Mayada, Daughter of Iraq: One Woman's Survival Under Saddam Hussein Page 8
She stared for a moment at the three men questioning her and wondered what they might say if they knew she had Saddam’s private telephone number. But she knew deep down that she was not a close family friend whom Saddam would bother to defend. Besides, he was a paranoid man who had deceived and even killed close family members. If he happened to hear that someone was disloyal, he accepted the accusation without question. She recalled how Saddam had trusted Dr. Fadil for more than twenty years, but that when a false allegation against Fadil was raised, Saddam had been ruthless.
“Go!” The leader shouted at her. “Get out of my sight!”
Mayada looked at him intently for a brief moment and was tempted to ask how it was possible to hate a woman he did not know, but she didn’t dare. She collected herself by taking a few deep breaths and then stood and walked slowly to the door, for it was important to her that she hide her fear in front of these men.
The same men waited outside the door to walk her back to the cell, and one of the two appeared to be sleeping with his head resting against the wall. Mayada cleared her throat and both men jumped to attention. When she stepped outside the door, she saw that another prisoner was waiting to go into the interrogation room. He was extremely thin, almost ghost-like, and he squatted on the floor. When Mayada walked out, he stood. Mayada thought then that rather than a ghost, he resembled a swaying palm tree. His face was badly bruised and he had the saddest eyes Mayada had ever seen. A guard pushed him roughly toward the door of the room she had just exited. The guard was exceptionally cruel, cursing him and ordering him to move when it was clear that the man did not have the strength to stand upright. Mayada and the thin man exchanged a look. She had a strong sense that today was the last day of that poor man’s life, but she smiled, hoping that somehow the smile of a woman would lift his spirits. He must have thought the same, for he took a big chance that won him a blow to his bruised face when he said, “Contact my family for me. I am Professor . . .” but his words were cut short. He was lifted off his feet and tossed like a bag of dried hay into the interrogation room.
Back in her cell, there was an air of excitement. Two new prisoners had just arrived, bringing their number to twenty. When she heard the news, Mayada searched the cell for new faces. But Samara hustled her to the bunk and asked for every detail of her interrogation. “Tell me everything,” she demanded.
After Mayada gave her the full account, Samara leaped to her feet and praised Allah, saying, “Our Mayada has just experienced three miracles. I have been in Baladiyat for four months and I have never heard of such a thing.”
Mayada was smiling. Samara was so theatrical. She posed with one hand on her hip and gestured with the other. “Here are the miracles. Number one: The interrogators sent for Mayada the very day after her detention. This, as we all know, never happens. These cruel men always let a new prisoner sit in the cell and suffer for a few days first. Number two: Mayada was not physically mistreated. Again, this never happens. They always like to inflict torture. Number three: No real questions were asked. The interrogator even admitted that Mayada’s computers were clean.”
Samara then clapped her hands together. “Three miracles. This means our Mayada is not long for cell 52.” Samara smiled broadly. Everyone in this cell think of the messages you want to send to your families. Mayada will be released soon.“ She turned to Mayada. “You will be our carrier pigeon, Mayada. In Baladiyat, freed prisoners are our only method of sending out messages.”
Samara was so positively enthusiastic that a small gleam of hope began to grow in Mayada’s heart that perhaps her time in Baladiyat actually would be brief.
But just as her spirits began to be lifted by the thought that she would soon see Fay and Ali, the women heard boots running in the hallway and secret police shouting, “His heart stopped!”
It was forbidden, but Mayada dropped to her knees and opened the slit where their food was shoved into the cell. There was the professor. He was lying flat in the prison hallway. Mayada was struck with a great sadness that she had been unable to catch his name, so that someone might notify his family.
She turned and looked at Samara. “Why are they upset that he is dead? They are the ones who killed him.”
Samara shrugged and told her what she had already guessed. “With certain prisoners they desire additional information. They are experts at keeping the ones they are questioning one breath away from death. It is a game for them to see if they can push and pull a human back and forth, in and out of the grave. When a prisoner dies one moment before they wish them dead, it is considered a failure.”
