by Jean Sasson
He looked at Mayada and smiled brightly. “What do you think of that?”
Mayada nodded and agreed. “I am glad you helped her. I hate cruelty. I really do.” Yet she wondered why the woman’s son had to be killed in the first place. Being overly religious now guaranteed a death sentence in Iraq, and that frightening fact saddened and angered her.
Ali puckered his lips before asking, “Do you only write for the magazine?
“No. I have other projects. I am writing a book of short stories.”
He became excited. “By God, I have two or three perfect stories for your book.” He began talking rapidly and breathlessly. “Listen to me! This is a military story. A few weeks back one of our soldiers escaped from his unit and hid in the marshes of Umara. To survive, he drank the water of the marshes and ate the fish he caught. Then one day there was a large offensive carried out by the Iranians against the Iraqi units close to the area, and this young soldier forgot he was a deserter. So he fought alongside in another unit and ended up being a hero who captured five Iranians. Then he remembered that he was a deserter and that he was with the wrong unit. He admitted his status to the head officer of that unit, and he was given the death penalty. Well, he was lucky that I heard this story before he was shot. I contacted the President and told him about this hero who had suffered one cowardly moment. Saddam the leader, may Allah preserve him, told me to save that soldier’s life and bring him to the palace. I did, and guess what? The soldier received the Wissam Al-Shajaa [Medal of Bravery] from Saddam the leader, may Allah preserve him, and even got a cash bonus. Put that story in your book.
“And here’s another.” He actually jumped from the desk and stamped his feet on the floor.
Rather than tell the story, Ali’s voice changed and he seemed to sing a ballad to the world about his great kindnesses. “A few weeks ago I was on my way to the office and my Mawkib [cars filled with bodyguards that surround his car] was overtaken by a fast-moving automobile. When the driver pulled beside me and recognized me, he stopped his car. My bodyguards surrounded his automobile and told him to step out. Well, by God, that poor man looked so frightened that he couldn’t stand up straight and he collapsed on the pavement. I stepped out of my car and tried to calm him down. Finally I told him to ride with me. I saw him trembling when he stepped to my automobile, but I talked to him and took him to my office where I had my staff serve him tea and cookies. I joked with him and finally he realized I was not going to order him to prison for passing up my car.” He looked at her, puzzled. “I don’t understand why people are afraid of me. I protect Iraqis from our enemies. Why is that so bad?”
She wasn’t brave enough to mention that there might be a valid reason for Iraqi fears, considering the punishments meted out from the secret police, so she just nodded and said nothing, although the story of Um Sami’s boys kept running through her mind. She longed to tell Ali al-Majid that tragic tale, but couldn’t find the courage. Mayada remained extraordinarily calm, considering the situation. She decided Ali reminded her of a girl she had known in school who exhausted every classmate until they began to avoid her. She wondered if Ali’s physician had ever suggested he take sedatives.
His euphoria was building to an alarming pitch. “I told you that I used to be very poor, but now I am well-to-do and I like it. Of course, your family was prosperous from generations back, so you have no idea what it is like to go hungry or barefoot, or to not have the books you want to read or slip into the designer dresses you like to wear. You were born lucky, by God. But while I suffered in my youth, now I ride in cars that I could only dream about before. And I live in a house that is like a museum to me. Saddam the leader, may Allah preserve him, comes to visit me often, and he has an eye for beauty. Each time he visits, he orders me, ‘Ali, add an aquarium! Ali, change the shape of your pool! Ali, knock down that wall!’ It’s a big joke with my elder and beloved cousin, Saddam, that I will never have the house he believes suitable for me. He told me once that I should have gone to school and become an architect, so I could carry out his suggestions to his satisfaction.” Ali al-Majid smiled happily. “Our President just wants me to have all the good things we never had in Tikrit. He is a good cousin.”
