There Lived in Baghdad

By M.D. Mazumdar

Against the background of the US invasion of Iraq in 2003, the story follows the life of two people.

Sameera Begum is an ordinary woman living in extraordinary times. It is a time when Baghdad is being bombed to smithereens. A time when Sameera, a simple housewife, evolves from what she was to what she never thought she would ever become.

Mike Pettee is a young marine in the United States Army. Trained and primed for war, he had never actually fought in one. And when thrust into the frontlines, he discovers that war, as he had thought it would be, is very different from war as it actually turns out to be.

This is a story of these two people. Two people unaware of each other’s existence. Two people whose lives moved on paths that were completely different and separate from each other. Yet, these were paths destined to meet at a crossroad. Two lines moving towards a single point.

• Language: English
• Publisher: M.D. Mazumdar
• Release date: Apr 15, 2011
• ISBN: 9781370717248

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There Lived in Baghdad

By

M.D.Mazumdar

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2011 M.D.Mazumdar

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work

of this author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

CHAPTER I

I hope none of us die.

The words hung in the air. A soft whisper, but clearly audible.

Should she say anything in reply? Sameera wondered. Or would it be better to ignore the comment? She was familiar with the note of fear in it. The same fear haunted her own thoughts day and night - I hope none of us die…. I hope and wish and pray none of us die.

Inshallah, she muttered, sitting up straighter in her chair, Allah Willing, none of us will die.

She glanced sympathetically at her sister-in-law. Mustapha was lying motionless on a couch near her. Nine months pregnant and with war looming ahead, she looked crushed with fear and despair.

Coming here always depressed Sameera. Mustapha and her mother-in-law, Amu Fouad, lived in poverty and it showed. Her husband had disappeared six months ago and they had had no news of him since then. This was not uncommon in Baghdad under Saddam Hussain and they had no hopes of seeing him again. They managed to get by on whatever they made stitching kaftans for other women.

Are you crying again, Mustapha? Amu Fouad glared at her daughter-in-law, I have told you again and again not to cry. What’s the use of crying? How will it change anything? Whatever will happen will happen. If we die, we die, that’s all.

Amu Fouad sat on a low divan placed against the wall, her legs crossed under her. A tall bony woman, she looked as if the scorching sun had sucked out every drop of moisture from her, leaving her as dry and as brittle as the desert sands. The three sharp straight lines on her forehead quivered, eyes dilated with fear.

I am so scared, a tear trickled down Mustapha’s nose. She wiped it away, sniffing.

Who isn’t? Sameera wanted to reply. But she didn’t. Today after all, could well be the day before the first day of war. It was a day for being afraid. A day for shared fear.

She looked at her watch and sucked in her breath with a sharp sss….ssssss, 3pm already! I am late! I’ll have to leave now. She picked up her blue plastic shopping bag and reached out to touch Mustapha’s arm.

Don’t worry, she said, I’m sure everything will be all right.

Amu Fouad stood up slowly to see her to the door.

Sameera walked quickly across the room looking around her as she did so.

Everything in the room was faded and old and worn. The furniture, the curtains, the bedspreads – everything. Even the mirror on the wall was spotted, its blue plastic frame faded to a patchy blue-white. A print hanging next to it showed a woman in a burqa peering out from behind a blue curtain. Across its base was written:

‘A woman in a veil,

Like a pearl in its shell.’

A fine layer of dust, like brown face powder, coated the frame.

The fridge in the corner squeaked, hesitated and then resumed its low hum. Sameera gave it a quick glance. Its rusted handle was broken on one side, Strips of white paint had peeled off its body - as if a particularly large cat had sharpened its claws on it. The brown iron underneath showed. A white ceramic plate stood on its tiny stand on the fridge. On it, in beautiful flowing Arabic alphabets was written in dark blue ‘Allah’.

There was an almost palpable smell of fear and uncertainty in the house.

Don’t worry, Mustapha, she said again glancing back as she reached the door, you will be all right. Keep us informed. Salaam Aleikum. Peace upon you.

Ma’as Salaam. Go without fear. Mustapha and Amu Fouad murmered in reply.