The tragic end of the professor instantly switched Mayada’s mood from sweet anticipation to bitter sadness, and she returned to the bunk and lay quietly. She had been in prison for only one day, yet it already felt like a lifetime.
The sounds of the other nineteen chattering shadow women, crowded in a tiny space, increased to a loud crescendo. The foul smells from the toilet seemed to cling to her clothes and her skin and her hair. Although the day had hardly begun, she was tired. She closed her eyes. Drawn to the power of her memories, she thought about her mother’s father, her grandfather Sati, the man who also became a legend in the Arab world. She wondered what her Jido Sati, as she called him, would say if he knew that his precious little granddaughter was locked in the notorious Baladiyat prison.
3
Jido Sati
Lying silent on her hard metal bunk, Mayada recalled the way her maternal grandfather, whom she called Jido Sati, clasped his hands behind his back when he paced in his office or walked in his garden. She remembered how he would rest his index finger against his face while he thought at his desk, his mind ranging far for solutions to weighty concerns. She recalled how he was so neat that every paper in his massive office was organized perfectly, despite its overflowing wealth of books and notes. She remembered how she loved to watch him methodically gather stationery and special pens when he prepared for a journey.
Mayada closed her eyes in Baladiyat and opened them in the village of Beit Meri, the quiet Lebanese mountain resort to which Jido Sati always took the family for holidays at his summer house. Suddenly it was 1962, and Mayada was living with her parents and younger sister in Beirut. She was a young girl, years before the civil war in Lebanon shattered everything.
It was a special summer day. She was seven years old and Jido Sati was an old man of eighty-two, although even at that ripe old age he had the physical appearance and good health of a man twenty years his junior.
Jido Sati had always been known as the family alarm clock because he was the first to awaken every morning at 6:30 sharp. On that day he slipped into the room where Mayada was sleeping with her younger sister, Abdiya. When Jido Sati saw Mayada’s eyes flicker in recognition, he whispered so not to wake Abdiya and invited Mayada to join him for breakfast. Flattered to be singled out, Mayada moved quietly from the bed and slipped on the little shiny robe her father had bought her in a special shop for children in Geneva.
The silky pink dressing gown made her feel as sophisticated as her glamorous mother, Salwa, when she was attired in a ball gown for a glittering social event. With that image in her mind, Mayada made a grand entrance into the kitchen, her silken robe sweeping the floor. She laughed happily as Jido Sati pulled out her chair and indicated that his little princess should sit and join him for breakfast. She was finally a big girl and felt proud that she remembered to drink her orange juice without slurping, and to swallow her eggs and toast before speaking. Jido Sati breakfasted on toast, cheese and tea, and offered topics he knew interested Mayada, such as her books, and her sketching and painting. He promised Mayada that one day when she was older, he would indulge her with a special holiday trip to the art-filled city of her choice.
After breakfast they ambled out to the balcony to admire the view. She watched his face rather than the view and looked into his widely spaced, honey-shaded eyes that were a fount of kindness. She had once overheard a woman remark that
Jido Sati was not a physically attractive man, but that few noticed because his amazing intellect, wise actions and mild demeanor created such an aura of handsome strength and honor. She listened carefully while Jido Sati gave her a little history lesson. He told her that the small village of Beit Meri had been occupied since the time of the Phoenicians, and that there were wonderful ruins from the Roman and Byzantine periods that she was now old enough to appreciate. He promised that they would visit those ruins during the holiday. Beit Meri was seventeen kilometers from the center of Beirut and 800 meters above sea level, and Jido Sati’s summer house was perfectly situated to provide an unspoiled view of Beirut from the front balcony. A second wonderful vista, of the deep valley Hanr al-Jamani, lay beyond the small terrace at the villa’s rear.
