I promised that I would look for it and he said he would send me a copy if I couldn’t find one. After about an hour, the crowd began to move toward Firdaws Square. The demonstration was well organized. When we were marching down Sadoun Street, Uncle Sabri kept looking back to get an idea of the numbers. When we reached Firdaws Square, the crowd had swelled. American choppers hovered over us.
Later events proved any optimism about secularism misplaced. In the weeks following that big demonstration, many other rallies were organized by other parties. They were saturated with religious and sectarian symbols. The sectarian stamp became normal and began to acquire unusual impact. In time the Communist Party’s popularity dwindled, and its performance in elections was dismal; its secularism meant that it would be the last horse in the sectarian race. No one would place bets on it.
As we left the Communists’ demonstration that day, my uncle surprised me by expressing his desire to go to the Martyr’s Monument — the one designed by Ismail Fattah al-Turk. He said he’d seen pictures of it, and had read an article by a German critic who said that it was one of the most beautiful monuments he’d ever seen. He said he wanted to see it in its actual dimensions. From al-Andalus Square we headed in the direction of al-Sha’b Stadium. I asked whether he remembered indoctrinating me as a Zawra’ fan.
“Of course I remember!” he said, laughing. He asked about the Indoor Sports Hall next door.
“That’s the Saddam Indoor Hall,” I said.
“What will they call it now? The Bush Hall?”
We could see the severed sky-blue dome of the monument from afar. It looked as if it were closing in on itself as we approached. He took out his camera and started to snap pictures. “It’s gorgeous,” he said. The Olympic Committee building was across the street from the monument. Huge sections had collapsed and all that was left was a metal skeleton. He asked me about it. I told him that that had been Uday’s headquarters. He looked and took a few pictures and then turned back to the monument.
We were in front of the main gate. American soldiers were stationed at the monument and had turned it into a barracks. Concrete blocks and barbed wire barricaded the gate and soldiers with machine guns stood guard. Armored vehicles and Humvees were parked inside along the path that led to the monument itself.
I remembered how Reem and I had visited it after it was opened to the public back in 1989. Despite our objection to the war and its glorification, we were impressed by the monument’s beauty. I was deeply offended and angered when I saw the American soldiers and armored vehicles occupying a place which symbolized the victims of war — victims such as my brother and thousands of others. My uncle said that it was a premeditated insult, calculated for its symbolic significance. It was not a matter of logistics.
After the Martyr’s Monument he asked Hamid to take us to al-Rashid Street.
Hamid told him that most stores would be closed and he wouldn’t be able to buy anything.
My uncle told him that he wasn’t going there to shop. He just hadn’t seen the street for more than two decades.
It was about five in the afternoon and the street was already empty. Hamid said that crime was rampant and that there were a lot of killings and robberies. Most shop owners weren’t even opening their shops, and those who did closed early.
The spectacle broke my uncle’s heart. “This is what al-Rashid Street has become? It was always bustling with people. Look at it now.”
Two days before leaving, he told me that he was craving masguf.3 I told him that my mother would be more than happy to make that wish come true if we could buy fish. He refused and said that he would take me out to a restaurant.
When I asked why, he said that he’d read that fish from the river would be tainted because all the rivers were polluted with depleted uranium and untreated sewage.
I was impressed that he’d kept up with the news about Iraq when he was in Germany. But I said that the fish at the restaurant would be from the same river.
“No, they raise them in special farms.”
It was a lovely dinner, because we recalled some of our memories together. I asked whether he ever got fed up or bored with reading the news.
He said that every now and then he would promise himself not to read any more news, but then would give up after a few days. It was just impossible. It was an addiction. He asked me about my plans, and I told him that my dream was to study art abroad, in Italy or somewhere else. He was supportive and said that although his means were limited, he would help me find information about scholarships and grants and would ask a friend of his who taught art in Holland for advice.
I told him that what worried me the most was leaving my mother behind, under the current political situation.
“Of course, but let’s put our heads together and come up with a solution,” he said.
I asked whether he was planning to visit again anytime soon.
“It’s very difficult to get time off from work and, to be honest, I was very happy to see you all, especially you, but my heart was broken. I used to follow the news about Iraq day by day on the radio, newspapers, TV, and recently on the Internet. I never missed a piece of news. I knew the embargo had destroyed the country, but it’s different when you see it with your own eyes. It’s shocking. The entire country and every one in it are tired. I mean even right here in Karrada. Wasn’t this the most beautiful neighborhood? Look at it now. Then you have all this garbage, dust, barbed wires, and tanks. There aren’t any women walking down the street anymore! This is not the Baghdad I’d imagined. Not just in terms of the people. Even the poor palm trees are tired and no one takes care of them. Believe me, these Americans, with their ignorance and racism, will make people long for Saddam’s days.”
The week went by very quickly. On the night before Uncle Sabri’s departure the family gathered to say goodbye. My sister, Shayma’, her husband, Sattar, and their two kids came over. Sattar chatted with my uncle but apologized, as usual, because he was busy with work and stayed only half an hour. Shayma’ said that he was working with one of the Iraqi returnees in a new construction company which was about to get many reconstruction contracts. Upon hearing that, my mother said, “Why don’t they fix the electricity first?” Since there was none, we had lit candles before starting to eat dinner. My uncle joked that in Germany people would pay a lot of money to dine in such a romantic setting.
The next morning he insisted on buying us a satellite dish as a gift. He said that we had to “breathe a bit” and see all that we missed during those years of suffering under the embargo and Saddam. The technician was about to finish programming the satellite dish when the electricity was cut off again, so we agreed that I would pass by his store, which was close by, the next day when the electricity came back on. Eventually, the dish became our only window through which we could see the world and the extent of our own devastation, which multiplied day after day.
Our goodbyes that morning floated in tears as we drank our tea. My mother took Sabri to task for going everywhere around the city but not visiting his brother’s and nephew’s graves. He told her that he never visited graves and didn’t need to see them to remember the people buried there. He put his hand on his heart and said “Ammoury and Abu Ammoury are right here in my heart.”
He gave me an envelope with five hundred American dollars and insisted that I take it to help us get through until things improved. He was confident that we would see each other again in the near future. My mother cried as she hugged him and told him, “Don’t disappear for another twenty-five years!” She sprinkled water behind his car to make sure he returned.