Today in my office, I was looking at the heart shaped ceramic pendant with an engraved „R“ hanging from my table lamp. It was 7:30 in the morning and I was still alone. I went to open the window and the ice cold December breeze came in. Looking down at Vienna from the 10th floor, I went back in my mind to Baghdad in the middle of the 80s.
Itihad was the name of the shop I bought that lovely heart from. A unique shop and atelier in a side street of Al-Mansoor main road. The front was shaped like a red eye of an alien or a webcam. A modern design ahead of its time. The owner was the sculptor and artist Itihad Kareem. The shop was our number one destination for buying gifts. He had all kinds of traditional ceramic in modern designs beside his art collection of sculptures. I loved the pendants with letters or star signs on them. I’m sure I gave all my friends one of those pendants as a birthday present.
The sculptures were wonderful but for me, a school girl at that time, unaffordable. I didn’t even think of going near them. I just looked from a distance, far enough to make sure I can’t break anything.
The most expensive piece I bought with my sister was a Christmas gift for my mother. A table lamp stand for a batik shade she got from her friend.
I sat back at my computer; I was still alone and had 5 minutes to Google Itihad Kareem. I wanted to find a picture of him or his shop, but unfortunately the only thing I found in the net, was an article reporting his death.
I hardly remember his face. I only remember the atmosphere of warmth and peace in his atelier and his low but clear voice.
He didn’t live to be very old and I don’t think he really got the fame he deserved as an artist and sculpture.
He lived in the future. Unfortunately, Iraq has still not caught up with the time he lived in. Instead, the country today is farther away from that future than it was in the early 80s.
Every step I take, every move I make Every single day, every time I pray I’ll be missing you Thinking of the day, when you went away……. Every day we pray for you Till the day we meet again….
This song was on the TV. I never really listened to the lyrics before. It’s sad and three days after the 32nd anniversary of my father’s death, the sentence „till the day we meet again“ made me think. What would I tell my father if I would meet him again?
A strange thought I know, but I wanted to imagine this situation.
„Hello Baba. I’m sure you recognize me. I know you were watching me all the past years. Wish you could have stayed longer. I missed you.“
What he would say? I didn’t think of that. I only thought of my part of the speech. I thought I could tell him „Wish you would have had the chance to meet your grandchildren“ but no. Sure I wish he had, but I would be telling him he missed so much. Or I could say „Baba, I’m just selling the house you started to build“ but I would be telling him I’m selling your dream of living in your house with your family. I want to tell him something that says: „you left but continued living in me.“
I found it, this is what I’ll tell him „Baba, I didn’t get to know you well. You left so early. I tried my best to keep you in my memory and it was you who made it possible for me. I am so grateful for that one day you spent with me alone. As if you were giving me a gift for my life, a memory I can hold on to whenever I miss you or when I’m afraid I might forget you.
Do you remember that day? It must have been only a few weeks before you left. I was eight. You asked me on a Friday morning if I would like to join you. I had a soar throat but I wanted to go with you so I didn’t tell you.I sat on the front seat in the car and I felt myself so grown up. We talked the whole way from our house to the street of Abu Noaas on the riverside of the Tigris. You told me that you have put the ashtray I gave to you on your birthday, on your desk in the office. I was so happy. I told you how I made that copper ashtray. You laughed because I gave you an ashtray but always asked you to stop smoking. Talking about smoking you lit a cigarette. You know when I recall your picture in my mind that’s how I see you: a grey suite, a white shirt, your omega watch on your wrist and a cigarette in you hand. The smell of your aftershave and the smoke complete the picture.
Looking back, it was good you didn’t stop smoking. After all it was not the cigarette that killed you at 45.
You parked the car and I told you my throat is aching, you took me to the juice shop of Jabaar Abu el Sharbat and you bought me a pomegranate juice. You told me „the best medicine for a soar throat is pomegranate. If you can’t get fresh juice you can take a spoon of pomegranate syrup. But the syrup is very sour, you will not like it.“ You know, three years later, I was sick and your mother gave me a dark red, almost black syrup. It was the pomegranate syrup you told me about. When I took a spoon-full in my mouth, I remembered you. It was so sour I thought my teeth will shatter. It was horribly sour. You were right I didn’t like it.