It was a cool morning, although the bright sun was shining over the mountain ridges, and Mayada stood quietly as Jido Sati stared down at lovely Beirut jutting out into the Mediterranean. He lifted her in his arms to point out some of the larger yachts anchored in the harbor, which belonged to wealthy sheiks from various oil-rich nations. Sati told her that he had been on a number of those vessels for one business meeting or another. One day, he said, he would take the family for a little journey out to sea. Mayada enjoyed a fleeting look at the yachts and knew that someday she would sail away on the blue sea, because Jido Sati never broke a promise. Then she tried in vain to search for the rooftop of their home in Beirut, but was unable to find it in the maze of brightly colored roofs that spread over the sprawling city.
Jido Sati had always insisted upon morning walks, and after surveying the beauty of the surrounding scenery, he called out for Mayada’s nanny, an Assyrian Christian woman named Anna. He asked her to dress his granddaughter appropriately for a little walk. Mayada could recall the sleekness of her nanny’s long, blue-black hair slipping through her small fingers as Anna pulled a simple blue shift over Mayada’s head. She sat and stared into Anna’s beautiful green eyes, fringed by the longest black eyelashes she had ever seen, as the woman slid comfortable walking shoes on Mayada’s small feet. Properly dressed, she happily followed Jido Sati from the villa and down the staircase, out into the winding road that would take them to Broummana, a nearby village famous for its quaint little cafés, shops and restaurants.
Sati and Mayada walked past a row of multicolored flower beds, and when she leaned down to pluck a bright yellow flower in full bloom, her grandfather gently reminded her that it was not nice to take even the smallest flower without first seeking the owner’s permission. But he assured her not to worry; he would buy her a colorful bouquet in Broummana and she could share it with Abdiya. He suggested that the two girls could arrange a nice display for the dinner table.
Mayada reluctantly pulled her hand back from the beckoning flower and recalled a conversation she had overheard between her parents. Her mother said that her father Sati was the most respected man in the Middle East because he had never spoken a lie in his life. He had stood so firmly by his principles of Arab Nationalism, which won him the devoted affection of every Arab, that the British authorities had been fearful of his influence. The British governors had confiscated his passport and escorted him, his wife and children out of Iraq with a stern warning to never return to the land he loved. Every Arab leader had offered Sati citizenship in their respective countries, but he had gently refused; he explained that Arabs should be able to travel from one Arab land to the other without restrictions. Even without a passport, Sati Al-Husri was warmly received in every Arab land not controlled by the British.
Though at Jido Sati’s insistence she had not plucked the colorful and fragrant flower, Mayada enjoyed their walk immensely. The trail was canopied by Lebanese pines that lent a nice shade, although the path was a bit too steep for Mayada’s short legs. But when Sati noticed that his granddaughter was hiking with some difficulty, he slowed down and took the opportunity to ask her about her favorite subjects at school.
Mayada was a bit of an unruly child. Several years earlier, Jido Sati had suggested to her parents that her rowdy manners might be improved if she were enrolled at the German Kindergarten and Primary School in Beirut, and they had taken his advice. Although the instructors had been very strict, she had benefited from the discipline.
Mayada was startled that he seemed so familiar with her classes and assignments, and she began to wonder if he had somehow slipped into her classes unobserved. She gave a small cry of pleasure when he told her he was so impressed with her drawings that he had bought her a small gift of artist’s brushes and paints, and that he hoped she would put on a formal exhibition. Mayada was so excited by the prospect that she wanted to spin around on the trail, return to the villa to grasp those brushes between her fingers so she might begin to make masterful strokes on a canvas. But her grandfather laughed and told her it was important for artists to consider their ideas before flinging themselves into a frenzy of work. He told her he would give her two weeks to plan, paint and organize before showing her work.
Her grandfather kept his word—two weeks later, he meticulously arranged an exhibition of Mayada’s art. Adults and classmates alike came to view her drawings, and many people said she would become a world-famous artist. But Jido Sati cautioned her to always remain modest about her accomplishments, and he reminded her that nothing truly mattered but her own sense of satisfaction.
