usual. I was more than happy to see her. She was following the crowd to the conveyor but her eyes were searching for us. We waved to her but she didn’t spot us through the glass. It must have been reflecting because of the bright lights. She stood at the conveyor waiting for her luggage, while her eyes kept searching for us. Then we noticed that she started to look worried because she couldn’t find us. We went to the arrival exit and stood there waving and even calling out for her, but it was useless. She was too far to hear us.

The security officer standing at the exit was watching the situation. Seeing us jumping and waving while my grandmother was looking in all directions except ours, made him smile. We looked to him hoping he would help us, but he said: „I’m sorry, I cannot leave my place.“ Of course he could not leave his please, no one was allowed to enter the arrival area from that exit unless he was an employee of the airport and he was in charge of that. But his face showed that he was really thinking of a way to help us, and he did. I don’t know who had the idea first, but he told me: „you may get in to help your grandmother.“ We were very grateful. It was a great exception he made and he risked to get in serious trouble. I ran in while my mother and my sister were thanking him for his kindness.

My grandmother was so happy when I came to her and hugged her. At once the puzzling and worried look on her face turned into a big happy smile. I pointed to my waving mother and sister and she finally saw them. We took the bags and headed to the customs. Every bag that enters Baghdad had to be opened and checked by the customs service. The customs officers usually had to be very strict and they also had the bad reputation that they would take things they liked out of the bags. Thinking of the Christmas presents stuffed in my grandmother’s luggage, I became very nervous while heading to the customs desk. The officer standing there was polite and even tried to joke with me. He looked at me smiling and said: „You look angry. Aren’t you happy that your grandmother is here?“ It seemed that my concern showed on my face. I don’t think I smiled back. I just told him: „Of course I am. But my grandma is tired and we want to go home but you want to check the suitcases. She is an old lady. She wouldn’t bring anything forbidden with her!“ I hoped he would tell me: „Ok, just go through.“ But he just said: „Put the small suitcase first.“ We placed it on the desk and I opened it.

I wanted to let him take a quick look and close it immediately but when I saw what was inside, I had to look twice. The bag was full with apples. Shiny red and yellow apples. My grandmother said to me in German: „I had a lot of apples in the garden this year and this is your share! I know my daughter loves them“ I translated it to him and tried to keep my voice happy but hey, I was 14 and apples weren’t number one on my wish list for Christmas.

The officer was even more surprised than I was: „I’ve never seen anyone coming with a bag full of apples! What will you do with them?“ If I had known, at that moment, how good they tasted and that my grandma will soon turn them into delicious apple strudel, crunchy dried apple slices and a lot more, I would have told him or maybe gave him one to taste it. But I didn’t say anything. I just closed the suitcase. We lifted the second suitcase and put it on the desk. This one was the one I was dreaming of. It was full with clothes and packed gifts. That was it. That was the Santa bag, I was sure my grandmother would bring with her. The officer was just trying to take a second look when I closed it. I thought: „No, no, this suitcase is too precious to keep it open!“

He smiled and said: „I told you, little girl, you are very angry today. Take your suitcases and your grandmother and go home to have a good rest!“ Then he looked to my grandmother and said: „Welcome in Iraq madam. El hamdillah ala el salama.“ (That’s Arabic for: „thank God for your safe arrival“). Just then, I felt guilty that I was so impolite to him. He was actually nice, and I don’t think he had the intention to take anything, especially not from the apples!

We left the arriving hall, where my mother and sister were waiting. They hugged and kissed her and we all thanked the kind officer at the exit and left the airport with my dear grandmother, a suitcase full of presents and on top of it all a suitcase full of lovely Austrian apples.

The Christmas of 1988 was one of most beautiful Christmases I had in Baghdad.

Later, whenever my grandmother told the story of her last trip to Iraq, I appeared as the little hero that rescued her from the labyrinth of the huge airport in Baghdad. I loved it.

Baghdad Equestrian Club

Veröffentlicht am 30. Juni 201610. November 2016 von RanaSchreib einen Kommentar

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.