Talking About Jane Austen in Baghdad

by Bee Rowlatt

  OK, now that I’ve told you all about the correction, let me tell you about the Jordanian pauper I was watching yesterday. A saddening scene caught my eye as I was walking back to the flat carrying all sorts of pastries and sweets (so I wouldn’t lose weight, hehee). An old man holding three carrier bags and a stick stopped by the rubbish containers on the street and started poking into them with the stick. By the way, Amman is much cleaner than Baghdad and Damascus. I slowed down to see what he was doing. The carrier bags were transparent and revealed the contents. The first contained empty Coke cans, the second old shoes and the third had some material in it that looked like clothes.

  As he poked into the rubbish he brought out a couple of things. They turned out to be a pair of men’s trousers and a shirt. He examined them closely, turning them upside down and looking through them, then he made a face and put them back. All the sadness I felt for the old man couldn’t prevent me from laughing secretly. I did not laugh at the pauper but at the man who had discarded these things. He must have been a miser and had worn them to a point that even this pauper couldn’t make any use of them. Just imagine, crushed Coke cans were worth more to the pauper than these rags. I wonder what kind of person had owned them.

  As I got back to the flat, closed the door and lit a cigarette, the doorbell rang. At the door was another pauper, but this time it was a very nice-looking young female. She asked for money; I gave her some and she went on her way. I wondered if this was the reason behind refusing Iraqis – Jordan seems to have no place for the US-created beggars of the twenty-first century.

  In another development yesterday, four journalists from the very popular Iraqi satellite channel Al-Sharqiya were assassinated in the northern Iraqi city of Mosul. This brings the number of Sharqiya journalists killed to 10. So much for democracy. There have been many similar events, but the saddening aspect in this particular case is that these journalists were not covering a military or a political event, but filming a Ramadan programme entitled Your Fast-Breaking Meal Is On Us. They visited poor families, cooked them hearty fast-breaking meals and donated a sum of $2,000 to each family they visited. So what objective can there be behind killing the poor journalists, other than to shut them up for attempting to expose how poverty has spread among the populace in ‘filthy-rich Iraq’. This is my analysis, though proper analysts point fingers of accusation at all the religious sects in the country because all of them reject the secular attitude of the TV channel. Whichever is right, I see an organized scheme to silence ‘messengers of reality’ in Iraq, because even in the considerably stable region of Kurdistan statistics reveal that over 60 journalists have been silenced using various means.

  What do you think, Bee? OK, lovely, will go now, so tired.

  May XXX

  14.09.08

  MR 5-MINS SAVES THE DAY

  WHAT DO I THINK!!? What do I THINK?!! May, I can hardly think at all – after the news about overcoming the ‘Spelling Mistake of Despair’ and Ali’s joyful response, the rest of your email was a load of letters dancing about before my eyes and I had to read it all again about four times to make any sense of it. I just don’t know what to say, May! And then a strange feeling came over me. You carried on talking about journalists and people being killed in Iraq, and do you know what? To my shame, I didn’t care as much. I know it’s wrong; so many lives will be lived like yours, but with no way out. Your story has loomed large over all of this tragedy, and now that you are almost out and the sun is shining at last, it is very hard to remember all that you’re leaving behind…

  It’s late now and I’m sitting with Justin; the girls are all in bed and we’ll probably get an early night too. Everyone’s a bit tired. It’s been a day of Enforced Family Bonding. We all picked apples from the tree together and went out together and did everything together; it’s been sweet. I think Eva has become a little clingy since she went back to school. She keeps saying things such as she wants Daddy to be with her all the time, or kissing me again and again, so I think she just wants a bit of reassurance.

  We had a funny scene today. We’d all gone up into Hampstead to the photo developing shop. Justin had ordered some prints (Elsa’s birthday and some other baby photos) and we were so looking forward to seeing them. But the quality wasn’t great, and they’d been badly cropped. Justin began to remonstrate with the poor woman at the till, saying, ‘It’s RUBBISH! It’s USELESS!’ and so on, in a loud voice. There was a queue of people behind him rolling their eyes and sighing. The woman looked upset; I felt mortified and tried to stop Justin from being rude. Then guess what happened? Eva and Zola were behaving beautifully but it was your little minx Elsa (out for the first time with no nappy on), who did a big wee on the floor.

