Daughters of Iraq (9 page)

In a single step

From the edge of the day

In a single step

From the edge of many days

From one edge of years to the other

From one of my edges to the other

From the edge of my light

From my beginning to my end

He walks inside me

From the edge of my body

He sees from one edge of my life

To the other

From my soul to the end of my soul

Knowing me better

Than I could ever know myself.

 “Nice,” he said, and seemed to mean it.

He’s not all superficial
, she thought,
there’s something deeper there
. “I love this poem. I think it describes a complete love, a love that almost touches God . . .” Noa was shocked to hear herself sharing her philosophy of love with him. Even worse, she was describing what her febrile mind had imagined for many years: that she would find true love, the kind she read about in the poem. All those years, she had imagined Ehud walking from one side of her soul to the other, that it was he who would know her better than she knew herself. She had explained away his reticence, telling herself he was too shy, or that his life was so complicated he never had an opportunity to reveal his true feelings to her.

“That really is a special poem. You’ve convinced me, I’m getting it,” he said. “Okay, I’ve got to go. I’ll see you another time.”

“I don’t know. Would you want to see me again?”

“Maybe.” He sounded impatient. “I really have to go.”

“So I’ll see you soon,” she said.

Ehud didn’t respond. He left the store without buying the book. Noa watched him recede into the distance. She stood there, not moving, hoping he would turn around, return and get the book. Perhaps she would have another chance to understand the wild feelings erupting inside her. But he didn’t come back, and as soon as he was out of sight, she left and tried to find him among the crowds of people on the street. Noa and Ehud had known each other since their youth group days, and they had served together in the army. He had been her first kiss. She’d been walking him to the midnight bus that would take him to the base, where he would begin his basic training. She thought about that adolescent evening spent kissing and touching each other.

For a long time, Noa had wondered whether or not Ehud loved her, but she didn’t dare ask. He never let on about his feelings toward her, whether or not he loved her, whether or not he really desired her. He allowed Noa to love him, sometimes even demanded her attention, but he never spoke about his feelings. Noa learned to be satisfied with what she had and not to ask for more.

With the conclusion of her army service—after her mother had died—Noa returned home to live with her father, and Ehud went on to become an officer. He fought in several battles, and every now and then she’d see his face on television, fighting in the far-off mountains of Lebanon. She had other boyfriends during those years, but none had supplanted Ehud, who remained distant, unattainable, blurry. She grieved for what she had lost. And now, once again, he was leaving without any explanation. No, she wouldn’t let him interfere with her good mood.
Each person travels on his own path
, she thought,
each person lives in his own world
. Why didn’t he buy the book? Was it because she had thrown him off, or had he never intended to buy it in the first place? She wondered whether her image of Ehud—a gruff exterior enveloping a gentle soul—was real, or whether she had fallen in love with a fictitious character. She smiled to herself and tried to imagine a different ending to their short, strange conversation. And what if they had gone out for coffee? What if they had strolled through the streets of Tel Aviv, or back to her apartment? Would she have met a different Ehud than the one who had lived in her head all those years, or would the same adolescent love erupt within her? And this time, would it be the real thing—mature and mutual? She made her way back to the library. When she got there she asked to see everything about Yona Wallach.

Chapter Ten: Violet

Friday, January 20, 1987

I
was born in 1932, in Baghdad, at the foot of the Chidekel River in Iraq. The fourth child of five. My three older siblings, Farcha, Anwar, and Chabiba, were many years older than me. My mother went through a lot before she had me. After me, she gave birth to Farida, and then decided to be content with what she had. All the pregnancies and deliveries had tired her out. Around the time Farida and I were born, my parents became grandparents. I know this sounds odd to people in the 1980s, but in the second half of the last century, it was not unusual. Many women got married right around their twelfth birthday, their Bat Mitzvah, and had their first baby at the age of fifteen.

My mother was considered an odd bird; she didn’t marry until the ripe old age of seventeen, and she was nineteen when she became a mother. That’s why my nephews were more like brothers to me. You could say that, in certain ways, my mother was a feminist long before the term
feminism
reached Iraq. She started learning Hebrew at a young age, even though she sometimes had to stand on a chair so her teacher could see her.  She was the oldest child, and her father made sure she received the same education as a boy. Because my mother’s parents had lost a number of children before she was born, my mother was the center of their world. Even after my grandparents had other children, including two sons, she never lost her special place in the family.

My mother chose my father for marriage, which was quite unacceptable at the time. She fell in love with him the first time she saw him, and she asked my grandfather to track him down. My grandfather, who could never refuse his daughter, went out and found my father, who came from a poor and undistinguished family. My father, my grandfather learned, had been supporting his mother ever since his father had returned from World War I, sick and unable to recover. When he died, he left a young widow and her orphan children. My grandfather also learned that although my father had been supporting the family for a number of years, he had still succeeded in becoming a high-ranking civil servant. Grandfather thought that someone like this—upright, strong, hardworking—would be a good match for his cherished daughter. Grandfather loved my father as if he were his own son. He knew my father would always take care of his precious daughter, and he gave the couple his blessing.

