When the Grey Beetles Took Over Baghdad

by Mona Yahia

  —Stay with me, one more push, it’s on its way. Just hold on. One more try, and we’ll …

  The front wheels slip up on to the rocky mountain slope, resettle on the ground. Hooray. We whistle. We laugh. We tell mother we have made it. She remains inert, unconcerned, like some passive toddler in its pram. When we have pushed the Land Rover on to the road, kaka J. hops inside, steers it on to the right lane.

  —Let’s get going. We’ve lost enough time already.

  Having regained our seats, father holds mother’s hand, reassures her that she is safe, that our journey is resuming. Mother pays no heed to his offer of rapprochement. Too tired to persist, he soon gives up, sinking into the general lassitude.

  One hour later, father suddenly shatters the silence.

  —I don’t believe it! This fellow can’t even drive! he says shrieking with ugly laughter.

  —Why, what’s the matter with you! mother protests. Nothing’s wrong with his driving. Why are you picking on him?

  She similarly fails to understand why five faces instantly turn to her, first gaping, then overwhelming her with meaningless questions. How is she feeling? What happened? Was she in panic? In shock? Was she really unaware of the goings on round her? Mother has not the slightest notion of what we mean. I pull up my sleeve to revive her memory, yet the marks of her fingers have faded.

  —What happened when the grey scarab lost us? I insist.

  —Nothing in particular. We went on driving.

  —Don’t you remember the Land Rover skidding?

  —No, she replies, innocently, like someone who has simply not seen the film.

  —Never mind now, father says. Main thing is that she’s back, safe and sound.

  Safe, sound, yet with this gap in her memory. One hour. Sufficient time for her to put me in jeopardy, for me to leave her in the lurch. Now that she has removed the incident from her mind, she has made me the only witness to the violation of our trust.

  Reverting to our schedule, Wedad questions kaka J. regarding the rest of the journey. He tells us of his plans. He is taking us to Penjwin, the last town until the frontier. Faris will meet us there with our luggage. From Penjwin onwards, we will have to proceed on mules. No, the Land Rover will not make it through that strip of land, now that it is snowed over. Yet the path is so short, the ride will not last longer than twenty to thirty minutes. He or Faris will guide us to the frontier. The moment we get to the Iranian side, we must surrender to the guards who have orders from the Shah to let Jewish fugitives in.

  Kaka J. lowers the window to throw out his used Rafidain pack. Icy wind steals inside. Mother, her old self once more, voices inquietude.

  —What if it starts snowing again tonight?

  —Don’t worry, Sister, kaka J. replies. If there’s snow in the air, I’d sense it.

  Father shakes his head with misgivings. He no longer trusts kaka J.’s senses, not just on the weather.

  Kaka J. pulls up in the middle of the white valley.

  —The asphalt road ends here. Over there’s Penjwin, he says, pointing to the faint lights some fifty yards to our right.

  Further on is no paved road, no order, no law.

  We stagger out. My shoes sink in the virgin snow. My first, shining under the starlight. Snow White occurs to me, palpable for the first time. I plunge my fingers into the ground, wondering where the white goes when the snow has melted. The sight of ten or twelve mules, several yards from the Land Rover, interrupts my flight of fancy.

  The three riders walk towards us, their galoshes stomping on the snow. Their gait is light, unmistakably youthful. Gradually I make out their knitted khaki hats, their sherwals, the kaffiyahs wrapped round their necks, raised up to their noses. Kaka J. shakes their hand with his usual reserve, offering his Rafidain packet, speaking Kurdish.

  —Fans hasn’t shown up yet, he says, putting us in the picture. We’ll have to wait for him. He should be here any minute.

  —Wait! Now that we’re so close to the border! Shuli objects.

  —Of course we’ll wait! Wedad hastens to say.

  Father purses his lips in uncertainty. Mother pleads with him.

  —We can’t do without our suitcases. We have to change. We need underwear, she stresses, mouthing the last word silently.

  —All right, but I’m going inside. It’s too cold for me out here, he replies wearily.

