Fairness & Flash Floods

'Coming generations will learn equality from poverty, and love from woes'.

We visit bearing gifts, our christian acquaintances, glowing more and more glum each year it seems. I don't blame them; I can't blame anyone, especially when Christmas 2012 was spent with floods in Baghdad.

(Merry Christmas).

Getting more used to the heavy showers, I laughed (almost spitefully) at the few dirty drops of rain. Little did I realize I would wake to find half the city swimming in sewage the next day.

We all made such a fuss over the pools of water that had developed, the entire neighbourhood pitifully complaining, and people standing atop roofs and filming the wet scenery. I can't forget that elderly couple sitting in deck chairs on one of the houses in front of ours. They looked so bemused with it all.

Hours later, heavy machinery tumbled down the poorly paved roads, sucking up the water with grey tubes, and redistributing it elsewhere. Complaints still rang out, mostly of the anti government, anti corruption type. For it was lack of love, and great greed, that had robbed Iraq of basic services.

That night, we had friends over (like most other nights). Complaints, and angry comments over the flooding situation. Blame was passed from Saddam, to the people of Iraq, to the new Saddam (Maliki). Huffs and puffs later, all was forgotten, as the topic turned to cars or something along those lines, with the women making a hasty exit to the dining room to gossip.

I sat and in boredom flicked the remote. Hours earlier I had been splashing bravely in the dirty water, courtesy of my London-brought wellington boots. On the tv, images more suited to the monsoon flooding appeared on one of the iraqi satellite channels.

A man, wrapped in colours of mud complained over the lack of care delivered to one of the worst flooded areas in Baghdad.
"They deliver the removal of water to the places that have money. That can pay! Mansour, The Road of Palestine, Zayouna...not to us. They tell us they have no petrol or no cars!"

I felt my head hang in shame. I felt overridden with guilt. It was all so true. I needed to see if the images portrayed were real.
It couldn't have been, I reasoned, though we all knew it was. The room had fallen silent momentarily at the emotional speech of the man. A more callous man spoke up 'Did they do anything, speak up? Let them suffer in silence if they want, they should demand it!'.

A few guests agreed, though as usual, I couldn't keep quiet.

They had protested, they had been jailed, they had demanded, all to no avail! It will never be of use, since the current government won't listen.

The next day, I told my family I was going to the high street of the area. Or the mall I mused out loud.

'Bring some salt!'.

From my eyes, I replied, and set out into the evening sun.

Less than half an hour later, I had arrived at the more 'downtown' area. The area where clothes were brighter,and voices were louder. And everything was much, much cheaper.

There was nowhere to walk-  pungent water covering every surface. It looked like a scene out of a charity campaign, and it smelt even worse. I fought the urge to cover my mouth. Though I couldn't help scrunching up my face in despair as I watched pieces of rubbish floating by.

In the middle of this scene of defined unfairness and poverty, was a wet middle aged man. He was standing over what seemed to be a gutter hole, handing various instruments to someone submerged, who occasionally came for air.

When he seemed to be less busy, I apologetically asked him, what way was best to cross the heavily flooded road. I didn't feel like swimming in sewage.

 He pulled his son out of the gutter, pointed at me and told his son to help me cross. I smiled at the young teenager covered in dirt, who was quickly washing his face and hands from the remnants of his hard work. He led me across, an ingenious technique using a long stick and stacks of bricks, helped prevent getting soaked in the flood water. I thanked him sincerely, and watched him safely make his way back.

I wandered around the area, occasionally being asked if I needed any help, or if I was stranded. I smiled my thanks, and continued my winding way. Avoiding as much as possible, and not being able to meet the eyes of anyone passing by.

It's hard to witness the extent of how different the circumstances are in one small city.

Taxi 1.5

It's actually killing me.

I should really learn not to get into taxis with a driver over the age of 40.

They're taking advantage of me travelling alone, I realize angrily. As well as their angry stares and mumbling get on my nerves. I put up with too much, out of respect for the grey hairs on their head.

Walking is still not as common as I'd wish it was, especially walking between districts in Baghdad. Yesterday , after what seemed like 100 beeps and horns, I screamed into empty air.
'I'm walking on the pavement!'.
Well, technically, it can't exactly be referred to as a pavement, but it's not the road. The 20cm wide concrete block on one side of the road ,is difficult for even cats to balance on.

I dodge three more murky pools of water, that smell sweetly of sewage. (And they said there's a water shortage! )

No wonder this was voted worst city in the world.

Beautiful Baghdad, I've missed you.

