When the Grey Beetles Took Over Baghdad

by Mona Yahia

  The driver cranes his neck and cries out,

  —But where are her feet? Wallah that woman has no feet! And the shehid, the martyr, over there, in the middle, he’s standing on his head, isn’t he? Why? Perhaps the artist was drunk when he made them? Ha ha … or didn’t he learn his craft properly?

  —Of course he did! But in modern art, the artist’s free to depict people the way he sees them. The figure that’s lying dead, for instance, is portrayed from above.

  The driver slows down and reconsiders the wall, now in front of us, in the light of Shuli’s interpretation. Another taxi, pulling out into the square from the Jumhuriyah bridge, honks lengthily as it overtakes us. Taking no heed of it, our driver calmly lights a cigarette.

  —From above! he repeats, with a mixture of amusement and wonder.

  —Let’s move on to the centrepiece. See the large figure, the man with the helmet leaping like an athlete under the sun? That’s evidently a soldier. He’s bending the iron bars on his right side and leading the prisoners towards freedom, there, left of him.

  —Now wait, wait, wait, just a second! What freedom? Where’s freedom?

  —It’s symbolised by the woman bearing a torch – there, directly to the left of the soldier.

  Having verified Shuli’s account, the driver grins.

  —It’s true! It’s a woman. I thought you were joking. A woman symbolising freedom! Sounds very modern! Is that how the artist sees it?

  —No, it’s an ancient Greek symbol.

  —I didn’t know the artist was Greek! he exclaims, and commences a second circle around Liberation Square.

  —Oh, no, Jewad Selim’s an Iraqi artist.

  —So why’s he using Greek symbols, for God’s sake? Is it our revolution or is it a Greek revolution?

  —That’s beside the point. An artist’s heritage is universal.

  The driver leans his head on his left hand, props his elbow on the open window and takes his time to brood over Shuli’s statement. Our son’s become a philosopher, mother mutters between her teeth. Father puts on his sunglasses. With unquestioned authority, my brother goes on.

  —The final stage, the scene on the left side of the wall, is one of harmony. The bars are converted into branches. An Assyrian and a Sumerian, who symbolise Arabs and Kurds, are holding a spade together. The two women beside them represent the Tigris and the Euphrates. The figure on the far left, the large man with the hammer, is obviously a worker. So it’s a state of peace and freedom, of fertility and productivity, in short, a happy end.

  The driver whistles, marvelling at Shuli’s eloquence, and says to father,

  —I drive through this square every day, you think I ever take the trouble to look at the monument? You don’t mind if I go round again? I hope you’re not in a hurry.

  Before father can respond, the driver signals left and seeks Shuli in the mirror.

  —Let’s see if I got you right, Brother. First there’s oppression. Then comes the revolution. And finally it’s freedom, correct? he tests himself, listing the three key words on his fingers.

  —Perfect.

  —The lecture’s over at last, father sighs.

  —Unless you read it from left to right of course! Shuli adds, smiling from the corner of his mouth.

  —I’m about to explode, mother warns in a hushed voice, but only slaps herself on the thigh.

  —What do you mean? asks the driver.

  —Well, we’ve surveyed the picture from right to left so far, ’cause that’s how Arabic reads. But suppose you were an English tourist visiting Baghdad, and you came across this wall … you would just as naturally read the chronological sequence in reverse, that is, from left to right. Do you follow me?

  —Yes, yes, I can read English a bit, but not very well.

  —That doesn’t matter. You’re only required to think English, or rather to perceive English! All you have to do is change direction and go through the narrative from left to right. Just give it a try. Start from the far left. What story do the figures tell you now?

  The driver takes a long drag, and, no longer bothering about asking or even announcing it, drives around the square for a fourth time. As his eyes roam over the monument, he begins, timidly, like a pupil sitting an oral test,

  —At first, Arabs and Kurds lived peacefully together, like brothers! The two great rivers granted them a fertile soil. They cultivated the land. Industry blossomed. Oil gushed from the wells. We were happy. We were wealthy. We feared God. We had no worries. It was paradise.