  I just looked down and saw a big puddle in the middle of the shop, and she was gazing dreamily at it. I said Justin please can you sort this out another day!!! and fixed him with my ‘Meaningful Stare’ that’s supposed to signal that it’s vital he cooperates. It worked and we left. At the door was a man with a small dog, so hopefully they’ll blame the puddle on the dog.

  So now it’s Sunday, and Tuesday is so very soon. Ali must be leaping about the place; I bet he can’t sit still. I think the bad luck has run out now, May.

  YIPPEEEEE!!!!!

  All my love

  Bee XXX

  15.09.08

  More thoughtful but still got butterflies

  Morning, dearest May! Monday morning now, which means Ali is coming tomorrow. Oh, let this be the time that our luck has finally changed.

  I read your email again in a calmer way today and felt bad for having said I wasn’t as interested in what happened to those Al-Sharqiya journalists. On Thursday when I was at work there was an NUJ (National Union of Journalists) meeting up in the newsroom. In the middle of a tirade about executive bonuses, in walked Alan Johnston, the guy who had been kidnapped by the Palestinians and paraded in a suicide bomber’s vest. You remember, they kept him for months. We did vigils and so on at the BBC; and once, on an early shift, there was an appeal on the programme for his safety, and I was unable to contain my tears. Felt very silly as everyone assumed I was a friend of his, which I’m not; I just found it horrible. You’re not supposed to show emotions in a newsroom, God forbid. Well, anyway, so he walks into the newsroom meeting all quiet and thin, and I had to suppress the urge to leap up and give him a massive hug. (I completely ignored him instead.)

  So, in a roundabout fashion, it brings me back to your email about those journalists who were doing a light programme that was meant to be fun, cooking people’s meals, and it got them killed. I don’t even think that they were, as you say, exposing poverty or acting as messengers of the truth, and yet that didn’t help them. I don’t think journalists should consider themselves messengers of the truth, it has a too-glorious ring to it. The best way is simply to present the facts as you see them. World Service does this better than anyone as there are strict codes on the use of adjectives, value judgements and subjective language (famously, the word ‘terrorist’ is not used unless it is quoting someone else). This can make it harder, I guess, to make people care about stories, but it beats the alternative.

  Well, anyway, I can officially tell you that I’ve gone off the idea of having another baby. Justin is appalled that I’m insisting on contraception again (poor man). I think it was a combination of him being away a lot, out-growing our house, and thinking about how the girls’ lives are moving along at such a pace I can hardly keep up. You’ll remember how, the first few months we tried, I became really upset, but then over the summer each time I got a period it came as more of a relief. So I’m now putting it on hold. When I explained this, Justin went into a tailspin, saying let’s buy a house let’s buy a house right NOW (after he’d just spent 20 minutes telling me why it’s the wrong time to buy and we’ll have to wait a year or so). But that’s where I’m up to in my mind. So luckily you won’t have as many Aunty May babysitting duties to do, HAHA! (Although an old college friend of mine h
as just got pregnant with her fourth. She is as sick as a dog, so it hasn’t made me jealous yet…)

  Just got butterflies when I thought about you and Ali meeting tomorrow in Jordan. At last we have something to celebrate. A step forward was so long overdue, wasn’t it? How many more turns and twists of the rollercoaster… ?

  Big hugs

  Bee XX

  15.09.08

  Can’t say how I feel

  Dearest Bee

  Can’t say what I feel or how I feel. Maybe it is something like sitting right in the middle of Elsa’s puddle (hehee). It is like one long nightmarish dream. There are only two more steps to go. The first is for Ali to cross the border safely, and then the major step of the British Embassy. I dread the last more than the first, but I don’t think any of it will be worse than the previous steps.

