Let me tell you

Der Tag davor

Veröffentlicht am 12. Juli 20202. August 2020 von RanaSchreib einen Kommentar

Bei jeder Gedenkfeier an Opfer einer Massengewalttat, versammeln sich die Menschen und sprechen große Worte, wie dass man nie wieder zusehen dürfe, wie Menschen auf solche Weise ums Leben kommen. „Never again!“, sagen sie. „Handeln statt Wegschauen!“ und andere starke Slogans.
Was sie dabei aber vergessen zu scheinen ist, dass gerade in dem Moment in dem sie gedenken, woanders auf der Welt genau dasselbe passiert. Genau dasselbe wofür sie gerade inne halten.

Diese Gedenkveranstaltungen erinnern mich immer an den 19. März 2003. An diesem Tag habe ich so sehr auf die Welt gehofft. Darauf, dass sie nicht nur zusieht und verurteilt, sondern auch tatsächlich etwas verhindert und eingreift, nämlich den Angriff auf den Irak.

Es war sehr früh am Morgen meine kleinen Kinder haben noch geschlafen. Ich konnte nicht schlafen. Habe Krieg bereits zu gut gekannt, als dass ich trotz der Androhungen ruhig schlafen hätte können. Ich ging auf die Terrasse. Der Himmel war extrem blau mit kleinen, scharf definierten Wolken, meine weißen Rosen haben geblüht und herrlich geduftet. Ich habe in den Himmel geschaut und mit Gott gesprochen: “Gott lass es nicht passieren. Bitte verhindere es. Wir hatten schon zwei Kriege, der Dritte wird unser Untergang sein. Ich will nicht, dass meine Kinder auch Krieg erleben. Bitte mach, dass alle Politiker zur Vernunft kommen. Es ist ein wunderschönes Land, gib uns einmal auch wieder Frieden, bitte!”

Die morgendlichen Sonnenstrahlen fingen an die kalte Frühlingsluft aufzuwärmen und plötzlich hat mich ein gutes Gefühl überkommen. „Es wird nichts passieren“, dachte ich mir, „Die Welt wird es nicht zulassen. Das Land leidet noch an den Folgen der ersten beiden Kriege und des Embargos. Mehr können sie uns nicht antun wollen.“
„Es wird ein Wunder geschehen. Heute wird Saddam abtreten, Bush wird einsehen, dass es keine Massenvernichtungswaffen gibt oder die UNO lädt alle Beteiligten vielleicht erneut zu einer Weiterführung der Gespräche ein.“
„Ja, so muss es sein. Der Himmel bleibt blau, meine Rosen werden weiter blühen und Frieden wird auf uns kommen.“

Wie sehr habe ich mich getäuscht, denn die Welt hat uns, wie auch andere zuvor und danach, im Stich gelassen.
Der Krieg ist gekommen und der Himmel war schwarz und rot, von Rauch und Sand. Meine Rosen sind vertrocknet und das Land, wie ich es kannte, ist gestorben.

Diese traurige Geschichte hat leider kein Ende. In dem Moment in dem ich gerade schreibe gibt es auf der Welt zahlreiche Kriege, Vertreibungen, Völkermorde, Hunger, Not und Gewalt. Und was macht die Welt? Die einen sind Teil der Gewalt und die anderen schauen zu.

Das ist die Aida!

Veröffentlicht am 1. Juli 20204. August 2020 von Rana2 Kommentare

An einem herrlichen Juni-Nachmittag, saßen meine Kinder und ich im Schanigarten der Aida Konditorei Bognergasse in der Innenstadt. Wir warteten noch auf unser Eis, als sich ein sehr elegantes älteres Paar an den Tisch neben uns setzte.

Sie begrüßten uns höflich und wir erwiderten den Gruß.
“Sehr freundlich!“ dachte ich mir. Es ist ja sehr selten, dass jemand grüßt in der Innenstadt, da viele Touristen unterwegs sind und es immer hektisch zugeht.

Ich warf einen kurzen Blick auf die beiden und dachte mir dabei: “Die gehen sicher noch auf ein Konzert oder ins Theater.” Die Frau hatte die Haar hoch toupiert und trug ein schönes, grünes Kleid aus Seide mit einer großen Diamantenbrosche auf dem Kragen, der Mann schick im klassischen eleganten Lodenanzug. Sie plauderten kurz miteinander, als der Blick der Dame auf die Speisekarte fiel. Wie vom Blitz getroffen sprang sie auf und sagte in einem erschrockenen Ton zu ihrem Begleiter: “Das ist die Aida, das ist die Aida!”

Ihr Mann konnte nicht sofort verstehen was sie meinte. Er sah sie an und murmelte nur: “Was?”. Sie sagte mit einem sehr bestimmten Ton: “Steh auf! Das ist die Aida!”

