Barefoot in Baghdad (22 page)

***

The day I was evacuated, I was the only covered Muslim woman among a sea of military uniforms at Camp Victory, the U.S. military base adjacent to the Baghdad airport. Through my appearance, I became the de facto representative of the Iraqi people, fielding questions from almost every soldier I encountered. Why do they hate us? Why won’t they let us help them? Why are they protecting al-Zarqawi (the chief al Qaeda leader in Iraq)?

By the time I arrived in Kuwait, I was emotionally drained and completely unprepared for the devastating news that greeted me the moment I landed: Margaret Hassan was believed to be dead. For the next forty-eight hours I was inconsolable. I sobbed every second of the trip to Amman.

I desperately needed emotional support, but instead a Jordanian friend chastised me for crying over a foreigner while so many Iraqis were dying. The U.S. invasion of Iraq had polarized her thinking. Like so many others, her ability to empathize with human loss had been replaced with political zeal. Any iota of optimism I still had for the future faded.

The shock of being forced to flee Iraq coupled with the news of Margaret Hassan’s death forced me to acknowledge that Iraq’s fragile stability had disintegrated and that my time there was probably over. Although my main interaction with Margaret had been through the NGO Coordinating Council in Iraq, I knew her story well. As an Irish citizen married to an Iraqi, she embodied the possibility of bridging the two worlds. She had lived in Iraq for three decades, and she had stayed in the country when even Iraqis had fled.

Despite this rude awakening, I was determined to stay in Jordan, which had become a crossroads for Iraqi intellectuals and international aid organizations, to continue my work to ensure a better future for Iraq’s women.

I wanted a happy ending for my story. I didn’t want to leave without it.

The fact that I had physically left Iraq did not mean I was ready to leave behind all the work we had done. Countless Iraqi women with whom I worked in Baghdad came to see me in Amman. Although the wear and tear of the “new” Iraq and the unbearable pain of their losses had aged them, they and their countrymen still possessed a stubborn determination to make things right.

At the same time, the number of my Iraqi friends now settling in Amman began to increase. Even more of them headed to Syria. We all waited for the end of 2004 with the belief that 2005 would bring some new promise.

During this time Yusuf and Fadi took a leave of absence from their work in Iraq and came to Amman for a two-month self-financed information technology and finance training course. Their presence eased my discomfort of working for Iraq from a distance. The three of us spearheaded an elections observation team for the out-of-the-country voting that would take place in January 2005.

Despite feelings of skepticism over their local leadership, Iraqis were proud of the fact that elections had been scheduled. The Iraqi women I spoke with promised this was going to be the turning point everyone had been waiting for. Yusuf and Fadi argued day and night about which political party would be elected. When a Jordanian commented that the elections were a farce, my friends’ anger exploded. Despite almost two years of suffering, Iraqis took great pride in the democratic developments within their country. Yusuf passionately declared that other Arab countries were secretly jealous that Iraq was going to experience a truly democratic election.

“My Arab brothers just need to watch and learn. Iraqis are going to lead the way once more,” Fadi teased.

Indeed, the new year would bring with it new hope for Iraq. The elections of January 2005 brought an astounding 70 percent of the population to the polls. After they cast their vote, Iraqis dipped their fingers in purple ink, and these ink-stained fingers became a badge of honor. Iraqis all over the world were giving a purple thumbs-up.

Iraqi women sent emails to me of their voting experiences. They described waking up early that morning, dressing in their best clothes, and heading to the polling stations. They described the patriotic fervor that infused the streets all across Iraq. Volunteers drove the elderly and disabled to the polling stations. Neighbors cooked for one another as if election day were a religious holiday. One woman wrote that she even took her children with her, despite the heightened security risk, to make sure they witnessed one of the proudest days in Iraqi history.

Fadi and Yusuf reported the same among the Iraqi expatriate community who had flooded the Jordanian schools to add their voices to their counterparts inside the country. Both Fadi and Yusuf came back waving their purple thumbs with pride. They described the long lines of Iraqis that had waited for hours to cast their vote. They sheepishly admitted to the number of fights they joined in when some Jordanians drove by and yelled crude remarks about Iraqis.