Well, sure you remember what we did after that? We went to a traditional fish restaurant. I could never have gone there again as a grown up lady. They were only for men. But for an eight-year-old girl it was fine to join her father. We met two friends of you and I felt as if I was the most important girl in the universe. Although I’m sure that you talked with your friends, in my memory everyone was talking with me, from the restaurant owner to the nice waiter who served the grilled fish. I think I had to answer the questions „what’s your name?“ and „how old are you?“ more than 5 times.
We ate the fish with our fingers. You showed me how to remove the bones carefully. I used to eat everything with you. I never hesitated to put a frog leg or a snail in my mouth as long as you were eating it too. You enjoyed food so much; watching you eat made me want to join you. After finishing the fish, you took me to the washing room to wash my hand. It seems you knew they had no soap. You picked the lemon slice from the plate and rubbed my hands with it and you told me one more thing I kept in mind since then „when you have no soap, use a lemon. It takes away the grease and the bad smell.“
Those things, a lemon slice on a plate with fish, a spoon of pomegranate syrup I add to a salad dressing and a lot of other small details keep you present in my life.
Thank you Baba.“
Of course we didn’t get the news from the New York Times back in Baghdad in 1990. I googled it today and thought it will make a good start for my story.
We heard about the visit of Muhammad Ali from the local television and we were so excited that someone as great as him was visiting Baghdad. My sister totally adored him. She used to watch his fights when she was a little girl. As for me, well; I have somehow inherited this love, although I never really cared for boxing.
We decided to go and meet him. We knew that it won’t be easy to find him but it’s a once-in-a-life-time chance and we had to take it. Several locations in Baghdad were provided to host the state visitors. We recognized the place when they showed an interview with Muhammad Ali on TV. He was staying in a small resort on the Tigris side called the Weddings Island (before becoming a resort it was called the Pigs’ Island; even though I have never seen a single pig in Baghdad, but never mind).
Welcome
We started our mission on Friday morning. My sister, her two best friends and I. We drove to the resort without a plan, as if we were expecting Muhammad Ali to be waiting for us at the entrance! Reaching the resort, we noticed how difficult our mission was; the resort was surrounded by safety barriers and about 50 guards to keep unauthorized people out. „OK, that won’t be easy!“ we parked the car and headed to the checkpoint putting a big and helpless smile on our faces. The eyes of the guards were following us as we walked towards the one sitting at the checkpoint’s gate. We greeted the man but he didn’t even wait for us to end the phrase, he stood up and told us „You shouldn’t be here. The state visitors are staying in the resort and locals are not allowed to enter!“ We all cried out at once „Please, we want to meet Muhammad Ali.“ He just laughed and turned his back on us. But we didn’t give up. We followed him and started to explain how important it was for us to meet him and that we adore him. We were all talking at the same time that we sounded like a bunch of chattering chicken.
The guards started gathering and looking at us as if we were aliens. Trying to meet a celebrity is not a usual seen in Baghdad. We talked and argued with him but it seemed that he didn’t care. We were almost giving up when one of the guards (he looked important) came out of a van and told us to follow him. We walked with him towards our car, while the rest of the guards slowly went back to their position. When we reached the car he asked us: „What do you want from Muhammad Ali?“ „We want to take pictures with him and shake his hand!“ „That’s all? You were arguing for half an hour, just to take a picture with him?“ „Yes, yes!“ he smiled and said: „I’ll take you to him on two conditions: first you don’t tell anyone that I did and second you take a picture of me with Muhammad Ali too.“ He made a short pause then added: „and you bring the developed photo to me, OK? Or I will have to find you!“ Yepppiiii that’s easy, isn’t it? Ammm, but was the last sentence a threat? OK, we will bring him his photo for sure. Why would we keep it?
