i s h t a r r i a........

76. "Say it for God's Sake, Say it" XXI

2011-10-19T20:37:00.000-07:00

His hair looked shorter than usual when he first appeared in the doorway of my office, so much shorter that I found myself muttering softly, “What made you cut your hair so short? I loved it much more before.” Once more he seemed pretty darn resourceful in picking out the most perfect time for seeing me. I was standing behind my desk when he first arrived. The offices were deserted by everyone save for the advisor with impaired hearing whose condition might have encouraged my atypical temerity. My wit, though, wasn’t wholly present to help me quickly grasp the momentary stillness that accompanied his astonished gaze that my remarks seemed to have invoked, and which made me realize, though late, the foolishness of my “audacity”. The man’s powerful and mesmerizing manhood appeared all too defenseless in the face of such practically unexpected “dewy-eyed flirtation”. And the gratified smile that he shot me was so pregnant that I instantaneously sensed the girlish shyness swashing its reddish victory all over my face.

Our gathering this time, however, was not like any other. The sweet sense of belonging that went both ways seemed to have imbued the place with a heavenly aura of overweening romance that was too hard to curb, much less, conceal, and which the climactic event of his meeting my parents the day before had conspicuously deepened. Besides, there was the welcome relief that ensued from the vanishing of the ubiquitous sense of guilt that had weighed heavily upon my nerves for having hidden the romance away from my parents. He, too, appeared liberally on the upbeat, and, in a way, proud and gallant, most likely for having met and fulfilled the demands of my culture in “entering the house through the door, rather than the window,” as the cultural saying goes, now that he asked officially for my hand in marriage, a thing that gave a further charge to our romance, and enhanced the sense of bonding that permeated us euphorically. My heart pumped at maximum capacity the moment I glimpsed him entering the office. He looked, as ever, relaxed and collected, though with a tinge of impatient uneasiness shading off his eyes, decidedly on account of my parents’ final consent that he was eagerly waiting for.

In a moment of pleasurable insanity, I sensed an overpowering urge sweeping over me to run to him, and throw myself into his arms, the arms of the man I craved with every fiber of my body. The love of the man who had penetrated the soul of my soul was now in full reign. And the patience, which the burning of months had fully depleted, had all gone mad, awfully mad. For the first time in my whole life of twenty one years, I felt so unrestrainedly driven by my passion. My thirsty emotions had overridden whatever remnants of reason I might have still had. But such momentary flight of fancy was soon stifled by my inherent shyness, which was all too quick to call such crackpot venture on the carpet, not to speak of the caution arising from my perpetual dread of the tyrannical regime and its surrounding minefield, manned by censorious eyes.

He then stepped into my office. The look of his eyes alarmed me somewhat, for it had changed now to something all too reckless that appeared to be brewing fast, so fast that a “disaster” seemed only too imminent now. Heart thumping, I sat rapidly, all too geared up, having fortified myself behind my desk, banking solely on the nimbleness and resilience of my body, praying that they wouldn’t let me down in helping me stay as out of reach as possible.

The defensive structure of my stronghold must have looked amusing, for he cracked up laughing. He, however, was half way through to my desk, when “back up” suddenly arrived through some voices in the vicinity - a thing that alerted him. A few seconds later, the shadows of three advisors appeared at the frosted window glass of the main entrance, thus saving me, by thwarting whatever foolhardiness he may have been deliberating upon. I emitted a serious sigh of relief, which again, elicited from him another amused laugh. He swerved now changing course, heading towards the desk of the guy with impaired hearing, who seemed all too absorbed with the fixing of some sort of an electronic device. Martin stood there, on the face of it, talking to him, but it was apparent that the whole attention of his heart and soul was with me. His eyes were his fervid envoy, communicating his elegant and fashionable love, not only gratifying his hunger for affection, but mine, too.

On looking back, I should have known better then than to mistakenly think that our paths were converging when they were actually diverging. It wasn’t coincidence alone that made of that day the stingiest ever in denying us the togetherness of even seconds, but our begrudging destiny, having concluded its sinister contriving to give our path the ax, was also fully engaged now in proclaiming its wicked power. The offices were all the time teeming with people, depriving us of the least chance for propinquity to fete the fruit of our forbearance of months with at least a few passing words. Until I finished for the day, the offices were swarming with more people. While he wrestled with his obvious helplessness, I left in tears, harboring a mystic intuition that I couldn’t fathom back then. But this was seemingly a forthright indication from our refractory destiny, foreshadowing the infelicitous ending of this romance, and pronouncing perhaps that we were never meant for each other. The agony of dashed hopes that took over, conquering the euphoria and elation with which that day had started, was all too excruciating. For even the shortest romantic moments that we used to steal here and there before that day were, by far, much more fortunate in duration.