He cleared his throat. “What next? What next? Oh, my children. My eldest son is Omar. I have a second son named Hassan. Then my wife got pregnant a third time. I had a feeling I was going to have a daughter. I was excited and decided that if it was a girl, I was going to give her a special gift, an original name. So I called her Hibba, which means ‘bestowed.’ I did not believe any other Iraqi—or even any other Arab—had ever thought to give their daughter such a beautiful name. Then one day I was driving with my entourage. Sitting next to me, my bodyguard spotted an ice cream store by the name of Hibba. I was so surprised that we stopped the cars. I got out and found that the owner was shaking with nerves. I urged him to calm down, that I was only there for an ice cream. When he served my ice cream, I asked him where he got the name Hibba. He told me that Hibba was the name of his eldest daughter, and that he had named the shop after her. I was so shocked. I discovered that day that Hibba was a well-known name, and that many daughters of many proud men carried the name.” He sheepishly added, “And I thought I was the first man to think of that name.”
Ali appeared to be thinking back, trying to remember other stories. His ruminations turned again to the fear he inspired in others. “I don’t understand why so many people are frightened of me.” He looked at her with a sly smile. “Are you frightened of me, Mayada?”
For the first time she was afraid. She whispered, “Should I be?”
A gleeful flicker appeared for a moment before he said, “Never! You are the granddaughter of a great man. All of Iraq cherishes you, just as your Jido Sati cherished you.”
When he went to pour himself a glass of water, she slipped a peek at her watch and saw that he had talked nonstop for three hours. Thankfully, his telephone rang and he answered it. He whispered a few words into the receiver, then told Mayada that he had another appointment. But he insisted that she return the following morning, that he had many, many other interesting stories that must be included in her articles and books.
Mayada had mixed feelings. On the one hand, she couldn’t believe her good fortune. She had done nothing to win this man’s trust, a man who had previously refused to even speak to the press, yet he poured out his heart to her, urging her to print his personal life stories in her magazine and in her book. On the other hand, this uncouth man who imagined himself to be quite extraordinary could keep a writer busy for many years.
Mayada’s mother had the most likely explanation for Ali al-Majid’s bizarre behavior. She suggested that Saddam had encouraged his cousin Ali to open up to Mayada. Otherwise, the man wouldn’t dare spill every personal story of his life in such a fashion. Ever since he was a penniless student in Cairo, Saddam had been captivated by the reputation and gentle conduct of Sati Al-Husri. Saddam knew the great man never turned away even the poorest student who chose to ask him questions to further the student’s knowledge. Saddam’s fascination for Sati had been automatically transferred to Sati’s daughter and granddaughters.
For three days Mayada listened quietly, nodded politely, and took down everything Ali al-Majid said. There were times she would be writing and would look up to see that Ali al-Majid’s eyes were fastened on her face. She would peer attentively at him, but she soon realized he was not really seeing her, but seeing himself in the pages of a book. Ali’s manic behavior was exhausting and depressing, and Mayada was relieved to present her completed material to Kamil, who excitedly assured her that indeed, she had enough material for several articles, as well as a book.
From that time, Mayada’s career advanced. Rumor spread that she could get interviews with even the most elusive government officials. This success filled the emptiness of her loveless marriage, and there were times when Mayada felt wonderfully happy, as though everything good still lay ahead of her.
A few months later, the head of Ali al-Majid’s office, a man named Dr. Saad, called Mayada at home to tell her, “There is a democratic exercise tomorrow. Ali al-Majid wants you to be the reporter to cover it.”
Of course she agreed. Mayada believed the report would be a great scoop for her. Immediately, she called Kamil to tell him the good news. She would not be coming to work tomorrow; instead, she would be at Ali al-Majid’s office.
When Mayada retired that evening, she was thrilled and excited, believing that her career was heading in an important direction.
She had never been to such an event, so she showed up at Dr. Fadil’s old headquarters at 8:45 the following morning.
