Eid Mubarak. There is much to be thankful for at this special Eid for Iraq. This Eid, Saddam the dictator has become Saddam the fugitive. This Eid, there is no Mukhaberat. This Eid, Iraqi schoolteachers earn enough to put food on the table. This Eid, for the first time ever, you know you are going to have a democracy – and you know exactly when you will have it.
ADDRESS OF L. PAUL BREMER TO THE IRAQI PEOPLE
The electricity goes out just as he opens the door.
In the dark, Mrouj calls out, “Is that you, Baba? I’m getting the lamp.”
Khafaji puts down his shopping bags and pauses.
“I got some cucumbers and yogurt, Mrouji.”
The lights flicker on again and his daughter’s silhouette floats into view. With unsteady hands, she holds onto the door frame.
“How do you feel?”
She hobbles across the floor, reaching for a chair, then a table. As she approaches, he sees the familiar smile on her face. Teeth like pearls. Eyes flashing like moonlight on the river.
“Still the same. I got up because I had to. I was getting sick of sitting in bed anyway.”
“A little blood, but not as much as before.”
She is young, though her face doesn’t give it away. He reaches out for her hand. Girl’s hands, still soft. Outside, the call to prayers goes up from the mosque on the main street.
“Are you hungry, Baba? I can make dinner.”
“Only if you eat with me.”
“I’ll try, Baba.”
“Let’s see what there is.” Mrouj leans against her father, and the two of them shuffle across the rug then onto the cold tiles of the kitchen floor. They know the refrigerator is empty; they unplugged it finally last month. They look anyway. They open cupboards, pretending surprise when they find nothing but cans, cartons, packets and jars. Nothing that needed refrigeration, nothing that would spoil. Mackerel, tuna and sardines. Chickpeas and condensed milk. Tea and crackers and juice. Rice, sugar and powdered milk. Dried apricots, prunes and sour cherries. Thyme and sesame, cardamom and saffron. Dates, dried limes, apricots, almonds and walnuts. Pickled turnips, carrots, cauliflower and cucumbers. Briny white cheese and lemons. Pomegranate syrup and olive oil.
When Suheir was alive, the family ate well every day. No matter how bad things were, they always ate their late lunch together. But that was years ago. When Mrouj began to lose her appetite, Khafaji stopped eating too. Neither of them ever cooked anything more elaborate than a pot of tea or rice.
When they sit down to eat, Mrouj looks at the calendar and says, “Happy Eid, Baba. I can’t believe it’s here already.”
“Happy Eid, Mrouj. I saw your uncle today. They’re expecting us tomorrow.”
“I wish I could. You go, Baba – for both of us.”
“Did Sawsan ever talk to you about her work?”
“When, Baba? I haven’t seen her since summer. Why do you ask?”
“I was just wondering.”
“Invite them over, Baba. They could come on Friday. Tell Sawsan to come over in the morning. She can help me cook.”
“I’ll ask. It’s been a long time since you made fasanjan. Would you make it?”
“Of course, Baba. Tell me something you like about Eid.”
“I like that day at last goes back to being day and night to night. Everyone can finally go back to their routines. And this absurd cycle of abstaining and gorging ends.”
When he sees the expression on Mrouj’s face, Khafaji apologizes. “I also love seeing the children in their new clothes. That’s something I’ll never stop loving. Your mother always spent so much time buying just the right Eid clothes for you. We loved watching you parade around the neighborhood in them. You and Uday were so proud of your fancy new clothes.”
Mrouj looks away. “Baba, can I take your plate?”
Mrouj’s voice brings him back to the present. He looks down and sees the fork in his hand. He sees that his plate is now empty.
“No, I’ll wait until you finish, Mrouj. Try to eat a little more.”
She puts another cucumber into her mouth, but chews without enthusiasm. She drinks the rest of her yogurt, then wipes the smoky flavor from her lips. He looks outside to see the night drinking up shadows. He looks again at his watch as if it had something to tell him.
Mrouj insists on washing the dishes. Khafaji stands beside her and dries. Together, they listen to the neighbors talking and laughing. Families end their fasts so solemnly and quietly at first. But with each bite, the table becomes a feast, then a carnival. As he dries the last of the dishes, Khafaji listens to the cackles coming from across the way and the floor below, and then to the sound of televisions being turned on one by one in the neighboring apartments. Somewhere, behind the televised noise, Khafaji can hear another call to prayer. As he stacks plates and bowls in the cupboard, he listens also to a parade on the stairwell. Only when he is folding the dish towel does he notice that Mrouj is sitting at the kitchen table, her head in her hands.
“What’s wrong, my love? Can I help you get up?”
“Baba, will you read to me?”
“Of course, my love. Let’s get you to bed.”
Khafaji helps his daughter to the bathroom and closes the door gently behind her. He waits down the hall for minutes as she tries to urinate. Mrouj washes her face, then opens the door. He looks at her, and she shakes her head. Together they shuffle down the dark hall. She lies down. He reaches over to turn on the light.