  —Very good. Carry on!

  —Then … a soldier comes, and … destroys this harmony? And flings freedom and justice behind bars?

  Shuli hums his affirmative answer.

  —As a result, our homeland is strangled by oppression and suffering. Prisons are full of innocent men. Mothers do not stop mourning their martyred sons. The people are lost in despair. The white horse is about to escape. Our honour is injured. Tyranny reigns. We’re being exploited by imperialists. It’s a nightmare. A disaster.

  —Precisely, Shuli confirms, with obscure satisfaction.

  The driver tosses his cigarette stub out of the window and grunts,

  —Is that how an American would read our nasb al-hurryiah?

  —I suppose so. I’m not sure about the imperialists though, Shuli chuckles.

  —What do Americans know about the Arab mind anyway! the driver concludes, and bursts into laughter.

  He lights a new cigarette and drives on straight into the city. We get to the Passport Office within a few minutes. Shuli, mother, and I get out. Father lingers in the taxi to pay. Mother makes use of the time to scold her son.

  —Haven’t you had enough trouble already? Not even God would be able to release you a second time. Why are you doing this to me? You think I’ve got the strength to go through that hell all over again?

  Father seems to be having an argument with the driver. The latter reaches across his passenger and opens the door, gesturing to him to step out. Father lays a banknote behind the windscreen. The driver snatches the banknote and tucks it in father’s pocket. With one leg outside the car, father shakes his head in protest. The driver gently pushes him out. Father is about to slip the banknote through the window, but the driver has pulled away, and is waving goodbye.

  —He wouldn’t take his fare, father explains. He said what Shuli has taught him was a fair price for the ride. He said he’d tell the story of the monument to his passengers whenever he drives through Tahrir Square.

  —I wonder which version, Shuli comments.

  Father tucks the folded banknote into his son’s shirt pocket,

  —I’m warning you, Shuli, don’t be so clever here. You either button up your lips, or immediately get a taxi and go home. Is that clear?

  —Take it easy, mother gently reproves him. Don’t lose your temper. We’ll need steady nerves over the next few hours. Who knows what’s awaiting us inside.

  Mother’s question must have been haunting every Jew since that news report on the local radio station last week, which announced the government’s decision to make amends to the Jewish community for the wrongs inflicted upon it by the former regime. Restrictions, like the freezing of shares and bonds and money in the bank, were to be lifted, as well as the right to sell property. Furthermore, Jews who wished to leave the country should register, starting the following week, at the special office set up for them in the Passport Office in the Ministry of the Interior.

  Climbing up the crumbling stairs, we hear ripples of laughter mixed with the clamour of Jewish dialect flowing from the second floor. In spite of the Sabbath, the corridor is packed with our people, leaning over the parapet, smoking, chatting, making plans and joking about them. They greet us cheerfully, indicate the blank forms spread out on the table in the waiting room, and reassure us that the three officers in charge are polite and helpful. And overworked already! They did not expect such a large crowd on the first day of registration.

  Father
fills in the application forms, clips our photographs to them, and waits his turn. Within one week a passport has become as accessible as a season ticket.

  More and more Jews keep streaming in. Some have come all the way from Basra, after acquiring a special permit to travel. With every newcomer, the mood is stirred up once more and the same speculations are raised all over again. They are discussing the kind of travel documents we are likely to receive. A normal passport, or just a laissez-passer? The former allows us to go abroad and return. The latter, good for a one-way journey, means abandoning our citizenship and forfeiting our possessions. A lousy bargain, but are we in a position to negotiate? Who expected the government to bow to world opinion anyway? By God, the news of that American astronaut landing on the moon sounded more credible than our flying Iraqi Airways and landing safe and sound in a free country. They say Israel has made a deal with Iraq on our behalf – behind the scenes of course. They say Canada, Spain, Holland, and Belgium are ready to admit us. What language do they speak in Holland? Are there Jews in Belgium? Not Ashkenazim; can you imagine our boys marrying their girls! Where are the best opportunities to start a new business? Where are the best universities in the world? The best physicians? What do they wear in Canada? They say the temperature over there never rises above zero Celsius. How many suitcases will they allow us to take? They say the French spoken in Quebec is quite different from the one we learned at school. They say we might celebrate the Rishanna, the New Year, elsewhere!

