CHAPTER 5
Baghdad: the center of Saddam’s power. The one place in the world I was trying to escape was the one place in the world I had to get to. It wouldn’t take long for the military to come looking for me, and the only people I could trust to help me now were my family.
We had passed several checkpoints on the way, where the taxi driver had shown my altered leave papers. One look at me laid out in the back of the car, white-faced and sweating and covered in blankets, combined with the fact that a taxi from the south up to Baghdad was seriously expensive, made the checkpoint guards believe that I was very ill, and we were waved through without problems.
The heat of the sun was becoming intolerable, and the bullet wound in my right leg—bandaged under the white dishdash the taxi driver had given me to wear—throbbed as a result of the bumpy roads and the taxi’s poor suspension. As we drove through the suburbs of the capital, I tried to distract myself by watching the ordinary Iraqis going about their daily business. Gradually we muddled our way through the traffic-filled streets as we headed toward the central region of Al-Mansour—my home. I gazed out of the window, staring blankly at the familiar sights, lost in my own thoughts. My mother had expected me home on leave a week ago. She would be worried—angry, probably—having no idea of the trauma I had undergone. She would find out soon enough, though, when the military police came knocking on her door asking where I was. I had a couple of days’ grace—it would take time for the inefficient Iraqi communications network to get word to the capital that I had deserted—but when they came, I knew I had to be far away.
The taxi driver—he had not told me his name, and I knew better than to ask so I just called him Hajji, a term of respect to an older person—pulled up outside my grandparents’ house, and for a moment we said nothing as I looked straight ahead preparing myself for the explanations to come. To wake me from my reverie, he coughed and, with a gesture of apology, I fished out the money I had promised him—double fare, and the last few notes I possessed. Once he had the money safely stowed away, he turned to look at me. Although we had not spoken of it, he knew that my actions were those of a man with something to hide. “Allah wiyaak. Bilsalameh,” he muttered quietly. “God be with you. Safe journey.”
“Shukren, thank you.” I nodded at him and got out of the car, then watched the vehicle disappear into the midday haze. He was clearly eager to put some distance between us, and I didn’t blame him.
Through the door of my house I could hear the sound of my brother and sister, Ahmed and Marwa, playing in the hallway. They were often to be found there in the heat of the day as it was the coolest part of the house. The sound of their banter instantly comforted me, a reassuring reminder of the fact that no matter how dangerous my life had become, at home everything was as it had always been. I rapped on the door, aware that my arrival was about to change that.
They opened the door, and their shouts of enthusiasm were like a balm. There was no look of shock on their faces, no concerned questions—just joy at seeing their elder brother again. “Mama, Mama!” they sang as we hugged and kissed. “Sarmed is here! Sarmed has come!” I hugged them once more and then left them in the hallway while I went to find my mother.
She was sitting alone; the look she gave me was puzzled. She raised a questioning eyebrow but, in accordance with the traditions of the Middle East, she refrained from asking me any questions just yet. It was hot; I had been traveling and was tired. All I wanted to do was have a shower, put on some clean clothes, eat a meal, and gather my thoughts. Questions could wait until later, and my mother sensed and respected that.
It felt good to wash the dirt and blood off my body, rinse the mud from my hair, and pull on some clean clothes. My mother prepared a hot meal of soup, rice, and bread—humble fare but so welcome that it tasted as fine as a banquet in the presidential palace, and I fell upon it ravenously. She watched me as we ate, but still I avoided telling her what had happened. Despite everything, I was still a teenager with a teenager’s preoccupations; moreover, I wanted to put my troubles out of my mind for a few quiet moments.
I drank a cup of tea, then sat down in front of the television to relax—not easy given the state of my bullet wound. My leg was throbbing and felt impossibly heavy, and there were shocks of pain running from my thigh all the way up my back. I forget what was being shown—a movie of some kind, I think—but I remember clearly the intermissions. Every half hour the film stopped, and a fat man with a large mustache appeared, singing a song about Saddam, praising him:
Sir, we are your servants,
In life you are our prize!
In moments of worry,
Your hand gives us joy.
Whenever we face difficult times,
By your hand they become easy.
You are the father of generosity and goodwill,
With you we have overcome the difficult times.
We are the joys of your life,
We are the candles of your victories.
The song would be cut with pictures of Saddam in his white suit surrounded by children throwing petals at his feet, images of the army marching by the statue of the unknown soldier in Baghdad, tanks forming part of the procession, and servicemen saluting their leader. Fantasies from the warped mind of a tyrant—there was only so much of this I could watch. I switched off the television in disgust and limped off in search of my sister to catch up with local gossip. There was a girl I was interested in—what news of her? Had my friends come asking about me? What were our cousins and the rest of our family up to? The questions were inconsequential in the grand scheme of things, but it was a relief to me to be able to focus on such trivia at that moment.