“Look,” Fadi said as he aggressively scrubbed his thumb in the kitchen sink. “It does not come off! All the people saying there is fraud are liars.” He pulled back his thumb and waved it at me, as if his thumb, which now resembled a raisin, was all the proof one needed to debunk the rumors of fraud.

The successful election was one reason to celebrate, but the news from Muna won me over. During a training session in Karbala, a discussion became centered on custody rights. The women began to share individual stories of losing custody of their young children to abusive husbands. Muna shared her own story. Afterward, one of the older participants came up to her.

“Your story sounds remarkably similar to the story of the mother of my son’s fiancée,” she said. “Where are you from?”

After a quick exchange, it became clear that Muna’s story was indeed the same story; the woman’s son was to marry Muna’s long-estranged daughter. She arranged for Muna to meet her daughter after fourteen years of separation.

Muna called me in tears. “This is our reward for the work we have done. God has sent me my daughter!”

I feel foolish to have fallen for the hype of the new Iraq yet again. But being among the Iraqis at that time was once again euphoric.

***

Later I realized it was not only the election that had restored my hopes for Iraq. Being in Jordan, away from the war-torn environment that surrounded daily life in Iraq, I began to see Fadi and Yusuf in a different light. If they were not in training, they were by my side. It slowly dawned on me that this was beyond professional courtesy. We had developed very strong friendships, and our sense of mutual dedication went far beyond the workplace. Especially with regard to Yusuf.

During this time my body’s protest over the last few months’ trauma manifested itself physically. My back injury again flared up, and I needed a second surgery. Yusuf was by my side throughout the entire process, and his dedication and attention to me were unmistakable.

In Baghdad, I had practiced the Puritan work ethic of being obsessed with work during every waking hour. I had not thought much about my own social circumstances to the extent that I pushed the norms for an Arab American Muslim woman to the edges. I had given no thought to my personal life or my feelings. It was only in Jordan that I became aware of the feelings I had for Yusuf. It was more than simply being dependent on him in Baghdad. I realized how much I missed his presence. I realized that having him near me during a time of need had become second nature.

About a month after Fadi and Yusuf had arrived in Amman, Hussein appeared. He explained to me that Iraq was rapidly changing for the worse. Despite my hopes after the election, I was not surprised to hear this news.

The last time I had seen Hussein was at his parent’s house in Khadamiyah. His father had been kidnapped and released, and it was customary to visit a family to congratulate them on the return home of one who had been kidnapped. I joined with Yusuf’s family as they headed out to purchase a sheep to present to Hussein’s family to celebrate Abu Hussein’s safe return.

Given the situation, Hussein was hoping to move Maysoon and his children to Amman. For over a month I helped him look for an apartment and explore potential business ventures. After experiencing the grind of the Jordanian bureaucracy, however, Hussein’s resolve began to falter.

Our roles reversed. I was now the host, the guide, and the insider when it came to the migration of Iraqis to Jordan. Hussein, Fadi, Yusuf, and I toured all of Jordan, exploring Amman in detail and checking out Madaba and the Dead Sea. There was bitter joy in these outings. It was great for them to see a new country, but every turn in the road only reminded them of their lost youth. At every opportunity, they would remark about how Iraq had slipped into the dark ages despite all its resources, while Jordan, a country lacking in natural resources had soared into the new millennium.

***

I would be lying if I said I was completely shocked when Yusuf finally declared his feelings for me. As I had acknowledged to myself, a part of me was aware of my feelings for him shortly after his first arrival in Amman. Still, I was taken by surprise when he actually said it. Yusuf explained his intention of getting to know me better outside of our work environment.

He picked the perfect location. A small group of Women for Women International headquarters staff and Iraqi staff were gathered for a strategic planning meeting at a Dead Sea resort in Jordan. The last few days of meetings had been surreal. Our mornings were spent brainstorming about where to take the activities of the organization, and our evenings were spent smoking shishas beside a magnificent pool. This was a completely different environment from that which we were accustomed to, and the feeling of normalcy was almost overwhelming. Those nights usually dragged past midnight and were filled with laughter as we recounted our various adventures in Iraq.