Closing the door softly behind her, Sameera walked quickly through the narrow alley. A group of scraggy boys were playing street football. Tins filled with sand for goalposts. A small blue rubber ball. Somebody scored a goal and the boys jumped and cheered madly. They showed no signs of fear, of being aware of the war ahead.

She skirted the children carefully, keeping a cautious eye on the flying ball.

Walking out of the alley, she took a shortcut through a rundown children’s park. Everything here was dusty and neglected. The swings coated in dust hung forlornly on the ropes, the see-saw was a resting place for dust, the slides played host to dusty windblown leaves. Fallen leaves danced along the narrow path, raising spirals of dust at her feet. There was a dry smell of dust in the air. It was a depressing sight. But she was in too much of a hurry to notice. She walked briskly, a women alone in a lonely, dusty world.

The wind was gusty and strong. It tugged at her abaya, making the black gown flap at her ankles. She held the hijab tightly against her head to prevent it from coming loose. A small truant lock of hair escaped from the hijab and danced on her temple. She tucked it in firmly.

At 36 years, she was still a very beautiful woman. Her thick, naturally curly, dark brown hair reached her waist. Warm, honey brown eyes, sensitive lips. Her fair complexion was clear and had a radiance found only in the very young. She was proud of her complexion. Her hijab did a good job of protecting her from the sun.

The sun itself was a hazy yellow against the dull, metallic blue sky. It beat down mercilessly on her head. Sweat coursed through her hair making her scalp itch. Patches of sweat showed on her back. Round half-circles of wetness spread under her armpits. Her thighs were slick with sweat. They rubbed against each other as she walked, chaffing the inner sides. She should have put powder on them before she came out, she thought. Now, they would be all red and blistered by the time she reached home.

She reached the other side of the park and stepped out into a wide street. The bus-stop was not far and she walked faster.

There were not many people waiting for the bus today. An old man in a dirty white turban and distasa leaned against a lamppost. He pulled deeply at the cigarette in his hand and let out the smoke in dry coughs. Hack, Hack, Hack - and the smoke spurted out of his mouth and nostrils in quick leaps and bounds. He spat into the street. Tuberculosis? Perhaps, Sameera grimaced, moving away to a safer distance.

She craned her neck to look for the bus. It was late today. She wished it would come quickly. She wanted to reach home before dark. There were very few people on the streets nowadays, and it would become empty well before night fell.

She looked around her as she waited for it. The al-Ahmediya area was one of the posh areas of Baghdad. The streets were wide and straight, the pavements broad and well maintained. Heat waves shimmered over the street creating an illusion of flowing, sparkling water.

Tall trees with big leafy crowns stood like sentinels along the street at a regulation distance from each other. They cast a welcoming shade in the hot sun. But no one rested in this shade. This area housed the quarters of the ruling Ba’athist party. Anyone caught loitering would be immediately picked up and questioned.

The cars on the road here were new and gleaming - Volkswagon, Beetles, Mercedes. They passed over the smooth asphalt with a barely heard hiss. The drivers blew their horns with an arrogant and peremptory parp-parp. The rich in Baghdad did not walk. They zipped past in sleek cars with dark, tinted glasses.

The people who walked on these streets were mostly poor people like Sameera and they walked with their eyes on the ground, minding their own business.

The posh bungalows behind well guarded high walls were set among beautifully laid gardens filled with flowering plants and shrubs. Water - scarce in other parts of the city - gurgled from fountains. The bungalows, made in expensive pale-brown sandstone or white marble, were two or three floors high with terraces and balconies. They were luxuriously furnished with every comfort known to man.

She stood up straighter and clutched at her bag firmly as a red double-decker bus pulled to a creaking stop. Like everything else meant for the poor in Iraq, it too was nearing breaking point, its engines gasping out black smelly smoke from the exhaust pipes every minute.

Sameera clambered through the front door into the women’s section of the bus. It was near empty and she sank gratefully into a window seat. It was dry and hot inside the bus - an oven smelling of sweat. A woman sitting across the aisle raised the veil of her burqa over her face when she caught Sameera’s eye and smiled.

Hot, isn’t it? Would you like some water? she said, fishing out a plastic bottle half-filled with water from her bag.

Sameera took a small sip gratefully. The water was warm but at least she could wet her mouth with it. She rolled the water slowly around her mouth and swallowed it. She returned the bottle, having taken only a small drink. Water was scarce and she did not want to use up too much of the old woman’s supply.

