The Girl from Baghdad by Michelle Nouri Read Free Book Online Page A

frequently. I understood that they were bad words, but they still didn’t scare me. I didn’t know much about what was going on then, and I wouldn’t until the war became the backdrop to the gradual breakdown of our peaceful lives.
    We were in the car, all five of us, heading to a barbecueat Adel’s house. He and his wife, Irena, Mum’s friend, had purchased a grand villa outside Baghdad where they spent the summer. The property was in the desert, but the green of the parklands surrounding their home made it seem like an oasis. Going to visit them was always a joy. They had a daughter, Silva, whom I had a lot of fun playing with, and my mother spent hours chatting with Irena. Dad spoke of work-related matters with the men the entire time. For us children, that trip to the country was guaranteed fun and we couldn’t wait to go swimming in the pool at the grand villa.
    Driving to their place, we were clapping our hands to the rhythm of the music on the radio. All of a sudden, we heard a loud explosion. Dad immediately pulled the car over, turned off the engine and the radio. Sitting in the back seat, my sisters and I were shocked into silence. We looked at Dad, waiting for him to say something, but he didn’t speak. He sat still for a few minutes, with his hands on the wheel and eyes staring at the road. Then he turned to my mother. She looked frightened. We all stayed quiet. He turned toward us and said, ‘Girls, the war has begun.’ Then, after another pause, he started the engine and we took off.
    It was June 1981. The war had already broken out more than eight months before, but the battlelines had only now moved to the outskirts of Baghdad. From that day, the noise of the distant explosions became aconstant echo to our lives. Even if we could hear the sound of the bombs nearing the periphery of the city from our house, to us girls the war still seemed like a far-off thing. We were sure that it would never arrive at our house; to us, the war was only on television. The news showed graphic images of gunfights and of the dead. The leader of the Iraqi people, Saddam Hussein, appeared on television, pinning medals of honour on the chests of the bravest soldiers.
    At the Didjle (‘Stars’) elementary school, we were taught to honour Saddam’s image and to consider him the great patriarch of our country. In addition to these lessons, we were all issued with a military uniform, which we stored with great care and wore every week for a training session, where we learnt to march like soldiers. Once a month, a parade in Saddam’s name was organised in the streets of Baghdad. We marched proudly with our heads held high. Of course, in our innocent minds, this didn’t have anything to do with the war we saw on television.
    During the parade, mothers queued in long lines in front of Saddam. He was standing in front of a table that held a series of small cardboard boxes that the women had offered upon their arrival. These boxes were filled with gold and other possessions they had donated to the patriarch. Some, pointing to their child dressed like a soldier at their side, said to Saddam, ‘I beg you, takemy son! He’ll fight for you. Let him die in glory, for the patriarch!’ Saddam took a medal out of a little box, pinned it on their chest and shook their hand.
    At my house, nobody commented on the situation and we never spoke about politics. Everyone had a picture of the Raìs (the term we used for a person in authority, such as Saddam) in their house; it was normal. What Saddam said was obeyed. He had said the war was necessary so we needed to fight it. Nobody protested, even if everyone was scared.

    Christmas of 1981 was the same as any other Christmas. Even if we were at war, even if the adults had become more sombre, to us kids it didn’t seem any different. It was a sacred occasion for the Christians, but for Baghdad’s Muslim families like us, it was