“Mrouji, what would you like to hear?”
“Something you like, Baba.”
Khafaji walks back to the living room and takes a worn book from the shelf. When Mrouj sees the book in his hands, a puzzled look interrupts her grin. She closes her eyes as her father begins to read. Words go by, then stanzas.
Immortality, they said
And I found it in a shadow
That emerges from the shriveling of life
And flings itself in a leisurely way
On the graveyards
I found it in a word
That lingered on the lips of those
As they denied it.
They sang for immortality
As they passed. Alas!
They spoke of immortality
And I found all that is
Would not last.
The poetry of Nazik al-Malaika always takes Khafaji back to his childhood. Poetry was everything in the house where he grew up.
“Wine, pure wine!” their father would call out whenever he heard a good line of poetry. It was the only bottle he ever drank from. Poetry was the glass he poured each night when he came home from work. When the brothers were old enough to memorize, Khafaji’s father let them drink it too. He taught them the best lines, and then made them pour the poetry back to him while he stretched out on the old sofa. Eyes closed, he corrected his sons until they knew how to pull every pearl to be found in the dusty old books on his shelves. When the aunts visited on Friday, their father would send them into the kitchen to recite the kind of poetry that made women blush. They would shoo the boys back into the men’s quarters, but not before stuffing cardamom sugar cookies in their mouths.
“Baba, you’re reciting, not reading. I want you to read to me.”
Khafaji opens his eyes and sees his daughter staring at him. He looks at the faint smile on her face and picks up the book from his lap.
“I was reading, my love.”
“No you weren’t, Baba. You were reciting from memory. I need you to read, not recite.”
He smiles as he turns page after page to find his place. One day, when he and his brother were still young, their sister Rahma came home from the university clutching a small book of poetry, Splinters and Ashes. Their father looked at it that night and shrugged, “That’s not poetry.” But the boys raced to memorize whole poems, not just lines. Nazik’s poetry took over. New grapes in an old vineyard. Long before Khafaji could grasp what Nazik was talking about, she had become everything.
“Baba, what are you thinking about?”
“I’m just looking to see where I was. You wanted me to read it, right?”
“Yes, Baba. You can start wherever you are. Just read.”
An hour later, when he stops reading, she says, “Thanks, Baba. Which one was Mother’s favorite?”
“She loved every line Nazik composed.”
Only when Suheir appeared in his life did Nazik’s poetry become living, breathing flesh. Her images taught Khafaji what to desire. Her language became a mother tongue. With Suheir, he began to hear the sadness in Nazik’s language, then its anger. As he grew older, he continued to learn from her. How to accept compromises, how to suffer defeats. How to be middle-aged, how to grow old.
In 1995, Suheir died. They packed their books and moved out of the villa. Khafaji continued reading Nazik, but there was no longer any comfort or consolation in her words. Just the opposite. Each line would summon another time gone forever, another past lost for good. He would read Nazik, and for a brief moment Suheir would appear before his eyes. And then, just as fast, she would disappear across a shoreless ocean and leave him stranded again in the past.
“It’s different when you read, Baba, isn’t it? When the words are in your head, they always say the same thing. But when they’re on the page, they begin to live their own lives.”
Khafaji looks at his daughter and smiles, surprised. Her hand rests on his sleeve, the two of them sit still for minutes.
“I’m going to go to sleep now, Baba. Could you turn off the light?”
As the room goes dark, Khafaji whispers from the doorway, “Eid – in what state have you come, Eid? Have you gone and taken something with you, or do you bring something new? / A desert lies between me and my loved ones while I am with you: how I wish there were deserts…”
His silhouette fades as the last word trails off.
From the bed, Mrouj’s voice is faint. “That’s easy. Mutanabbi, ‘and deserts between us’. A desert lies between me and my loved ones while I am with you. How I wish there were deserts and deserts between us! What a sad line to choose, Baba! Goodnight.”
Khafaji tucks the book under his arm as he walks out. In the living room, he sets it down softly, then goes to the sideboard. Reaching behind vases and porcelain figurines, his fingers find a bottle of Scotch.
There’s a knocking at the front door and he puts the bottle back in its place without making a sound. Looking through the peephole, he sees nothing but the gloom of an empty stairwell. A light crashes on, and the boy from next door comes into view. “Who is it?” he calls out as he opens the door.
“Blessed Eid to you! My father and mother want to know if you and Mrouj would like to watch TV with us. The dish is working again and we’re going to watch the last episode of the Syrian soap opera right now.”
“Good evening, Jaafar. Could we do it tomorrow night?”
“On my life, I will not accept it!” a voice booms out. For a moment Khafaji can’t tell who the speaker is. “Not tonight, Mr Muhsin! Tonight is the start of Eid, and you’re our neighbor! Please come and at least have some sweets. Umm Ali made kleitcheh this afternoon. You can’t refuse.”
