On Jumhuriya Bridge

“What did scare everyone was what would happen next, after the war. What would it be like when it was all over?”

AUGUST 17, 2023

The last time I saw my high school was on TV. It was at Jiddo’s place, better known as the Big House. All of us sat on my grandfather’s floor, watching the war unfold. Two American tanks came into view on Jumhuriya Bridge — the first ones to roll into Baghdad that 9th of April, 2003. For a brief moment, there were bullets exchanged with the Iraqi soldiers holed up inside the red building that looked out on the Tigris River.

“Unbelievable,” Jiddo said, his mouth hanging partly open. He strode out into the garden to listen to the fighting, which seemed closer than ever.

The first tank rolled ahead cautiously. The second tank followed, staying a short distance behind. They then both came to a standstill and the reporter’s voice disappeared. Silence. For those few minutes, life in the middle of that bridge stopped.

On the other side of the river was my school. I focused on the corner of the screen, hoping to catch a glimpse of it. The camera panned to the left and a sea gull came into focus, flapping in distress. The cameraman trailed it, waiting for the tanks to move. The side wall of the school started to come into view, little by little. The camera jerked and I saw the white cross at the front of the building. The sea gull’s flapping grew more agitated and it took off into a sky smudged with smoke. The camera swung back to capture heavy gunfire shattering the glass of the red building, and the commentator’s voice-over asked: “Are you there? Can you hear me? Viewers, it seems we’ve lost the sound of our reporter on the ground in Baghdad. We hope he and our entire team there are safe.” He paused. “It appears to be the end of the story here; yes, dear viewers, it’s the end. It’s undeniable — these images are live from the Iraqi capital, Baghdad. Right from the heart of what’s happening. Coming to you live from the capital of Iraq — Baghdad. From … it’s all over.”

✺

Every weekend, my father would take our white Oldsmobile for a drive with my mother beside him, and my sister and me in the back seat. We would slowly cross the river, the windows rolled down to allow that fresh Tigris air in. At the end of the bridge, and pretty much every time, my mother would turn around halfway to look at an old building; on its gate was written, “Al-Aqeedah Secondary School for Girls.”

“That’s my high school.” 

Curious, we’d also turn around and focus on the building, which looked deserted. Four slender windows with fan-shaped crowns on the sandy brown wall, with two smaller windows at the top; in the middle stood a white cross.

In the evenings, after the first signs of darkness started to fall, we’d make our way home; while passing over the bridge again, the school would be on our left. My sister would press herself up against the glass, blocking my view of the lights reflected on the water’s surface. I’d turn my face toward the other window, where all there was moonlight flickering on the rippling river water, and the glow of lamps in the distance on the other bank.

The moment I saw the building  in that fleeting scene on television, it didn’t register that I was looking at my school. I remember how my mother would stop talking when we had passed the Freedom Monument — bronze figures frozen in motion on a concrete background — on our way to the highway taking us to Adhamiyah.

In the days before those two tanks rolled into Baghdad, a day that would forever be known afterward as the Fall of Baghdad, I happened to be in the Big House. I arrived there before the bombs starting raining down from the sky, and stayed on.

Those nights weren’t as bad as they should have been for someone living through a war. The American bombs, one after the next, didn’t rattle anyone anymore. Everyone grew used to such things. People weren’t afraid of the missiles because this time round, there were specific targets — or so they said. What did scare everyone was what would happen next, after the war. What would it be like when it was all over?

My cousin Dalia and I didn’t think of such things. We were interested in other things: she, traveling after the war; and I, scribbling down every passing thought in my diary.

One time, we watched a man rowing a boat, alone, cutting through the river water as if he had no idea there was a war tearing through the nation.

Before evening set in, Dalia, who was two years older, would come from her house, which was quite near to the Big House. We would stay up till the first moments of dawn. We didn’t actually have that much to talk about; we just didn’t want to sleep. Sometimes we’d listen to songs on the Walkman I had brought with me. When our grandparents fell asleep, we’d slip out of the room and creep down the dark corridor, tiptoeing into the kitchen like thieves. Dalia would fry some slices of eggplant and tomato and then sprinkle some spices on top. We’d have some bread on the side and a cup of tea, choking ourselves with hushed laughter. Eventually, we’d quietly make our way to the large living room. Turning on the television and making sure the volume was only loud enough for us to hear, we’d start flipping through, looking for new channels.

