Barefoot in Baghdad (24 page)

I have trouble remembering the exact date of our wedding. I desperately want to block out the string of events that led to the tragedy of Hussein’s death. In my head it all hinges on our wedding.

Our wedding is forever tied to his death.

Seven years later, Yusuf and I remain on the sidelines with the sensation that we are not in control of our own destiny.

Given the number of death threats Yusuf received after our wedding, we decided to live in Jordan for the first year of our marriage.

Maysoon and her children moved out of their three-story villa in Baghdad and joined us in our three-bedroom apartment in Jordan. For years I longed to see Maysoon in one of her colorful scarves. Instead, she remained in the traditional black dress that marked her as a widow. Every day we called our family and friends in Iraq for the slightest indication that things were improving. But things were always getting worse. By 2006 the country was being ripped apart by civil war.

Everything I loved in Iraq was being destroyed. In 2007, a series of suicide bombs ripped across Mutanabi Street, shutting down the age-old book market for the next two years. The lives of the people I had grown to love were now being torn apart. Fadi’s father passed away in the middle of the night. Due to the curfew, the family had to wait until morning to transport the body for burial. Hawzan, the eldest daughter of the Kurdish family that I lived with in Hay Al Jammah, suffered a cardiac arrest at the age of thirty-four after moving to Amman with the wave of refugees. Years later her father explained that she had died of a broken heart.

Despite the fact that I carried dual citizenship as a Jordanian American, there was no place for Yusuf and me in Amman. There, too, we constantly faced new obstacles. As an Iraqi, my husband was considered persona non grata. There was a window of time where Yusuf, like so many other proud Iraqis, was a man without a country, waiting in limbo for a new, valid Iraqi passport.

But we found a way to return to Iraq, this time in a different capacity. Our movements were limited, and the only safe space was within the Green Zone. We stayed there, but the zone by then was only half the area it had been originally.

Over the last few years I have worked to support local civil society groups, and Yusuf and I have helped with the preparation for the March 2010 elections. The civil war is waning, and Iraq has begun to emerge from the dark ages of 2007 and 2008. Iraqi friends and family discuss those years with glazed eyes, recalling the immense fear that overwhelmed every neighborhood.

Over the last few years, security and the surge of U.S. military efforts to hand over the country to the Iraqi government have overshadowed all attempts to make progress regarding women’s issues. In fact, little work has been done to advance the status of women. The primary focus of everyone’s efforts has been to stay alive. It is amazing to find ourselves having traveled full circle. The discussions on the ground are yet again on how to establish women’s centers, and female victims of violence have no shelter other than a single women’s center in the north. Today, the debate over Resolution 137 and its impact on the personal status laws for women has been revived, although the law has been renamed Article 41.

I have worked in other conflict-torn countries, but my time in Iraq haunts me more than any place I have been. I am unable to put the experience behind me. It maddens me that so many of the mistakes that pushed Iraq into chaos were avoidable. From the outset of the U.S. invasion, those in power in Iraq repeatedly betrayed the people of Iraq by standing on the sidelines as the society crumbled and by making promises that they could not keep. And I have a profound sense of guilt when I think of all the women whose cases I was never able to close. When I fled Iraq, I also fled from them, and I can’t help but feel that I left them stranded. Iraqis are faced with a bleak dilemma: if they stay in their country, their lives are at risk, but if they leave the country, they are made to feel like a burden in their new homes. Essentially, they are forced to choose between death and humiliation.

Yet Iraqis continue to wait for the dawn.

Muna has carried forward the work of Women for Women International, pushing the program to help the most vulnerable women. She atte
nded her daughter’s wedding, and her son now lives with her in Najaf.

Mais married and moved to England, where he is continuing graduate school.

Fadi now lives in San Diego, where he is at the heart of the Iraqi social scene.

Maysoon and her three children resettled with Yusuf and me in northern Virginia.

Yusuf and I have dedicated our careers to Iraq.

Meanwhile, we watch the personal tragedies brought on by the growing insecurity within Iraq and the flight of Iraqis into neighboring countries while feelings of hope ebb. The chance that the international community will assist the Iraqis through their national crisis seems increasingly remote. The best hope for the Iraqi people is their own strength and conviction and their ability to take control of their own destiny. Having lived among them and seen their determination, I remain optimistic that they can make a better future for themselves. I can only pray that the international community and their own government don’t stand in the way.

***

Over the past seven years, my most vivid dreams are about my experiences in Iraq. To my surprise, the person I dream about most is Fern Holland. Salah is second. My recurring dreams about him center around my begging Yusuf to continue to search for Salah.

I have only dreamed about Hussein once, but that dream is etched indelibly in my mind. It encapsulates all of my emotions toward Iraq.

In my dream, I experience Hussein in the same ways I experienced him in life: simple, gentle, and profound.

The dream starts with an awareness that there is a visitor in the other room, and I stand at the threshold of the door, knowing the visitor is Hussein. I do not want to go in, and I am surprised at the realization that I feel anger welling up inside me. For a second, I feel as if I am going to see a Hussein who has abandoned his wife and children to a cruel world, a man who has left them in a wilderness where dog eats dog, with no precautions or safeguards for their future. I do not want to see him. His energy calls out to me, and I think to myself,
He is here. I cannot disappoint him.

