by Mona Yahia
“The rhythms of the dialogue are musical … but the emotions and passions are universal.”
Maureen Lipman
“… Yahia rolls Baghdad around her tongue, savouring its suks, smells and sweetmeats (reading her makes one hungry).”
Anne Karpf, The Guardian
“The novel powerfully conveys the author’s outrage, as well as her nostalgia for her native land.”
The Times
“When the Grey Beetles Took Over Baghdad is most politically sophisticated, and also most poignant, when it explores questions of language and identity.”
Times Literary Supplement
“Despite the later ordeals and horrors of persecutions and show trials, it remains a healthy, immensely sane book.”
English Studies
“Her sharp eye captures the ironies of a community at once assimilated yet separate from its neighbors.”
Jerusalem Post
“… rich in subtle, well-worth reading depictions of an earlier Baghdad.”
Welt am Sonntag
WHEN THE GREY BEETLES TOOK OVER BAGHDAD
Mona Yahia
To my parents,
who gave me languages instead of roots
Acknowledgements
The Mahdawi trials (chapter 4) were depicted from descriptions in Republican Iraq by Majid Khadduri (London, 1969), and the Liberation Monument (chapter 21) from The Monument by Samir al Khalil (London, 1991), while All Waiting to be Hanged by Max Sawdayee (Tel Aviv, 1974) provided me with background information for the years 1967–9.
This book took its years to be written, time during which I needed and was lucky to get sincere support from many friends. Among them, I owe a special debt to Michael Lawton and to Kirsten Lehmann, whose help cannot be overstated. Michael spent countless hours in reading my drafts and correcting language mistakes without sparing me any editorial criticism, while Kirsten discussed every stage of the book with me, following my line of thought with remarkable understanding. My thanks also go to Uta Ruge for the pictorial material, and to Joyce Sopher for her unbeatable memory. Finally, I would like to thank Martine Halban, who received a manuscript and returned a book.
Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
PART I
The Seventh Day
First Words
First Day at School
Revolutions
Brother
Milk Teeth
Laurence
The English Club
Purim
Tales Told by the Tigris
PART II
Six Days, a War, and a Transistor Radio
Summer ’67
Once Upon a Time
The Star
Yom Kippur
On Stamps and Swallows
PART III
One More Revolution
Spies
Tahrir Square
PART IV
Anatomy of Hope
Liberation Monument
Dictionary of Hate
Secrets
Vacant Desks
Kaka J.
The Grey Volkswagen
About the Author
Copyright
PART I
The Seventh Day
—When the astrologers announced to Abu Ja’afar al-Mansour, in the year 145 AH of the hijrah, that the stars were favourable to his scheme, the Abbasid Caliph laid the foundation stone for the planned city, on the right bank of the Tigris. The construction work lasted three years, from 762 till 765 AD. Can anyone tell me how it was built? Correct. It was laid out in concentric rings of walls, and pierced by four gates at the cardinal points. A few years later, al-Mansour struck coins, on which he engraved Dar al-Salam, the City of Peace, referring to his capital. However, Suq Baghdad, the name of an old Persian village on the site of the Tigris, somehow stuck. Now I really need not tell you about Baghdad’s grandeur during the Abbasid times, how it flourished and prospered in the golden prime of al-Mansour’s son, Haroun al-Rashid, the most celebrated of all caliphs, who erected palaces and mosques, archives, libraries and academies. Don’t forget that it was in these very academies that Aristotle and Socrates were translated into Arabic and eventually saved from destruction.
Our teacher singles out some sleepy student to elaborate on the past glory of the Islamic empire. My watch tells me: still fifteen minutes to go. You may stuff dozens of decades into one hour, yet you will never make time move faster. My neighbour taps me on the shoulder, passes the note sent forward. I unfold the scrap of paper:
“Is Haqqi ill, or has he deserted us for a better world?”
