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Authors: Zainab Salbi
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cousins say good-bye to me before they moved away?” I asked Mama later. My feelings were hurt.
“How did you know about this?” she demanded.
“I just figured it out from what everybody was saying,” I said.
“You must erase this from your memory, Zainab,” she instructed. Her voice was firm and clear. There was no room to play around here.
“But, I can’t, Mama,” I confessed.
“Well, don’t mention this subject again, not even to your cousins,” she said. “We’ll talk about it later. Not now. You must not say anything about this to anyone. Do you understand?”
I knew all the looks on my mother’s face. When she was angry, her face grew very red, and drops of sweat appeared on her upper lip. When she was serious about something, her skin would pale noticeably, and her face would set, her lips taut. That day, I took her by surprise, and I saw her scared. Something about Aunt Ishraq’s move had scared her. She was more afraid because I knew about it, and that made me feel not only guilty, but sad. I adored my mother, and the last thing on earth I wanted to do was to cause her pain.
It was cold and pouring rain in Baghdad when Baba asked me if I wanted to go with him over to Uncle Adel’s. We rarely spent time alone together, so I jumped at the chance. It had rained so long that our cul-de-sac had filled up with water. Baba always complained when that happened because the government had been promising to fix the drainage, but I loved it. If Baba happened to be home when this lake appeared in our front yard, he would make a fleet of boats out of newspaper and my brothers and I would set them sailing. But that was obviously far from his mind as we got in the car to drive to Uncle Adel’s. He put on a tape of the Egyptian singer Abdul Haleem Hafez and tried to chat with me as we drove. I don’t remember what he talked about. I just remember feeling that he was trying to make a special effort to reach out to me and that he wasn’t comfortable chatting with me the way Mama was. Casual conversation didn’t come naturally to him. When he came home from a long trip, we would rush in, open his suitcase to see what he had brought us, jump all over him, get our hugs, and then let him alone. He was a little like a cat when it came to emotions. He needed his space.
The short street leading to Uncle Adel’s house was muddy and empty and dreary. I noticed a large stack of crates half-covered with blue plastic tarps in front of the house of one of his neighbors. I was surprised to see them still there. There were only four houses on that street, and I knew the neighbors well enough to know that the crates contained valuable factory equipment.
“Why did they leave the equipment out?” I asked Baba. “It’s going to rust in the rain.”
He waited to answer until he had parked the car in front of my uncle’s house. Then he turned to me, and I realized this drive had been building to something. He was trying to find the right words, and I could see it wasn’t easy for him. I remember staring down at the floor and thinking I wasn’t actually an adult yet because I couldn’t drive. My legs weren’t long enough to reach the pedals.
“The neighbors were deported to Iran,” he said. “That’s what happened to Aunt Ishraq and her family too, Zainab. That’s why they didn’t say good-bye. They didn’t have time.”
He explained it to me in the way he said everything—facts only. The government was deporting Iraqis “of Iranian origin.” Nobody knew how many people had been deported, or exactly what happened to all those who had gone. Uncle Adel was staying at our house so he wouldn’t be taken away too. I listened with growing fear and confusion as I realized that my parents must have planned this conversation together. Why hadn’t Mama told me herself? Why was Baba the one to tell me these things, sitting here in the car in the rain outside Uncle Adel’s house?
Then he broke the unthinkable
“How did you know about this?” she demanded.
“I just figured it out from what everybody was saying,” I said.
“You must erase this from your memory, Zainab,” she instructed. Her voice was firm and clear. There was no room to play around here.
“But, I can’t, Mama,” I confessed.
“Well, don’t mention this subject again, not even to your cousins,” she said. “We’ll talk about it later. Not now. You must not say anything about this to anyone. Do you understand?”
I knew all the looks on my mother’s face. When she was angry, her face grew very red, and drops of sweat appeared on her upper lip. When she was serious about something, her skin would pale noticeably, and her face would set, her lips taut. That day, I took her by surprise, and I saw her scared. Something about Aunt Ishraq’s move had scared her. She was more afraid because I knew about it, and that made me feel not only guilty, but sad. I adored my mother, and the last thing on earth I wanted to do was to cause her pain.
It was cold and pouring rain in Baghdad when Baba asked me if I wanted to go with him over to Uncle Adel’s. We rarely spent time alone together, so I jumped at the chance. It had rained so long that our cul-de-sac had filled up with water. Baba always complained when that happened because the government had been promising to fix the drainage, but I loved it. If Baba happened to be home when this lake appeared in our front yard, he would make a fleet of boats out of newspaper and my brothers and I would set them sailing. But that was obviously far from his mind as we got in the car to drive to Uncle Adel’s. He put on a tape of the Egyptian singer Abdul Haleem Hafez and tried to chat with me as we drove. I don’t remember what he talked about. I just remember feeling that he was trying to make a special effort to reach out to me and that he wasn’t comfortable chatting with me the way Mama was. Casual conversation didn’t come naturally to him. When he came home from a long trip, we would rush in, open his suitcase to see what he had brought us, jump all over him, get our hugs, and then let him alone. He was a little like a cat when it came to emotions. He needed his space.
The short street leading to Uncle Adel’s house was muddy and empty and dreary. I noticed a large stack of crates half-covered with blue plastic tarps in front of the house of one of his neighbors. I was surprised to see them still there. There were only four houses on that street, and I knew the neighbors well enough to know that the crates contained valuable factory equipment.
“Why did they leave the equipment out?” I asked Baba. “It’s going to rust in the rain.”
He waited to answer until he had parked the car in front of my uncle’s house. Then he turned to me, and I realized this drive had been building to something. He was trying to find the right words, and I could see it wasn’t easy for him. I remember staring down at the floor and thinking I wasn’t actually an adult yet because I couldn’t drive. My legs weren’t long enough to reach the pedals.
“The neighbors were deported to Iran,” he said. “That’s what happened to Aunt Ishraq and her family too, Zainab. That’s why they didn’t say good-bye. They didn’t have time.”
He explained it to me in the way he said everything—facts only. The government was deporting Iraqis “of Iranian origin.” Nobody knew how many people had been deported, or exactly what happened to all those who had gone. Uncle Adel was staying at our house so he wouldn’t be taken away too. I listened with growing fear and confusion as I realized that my parents must have planned this conversation together. Why hadn’t Mama told me herself? Why was Baba the one to tell me these things, sitting here in the car in the rain outside Uncle Adel’s house?
Then he broke the unthinkable
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