The following day, I arrived at the offices with the great news. The family had finally granted its blessings to the marriage, even though begrudgingly. My parents had finally acceded to my unfaltering determination to marry the man with whom I had chosen to spend the rest of my life. I affected my unawareness of the lengthy and heated debates that were taking place around the clock among the family members, and which Dina conveyed to me in their most elaborate detail.

The mere thought of my parents entrusting their only daughter to a man who himself was the only source of the very little they knew of him sufficed in itself to smother the project of marriage in its cradle. The dragons of their worries reared in terror every time they thought about the vast geographical distance that would separate their daughter from their love and protection. His being a divorced man, besides the religious resentment they strictly held for the mere thought of it, made them fume with rage for such a choice from their beautiful daughter, who was already sufficiently popular in the marriage market as to merit a much better man by far. The inconceivability of a future loomed, in which they would not be able to extend a hand of help to her in times of need because of the hostile stance between the two countries. In addition, I was to be taken into a world which seemed so foreign to everything they were accustomed to, and which aggravated their negative feelings towards the mere thought of this marriage. “What if he mistreats her; what if even the little things that we know about him turn out to be all untrue; what if he has children; what if he decides to divorce her in a culture that seemed typically rife with whimsical divorce; what if he falls in love with another woman?” There were too many “what ifs”, which left them in a daze, repeatedly striking their hands in shock and choler, and shaking their heads in disbelief.

Besides Martin’s impending departure that had forced my parents into granting their consent to the marriage too soon in a tradition that resented doing so for fear of appearing too keen, the biddings of safety also dictated the absolute dismissal of the pomp and elaborate rituals that accompany weddings. This was yet another turn away from what my parents had envisioned for their only daughter, a thing that they could neither live with nor digest.

However, what mattered in the end was that my parents hoisted the white flag in the face of my self-will, having become fully certain of the futility of pursuing a course that they knew would avail them nothing other than breaking the heart of their much loved daughter. “Always remember that this is your choice.” Dad said solemnly. “If it were up to us, we would rather you stayed here, in your homeland, among your own people. You’re our only daughter and you know how precious you are to us, and Iraq after all hasn’t run out of good men, men of caliber, who could easily outstrip this American, but if your choice is to marry him, so be it. It’s your happiness and your happiness only that matters most in the end.”

These were Dad’s last words before he gave his blessings in front of the rest of the family. He hugged me, kissed my forehead, and so did everyone else.

My tears overflowed on listening to Dad’s poignant words. That he was wrestling with enormous pain was apparent. Parents generally love their children equally and evenly, but Dad had little more in the scale of his love reserved only for his daughter. Being forced against the desires and wishes of his paternal love, this most altruistic Dad chose the shattering of his world over the shattering of mine. It was obvious that though he was striving to assume gaiety and cheerfulness, he couldn’t fully eclipse the sorrowful and mysterious look that I saw clearly in his eyes and which I couldn’t help but dread. Dad was a man gifted, or should I say plagued, with this transparency of heart and soul which would shoot family members with shivers every time one of his intuitions of something going wrong reared its head. We all took such hunches very seriously, and treated them as facts that couldn’t or wouldn’t be questioned or ignored.

But I was so jubilantly floating on cloud nine to have me worry about anything, least of all my parents’ list of “what ifs”, which was at the bottom of my list particularly now that I had gotten their priceless consent. For I knew my man, trusted him, and above all, I had no doubt about the enormity of the love he held for me, which had me crowned on the throne of his heart since the very first moment he laid eyes on me. But there was this morbid restlessness that persisted on pecking at and spoiling my felicity. At one time I would ascribe it to the strict nature of my catholic faith that cautioned against the breaking of God’s laws in marrying a divorced man; on others, I would attribute it to the scorching pain of having to leave a whole world behind, which was to me as water is to fish.

To Be Continued...................................

75. "Say it for God's Sake, Say it," Part XX

2011-02-18T08:51:00.000-08:00

Steaming with sweat and legs wobbling with dread, I rushed ahead, trailing Uncle Sam’s heels; my grandpa and Dina also followed suit. The waiting had kept us all on tenterhooks, and my patience had long worn out. The few meters separating the living room from the front door seemed unending. I stood behind Sam, clinging to his shirt, quivering at the thought of whom we might face on the other side of the door—the dear faces of the members of my family or the henchmen of the autocrat. I sighed with relief, however, and my anxiety subsided when I saw my younger brother zooming in the moment Sam pulled the door open, breathlessly letting on some of the good tidings with his innocent question, “You’re going to go to America, Lu?”

