Baghdad: The Final Gathering Page 2

  Chapter 2: Family

  My father looks at my mother, and they share a smile. When I close my eyes, my life begins to play out in my mind.

  If I had to look at the thirty-five years of my parents’ marriage, I can fairly say it has been a happy union—far from a fairytale but a good marriage nonetheless. I am their eldest, and I have one brother. My mother got to know my father through his cousin, her colleague at the hospital pharmacy. I was told it was something akin to admiration at the first sight. My father, fully dressed in his army attire, arrived with his sister to pick up their cousin after her nightshift at the pharmacy. That night, my mother just so happened to need a ride, as her father was busy out of town. My parents shared a few looks and a few words on the way to her home, and things just clicked between them. After that, my father visited the pharmacy frequently, and the two of them wed a year and a half later.

  During the first few years of their marriage, they traveled a lot, and Mother accompanied him during much of his military training outside Iraq. Then we happened, and things changed. Our father’s work in the army became more intense and involved as he moved up in the ranks, and our mother was left to tend to all the hard work at home.

  As I grew older, I came to understand what was really going on: My father’s life was the army. He was the sole provider for our family, but my mother brought us up and dealt with all the rest.

  Talking about my father is almost like discussing two entirely different people. He was born to a family that lived and breathed politics. His father, my late grandfather was a parliament member during the times of the late Faisal, the first king of Iraq. My uncle operated a political journal in Baghdad, a paper that published much about Arabic identity in difficult times, and one of my aunts was the head of one of the woman’s freedom movement at their college. It was a family enthusiastically immersed in politics, to say the least. They were always busy with demonstrations, and party movements. At the same time, they were a wealthy family. My father was the youngest, and he studied mechanical engineering at the American University of Beirut, from where he graduated with high honorary marks. One of his teachers at the university was a friend of the Iraqi ambassador to Lebanon that time, and he advised the ambassador to influence the government to hire my father when he returned to Iraq. Later, Father was told that his teacher’s exact words to the ambassador were, “Grab him! He is a smart guy and could be very useful.”

  Two months later, my father was appointed by the Ministry of Defense. During his first year there, he underwent extensive military training, which was physically demanding but also quite educational. Once he was fit and fully understood the military system of the time, the Ministry sent him to Berlin. He studied to master a specialized field that dealt with the defense system for rockets and other ballistics. He was the youngest man there to head up a division. He has always been a truly hardworking man who really took his work to the bone. My father is a charming gentleman, athletically built, with a wide, serious face, baby blue eyes, and wavy, brown hair. He is really quite handsome, and he is a great conversationalist. General Mohammad, as he was addressed in the army, was very social with his fellow troops, companions, and friends, yet he also had a strong, commanding personality.

  Dad showed his strength more with us, and he was always as tough as a rock when it came to the family. I believe that was because of his upbringing and, later, because of his time in the army and all the stress that came with it. It really is understandable. Our father went through two wars, the Eight-Year War with Iran and the Gulf War in 1991, and they had a bitter effect on him, resulting in a much harsher personality. Till I was 25 years old, I probably didn’t say 50 words to him, other than the casual, “Hi. How are you?” Even those simple greetings were rarely spoken between us because our father was so difficult to speak to, so hardened by military service and times of war.

  Truthfully, my brother, my cousins, and all of my friends were terrified from him. We stayed out of his path whenever he walked around the home, and if he ever passed by us while we were playing, we stopped everything and literally held our breath. If he happened to be home in the afternoons, he often napped, and we were not allowed to make a singles sound. All he had to do was give us that look; if his eyebrows connected in his furrowed brow, we knew it was over for us.

  One day, though, a shift happened. In December of 1994, my father retired early from the army, because he’d lost faith in it a few months prior. On that day, it was as if a new person stepped into our lives. General Mohammad became Dad. He gradually opened up to us. We talked more and more, and the whole house became more engaged as the family shared its thoughts. We learned what he liked, what his hobbies were, and, in turn, he learned everything about us, things he had missed out on over the years because he was too focused on other things. He became more the father he always was inside, the father he was before the stress of the huge responsibilities got to him. It was as if he was carrying a 100-pound boulder on his back, but that burden was lifted the day he left the army.

  After a rest of several months, he decided to open a general trading company that dealt with electronics. He had a supplier from Japan for both new and used items. He did not earn much income, but it was sufficient to sustain a higher middle-class family. My father’s family owned a great deal of land, but my grandfather and his brother never got along and were in constant dispute over their entitled inheritance. The lands have been nothing more than a frozen asset since. Forged papers were presented, as the original ones, which would date back to the times of the Ottoman Empire in Iraq, went missing. The case has been going on for more than ten years.

  In any case, with the business doing fine, our family was reborn. My mother never complained, even in the most difficult times, but now she was happier and more productive in life than ever before. She has always been a great lady, through thick and thin, and looking at her smiling face now across the table, I know that will never change in all her years.

  Contrary to my father’s, her family never entertained politics. They seemed to be more impressed by education and the arts. All of her relatives are artfully gifted and have always taken studying very serious. In fact, all of my maternal aunts and my uncle are brilliant individuals who studied law.