It was stiflingly hot. She settled into her seat and took out a newspaper from her bag. Fanning herself, she gazed out of the window. The bungalows looked cool and inviting.

Have you been inside one of them? the old woman gave a quick glance around her and leaned towards her. Sameera could feel her hot breath on her face. It smelt of stale tobacco. She pressed back against the seat.

Did you notice the one we just passed? The one made with brown sandstone and blue tiles? I work there, the woman leaned even closer and almost whispered into her ears, it is Deputy Director Aziz’s house. She sat back to look at Sameera proudly, rather like a magician who has just displayed a particularly difficult trick.

How nice, Sameera tried to look suitably impressed. She was not really in the mood to talk. But she was too polite to hurt the old woman’s feelings, especially after she had just shared her water.

Sameera had always been well-behaved. In her teens, the neighbours had pointed her out to their daughters as an example to follow. She was, they said, polite, quiet, docile, obedient, everything a woman should be.

She had not had many friends among other girls her age.

Now she said, politely, quietly, Is the house very beautiful?

Oh yes! very, the woman preened, all the floors are covered with white marble. There are lovely designs carved on the ceilings and walls, glass chandeliers, brocade curtains and hangings, velvet cushions. The taps in the bathroom and all other fittings have been brought from Europe and they are beautiful. The taps in the master bathroom are plated with gold. One is shaped like a lions head. When you press on the left ear, cold water comes out from the mouth and when you press on the right ear, hot water comes out. Oh! it is so lovely.

Sameera nodded. She wished the bus would go faster. But it would probably break down if it did, she thought sourly.

The mansions rushed past them, arrogantly and coldly beautiful.

There had been a time, nine or ten years ago, when she and her husband Ali had also hoped to have a small house of their own someday. Ali and his brother Adil had owned a car-for-hire agency then. Those had been happy times, with money in their hands and dreams about the future.

And then Adil had been picked up for suspected links with Shia rebels. Sameera shuddered at the recollection.

They had not known where he had been taken. Ali and his father, Ferozuddin, had enquired everywhere, asked everyone who knew anyone with connections to someone who was likely to know anything. But Adil had disappeared completely. There was no news of him anywhere.

And then suddenly, in the middle of one cold night in December, the door to their house had come crashing down. Men in black uniforms, scarves wrapped around their faces, had come barging in. Ali and Ferozuddin were rounded up and herded into the outer room. The women had been huddled into another room and repeatedly questioned.

Where is Adil?

We do not know, her mother-in-law, Noor had replied, He has been taken away by the Police.

How long has he been a member of the rebels? Are any of the other men also a part of the gang?

Noor had trembled with fright but she was not about to give up on any of her sons without a fight.

My son is not a rebel. None of them are. Send my Adil back to me at once.

One of the men had moved forward with a raised arm. Sameera, holding Mustapha, then six year old, in her arms had screamed, No! Please don’t! She is old. She does not know what she is saying. Please forgive her.

The men had moved back to the outer room, to Ali and Ferozuddin. And loud rasping voices had rung through the house.

How long has your son been involved with the rebels?

He is not……….

Why have you not reported him?

Do you know what we do to people like you?

I do not know what you are talking about.

Give us the names of all his friends.

THUMP - Ali had been pushed against the wall.

THUD - that had been the table being overturned.

SMASH - the cups and plates displayed so lovingly in the cupboard had been broken.

And the sound of slaps!

SLAP - you bloody rebel!

SLAAP - how dare you talk back to me!

SLAAP SLAAP - I’ll show you , you bastard, you low-down rat - SLAAP.

The men had tied up Ali’s hands behind his back and put a brown bag over his head. They had then dragged him off for more questioning at the headquarters.

He had been bound up in the torture chamber for a whole week. The torture chamber was a wooden structure, a cage, shaped somewhat like a human being. It was so small and narrow, that once strapped in, Ali had not been able to move any part of his body. His head poked out through a small opening on top of the cage. There had been only sips of water, no food. But there had been no confession either. What could he confess? He knew nothing.

For some time, he had even been hung up on the wall like a carcass, legs held in place by rings around his ankles, head hanging down, and hit repeatedly on his soles with a pickaxe-like stick called the al-Falaca.