And then I called my uncle.
“Uncle Saad,” I told him, “I’m at home. I need to see you. Can you come now?”
Saad knew better than to ask any questions. I suppose he could tell from the tone of my voice that this was not a conversation to be had on the telephone. “I’ll be there as quickly as I can,” he reassured me.
Saad’s car pulled up outside the house an hour later. With difficulty, he maneuvered himself out of the vehicle. He did not knock immediately on my mother’s door. Instead, he made his way into my grandparents’ house to say hello to them. It would have been unseemly had he not. His parental duties fulfilled, he made his way slowly over to my mother’s house. My mother made tea and offered it to her brother along with a glass of cold water, before telling my brother and sister to go to their grandparents’ house. And then, as we were all sitting around the table, I took a deep breath and broke the news to them.
As the story of my first, unsuccessful escape attempt unfolded, my mother started huffing and puffing, wringing her hands and displaying the warning signs that I knew heralded an explosive display of maternal rage. I told her that I had injured my leg, having decided to keep quiet about the fact that I had been shot, but it was not enough to stop her shrieks and shouts when I told her the conclusion of my story. “Sarmed!” she shouted. “How could you do this? They could have shot you on the spot.”
I kept quiet. There did not seem much to say—other than that I knew full well what would happen if they caught up with me.
My uncle tried to calm my mother down, but she was in no mood to be appeased. It broke my heart to see her in that state because of me, but I could not help but be worried about the danger of her shouting like this. The walls of the house were thin; our neighbors were close and often nosy. A woman who lived in the immediate vicinity had sons who were in the Republican Guard, and I could not risk her hearing the shouts coming from the house and putting two and two together. Saad and I exchanged a glance. “Sarmed,” he said quietly but firmly, “come with me. We’re going for a drive, just the two of us.”
It felt good to be alone with my uncle in the car, good to unburden myself fully of my story. There were a number of checkpionts between my grandparents’ house and his, but I knew I’d be safe with him. He was a former high-ranking officer, and officials would treat him with respect.
“I took a bullet in the leg as I was escaping,” I admitted to him.
Saad nodded. “I noticed you limping. You need somebody to have a look at that. One of your aunties, perhaps…”
I shook my head. “No,” I told him. “I don’t want anyone to see it. The wound will heal in time. The doctor cleaned it well.”
We drove on in silence. “They will come for you, Sarmed. And sooner than you think.”
“I know.”
“We have to get you out of Iraq. It is not too late to go through with the arrangements I have made for you. You will not be safe until you are beyond the jurisdiction of the Republican Guard. I have found some people who can help.”
Saad’s four little daughters greeted us with much excitement. We kissed and hugged, and though it was good to see my cousins, I was eager to know what it was that Saad had in mind. We made our way into the guest room and sat down. Saad handed me some documents. There was a passport with my name, complete with an exit stamp to Jordan, and a yellow and green card stating that I had permission to be absent from the army for a period to travel abroad. Such documents did not come cheap—the corrupt officials who provided them knew that they could more or less name their price—and the risk my uncle had run in acquiring them had been considerable. I was suddenly overwhelmed with a feeling of love for this man who treated me like his own son and was seemingly willing to take any risk to help me in my bid to leave Iraq.
“These should be good enough to get you through any internal checkpoints,” he told me. “They are unlikely to be checked in any detail. But they won’t get you over the border. The guards there are more vigilant. They have the means to verify whether your leave of absence is genuine; it won’t take them long to discover that it is not.”
I looked blankly at my uncle. “Then what am I going to do?”
“Have you heard of the Al-Shamarry?”
I shook my head. “Who are they?”
“A Bedouin tribe who live near the Jordanian border. Very powerful in that region. I have dealings with some of their relatives who live near here. I’ve been told that they are willing to help people across the border.”
“What about the border patrols? Even if I avoid the border checkpoints, surely the patrols keep an eye out for people trying to cross elsewhere.”
“That’s why we use the Bedouin. They have been crossing that border for hundreds of years in order to trade with each other. No one would dare strip them of that right.”
“Can we trust them?”
“It’s in their interest to get you across the border. If you don’t make it into Jordan, they don’t get the money I will have to pay them.” He looked me straight in the eye. “I’m not pretending it isn’t dangerous, Sarmed. It is—very. But I think it is your only chance.”
I had to make a decision, but in truth I knew the decision had been made for me. My options were few. “When do we leave?” I asked him.
“Tomorrow. You have to get to Jordan, and you have to get there quickly. If they apprehend you in Iraq…”
“What?”
Saad looked away. “You will face the firing squad. And there will be nothing I can do to help you.”
We sat in silence for a few more minutes while I considered my uncle’s plan.