Though the message is unsigned, I immediately recognise Selma’s large handwriting. I turn round, meet her inquiring look with disapproval. What if the note had fallen into the hands of our teacher? She should have encoded her question, or simply left the sentence unfinished. I would have understood instantly, the issue is haunting me no less than her. Unable to reproach her from my desk, I just shrug my shoulders. No, I have heard nothing. Selma thrusts out four fingers, points them to the vacant desk, two rows to my right. I know, I know. It is the fourth day that Haqqi has not shown up.
—It’s also in Baghdad that Madrasat al-Mustansiryah was founded, the first Islamic university, one of the oldest in the world. Yet don’t think that Baghdad was only a scientific centre, for it was no less a centre of trade and material affluence. Orchards and pleasure grounds sprang up, bazaars expanded and attracted merchants from all quarters of the Arab empire – an empire which extended from the Indus to the Mediterranean and from the Caspian Sea to the Arabian Gulf.
I prop up my head on my fist, longing for Hulagu to storm our history with his hordes of savages, raze the great metropolis, pillage its palaces, set its gardens on fire. The massacre was so ruthless, they say, that within hours the streets were stained red, that within days they stank from the unburied remains of the thousands of slaughtered inhabitants. The Tigris was darker than the night itself, due to the ink dissolving from the mountains of manuscripts which the Mongols had flung into the water.
The headmaster strides into the room, without knocking, without taking the trouble to shut the door either. We promptly stand up – our standard show of obedience which our teachers mistake for respect. The history teacher interrupts his description of the trade routes used during the Rashid’s reign to greet the headmaster. Then he retreats to the window, handing the stage over to him.
—Class, your afternoon physics lesson has been called off!
The familiar ringing rounds off his declaration, relieving us this time of two lessons simultaneously. One unrestrained shriek of joy is heard from the rear. Someone’s giggle escapes in response. Two manifestations too many, oblivious of the headmaster’s presence. The latter tucks his hands into his pockets, holds his head high, staring us down until silence has prevailed.
—You may go home now, he says harshly, pointing to the open door.
Yet his stiff, unrelenting posture detains us. Pupils from other years saunter past, make funny grimaces or derisive remarks. We wait for the verdict, our eyes frozen on him, the way they freeze when posing for some group portrait, only with smiles missing.
—What’s wrong? Didn’t you hear the bell? I thought you were eager to go home?
His grin sharpens his pointed features, narrows his small grey eyes into two vicious flickers. Our headmaster is the only person I know who looks more menacing when he smiles. The history teacher titters, out of sheer politeness. We persist in our safe meekness, until the headmaster has lost interest in his taunts. The two men nod to each other. Forty students rise to their feet.
Teacher follows headmaster. Their wooden footfalls rend our silence with undisguised disdain.
Out of sight, the two no longer exist.
The students roar their hoorahs, their dirty words, repeatedly slam the lids of their desks, pack their satchels, run off, return to linger for last minute jokes. While the room gradually empties, one small group hangs round the entrance, whispering. Whispers signify tidings, inside stories, sometimes rumours which the school janitor, or the non-Jewish teachers should not overhear. I join the group of whisperers. Selma follows me. They validate our suspicions. In spite of the heavy snowfall in the north, the Shamashes reached Iran safely yesterday. Furthermore, it seems that Sami, our physics teacher, has taken off, too, presumably with Haqqi’s family.
For weeks now, no family has fled. The detention of eighty Jews during their failed escape in October has discouraged the rest of us from similar undertakings. Moreover, the icy winter in the northern Kurdish provinces seems to have paralysed illegal traffic with Iran. Seeing no prospects of departure in the near future, my parents purchased two low-priced rugs for the living-room, finally had the leaking tap in the toilet repaired, the fractured window pane in the kitchen replaced. Their deeds spoke for them. They had resigned themselves to the idea of spending one more winter here.
When we have parted from the last students, Selma goes over to Haqqi’s desk.
—Let’s see what treasures he’s left behind.
She sits down, lifts up the lid.
