Talking About Jane Austen in Baghdad

by Bee Rowlatt

  The journey was awful because there was a state of emergency. I had heard a vast explosion at 5 a.m. just before I left the house, and that must have been the cause. Then the awful driver didn’t turn on the air conditioning until around 10 o’clock and I boiled from the heat. I sat next to a woman with her 13-year-old boy wearing safari shorts and a T-shirt, and a cap hiding his hair. The boy looked as normal as any boy his age.

  To break the silence and to pass the time I started a chat with the mother. She told me she was going to Jordan for her son’s surgery, and that he was already late because of the visa measures. The boy should have been operated on in April. Then she told me the boy’s horrifying story. He had been in the car with his father when an exchange of fire broke out between the army and the National Guard on one side, and the armed militias on the other. She said that a bullet had penetrated the rear window and then the front seat, piercing the boy’s skull and finally landing in the glove compartment of the car. As a result the boy’s brain was exposed, and he was subsequently operated on several times. And now it was time for more surgery. She took the cap off the boy’s head and I saw the most horrifying sight of my life. The boy’s head was completely deformed.

  Will write to you again to complete the story of how I managed to cross the border. Just wish me and Ali luck.

  May XXXX

  31.08.08

  The frightful journey, continued

  Dearest friend

  I hope this email finds you well. A lot of things have happened; there has been such a complete change of environment and my newfound freedom is indescribable. I wear my denim jeans and walk endlessly and aimlessly through the streets of Amman, just trying to get my mind adjusted. The only problem is that there are no internet cafés locally and I have to go quite a distance to find one.

  Sorry I couldn’t finish the story yesterday. I had a lot of emails to send plus Ali was on the messenger with me (driving me crazy because I have to type in Arabic and I am not used to that).

  My mother is taking care of Ali ‘in her own way’, and driving him crazy. He kept moaning about that. I know she means well, but her good intentions are getting on his nerves. He says she woke him up twice, just to check on him, bringing tea and cakes. But, well, that is my mum.

  Let me tell you about the journey. As we arrived at the Jordanian border we were stopped at the first checkpoint. We had to take our luggage out of the car, and of course my HUGE suitcase. At this point I began to realize what had bothered the driver and why he’d been grumbling all the way. I also had two briefcases – one for documents and one with photos and photo albums. They searched them all, going through every single photograph and asking who the people in them were. I was extremely patient, fearing that they might just ban me from entering their country. Then I heard them murmur something, and when I looked they were examining an old photo of me in a bathing suit. I cursed Ali for putting it in with the rest. They used a knife to pierce the carrier bag holding Elsa’s teddy and the girls’ handbags.

  After that we moved on to another checkpoint. They repeated the process, searched the luggage more thoroughly and sent the car to be X-rayed. An old blind woman who was with us was returned to Baghdad for holding a nationality card that was dated post-2003, despite her valid passport.

  Then came the body search and the scrutiny of our personal belongings. We were directed to a bungalow where two women searched us and read every single bit of paper. I didn’t know it would be that bad or I would have emptied unnecessary rubbish out of my handbag. There were all sorts of papers, phone numbers, students’ marks, exam postponement requests, make-up, a perfume bottle, cigarettes etc. They opened the cigarette packs, broke one from each just to check, put on some of my perfume.

  The worst part was when one of the women looked into the case of my reading glasses where my devoted Shi’ite friend had left a note for me after I was shot at last year. She said it would protect me from all kinds of evil, and I have kept it there ever since. The woman’s face changed and she eyed me up and asked if I was a Shi’ite. I realized that my entry into Jordan was at stake. I pretended to be horrified, and asked, ‘Have you ever heard of Shi’ites in Salah-al-Din province?’ She asked which part I was from, and the astonishing thing is that I answered quite fluently that I was from the heart of the province. And for the first time in my life I felt perfectly relaxed about lying. She let me go after a quick body search, but took away the piece of paper.

  The fourth checkpoint was just as complicated. They searched and X-rayed the luggage, and sent us for another search. Two women repeated the whole process, but this time the briefcase was searched in minute detail. Every single piece of paper was read, if it was in Arabic, and examined, if it was in English. They sent my perfume and make-up to be X-rayed. I think it is just to make matters as complicated as possible. Then they asked me to take my clothes off. Oh God, Bee, I felt so embarrassed, but I did it. They did not touch me, and told me to put my clothes on again. After that I went back to the X-ray room. There I found my books and dictionaries on display together with my Arabic poetry and newspaper clips of some of my old writings and translations. They also asked about my MP3 player and requested to see its contents. I told them that I did not object, but in the end they left it alone. At this point I heard the first and only apology, from the man doing the X-rays, but I told him it was OK because they were merely doing their job.

  The whole process took approximately four hours. After all that we went to the entry office and there was another kind of inspection. This time they asked for birth certificates and national city cards, along with passports. They checked them all. Thank God we didn’t change our IDs after Ali and I were married or it would have been a disaster.

  AT LAST we entered Jordan. The rest was easy, and I apologized to the driver and forgave him his grumpiness at having me as a passenger. By midnight I had arrived at the apartment rented by Ban. I felt exhausted, nervous but satisfied that at last I had taken the first step of my one-thousand-mile journey.