The Big House was one of the few in the neighborhood that had a satellite dish, or a “pick-up dish” as it was known. It was installed and safely tucked away just a few days before the war broke out. The government cracked down on households that owned such things. Bibi was worried about someone finding out about the large aluminum dish and so, at the start of each day, my grandmother would make her way up to the roof and cover it up further with some palm fronds, making sure it was really out of sight. 

During the day, after having snatched a few hours of fitful sleep, Dalia and I would make our way out onto the small balcony facing the Tigris. We would hear the roar of each bomb that fell and watch the smoke snake upward. One time, we watched a man rowing a boat, alone, cutting through the river water as if he had no idea there was a war tearing through the nation. A small red car pulled up and out stepped a soldier with a rifle slung on his shoulder. He shouted at the man. The boat turned around and slowly drew close to shore. A dark, short man climbed out and parked his boat next to an old, rickety one. He turned back to take in the river for a few minutes and puffed on a cigarette. Raising his gaze to where we were, he threw us a passing glance and then went on his way, his head bowed. 

On some days a childhood friend of mine, Elaf, would drop by. She’d sit with us in the garden. We’d hear from her about the strange things happening in the city, or she’d pass on what her father had heard from the foreign radio stations. Her father used to translate short stories and novels. Back when we were at school together, anytime he’d publish something, she’d come with three copies in hand, with his name emblazoned on the cover. Two of them would be signed by him. One would be gifted to the principal, the other to our Arabic teacher and the third, which wasn’t signed, would make the rounds among our group of friends till he published something else. Some of his books were still in my little private library; I’d read each more than once.

My school was halfway, in the geometric sense, between my father’s house and the Big House. But there was still a difference when it came to how long the trip took each way; I was always the last to get on the school bus in the morning, and the first to get off at the end of the day. As for when I was at my father’s house, I’d say it was the other way round.

In year five of primary school, my family agreed that I’d spend the summer holidays with my grandparents and that during school time, I could visit them in the Big House twice a month or more. When secondary school came along, I started to take the school bus that would head toward Adhamiyah. In under an hour, I’d be in my school uniform on their balcony watching the sea gulls circle around something or other that had been pushed to the river’s surface by the currents.

Jadati gave me the room that used to be my mother’s, after having bought a new bed, a small wardrobe and a bookcase. The only things left of Ummi’s time in there were two faded photos. The first, a group photo from her last year of secondary school. The second, a portrait: She was wearing a cap and gown from her university graduation. In the first photo, it was difficult to make out my mother’s face from the other girls standing in lines of four in front of the Virgin Mary statue, which was still standing inside the school. A green arrow shot out from a corner, pointing to the head of one of the girls who stood on the side of the seats in the lecture hall. Someone must have drawn it years ago to point out which one my mother was. Otherwise, my room was new, except for the door, the window, the walls, the small balcony and the fan with its three curved blades.

I lived this life of mine in two worlds, and if I had to choose, I’d always go for this spacious house next to the Tigris.

My sister, Sara, finished primary school and came to join me at Al-Aqeedah Secondary. Sara was what some would call rough around the edges. She sat in the same seat on the bus from the first day of school till the last. She had only one friend who had come up with her from the same primary school. If that friend of hers was ever absent — the twig that she was — Sara would be lonely and withdrawn. She hardly ever wanted to come with me to the Big House.

1.

It was nearly 5 in the morning when I squeezed myself into the back seat. I wrapped myself up in my father’s thick coat, hoping that I’d nod off again as we drove. I’d never left my bed at such an hour before. Even on school trip days, I remember waking up early, though not in the hours before the darkness melted away, leaving room for daylight to slowly show its face. But on this day, and in this complete darkness, I was embarking with my family on a long journey to a neighboring country, for who knew how long. Since the evening before, I’d been putting my room in order after having written a page or more in my diary. I put my books on the black wooden shelf. In my wardrobe, I left some summer shirts that my mother had asked me to get rid of. I didn’t realize that I had left something important on my writing table. I voluntarily left behind a bunch of binders, a red pen that didn’t really work anymore and some books that I’d taken from Elaf. On the wall was a page from my sketchbook. It was from year three; I’d drawn and colored in a traffic police officer. I’d stuck him up on the wall after coming back home that day, and he had been there ever since, all these years.

I hesitated for a moment before I closed the door. I wanted to scoop my room up in my arms, and briefly chewed on the thought of going back in to open the window and let the fresh air flow in — but I changed my mind. I closed the door behind me and turned the key. Draped on the wooden banister were my sister’s damp pink blouse and some different-colored socks she had hung there to dry. Still not entirely awake, I walked past and let my fingers graze them, thinking of this staircase and its polished mosaic steps, slowly inhaling the smell of Dettol.

