Rain over Baghdad: A Novel of Iraq (43 page)

Amm Ahmad said, “Yes. Donkeys here wander about in the desert, lost, and no one feeds them.”

The engineers smiled and Shadha, the agricultural supervisor, said, “Iraqi peasants have little use for donkeys. They prefer Toyotas.”

I said, “You don’t know how fond we are of donkeys. They are the only creatures with enough patience and fortitude to stand with our peasants and bear up under all the hardships and oppression they have to live through.”

Hilmi Amin said, “Well, here they are, reunited with their old friends!”

I said, “Did you know that we have in Egypt a society that supports donkeys? Do you remember Tawfiq al-Hakim’s donkey?”

They laughed and said, “No!”

Hilmi Amin said, “Of course you don’t. This is a topic for intellectual talk.”

I felt relieved and pleasantly relaxed after I emptied both breasts. Now I can go to another car instead of the noisy one I left behind, but I’ve never been able to make such decisions: leaving company, even to get some rest. I usually exhaust my energy, then collapse all of a sudden. So I found myself going back to the car I had left and to my seat. It was now a different scene. They were distributing sandwiches, soda pop, and fruit. Each one withdrew to their seats and the boisterous mirth subsided. The car was now quiet except for whispering voices here and there. The train seats suddenly became isolated little islands. I could hear a few words here and there about being late in arriving because of military trains. The train stopped. One woman tried to open the window next to her but someone ordered her to close it. The lights were turned off. Silence prevailed. I began to observe my colleagues, some of whom were sleepy while others were fast asleep. I kept looking at the guests of the conference while aware of the Iraqi young women who were watching us carefully and who knew much more than they revealed to us. I imagined how difficult it must be for them. I pondered what it meant for us to go to the front lines and also what it meant to carry on such noisy activity in the thick of war. I asked myself, “Was propaganda so important? And how exactly was it useful?”

I heard Layla calling out, “Zubayda! Zubayda! Over here!”

I turned toward her. I saw a very beautiful young Iraqi woman carrying water bottles and handing them out as Layla tried to draw her attention to an Indian lady who wanted some water. I remembered Zubayda and smiled.

*

I had gone to the office with ideas about several features I wanted to research and write. I told Hilmi Amin that I wanted to locate the burial site of Zubayda, wife of Harun al-Rashid, and also al-Hallaj’s resting place.

Hilmi Amin smiled and signed the papers I needed. I found out that Zubayda’s tomb was in the Karkh area. I knew that the Tigris divided Baghdad into two major sectors, al-Karkh and al-Rusafa. I was surprised that Hilmi Amin wished to come along to visit Zubayda’s tomb. He gave me a book about the Abbasid era in Iraq. From a distance we could see a tomb that stood out with a design that resembled a dovecote. The taxi waited in front of the door. A plaque on the white structure adorned with turquoise mosaic said it was the tomb of Zumurrud Khatun. So, where is Zubayda’s tomb? No one knew. We walked around for a little while and were informed by some locals that that was indeed the tomb of Zubayda, wife of al-Rashid.

The following day I made several visits to the ministries of Tourism and Information, and the Antiquities Department. I also pored over what historians had written about Zubayda, the enigmatic beauty who was given the name by her grandfather, Abu Jaafar al-Mansur, the founder of Baghdad, because of her white skin and her plumpness. Then I went back to
One Thousand and One Nights
to fill in the gaps in my knowledge of her image as created in the popular imagination. Hilmi Amin helped a lot in my work and gave me new suggestions every day. I followed his recommendations happily and kept working on that feature and he kept encouraging me and pushing me further. One late afternoon as I was going home I heard children of the neighborhood playing along the fence and singing, “Kash, Kish safran, Sitt Zubayda ran.”

I did not understand their words but I figured out that Zubayda’s memory lived on after all the years since Abbasid times. I concluded there must be a reason for that.

I wrote my feature with great love and went to the office filled with pride. I found on my desk beautiful drawings in a folder. Hilmi
Amin came in, smiling, and said, “Here, young lady, are line drawings for your story: splendidly beautiful pencil sketches of the tomb that we have visited: The tomb of Zumurrud Khatun, signed by Dia al-Azzawi, the Iraqi artist who visits us regularly.”

I was overjoyed and exclaimed, “When did that happen?”