I sensed the heat of a betraying blush spreading all over my panic-stricken face upon meeting my Dad’s eyes; his reassuring smile, just as ever, had the effect of magic, easing off most of the tension that had held the belt in the pulleys. And I ran towards my family, hugging them and kissing the faces that I feared I would never see again, while the tears that I had been struggling hard to keep at bay during the oppressive wait streamed liberally down my face.

And we all gathered in the living room, our impatient eyes and ears all riveted on the details of the account that Dad had begun to give.

Martin had seemingly passed his first test of punctuality, having arrived at the designated rendezvous sharp on time. Having shaken hands, he and my Dad greeted each other with the usual exchange of civilities. Dad asked Martin to park his car in the almost deserted parking area, and take over the driving of Dad’s car. While mum and the two boys occupied the back seat, Dad sat in the passenger seat, next to the “chauffeur.” The drive involved casual motoring around the capital Baghdad, avoiding any unnecessary stops. In a country that curtailed personal freedoms, the two parties came to know each other personally only in the confined space of the vehicle. The drive, which had no fixed course, took about an hour, with Martin driving from one road to another, and shifting from one district to the next.

As one might expect, Martin had his share of close probing from the family, which is the norm in our culture, and which every suitor must stomach painfully. He, however, despite being bombarded with a clutch of questions that usually dissects the past life of every suitor, seemed to have worked himself up successfully through the “mine field,” earning, on the face of it, great admiration. Much to my surprise, Dad, for some reason, refrained from making any candid statement on his suitability as a suitor, a matter that is normally cited first, before anything else. Dad, furthermore, seemed to avoid remarking on two matters of major concern for me-- the nationality of the suitor and his marital status. True I had already put Dina clearly in the picture about his being divorced, a thing I never doubted she had passed on to my parents, but it sounded all the more weird that, while none of the tinniest details of the “scrutiny” skipped Dad’s perceptive eye, his recounting overlooked these two pivotal issues.

Sighs of relief let out by the members of the “waiting team” resonated through the living room, and Grandpa thanked The Lord for his gracious protection of our family in this “hazardous venture”. Dina and Sam “wickedly” shot me a few meaningful smiles once the account was concluded. Save for the omnipresent fear of being spied upon by the dictator’s henchmen, the ride had gone smoothly, free of any catastrophic misadventure.

I sat during the recounting, curled up next to Dina, listening. But I found myself shuddering with premonition when I glanced at mum’s face, which bore a patent frostiness. The idea of her only daughter marrying a foreign man, and travelling away from the bosom of the family, was too bitter a pill for her to swallow.

Dad, however, concluded his account by stating that he had informed Martin that the family would examine his proposal, and considering his imminent departure, would report a decision to him soon; the “envoy” that Dad assigned to deliver the decision was going to be yours truly. I felt my heart fluttering in my chest on hearing that. Such a charge intimated that Dad was in some way entertaining the idea of consenting to the marriage.

Dad also said that Martin had insisted on inviting the “whole” family on the evening before his departure, which was a couple of days away, to one of Baghdad “suburban restaurants” for dinner, so that both parties could discuss the wedding arrangements. Well, whether it was from his great assurance of having overwhelmingly won my heart, or from his confidence in his ability to endear himself, he knew it was a gesture that would recommend him to the hearts of my parents. The man seemed determined to assume that his proposal would be received favorably, a thing that, on the face of it, made his getting a positive reply an unquestionably concluded matter. Sam, however, was wholly against accepting the invitation. Getting the group together one more time seemed nothing short of insanity. He took it upon himself, however, to try to find an alternative.

Despite my parents insisting upon taking me home that evening, I resisted, having furnished myself with a thousand and one reasons for sticking around at grandpa’s; facing my parents alone, away from Dina’s indispensable support, seemed too daunting for my shyness. Going back home that night in particular was out of the question, as far as I was concerned.

And I hardly slept a wink that night. The marriage seemed now like a stone’s throw away, a bewitching fairy-tale ending taking shape in the horizon. Things seemed to be moving towards a rather swift conclusion from what the innocent girl that I was could afford to envision. And some painfully conflicting emotions mercilessly invaded my brain and heart. Having jumped over so many obstacles, I now found marriage too huge an idea for me to grapple with. True, Martin had been the magical purveyor of some sweet emotions that played incessantly upon my heart. He taught me my first lessons in love--a type of love that I had never known or experienced before. Yet his being a husband to me seemed utterly strange and beyond my ability to assimilate. My body would rock at the mere thought of my being with him in a house alone, he and I, by ourselves. The thought of his physical touch seemed so shocking and inconceivable. Apart from all that, Martin was also going to take me away from the bosom of the people l loved most-- my parents, my brothers, Dina, Uncle Sam, grandpa, my friends, and a whole life out there. The reality of my new situation had begun to dawn on me. In vain I tried to draw an imaginary line to separate me from this new reality and to force my churning thoughts elsewhere. But it proved futile. Just as swirling waves of happiness lifted me up to the seventh heaven at the mere thought of marrying the man I loved with every bit of my existence, I suddenly found myself hurled down into an abyss crowded with inexplicably obscure and mysterious concerns. Still, I couldn’t wait to see him.