Everything was as it had been in the sitting room. The darkness was so thick that I couldn’t see much of the garden — neither the trees nor the soon-to-shrivel flowers nor the dewy grass at this hour. In the garage, a dark-colored tarp hid our car.

My sister arrived half-asleep and curled up next to me in the car. She had been in a deep sleep when Ummi woke her up. My mother had told her to get changed and go to the car. I pictured what her bed must have looked like, as she didn’t have time to make it. I wondered whose bed would look messier with us gone.

My mother got in from the other side after having made sure with my father that the front door was locked well. She wrapped her shoulders in her dark wool shawl and leaned her head back on the headrest. My father made sure our luggage was safely stowed. He opened the front door and took his seat next to the tubby driver.

As well as our household items, we took only four suitcases from the ones my father would use when traveling. Three of them were the same size; running round the middle of each one was a belt shaped like an arrow that buckled with a metal ring. The fourth suitcase was slightly smaller and was held shut by a small silver lock.

The car lights illuminated the lane on the other side of the road. When the driver was sure that everyone was seated, he swung the car in the right direction, its headlights falling on the shadows of the trees, the lights then slowly crawling across the walls of the houses opposite us. Before we set off into the darkness, I saw the eyes of a cat glowing in the glare of the headlights.

The day before, in a side pocket of one of the suitcases, my mother had slipped a color photo of my sister and me. I was 6 years old and my sister 5. I was sitting on the ground with a book open in front of me and my school notebook underneath it. In that moment, I seemed to be completely consumed with doing my homework while my elbow kept my sister from sticking her nose in my notebook. In that photo, our red rug and a piece of the lounge furniture were visible, as well as the distinct shadow of the oil-burning heater.

On the long journey to the border, I started to contemplate our new life in a foreign land. I dozed for about an hour and kept dreaming about where we were going. I opened my eyes for a little bit and saw the sun lazily rising on the horizon. I closed them again.

From all our photo albums, I don’t know how Ummi landed on that one photo. I never got the chance to ask her because less than a month after we reached the new city, she left this world.

From the first day we got there, a glance at my mother’s face was all we needed to tell just how exhausted she was. After she did any sort of chore, her hands would start to tremble. Her complexion grew pale, her lips chapped. Sometimes she couldn’t even string words together. The doctor said she had to stay in bed. He didn’t give her any specific course of treatment other than some painkillers.

A relative of my father’s was able to suggest someone for the burial. The imam of the mosque near our house volunteered to go with us to the cemetery outside of the city.

One evening some two weeks after seeing that doctor, her condition worsened. We took her to the government hospital and they immediately admitted her to the intensive care unit. We waited till the morning in the cold hospital hallway. A young female doctor stepped out and nodded at my father, asking him to report to the main administrative office: “She has passed away.”

We didn’t have any family or friends in that country, just an acquaintance of my father’s. A peculiar, skinny man. He had come to this country a few years before, and it was he who had helped us find the house that we ended up living in. As soon as my father called him, he showed up. We didn’t expect anyone else but him here. None of those we knew in Baghdad would come, even if we could tell them what happened. Communication with Iraq was patchy at best. People there were tormented by their fears on a daily basis; it wouldn’t be easy for any of them to leave their homes in such circumstances. Everything was postponed to the next day. A relative of my father’s was able to suggest someone for the burial. The imam of the mosque near our house volunteered to go with us to the cemetery outside of the city.

On that day, dark clouds gathered in the sky; I’d never seen a more depressing scene. Gusts of wind battered us and the rain pounded down the entire time. The small bus we were packed in was almost sucked into the mud. We didn’t even have it in us to cry. On that gloomy road, I felt that I was leaving behind a time I knew, that my happy childhood had never existed. I found myself sinking into a new life the color of an intensely dark sky, with black clouds mixed with the thick gray air outside the window of our broken-down vehicle. My father and the skinny man climbed out to help the driver maneuver the minibus out of a ditch. The tires skidded right and then left; we nearly hit a tree. By noon, my mother was in the ground.

My sister spent her time suffering in silence. She’d wake up every morning, certain that our mother was still with us. So many times we’d hear her screaming in her sleep. My father and I would rush to her and stay by her bedside until she fell back asleep. None of this happened with me; I was too focused on her healing. I worried about her all the time.

