Daughters of Iraq (17 page)

“Of course I’ll miss him, but I’m also happy for him. I wish you felt the same way.”

“So what are you saying that I’m being childish and selfish?” She averted her eyes.

”Noa, I wasn’t trying to say anything like that. I just want you to be happy for him. Just try not to upset him. Don’t make him feel like he’s abandoning you.”

“What? did he say something to you?”

“He hinted that he was thinking of chucking the whole idea because he didn’t want you to feel like he, too, was leaving you.”

“That wasn’t what I meant.” Tears started in her eyes, and she angrily wiped them away. “It’s just a little hard for me.”

“I understand what you’re saying.” Guy took a huge bite of the omelet she had given him. “But you have to support him, send him on his way. He deserves to live a little bit, too.”

“You’re right.” Noa looked down. “You’re right. Sometimes I feel like you’re the older one, not the other way around. Where do you get all this maturity from?”

“From life.” Guy smiled broadly. “From life, Noa’le. It’s time for you to grow up. Anyway, where’s my sandwich?”

“Here,” she said, putting another plate in front of him. She leaned back, and for awhile neither spoke. Guy ate with gusto, and Noa admired her brother’s hearty appetite. They were both immersed in their own thoughts, their own memories, their own worlds.

“Look,” said Noa after a bit. “I think you’re right we’ll be fine.
Aba
should go. And like you said, we’ve got each other.”

“Exactly,” said Guy. “That’s exactly what I’m saying. I’m not going anywhere . . . for the time being.” Guy smiled wickedly. “Anyway, anything else you wanted to talk to me about? Because for a few days now, I’ve had a feeling there’s something on your mind, something more serious than
Aba
’s trip. Wow,” he said, licking his fingers, “that was a good sandwich.”

“Thank you.” She sat down across from him. “There was something else I wanted to talk to you about. Or more accurately, tell you. I don’t know if
Aba
had a chance to say anything.”

“What didn’t he tell me this time?” Guy asked. “I’m always the last one in the family to know.”

“So I assume you don’t know I visited Aunt Farida this past week and that she gave me
Ima
’s diary?”

“What diary?” He seemed genuinely surprised.

“It seems
Ima
kept a diary.”

”When did you say you visited her?” Guy asked.

“A few days ago.”

“And you’re only telling me now?”

“I wanted to tell you yesterday, but you didn’t go to
Aba
’s.”

“And what about the day before that?”

“Relax. I had a crazy week. Anyway, that’s not what matters right now.”

“Of course it matters! I’m sick of this. Nobody bothers to tell me anything.” His voice was angry, but there was a slight smile on his face. “And anyway, why now? And why did she have it in the first place?”

Noa tried to strike the right
older sister
tone. “First of all, if you want people to tell you things,” she said, “you might want to try asking. As for the diary, Aunt Farida said she felt I was ready.
Aba
gave it to her, maybe because she was so lonely, maybe for some other reason, I’m not really sure.”

“Did they want me to read it, too? You know what, it doesn’t matter,” Guy said, shaking his head. “Where is it, anyway?”

“In my room.”

“So go get it!”

“Slow down a minute!” Noa was taken aback. “Let me say something.”

“Why? Is it full of secrets?” Guy looked into her eyes.

“I don’t think there are any secrets, but I haven’t gotten very far. I can say the diary is loaded.”

“What do you mean?

“It’s loaded, with details, with information about her family.”

“That’s what it’s about?” Guy was visibly disappointed. “What is it, a history book?”

“No.” Noa smiled. “You’ll see. But listen. I’m not giving it to you until I’ve finished it. And one more thing.”

“What?”

“I just want you to know that it feels very strange to me, reading what she wrote. At first, I was afraid to even open the book.”

“Afraid? Of what? Did you think some evil spirit would leap out? You know what, Noa? I’m a doer. I don’t think about things too much, I just do them. What do you think—the journal’s going to bite you? You’re whittling your life away, Noa, thinking too much and doing too little. My God,” he said, “the way you complicate everything.”