We all got in to the car; he sat on the front seat and gave a sign with his hand to the guards to open the gate. We were all silent as if we were afraid to say anything that might make him change his mind. We drove slowly through the resort. The place was full of security guards who looked surprised to see us. He told us to stop in front of one of the small houses. He stepped out of the car and went to a group of guards standing there. He talked to them and they all laughed out lowed (I’m sure they were joking about us). He came back telling us that Muhammad Ali was in the restaurant having lunch. We drove to the restaurant holding our breath „please let him be there“. Again lots of guards were surrounding the place. He opened the window and asked one of them: „Is Muhammad Ali inside?“ „Haaaaaa? Who is Muhammad what?“ the man replayed „The Boxer Muhammad Ali, is he inside?“ „Ah, the big one, yes, yes he just went inside.“
At last, we did it. We went into the restaurant and saw him sitting at the head of a large table with his delegation. Our companion was greeting the guards and freeing the way for us to get through. One of the gentlemen standing near Muhammad Ali came to us and told us: „don’t stay long. Say Hello; take your pictures and leave. Lunch will be served in minutes, OK?“ he turned back and told Mr. Muhammad Ali: „The girls came to meet you!“ Muhammad Ali turned his head and looked at us with a smile on his face and stood up. „God is he BIG!!!“ when I shook his hand my hand totally disappeared in his. You know I don’t remember what we said. I think we just kept repeating „hello, nice to meet you, blah blah blah…“ we were too excited to build a meaning full conversation. Never mind, we did it. We shook hands, took several pictures with him and of course took two pictures of Muhammad Ali with our guardian Angel. We left the restaurant with shining faces. We thanked our companion for his efforts and kindness and we promised to bring him the photos as soon as they are developed and he reminded us again „If you don’t bring them I’ll have to find you!“ „Hmm, OK, we will bring them don’t worry.“
We love you 🙂
We developed the film a month later. By that time the resort was emptied and the smell of war was filling the air. We didn’t search for him and he didn’t find us. I still feel guilty when I go through my photos and see him smiling next to Muhammad Ali Clay.
Mr. Laszlo was a Hungarian musician working in Baghdad. He was a member of the Iraqi philharmonic orchestra in the 80’s and on top of that, he had the hard job of teaching me music. I wasn’t the worst 10-year-old student he ever had, but I wasn’t a natural talent either. It is not the music he taught me that kept him in my mind; actually I haven’t played any instrument for more than 10 Years. What made him so unforgettable are the things that happened to him while teaching me. The last time I saw him I had the feeling he was very happy that it was the LAST TIME.
One day we were sitting on our corner sofa and I was holding the guitar trying to do what he just taught me. Playing the guitar looks very easy but learning to play it is very hard. At least it was for me. He wanted to help me, so he sat beside me on the sofa arm. I was just about to warn him when I heard a sound like “CRACK” and the next thing I saw, was Mr. Laszlo and the sofa arm lying on the ground. His face turned red, he stood up holding the sofa arm in his hand and repeating un-understandable words of apology. I tried hard to keep myself from laughing out loud. I fixed the sofa telling him not to worry and that it was broken before he sat on it. He looked at me and said: “And why didn’t you tell me?” “Hmm, I was just about to tell you!!!” but I don’t think he believed me. I could almost see his thought bubble “Little girl trying to get rid of her music teacher…”
Our lessons were once a week. He used to come to our house; we started with a guitar lesson and then the piano. He taught me how to read music, but I used to learn the music pieces by heart. I watched his long artist’s fingers and copied every move in my mind. For the piano this method worked very well but it didn’t work at all for the guitar. His fingers moved too fast so I was unable to memorize the movements. I told my mom that my fingertips were sore from pressing the guitar strings (WHAT??? Believe me, they really were!!!) so we stopped the guitar lessons. I’m sure he was very pleased when we told him.
Another piano lesson started and Mr. Laszlo was sitting on the chair beside me at the piano. We didn’t have a typical piano bench, so we used the chairs of the dining table instead. My chair had no arms but the one he used to sit on had iron chair arms with a sharp edge. I played my homework and we went through the mistakes I made. I played it again and again while listing to him saying “Tempo tempo… Pamm pamm pamm … pamm pamm pamm …” At the end we were both happy with the result. I played the Mozart piece without mistakes and with the right TEMPO. He looked at me happily and with pride. He Stood up to pick a music book that was on the piano and honestly I was just about to warn him but it was again toooooooo LATE. “OUUUUCH” just thinking of what happened gave me the creeps. He came down with all his weight and sat on the edge of the iron chair arm. He jumped up with a silent scream and sat down immediately. He tried to hide his pain or maybe his tears? He didn’t say a word; he pressed his lips together and started to play the piano. He played wonderfully and very loud, not tickling but hitting the ivories. By the end of the music piece, (he played it three times) he was relaxed again. He turned to me and said: “This is your homework for next week. Good bye” he stood up and went without waiting for my mom to pay him for the lesson as usual. What was that? Did he cry out after slamming the door? No, no, I’m sure it was just my imagination!!!