  Oh, Elsa’s puddle made me laugh! The little baby must have enjoyed the freedom of going out without a nappy so she simply and naturally answered the call of nature. You were embarrassed, but I don’t think she was. As I was thinking about Aunty May babysitting, a car playing music just like your ice-cream vans passed by (but in Jordan they sell gas bottles) and immediately I thought of green parks, ponds and feeding ducks. Though I expect, if I come, it will be autumn by then, and the colours will be all golden and brown, with leaves falling everywhere.

  An old friend of mine has just called and asked me to come to Futoor – the fast-breaking meal (though I am not fasting). When I tried to refuse, she told me not to be silly because Ali might not let me see them when he comes. It will be a shame if he insists on not meeting them. They are a very nice, broadminded and highly educated couple, and they have always been on my side. But what she says is quite possible, so I will go for the Futoor right after sending your email.

  Ban suggested that we celebrate, and so last night we ate sweets and drank tea. It is not a problem for her, as she is nice and slim. I don’t really mind being fat just now; I will probably go on a diet when everything is settled. But, between you and me, my trousers have gone up a size… OK, lovely Sis, will write again (hopefully) after Ali’s arrival.

  Hugs to you all and a big special one for Elsa

  May XXX

  16.09.08

  Bad-luck plague

  May, we are just plagued by bad luck. We were out for dinner last night, and just as we left I looked at my phone. There was the message from you saying Ali’s driver’s mother has died (I hope it wasn’t anything violent). Can he find a different driver, or is he using the same one as you did? You couldn’t make it up! It’s like the turn of the screw; at every junction there are more excruciating and unnecessary delays and obstacles. But I’m sticking to my theory that the more bad luck we overcome, the better. It can only mean that we wear it all out for the final push when you and Ali go to the British Embassy. That’s when we really need luck to finally change sides and work in our favour. Can you believe how superstitious I’ve become? It’s enough to send anyone bonkers.

  Hope Ali isn’t taking it too badly. Just a few more days.

  Elsa went to nursery this morning with no nappy, wearing knickers. She joyfully weed on her key worker, Bridie, and again on me when I picked her up. She thinks it’s funny. I’m not backing down this time, though.

  What are the timing deadlines for your UK visa applications? Is your job/university still on hold? How long do we have?

  Can’t bear the tension rising.

  Hugs

  Bee XX

  16.09.08

  Frustrated

  Dearest one

  It seems we are haunted by bad luck. It is actually Ali who has suffered most. Being a woman is easier where transport and travel are concerned. Ali can’t hop in with any driver haphazardly, as I did. He is coming with a Sunni driver. As I mentioned, only 20 or 30 cars are allowed to enter Jordan from the whole of Iraq, so drivers are really scarce. I hope your theory is right about bad luck because I will explode from desperation.

  My job is being held open for me until 6 October. Ali is depressed but quieter this time, which means he is very sad. He sends you all his love and thanks you for your care.

  Ban just called; she’s at my flat. Will have to rush, love.

  May xxx

  17.09.08

  Hopes and fears

  Dearest Bee

  Tomorrow is the big day (I hope). Ali should be leaving Baghdad at dawn, and I hope nothing happens till he crosses the border. He feels awful and phones almost every hour telling me that he has sealed the windows, taken the rubbish out and emptied the fridge and the deep freeze. Funnily enough, I don’t feel anything towards the house and haven’t missed it until now. I think it is the new spirit of hope that has started to grow inside me. I do hope all goes well and there are no more disappointments.

  Ban came before fast-breaking yesterday and I had to rush. It is good that she doesn’t live very far away. Taxis are available all the time, except at fast-breaking time and at 10 p.m. when it is time for a very popular Syrian soap opera. Almost everyone in the Arab world watches it, as do Ali and I. He is only permitted to phone me during the commercials. The soap opera is set in a neighbourhood in Damascus during the French occupation of Syria. It shows the old Arab traditions and how people lived at a time when the roles of the sexes were separate, and women had no say in the world of men. A time of heroic men and chivalry.