To Be Continued..........................................

SPEECHLESS!

2010-11-05T03:30:00.000-07:00

From Ankawa.com

74. "Say it for God's Sake, Say it" Part XIX

2010-04-15T06:37:00.000-07:00

Apprehensive of being caught red-handed, I returned to my seat with my little treasure enfolded in my hand. I skimmed the office area around me, ensuring that I wasn’t been preyed upon, and with a fluttering heart, I opened the drawer pretending to be looking for something inside. I hurriedly threw the small piece of paper inside, and pushed the drawer back with the same speed, eyes still sweeping the vicinity, ascertaining no one was spying on my “grand secret.” Assuming normality, I leaned back in my chair for a few moments, trying to catch my lost breath, and controlling the pleasurable sensations of my body. Patience wearing thin, I re-opened the drawer seconds later, and unfolded the paper I had placed inside, not forgetting though to grab my small mirror that I kept in the drawer, in order to give the pretence of a routine feminine checking of make-up. My eyes surveyed the office one last time before they devoured avidly the words on the paper.

It was a concise letter of six or seven lines that he started with “Lu”. His apparent caution, just in case the paper fell into the wrong hands, much impressed my little heart. His plan was directly stated. He was leaving that same week for the States and will be away for two weeks to attend to some personal matters, after which he was to return to the region to resume his new job. It wasn’t lost on me that his main concerns revolved around working out a safe departure for me. Of course, he didn’t forget to re-confirm his utmost readiness to meet my parents anytime, anywhere.

His letter said it all. And the six-month romance seemed to have finally jumped successfully over the huge chasm that the cultural differences and political impediments had planted deeply in our paths. Our marriage seemed assured.

I refolded the precious paper and enclosed it in my hand; I signaled to Fury through the pane of glass to follow me to the toilets. Having ascertained that no one was about, we went through the words of the letter together while we jumped excitedly up and down, trying hard to contain the agitation in our voices. She hugged me tight, “envying” my perseverance in “fighting for the man I loved.” Before we left the place, however, she made me surrender grudgingly to her steadfast orders to tear the letter to tiny bits, and flush them down the toilet.

It broke my heart not seeing him around again that day. But knowing how busy he was, working out his imminent departure, I felt resigned to his absence.

Dina, as usual, took the responsibility of conveying the news of the latest development to my parents, which prompted another visit to my grandpa’s that same evening. The family had another “summit” in order to determine a safe place for the rendezvous. Once more Sam came up with the smart suggestion of meeting in a quiet avenue in a business district where the traffic slows down considerably after three in the afternoon. My parents would meet Martin the following day at four. The plan was that Martin would leave his car in the area designated for the meeting, and join my parents in theirs. My share of the plan was strictly limited to conveying the details of the rendezvous to Martin, leaving the rest for dad to handle.

Considering the hazardous situation, nothing, as of this point, seemed certain or secure. Chances of things turning gray, or even black, at any minute were not farfetched. The code was to be kept red, signaling danger, at all times and under all circumstances. The jeopardy was great, and the aftermath could turn tragic if things were taken lightly.

Much to our bad luck, the office was packed to the brim when Martin arrived around noon the following day. As he sat down talking to Tom, it was evident that he was awfully anxious; his eyes were focused on me for the entire duration, seemingly trying to get some reassurance.
The office never quieted that day, and time seemed zooming by so fast that it seemed desirable to enlist Fury’s help. I signaled to her through the pane of glass; she flew to my office in an instant, gasping after the latest morsel of news. Well, I thought that seeing us, he and I, talking in Fury’s presence would not raise as many suspicions as if we were seen alone. So, having exchanged some meaningful glances with him, I stepped with Fury into the photocopying room, pretending to be attending to some routine photocopying tasks. We stood there giggling and talking, like we usually do every time we get together. A short while later I heard his footsteps approaching. He wouldn’t have been my Martin had he missed catching the language of my eyes. He appeared in view, leaning against the coffee maker that was placed near the doorway of the photocopy room, while filling his cup with coffee. He lifted up his head and saluted us both, Fury and myself, “How’re you doing, gorgeous?” he said as he stood there sipping his coffee. Fury smartly busied herself with the copier. While she assumed the role of a seasoned mechanic who seemed engrossed in some technical complexity that had suddenly occurred, he stepped slowly inside the room.