“I’m not afraid of any spirits.” Noa chuckled. “And maybe I do have a tendency to complicate things. But I didn’t know what to expect, and I didn’t know how it would affect me. I kept it under my pillow for two days. By day three, I couldn’t contain myself anymore, and I started flipping through it, a page here, a page there. It really touched a nerve. Just seeing her handwriting got me choked up.” Noa looked down. “It reminded me of when we were kids, how she used to sit in her room for hours, working on her science publications.”

“So you didn’t actually read what she wrote?” Guy said. “And
Aba
knows Farida gave you the diary?”

“
Aba
knows. I talked to him about it. But not too much,” she added quickly. “I asked him why it took so long for us to get it. Turns out he agreed with Aunt Farida. Didn’t think we should read it until we were ripe, as he put it.”

“Ripe, huh,” Guy said. “What are we, potatoes?”

“No, but I do think they had our best interests in mind. And it wasn’t easy talking to him about it. I was too flustered to ask any personal questions, especially now that he’s leaving. And I didn’t want him withdrawing into his own world again.” Noa leaned her elbows on the kitchen table, took a deep breath, and continued: “In a way, the diary brings
Ima
back to life. He spent such a long time mourning her I didn’t want to open all that up again.”

Guy nodded. “But you know what? It still kills me he didn’t tell us about it in the first place.”

“I was angry, too, at first. But I think he just thought we were too young, that not enough time had passed since her death.”

“Maybe it
is
still too soon. Maybe I should ask
Aba
if reading it will traumatize me for life,” he said quietly. “
Ya’allah
,
go get the diary. At least let me see it.”

Noa went to her room. She still kept the diary under her pillow. She picked it up and ran a hand over the cover; it was thick, hard, and unadorned. She stroked the book as if it was an actual part of her mother, as if it was a hand extended from another place, another time, another world. As she walked back into the kitchen, she dropped the diary. It hit the floor and opened, pages spreading out like a fan. As she picked it up, she noticed a loose page, protruding from between two latter pages of the diary. She pulled it out and realized it was a letter, addressed to both Guy and her, written in her father’s handwriting.

My dearest Guy and Noa
,
 

Now that you are reading your mother’s diary, you are already mature, self-sufficient adults. I am sure you will be moved, as I was, when you read through these pages. They are full of Ima’s thoughts and memories; they describe her life as she experienced it. I believe that reading this book will be a thrilling and enriching adventure for you; inside it, you will find an entire world. You’ll be amazed to discover that although children think they know their parents very well, sometimes they are only familiar with one facet of their mother or father. A whole life can be hidden from their eyes. You have been very lucky, my children, that Ima kept a diary, primarily for you. The diary was written with love. Ima wanted to bequeath to you the story of her heritage, her family, and the love she felt toward you. She knew she wasn’t going to be with us for very long. This diary will allow you to see Ima from other vantage points, to know her in other ways, to share her experiences, the ones you know about as well as the ones you don’t.

When I think about the way I experienced my parents, it seems to me that in each stage of my life, I related to them in a different way. As a child, I worshipped them. They were invincible. I depended on them for everything, and I experienced the world through their eyes. I will never forget the way you were in this stage of your lives, how you wanted to be like Ima and me, how you mimicked our behavior. This was the best time for our family. Dozens of images pass before my eyes: I remember Noa standing behind Ima, watching her get dressed for a night out; I think Noa must have been six or seven years old. You told Ima that soon you would have breasts, and that when you did, you’d be able to study with her at the university. I remember you, Guy, sneaking up behind me while I was shaving, asking me to dab some shaving cream onto your face because you already had an enormous mustache. I think you were about four, but whatever age you were, you certainly didn’t have a mustache.

As you grew, my sweet children, the revolution broke out: adolescence. This was accompanied by the painful realization that Ima and I whom you had idolized were not omnipotent. We were just people, and we had weaknesses and deficits. It hurt me to see the disappointment in your eyes. Not only were Ima and I not omnipotent, as you had once believed, or at least hoped, but we were inconsistent. Sometimes we were strong, sometimes weak, sometimes terribly fragile. Ima’s illness and death made our fragility and our impermanence strikingly real, but that’s life. I want it to be absolutely clear to you that Ima never gave up her fight against cancer, not for one minute. It’s just that the cancer overpowered her. She had no choice.