Today, when I look back on my parents’ marriage, I divide their relationship into two distinct phases: one in Iraq, the other in Israel. In Iraq, bonded by love and a shared destiny, they respected each other. When I was a child, I remember, there was nothing my father wouldn’t do for my mother, and she only spoke well of him. All that changed when we moved to Israel. My father lost his status, both as the provider and as an honored member of the community. He lost his property, he couldn’t speak the language, and nobody recognized him or his worth. He was simply another new immigrant. He was no longer the person whose opinion and counsel were sought, no longer the person who supported and ran the household. Stripped of his independence and his power, he could no longer control his family, and, as a result, he lost my mother’s respect. She mocked him, insulted him, and kicked him out of their bedroom. For many years, his mattress lay in the hallway of our tiny apartment, and none of us were kind to him. Following our mother’s lead, we treated him with contempt, which intensified as he grew older and as his behavior changed. Sometimes we saw him strolling on the street with another woman on his arm, and the only time we heard his voice at home was when he shouted in anger. A few weeks before his death, we learned that an orange-sized tumor had grown in his brain. This was what had caused his outbursts. For many years, my heart has been filled with piercing regret at how I behaved toward my father. My mother was the center of our household, the center of my world and the world of my siblings. My father was cast aside, and I never had a chance to tell him I loved him or ask his forgiveness. I cringe every time I remember how I hurt him, and I am overcome with shame for my lack of respect.

But let me return to the subject of marriage in Iraq in the 1930s. In those days, marriages were arranged by the bride’s parents, who selected a groom or rejected him based on financial and family status. In our community, we all knew one another, and a family’s particulars social, financial, medical were common knowledge. The presence of any physical or mental illness in a family was the most important thing to know. Grandfather understood, however, that in his daughter’s case the old model wouldn’t work. She was stubborn and opinionated, and if he didn’t allow her to choose her own groom, she would never get married. And in the case of my father, Grandfather understood after some investigation that he didn’t have to worry. So this untraditional marriage the bride choosing the groom became a reality.

My mother was an independent woman, a socialite who hosted the community’s most distinguished members in her elegant home. An invitation from my mother was cause for celebration, because everyone knew she invited only the most important people. She ran her household with a firm hand. We were strictly disciplined, and anyone who angered her paid dearly. This included us, her children, as well as the servants: the wet nurse, the cook, the shoe shiner, the laundress, the driver. If a servant upset my mother in any way, my father would replace him or her that very same day.

My mother did not abide any defiance or lack of discipline, and when we didn’t follow the rules, we suffered consequences. I should point out that this policy served us well more than once. None of us died, even though child mortality was very common back then. Her obsessive cleanliness and medical intervention preserved our health and our lives. She made sure we studied, and if Farida and I ever disobeyed her wishes, we were beaten soundly when our father came home from work.
Ima
did not compromise. Everything had to work efficiently and precisely. Anything less was unacceptable.

In retrospect, I think that growing up in Iraq in the forties was wonderful. Elsewhere in the world, there was war; at the time, we didn’t realize how bad it was. My father, who learned about World War II via nightly BBC broadcasts, knew that the conflict was spreading, heading our way. To prepare for the inevitable, he stocked provisions for our entire extended family. He collected staples: oil, lentils, and spices, as well as fabric, candles, and anything else he could think of. The war never reached us, but was on the streets of Baghdad: people went hungry, nothing was bought or sold, and there was a shortage of everything. Thanks to my father’s vigilance and foresight, however, our family fared well.

In 1940s Iraq, society was organized in a tribal fashion. We lived in a kind of communal house in the desert by the wide Chidekel River. An abundance of palm trees grew on its banks, and we cooled ourselves in its waters during hot summer days. Baghdad, evoked in the songs of Leila Maurad, whose silky voice and forlorn lyrics we loved. Baghdad, where the entire city slept on rooftops during summer. On those hot, enchanted nights, we watched movies in open-air movie theaters. From the rooftops, we looked at the moonlit sky, at the distant, innumerable stars blazing above. On the roof, you could dream about secret, uncharted worlds.

We never felt lonely. We experienced everything together: sadness, joy, hardship, prosperity. If I wanted to spend time alone in the house, I had to wait for months. There were always children to play with: my brothers and sisters, my nephews, the neighborhood children, the children of my parents’ friends. We played together, as a group, without a television, of course, or a radio. We invented games, played hopscotch, ball, and leapfrog. We played with dolls. We played for hours—nowhere to rush off to, no extra-curricular activities to attend. There was time for everything; no reason to hurry. We listened to Grandmother Samira—my mother’s mother—tell stories about her childhood. We spent time at our neighbor Nezima’s house, eating
machbuz
, and we read books that
Aba
gave us. Our world was magical, safe, and carefree.

A world without worries or fear . . . if only I could recapture that feeling. Three years ago, during a routine check-up, I discovered I had endometrial cancer. In the first stage of the illness, I received a number of treatments, including a hysterectomy, which the doctors considered successful. Two years later, I learned the cancer was storming my body, annexing more and more territory. Since then, I’ve undergone many diverse treatments. I don’t sleep much. I lie awake entire nights, reviewing my life, reliving both the beautiful and the excruciating moments. I remember mischief, love, births, and celebrations. I’m unable to work. I haven’t gone back to university; I can’t focus on my research. It no longer seems important. Nothing matters except for you, my wonderful family. I want to spend as much time with you as possible, to absorb your love, to give you strength. The uncertainty is maddening, even more maddening than despair.

A few days ago, while organizing my desk, I came across some loose pages filled with reminiscences I’d recently written. That’s what spurred me to keep a diary. I debated whether or not this was a good idea, but in the end I decided to do it. Life is full of surprises; you never know what the next moment will bring, and there’s so much I want to tell you, Noa’le and Guy, and you, too, Dan-Dan. After all, I’m lying here anyway, doing nothing; right now, my whole life is one long waiting period.
What am I waiting for?
I ask myself. So far I haven’t find a satisfactory answer. I’ve been thinking I might want you to know more about me. I’ve been thinking that you, my dear children, are still so tender. There are many things about my life that I haven’t told you about: my childhood in Iraq, moving to Israel, living on a kibbutz, how I met your father, what you were like as babies, my work, and the love I feel for this country. So now, in these long periods of rest between treatments, I am writing to you.