I swiftly conveyed the plan to him, stating the place and time of the rendezvous, not forgetting, of course, to explain my all-important absence. Despite the obvious joy that beamed on his face, yet for the first time during our relationship I caught an evident concern in his eyes. This incredibly self-possessed man couldn’t hide his fears of the possibility of being rejected by my parents. “Will they turn me down?” he muttered. The fact that he was divorced, I knew, weighed heavily on him. I was after all, young, beautiful, and not only from an entirely different culture, but also from a Christian denomination that was intolerant of divorce.

I tried reassuring him, but deep down I knew that I needed as much reassurance as he did. He then left the room, and went towards Tom’s office; Fury and I followed suit a while later, each to her office. Shortly afterwards, I saw him standing up, facing me, and seemingly addressing me rather than Tom to whom he announced his need to have a “haircut”.

My body never ceased trembling, head to toe, that whole afternoon. And the colic waves that usually invade my body during periods of excitement or anxiety took hold of me from the minute my parents left home to meet Martin, and persisted long after their return. My fidgetiness and my disquieted pacing around the living room annoyed Dina, who said that my movements were threatening to make her cross-eyed. My heart thumped, and sweat poured profusely off my whole body. My concerns about my parents’ view of Martin seemed to have dwarfed far and away in comparison with my gigantic worries about the safety of the whole group: my parents, Martin, and one of my brothers who insisted on accompanying my parents. I repeatedly made needless visits to the toilet. The atmosphere around me wasn’t any less anxious. Even though Grandpa, Uncle Sam, and Dina were trying their best to distract me, it was clear that they themselves were on tenterhooks. And when the door bell rang around seven-thirty, Sam jumped up and ran to the door, while I nearly had a heart attack.

To be Continued.......................................................

73. "Say it for God's Sake, Say it" Part XVIII

2009-08-12T02:11:00.000-07:00

I sensed a delicious warmth pervade my whole body as I walked next to him the nearly two hundred meters that took us outside the building. It was an incredibly sensational feeling, something novel that I had never experienced before, and which, much to my surprise, swept away all the abominable sense of desolation and despondency, let alone the bruised ego, and the silent fury that had gripped me, eating on my nerves for days; all seemed to have magically vanished, becoming more like a thing of the remote past. And the occasionally inadvertent brushing of my shoulder against his arm, as we walked side by side, was so stirring. We were like a wonderful twosome that must have been created and made only for one another. And the two halves of the one apple did seem like they were finally placed closely together.

My emotions for him flared up, and became so hard to suppress, or inhibit. It didn’t truly matter much then if the whole world was watching our togetherness. My preciously guarded reputation, or even the potential perils of being accused of high treason and thrown into one of the dictator’s deepest dungeons, seemed trivial concerns.

We both proceeded in absolute silence. He was serenely self-possessed, and in full control of his faculties, while I was struggling for normalcy. My heart was thumping wildly, and sorely conflicting emotions took turns invading my body. I felt uneasily cold, yet feverishly anxious, and all the more disquieted about how my rawness would react to what was lying ahead. I was absolutely clueless about what to say, or how to act. “What if he pinned me down forcing me to talk love and emotions?” I was shy and bashful still, and not quite ready for such a step-up yet.