One evening we all decided to take a walk to view the Dead Sea during the still of the night. The hotel’s cascading garden stretched about a mile from the pool to the edge of the Dead Sea. The garden was spectacular, filled with waterfalls, wooden bridges, and exotic flowers. Every five minutes someone from the group would stop to admire the scenery. By the time we reached the edge of the Dead Sea, it had been as if we had ventured through a wonderland. Everyone argued that the sight of the sea was anticlimactic and wanted to head back to the garden. I decided to linger a little longer, enjoying the complete bliss by staring at the historic sea. I loved the idea that I was standing at the very water’s edge that prophets had walked. I was lost in thinking about nothing when I realized Yusuf had also stayed behind.

He and I turned to head back to the pool. The walk up to the hotel was more of a hike than the easy downward path. Yusuf paused near one of the waterfalls and sat down at the edge. He waved his hand in the air to get my attention.

“Hold up. Who exactly is chasing you? Can I at least catch my breath?” he asked all at once. Simultaneously he pulled out a pack of cigarettes.

“Come. Sit and enjoy the view,” he said, patting the empty place next to him and offering me a cigarette.

“Not a really good way to catch your breath,” I said as I sat next to him.

It was the first time I ever felt uneasy around Yusuf. My reaction, though, reflected his own obvious discomfort. He fidgeted with his cigarette and then began to share his feelings. He explained that he had romantic feelings for me and had been hesitant to approach me while we were in Baghdad. He recognized that my time in Iraq had placed me in a vulnerable position, and he had not wanted to further complicate my life. Yusuf confided that he also had not wanted to be seen as taking advantage of me during this susceptible time. Most important, he wanted to ensure our confidence in each other remained strong while in Iraq, and he had feared he would introduce an awkwardness between us. He confessed that for a long time he had contemplated asking for my hand in marriage, and he now wanted to explore that possibility with me.

I listened as he stumbled through his explanation. I knew that he was waiting for my own confessions, but I was not sure I was ready to share them. Deep inside I knew I had strong feelings for Yusuf, but I could not confidently admit where their roots were.

Was this really love? Or was it some version of the Stockholm syndrome? I had become so dependent on Yusuf for my survival and had placed my life in his hands in order to succeed at my work. There were always currents of adrenaline running between us as we tackled one problem after another. Was that the source of our emotions? Or was it truly something different? I had no way of knowing.

I shook off my feeling of unease and decided to disclose all my thoughts. The one thing Yusuf and I had always been able to do was speak openly and candidly to each other. I did not want that to stop now. I shared my concerns and fears, and he laughed as he admitted that he shared many of the same.

“That’s why I want to approach your family. There is only one way to find out. We need to spend more time together, outside work. We have a great opportunity to do this while we are in Jordan, where we do not have the chaos of Iraq surrounding us.”

As always, this pragmatic man who had become my solid rock was spot-on.

I could understand why he wanted to speak with my parents about an engagement. The concept of dating is alien to most Muslims, and the engagement phase is always seen as a preliminary official dating before the final step of marriage. Although I knew this was the normal approach for courtship, I felt rushed. I urged Yusuf to take his time before approaching my parents and to make sure he was confident of his feelings for me.

Yusuf once again laughed at me. I noticed his laugh now was different than the one I had heard in Iraq. This laugh seemed more intimate and private, and I sensed the nervousness underneath as he laid his heart open to me.

“Believe me,” Yusuf said, “I have done all my research on this. Zainab says that it is very common for people who work in this field together to end up married. She knows many couples who have built very happy lives.”

“You spoke to my boss about this?” I asked in shock.

“Well, she is my boss too,” he said slowly. “Also, she is my friend. She is a wise woman, and before I opened the subject with you, I wanted to make sure this would have no impact on our work.”