Thin trickles of warm blood mixed with his sweat had poured down his legs. The searing pain had brought on bouts of dizziness, periods of unconsciousness.

But he had not spoken against his brother. How could he? He knew nothing. And his stubbornness had defeated his torturers.

A group of them had gathered around him in his cell one day.

They are going to kill me, he had panicked, they are going to kill me now.

Stand up, one of them had said.

He did so slowly, his legs trembling.

The leader, a tall, muscular man, had placed a large hand on his chest. Ali could see the thick veins on the hand. Engorged, full veins. They ran like the tributaries of a river just under the skin, over the wrist, along the curve of his arm, to disappear under the rolled up cuffs of his shirt at his elbow.

We have orders to release you, the man had smiled, a gentle, friendly smile.

A gush of relief had flooded Ali’s body. And he had made the mistake of smiling back at the man.

Instantly the man’s smile had changed into a ferocious grimace, the muscles on his arm had bunched and he had shoved. Hard. Ali had stumbled back, lost his balance and crashed against the wall.

But, again the friendly, pleasant smile, But, we will keep our eyes on you. And next time, well, there will be a next time, right? And then you had better look out. He wagged his finger in a show of mock anger.

But Ali had known that the anger was very much real, lurking just under that pleasant smile. He and his father had never dared to bring up Adil’s name again, never dared to search for him. And they had never seen him again.

Was he dead? Or a prisoner somewhere? They never found out.

Ali’s agency had been shut down by the authorities. Their house and all the cars had been confiscated. They had had to move out to a smaller rented apartment in the poorer al-Shula district.

Now, Ali just managed to feed his family on what he could earn from driving another man’s taxi. And, Sameera had had to take up a teacher’s job for some extra money. It wasn’t much, but it helped pay for things not provided in the monthly government food package.

And, with the cars and the house had also disappeared the dream of a house of their own. Gone, thought Sameera sadly, all gone.

I go there every day.

Oh! Sameera sat up with a jerk. She had completely forgotten where she was.

I go there every day, the old woman repeated, seeing that she had Sameera’s attention once more, I help in the kitchen, you see. My master is a very powerful man. He has even agreed to give my son a job at the Ministry of Oil.

If he survives the war you mean, thought Sameera, a little scornfully.

I am sure he is, Sameera said aloud, you are a very lucky woman.

The conductor’s hoarse voice cut through their conversation.

Oh! that’s my stop, Sameera said, I have to get down now.

Ma-as-salaam, smiled the old woman. Go without fear.

Ma-as-salaam, Sameera smiled back.

Normally, it was just a short walk from the bus stop to their house. But, today Sameera planned to take a detour through a large shopping market. There was a certain thing she had to buy today. A most important thing. A thing she needed for the very next day. Something she had been planning in secret for days.

The streets were almost deserted. Many of the shops were closed. Shops selling clothes, shops selling stationary, cosmetics, toys, shoes - all closed. Not just with locks and keys, but boarded up with large planks of wood. Some had been shut with metal shutters welded together.

An air of watchful expectancy hung over the area. An air of fearful anticipation. War was around the corner and its shadow fell long across the street.

In the street corner, a pile of sandbags arranged to about shoulder height formed a small den. Two young boys barely out of their teens sat there sullenly. They looked too young to be handling the Kalashnikov rifles in their hands. But the all black uniform showed that they were members of the Saddam’s Fedayeen.

As Sameera walked across the street, one of them called out something, waving the bottle of orange, fizzy drink in his hand. She pretended not to hear him and walked as fast as she could around the corner into the next street. Her heart thudded in her chest and her breath came in short gasps.

After some time, she turned to glance behind her. No one followed her. She let out a long breath of relief.

She turned into another lane with large shops lining it on both sides. Sameera had always enjoyed walking through this area of the bazaar. Creams and powders, shampoos and moisturizers, lipsticks, nail polish - most of them of international brands had glittered and sparkled under the bright lights of the shop windows. She had often looked longingly inside the cases. How she would have loved to be able to buy a lipstick! But cosmetics were strictly forbidden in their house. Not that she could have afforded to buy anything anyway! But, just looking at them had given her a thrill of pleasure.