We passed one workshop after another. Our togetherness outside the usual office area had aroused some curious attention in the workers around, or was it perhaps the reflection of my inner emotions that must have been drawn clearly on my face that induced such curiosity? I sensed him, however, slowing down shortly after we passed the main gate that opened up to the parking lot; a few meters in he stopped, and, mechanically, I followed suit. My heart fluttered when I lifted my head and managed a brief look at him; his smile was encouraging and characteristically reassuring. “What is it Liana? What is it that you want?” he forthrightly initiated the talk, tenderly and affectionately, “Tell me what you want me to do, and I promise I’ll do it.” The situation seemed so dauntingly decisive. It was apparent that the matter had reached a climactic point wherein no errors or faults could be afforded. Any foolhardiness at this point could prove all the more costly. Actions and words were to be guarded and weighed with kid gloves. “You told me to follow you in two months,” I replied, “I guess you’ve done more than enough.” The obvious sarcasm in my tone and the quivering of my voice must have communicated my suppressed choler. “What do you mean?’ he asked with the same placidity. “Yea, like am an American living in the States and it’s easy for me to follow the man I…..” I halted, having realized the much bigger mantle of bravery my tongue was about to assume. I dared not say “the man I love, or the man I want to marry.” I just couldn’t say it, the utterance sounded awfully weird and foreign and so out of keeping for my tongue. Women in my culture, after all, are strictly warned never to take the initiative, giving tongue to their feelings, risking the shedding of not only their self-esteem, but their families’ stature too. The half-said words did not escape his quick perception. He shot me a meaningful smile that was coupled with the same old spark of fervor that I usually perceived in his eyes every time he held my emotions at bay; he, nevertheless, continued to remain silent. “In case you’ve forgotten about the traditions of my culture,” I proceeded, “I’ve got parents, you know, who must have the first and final say in such a decisive matter concerning my life.” As I talked, my hand was running nervously through my hair, and my diffident eyes roamed nervously, endeavoring to shun any contact with his eyes. And only on concluding my last statement I looked at him. The meaningful smile had broadened, and it was plain that his eyes were burning with passion and communicating love, crazy love, crazier than ever, yet also prudent. “Set me a meeting with your parents Liana, I’d love to meet them soon, very soon.” Not that I had ever distrusted the intensity of his emotions for me or in anyway suspected the positive outcome of the romance, but the precipitous conclusion left me speechless for a few moments. My heart pumped furiously, and the abruptness with which the dream eventuated was more than my young heart could take in. All what the naïve and raw and inexperienced female could afford, however, was a shy and diffident smile to which he responded instantly with “I love you kiddo.”

My eyes, while casting bashfully around, suddenly fell upon two guards at the gate who had their spine chilling looks fixated on us. The ecstasy of the occasion was brought to an immediate end by their shocking presence, which struck me dumb and had me turn helplessly to Martin, who must have been alerted by the patent change to my bearing, and so he, too, turned towards the same direction. Having realized the hazardous condition, he whispered a few words calming me down, and suggested that we part, which we did, he to his parked car, and I made my way to the administration building that was about two hundred meters away from where we had stopped, ensuring that my departure had all the appearance of fulfilling a hasty errand that had only been interrupted by a transient conversation with a “colleague”. Shortly afterwards, I turned to a horn honking behind me to see that he had chosen to drive on the same road I had taken. He smiled waving to me, and drove away.

I wasn’t quite myself when I stepped into the administration building. Quiet and oblivious to the world around me, I let my legs take me mechanically to the elevator. I fiddled with the buttons randomly, and when the door closed on me, I stepped backwards leaning my back against the wall, shut my eyes and savored the replaying of the heavenly occurrence. The universe in all its vastness seemed way too small to contain my joy. I was on cloud nine, and still incredulous about the magically rapid tempo of the event. My random trip, however, was aborted sooner than it began, and I was brought down from my Shangri-la by the “hateful” elevator that opened its door. Walking on air, I left the elevator, and returned to my office.

“I’m going to miss you loads, Lu,” Fury said on hearing of the felicitous highlights of the meeting. She jumped excitedly high in the air and hugged me tight, while choking with tears. Dina, however, received the news with understandable coldness. But while Fury’s contribution seemed to have almost concluded now that we, Martin and I, were seemingly embarking upon the last phase before tying the knot, what was still to come relied mainly on Dina’s intervention. Having already succeeded with her discrete and cool-headed diplomacy in absorbing the brunt of my parents’ shock upon their first finding about the romance, Dina’s contribution at this point was more called for than ever. She was the pivotal dynamo that would set events in motion. And so Dina, wasting no time as there wasn’t much to be wasted, sprung instantly to the phone, imparting the latest happening to mum. As I stood listening in next to her, I could hear Mum’s voice fall into shocked silence upon hearing the crucial part. But she only said the usual thing that is culturally said when any marriage suitor knocks on the door, “I’ll inform her dad.”

I was in Dina’s bedroom in the second storey later that afternoon when I heard the doorbell ringing. From Dina’s salutation I realized my parents’ had arrived; their promptness was a patent indication of the urgency that the issue had induced. I zoomed instantly out of the bedroom, and stood, heart pounding, next to the banister, eavesdropping. I couldn’t make out much from the voices issuing from the living room where the family had apparently gathered. A short while later I heard footsteps approaching. I scurried to bed, jumped into it, and wrapped myself up with the bedspread, feigning sleep; it was Uncle Sam. He sat on the bedside trying to awaken the sound sleeper in his lovable way, kissing my head, and tickling my ear, “You have grown up so fast Lu, and here you are getting married soon.” I opened my eyes, and smiled shyly. “Come on honey,” he encouraged, “let’s go,” he whispered, teasing me. “A summit meeting is awaiting you downstairs.”