“Sabah al-khair,” I’d say to her, expecting a “good morning” in reply. She’d open her mouth, mumble something and then break down crying. She sat with us at the table and, after my father’s pleading, stretched her hand out to her plate. She would then slip away, far from us. Sometimes, she’d stop halfway to her room, involuntarily taking in the space around her. She’d come to again and drag her feet toward the kitchen. Finally she’d pop her head round the door only to see that Ummi wasn’t there either.

Writing about my mother’s death would see her dying all over again; she would become nothing more than a collection of memories of a dead woman.

Looking after the house became my responsibility: washing the clothes, the plates, cleaning the rooms and taking care of Baba. Even though he didn’t have any work or friends in this city, he still had a routine, one laced with a great deal of despair. He’d wake up at 7 in the morning, go out for a 40-minute walk and come back carrying some hot bread and a few other necessities. His beard grew out, and signs of exhaustion came to be engraved on his face. Every evening, he’d open the empty suitcases, search them for old papers and then close them up again. He’d sit on his bed and read Quranic surahs, crying.

A long time passed before I came back once more to my diary. What I wrote didn’t matter anymore. But what else was I meant to do with all this free time? Nothing mattered anymore, nothing invited me to eagerly wait for tomorrow or what came after. I had no hope in the coming days. I couldn’t spit out even one good sentence. Writing about my mother’s death would see her dying all over again; she would become nothing more than a collection of memories of a dead woman.

Through my writing, I tried to talk with her, to apologize for so many things. I had never considered my mother before as anyone but my mother. Who was she, really? How could these shards of distant images in my mind knit together to form the person who left behind this gaping hole in my life?

2.

Even after some months had gone by, I couldn’t shake the feeling that one day Ummi would open the front door. She’d go into the kitchen and start clanging the pots around like she used to. The aroma of one of her delicious dishes would cocoon this small place. Sometimes I thought that the hem of her dress had brushed against my leg, or that her hand had gently pushed me from behind, or that her fingers had tousled my hair. In the light from the one lamp in the kitchen, thick dust would hover in the air, and I’d hear a garbled voice and think it was her. Something of her was still in this place, and back in our house in Baghdad, her shadow floated in the air.  

At the same time, I was certain she’d never walk through the front door again. This was a world where reality overlapped with what we thought reality was. Every morning I open my eyes, heavy with sleep, and believe that she’s making breakfast in our old house. Reality hits me shortly after and she dies all over again. She dies while she’s in the garage, while she’s going down the stairs, while she’s in the garden, while she’s coming through the front door. A chain of deaths with no end in sight. A series of images passes before me, twinkling, and disappearing in the blink of an eye. I see her coming back from work in her maroon suit and pointy black shoes. I see her wearing her abaya, on her way to the neighbors’ house to condole with them on their aunt’s death. I see her in her white housedress with small roses in a circle pattern. I see her with her hair wrapped in her towel, in her purple flip-flops, which have roses of the same color on them. I think of her and how tired she was during the time of the siege, sitting at the sewing machine like an Assyrian queen, never accepting defeat. Sitting on the sofa and half-watching TV. Oh, God!

How I miss that distracted way of hers. Holding the iron in her right hand after having misted my father’s shirt and forgotten herself. She would place the iron to the side and sit down, worn out, staring out the window, but not seeing the trees moving outside.

Her black handbag was still by the entrance of this house; everyone tried to avoid stopping by it. The handbag was an object from life that was tied to death.

In the garden she would water the grass and cut the dry leaves from the fig tree. She’d put food out for the cats, which would run toward her whenever they saw her with a plate.                                                                           

These slow images … this is my mother. I’ve become the daughter of scenes stuck in my memory.

I hesitated in front of her wardrobe, telling myself, I’ve got to open it. I want to see her clothes and go through her things. I couldn’t stop shaking. I lost myself just outside the door to the wardrobe, which transformed, after her passing, into a world of mystery. I turned my back, almost forgetting what I was doing there, in a sort of waking daydream that I broke out of only once I realized my mother was really gone. I stepped toward the wardrobe and put my nose up to the small crack in the door. I breathed in some of the air; it was thick with her perfume mixed with whiffs of incense that had been left among the clothes for years.

Her black handbag was still by the entrance of this house; everyone tried to avoid stopping by it. The handbag was an object from life that was tied to death. It belonged to the real world, but was also a bridge to the unknown. This whole time the handbag remained on top of a small wooden table near the door. None of us remembers the last time she took it along with her, or where she went, or when she left it on this table. For me, the bag was stuck in a time between life and death.

What would we find inside? I wondered.

✺ Published in “Issue 7: Fiction” of The Dial