I walk into the room and sit down across from him. We say nothing to each other. We do not have to, because the look on his face says it all. Do I really think this is what he wants? That at the ripe old age of thirty-two, he would have wanted to leave his family? For even a moment, do I believe this is easy on him?

I have never seen a face so full of expression. Regret and sorrow emanate from his entire being. Yet what rips at my heart is the look of longing in his eyes. He leans over to me and speaks of how beautiful Maysoon is. For a brief second he allows himself a wistful smile. I feel a twinge in my heart when I see the pride in his smile as he acknowledges his wife. The wistfulness passes, and his face becomes disfigured with pain. He tries to force a smile for me, but he fails. Instead, the sorrow in his face returns. A silence follows.

I can not find any words within me and have nothing to say. All I can think as the tears trickle down my face is that I am sorry. I have no right to be angry with him, and I am sorry that I blamed him. I think he hears me, because he nods.

He slaps his hands on his knees, just as he would do when he visited me in my house in Hay Al Jammah during what Yusuf and I refer to as the golden years. His gesture says, “Sitting here is great, but I must be moving on.” Before he leaves he calls out to his three children. Fatima! Ali! Hamza! They come running into the room. I watch as they hug and kiss one another.

Hussein says, “Behave yourselves and be good to Manal.”

They nod, and Fatima cheerily responds: “You do not need to remind us. We love her.”

In my dream, Hussein and I exchange sincere smiles, albeit smiles of sadness and loss. He turns for one final glance at his children, and hope fills his eyes. Then he is gone.

1. As the author mentions in the beginning of the book, the title
Barefoot in Baghdad
refers to a popular Iraqi-Turkmen proverb that often serves as a warning to those who challenge societal norms. In what ways does Manal Omar challenge societal and cultural norms throughout her journey? What do you think it means to be a woman in chaos?

2. In Iraq, how people identify themselves across the spectrum of race, religion, and politics is central to their level of influence, acceptance, and safety in the war-torn environment. Omar carefully uses her unique, multidimensional identity to her advantage, utilizing her American citizenship, Palestinian heritage, and Muslim upbringing to relate to a diverse group of people. In what ways does her multicultural identity serve as an advantage? Are there any times where you thought Omar’s multicultural heritage may have served as a disadvantage to her?

3. When the brutality in Iraq intensified, Omar writes that she had “begun to accept a brutal death as [her] fate” (205). Does this belief empower Omar by helping her conquer her fear of death? Or is she simply behaving recklessly, believing that she will die no matter what she does?

4. Omar strongly believes that the advancement of women’s rights is vital to the future of Iraq, even arguing that women’s status in society “should be used as a barometer of success” (123). However, she notes that as an American woman working for a female-oriented organization, she is completely reliant on an all-male staff and the acceptance of the male community elders. Are laws like the “personal status laws” in Iraq an actual step toward rectifying the disparity in male and female rights, or do they merely perpetuate an illusion of fairness? Do you think true female equality is a realistic goal for the current generation of Iraqi women?

5. Though she tries her hardest to maintain a rational perspective and focus on the individuals she is helping, Omar admits, “Somewhere along the line Iraq had become an emotional issue for me. Personal” (197). At what point in the memoir do you think Omar starts to become less objective and begins to approach the issues on an emotional and personal level? What effect does this have on her work in Iraq?

6. Due to the war and growing unrest, many Iraqi people are faced with the difficult decision to either stay in their country and risk their lives or leave their homes and become displaced refugees. “Essentially,” Omar writes, “they are forced to choose between death and humiliation” (235). Faced with the same dire situation, would you stay and face death, or would you seek asylum in a foreign country, never to return to your homeland?

7. Though Omar and Yusuf are happily married and safe, Omar feels as though she has abandoned people, and she is haunted by the events in Iraq. Do you think Omar can remain optimistic about the future of Iraq?

8. During her time in Iraq, Omar comes across many women of different socioeconomic backgrounds, but stresses that she meets an astounding amount of “women engineers, lawyers, doctors—absolutely amazing Iraqi women who would put most American women to shame” (107). How do these women compare to the images of Iraqi women that appear in the media? Were you surprised to learn that there are a great deal of women who are not marginalized in society, have economic independence, and have a great deal of freedom in Iraq? How does this change your perception of Iraqi society and the situation for women there?

9. The motto of Women for Women International is “underpromise and overdeliver.” Can you recall any specific examples where this motto can clearly be seen in Omar’s work?

10. Fadi believes that music is something that can unite people across different cultures, and Omar finds a sense of normalcy and familiarity in cooking. What are other things that rise above cultural and personal differences to unify people and bring cross-cultural understanding?

11. Omar believes that “Charles Dickens understood war. ‘It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.’” While the “worst of times” is a fairly obvious statement, what is meant by the “best of times” in a war-torn country? Are there positive things that occur in society or on a personal level even during an ongoing war?