Jetzt hatte er es auch verstanden. Er schaute auf das Schild der Konditorei und sprang auch auf. Die beiden gingen los, ohne sich umzudrehen oder „auf Wiedersehen“ zu sagen. Zehn Meter entfernt von uns setzten sie sich wieder nieder. Diesmal aber an einen Tisch beim „Schwarzen Kameel“.

The Hero

Veröffentlicht am 10. Juni 202025. Januar 2023 von RanaSchreib einen Kommentar

First his pictures filled the newspapers and finally he was there, on TV, when his investiture was broadcasted. An inconspicuous man sitting proudly beside Saddam Hussein, the president of Iraq back then.

The recording started with a small crowd clapping and praising the president entering the beautiful hall, which usually hosted the awarding ceremonies of high ranked politicians and military officers. Hussein greeted his guests with thanking words and a big smile on his face.

Saddam Hussein walked to the hero of the newspapers with a second degreed Al-Refidayn medal in his hands and placed it around the old man’s neck, while saying his famous “afiya, afiya” to express his appreciation for the braveness of the old man and his „endless love for Iraq“. The flashlights were raining over them to catching this historical moment. The crowd, mainly consisting of the old man’s family, started clapping and shouting out prayers and praising slogans.

When the president sat down and the guests also took their places on the expensive white and gold furniture, the man was asked to tell his story.

He started his speech with the typical phrases of ensuring his loyalty to the president, the country and the military and damming everybody who wants to harm Iraq.
He started talking about his 4 sons. How proud he was, when they were old enough to join the army and fight against the Iranian enemy. His wish was that his sons would „whiten his face“ in front of the world by returning from the battlefield in one of two ways: either in coffins wrapped in the Iraqi flag as martyrs or as glorious heroes waiving the flag of victory.
But unfortunately his oldest son turned out to be a coward. He was afraid to sacrifice his soul for the president and for the country. He ran away from the battlefield to save his own life and left his brothers and mates behind.
He came home to hide from the war fires like a weak dog.
“I was so angry, disappointed and full of shame! Why did he do this to me?
How did he dare turn his back on his duty, to you my dear sir president and to our beloved country? My anger was big. My pain and shame were indescribable. I shouted at him, I threatened him, I warned him but he didn’t listen. I understood then that I have raised a useless citizen, who brought shame over me and my family. I fetched my revolver and went to his room. I told him: you are afraid to be killed? I will shoot you, you betrayer.

And then, Mr. President, I shot him dead. I killed him for the crime of high treason.“

The voices of those who were present rose again praising and clapping.

We were witnessing the honoring of a murderer. A father who killed his unarmed son, only because he refused to fight in a meaningless war, in which the outcomes were the death of more than a million human souls and an extreme damage of the infrastructure and economy on both sides.

I was speechless, exactly as most of the people I knew. We were excellently trained in being speechless. Speaking about the craziness of this act or calling it the honoring of a killer, was just the thick red line we learned never to cross, and we never did.

There are a lot of methods used by ruling regimes to make people submissive. I find killing the morality in a community is one of the worst ways to gain total control.

When I think of this evening, I feel sad that I once have been part of the big silent mass.
Today crimes of parents killing their children (mostly young women) for „shaming the family“ are still happening and still being tolerated by the Iraqi government. In most of these cases the murderers get backed by their families and may even get away without trial or punishment.

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.

Rushhour

Veröffentlicht am 22. Oktober 201819. Dezember 2018 von RanaSchreib einen Kommentar

Es ist 17:00 in Wien, das bedeutet Rushhour in der U-Bahn. Die Menschen stürmen aus der Bahn, sobald sich die schweren Türen der alten U2 Garnitur zu Seite schoben. In diesem Rummel versuchte eine blinde Frau sich vorzutasten. Keiner beachtet die zarte Frau mit Hund und langem Stock. Mühsam gestaltet sich ihr Weg durch die Menge. Die einen rempeln sie, weil sie zu langsam ist, die andren stolpern über ihren Stock und einige schimpfen vor sich hin, weil ihr Hund ihnen den Weg versperrt. In diesem seltsamen Wimmelbild schien nur sie zu sehen. Sie war die einzige die rücksichtsvoll und behutsam durch die Masse schlich. Die andren waren blind. Sie hatten Keine Zeit für das Geschehen rundherum. Beschäftigt mit dem Handy, durchdröhnt von Musik oder einfach nur den Kopf tief in der eigenen Gedankenblase steckend. Rücksicht, gesunde Neugier und Interesse an der Umgebung haben wir wohl verlernt.

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 Rana4 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.“