The paper from Najaf - 2

I'm instantly taken to the women's quarters, as soon as I've finished talking with my father. He seems more preoccupied than usual.

I fear the phone call  from my mother. I know it will be filled with angry rhetoric, though I don't understand her unwillingness to accept that I do not want the life she imagines for me.
I tell her it is insipid and tedious. She tells me every girl would kill for a comfortable life in a safe place.
Why don't I see sense, she laments.

I smile and nod at a passing toothless grin. There's been several attempts to eavesdrop on my phone conversation, resulting in me lowering the phone volume. Merely breathing can become a topic of gossip, so I'm taking extra precautions to save myself.

We go to the city market mid evening. I'm choked by its emptiness. In the back of my mind, I know it will get busier as soon as Eid festival approaches. But its deathly silence and hardened stares of shopkeepers, tell me exactly what I don't want to hear.

I try to buy colourful chinese junk from every other stall keeper, under the disapproving glares of my father.
It's not for me, I mumble, well aware of my reputation. My bedroom is known as the storage facility for the sheer amount of clutter I manage to collect. Annually, someone tries to 'tidy' the bomb site up, as I beg to keep yet another 'sentimental' scrap. 

There's been a clear handover. Once run by men older than my father, the shops have been passed over to a considerably angrier younger generation. They wear bright colours, and their ages don't match their weathered skin, and tired eyes.
Everything smells of stale smoke, from the tracksuits to the teddy bears.

The shopkeepers loiter over to each other, and whisper. I'm a curious being, and I strain to hear words floating aimlessly. It's torture, made only more difficult by my father's resolution to seemingly have an half hour conversation with every man around.
You're not going to get a discount, I muse, as I try to hide my grin.

On our return, gender separation ensues, as my father nods me off.
 Tomorrow is important, he stresses. I have no idea why.  On the breaking of dawn, all is revealed, as shiny car after shiny car lines the dirty village streets. There's going to be one of those meetings. The ones I always used to make fun of. I peer curiously from the rooftop, where the girls are rushing around, trying to collect the trays of dried tomatoes, and halfheartedly drag bags of rice and flour down the steep stone steps. I offer help, though they refuse, telling me I'm their guest. Deja Vu.

I hate always being the guest, though I doubt I'd ever be much of a good host.
I sit in the -now empty- ladies living room, as I hear the not so faint greetings from the men's room. I wish I knew what this one was about, though I'm sure it will become obvious. These things never start or end quietly.

Geography

Erbil is the new Baghdad.
Baghdad is the new Najaf.
Najaf is the new Qom.

The Paper from Najaf - 1

There's no such thing as 'middle' in Iraq any more. It's either dirt poor or stinking rich. I constantly feel guilty and unable to put up with the antics of the so called (boring) bourgeois.

The endless dinner parties, the stretched smiles, the endless questioning , and the hapless endeavours to show off to one another.
Unwilling to participate in such a monkey's tea party, I ended up constantly being criticized, so I did what I normally do. I ran away! Not literally, but figuratively speaking.

My normal refuge (my grandparent's house a few blocks down the road), was empty save for the guard outside. And he wasn't great conversation. They needed cooler climate, so I sorely missed them for a few weeks. I would sneak in, to the detriment of the guard, who constantly worried 'something would happen'. He refused to understand why I preferred to spend my hours wallowing around an empty old house instead of my parent's excessive furnishings.

I don't want a headache, I would reply laughing. Yet he would still usher me out, his hands flapping like chicken wings, as his eyes quickly darting from left to right. 

Anyway, back to the main event!  So as soon as a trip to Diyala was discussed, I grabbed the opportunity over enthusiastically, despite knowing I would inevitably suffer under their archaic rules for a while.

My father was already there, and the rest of the family had to stay in Baghdad. I decided I would make the trip alone. After all, they did all trust the driver. I could also use the situation to my advantage, to convince them to actually let me drive around.

The drive was quite short, as far as any road trip around Iraq goes. I sat at the back, where the air conditioning wasn't as effective. Halfway through, at a village stop, I switched to sitting at the front, grinning at the cooler blast of air.
Although young, the driver doesn't speak much, and instead grunted a minimalist conversation. He does however, give a lot of commands. After a while, my polite acceptance wears off.
'I wouldn't have sat at the front, if I knew you'd make me your right arm'
His laugh echoes in the empty car for a while, but thankfully he starts to pay more attention to driving.

As we draw ever closer to the village's winding dirt roads, he tells me politely if I want to wear my hijab now. I tell him I don't wear one in the village, and he asks if there's been any backlash against my father because of it. I shrug. How would I know.

