The political intrigue involved in playing the two POGs off against one another made for some fascinating war stories, but left Nida with little spare time to act as a chaperone, especially once Amal (who’d aced her high school equivalency test) moved onto the U of L campus. Nida assigned one of her sons to check in on Amal periodically, but for the most part she was left to look after herself, in a way that would have been unimaginable had she remained in Baghdad.
Her two roommates were Jemila and Iman, both arts majors but otherwise as different as could be. Jemila, a Beirut native who was studying theater, was what was known in the parlance of the day as a “modern” girl, a term that could mean either “sophisticated free spirit,” or, said another way, “whore.” Jemila had a steady stream of boyfriends, and it was the boyfriends who most often used “modern” in its second sense—with a smile when Jemila first met them, and with anger or tears when, inevitably, she dumped them.
Iman came from Khafji, an oil town on the Gulf coast. She was studying to be a documentary filmmaker. Iman was also a “ninja”: Outside the dorm and the women’s gym where she took her exercise, she wore a black abaya with a niqab veil that left only her eyes visible. “Ninja,” like “modern,” was a term with multiple connotations, but anyone who assumed from her style of dress that Iman was a sheltered hick soon learned otherwise.
When Amal professed her ambition to become a cop like her dad, it was Iman who suggested she apply to the Bureau. “The ABI is more open to women than most local police forces,” she said. “It still won’t be easy, but you’ll at least have a chance. And you’ll get to chase bank robbers.”
“It’s not bank robbers I want to go after,” Amal said. But the idea was a good one.
Iman took self-defense courses at the gym on Sunday afternoons. Amal began going with her. Then she heard about a West Beirut gun range offering an introductory women’s pistol-shooting class, and on a whim decided to check it out. She turned out to be a natural with firearms.
Jemila meanwhile got the lead in a campus production of Hair. She convinced Amal to try out for a bit part in the play, that of an overzealous Halal agent. Amal wore a fake mustache and beard, and ran around stage during one of the musical numbers trying unsuccessfully to slip a burqa over Jemila’s head.
On Friday nights when her mother called, Amal said nothing about these extracurricular activities. She felt a little guilty, but she also knew her mother wasn’t telling her everything either. According to the national news, Baghdad was in an uproar: Thanks to the testimony of Hussein Kamel, Khairallah Talfah had been convicted on all counts, and the Attorney General was now talking openly about bringing charges against Saddam. This in turn led to a rash of Hussein Kamel jokes, like “What do Hussein Kamel and a migrating goose have in common? They’re both found floating in the Tigris!”
Opening night of Hair, a student member of the Lebanese POG threw a smoke bomb onstage during the first act, and the theater had to be evacuated. As Amal stood outside with the rest of the cast waiting for the fire marshal to give the all clear, she noticed a handsome boy watching her from the edge of the crowd. He was laughing, and at first she thought he might be a friend of the smoke-bomber, but then he drew a finger across his upper lip and she realized the source of his amusement was her costume-mustache, which she still wore. Then she laughed too and he came over and introduced himself.
His name was Anwar. He was a senior, majoring in government. His family was originally from Iraq, but his father was a diplomat, so he’d spent most of his youth in Riyadh or abroad in Persia. It was while living in Tehran that he’d discovered a passion for the arts, not just theater and music but poetry. In fact he and some of his friends had an informal poetry club that met at a café on Tuesday and Thursday mornings. Perhaps Amal would like to drop by sometime and hear some of their verses?
She accepted his invitation, dragging Jemila to the café with her for moral support. She tried to get Iman to come along as well, but Iman declined, saying she didn’t go on dates. When Amal insisted that it wasn’t a date, just a “social gathering,” Iman said, “I especially don’t go on dates that aren’t acknowledged as dates.”
The poetry, most of which was in Farsi, wasn’t very good—or if it was, Anwar’s whispered Arabic translations didn’t do it justice. Soon enough Jemila pronounced herself bored and left, but Amal stayed, enjoying the tickle of Anwar’s breath in her ear, even though the words he spoke weren’t that interesting. Afterwards he walked her to her next class and asked if he could see her again. She said yes.
They began meeting regularly, going on dates that weren’t acknowledged as dates: picnics on the seawall that bordered the university; long walks through the city center, which after a decade-and-a-half-long recession was finally undergoing an economic revival, new buildings springing up daily. Amal met more of Anwar’s friends, including a number of Americans—funny, good-natured people with hilarious accents. Years later, in the buildup to the invasion, she’d remember them and wonder if they were OK.
Anwar told her about his adventures as a diplomat’s son and Amal shared some of Aunt Nida’s political war stories. About her parents she was more circumspect, but she did eventually let on that her father was a Baghdad cop. Partly as a test, she told Anwar about her intention to become an ABI agent. She could tell from his reaction that he thought this was an odd career choice, but he didn’t dismiss it. “Perhaps you’ll visit me at the State Department when you come to Riyadh,” he said smiling.
She invited him to come shooting with her. Anwar was not a natural with firearms, but he was a good sport, applauding as Amal hit the center of the target repeatedly while he largely failed to hit it at all. On the way back to campus from this outing, they stopped at a magazine shop. While Anwar bought cigarettes at the front counter, Amal wandered back to the shelf where they kept the out-of-state newspapers. That was where she saw the picture of her father, in uniform, on the steps of Baghdad city hall with a dozen other police captains. STANDING UP AGAINST CORRUPTION, read the headline on the Baghdad Gazette. SADDAM INDICTMENT EMBOLDENS REFORMERS, added the Daily News. The Post’s headline was more sinister: THESE ARE THE ONES.
“Amal?” Anwar said, coming up beside her. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, I’m fine!” She pulled him away before he could see what she was looking at. It was the first time she’d ever taken his hand—and she didn’t let go, even after the shop was far behind them.
In the days that followed there were other firsts. And so it happened that not long afterwards, on a morning when they both should have been in class, Amal found herself at their favorite picnic spot on the seawall listening to Anwar read a new poem, a proposal in verse. The key word in the poem—sigheh—was not one of the handful of Farsi terms she’d already learned from him, but from the context and the passionate way in which he spoke, she assumed he was asking her to marry him. And he was, sort of.
“Temporary marriage?” The concept, essentially a love affair with God’s blessing, was straight out of a trashy romance novel. It also fell squarely into the category of things no smart or self-respecting girl would even consider.
Amal didn’t know what to make of Anwar’s proposal. It was as though he’d used an epithet whose meaning was ambiguous. Did he take her for a fool? Did he think she was a whore? Or was he really, in his own strange way, trying to be sweet? Anwar meanwhile interpreted Amal’s dismay as a sign that he’d mortally offended her, and tried to take his words back. “Please,” he begged, “forgive me! Forget I said anything!”