It was a beautiful summer day in Baghdad. Mayada wore a crisp new white sailor dress with blue ties, which her mother had bought for her in London. She had sprayed her wrists and ears with the scent of Fashion De Leonard. She felt carefree and on top of the world.
The secret-police complex was huge, but Mayada was led to the appropriate meeting room by one of Ali’s assistants. The event was slated for the headquarters’ gymnasium. There was an indoor swimming pool and a large stage, which bore a long table and many chairs. Two microphones stood onstage, one at each end. Neat rows of chairs faced the stage.
Mayada was led to the front row. She took her seat. She was the first person to arrive, so she sat and waited and watched as others filed into the room. For some reason, she hummed the Mamas and the Papas’ famous hit “Monday, Monday.”
Soon the gym was filled, and the crowd fell into a hush when Ali al-Majid strode in, surrounded by his bodyguards. A large group of other high-ranking government officials trooped in right behind.
Ali glanced through the room and saw Mayada sitting in the front row. He gave her a nod and a smile, then stood in front of one of the microphones. He delivered a brief lecture, telling the audience that matters in the security offices would now be handled differently. Big changes had been made since he had taken over from Dr. Fadil. Ali explained it would be a total democracy, with complete support from his cousin, the leader Saddam Hussein, may Allah preserve him.
Everyone smiled and clapped just a little too readily.
After the applause ended, Ali al-Majid resumed his talk, saying he had saved the most important part of the exercise until last. For the first time that day, his face turned sad and stern. “Before I came into this office, wrongdoers in this nation simply disappeared. They would be given a prison sentence, or even executed, but the family would not be notified where they were or how much time they would have to serve for their crime . . . or even if they were alive. This was wrong. And by God, this is over, I can tell you that. From this time on, when a criminal is arrested, charged and sentenced, families will be notified. Perhaps the family will choose to disown these traitors, but that will be their choice.”
Mayada looked around uneasily. Many people in the audience were shifting uncomfortably. No one could believe the free way Ali al-Majid was speaking, apparently without concern that criticizing another department might create a problem. Such openness was taboo in Baathist Iraq, even by one of Saddam’s relatives, and particularly in the setting of a public forum. Mayada decided that something important was about to happen. So she stopped writing, turned on her tape recorder, and listened carefully, as her heart pounded.
Ali al-Majid said, “I want the family of every criminal to know exactly what happened to their loved ones. By God, it is only right.” He then looked to the back of the stage and called out a man’s name. A tall slim man with a receding hairline and gentle-looking face approached the stage. He stood in front of the second microphone and said, “My only son was arrested six months ago. I do not know where he is. Here is his name.” He walked toward Ali al-Majid and handed him a slip of paper. Ali studied the name for a moment, then wadded the slip in his fist before shuffling through two or three papers handed him by an assistant. Ali pulled a cassette tape out of a small box and said, “Yes. Your son was accused of high treason. He has been executed. The whereabouts of his grave is unknown. Here is a tape of his confession. Go home and listen to it so you won’t grieve the death of this traitor.”
The poor father fell back a step in astonishment. For the briefest time he restrained himself from breaking down, but he touched Ali’s shoulder and cried out, “My son is dead? My son is dead?” Two assistants rushed on the stage and caught the man before he tumbled to the stage floor. As he was led away, Mayada saw his hands clutching the tape as though it was as precious as the body of his dead son.
Mayada could not move her eyes, which were fixed on one spot, Ali al-Majid’s face. He was smiling an absurd smile, and he shouted with an air of conviction, “It is good for that father to know his son is a traitor. Yes! Perhaps it is some mistake he made as a father. Now he can watch how he raises his daughters.”
Mayada lowered her eyes and stared at her feet.
She listened as, one by one, Ali al-Majid called out names of hopeful relatives, all attending this democratic exercise in the belief they had come to take a long-lost relative home to celebrate with their loved ones. She heard individual footsteps marching hopefully to the stage. Yet she knew that none would receive welcome news. To her mind, she was listening to a chain dragging across the stage, a chain of Iraqis, all linked by a terrible grief, all hearing the same sad fate about the person they loved.