He reminds me of the lies that I'm supposed to remember. I wasn't studying abroad, but in Baghdad, and I haven't visited, because education takes up all of my time. 'Take it seriously', he tells me earnestly, as he catches a glimpse of me smiling.

I stand sheepishly at the door, with no luggage. Nothing I could pack would be useful anyway. After listening to the shouting caused by my not so timid knocks, the worn gate is opened.

Colonization

So much to write, so much learned!

The driver and I have got into yet another verbal scrabble. Travel weary, and slowly sinking due to the heat, I continue my conversation with the driver. He asks, and I answer, though my throat is bone dry.
   A knock on the window interrupts the hacked sentences exchanged between us. A boy, or was it a young man? I cease to be able to tell their ages anymore. The driver buys the customary chewing gum and the glass starts to scale slowly upwards.

'I say, please give him this'.
'Give it to him yourself'. He replies, looking up at the rear view mirror.
      I angrily open the door, to look for the man-boy. He is long gone, my regret and anger meaning I spend the rest of a day in a sombre mood. I never realised how far the gap between social classes is becoming. The crack is becoming filled with mere children.

The driver tells my mother I need to learn how to control my 'natra', or temper. 'No man can put up with that'. Somehow I end up giggling at that, and try to hide it amongst ill-placed coughs.
 I try to seek solace in speaking with my Grandfather. He asks me what I've learnt. I excitedly tell him all I've seen, and the use it can present.
Smiling, he asks me if I've found my expiration date stamped somewhere. 'There's no need to rush life'.

Agriculture

Let us see how the seeds are sown.

Sectarian Shame

I found it horrendous at first, when listening to my Iraqi comrades. They would inform me of the Bahrain atrocities. When I would add I hoped the best for Bahrainis, and the Syrian people, their heads would shake solemnly.

Phrases such as don't believe the TV/media, for it was all controlled by [insert suitable conspiracy group here]. Really the Syrian government was great, and there was no bad guys there.
Double standards make my blood boil.

The reason, Iraqis home and abroad, backed the Syrian Regime, was quite a simple one. The Government was a Shia based sect. Admittedly, it's not the same sect exactly, but hate blinds those gifted with eyes. My reasoning fell on deaf ears.

Woe this tribal mentality. It stretches to even international matters, over-riding even the humanitarian instinct! To that extent? It's scary, if these poisoned thoughts will trickle down the generations. I really hope it won't.

If the Sunni majority do end up taking power in Syria, certain Iraqis (the Army General types) have made it heard on the 'down-low' that this may not bode well for Iraq as a country.
   The new Syrian power may provide a spine for the people of Sunni dominated governates & cities to rise and either carry out attacks against the current Iraqi government, or push for a Sunni State.
       And thus separation would occur,with separate Kurdish, Shia and Sunni States. (Sorry Iraqi Assyrians,Christians, Mandeans, Sabeans, Syriac,Turkoman,Yazidis etc if you try really hard, you can get a small piece of land too).

I itched for someone to point out that this was all assumptions. Why are our eyes on our neighbours back yards, when our own gardens are overgrown jungles, festering with pests and weeds?
  It's sadly because we have fallen into a 'my family' mentality yet again. We can all regress back to our tribal ways.Why pretend it is otherwise? Even the international world can see through our transparent veil.

Many have forgotten the value of human life. It is that, which should be placed above blindly backing 'our group'. I couldn't say anything.I'd already made one of the guests start shouting, if I'd want to be present again, I had to make sure I spent the rest of the evening smiling and batting my eyelashes.

Eazy

Apparently I make things harder. Though written in English, it looks funny. When said to me in Arabic, it was food for thought.

I laugh it off. There may be no water, but I can always bathe in my own sweat.

I look a little enviously at all the summer visitors. Their cameras snap crazily, as every little thing is photo worthy, ready to change the land of decades in a few days. I remember when I would answer that there was undoubtedly no beauty such as Iraq.
Now I readily hesitate in my answer, and guffaw at the awful jokes of lack of everything.

The days and hours slowly ooze past, oozing like the many bug bites scattered over my arms and legs.
 I really should wear some of that nasty smelling cream. Apparently it works, though I have to restrain myself from looking at the ingredients - if they're written that is. I contemplate whether I should risk putting toxic stuff on my skin or suffering bites and bleeds.

I've broken two nails trying to pick a lock. I spend my nights giggling until the dawn interrupts.

I realize I am lucky.

Test

If this works...then telecommunications aren't as bad as I thought they were.