The
Girl Blogger From Baghdad Leaves Home
By Baghdad Burning
07 September, 2007
Baghdad Burning
Two
months ago, the suitcases were packed. My lone, large suitcase sat in
my bedroom for nearly six weeks, so full of clothes and personal items,
that it took me, E. and our six year old neighbor to zip it closed.
Packing that suitcase was
one of the more difficult things I’ve had to do. It was Mission
Impossible: Your mission, R., should you choose to accept it is to go
through the items you’ve accumulated over nearly three decades
and decide which ones you cannot do without. The difficulty of your
mission, R., is that you must contain these items in a space totaling
1 m by 0.7 m by 0.4 m. This, of course, includes the clothes you will
be wearing for the next months, as well as any personal memorabilia-
photos, diaries, stuffed animals, CDs and the like.
I packed and unpacked it
four times. Each time I unpacked it, I swore I’d eliminate some
of the items that were not absolutely necessary. Each time I packed
it again, I would add more ‘stuff’ than the time before.
E. finally came in a month and a half later and insisted we zip up the
bag so I wouldn’t be tempted to update its contents constantly.
The decision that we would
each take one suitcase was made by my father. He took one look at the
box of assorted memories we were beginning to prepare and it was final:
Four large identical suitcases were purchased- one for each member of
the family and a fifth smaller one was dug out of a closet for the documentation
we’d collectively need- graduation certificates, personal identification
papers, etc.
We waited… and waited…
and waited. It was decided we would leave mid to late June- examinations
would be over and as we were planning to leave with my aunt and her
two children- that was the time considered most convenient for all involved.
The day we finally appointed as THE DAY, we woke up to an explosion
not 2 km away and a curfew. The trip was postponed a week. The night
before we were scheduled to travel, the driver who owned the GMC that
would take us to the border excused himself from the trip- his brother
had been killed in a shooting. Once again, it was postponed.
There was one point, during
the final days of June, where I simply sat on my packed suitcase and
cried. By early July, I was convinced we would never leave. I was sure
the Iraqi border was as far away, for me, as the borders of Alaska.
It had taken us well over two months to decide to leave by car instead
of by plane. It had taken us yet another month to settle on Syria as
opposed to Jordan. How long would it take us to reschedule leaving?
It happened almost overnight.
My aunt called with the exciting news that one of her neighbors was
going to leave for Syria in 48 hours because their son was being threatened
and they wanted another family on the road with them in another car-
like gazelles in the jungle, it’s safer to travel in groups. It
was a flurry of activity for two days. We checked to make sure everything
we could possibly need was prepared and packed. We arranged for a distant
cousin of my moms who was to stay in our house with his family to come
the night before we left (we can’t leave the house empty because
someone might take it).
It was a tearful farewell
as we left the house. One of my other aunts and an uncle came to say
goodbye the morning of the trip. It was a solemn morning and I’d
been preparing myself for the last two days not to cry. You won’t
cry, I kept saying, because you’re coming back. You won’t
cry because it’s just a little trip like the ones you used to
take to Mosul or Basrah before the war. In spite of my assurances to
myself of a safe and happy return, I spent several hours before leaving
with a huge lump lodged firmly in my throat. My eyes burned and my nose
ran in spite of me. I told myself it was an allergy.
We didn’t sleep the
night before we had to leave because there seemed to be so many little
things to do… It helped that there was no electricity at all-
the area generator wasn’t working and ‘national electricity’
was hopeless. There just wasn’t time to sleep.
The last few hours in the
house were a blur. It was time to go and I went from room to room saying
goodbye to everything. I said goodbye to my desk- the one I’d
used all through high school and college. I said goodbye to the curtains
and the bed and the couch. I said goodbye to the armchair E. and I broke
when we were younger. I said goodbye to the big table over which we’d
gathered for meals and to do homework. I said goodbye to the ghosts
of the framed pictures that once hung on the walls, because the pictures
have long since been taken down and stored away- but I knew just what
hung where. I said goodbye to the silly board games we inevitably fought
over- the Arabic Monopoly with the missing cards and money that no one
had the heart to throw away.
I knew then as I know now
that these were all just items- people are so much more important. Still,
a house is like a museum in that it tells a certain history. You look
at a cup or stuffed toy and a chapter of memories opens up before your
very eyes. It suddenly hit me that I wanted to leave so much less than
I thought I did.
