A month after his departure he sent me a long sorrowful and pessimistic article about his visit that he had published online. It was entitled “A Lover Pauses before Iraq’s Ruins.” Its most beautiful section dealt with palm trees:
Iraqis and palm trees. Who resembles whom? There are millions of Iraqis and as many, or perhaps somewhat fewer, palm trees. Some have had their fronds burned. Some have been beheaded. Some have had their backs broken by time, but are still trying to stand. Some have dried bunches of dates. Some have been uprooted, mutilated and exiled from their orchards. Some have allowed invaders to lean on their trunk. Some are combing the winds with their fronds. Some stand in silence. Some have fallen. Some stand tall and raise their heads high despite everything in this vast orchard: Iraq. When will the orchard return to its owners? Not to those who carry axes. Not even to the attendant who assassinates palm trees, no matter what the color of his knife.
When al-Ja’fari was chosen to be the prime minister, my uncle wrote to me: “Marx used to say that ‘history always repeats itself twice, the first time as tragedy, the second time as farce.’ And what we are witnessing now in Iraq is a farce. Who would’ve ever believed that Iraq’s prime minister would be from the Da’wa Party, spear-heading a backward sectarian list? When I left Iraq, the Da’wa Party was banned and later the Americans placed it on the list of terrorist organizations. Now Bush shakes hands with al-Ja’fari? It’s a bizarre world.”
TWENTY-THREE
Every evening, I would sit in front of the computer screen for three or four hours, oblivious to the passage of time. I was enchanted by this world — this universe — to which we had had no access during the embargo. Getting the Internet at home was still too expensive, and I didn’t even have a desktop computer, but the fees at the Internet café were reasonable. I would usually start with a quick tour of local and Arab newspaper sites to read what the world was saying about our ongoing disasters. I discovered an Iraqi site called Uruk. It resembled Iraq itself in its political topography and chaos. The administrators allowed anyone and everyone to publish (or at least did not prohibit it), irrespective of their background and leanings. So I would find some profound and penetrating analysis or satire right next to offensive, sectarian, and racist thoughts and never-ending conspiracy theories. Also posted were a lot of documents exposing the new politicians and the corruption, which had gotten out of hand. After reading some of these, I would begin my daily roaming — usually quite random. I started a Hotmail account to correspond with my uncle and try to locate Reem. I was hopeful that I would somehow reconnect with her.
I was proud to learn that some of my classmates who had emigrated years ago had become quite successful. Many had their own websites showcasing their works. But I couldn’t help feeling bitter and jealous when I saw that some who didn’t have a fourth of my talent had established their names in Amman and other places, thanks to good PR. I started to dream of the day when I, too, would have my own website, but I remembered that first I had to start producing art again.
TWENTY-FOUR
He knocked at the door about a month after Father had passed away. He was in his late forties and short. His gray beard was neatly trimmed and edged with white. He wore round glasses with a silver frame. The bridge of his big nose left a space between his honey-colored eyes. The eyes sat under thick salt-and-pepper eyebrows. He was wearing a flowing black robe and a white turban. After greeting me, he extended his hand and offered his condolences. “May you have a long life, son. I am Sayyid Jamal al-Fartusi. Forgive me, but I heard only yesterday.” I thanked him and invited him in. He told a young man who was driving his car to wait for him. I opened the door to the guest room and showed him in. I gave him a seat and asked my mother to make coffee.
He said he’d known my father for years and had wanted to be at the funeral, but the war and the Americans had prevented him from doing so. A few minutes later my mother knocked at the door. I got up to open it and took the tray from her. I offered him the coffee. He took the cup and the saucer and put it on the table to the right of the chair. After a few sips he asked me about the circumstances of my father’s death. I told him Father had died in the very room we were sitting in while kneeling in prayer. He was moved and repeated twice, “May God be exalted.” Then he said, “May he welcome him in his vast paradise.”
After a heavy silence, he asked me: “Did you work with your father?”
“No.”
“How come? My son, the one you just saw waiting outside in the car, works with me and his two brothers as well.”
“God didn’t will it.”
He smiled. I asked him how he came to know my father. He said that for ten years he’d been in charge of collecting unclaimed, abandoned, and unidentified corpses from hospitals and from the morgue. He saw to it that they were washed, shrouded, and properly buried.
“Is it a governmental department or a charity?” I asked.
“No, it’s unofficial. Just a personal initiative I started myself, but I have an agreement with the Ministry of Health and Hospitals. This is how I came to know your father, God have mercy on his soul. He washed some of the bodies we found.”
“And how are things nowadays?”
“It’s very chaotic. I’m sure you know that most ministries were looted and destroyed, but the Ministry of Health wasn’t, as far as I know. I’m waiting for things to settle down, so I can continue. I’m trying to get permissions from the American army so they don’t attack my trucks and team when they go around the city. But even the Americans are disorganized. Each one sends me somewhere else. First they said I had to go to the Green Zone — you know, where the palace used to be — but then they wouldn’t let me go in. They said I had to get permission and forms from the Conference Center, but nothing materialized.”
“And who covers the expenses?”
“There are still a lot of good human beings in this world. I receive monthly donations.”
“God bless you and may there be more like you.”
“Well, why don’t you work with us then, like your father did? I’m sure you know how to wash.”
“Yes. I learned it from him and worked with him for a while, but that was years and years ago. Hammoudy, who used to work with my father, has taken over the place and will be working there. You can discuss it with him.”
“Oh, that’s great. I know Hammoudy.”
Hammoudy had approached me a week after my father died about taking over the mghaysil. He suggested paying us half of the income as rent. I agreed without much thought, because we desperately needed the money. The housepainting market was dead, and I was looking hard for any type of work, without success. Instead of Iraq becoming a new Hong Kong, as the Americans had promised, there was chaos and massive unemployment. I said goodbye to the man, never imagining that he would come back into my life.
TWENTY-FIVE
“So you think painting or making statues is better than my honorable and rewarding profession?”
Father had often wounded me with this question when I told him of my desire to become a sculptor. I was burning to tell him now. They are stealing statues these days, Father. They stole Abdilmuhsin al-Sa’doun’s statue, melted it, and sold it. Those who don’t steal statues pull them down because they want to rewrite history. Ironically, they are imitating their sworn enemy, who himself tried to rewrite history from a Ba’thist perspective, destroying many statues and putting up new ones in their place.