  My mother is full of life, a sports lover whose smile never leaves her face. She is truly a breath of fresh air, our floating guardian angel, the kind of person who seems to spread happiness wherever she goes. Every gathering she attends is peppered with the sweet sound of her laughter, bringing grins to the faces of all she meets.

  With her olive skin, her long, black hair, and her brown eyes, she oozes elegance. To this day, she takes great care of herself and pride in how she looks, right down to the way she wears her hair to her choice of wardrobe. She has always been a perfectionist, someone who pays attention to the details, but she has also dedicated her life to her children and my difficult father.

  My mother’s commitment to the family and her early travels with my father led her to leave her work as a pharmacist as soon as we left to Berlin. While Dad was so stressed out by his work, she guided us through life, taught us the right ways, listened to all our troubles, and shared our thoughts. At times, my brother and I felt she was the elder sister we never had. Despite the constant traveling and bringing up two sons basically on her own, she never let go of her one artful passion. Calligraphy, the visual art of writing, was her escape from the problems of life. Her fingers do not simply write words; rather, they drew them.

  She began studying those unique writing styles at the age of 13, when her parents noticed her amazing handwriting skills and insisted that she take it seriously. She was taught at the hands of her grandfather, Haji Muhsin, an artist himself. I have seen one photo of him, a man with a white beard that stretched all the way down to his collarbone, almost like that Neptune wore in the fountain I loved. Haji Muhsin taught her twice a week, and within a few years, she mastered the Kufic way of writing, the oldest form of Ara
bic calligraphy and, to most, the most beautiful of them all.

  Two years after we settled in Berlin, the eastern side, to be more precise, and after Mother’s talent was displayed on the walls in our place and noticed by some friends, she was encouraged to host a small event at one of the famous art centers on the outskirts of the city, a showing of her work. The beautiful gallery was inside one of the flats that was once part of a house that belonged to a royal Hofburg family member, so it was absolutely exquisite. My father, through his circle of friends, managed to get a date for her showing. Even though I was still a kid, I realized my mother worked hard at it, day and night, to perfect the artwork she intended to share that day. She was very excited about it, and we were all excited for her.

  In the end, she had around sixteen pieces to show, some of which contained verses from the Quran. Some displayed beautiful Arabic poetry, drawn in lovely black and gold paint on canvases as big as two by two meters. Some had sparkling colors and bore words or names. By the time the event came to a close, Mom had sold all but one of her pieces. The following year, she held two more shows, and both proved to be very successful.

  Unfortunately, years later, after we returned to Iraq, Mother stopped holding calligraphy exhibitions. We were growing up fast, and with my father being so busy within the army, she had to endure our teen years practically on her own. The heavy load of daily life, of parenting and homemaking, seemed to stifle her creativity, and she lost touch with the art she so loved. I can’t blame her for that, because life was very difficult for any wife of a military man during the Iraq-Iran conflict and the Gulf War, and facing the early years of embargo was even tougher.

  As for the embargo, I was still in college at the time, but I still recall all the harsh memories. Following the withdrawal of Iraq from Kuwait, an embargo was sanctioned by the United Nations (UN), in response to the so-called Iraqi invasion of Kuwait. The UN demanded that a long list of requirements be met by the Iraqi government before the embargo would be lifted. Some requirements were reasonable, justified by the war caused by Iraq, but most were not; they were deliberately put in place to virtually demolish the country. The ongoing inspections for weapons of mass destruction (WMDs) was the most common; to this day, those suspected WMDs have not been found.

  During the embargo, Iraq was not allowed to import many life necessities for its people. The embargo was unjust and inhumane, leading to inflation on nearly everything imaginable. Even medicine was not readily available, and commodities went through the roof. The private sector was destroyed, and the whole nation suffered. The embargo in the wake of the war more adversely affected the Iraqi people than its intended target, Saddam Hussein.

  Within months of the implementation of the embargo, people began to severely struggle, and Iraqi currency lost its power and worth. Prior to the embargo, 1 dinar was worth 3 American dollars; during the embargo, however, 500 Iraqi dinars were equivalent to only 1 U.S. dollar. Shockingly, this quickly depreciated to the point where the American dollar equivalent was 1,000 dinars, then 1,500 dinars, and then 3,000 dinars. The value of the dinar fluctuated within this pathetic range for a few years, and the middle class shrank as a result. Many felt they had no other choice but to leave the country in search of a better life and an easier existence, but those who stayed behind had to cope with the changes. People were forced to find work wherever they could. Some had to sell their belongings, and many barely scraped by.

  Due to the stringent restriction caused by the embargo, everything became difficult to obtain. Even when necessities could be found, they cost up to ten times the normal asking price. Cars and car parts, electronics, clothes, furniture, building materials, and even food and medicine became scarce, and what little could be found was too expensive for most families. The cost of flour, milk, sugar, rice, tea, and coffee increased twenty-fold. Everyone in Iraq had to take extreme measures to maintain even the lowest standard of life.