Jaafar’s father appears on the landing, and the two men shake hands and smile. Abu Ali is a slight man, not much larger than his skinny kid. His thick glasses make his bulging eyes even bigger than they are already.
“God bless you, Abu Ali! I wouldn’t want to impose on you and your family tonight of all nights! Tomorrow, I swear.”
Now, another voice calls out, “No – that won’t do. We’ve already laid out the sweets and heated the kettle for you and Mrouj.”
“Bless you! Mrouj has gone to sleep.” Abu Ali smiles until Khafaji relents.
Khafaji puts his thumb between his fingers and asks Abu Ali to be patient. He goes back inside to check on Mrouj and then comes out, gently closing the door behind him. Jaafar takes Khafaji by the hand and walks him next door.
Khafaji spends more than an hour pretending to enjoy the platter of sweets. He sips syrupy cardamom tea and praises the hand that made it. He watches the soap opera and feigns interest in its twists and turns.
Jaafar cocks up his voice like a television broadcaster. “Tonight is the last episode, all will be revealed!” He is the only one who notices that Khafaji has no idea of what the plot is or who the characters are. When he catches Khafaji’s eye, he winks.
Another night of avoiding questions. The neighbors are recent comers. What they know about the building is the only thing squatters ever really know: there are vacancies. But they must also know from experience that people can step from one life into another. That an entire building can leave in one night. They might even know that those who stay behind have their reasons too. Abu Ali knows not to ask questions, and so does Khafaji.
When Abu Ali curses Saddam, Khafaji nods, but not too much. When they make fun of the cowardice of the generals and officers, Khafaji joins in, his laughter sincere. When they talk about the Republican Guards shot yesterday at the checkpoint on Jamia Street, Khafaji just shakes his head, “Everyone gets what they deserve, don’t they?”
From the outset, they accepted Khafaji for who he said he was. A retired librarian living with his daughter. A widower, whose daughter was not always an only child. An old man who preferred the company of books.
When the electricity goes out, Khafaji breathes a sigh of relief. Now he is free to go. Back inside, he lights a candle and finds the bottle of Black Label. The first shot goes down quickly and he pours another. Warm now, he sits in his reading chair and listens to the celebrations outside. Children laugh and call out to each other in the street. The racket of whacking sticks and metal wheels rolling in the broken road. The clanking of gas canisters and the distant calls of fruit sellers, the stomping of feet up and down stairs. Every so often, the crackle and pop of fireworks and gunfire like a hundred weddings across the city. Or another outbreak of fighting.
Khafaji finds the photograph of his niece in his hands. He looks at it again, but regrets it. Once again he finds himself looking at Suheir. The present is never thick enough.
Khafaji puts the image down on the table and rubs his eyes. He strokes his moustache, looks at his hands. In the twilight, the creases of his palms grow sharper and deeper. Across the darkening room, the shapes of the furniture lengthen and swim. Khafaji sits in a small pool of warm light. Nazik’s poems rest on his lap, the book untended, but the words alive in the air. While his eyes stare off into the shadows of the bookcases, a voice reads on:
I will hear your voice every evening
When light dozes off
And worries take refuge in dreams,
When desires and passions slumber, when ambition sleeps
When Life sleeps, and Time remains
Awake, sleepless
Like your voice.
In the drowsy dusk resounds your wakeful voice,
In my deep yearning
Your eternal voice that never sleeps
Remains awake with me.
Khafaji falls asleep the way he does every night – letters into words, words into sounds, into images, into dreams and then, nothing.
There is a crash outside, and something like an explosion down below. The electricity is on again. Suddenly, the apartment is naked, exposed. Everything is still in its place, but to Khafaji’s startled eye, it seems that every object has just come alive. As if everything in the apartment has been dancing while he slept then jumped back into its place as he woke up.
Heaving himself out of his seat, Khafaji puts the bottle back in its hiding place. The cabinet door shuts like a punctuation mark, and now he can make out the sound of sobbing somewhere nearby. Khafaji closes his eyes and listens.
Suddenly, the lights go out and the front door comes crashing in. Men and flashlights and guns pour in. Khafaji tries to count them, but they seem to fill the living room and hallway and spill out onto the landing and beyond. Lights stab at his eyes, everything becomes a blur. Hands grab at Khafaji and twist his arms. He is on the ground. His cheek presses against the icy marble tiles. His arms cock backwards until his shoulders begin to scream. There are shouts. Guns click and clank, flashlight beams swing around in the blackness. He closes his eyes and imagines the whole street filled with these men. He imagines a line of them stretching down to the river.
Khafaji remembers his sleeping daughter, opens his eyes and shouts her name, “Mrouj!” Boots kick at him, but he looks for eyes. When he finds them, he sees nothing but fear. The man in the black mask orders Khafaji to stay on the ground. Someone pulls plastic zip-ties around his wrists and ankles and his fingers go numb.
Before Khafaji passes out, he thinks, An old man like you has no business fighting them.