Laughing, he said, “I went with him to the tomb one afternoon and let him do his work his own way. And there it is: your feature is all ready to be sent, with line drawings that are perfect for
al-Zahra
’s style, and it incorporates an Iraqi component. We must distinguish ourselves from other newspapers and magazines, proving that long experience and history in the field is worth something. Right?”

I couldn’t shower him with kisses, so I shook his hand very warmly, saying, “Thank you! You are the most beautiful Hilmi Amin!”

He got up, smiling, the cigarette partially turned into ashes still stuck to his lips. He read the title: “‘Sitt Zubayda in a Dovecote.’ Okay, young lady. Carry on with your successful work! We’ll stumble along. Send it.”

The train stopped in the city of Amara. The posters on the walls of the station inveighed against the Persians, calling them “fire-worshipping Magi.” In the faint light we read slogans trying to arouse Iraqi zeal against what they characterized as “wars to eradicate the Arab race.” I remembered Anhar and what she told me about the marshes and the book on Kubaysh that she had given me as a gift when I wanted to learn more about that region. I remembered what she told me about the boats that women used in that region: the slim balam and the larger shahhat and all the trouble and toil that marked their lives in the midst of the reeds and the artificial islands built in the water.

I once asked Amal al-Sharqi, managing editor of
al-Mar’a
magazine, “Labor liberates a person since it makes one economically independent. An Iraqi peasant woman works day and night while her husband is idle most of the time. Why doesn’t work liberate the Iraqi peasant woman?”

“Because she is a serf,” she said.

My memory took me back to that night we celebrated Suhayla Bezirgan’s surviving the decree to deport all Iraqis of Iranian descent. Hilmi Amin invited us to his apartment and when Suhayla came in, followed by Abd al-Rahim, Sawsan sang Sayyid Darwish’s famous song “Salma ya Salama,” celebrating coming home after a long trip away from home.

Abd al-Rahim said, “Thank God we didn’t go on any trips.”

Atef grabbed the lute and began to sing an Abd al-Wahab tune, but Maha said, “What’s with all these serious songs, people? Let’s sing something cheerful!”

Anhar arranged various fruits and glasses full of juice on the desk and said, “I’m going to let you in on a family secret. My brother, Abd al-Razzaq, works for an insurance company. He had a very beautiful love affair with a colleague of his, the daughter of a tycoon who had Iranian affiliation, and my brother decided to propose to her. You know Abd al-Razzaq, my only brother, who came after a long wait and hardships. But my father asked that they get to know each other for a long time before announcing the engagement because of Shirin’s family’s huge wealth. Before I tell you the rest of the story, you have to know that that forced emigration of Iraqis with Iranian affiliation was not the first such emigration during the Ba‘th rule, but rather the second one. The first one was in the years 1970 and 1971 and that was a blow aimed at big merchants just as it was this time.”

Sawsan said, “Big merchants? I thought it was all political, because of al-Da‘wa Party.”

Anhar said, “It is very complicated and full of details. In 1951, Iraqi Jews immigrated to Palestine. Before that they controlled the bazaar.”

Maha asked Anhar to explain the word “bazaar” and the latter said it simply meant “suq” or market. Then she went on, “The second force controlling the bazaar was made up of Shi‘i Arabs and Iranians. They were so strong that they could make or break governments. So, when the Jews emigrated, these Shi‘i merchants took their place and
controlled the market from 1951 to 1971. That period witnessed several military coups: in 1958 Abd al-Karim Qasim toppled the monarchy; in 1959 the nationalist officers staged a coup against Abd al-Karim Qasim, then came the coups of al-Shawwaf and Rifaat al-Hajj Sirri. In February of 1963 came the first Ba‘th coup, and in September the coup by the nationalists against the Ba‘thists led by Abd al-Salam Arif, and in 1965 the coup by the nationalists against the nationalists, and in 1967 came the second coup by General Arif Abd al-Razzaq against the government of Abd al-Rahman Arif. Then, finally in 1970 came the coup by General Abd al-Ghani al-Rawi. In other words, we had eight military coups in twelve years.”

I asked what the merchants had to do with these coups.

Sawsan said, “Nora, let her tell us the story.”

Anhar said, “One way or another, with the blessing or outright support of the Shah of Iran, it happened that Abd al-Ghani al-Rawi, despite the fact that he was a Sunni Islamist, was looking for support, so he coordinated with Iranian intelligence. Therefore when his group was arrested and when he ran away, the first forced emigration took place. But it was on a very small scale.”

I handed Anhar a glass of yogurt drink, saying, “You’ve earned it.”