  Will go now, lovely. It’s a long way back. Write and tell me what you think.

  Love you always

  May XXXX

  31.08.08

  The difference could not be greater

  May, I’m startled. It’s such a jolt to have emails from you suddenly packed with events and shocking detail. It’s as though you have gone from one extreme of experience to another, from near isolation to being shunted around by an assortment of people who all have power over you, one way or another. I don’t know how you kept your patience throughout the four-hour search. And I can hardly bear to think about that boy with the damaged head. It’s a different experience when I think about you now. I feel scared, but with a ripple of excitement, because you’ve started the journey.

  Well, things over here couldn’t be more normal and wholesome – the total opposite of your life. It was a tranquil break up in York and I also got a few runs in. (I’m trying to practise for a Women’s 5 km Challenge thing next weekend; I got roped into doing it for a Colombian charity that I support.) I ran with Eva tootling alongside me on her bike asking constant long-winded questions.

  Catching the train back from my mum’s in York I had to use my steeliest resolve to get us four seats around a table. I tend to ask people to move for us (if they think about it, their alternative is to have my kids crawling all over them, haha), so the table was a lifesaver as they could all draw and do writing. Elsa wriggled around on the floor and it all went quiet. Always a suspicious sign. When I looked down she’d found some dusty hairy old Maltesers left on the floor, and had a chocolate-smeared and very happy face. We pulled into King’s Cross, all piled on a bus and finally got back home. There was no food in, so I made a load of pancakes and the girls declared I was the Best Mum In The World Ever.

  OK, May, please tell me what happens next as I’m really on tenterhooks. Also, I don’t actually know what you’re doing about Ali. Can you rectify that spelling mistake and then he’
ll come to join you there, or are you submitting both applications yourself for the UK visas, or what? What is the plan?

  Love you, May. Getting closer!

  B XX

  01.09.08

  Ramadan

  Dearest Bee

  Today is the first day of Ramadan. Funny coincidence that last Ramadan I was in Syria, and this Ramadan in Jordan, while in between stuck in Baghdad. Maybe this month has something special for me. Ali, as you know, is still in Baghdad and I am really worried about him, but what consoles me is that he is fasting (I seem to have been the reason behind the religious neglect that came over him). He phoned this morning asking about recipes and how to make custard, jelly and some other type of sweets. I thought they were too fattening, but I didn’t tell him. He can get as fat as he likes if it eases his frustration. I know that overeating is a sign of depression but WHO CAN BLAME AN IRAQI?

  I lazed about all morning, then showered and came to the internet café. We have made another request for the correction to be made to Ali’s visa, and hope it will speed things up, though I doubt it. I won’t be seeing Ban much in Ramadan because it is a family occasion, and on top of that I don’t fast and she does. So I will console myself by watching the enormous number of programmes prepared by Arab satellite channels, especially those of Al-Sharqiya because they criticize our government and the present situation in such a clever and hilarious way.

  Kate has made it very clear that Ali has to be with me before applying for the UK visa. We have agreed to wait another 10 days for him to get here before giving up all hope of him obtaining the Jordanian visa.

  OK, lovely, will have to go now.

  Do write soon.

  May XXX

  02.09.08

  A dark horse’s memories

  Dear Bee

  You remember there were things I said I wanted to tell you, but I wasn’t ready to talk about them then? Well, now, with the change of atmosphere, my memory seems sharper and I feel that I want to tell you about one of the most interesting encounters in my life, and that is my meeting with Saddam Hussein.

  I had arrived back in Iraq after sitting my GCE exams in Glasgow and wanted to apply to university, but to my great shock I discovered how a mistake in filling out a form or a mistaken choice can leave a person stuck for life.

  My own misjudgement, combined with family pressure, had persuaded me to study at the College of Science. However, I soon discovered that I wasn’t suited to this kind of study, in part because the regime had issued a decree changing the language of scientific studies to Arabic, which I didn’t have full command of at the time.

  Used to British freedoms, I didn’t think changing college was such a big issue. ‘I will get a transfer to another college,’ I thought. It never really occurred to me that choosing the wrong college was like entering into a Catholic marriage.

  I filed a request with the Ministry of Higher Education for a transfer to the College of Arts, to study English. But I was informed that they did not have the authority to transfer a student from a scientific college to one that offered the humanities. Someone then told me to get a medical report saying that it was affecting my mental health, so I did. I tried my best to make it convincing: I gave the wrong answers to the silly questions on the form; I remember writing that TV scared me and I hated watching it. However, my efforts were in vain and it seemed there was no hope.

  I learned that it was only Saddam Hussein’s authority that could get me the transfer. Young as I was, I thought, ‘God, do I need a vice-president to solve the problem?’ Being determined, I thought, ‘Why not?’ Encouraged by his popularity with the Iraqi people at the time, I was convinced that he wouldn’t let me down.

  I obtained his phone number. It was normal for people to call him if they had a difficult problem – and they usually got what they wanted, no matter how tricky the situation might appear.