“What if I meet a corrupt internal checkpoint guard like before?”
Saad gave me a mysterious look. “I don’t believe that will be a problem.”
“Why not?”
He smiled. “Because I will be coming with you.”
I slept badly that night, although I relished the coolness of the primitive air-conditioning system as I lay on one of the gray metal beds in the bedroom I shared with the rest of my family. My thoughts were a whirlwind. Finally I had a chance—a real chance—of getting out. Over the years I had watched my peer group dwindle as, one by one, unhindered by obstacles as I was by my father, they disappeared to make new lives for themselves elsewhere. Gradually all that remained of my group were the ones who simply had to stay in Iraq because of their family, and the ones who were too scared to take the risk. And me. Now, despite everything, I was being given the opportunity to make a new life for myself as my friends before me had done.
My excitement was tempered by fear. Not a vague, unfocused fear but genuine knowledge that there was still so much that could go wrong. I didn’t know quite how many military checkpoints there were between Baghdad and the Bedouin village, but each one was dangerous—I knew that well enough from my past experiences. My uncle’s chilling reminder of what would happen if I was apprehended resounded in my head. I would be placed against a wall with other absconders, my hands tied and a blindfold covering my eyes, and shot down by a firing squad. Then an officer would shoot me in the head at point-blank range to make sure I had been fully dispatched.
Even if we made the journey to the Bedouin village successfully, how did I know I could trust my guides? I would be putting my fate into the hands of people I had never met, and that made me nervous. And there were dangers even closer to home. I did not really expect that the military would come knocking on my mother’s door just yet, but in the dark quiet of the night even my most unlikely fears were compounded tenfold.
But there was also cause for relief. When Saad had told me that he would be accompanying me to the Bedouin village, it was as if a weight had been lifted off my shoulders and I felt more optimistic than I had for weeks. He would be wearing his decorated military uniform and a suave, confident smile. Surely, if the first of these was not enough to get us past the internal checkpoints, the second would be. I could not wish to be in safer hands.
My leg throbbed. Medicine was hard to come by, and painkillers were especially scarce. All I had been able to lay my hands on had been some acetaminophen, but it certainly wasn’t enough to stop the pain of a bullet wound. I tried to put it from my mind by running over the events of that evening. I had stayed late at my uncle’s house, going over and over the plan for the following day. Around midnight he had driven me back to my grandparents’ house. My mother, brother, and sister were still up when we returned, and the house was shrouded in the nervous quiet of anticipation. I could tell from the look on my mother’s face that she was still angry with me. I hated to see that expression, but I knew there was nothing I could do or say to make her feel better. My uncle took her into the guest room, and they remained there for some time. I heard the gentle murmur of voices through the door, and I knew that Saad was explaining to her what it was that we were intending to do. Gradually my mother’s voice became louder; Saad’s, by contrast, remained perfectly calm. Once she had fallen quiet, he came out of the room and smiled at me. “You’d better go and get your stuff together,” he told me. He glanced at my mother’s anxious face. “Take your brother and sister.”
I took Ahmed and Marwa by the hand and led them across the courtyard to the separate flat they shared with my mother. There I began the business of putting together the things that I would be taking with me out of the country. I would not have room for much—there was no way I could carry huge bags with me across the desert. But my possessions were few in any case, and I limited myself to photographs, cassettes, and other trinkets, items that would sustain me in a foreign land away from my family, as well as the small amount of money that I had.
My brother and sister watched me pack. “What is happening, Sarmed?” Marwa asked me. “Where are you going?”
I knew I had to tell them the truth, so we sat down together. “I’m leaving Iraq,” I explained to them. “Saad has arranged it. We go tomorrow.”
“How long will you be gone for?” they asked.
I shook my head. “I don’t know.”
“Are you going to go and see Uncle Faisal in Manchester?”
“I’m going to go to Jordan first. From there, I’ll see if I can make my way to England.” I didn’t tell them that what I was doing was illegal.
“Will you write to us?”
“Of course I’ll write to you.”
“Will we see you again?”
I looked into the inquiring eyes of my brother and sister. How could I tell them that I did not even know if I would make it as far as the border? “Of course we will see each other again,” I told them. “I promise.”
I finished packing and walked out into the courtyard. I needed a few moments to myself, time to say good-bye to the place that had been my home when I was a young boy. Standing in the moonlight of that hot night, I remembered happier times that I had spent there. I remembered the hours I had spent caring for my menagerie of animals—the dogs, the parakeets, the tortoises, and the pigeons. I remembered the happy days I had spent climbing our date tree when its branches had become heavy with fruit, gathering its harvest in a small basket. I remembered the times I had spent with my family digging holes for flowers, trying to create our own little patch of color in the huge sprawl of Baghdad. I allowed myself a smile as I remembered my grandmother, bent with age, vigorously hurling a raw egg against the inside of the front door before anybody brought a piece of electrical equipment across the threshold. It was a common custom—where its origins lay, nobody knew—meant to ward off evil spirits and bless the equipment, but it brought great hilarity to the household every time it happened.