  The low temperature soon sends the rest of us into the Land Rover, save kaka J., who stays on with the young smugglers. Shuli fetches our night snack from the trunk. Mother hands out roast meat sandwiches, passes the jar of pickles, the figs, fills the glasses with hot tea from the thermos flask. Like Shuli, I feel uneasy with the hold-up. Waiting summons fatigue, stirs up latent fears. When kaka J. takes his seat, he immediately switches on the radio, sweeps through foreign news, scratchy stations, pop music, local music. He is shunning us, I suppose, reckoning it would result in tedious questions if not reproaches. Politely, he refuses mother’s sandwich. Paying no heed to his mood, she refills her glass, nudges me to pass it to him. Her poke shakes the glass, spills tea over my skirt.

  —I’m sorry Lina! Take a handkerchief from my bag and try to soak it up. Quickly. You shouldn’t stay with a damp skirt in this cold.

  Scrabbling through the handbag for the Kleenex, I find her keys – tucked in the unzipped side pocket. Something is odd, I sense, unable to make out what or why. Mother frequently left the house without her keys. If nobody was home on her return, she would pace the yard waiting for one of us to show up, too shamefaced to go to the neighbours. In vain she would think out new methods to prevent herself forgetting them. Why, now that she no longer needs them, has she remembered then!

  —Forever misplaced! I tease her, fishing out the keys.

  —Mama, doesn’t your sentimentality know any limits! Shuli jumps on her. What is it you want to retain? The one thousand two hundred and ninety-three days of hell we went through?

  —Shut up, Shuli, you’re not one to judge me. You’re just a youngster, what do you know about loss or regret? What do you know about Baghdad before the taskit?

  —Yesterday night, I secretly dropped my keys into Abu Khaled’s garden to enable him to get into our house, if he chooses to, before informing the police, father says. But now that we’re talking about it, I guess I was also telling myself that no matter what happens, there is no going back. There is no way back to Baghdad.

  Indifferent to Shuli’s mockery or to father’s pragmatism, mother rattles her keys like some naughty girl.

  —Shall I tell you which is which? This is the key to our front door. This flat one unlocks the back door in the kitchen. This is the key to the roof, this, to my wardrobe, and this small one is for my empty jewellery box.

  —The key for an empty box! Mama, now you’re really overdoing it! Shuli sneers.

  —Frankly I don’t understand what’s wrong with her grief! Wedad suddenly wheels round in the passenger seat.

  —The timing is wrong, father replies. You’re free to make yourself miserable over irreversible facts. But to indulge in regret at a moment like this can only confuse you.

  —Don’t you have any soft spot yourselves? Wedad insists. Haven’t you ever indulged in anything sentimental?

  Shuli sits up,

  —Indulged yes, sentimental, no. Yesterday evening, I put my last turd under my pillow. I’ve been conceiving this farewell since the summer. I owe it to them. How I’d love to see their faces when they search my room this time!

  —Shuli, how could you! It’s disgusting, it’s unacceptable, it’s … father stammers indignantly.

  Wedad is shaking with laughter.

  —You’re the only person who understands me! Shuli says, throwing her one long meaningful glance, which mother fails to miss.

  Showing no interest in our squabble, kaka J. switches the radio off, gets out. To smoke one more Rafidain with the young men, he says. To relax with workmates, I suppose. Yet he looks no less tense with them, nodding
his head mechanically, pretending to listen, while his gaze repeatedly returns to the mountains.

  Having smoked who knows how many Rafidains, kaka J. joins us, rubbing his hands.

  —I’m afraid we can’t wait any longer. They want to start off. They’ve got to be back before dawn.

  —It’s still two in the morning, Wedad replies. Where are we and where is dawn?

  —They’ve got other things to arrange after they drop you. Besides, the poor boys are shivering from the cold.

  —Who told them to wait outside? Let them come in here. We’re not crossing without our luggage, kaka! That was our deal.

  —The luggage is the easiest thing to handle. I’ll have it sent to you in no time. Tomorrow or after tomorrow, as soon as possible.

  —But we need our blankets for the crossing! mother protests. My husband can’t possibly withstand this cold.

  —He can have my own blanket. It’s very warm – made from camel hair, kaka J. replies, pulling the ochre fabric from under his seat, passing it to father, glad to have settled this problem.

  One of the smugglers taps on the side of the Land Rover. Kaka J. lowers the window. The young man sounds nervous.

