by Sinan Antoon
“That’s all we need!” he’d exclaim. “What hole did this guy crawl out of? Where are we supposed to get five stacks? Is this what we have come to, dhimmis?” But my mother clung to hope, telling him—
and herself—that the preacher was just a lunatic. “He’ll just rave and rant like that for a few days and then he’ll be gone.”
The lunatic went on, however, repeating the same thing over and over again, in increasingly more shrill and strident tones. Had it just been him, it wouldn’t have been that bad. He would eventually have grown tired and given up, but there were plenty of people who listened to him and did his bidding.
First, there were verbal threats, and later handwritten messages began arriving at the door of Christian homes. To remain in the neighborhood, the one-week ultimatum stipulated, you either converted or paid the jizya. My father tore up the first such letter and didn’t tell my mother about it. He tried to find out if there was any way to get to the amir or his representatives and work out a deal, or pay them off somehow, but he made no headway.
At the end of the week’s notice, another letter arrived, with the same ultimatum signed by a group calling itself Jaysh Muhammad.
After that, the messages became more eloquent, coming in the form of bullets and hand grenades. Then, they burned down the Assyrian church and attacked St. John the Baptist, the church we attended on Sundays, vandalizing the cross atop its dome.
Then one night, shots were fired through our kitchen window and we found the words ‘infidels’ scrawled in red paint across the front door. We filed complaints with the police department and the church made appeals to the government on our behalf, to no avail.
Father closed down the store and we packed what we could and fled to my uncle’s house in al-Baladiyat. The reception room in their house turned into a small encampment for us and all our bags and possessions. We were there for four months. Shadha had to move to a new school, and the situation in al-Dawra went from bad to worse: there were more and more attacks on churches, bomb blasts, mortar attacks, and two priests were abducted. Going back there was out of the question and many Christians left, fleeing to Syria and Jordan. A number of my mother’s relatives went to Ainkawa in the north, and they urged us to follow suit because the area was peaceful. We heard that we might be able to apply for religious asylum through the UN or NGOs that had begun to operate there.
Father went ahead so as to get the lay of the land. He rented a small apartment and came back to fetch us. He gave our trusted neighbor, Abu Muhammad, the keys to our house and to the store
and asked him to sell the remaining furniture and find a renter or buyer for the house. Father said that Abu Muhammad apologized as he embraced him emotionally.
“Nonsense!” Father told him. “It’s not your fault!”
“We didn’t look out for you, Abu Maha. You were entrusted to our care and we didn’t protect you.”
“All of us are guilty, Abu Muhammad. None of us looked out for Iraq,” Father replied.
I was supposed to return to Baghdad at the end of the summer in order to complete the three remaining years I had at medical school, or else I would have to start all over again when I went abroad. I had heard that if I completed my degree, it would be easier to have it recognized after. I’d only need to study for another couple of years elsewhere, rather than go back to square one. My father supported my plan and he accompanied me to Baghdad at the beginning of my fourth year, and we stayed with my uncle once again. He tried to liquidate our house in al-Dawra once more, but nobody wanted to buy there, so he closed it up and returned to Ainkawa. He looked for work, to no avail, but fortunately my mother found a job at a women’s clothing store and they registered my sister, Shadha, at the local school. They lived on my mother’s wages and on the money my aunt sent them from Canada every month.
7
My uncle and his family welcomed me like a daughter. Even though my parents were far away and I missed them, a mattress on the floor in my uncle’s reception lounge was better than the tiny room in Ainkawa. I spent most of my time studying, anyhow. Aside from classes, I only went out to go to the Church of the Martyr Mar Bathyoun on Sundays or to attend a lecture or film organized by the church as part of a series held on the first Friday of every month to educate the congregation about Christian thought. The first lecture I attended was in honor of the church’s eponymous saint and I found his life story and all its ramifications fascinating. He was born to a Zoroastrian family in the lower Zab region of northern Iraq but converted to Christianity. Then he became an ascetic and lived a life of austerity and devotion based on the teachings of the Bible. People would seek him out to pray over and cure the sick. Bathyoun spread the Christian message without fear of retribution from the Zoroastrians. During the winters, he came down from the mountains and carried his message to the south. Because he got so many of the notables of the society at the time to convert, the Zoroastrian chief judge ordered Bathyoun to be brought to him shackled. He was charged with witchcraft and thrown into prison but during the night, his shackles fell away and he walked out of the jail, praising the Lord. The other inmates watched in amazement as the prison doors opened wide and their own shackles also fell away miraculously.
“Your God, O Bathyoun,” they cried out in unison, “is mighty and majestic. Blessed are those that lean on Him.”
The ruler ordered him to be thrown into the river and left to drown, but the waters stopped flowing and only resumed their course once he was pulled out by royal decree. The ruler cried out in anger and swore on the life of Yazdegurd the Great that Bathyoun would be burned alive, but when they placed him in the furnace, the fire died down. Bathyoun was brought before the council of elders who sentenced him to what was known as the
‘nine deaths’—a gradual dismemberment of his body over a period of six days. When he was taken to the torture chamber, he repeated the Lord’s words from the Gospel of Matthew: And fear not them which kill the body, but are not able to kill the soul: but rather fear him which is able to destroy both soul and body in hell.