  Unless, unless of course, they are deceiving us.

  Father comes out of the office.

  —We’ve completed the major formalities. I’ll have to return next week and sign some more papers. They said once they get down to it, the proceedings shouldn’t take too long. No, I wasn’t under the impression they were deceiving us!

  As we step out of the building, father spontaneously puts his arm around mother’s shoulders.

  —Who knows, maybe the children will be in time for the autumn term …

  Father has never embraced mother in public before! His walk has suddenly grown light, his voice carefree. His face strikes me as most unfamiliar: that of a young man who has been promised the moon.

  In a flurry of excitement Laila flutters about the living-room, checking the tapes, the records, the loudspeakers, the lamps. Her black chiffon dress is flapping to the rhythm of the ceiling-fan and wafting her perfume all over the place. The dressed-up girls, pressed together on the one expansive sofa, are discussing make-up, comparing different brands, and exchanging views as to the perfect combination of one’s natural colour and that of powder, lipstick, eye-liner, eye-shadow. Subjects which bore me to death, but I drift into them all the same, feigning, like the others, indifference to the boys. Smartly dressed, they have gathered in a circle near the window at the opposite side of the room, chatting and cracking jokes, demonstrating a joviality too loud to be genuine. Laila switches on the tape recorder to remind her guests of the purpose of the evening. The chit-chat ceases. “Nights in White Satin” has imposed silence on the two camps.

  —I’m scared, I whisper in Selma’s ear. I’ve forgotten all the steps we practised yesterday.

  —Don’t worry. It’s the boy who leads, you just follow. Very easy, believe me.

  Laila takes her seat next to the sofa, smothes her hair off her forehead and crosses her legs, waiting for some gallant to take the initiative. No nervous swallowing, no pressing her skirt modestly under her thighs to prevent showing flesh. The boys are debating and gesticulating, now and then shoving Raffi or Haqqi forward. To counteract the trembling in his knees, Haqqi is fiercely chewing his spearmint gum and grinning at the row of girls inspecting him from top to toe with the aloofness of a jury. His eyes wander from the girls to the dining-room behind the sofa, rove over the extravagant buffet, pluck up courage and sneak back to settle on Laila. Haqqi has a crush on Laila, they say. They say half the boys in our class are crazy about Laila. The very half who have been invited to her party, needless to say.

  Like someone accustomed to being served, Laila gracefully accepts Haqqi’s hand and stands up. The dance is officially opened. The boys make for the sofa to choose their partners.

  —Nobody’s going to ask me, Selma whispers. Boys don’t fancy me. I’m too tall, and my limbs are too long, like spaghetti.

  —Nobody’s in love with me either. Wish we’d stayed at home and played rummy instead.

  Khudur is heading towards us. He is the tallest boy in the class, thin with cropped hair and a small round face. A good match for Selma, I suppose. Thin like a sillayee, a lead refill, she mutters in reply. But just as Khudur stretches out his hand to her, Selma nearly lunges at him. Better a lead refill for a partner than no partner at all. The cushion-springs bounce under my buttocks, as one girl after another lifts her weight off the sofa. When Ruthie vacates the other place next to me, I feel exposed, deprived of my two supportive pillars. Eight couples are dancing to the music, while the two remaining boys are leaning against the window, talking to each other, as if we – the three girls stuck on the sofa – did not exist. Either dance together like modern teenagers, or sit apart, segregated like old Jews in the synagogue. And why are we one girl too many, it hits me all of a sudden. Has our hostess forgotten to count herself, or has she plotted the evening in such a way as to keep us girls in constant tension?