  —He says they can’t wait any longer, kaka J. translates. A border patrol might pass by and interrogate us.

  —I thought you were on familiar terms with the border police! Isn’t that what you bragged about in our sitting-room last week?

  —Not with every single guard and soldier, Wedad, for God’s sake, come to your senses!

  —Guards can be bribed, I wasn’t born yesterday! Listen to me carefully kaka: I’ve left my elderly parents to die alone. I’ve forfeited our house and all our land back in Baghdad. Those bundles are the last things I possess and …

  —Spare me your wailing, woman. No sacrifice’s too high when you’re heading to your watan!

  —What watan, whose watan, you Kurds are obsessed with your watan! I’ve got no homeland, I’m just fleeing. Did you hear me, I’m fleeing for my one and only life.

  —I agree with the kaka. We can’t afford further delay, father puts in with such finality that it stops the row, sets the party in motion.

  Wedad gets out last, stifling her tears. Now that the totality of our losses has levelled us, mother hugs her, speaking hollow words like she is still young or what matters is health. Shuli picks up our hand luggage from the trunk. Kaka J. pays the young smugglers their fee – 10 Iraqi pounds per person. Two men will set off with us, while the third will return the surplus mules – which would have transported our luggage – to the stable. The rest seems settled.

  Our man nods gallantly to Wedad, his tone now placatory,

  —Don’t forget to give the boys the coded message in Iran.

  Wedad sulks.

  —What do you mean “give the boys”? Aren’t you coming with us? says father shocked.

  —I’ve got to find Faris. I hope he didn’t get into trouble. Don’t worry, Brother, you’re in good hands. Nobody knows this stretch of land better than them. Yallah, may God be with you!

  —But they don’t even speak Arabic!

  Kaka J. is in too much hurry to reply. He leaps into the Land Rover, makes the fastest U-turn I have seen in my life, then streaks off towards the mountains.

  The mules set out in one line. I find myself riding last. The smuggler who had helped me mount is leading my mule with the halter. He is smoking, no longer muffled. His straggly goatee tells me he is in his teens, hardly older than me. Shuli, some paces from us, is having trouble managing his mule. It trots, strays, or turns on its heels. Whenever it walks too fast, Shuli’s silhouette fuses into the night.

  The stars have scattered themselves to the four winds. I spot Ursa Major straightaway, then the Milky Way. Shuli might have located the Goat, had he had the sky map with him. The map, where had I seen it last? Wasn’t it spread out on the roof, held firm under three slabs? How thoughtless of Shuli to have forgotten it out there! If the rain has not soaked it, the wind must have torn it to pieces. Then it hits me, that it no longer makes sense to refer to our possessions in terms of neglect, that we have no obligation to them from now on. Neither map nor picture nor window nor mirror. Nor the washing-line hanging on the roof – which is no longer our roof, nor the hose-pipe rolled up in the garden – which is no longer our garden. Neither place nor object, with or without mother’s keys.

  The recognition is far from shattering. In fact, I feel relieved, free from longings, ties, roots. Roots, some metaphor! Let trees strike roots, let them stick to the soil, forever stationary, forever in the way. It is trees which should long to have feet, to have the privilege of walking, running, frolicking, yet mostly to have our freedom to seek our future faraway from our past.

  Has he just touched my foot? The lady killer, I’ll show him! Next time I will scream. Scream to summon father to twist his neck, or louder still, until I wake up the soldiers on the two sides of the frontier.

  His fingers land on my foot for the second time. I open my mouth to warn him, yet no sound slips out. My voice has run out on me. My throat feels stuffed with sand. He fondles the toes, massages the instep, nestles the heel in the hollow of his hand, rubbing, squeezing. He repeats the sequence without interrupting the pace of his walking, without much fuss, just stealing samples of illegal goods.

  Shuli! Where is Shuli? Why is father so far off? Why have they left me in the rear?

  Shuli, my only link to the rest of the group, rocks in, out of my sight, like the figment of my imagination. I hope he would notice if the tapping of the hooves stopped in the rear, would turn round to inquire why his sister was lagging.