Mayada sat like a stone lodged as securely as the stones of the Great Pyramid until someone tapped her on her shoulder, and a voice whispered in her ear, “Watch out, they are looking.” Mayada lifted her head and stared blindly ahead, feigning interest in the painful scenes.
Mayada listened to the sounds of the anxious conversation among relatives of prisoners, now dead or sentenced, while keeping her eyes on Ali al-Majid. His energized expression revealed that he was enjoying himself immensely as he played a tape of a young man being tortured, his cries ringing out across the large auditorium. The dead youth’s mother jumped and waved her arms about, as though believing she could stop her son’s anguish. Her wild gyrations elicited laughter from the audience. When she fainted and dropped to the floor, her action merely heightened the laughter.
Mayada knew that everyone in the audience must be as sickened as she was, yet they feared Ali al-Majid and felt they must support his every move. Otherwise, they knew, their own future might include a long walk across a stage to listen to a tape of their loved one’s moans.
She watched the sweet faces of two young women who heard that their father had received a twenty-year sentence for smuggling. They babbled to Ali al-Majid that their father had once been a teacher but had lost his job. His family was starving, and that was the only reason he had taken the tires.
Disregarding their grief, Ali looked happily at his audience and said, “By God, smuggling is smuggling, a big crime. But we are entering a new age when these people can learn the truth about their loved ones.”
He threw a quick glance at Mayada in the audience and smiled and said, “By God, I am a kind man!” The audience clapped enthusiastically.
My God, would he never stop smiling? Mayada was terribly shaken; her whole body was trembling. She was in a state of absolute terror that this man even knew her.
Mayada looked down at her lap, thinking she could not bear to see another hopeful face dashed by disappointment. To distract herself, she sniffed the perfume on her wrist.
When Mayada looked up, she paled. A tall, bony man dressed in rags stood on the stage. His skin looked like burnt toast. His hair was melted to his scalp. With a gaping mouth devoid of every tooth and his fingers clotted with blood, the skeletal man stood next to Ali al-Majid.
Ali al-Majid looked at the man with pity and shook the man’s bloody fingers warmly. Ali then gazed at the crowd, his large black eyes blazing like burning coals. He told the audience the man’s name. He then called out a woman’s name, explaining that she was the wife of the bony creature.
Mayada’s uneasiness increased with every minu
te. Then a short, spare woman no more than thirty years old stumbled onstage to stand in front of the second microphone. She was wearing a black abaaya Iranian style, holding it under her chin. She stared at Ali al-Majid with fright and suspicion in her eyes.
Her frail husband kept looking at her, a look of anger mingled with disappointment.
Ali spoke to the man in a loud whisper. “You should have divorced this whore a long time ago. You knew she was Iranian. You should have broken one of her bones and looked inside. You would have discovered shit.”
The man began to address the audience, drawing out his words with difficulty, speaking with unutterable sorrow in an unsteady voice. “See these hands?” He held them away from his body. “See how my fingernails were ripped from my fingers? For ten days, one a day, until every nail was gone. And my toes,” he attempted to lift a foot but was too weak to balance on one leg, so he pointed instead. “I have no nails on my toes. Another ten days of one nail a day. Then I was taken to a small room and placed in a chair. My hands were tied to the chair. A man with a small pair of pliers came into the room and yanked out a tooth. He pulled my teeth, one by one, until every tooth was on the floor. After that I was taken by force and put into a large oven, big enough for two men. I was put into that oven and told I was going to be roasted to death and then fed to the dogs. But they left me only long enough to toast my skin and melt my hair.” He patted his burnt head with his bloodied hands. He looked at his wife in sadness and could hardly bring out the words. “All of this because my wife became angry and wrote a letter to the secret police. She told them I was an Islamic Party member, who planned to assassinate officials in the government.”