When you become parents yourselves, my children, you’ll start to see more and more parallels between the parents who raised you and the parents you’ve become. I think it will be easier for you to see Ima and me as we really are: flesh and blood, with strengths and weaknesses. The rebellious stage will be over, and you the children/parents will have a new appreciation for us, your parents, who raised you and cared for you and allowed you to become parents yourselves. And most likely, the cycle will continue.

A circle is closed when our parents, who raised us, start depending on us. As our parents age, they look to us, their grown children, for support. We hold them up, we protect them; the cycle changes direction. And the world turns, and a generation is born, and a generation dies out. The rules of the world don’t change except for when tragedy strikes, as it did in our family. I ache at the thought of your premature adulthood, at how you had to watch Ima suffer, and worse, how you lost her at such a young age. Ima tried so hard to shield you from her pain.  She didn’t want you to grow old at such a young age. But she couldn’t protect you completely—you saw, and felt, her pain. You are good people. Ima and I must have done something right. I am proud of you, and I love you.

Aba

Noa didn’t tell Guy how she longed for her mother, not that night or for many nights to come. But Noa felt she needed her mother more than ever. Finding and reading the diary made her yearn for an earlier time, when she lived with both of her parents and her younger brother, safe and protected. Back when she had a real family. Her father’s postscript had given her new insight into her own world and its vicissitudes. “Ima,” she whispered to the diary. “Take care of us.”

Chapter Twenty-Five: Violet

Monday, March 16, 1987

P
urim
is in three days; I can dress as a cancer victim. I’m already bald. I just hope the little kids aren’t scared of me. Usually
Purim
is a very festive day for our family, but this year, Noa’s staying at the base and Guy is too old to dress up. Anyway, he doesn’t care about family celebrations. Apparently he’s at the age where he has no interest in anything. It is what it is. Every year we gather at my older sister Chabiba’s house, which is as large and spacious as her heart. She loves to have everyone over. We are, thank God, a gigantic family, and between weddings and births we get bigger every year. If only I could be privileged to hold my own grandson or granddaughter in my arms. Oh, my dear children. How I want to accompany you on the road ahead, how I pray for the strength and the good fortune to stay in this world and experience all these moments with you.

When my father, of blessed memory, was still alive when you were little he had his own
Purim
tradition. He would give all of his grandchildren, big or small, newly minted coins or bills that he brought straight from the bank. By now, all of you have a respectable collection; I wonder if they’re worth anything? When my parents were still alive, we would dress up and celebrate
Purim
at their house, in their tiny slice of backyard. Children and adults surprised each other with original costumes. We spread a rug over the grass, sat down, and took turns presenting our costumes in the most creative way we could. We put on skits, sang songs, and danced while Anwar’s daughter Adena played the accordion.

Back in Iraq, our
Purim
celebrations were full of laughter and good cheer. Everyone had a chance to show off his or her natural talent. Chabiba prepared her special
Purim
pastry cheese pastries,
sambusk
,
ka’kaat
,
which is like a small pretzel, and of course
baba
with dates. She also made
zangula
,
a kind of honey-dipped pastry, sweet marzipans in all sorts of designs, and many other desserts. Other family members brought their own talents, too: we played musical instruments, sang songs, told stories, put on plays.

Farcha’s two sons, who are only one year apart, put on the funniest plays. There was always a healthy competition between the two boys, but they have always been close, in both age and character. One brother would tell a story while the other stood behind him and wrapped his arms around the storyteller’s chest, his hands gesturing wildly in accordance with the story. He would tie his brother’s shoelaces, adjust his brother’s pants, put his hands into his brother’s pockets, light a cigarette and put it between his brother’s lips whatever action the story called for. The two of them had a real flair for drama, and we were always rolling on the floor. Today they are both mature adults, but sometimes, if we ask very nicely, they’ll relent and perform for us again.