I dragged behind Uncle Sam, clinging firmly to his hand, hoping it would endow me with legs. The moment we stepped into the living room, the voices suddenly hushed up. Obviously, Uncle Sam wasn’t the focus of attention. I sat head down, squeezing myself close to Uncle Sam, so close, and still unwilling to let go of his hand. I dared not raise my head and look my parents in the eye. Grandpa, however, assumed the role of the sole speaker, trying with his usual sense of humor to lighten the intensity of the situation, as he lovingly remarked on how quickly little girls grow up, “behind their parents’ backs.” “Rightly put, Grandpa,” I thought. For it did truly seem as if I had grown up fast and stealthily, “behind my parents’ back.” And here I was, having come to my parents only six months after my graduation, asking “audaciously” for their blessings to my marriage to a man I had fallen in love with, and who wasn’t even a national. My crime of the heart seemed way too big to pardon. I felt so small and insignificant, and fully enveloped in embarrassment and shame. A few pregnant moments dragged before I sensed someone getting up. Well, dad wouldn’t have been the same marvelously broad-minded, caring, and large-hearted dad I had always known had he left his little girl caught any longer in the mire of such a mortifying situation. He came up, and sat close to me, hugged me and planted a kiss on my cheek while patting my head. “Tell prince charming we’d love to meet him the day after tomorrow, if it’s alright with him.”

The smooth sailing of events for the second time that day was incredible. It just seemed like the stars were all on my side. And I was only hoping that such state of luck would linger on, and the engagement rituals would conclude in similar simplicity. Was I dreaming? Apparently yes. For once the family began discussing the place of the meeting, things did really sound much more tortuous than I had envisioned. Well, bearing in mind the ‘infamous’ nationality of the suitor, the fallout from any irrational and hasty decisions or inept planning could have grievous effects; hence, even the tiniest details of the situation had to be seriously and carefully measured. Therefore, the family gathering blackballed unanimously receiving Martin in my house for the perils they thought it could plausibly entail. The residents of my neighborhood never ceased passing along hush-hush stories about some of the neighbors who maintained unwavering loyalty to the regime, and served the dictator’s intelligence service steadfastly through their secretly gathered information, regardless of their reliability. In the time of the dictator, such reports were used by some to win favour and to climb fast the ladder of personal gain, power, and wealth. The worst of our neighbors, though, were the parents of one of the dictator’s cabinet ministers whose dwelling was only a few houses away from mine, and who were notorious for spying upon the neighborhood. The family regarded Martin’s arrival bearing a “temporary import” plate on his car as a forthright declaration of his foreign nationality besides, of course, there were his tellingly foreign features. Receiving Martin in my grandpa’s house was an alternative that mum and dad vetoed with vehemence, not wanting to place Sam’s life in jeopardy should news of the visit filter back to the regime. Dina was in a relatively more susceptible situation than Sam. The dictator’s rapacious wolves, so ill-famed for their insatiable hunger for anything feminine, would salivate over her beauty such as to marshal all their resources to devise a thousand and one grounds to legitimize their knavishly contrived accusations. Also her being one of the Christian minority, which was, and unfortunately still is, regarded as one of the most vulnerable denominations in Iraq, would undoubtedly make her a perfect prey.

Throughout the debate that dragged on for over one hour, I remained tight-lipped, experiencing much guilt for the anxiety I was subjecting my family to. My worries over the prospect of the marriage being miscarried by the prevailing obstacles increased. I couldn’t help but wonder if just receiving Martin in my house was going to be this challenging, then how about the long train of hurdles that lurked ahead? Things began looking increasingly bleak, gloomy, and offering little hope. Much needed mirth, however, was finally brought into the serious occasion thanks to Uncle Sam who approached the issue with great acumen which, while having initially made everyone crack up with laughter, maneuvered cleverly around the deadlock, and proved that Sam could be one heck of a schemer who could vie with, and, possibly, beat the sly men of the regime.

Uncle Sam suggested that picking Martin up from a cautiously appointed location, and taking him afterwards on a drive around the city would be the best option. He believed that it would not only maintain the safety element, but also provide sufficient time for checking out the “credentials” of the suitor, away from the prying eyes of any chance visitors or relatives who might turn-up unannounced at any time, a phenomenon that is not quite atypical in our society. Sam also suggested that putting Martin in the driver’s seat, instead of dad, would help to camouflage the nature of the encounter and introduce an element of normality. He stressed that safety required that only my parents, accompanied by one, or both of the boys, should attend the meeting, emphasizing that I shouldn’t in any way be part of the scene.