  Farid, Laila’s younger brother, enters the room almost on tiptoe. He looks cute in his green flannel shirt and spotless white trousers. Could he be the eleventh boy? One year our junior, Farid is still short, his voice unbroken, his face smooth, with neither pimples nor dirty looks – the face of a boy who still plays with lead soldiers. Our eyes meet. He smiles tentatively. I recognise, for the first time, Laila’s delicate features in him, only in darker hazel. I must have smiled back because Farid bounces towards me and asks me to dance. Not my dream partner, but I rise to my feet all the same. He rests his right hand on my back and grasps my right with his left. I put my left hand on his shoulder, the way the other girls are doing. He is hardly taller than me, which makes it easy to co-ordinate our steps. One to the right, one to the left. Farid is rocking to some inner melody, paying no heed to the Moody Blues. Every now and then, he glances at me in silent wonder, blushes, gasps, then chuckles in gratitude. We had better strike up a conversation before the poor kid melts in my arms. What do boys his age talk about? Superman? Meccano? Bicycles? I take the easy way out and broach the most common subject current among the Jews.

  —Did you register for a passport?

  —Sure, we went on the second week.

  —We went there on the very first day.

  —So you’ll be off a week before us!

  His lips are trembling. He will die on the spot if I do not acknowledge his sense of humour. I smile. With renewed confidence, he goes on.

  —Tell me, what’s the first thing you’ll do after you’ve arrived at your destination, wherever it might be?

  —Mmm … never thought of it! I suppose I’d buy a pendant in the shape of the Star of David, hang it round my neck, and pace up and down in front of the Iraqi embassy.

  Farid chuckles.

  —The Iraqi embassy, God forbid. Isn’t that provocative!

  —I was only joking.

  —You know what the first thing I’d do once I’m abroad? Change my name! From Farid into Freddy. A new life needs a new name and a new face.

  —A new face?

  —I’ll let my hair grow. Very long. Long enough to tie back in a ponytail, like a hippie.

  His straight shiny black hair is already long by our standards, that is, long enough to be combed back. As I try to imagine him with a ponytail, an exotic page springs to my mind, attired in bright silk, entertaining the daughter of some Abbasid caliph.

  —An Arab hippie, I say.

  Farid stops rocking.

  —Why an Arab hippie? I’m not that dark!

  It never occured to me that Farid was so self-conscious about the darkness of his sk
in. I thought boys hardly cared about their looks.

  —I’m terribly sorry … didn’t mean it that way … honestly.

  Farid resumes the dance, but his grasp on my hand has loosened. He is no longer stealing glances at me, no longer gasping, his timidity and his gratitude over and done with. I try to figure out how to correct my blunder, but the music soon ends. Farid thanks me politely, and slips out of the living-room.

  The dance goes on with “Timothy Leary”. I join Ida and Dorit on the sofa. Thanks to my tactlessness, we are one girl too many again, playing musical chairs of a sort. If only we were allowed to run for the chairs, instead of being glued to the sofa. Now that Sa’id has snatched Laila, Haqqi is standing alone on the opposite side of the dance floor. A free chair, so to speak. Pretending self-sufficiency, I study the framed oval portrait of Laila’s grandfather as a young man, propped upon the coffee table to my right. He is wearing a European suit and an Ottoman fez. From his neat moustache, taut lips, and austere narrow eyes behind the round spectacles, I can tell that the sight of fifteen-year-old girls and boys dancing around him would not have been to his taste. Haqqi walks past me, on his way to the buffet. I fake interest in the cover of the sofa, illustrated with pea pods, bean pods, and other pods in bright red and green. As I try to distinguish between the different kinds of pods, two bottles of Pepsi are planted under my nose. I recognise Haqqi’s golden ring. Take your pick, he says, with a lopsided grin. Do you mind if I keep you company? he adds, pulling up the armchair in front of me. Is it the same Haqqi who barked at me three months ago because I hesitated to show him my answers in the English end-of-year exam? Where did he learn such manners all of a sudden?

  —Etfadal, be my guest, I reply, playing his game.

  Once seated, he throws back his head and slurps the gurgling drink. His Adam’s apple bobs up and down his throat, like a ballcock. The first button of his shirt is undone. To show off the three hairs on his chest, no doubt. Having downed the Pepsi in one gulp, Haqqi rights his head again, and lets out a resonant belch.