Six AM finally came. The
GMC waited outside while we gathered the necessities- a thermos of hot
tea, biscuits, juice, olives (olives?!) which my dad insisted we take
with us in the car, etc. My aunt and uncle watched us sorrowfully. There’s
no other word to describe it. It was the same look I got in my eyes
when I watched other relatives and friends prepare to leave. It was
a feeling of helplessness and hopelessness, tinged with anger. Why did
the good people have to go?
I cried as we left- in spite
of promises not to. The aunt cried… the uncle cried. My parents
tried to be stoic but there were tears in their voices as they said
their goodbyes. The worst part is saying goodbye and wondering if you’re
ever going to see these people again. My uncle tightened the shawl I’d
thrown over my hair and advised me firmly to ‘keep it on until
you get to the border’. The aunt rushed out behind us as the car
pulled out of the garage and dumped a bowl of water on the ground, which
is a tradition- its to wish the travelers a safe return… eventually.
The trip was long and uneventful,
other than two checkpoints being run by masked men. They asked to see
identification, took a cursory glance at the passports and asked where
we were going. The same was done for the car behind us. Those checkpoints
are terrifying but I’ve learned that the best technique is to
avoid eye-contact, answer questions politely and pray under your breath.
My mother and I had been careful not to wear any apparent jewelry, just
in case, and we were both in long skirts and head scarves.
The trip was long and uneventful,
other than two checkpoints being run by masked men. They asked to see
identification, took a cursory glance at the passports and asked where
we were going. The same was done for the car behind us. Those checkpoints
are terrifying but I’ve learned that the best technique is to
avoid eye-contact, answer questions politely and pray under your breath.
My mother and I had been careful not to wear any apparent jewelry, just
in case, and we were both in long skirts and head scarves.
Syria is the only country,
other than Jordan, that was allowing people in without a visa. The Jordanians
are being horrible with refugees. Families risk being turned back at
the Jordanian border, or denied entry at Amman Airport. It’s too
high a risk for most families.
We waited for hours, in spite
of the fact that the driver we were with had ‘connections’,
which meant he’d been to Syria and back so many times, he knew
all the right people to bribe for a safe passage through the borders.
I sat nervously at the border. The tears had stopped about an hour after
we’d left Baghdad. Just seeing the dirty streets, the ruins of
buildings and houses, the smoke-filled horizon all helped me realize
how fortunate I was to have a chance for something safer.
By the time we were out of
Baghdad, my heart was no longer aching as it had been while we were
still leaving it. The cars around us on the border were making me nervous.
I hated being in the middle of so many possibly explosive vehicles.
A part of me wanted to study the faces of the people around me, mostly
families, and the other part of me, the one that’s been trained
to stay out of trouble the last four years, told me to keep my eyes
to myself- it was almost over.
It was finally our turn.
I sat stiffly in the car and waited as money passed hands; our passports
were looked over and finally stamped. We were ushered along and the
driver smiled with satisfaction, “It’s been an easy trip,
Alhamdulillah,” he said cheerfully.
As we crossed the border
and saw the last of the Iraqi flags, the tears began again. The car
was silent except for the prattling of the driver who was telling us
stories of escapades he had while crossing the border. I sneaked a look
at my mother sitting beside me and her tears were flowing as well. There
was simply nothing to say as we left Iraq. I wanted to sob, but I didn’t
want to seem like a baby. I didn’t want the driver to think I
was ungrateful for the chance to leave what had become a hellish place
over the last four and a half years.
The Syrian border was almost
equally packed, but the environment was more relaxed. People were getting
out of their cars and stretching. Some of them recognized each other
and waved or shared woeful stories or comments through the windows of
the cars. Most importantly, we were all equal. Sunnis and Shia, Arabs
and Kurds… we were all equal in front of the Syrian border personnel.
We were all refugees- rich
or poor. And refugees all look the same- there’s a unique expression
you’ll find on their faces- relief, mixed with sorrow, tinged
with apprehension. The faces almost all look the same.
The first minutes after passing
the border were overwhelming. Overwhelming relief and overwhelming sadness…
How is it that only a stretch of several kilometers and maybe twenty
minutes, so firmly segregates life from death?
How is it that a border no
one can see or touch stands between car bombs, militias, death squads
and… peace, safety? It’s difficult to believe- even now.
I sit here and write this and wonder why I can’t hear the explosions.
I wonder at how the windows
don’t rattle as the planes pass overhead. I’m trying to
rid myself of the expectation that armed people in black will break
through the door and into our lives. I’m trying to let my eyes
grow accustomed to streets free of road blocks, hummers and pictures
of Muqtada and the rest…
How is it that all of this
lies a short car ride away?
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