I wasn’t sure if he would ever come again, but I was happy when he did. Even if it’s hard to believe, I loved playing piano. I only hated the learning process and wished I was talented enough to play anything I liked right away.
The lessons went on for a while without accidents, until one day he came early and asked to talk with my mom. We didn’t really understand what he was trying to say. We had this little communication problem. Although we speak and understand both English and German, it was hard for us to decode his mix of English and broken German. We thought he was telling us that his wife and daughter are invited to a party and need some clothes for the occasion. We also thought that he was asking us to help them out with some old stuff we didn’t need any more. I found it strange, but well why not! At the end he said “I will be leaving Iraq by the end of next month”. I was sorry to hear that he will leave and that my lessons will stop, but he promised to find me a new teacher before leaving.
My mother prepared a bag with some old dresses we didn’t wear anymore and kept it near the piano to give it to him next time he comes. At the end of the next lesson I gave him the bag. He looked with surprise at me and asked: “what’s this?” I told him it was the clothes he asked my mom for. He opened his eyes wide and said: “No, no, no, I want give old stuff before leaving to Hungary!!!” Ooopppsss, I got it. He was trying to get rid of old clothes before traveling back home. Do you know this feeling when you wish you could vanish? This moment was so ridiculous and embarrassing that I wished it would never have happened. I felt the blood flushing into my face when I put the bag down. I told him that I was very sorry for the misunderstanding. He looked at me and murmured something I didn’t really understand (maybe it was Hungarian?). When he left I thought “ok, that was embarrassing but at least he didn’t get hurt this time”.
He came one last time the next week. It was not a spectacular lesson. He told me that if I would concentrate more on learning how to read music I would be able to play anything I’d like. He gave me some training tips and home work. He didn’t recommend a friend (strange isn’t it?) (Maybe he didn’t want the substitute teacher to face the same misfortune accidents!). He said he couldn’t find a substitute. He shook my hand and said “Good bye and good luck ……….”
Good bye Laszlo I will never forget you and you will always bring a smile to my face whenever you cross my mind.
I can’t believe that nine years have already passed since we left our house heading to our farm in a small village, about 60 km north of Baghdad. The house there was built in a way good enough to spend a day but not to host 36 people for almost one month.
It had four rooms and a toilet that we modified into a bathroom, but don’t ask me “HOW?”
We spent the whole war period there; a time full of hard work, fear and worries about the future.
Hard work in a way that we had to do things the way they were done 70 years ago: heating water on an kerosene heater for bathing, cooking and washing dishes. Washing our clothes in a big bowel sitting almost on the floor and then hanging them on the ropes we span on the palm trees. Digging holes to bury the sewage coming out of the WC and a lot more things I only knew from the stories of my grandmother. But still this was the fun part of that time. Now I’ll tell you about the second part: The feeling of fear. A feeling I knew well from the previous wars but I experienced it in a new way, having two little children.
I used to sleep between them trying to keep our heads close together, so in case that any thing happens it would happen to all of us. The fear of loosing someone or keeping someone behind was the greatest.
I still recall that moment when a loud sound came from the sky as if something was falling, a sound that could only end with a big BOMM tearing all of us in pieces. I was outside and my children were in the house. I only knew that I ran as fast as I could to be with them and put our heads together, but thank God nothing happened. The sound ended with nothing. On the next day we learned that this sound had a name; “Sound Bomb” as if the horrible sounds of the real bombs falling all over the country was not enough.
Well, should I really say something about the least part, the one about the worries? Actually it has never ended ever since. It has just changed: first they were about when the war will end, and when we will be able to go home and what will happen after. Now I know that what came after was just what we were afraid of at most.
We made our way back to Baghdad. “The war has stopped” they said, but the streets were saying something else; The burned-out military vehicle on the road side, the mud covering the streets, the damaged check points on the gates of Baghdad and the chaos were telling a sad story of a country that fell. Nothing looked the same, not even the people. Something was missing in their faces. They were all strangers. I never really went back home. A home is where everything is safe and familiar, and that was taken away from me the day Baghdad was killed. I left Iraq with eyes full of tears to offer my children a safe and stable life. But I’ll keep telling them not to forget that once our home was the land of one million palm trees and 25 million citizens, who were just trying to get up from a long history of war and embargo to start live in peace.