I return to my own desk, wanting no share in her intrusion. The news has thrown me into turmoil. Not only has it filled me with envy, it has stirred new, vain hopes – instead of letting them hibernate in peace.
—An Arabic dictionary! That’s a book lucky Haqqi can now do without.
I make my selection of the schoolbooks to take home.
—No love letters, no banknotes, what a pity! she muses, riffling through the pages.
I pack my satchel, fetch my overcoat from the rack.
—The concise edition of al-Munjid, fine lexicon, don’t you think?
Selma tears out the fly leaf on which Haqqi’s name is written, scribbles her own on the inside of the dictionary.
—I think your looting should wait! Perhaps they haven’t really fled. So many rumours go round nowadays.
—Last time I waited, Tina pinched David’s fountain pen, she justifies herself while swinging the wooden lid.
David was the first to make it, early this term. Laila followed two weeks later. Now it is Haqqi’s turn. David, Laila, Haqqi, our lucky prizewinners. Prizes they did not win for their remarkable school performances, or their good looks, or good manners, or even the good names of their families.
—The hinge doesn’t creak, I’m moving! There’s no better place than the one behind this mass of Farouq. Besides, it’s two benches closer to you.
—Don’t take me so much for granted! I let slip.
Taking no notice of my remark or my wish to go home, Selma draws out her jackknife from her satchel,
—Do me a favour, will you, fetch me the bin. I’ve got to clear up the mess and scrape off all the stale chewing-gum.
I do her the favour. She removes the pistachio shells too, the pencil shavings, the pencil stubs, wipes the dust with tissue paper. Only then does she put in her own textbooks, grouping them in two stacks – Haqqi’s lexicon with the hardbacks. Finally satisfied with the order, Selma runs her palm over the wooden lid to detect splinters. Finding none, she picks up her jackknife once more, this time to score her name on the sloping lid.
I watch the scene in wonder. Despite our transitory existence, Selma’s intimacy with her environment has remained intact. Neither detachment nor listlessness nor withdrawal, none of the symptoms which have taken possession of me over the last three years show in her.
I draw near, look over her shoulder. Without dots or ornamental vowel points, Selma’s freshly scratched name sweeps the desk from right to left, dissecting other smaller, darker words – traces of previous occupants. To its right, two unnamed intertwining hearts hover frivolously near the edge. Inside the dry inkwell, Einstein’s equation of relativity is noted in tiny, greyed letters. To the left of the inkwell, under the hollow for the pens, one deeply engraved sentence reads: “On the Seventh Day, God created Memory.”
Pulling the splinters out of the scored wood, Selma shifts the jackknife to her left hand, scratches her name for the second time, from left to right, in majuscule Latin letters. The two Selmas, identical in sound, foreign in looks, face each other without touching.
—Have you finished marking off your territory? I grumble, slipping into my overcoat. One would think you’re staying here forever.
Selma examines her watch, refolds the jackknife.
—No, no. I’ll carve it properly some other time. What are your plans for the afternoon?
—Go home, what else? Walk home, I suppose.
—I can give you a lift. Home, or elsewhere! she says, unable to hide her pride.
Taking my speechlessness for misunderstanding, Selma hastens to explain,
—The Beetle’s at the gate!
Selma’s father taught her to drive last summer. Since then, even though underage, she has often taken her mother’s Volkswagen to go shopping in the neighbourhood. I have frequently joined her on these short trips, enjoying them no end. Still, the thought of two sixteen-year-old girls racing through the turbulent streets in the heart of town gives me the shudders.
While some other, unruly, voice is talking me into it.
We pick up our satchels, walk out of the room, down the stairs.
—You must have gone out of your mind! You’re underage, remember?
—Come on, Lina, we’re only in Alwiyah, ten minutes away from home, perhaps fifteen. What catastrophe is likely to happen?
—What if some traffic warden stops you? What if he wants to see your licence?
—Why, for God’s sake, should a warden want to stop us? I’m a born driver, you say it yourself, and I’m easily taken for eighteen. Anyway, just to calm you down, Mama’s licence is in the car. I’ll show you the picture. It dates back thirty years: she’s exactly like me.