Seven years later, when she was nearly fourteen, Jido Sati died. Soon after, Mayada’s mother sorted through the deceased man’s important papers, and Mayada was touched to tears when she discovered, neatly packed away in a cardboard box with his most valuable papers, her childish drawings.
Mayada still possessed the memory of that perfect summer morning in Beit Meri. She’d felt a sense of pride to be Jido Sati’s only walking companion that day, though every time they passed a villa or encountered people on the trail, the neighbors and townspeople bowed and called out their greetings of honor. Each passerby made a big to-do over her grandfather. She was not surprised at their reaction, because it had been that way as long as she could remember.
After the British themselves had been forced to depart Iraq, the Iraqis had called for Sati Al-Husri to come home. He returned to exultant Baghdad streets that teemed with placard-carrying admirers and a huge celebration that swelled throughout the country. Each time Sati Al-Husri traveled to Baghdad to visit his daughter, Salwa, a festival would erupt and their home along the banks of the Tigris would be filled from early morning until late evening with visitors, each clamoring to pay respect to the man they lovingly called the “Father of Arab Nationalism.”
Mayada almost shared the same birthday with her grandfather. Sati Al-Husri was born on August 5, 1879, and she was born on August 6, 1955. It was her mother’s ambition that her first child would arrive on her father’s birthday. Mayada’s parents were visiting Beirut when her mother was due to give birth and Salwa was so driven to make the birthdates coincide that she tried to induce labor by walking long hours through the streets of Beirut with her husband. Years later, her father laughingly told Mayada that Salwa had forced him to walk the entire length of Bliss Street, which was near the American University of Beirut, toward Uncle Sam’s Snack Bar, and then back to Sadat Street and to Ain Al-Miraisa. Despite Salwa’s efforts, she did not go into labor with Mayada until August 6.
This special link of their birthdays was only part of the ideal relationship between Jido Sati and Mayada. Jido Sati had been extraordinarily committed to his granddaughter since she could first remember, an intimacy that buoyed Mayada, since he was the only grandfather she had ever known. Mayada’s paternal grandfather, Jafar Pasha Al-Askari, had been murdered nineteen years before Mayada was born. Although the stirring tales about Jafar Pasha were stimulating to hear, and while her father, Nizar, whom she loved with complete devotion, was utterly dedicated to his father’s memory, those stories could not be a substitute for a grandfather like Sati, whom she could see in the flesh and who took an intense interest in every detail of
her young life.
In 1879, when Mayada’s grandfather Sati Al-Husri was born, enormous change was coming to the Arab region. Sultan Abdul Hamid II was the sovereign of the vast Ottoman Empire, which had been in existence for close to 600 years. However, the stage was set for the dissolution of the empire—the Balkan peoples were discovering their own national identities and were breaking away from the Ottomans to forge their own nations. Meanwhile, Russia was pressuring the Ottoman borders from the east, while England was marching in on Egypt.
Sati’s father, Hilal, one of the Sultan’s trusted advisors, was highly educated. He had graduated from the Al-Azhar, Egypt’s great theological school, and at the time of Sati’s birth served as a Supreme Judge and as Head of the Court of Appeal in Yemen. Hilal Al-Husri’s influential family tree traced back to Al-Hassan bin Ali Bin Abi Talib, the grandson of the Prophet Mohammad. This undiluted link to the Prophet’s family had been authenticated in Al-Azhar during the sixteenth century.
Sati was born in the city of Lahaj, Yemen, where his father held an important government post. From his birth Sati had been exceptionally close to his adored mother, but his father aggrieved him by continually bringing additional brides into his mother’s home. Each time a new marriage took place, Sati would plot his revenge. Sneaking pails of water to the upper balconies, he would wait until the young brides passed beneath to pour the jugs of water on them. His mother was a godly woman and pleaded with her son to curb his mischief. She assured him that Allah would have better things for her in heaven and that earthly challenges were to be met with dignity and grace.