The participants in the exhibition included those who had graduated a few years earlier, but who refused, for political and ethical reasons, to have their work co-opted by the politics of the time. The exhibition went on for a week, and the responses were positive. A film crew that was working on a documentary about dictatorship and occupation conducted interviews with many of us. One of them was an Iraqi based in New York who spoke with me about my piece. I asked him to send me the interview on a tape or CD and he promised to do so, but I never received anything. I never knew whether he just forgot, or whether the package had been stolen. Their film was shown a year later on the al-Arabiyya channel. I waited for even a few seconds of the interview or a glimpse of the exhibition, but there was nothing. What they did show were images of the destruction at the academy and of all the bombing and looting. There were also interviews with some poets at al-Mutanabbi Street. I was suspicious of all the Iraqis who had come back after many years abroad. Many of them either came with the tanks and the militias or returned to make money or get a hot story and then forget all about us.
A month after the exhibition, I saw men on TV looking for de Mello’s corpse in the rubble of the Qanat Hotel. I was heartbroken. A huge truck full of explosives had blown up the hotel which served as the UN’s headquarters in Baghdad. De Mello and many others were killed. A few days later, Muhammad Baqir al-Hakim was assassinated in Najaf. Explosions multiplied. They went after important personalities at first, then targeted average folk who had nothing to do with what was taking place but whose lives became a currency that was easy to circulate and liquidate. We’d thought the value of human life had reached rock-bottom under the dictatorship and that it would now rebound, but the opposite happened. Corpses piled up like goals scored by death on behalf of rabid teams in a never-ending game. That is the thought that came to mind when I heard “Another car bomb targeted … ”
Following each round, human remains were plucked from a mixture of blood and dirt. The ones who remained in one piece without losing an eye or their entire head were fortunate. The American referee had killed enough already and now was killing only sporadically, allowing the local players, who were even more ferocious, to carry on. But even those who picked up the pieces and cleaned up what death left on the city’s face were not safe from death.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Hammoudy went to the Shorja market one Thursday at the end of August. He was rapidly running out of camphor and ground lotus leaves for the mghaysil. He had told me that he now needed to restock once a month instead of every six months as he used to do before the war.
Hammoudy did not come back home that day, nor the following day. His cell phone was turned off and he didn’t respond to the text messages that his wife and his brother, who worked at an electronics store, had sent him. There had not been any bombs or explosions at the Shorja market that day — or even that month. For two days they looked for him in the hospitals nearby and went to police stations without coming up with anything. People told them to go to the morgue. His brother looked at all the photos they had of all the bodies piled up everywhere in that place, which couldn’t cope with the numbers, but found nothing. He looked in the mounds of corpses for the green ring Hammoudy used to wear on his left hand. He still goes there from time to time, asking, just in case something turns up. Hammoudy’s mother doubled her visits to al-Kazim’s shrine nearby. Al-Kazim was known for fulfilling wishes and never letting down those who sought his intercession. She even pledged to walk all the way to Najaf if Hammoudy came back safe, but he has yet to return.
Did someone kidnap him thinking that he was a wealthy merchant? Neither his appearance nor his age would lead anyone to think that. Kidnappers usually call the family to demand a ransom and never deliver the body until they get their money, or some of it. No one ever called. Hammoudy never came back, even though his mother walked to Najaf three times.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Reem, too, disappeared all of a sudden, just as Hammoudy did. It was seven years ago, but unlike Hammoudy’s, her kidnapper was not human or nameless. I called her at home one morning in August. The phone kept ringing. There were no cell phones back then. I called again in the evening and no one picked up. Our secret sign before was to have the phone ring once and then hang up and she would call me back. But after our engagement we could speak freely in front of her father and stepmother. She had convinced me to ask for her hand, and I overcame my hesitation. I didn’t have any savings and my income wasn’t even enough to rent an apartment. Having her live with us at home was out of the question. I had no desire to start a family, but she kept telling me that years were passing and she was getting tired of doing everything in secret and struggling just to be together. She persuaded her father to agree to the marriage. He had hesitated a bit at first, because of my father’s profession and my financial situation, but she told him that I intended to travel abroad and do graduate studies. Her stepmother, happy to get rid of Reem once and for all, helped convince her husband to let us live in one of the houses he owned in al-Sayyidiyya after we got married.
I, too, had to get my parents’ approval, especially since marrying a divorcee was frowned upon. My mother had met Reem once when I invited her and another colleague to lunch at our house. She liked her, but I didn’t tell her that we had something going on. When I told her we were thinking of marriage, she asked, “Why did you choose this divorced woman out of all the others?” I told her that my heart had chosen. She agreed, but grudgingly. I asked her to try to convince Father. All he had to do was accompany me to Reem’s house to formally ask her father. Father didn’t mind that she had been married before. Perhaps he was moved by the fact that her ex-husband was a martyr, like his son. He asked me about her family and her father’s line of work. He wasn’t convinced that I was in a position to marry a woman from a rich family. In the taxi to their house he asked me terse questions about where we planned to live, the dowry, and other questions to which I had no clear answers.
The distance between our house in Kazimiyya and theirs in al-Jadiriyya was the gulf between two classes and two worlds. I thought of the problems and tensions we would be confronting because of that chasm. Father had never set foot in al-Jadiriyya. What was he thinking about when he looked through the taxi’s window at those huge modern houses? Was he thinking that I was about to sever my last bond to him and that I had succeeded, at long last, in leaving his sphere?
We stood at the main gate. There were three cars parked in the long garage. To the right there was a big garden with a neatly trimmed lawn edged on all sides with flowers. A palm tree towered over the far right corner. Below it was the Arabic Jasmine from which Reem used to pluck flowers for me. I rang the bell and we both waited. Father looked up at the two-story house and the adjacent houses. I looked at my shoes to make sure they were spotless and fixed my necktie. It was the first time I’d worn a tie and jacket in years. Father didn’t even own a necktie. He wore a sky-blue shirt and a dark jacket, and had put a skullcap over his head. Reem’s father emerged from the wooden door and walked toward us. We shook hands. He led us back through the door to the guest room.