The lectures would usually conclude with a short group discussion and then we all trooped out to the courtyard for refreshments and pastries. I will always remember that lecture because it brought Luay into my life. He was a regular at church and at the monthly gatherings. Our eyes met several times and then he smiled at me; a smile that felt calming as my head thronged with all the details of Bathyoun’s torture and suffering. At the next lecture, he made sure to sit by me, and at the end of the discussion he asked me where I was from. I told him the story of my family’s escape from Baghdad and that I had remained in the city to finish my studies. I came across him a week later wandering around the campus of the medical school and he flashed me that same smile when he saw me. He expressed his gladness at running into me and told me he was looking for one of his old friends from high school. He admitted later on that the “running into me” had been orchestrated and that he had concocted the story of his high school friend so that we could meet far from the church and watchful eyes. He asked if I’d like to go and get a fresh juice with him and we spent two lovely hours that flew by as we chatted.
We exchanged cell phone numbers before parting.
He was four years older than me, tall and handsome, and he wore his soft black hair short. His inky eyes lit up every time he laughed. He had studied English in the language department at Baghdad University, and during his last year there had worked at Qasr Marjan, the hotel that his uncle owned. After graduating, he was promoted to administrative manager with a good salary.
At first, we talked on the phone, and then we started meeting once a week. We’d hang out, talk and laugh about things. He made me feel good, I felt comfortable and relaxed around him. When he broached the subject of marriage about six months later, I was ecstatic. He traveled to Ainkawa to meet my parents, and they were both impressed. They liked him as a person, they approved of his values, and they agreed to our getting married as long as I
completed my studies—which was exactly what I wanted. He didn’t
try to kiss me until after we were engaged. I was nervous when he did, and didn’t know what to do when his tongue touched my lips and then slipped inside my mouth. He was nervous too. At first, our kisses were awkward but they soon settled into a lovely rhythm.
8
The marriage ceremony was held at Mar Bathyoun Church where we met, and it was followed by a modest reception in the hall of the hotel that Luay managed. My parents came in from Ainkawa and Luay made the necessary arrangements for them to stay at the hotel at a very reduced rate. Watching me cut the five-tiered wedding cake in my white gown, my mother cried tears of joy. Youssef came and he, too, congratulated us. Because of my classes and Luay’s job, we couldn’t take time off to go away, so three nights at the Hamra Hotel was our honeymoon. Afterward, we moved into a room that Luay had furnished with a new bedroom set on the second floor of his parents’ house in Zayyouna.
About five months later, Luay suggested we move into my parents’
house in al-Dawra since the situation there had improved considerably after the forces of the Awakening Movement had taken control of the area. The house lay empty, there were no renters and my parents had no intention of returning. To begin with, I was hesitant because I was afraid of what might happen, but Luay reassured me, saying the area had been secured and Christian families had begun to return to the neighborhood.
Even though I wasn’t entirely convinced, I finally agreed to this after watching a TV story about the reopening of our church. The vandalized cross had been restored to its place on the cupola, and the footage showed some Muslims from the neighborhood sitting side by side with the remaining members of the Christian community at a church service. I was moved when I saw some of them looking straight at the camera and urging their ‘Christian brethren,’ as they called us, to return to their homes because the area was now safe.
“Don’t leave your homes to strangers, come back and live among us; you’ll be respected and supported. We are one family.” The man who spoke looked directly into the camera as he distributed sweets in the church courtyard. His words went straight to my heart and I choked up with tears. I knew that we would be more comfortable if we had our own place and my parents agreed to the idea, especially my mother who wasn’t in favor of my living with my in-laws too long, even though they were extremely nice and I didn’t have a single complaint about them.
“Go on, sweetheart. You’ll feel more comfortable there. It’ll do you good,” she kept telling me.
My father had been in touch with our neighbor, Abu Muhammad, and he too had confirmed that things had gotten much better since the
situation had stabilized. Luay paid for a few repairs as well as the repainting of the interior, and he hired someone to move in the bedroom set he had purchased when we got married. I insisted that we sleep in my old room. Even though my parents’ bedroom was more spacious, I couldn’t stand the idea of sleeping there—it felt too embarrassing.
The first few days back at our house I had very mixed and confused feelings. I wasn’t used to being there without my parents, and it was strange sleeping under that roof with my husband, even though I loved him and we were making a fresh start on our own. There were times I felt really sad and I would dream of Uncle Mukhlis whose ghostly shadow still inhabited the garden. The emptiness I felt and my feelings of loneliness didn’t abate until the baby started moving inside me a year and a half later.