Her face registers neither irony nor mockery. Selma is earnestly trying to reassure me with her recklessness. We pass through the school gate. The sight of the green Volkswagen, parked impeccably on the opposite side of the street, destroys my illusion that she was only joking. I stand still, unable to make up my mind. Selma explodes,
—Listen, it’s a beautiful day, we have a car at our disposal, and we aren’t expected home before three o’clock. What more could we ask? It’s a unique opportunity, and who knows if it will ever repeat itself. Now take it or leave it. Either join me, or be a good girl and walk straight home. I’m off.
—Not without me! Wait, Selma, wait for me.
My spirits suddenly lifted, I skip to the Sudanese vendor, puchase his two last paper horns of hot peanuts. Selma starts the engine, shows off her smooth U-turn in one go. I jump into the passenger seat while the vehicle is on the move. Having verified that my door is properly shut, Selma puts her foot down.
She works her way through side-roads to Shari’el-Nidhal, Struggle Street, then, without hesitation, signals right, the direction opposite to home. I swallow hard, trying not to imagine my parents’ opinion of this exploit. In no time we make it to the Square of the Unknown Soldier, where I expect to find hordes of traffic wardens waiting for us. The only uniformed man in view is the soldier on patrol, guarding the memorial fire under the parabolic monument. The muezzin in the nearby Martyr’s Mosque has just laid down his microphone, gathered the faithful under the gilded dome to launch with them into the third prayer of the day.
—Let’s go to Abu-Nuwas, I love the river bank, even in winter, Selma suggests.
She flicks the indicator once more, drives straight to the riverside.
In spite of the sun, winter melancholy has taken over the promenade. The occasional strollers, the emp
ty outdoor restaurants, have reduced this lively, well-frequented place to desolation. Selma seeks out one of the parking spaces overlooking the river. I roll down my window, inhale the thick tang of silt. Though its intensity varies from one season to the next, the odour stirs the same vague longings inside me. Some elderly man wearing the traditional zboun is strolling, rapt in the river. Selma switches the engine off, stretches herself out,
—Thank you so much for this golden afternoon, Sami, wherever you are!
The sun strokes her profile through the window, emphasises her freckles, sets her ginger locks on fire. She undoes her paper horn, tosses the first peanuts into her mouth. Slowly, our moods quieten down, tune themselves to the steady flow of water. We watch the river in silence, munching, waiting for some swollen dead dog or donkey to drift past – the way our mothers must have entertained themselves in their youth, prior to the invention of television. My gaze hops to the opposite shore, to Karkh, wanders over lofty palms, dense orange trees, old oriental houses with lattice-work terraces jutting out over the water. The hue of their tall walls is so similar to that of the muddy river that they seem to have emerged from it.
—I wonder why they mark rivers ultramarine on maps. I’ve never seen the Tigris ultramarine, I remark.
—I’ll miss the Tigris, Selma responds, suddenly soft, sentimental.
—The world’s full of great rivers: the Thames, the Seine, the Rhine, the Danube, the Mississippi. Just pick …
—I’d still choose the Tigris. I’m sure no other water tastes as sweet, she replies decidedly, then shuts her eyes, warding off further discussion.
I pursue Haqqi in my mind, keen to savour the sweet safety of his exile. If we hoorayed so merrily for two free hours, with what ecstasy must he have greeted his rebirth on the other side of the frontier! Dressed in some smart track suit, he is jogging in the snow, jumping up slopes, skipping over electric fences, escaping the shots of the frontier guards, running faster than their dogs. He shows no signs of fatigue, hunger, fear, or loneliness. I stay with him to witness the great moment, when he will set foot in the free world. Yet Haqqi seems permanently on the move, in no hurry to reach his destination. His spearmint gum never leaving his mouth, he sends kisses towards the horizon, to the giant lady, the Statue of Liberty, no less.