  After some procrastination on my part, I finally picked up the phone and dialled his number.

  ‘S.H. speaking,’ was the answer on the other end.

  His powerful masculine voice sent shivers down my spine. I was scared stiff but there was no going back now.

  ‘Sir, this is the citizen M.W.’

  ‘Are you a member of our party?’

  ‘No, sir… I mean yes, sir… I have just applied to join.’

  (Someone had told me to do so to make life easier.)

  ‘Are you married?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Who is your husband?’

  ‘It’s F.W., sir. An engineer, sir.’

  ‘Oh you (W’s), you always marry relatives and near cousins.’

  Knowing that this was not true, I tried to clarify: ‘No, sir, not really. We…’

  ‘Don’t interrupt.’

  ‘But, sir, it was…’

  ‘I told you not to interrupt.’

  ‘Sorry, sir.’

  ‘What is your complaint?’

  ‘Sir, it is educational.’

  ‘OK, a date for an interview will be set. You will be contacted.’

  He hung up.

  I was left in a state of fear and shock. I scolded myself for my bad manners. I should not have interrupted him. But I was only 18 at the time and inexperienced. I just couldn’t understand why I had to remain silent in the presence of my superiors if what they said was incorrect.

  A few days later I was contacted and informed of the day of the interview. It was a very hot summer afternoon when I was driven to the Information Office at the presidential palace.

  The procedures adopted for the meeting may easily be described as a horror film. I was not alone; many other people were also there to meet him on the same afternoon. We were all thoroughly searched. They took away watches, rings, handbags, cigarette boxes and lighters etc. We were then medically examined for skin disease and coughs. We were warned not to stay for more than three minutes and also not to kiss or shake hands with him. At this point I was so scared that I needed to go to the bathroom quite a few times. The guard taking me there did not breathe a word, which made it worse for me.

  Saddam read my request, then eyed me from head to toe. Then he repeated his question about why the Witwits marry their relatives. Forgetting all about my previous experience with him, I tried to defend my case again. I was once again scolded and told not to interrupt, so I apologized. Then he looked at me and asked, ‘Have you ever heard that I broke the law for any reason?’ I politely answered, ‘No, sir.’

  Realizing that my request had been refused and the three minutes were over, I attempted to get up and take my leave. His voice froze me. ‘Already bored?’ he asked. ‘People dream of meeting me, and you look bored.’

  Nothing of the sort had crossed my mind. My expression was one of fear. But I apologized once more and was dismissed. When I got out, it was dawn. My family had been waiting for hours. Disappointed, I resigned myself to accept the fact that I was doomed and that no other university or college would take me in.

  A few years later, I found out that I could apply to institutes that did not belong to the Ministry of Higher Education. These were called Training Centres, and students could take a three-year diploma course. This was in the early 1980s. By now, Saddam Hussein had become president and the Iraq–Iran war was raging.

  I graduated top of the whole institute with an average of 96 per cent from the Petroleum Training Centre. Happy with my accomplishment, I wanted to continue my studies, but events conspired to prevent that. The top 10 graduates were expected to work for two years in the government services before applying for further study but, although I had graduated top, my name was not put forward for a post. The man in charge of appointing graduates offered me employment in the Beji Refinery. When I reminded him that I had the right to be appointed to government service, the man kept beating around the bush and hinting about a distant relative of my husband’s who had been executed on a charge of opposing the regime.

  My rebellious nature refused to believe this. My husband
was serving at the front and I had worked very hard. I requested a second meeting with Saddam Hussein, and my request was rejected for the second time. At that point I realized that what I had heard from older members of my father’s family was true – Saddam Hussein simply disliked our family. I never really found out why. I had kind of liked him, but that was how it went.

  What a long email. I must go now, but I thought you might find it interesting.

  May x

  02.09.08

  RE: A dark horse’s memories

  MAY! You are full of surprises. Of course I noticed that you didn’t reply when I asked you to tell me more about meeting Saddam. I thought it made you uncomfortable, and now I see why. What a terrifying experience! It’s hard for me to understand the whole cult of personality around this man; here in the UK the public generally loathe politicians, and anyone else in the public eye for that matter. But it makes me feel lucky to have the freedoms that we all take for granted.

  Can’t write much today as am at work, but will write more when this week’s over and the kids are back at school etc.

  Love always

  B XX

  08.09.08

  Seems like ages

  May, it seems like ages since I wrote but it’s been the maddest few days. We had a big party at ours, then the next day was the Women’s 5 km Challenge. It was like a student party – but without the cheap cider, haha – everyone was dancing about the place and the garden was full of candles. Some friends played guitar, percussion and accordion. I hardly spoke to anyone much, I was too busy dancing. Someone at the party told us a funny story afterwards; she’d gone upstairs to the toilet and there was a queue of about four people waiting. In the middle of the queue of rowdy partygoers was Zola, standing there all tousled and sleepy in her pyjamas. Apparently she waited her turn as if it was perfectly normal, went to the toilet then back into her room and shut the door without saying a word. (You’d think people would let her go to the front of the queue, seeing as it’s her house!)