Suddenly it seemed very difficult to leave this little house, and perhaps if circumstances had been different, when it came to this moment I would have made the decision to remain. Being surrounded once more by the love and care of my family made the rest of the world seem lonely and dangerous, but now I had no option. I allowed my hands to linger upon the whitewashed walls, trying to absorb something of the place before I left it, most likely never to return.
The lone voice of a muadhin penetrated my slumber as it floated around the rooftops like a tendril of smoke disturbed by a gentle breeze. Its quiet, monotone drone was punctuated by moments of lilting musicality: “Allah u Akbar,” it sang. “Allah is great! I bear witness that there is no divinity but Allah! I bear witness that Muhammad is Allah’s messenger! Hasten to the prayer! Prayer is better than sleep! Allah is great, Allah u Akbar!” A similar sound would be emanating from every mosque far and wide across the Middle East, calling the faithful to prayer. There was no time for me to visit the mosque, but my prayers that morning were fervently, if silently, said nevertheless.
My mother had prepared breakfast. As we ate, the tension between us was still strong and we spoke only a few words. When we did speak, we avoided the matter at hand, talking instead of more mundane things. Suddenly I heard a shout from my grandparents’ house. It was one of my little cousins who was staying there. “Sarmed, Sarmed!” he called. “Uncle Saad is here!”
I felt a momentary hesitation, a reluctance to go through with our plan that had so many potential problems, but I put those worries firmly from my mind. I knew how limited my options were. Without saying a word, I stood up from the table and went about gathering my things. Then, my small case in my hand, I made my way over to my grandparents’ house, my mother, brother, and sister following behind me. Saad had given my grandparents a bag of peaches. He always brought them something, some small gift to cheer their day—a watermelon, perhaps, or some dates. My uncle was wearing the trousers and shirt of his military uniform—the jacket, with its medals and honors, he had left in the car—and he had attached his false leg rather than have to move around clumsily with his crutches. He and my grandparents sat in the front room of the house, waiting for me.
It was a quiet farewell. Although my grandparents did not know the full details of my situation, they knew I was making a bid to leave Iraq, and they clearly felt the need to help me in whatever way they could, whether it was by a kind word or with something more material. My grandfather sat nodding in the chair in which he always sat. He gestured to me to approach him.
“Yes, Jidoo?”
“Good luck, Sarmed,” he muttered in his quiet voice. “May God be with you, and inshallah—God willing—you will reach your uncle Faisal in England. Do not forget your family.” Few words, but well meant.
My grandmother had been preparing food for Saad and me to eat in the car on the way—kebabs and fruit, traditional Middle Eastern fare—and as she finished packing the meal up, she signaled to me: “Come here, Sarmed. Come with me.” I followed her into her bedroom. In her bedroom was a cupboard that, when I was a child, had always been a place of great mystery to me. In this cupboard my grandmother kept what seemed to my childish eyes to be great treasures: sweets, old letters, gadgets, tools, videos and a VHS player, jewelry, packs of cigarettes. With a twinkle in her eye, she started to rummage through the cupboard. She had clearly hidden something in there, and hidden it well because it took her some time to find it. Eventually, and with a smile, she pulled out a woolly sock containing a thick wad of notes—American dollars.
“This is your auntie’s money. It is what she earned from selling her gold.” Carefully she peeled off a hundred dollars. “This is for you. It is only a loan, but it will help you get started.”
I did not want to take money from my family, but I knew my grandmother would not be refused, so I gratefully placed the notes in my pocket. “Thank you, Bibi,” I said. A hundred dollars to start a new life. It was nothing, really, but at the time it seemed to me like all the riches in the world.
My grandmother placed the remaining money back in her cupboard and then turned to give me a big hug. “The world is a dangerous place, Sarmed,” she whispered. “Be careful.”
“I will, Bibi,” I told her.
Back in the front room, Saad was anxious to begin our journey. It was a long way to the border, and we couldn’t afford too much delay. I hugged my mother and my brother and sister, and then we walked out to my uncle’s automatic car—the only type he could drive given that he was an amputee. Under other circumstances, the sight of uncle and nephew limping together might have been comical. But there was no comedy here. My mother started to cry. I knew nothing I could say would make our farewells any easier, so I just held her tight before climbing into the car. Through the window I could see that my sister was also crying, and I felt the tears well up behind my own eyes. I wound down the window. “I’ll be in touch as soon as I can,” I told them gently.
Then I turned to Saad, who was sitting behind the wheel waiting for me to give him the word. “Let’s go.”