We had agreed to postpone having children until I’d finished my studies, and I was careful about us avoiding the days when I might get pregnant. Despite my calculations, I missed a period and all the early signs of pregnancy appeared. Luay thought I’d be upset because I was so determined not to let anything interfere with my studies, but I was more thrilled by the news than he was and felt confident that I would be able to manage my time. The baby was due at the beginning of summer according to the doctor, a time when I had no exams or lectures to attend. My mother-in-law said she would be happy to come and live with us for the first few months and look after the baby when I had to go to class. Luay fixed up Shadha’s bedroom for the baby boy we were expecting according to the ultrasound, and we agreed to name him Bashar. Luay’s mother bought the crib and a layette, and put them in the baby’s room.
9
Everything was ready for the baby’s arrival, from soft sheets to loving arms. He moved constantly and seemed in a hurry to leave his little chamber in my body and join the rest of the world. But he never made it to his room and his crib remained empty. Not because I made a mistake, or because I didn’t take care of the body of which he was a part. I followed my doctor’s instructions meticulously, and ‘nothing but the best’ was my approach to the pregnancy. But his fate was sealed by perfect strangers, by people who had nothing to do either with him or with us. There is no answer or explanation for why the end arrives too early—it’s always stark and distressing. But how much more terrible is it when a life ends before it has even begun? How awful is it when death precedes birth itself?
No one knows where the two booby-trapped cars came from that night or how they managed to steal into the neighborhood, but it was all too clear that our street was targeted because most of the residents were Christians. There were no targets of strategic value such as a police station or government office. The area had been quiet and stable for months, with fighters from the Sahwa
militia controlling the streets and major access points. They were paid a monthly wage in exchange for which they committed to point the barrels of their guns in the right direction, namely against al-Qaeda and other terrorists rather than training them on us Christians, or on the Americans and the Shiites.
The two cars, one of which was parked directly in front of our house, exploded shortly after four o’clock that morning, destroying a large chunk of the garden wall and shattering the windows. Pieces of shrapnel flew in every direction, landing on the roof and in the yard, and some of them found their way into our bedroom. Luckily, we had placed the bed away from the window and the broken glass cascaded onto the ground. The only thing I remember is hearing the explosion and screaming. I knew instantaneously that I would lose Bashar. I shook like a tree in a deathly storm. I felt that death itself was moving through me looking for my son to strangle in my womb. Luay wrapped his arms around me and tried to calm me. “It’s okay, don’t be scared,” he kept repeating. “I’m right here, it’s alright.” I felt some wetness on the sheets and thought I must have lost control of my bladder from fear, but I quickly realized I was bleeding. I don’t remember what happened after that. Luay told me afterward that I screamed like a madwoman for over half a minute and then fainted.
When we got to the hospital, only one heart was beating inside my body instead of two.
Bashar was the fruit that was plucked by fear before it had ripened on the branch. Why did he have to fall to the ground without anyone catching him? Just like that, from the womb to the grave, without even passing through the cradle, without nursing at the breasts that were readying for him, without wearing the beautiful clothes we had bought him, or sleeping in the room that awaited him.
10
When I opened my eyes, my mother was sitting by my side, holding my hand. She kissed me and tried to comfort me. “The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. The most important thing is that you’re safe,” she said. Then the face of the doctor wearing a scarf appeared along with those of the nurses. Luay came in and kissed me on the forehead, and then my father followed. There were so many faces, faces that made me feel besieged as they stared at me and repeated the same stupid things. My parents and sister had hurried to Baghdad from Ainkawa to be near me, but Father and Shadha had to leave after three days so that Shadha wouldn’t miss school.
I swore then and there that I would never again set foot in al-Dawra or return to that benighted house. When I was released from the hospital, we went back to the room we had lived in at Luay’s parents. My mo
ther stayed on in Baghdad to take care of me as I convalesced and Youssef heard about what happened from her. He called to ask how I was doing and to get my phone number because
he wanted to talk to me. He was very kind and apologized for not coming to see me at the hospital but he’d only found out after the fact. When my mother visited him before returning to Ainkawa and went into some detail about what had happened, he offered to have us move into the second floor of his house; he had turned it into a separate apartment in 1991 and it had been unoccupied for the last several months. She went and saw for herself that there was a spacious bedroom, a bathroom, and a kitchen and he assured her that we could feel at home and no one would bother us. The apartment had a separate entrance with its own outdoor staircase and we could come and go as we pleased.
I didn’t hesitate for long because even though my husband’s parents were kind to a fault I felt suffocated by the constant stream of visitors and really wanted a place where I could be alone and quiet. Luay got excited about it after we went to visit the apartment in Youssef’s house, especially as it was close to his job and he could walk to work. Youssef flatly refused to discuss the rent with us or accept any kind of deposit. “Later, later,” he kept saying. “Allah karim, God is generous.”
He never accepted payment of any kind, even when Luay left money in an envelope for him. He told me that if I occasionally cooked him something, it would be worth far more to him than any rent we might pay. And that is what I did, in addition to helping out around the house. Luay, for his part, bought most of the fruit and also shopped for groceries.
