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Authors: Inaam Kachachi
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couldn’t decipher. Their local guides were even more clueless.
‘They came riding the occupation tanks.’ A phrase that was used to describe those local guides. It had a lighter ring than treason. But Zeina was not a traitor in Haydar’s eyes. She was a girl who worked in translation and didn’t understand politics. Initially he had been happy about this sister who seemed to have descended on him like a gift at a time when gifts were rare. Then, when he opened the shiny wrapper, he felt let down. The present wasn’t exactly what he wanted. She was too proud and independent for his liking. She was someone who made her own decisions, made plans and followed them through without expecting help or advice. She was a woman with balls. But as he got to know her, his disappointment was eclipsed by the avenues of conversation that opened up between them. He was elated when she praised his knowledge of music. She was surprised that someone from his conservative neighbourhood would know anything of Janet Jackson and the rest of the first family of soul. He wished he could invite her to his house in Sadr City, to the room that he shared with his brothers, so she could see for herself the biggest collection of Madonna posters in Iraq. Even the ceiling was covered in posters. When it rained, the leaking water sometimes unstuck the glue, letting the pictures fall to cover the sleepers.
How could he possibly take her there? Was he out of his mind? They would make mincemeat of her, grill her on charcoal and eat her fresh off the grill. Al-Jazeera would be reporting the murder of an American soldier in the suburbs of Baghdad. The number had reached three thousand. He couldn’t trust anyone, not even Muhaymen, who’d become a different person since he’d returned from captivity. Muhaymen used to collect rare recordings of Billie Holiday and sleep clutching the transistor radio tuned to FM. When they found out he was a prisoner of war in Iran, no one touched his record collection for three years. Tawoos kept them in a box under her bed, and wouldn’t sell them even in the direst of circumstances. On his return, Muhaymen took the box out to waste ground, poured gasoline over it and set it on fire in front of everyone. Muhaymen had aged before his time. At forty, he was already an old man.
Haydar had a different mentality. Zeina’s choices didn’t shock him as they did the old woman. He didn’t have anything against the American girl. So he considered Rahma’s words and decided he couldn’t do what she was asking of him. He said, ‘Zeina is still one of us. Have you forgotten, Khala , that she drank from my mother’s milk?’
‘Your mother’s milk is pure, my dear Haydar, but the girl has been led astray. Zeina has seen dark days and lost her sense of right and wrong. You have to help me.’
Haydar shook his head vaguely. He couldn’t refuse and couldn’t agree. He understood Rahma’s heartache, but wasn’t enthusiastic about putting his hand in hers to re-educate Zeina. How many thousand Iraqis, how many millions, did the old woman want to re-educate? No, Zeina could be his only ticket out of the shifting quicksand he was in. She could help him with the immigration documents and take him along to America. There he would catch up on his lost youth, he would drink as he liked, let his hair down and sing and dance without the self-appointed guardians of virtue coming after him.
Long live America, land of the drunk!
XVII
All homecomings are cherished except this one. My arms are open wide to receive all the prodigal children except this girl. Could this really be? Zeina, Zonzon, Zuweina. Her grandparents were inconsolable when she was taken away from them just as she was hovering at the threshold of adolescence. And now she returns, but like this?
The girl was herself a beautiful adornment to match her name, and she loved nothing more than staying at her grandfather’s house. When she was born, Youssef and Rahma had
‘They came riding the occupation tanks.’ A phrase that was used to describe those local guides. It had a lighter ring than treason. But Zeina was not a traitor in Haydar’s eyes. She was a girl who worked in translation and didn’t understand politics. Initially he had been happy about this sister who seemed to have descended on him like a gift at a time when gifts were rare. Then, when he opened the shiny wrapper, he felt let down. The present wasn’t exactly what he wanted. She was too proud and independent for his liking. She was someone who made her own decisions, made plans and followed them through without expecting help or advice. She was a woman with balls. But as he got to know her, his disappointment was eclipsed by the avenues of conversation that opened up between them. He was elated when she praised his knowledge of music. She was surprised that someone from his conservative neighbourhood would know anything of Janet Jackson and the rest of the first family of soul. He wished he could invite her to his house in Sadr City, to the room that he shared with his brothers, so she could see for herself the biggest collection of Madonna posters in Iraq. Even the ceiling was covered in posters. When it rained, the leaking water sometimes unstuck the glue, letting the pictures fall to cover the sleepers.
How could he possibly take her there? Was he out of his mind? They would make mincemeat of her, grill her on charcoal and eat her fresh off the grill. Al-Jazeera would be reporting the murder of an American soldier in the suburbs of Baghdad. The number had reached three thousand. He couldn’t trust anyone, not even Muhaymen, who’d become a different person since he’d returned from captivity. Muhaymen used to collect rare recordings of Billie Holiday and sleep clutching the transistor radio tuned to FM. When they found out he was a prisoner of war in Iran, no one touched his record collection for three years. Tawoos kept them in a box under her bed, and wouldn’t sell them even in the direst of circumstances. On his return, Muhaymen took the box out to waste ground, poured gasoline over it and set it on fire in front of everyone. Muhaymen had aged before his time. At forty, he was already an old man.
Haydar had a different mentality. Zeina’s choices didn’t shock him as they did the old woman. He didn’t have anything against the American girl. So he considered Rahma’s words and decided he couldn’t do what she was asking of him. He said, ‘Zeina is still one of us. Have you forgotten, Khala , that she drank from my mother’s milk?’
‘Your mother’s milk is pure, my dear Haydar, but the girl has been led astray. Zeina has seen dark days and lost her sense of right and wrong. You have to help me.’
Haydar shook his head vaguely. He couldn’t refuse and couldn’t agree. He understood Rahma’s heartache, but wasn’t enthusiastic about putting his hand in hers to re-educate Zeina. How many thousand Iraqis, how many millions, did the old woman want to re-educate? No, Zeina could be his only ticket out of the shifting quicksand he was in. She could help him with the immigration documents and take him along to America. There he would catch up on his lost youth, he would drink as he liked, let his hair down and sing and dance without the self-appointed guardians of virtue coming after him.
Long live America, land of the drunk!
XVII
All homecomings are cherished except this one. My arms are open wide to receive all the prodigal children except this girl. Could this really be? Zeina, Zonzon, Zuweina. Her grandparents were inconsolable when she was taken away from them just as she was hovering at the threshold of adolescence. And now she returns, but like this?
The girl was herself a beautiful adornment to match her name, and she loved nothing more than staying at her grandfather’s house. When she was born, Youssef and Rahma had
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