But, today all the shops were closed and the entire street looked dark and desolate. She walked quickly to escape the feeling of misery and despair that enveloped the place.

She turned into a small side street and reached the shop she had been aiming for all this while. ‘LONDON BAKERIES’, the sign over the shop proclaimed.

Her steps slowed down when she saw that it was closed, its shutters down. Iron bars criss-crossed the shutters and were welded into steel bars let into the walls on the sides. She stopped in front of it. What should she do? Had she come all the way for nothing? She hesitated. Then plucking up courage, she walked up and knocked at the shutters. There was no response. She knocked louder. Still no response. Taking a deep breath, she banged hard. The noise sounded loud and harsh in the empty street. She looked around her, a little fearful, half expecting to see people pouring out onto the street. It remained empty.

A window on the first floor of the shop clicked open.

Who is it? a cautious male voice. The speaker remained hidden behind the curtains.

I rang up yesterday about a cake. A birthday cake. I was asked to come today at this time.

Whispers floated down to her. Then the same voice spoke again.

Wait, it said.

She waited on the doorstep, feeling terribly alone and exposed.

A small door in one of the sidewalls of the shop opened. A woman called her in, saying softly,

I am sorry I kept you waiting outside. But with the war coming and everything……..

Ten minutes later, Sameera walked out with a small cake. She wondered what Ali would say. He would be terribly angry, she thought. She had spent far too much money. Much more than they could afford these days. But really, she told herself, Reza’s birthday came just once a year. And he was their only child. And there was no reason not to buy him a cake on his birthday. Even if the day turned out to be the first day of the war.

She walked rapidly, soon reaching the al-Shula vegetable bazaar. The street here had no pavement. The middle two-thirds were tarred. But the sides of the street were dusty and littered with pieces of paper, polythene packets, rusted tins, and small stones.

Baskets of vegetables lined the dusty verge, making a splash of colour in the otherwise drab street. Potatoes, beans, tomatoes, cabbages, zucchinis and onions were arranged in neat, high piles. The sellers sprinkled water on them from time to time to keep them fresh. Or at least to make them appear fresh.

The entire stretch of the street was crowded. The tall hawknosed men wore jeans or distasas but the women were mostly dressed in the traditional black burqas. The younger women preferred the better looking light, blue burqas with soft pleats all around. Some however, wore trousers and long shirts. Only the hejab around their faces were a sign of tradition. A few did not even wear the hejab.

On first glance it appeared to be just like any other day – a normal day in a normal city.

The undercurrent of tension seeped into her consciousness slowly. Like the muddy, murky still layer under the clear water in a stagnant lake, it lurked just below the apparently normal market day. An occasional comment broke the surface and was quickly shushed. Like swirls of mud drifting up to the surface. Then gradually settling to the bottom again.

Will they really attack?

Impossible, how can they…………

Why us, why……………..?

There was tension in the haunted eyes of the women buying vegetables. It flickered in the darting eyes of the vendors. It was there in the taut muscles and clenched jaws of the man walking rapidly with his hands in the pocket of his jeans.

It could be seen hovering like a cloud of grey cigarette smoke, over a group of men, young and old, heads together, whispering in quick, sharp voices.

The thick cloying smell of the fear and tension stung her nose. Sweet-sour. Like cheap hair-oil.

A white Volkswagon turned the corner and cruised down the street. Four men - two in the front seat, two at the back – in olive green uniforms stared out of the car. Their eyes roved over the crowd, missing nothing. Instantly the street was hushed, quiet. No one said anything. Not a single voice was heard. Everyone concentrated on whatever they were doing. There was no indication that anyone had even noticed the car.

Sameera stood quietly before a basket piled high with red glistening tomatoes. She peered at the tomatoes intently, as if she had never seen such tomatoes before. She said nothing. Neither did the tomatoe seller who stared at the vegetables with an intensity that rivaled hers.

The car disappeared down the street.

The moment passed.

The street settled back to its routine business.

How much? Sameera asked the man.

1000 Dinars per kg.

This is a supermarket? Looks more like the corner department store back home, the nasal voice cut through the babble of the crowd around her.

Sameera turned around sharply to stare at the white man and woman who had just stopped behind her. They were staring at a large store crammed full with stock.

Sameera thought that they looked like twins. Both of them wore