  My mother did not escape this turmoil, but she was excellent at dealing with it, a tenacious woman who would do anything for her family. With my father busy in the army at first, then building his company from scratch, as well as ongoing legal battles and my brother and I still studying and far from working, we had to find ways to live on a very limited fixed income. We could not afford any bad planning. Mom decided what we would purchase each month and when it was the right time to make those purchases. She educated herself on the harvest seasons and discovered the best sources of affordable clothing. She did her best to keep everything in place, and she was the one who kept our troubles at bay during the first few years of that life-crushing embargo that destroyed so many lives and families.

  The Iraqi government did what it could to help the people, offering various commodities at preset prices. In our rationed baskets, we received monthly provisions of rice, flour, beans, sugar, milk, and detergent. The supplied items were not even close to being high quality, but for those of in such great need, it was enough, and we were grateful to have it. Sometimes, the rations lacked sugar, but other times, a few chickens were added. Regardless, those were extremely tough days for everyone. On occasion, Mother found a way to pay a little extra for better-quality items than what the government offered; in that way, she brightened our hard times because she was so very meticulous about planning and budgeting.

  The hardest embargo years on all the people were from 1991 to 1996. Surprisingly, even though it was still far from being humane, the situation did eventually get better.

  The first few bloody years were difficult. I even remember a time when the production of chocolate stopped completely, and we had to add our own sugar to cola or other soda, since the Iraqi Ministry of Economy banned the use of sugar in all food and beverage factories, because there was such a shortage of sugar in the market; if the factories used sugar, it would only deprive it more, causing prices to rise even higher. Thus, the best the government could do was ban it and control the price. Thankfully, my parents did their best in those early years. We eventually won our land back, and my successful venture into the world of business helped us pass that stage. Now, here we are, sitting in the nice home I’d always dreamt of, with plenty of sugar at our disposal if we need it.

  As the stress lessened, and with both of her sons married and well off, in April of 2001, my mother did her first art show in over two decades and did a few more later on. All were hits, which came as no surprise to any of us, because she is so very talented.

  As I watch my parents engaged in conversation, looking as if life has taken a toll on them, I remember all the great things they’ve done for us. I ponder all the wonderful memories of the time we’ve spent together, and I am grateful they are here with me on this special day.

  My brother, was a taller, darker version of me, cuts into their discussion to ask my mother something.

  “Don’t add too much,” she says with a smile on her face as she passes the salt to him.

  He nods, thanks her politely, and kisses her hand. He has been a great child to them and a wonderful brother to me. I have always loved my brother Ammar, and I am so happy he made it here, all the way from Jordan. I close my eyes and remember our days together.

  My earliest real account of childhood was in Berlin, and it was a happy one. From what I remember, it is a beautiful city, chockful of hundreds of sculptors, huge, old buildings, and historical churches. There were lots of places to go to and many children to play with, which was the icing on the cake. Our parents had a great relationship with neighbors, so all of us kids became the best of friends.

  The place we lived in was lovely, a 2,000-square-foot home with three bedrooms. My parents had their own room, a smaller one my brother and I shared, and a guestroom for any relatives or friends who visited, which happened often. The flat also contained one large room that my parents used as a dining and living space. That room opened to the garden that offered a beautiful view of the parks that gave the city its natural beauty.

  My parents made sure we had the b
est education possible, and we attended the best school in the city. Despite the fact that we were in East Germany, all our classes were taught in English. It was an international school, and all the students were from different places around the world. Our proper and thorough education, especially our studies in history and geography and our exposure to cultural diversity through our classmates, helped shape me and my brother at an early age. In the years that followed, that foundation of knowledge about the world in general always gave us an academic edge, even when we moved back home years later.

  I was 6 and Ammar was 4 when we moved with our parents to East Germany. It was a big change in culture, climate, and, most of all, socially. Together, we helped each other adjust swiftly. It was difficult at first, as no other kids there spoke Arabic. Nonetheless, we did our best to engage with other children whenever we had the chance. Most importantly, the two of us had one another’s back at all times.

  Our initial isolation from others, due to cultural and language barriers, brought us very close to each other. We were the proverbial peas in a pod. Whatever I wanted, Ammar wanted, be it a toy, a special type of food, or a hat. If I chose the red one, so did he. If I showed interest in a specific cartoon, he liked it as well. When I began to appreciate soccer, so did he. I didn’t like it at first and felt he was just copying me, but then I realized he did it out of love and admiration for his older brother and best friend at the time. I enjoyed spending my days with him.

  We had an adventurous seven years in Berlin, and when our Iraqi neighbors moved in during our third year there, the fun only grew. We often wandered off to the park or a nearby forest and did not return home till late at night. What we loved more than anything was sneaking into the big house that faced our flat. Mr. Boris, a retired pilot in his mid-60s lived alone with his wife and their loud, faithful dog. It was really a mansion, with over ten rooms. In our eyes, it was a magical place, like a castle right out of a storybook or movie, something we just had to explore. We used to dream of finding treasures inside; we were sure Mr. Boris had lots of secrets to hide.