  Shuli turns round. Telepathy? No, just waving some flask, father’s vodka. The smuggler lets go of the halter, lunges towards him. I urge the mule to hurry up, faster than its master. If only I were to make it to Shuli, nothing would prevent me from staying next to him for the rest of the journey. Yet the mule is reluctant to speed up. I kick its flank, slap its thigh. In vain. My mule obeys only its master. The smuggler has snatched the vodka, is flaunting it rapturously.

  —What’s your name? he inquires jovially.

  So he speaks our language too.

  —’smahan … I reply, swallowing the first letter.

  He hands me the vodka in return. The smell of mother’s lipstick on the mouth of the flask somewhat reassures me. If out of sight, mother is not totally out of reach. I wonder if it is possible for people to send messages through smells. Warnings of fire or of slippery rocks for instance, or SOS signals, saying please get rid of this man, he is harassing me. The Lawy son never thought of that. Toasting Lawy Junior’s stupefaction upon hearing the news of our flight, I take my first sip of vodka. Worse than volcano lava! Spluttering, I pass the flask to the smuggler, who helps himself to one long swig, wipes his mouth with his sleeve, runs with the vodka to Shuli.

  Was he playing the gentleman, offering me the flask first?

  My toes have stiffened. My insides have frozen. I hope father will withstand the weather. One glimpse of his white head, held upright, would quell my worries. Though father is reasonably healthy, we have no guarantee that his strength will hold out under prolonged strain. It was he who raised the subject yesterday when we were having our last supper in the house,

  —No matter what happens to any of us, the rest must continue. You have no other choice. There is no way back to Baghdad.

  He let slip “you” instead of “we” – have no option. Father immediately tried to put it right, jokingly said that he would have preferred the plane, that migration was on the whole not recommended to people over sixty.

  Yet our forefather was older still than my father when they left Haran, in Mesopotamia, for the Promised Land. Seventy-five! Together with his wife, Sarah, his nephew, Lot, their possessions. Though their journey must have lasted much longer than ours, it was only referred to in two sentences in Genesis:

  “They set out for the land of Kna’an.” “They reached the land of Kna’a
n.”

  Some journey. No mishaps. No highwaymen. No police pursuits. Since they were not outlaws, since God was unmistakably on their side, full of visions of their seed – numerous like the grains of sand filling the land of Kna’an. Profuse in homeland promises, God hardly mentioned our later uprooting, our incessant wanderings like pedlars on the roads of history.

  —Asmahan, he gasps, repeating the sequence of fondlings with obsessive precision.

  Some misty figure looms up from nowhere, trudging through the snow, leading two overloaded mules. The smuggler raises his hand. The stranger returns the greeting. The nearer he gets, the more perceptible his Kurdish outfit grows. The smuggler pulls the halter. We stop. The two shake hands with obvious familiarity. I scan the jute sacks piled up on the mules. They look too puffy to hold rugs or weapons. Narcotics? The thought makes me shiver. Suddenly I notice the stranger observing me. His gaze is mistrustful. Worse, hostile. I must have shown too much interest in his wares. Shuli is out of sight. It would take him hours to miss us. If, within ten seconds, this man has not taken his stare off me, I will jump off the mule, run for my life. Ten, nine, nine, seven, six … He is nodding to my smuggler understandingly. Have I heard the word Israel? He looks less threatening now that he is stroking his mule’s mane, listening to who-knows-what tale my smuggler is recounting.

  Finally, they slap shoulders, go their separate ways.

  In incomprehensible words, the smuggler orders the mule to gallop, himself sprinting next to us. Having no stirrup or saddle to hold on to, I lean forwards, grasp the neck of the mule, nearly strangling the poor thing. No matter how still I try to stay, however, the trotting keeps shaking me up, scaring the life out of my me.

  When Shuli’s silhouette finally reappears, we revert to our walking pace. The smuggler is recovering. I wipe the sweat off my forehead – twice relieved, for I have realised that he has no intention of straying with me from the rest of the group.

  My watch indicates we have ridden for more than one hour. Had kaka J. not said the journey would last twenty to thirty minutes? Though the path has wound round once, perhaps twice, the landscape has remained virtually unchanged: ranges of white mountains unfold to the horizon – indifferent to our rendezvous with sunrise on the Iranian side of the frontier.