She added, “During the crackdown on Islamists in 1977, Shi‘i merchants had strong connections with the old-school religious establishment. At that time religious authority was in the hawza which was in the hands of the men of religion, because a Shi‘i man of religion had little to do with the government at that time.”

I said, “Am I the only one here who doesn’t understand? What is a hawza? And what does it mean that a Shi‘i man of religion has little to do with the government? Does a Sunni man of religion have a lot to do with the government?”

They all laughed and Abd al-Rahim, Hilmi Amin, and Hatim all said in unison, “We also don’t understand.”

Anhar said, “A Sunni man of religion is an employee of the ministry of awqaf or religious endowments. He gets a monthly salary. A Shi‘i man of religion takes a fifth of zakat money. People pay
canonically mandated obligations in the form of zakat or khums, which amount to one-fifth of the profits of a business, in other words, twenty percent. For a millionaire or a tycoon, this amounts to a huge sum. Those merchants are beholden to the men of religion and they are fulfilling their religious obligations.”

I said, “God’s mercy! Please, what are these canonically mandated obligations? Do you know what these are, Ustaz Hilmi? Do you know them, Sawsan? Oh, but of course you don’t, since, as Nazim al-Ghazali sings, you are a brunette from the Jesus people!”

Sawsan said as she laughed, “I swear by the Prophet, I know it better than you!”

Hilmi said, “Of course I know what she means. Go on, Anhar.”

Hatim, Fathallah, and Atef shook their heads.

Anhar went on, “These canonically mandated obligations are greater in value than zakat. The injunction came in the Qur’anic verse:
and whatever you take as a spoil of war, a fifth of that shall be for God and his messenger
. (God has indeed spoken the truth.) The Muslims used to pay that to the general treasury or bayt al-mal. When the Prophet, peace be upon him, died, some schools of thought, in this case, rites of jurisprudence, deemed those obligations to have lapsed, while other rites believed that they remained in effect. The Shi‘i believed that while it was true that the Prophet had died, he had left an offspring entitled to that share. This is the strong tie between the Shi‘i merchants and the religious establishment, because they pay large sums of money to it. Therefore, and because of their strong influence, governments fear them and think a thousand times before alienating them.

“After the problems with Iran started, the Baghdad Chamber of Commerce sent invitations to about one hundred of the most prominent tycoons, all with Iranian affiliations, to an important meeting with the president of Iraq.”

Maha asked, “What are tycoons, Anhar? Please go easy on us.”

Anhar laughed and said, “It means big rhinoceroses, or what they call in
al-Zahra
‘the fat cats.’”

I said, “You mean ‘whales of commerce’”?

She said, “Yes, Sitt Nora. They went without knowing what the meeting was about or why they had been invited.”

I cried out, “Don’t tell me it was another citadel massacre like Muhammad Ali!”

She said, “Exactly. The doors closed and they were ordered onto buses that took them to a plane bound for Tehran. They told them that the Iraqi authorities considered them personae non gratae and that their families would join them in a few days. Then they confiscated their money and their possessions, and Iraqi intelligence raided their homes at the same time and informed the families that they had only six hours to pack their bags and clothes and put them in cars under heavy guard. Then they took them to the Iraqi–Iranian borders. This all took place quickly and simultaneously with the expulsion of the fat cats so that none of them could take their money out of the banks or dispose of it in any way, shape, or form.”

Hilmi Amin said, “I had heard some rumors about some of these details, but for me they remained just that: rumors. This is your fault, Anhar. I didn’t know the extent of it. But we know that it didn’t stop at a hundred or a hundred and twenty tycoons—it extended afterward to ordinary people.”

Anhar said, “Yes. They started with the fat cats, then went on with the next level and so on.”

Suhayla, her face turning red and her eyes tearing, “Until they reached the poor.”

Fathallah said, “What happened to your brother and his fiancée, Anhar?”

Maha said, “First, I’d like to understand the story of ‘affiliations.’”

Anhar said, “That’s a long story concerning the Shi‘a in Iraq. The Shi‘a during the Ottoman period did not consider themselves subjects of the Ottoman state, because of their sectarian difference. Therefore many Arab families were registered as Iranians, so as not to be conscripted into the Ottoman army. All Iraqis were supposed to have Ottoman ‘affiliation.’ This was determined by the
father’s ID and his original nationality. But if the father belonged to a nationality with another affiliation, he was not considered an Iraqi and as such not entitled to an Iraqi nationality certificate, the most important document in Iraq.