stupidly honest. If I was walking down the road and found a hundred-dollar bill on the ground, I wouldn’t stop and yell, ‘Whose money is this?’ but would gratefully put it in my pocket and walk on. But seeing six million dollars piled under my feet in a closed room! And in Tikrit, of all places. This was what I’d humbly call a new life experience.
Next to the dollars there were various other bundles of different currencies piled up in no particular order. Iraqi dinars, pounds and euros. I was told they had been counted, added and multiplied, and found to be the equivalent of three million dollars.
‘Look at this.’ One of the soldiers in charge of the inventory was holding a chain with a big gold heart. I took it from him and opened it. On its right side was a picture of Saddam and on the left a picture of his wife. The inventory was still ongoing, and news of these findings had not yet reached the media.
That was in May 2003.
XV
Her voice was still ringing in my ear since I’d spoken to her on the phone from Tikrit, two days after my arrival in Iraq.
‘Zayoun, my life, where are you? Still in Amman? When do you get here, my lovely?’
The words stuck in my throat. I stuttered. I didn’t know how to break the news to her. Would she be happy or would she start lamenting? ‘I’m in Tikrit. Don’t worry about me. I’m working as an interpreter for a construction company. I’ll come visit as soon as I’m given leave to travel to Baghdad.’
‘What construction in these black days?’
‘It’s an electricity company, Grandma. They’re building new power stations to replace those bombed in the war.’
‘I can’t believe you’re actually here, in Iraq. Call me every day, sweetie pie. Every day, Zein, okay?’
I’d heard that Grandmother Rahma was very alert and never missed a thing. She could ‘see through thick yoghurt’ is what they used to say. I hadn’t experienced her abilities first hand until the second phone call. As soon as she heard my voice, she said sharply, ‘Listen, Zein, my daughter, I haven’t been able to stop thinking since we talked yesterday. I want to come see you in Tikrit. I can’t wait any longer.’
‘But the company doesn’t allow visitors.’
‘I understand. Stop right there. You work with the Americans, don’t you?’
She interrupted with the panic of an oriental mother who suspects her unmarried daughter is pregnant and will tarnish the family’s honour. The pain in her voice made me fear that her heart would stop beating if I told her the truth. So I lied to my Grandmother Rahma, I couldn’t have done otherwise. I told her I was a UN representative observing the operations of the US Army among Iraqi civilians. I felt life return to her as she listened to me, as if she was eager to reject her own intuitive certainty and believe me, hanging on to the weak thread that I extended to her. She asked in her Mosul accent, which added to the seriousness of the situation, ‘So who do you get your salary from, daughter? Bush or Kofi Annan?’
I almost replied that it was the same pocket anyway, that appearances didn’t make much of a difference. But I reassured her instead, and carried on with my fabric of lies, telling her that our role was necessary to prevent American transgressions. I was scared she would demand, like my mother did, that I ‘swear on my father’s life’. But she didn’t. That would have been the only way to catch me out.
Two days later, my grandmother arrived at our base in Tikrit. She introduced herself to the outside interpreter. He sent me a note telling me that Rahma Saour was asking for me at the gate. I changed quickly into civilian clothes and ran outside. She was standing in the line next to the palace wall that was designated for the women who gathered there every day, from early morning, to enquire about a missing husband, register a complaint or request compensation. I quickly signalled for the interpreter to bring my
Next to the dollars there were various other bundles of different currencies piled up in no particular order. Iraqi dinars, pounds and euros. I was told they had been counted, added and multiplied, and found to be the equivalent of three million dollars.
‘Look at this.’ One of the soldiers in charge of the inventory was holding a chain with a big gold heart. I took it from him and opened it. On its right side was a picture of Saddam and on the left a picture of his wife. The inventory was still ongoing, and news of these findings had not yet reached the media.
That was in May 2003.
XV
Her voice was still ringing in my ear since I’d spoken to her on the phone from Tikrit, two days after my arrival in Iraq.
‘Zayoun, my life, where are you? Still in Amman? When do you get here, my lovely?’
The words stuck in my throat. I stuttered. I didn’t know how to break the news to her. Would she be happy or would she start lamenting? ‘I’m in Tikrit. Don’t worry about me. I’m working as an interpreter for a construction company. I’ll come visit as soon as I’m given leave to travel to Baghdad.’
‘What construction in these black days?’
‘It’s an electricity company, Grandma. They’re building new power stations to replace those bombed in the war.’
‘I can’t believe you’re actually here, in Iraq. Call me every day, sweetie pie. Every day, Zein, okay?’
I’d heard that Grandmother Rahma was very alert and never missed a thing. She could ‘see through thick yoghurt’ is what they used to say. I hadn’t experienced her abilities first hand until the second phone call. As soon as she heard my voice, she said sharply, ‘Listen, Zein, my daughter, I haven’t been able to stop thinking since we talked yesterday. I want to come see you in Tikrit. I can’t wait any longer.’
‘But the company doesn’t allow visitors.’
‘I understand. Stop right there. You work with the Americans, don’t you?’
She interrupted with the panic of an oriental mother who suspects her unmarried daughter is pregnant and will tarnish the family’s honour. The pain in her voice made me fear that her heart would stop beating if I told her the truth. So I lied to my Grandmother Rahma, I couldn’t have done otherwise. I told her I was a UN representative observing the operations of the US Army among Iraqi civilians. I felt life return to her as she listened to me, as if she was eager to reject her own intuitive certainty and believe me, hanging on to the weak thread that I extended to her. She asked in her Mosul accent, which added to the seriousness of the situation, ‘So who do you get your salary from, daughter? Bush or Kofi Annan?’
I almost replied that it was the same pocket anyway, that appearances didn’t make much of a difference. But I reassured her instead, and carried on with my fabric of lies, telling her that our role was necessary to prevent American transgressions. I was scared she would demand, like my mother did, that I ‘swear on my father’s life’. But she didn’t. That would have been the only way to catch me out.
Two days later, my grandmother arrived at our base in Tikrit. She introduced herself to the outside interpreter. He sent me a note telling me that Rahma Saour was asking for me at the gate. I changed quickly into civilian clothes and ran outside. She was standing in the line next to the palace wall that was designated for the women who gathered there every day, from early morning, to enquire about a missing husband, register a complaint or request compensation. I quickly signalled for the interpreter to bring my
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