  I saw you and Zo in a dream. I dozed off on the couch this morning and found myself at your house. You welcomed me and we hugged and talked, but your face kept changing; at first it was yours, then it became the face of a colleague. Then Zo came in and I hugged her hard and remembered that I had forgotten the children’s presents. I told you not to worry, saying Ali is coming tomorrow and he will bring them along. Then Ali’s phone woke me up at around 10 a.m. He told me that the driver had stopped by our house and told him to get ready to leave tomorrow at 4.30 a.m.

  Bee, do you think there will come a day when we will have tea together and look back at this present time and laugh? Will it really become the past? I do hope so. You know, I started thinking about the girls growing up, then going to college and eventually getting married etc. But when I wondered if I could make a success out of my life, I got scared.

  I bet you are as scared as I am about the same thing: have you thought how we will look and behave at our first meeting? Say, for example, we meet at the airport or the air terminal. Will you get dressed up, or will you regard me as family and look your normal self? I was thinking that I will not do anything unusual to myself but keep my look as it is. You already know the real May, so why bother camouflaging reality? We have loved each other and our families without seeing one another. Do you think we need to worry about first impressions?

  OK, lovely, will have to go now.

  Love you for ever and a day

  May xx

  19.09.08

  Locked up and sent back like a criminal

  Dearest sister

  Talking about dragons spitting fire and spaceships kidnapping children would be more believable than all this misfortune. I can’t quite see anything more humiliating, except being raped by gangsters and the forces of occupation.

  All our hopes of a reunion were shattered. I woke up at 7 a.m. and called Ali, but his phone was off. I realized he must be passing through Anbar province where there is no coverage. I started cleaning the house and made a list of what I was going to give him for his fast-breaking meal. He had decided to fast all the way to Amman; this was to be his way of showing gratitude to God for saving him from the misery of being imprisoned in our home for the past 11 months.

  At 10 a.m. he called, telling me that he was at the Iraqi border. You should have heard how happy he sounded and how he chuckled like a baby, teasing me about how I looked and asking whether I had gone and highlighted my hair or was I too stingy to spend money. By 10.30 he was heading towards the Jordanian border. I couldn’t believe that they were driving at the speed of a rocket and that it was all going so well.r />
  At 11 a.m. he called saying that he was at the final entry clearance office, but things did not look good. I just thought that this was part of his usual exaggeration and asked him to be patient. But at 1.15 p.m. he called again, screaming hysterically that they were not letting him enter, and I screamed back that this was impossible. The Intelligence officer at the border had told him that the spelling mistake hadn’t been corrected. I told him to hang on while I went to the Ministry of the Interior to see what was wrong. The correction had been made on Sunday so there had been enough days in between to get everything sorted out.

  I didn’t think of anything and just grabbed my handbag and the documents file. I was wearing jeans and a T-shirt, and I sped out without wearing my wedding ring or watch or anything. I knew that on Thursdays office hours end at 2 p.m. so I took a taxi and sped to the Ministry of the Interior. I was there at 1.45 p.m. Most of the employees had left. I went straight to the desk where the correction had been made. The young man behind the counter remembered me. He checked his computer and his colleague did the same, and they assured me that the correction had indeed been made.

  I told them that my husband was stuck at the border and they said it must be Intelligence who had not yet corrected their computer. I asked for Mr Zaban and he was there at the end of the big hall. I went right up to him and he said the same, adding that he could do nothing. Then, probably in an attempt to get rid of me, he told me to go to the Borders and Residency Office and described the location. I went out, not really seeing very clearly because of my tears, and took a taxi. It was after 2 p.m. but I thought that there has to be someone in charge at these important offices. The taxi driver was very kind. Seeing the state I was in, he came into the office with me and asked for some names he knew. The young officers on duty checked their computers and showed me that Ali’s name HAD BEEN corrected. They also phoned the border and confirmed this correction, but the border police told them that the problem was not with them but with the Intelligence officer who wasn’t convinced and wanted to see the correction on his own computer.