Sam’s plan was one good example of how Iraqis throughout the brutal dictatorship forged means to turn around the regime’s hard-and-fast rules and the capriciousness of its decrees. Sam’s proposal, despite its unconventionality, was regarded as the best strategy, and was ultimately approved by the overwhelming majority, save one, me, the reticent observer. For even though I murmured my acquiescence, I, truthfully, loathed it. Not that I was expecting my engagement to be similar to any other that is conducted with the copious abundance of customary rituals and practices, or brimming with the cheering and merriment that usually accompanies any such ceremony had the circumstance been otherwise; I felt intensely, however, the cruelty with which the imperiling conditions confiscated my hearty wish of receiving Martin in my house, and living the personal joy that one associates with such an once-in-a-lifetime event. Well, life doesn’t give it all, does it? Or was it perhaps that life was teaching me my first lesson on how to settle for less, much less, until there was nothing more to settle for? At any event, while my family was so intent on its figuring out how to ward off the danger of the eyes of the regime, Martin, as it turned out, was also working out his own set of safety measures.

He arrived late the next morning. I was busy with a load of paperwork that Jack had handed me prior to his leaving for a meeting in the administration building. A few other advisers were gathered in Tom’s office, having their usual technical morning conference. After the usual cheers and brief chit-chats that he exchanged with the advisors, he turned around, faced my office, winked at me, and shot me a meaningful smile. I smiled back, and made a pretence of getting back to my work. A few moments later, I sensed him entering my office, approaching my desk, and stopping somewhere near. When I raised my head, I saw him standing close to my desk, with his back turned to me. On looking at his back, I saw both his hands cupping each other behind his back, with a small folded piece of paper held between the fingers of his right hand, which he was gesturing for me to take. I looked around ensuring that no one was looking, and swiftly snapped the paper. He then silently stepped outside my office, but before leaving, he winked again, giving me the same meaningful smile.

To Be Continued.............................................

72. "Say it for God's Sake, Say it" Part XVII

2009-01-23T18:51:00.000-08:00

From my peripheraI vision, I glimpsed him entering the office at the beginning of the following week, with the same air of composure and unflappability. And after a few shuttling trips between the coffee machine and Tom’s office, wherein he had stationed himself, chatting for most of the duration, he finally entered my office when the opportunity offered. His familiar footstep heralded his entry, but I lacked the least desire to raise my head, much less welcome him. The pile of papers before me had become my only asylum, wherein I buried my slaughtered pride under a tumultuous sea of shock and pain. Desperation had eventually taken me over, bringing up an incapacitated calm, which challenged and subdued his silence as he stood near my desk. “I’m leaving at the end of this week,” he proclaimed calmly. “You’re going to follow me in about two months.” He dictated his unilateral plan with an air of vexatious sureness.

I had always seen so much love and affection in his eyes not to recognize it when I lifted my head up, and looked at him for a few brief moments. My heart jerked and missed a beat; his eyes were, as ever, warm and most loving, tender and smiling ahead of his mouth. I said nothing, though; I just returned to my papers; words seemed way beyond me. Well, the callous insensitivity of his statements killed and buried the words that were suffocating in my throat. Not only did I feel so taken for granted as to have my right of say, or share in “his” plan, fully confiscated, but I was also rendered so susceptible by my love for the same man who had, ironically enough, fought for the emancipation of my emotions. Groping to make connection with the hodgepodge of my shattered emotions, I was seized by a gigantic wave of rage that was only subdued by another more powerful numbing wave that swept over my body, and extinguished whatever signs of life that might have still existed in me. I could only maintain the silence of the dead.

Having waited futilely for an answer, he finally left the room after a few moments of heavy silence. Tears flowed not long afterwards. Fury commiserated and offered solace. Despite the numbing effect of conflicting emotions, I was aware of Fury suddenly leaving the room in what seemed to be an abrupt haste. But I was too pre-occupied with the stream of thoughts and sensations that assailed me to wonder about her doings, or even to see it as odd that she had left me alone at such a needy time. A short while later, realizing that my box of tissues was empty, I stepped wearily to Jack’s desk to draw a few sheets from his box to wipe my tears. When I turned to get back to my seat, my heart dived to my feet, and I felt as if a bucket of cold water had been poured forcefully on my head. I saw him leaning on the wall of the hallway that was adjacent to my office, on the face of it listening to Fury, who seemed to be fully engaged in some sort of feverish talk. He soon realized that I had spotted them.

The choler that invaded my body seemed to have burned all my blood out. I tried my hardest to pull together whatever remnants of strength I had still had to help me get back to my chair. What does this idiot think she’s doing? I wondered in shocked indignation. She seems as if she is trying to talk him into something. Is she begging him to re-propose, or what?

Those few moments of waiting for Fury’s return seemed like eternity. My ire ate at me, and the pain of my slaughtered ego soared. I will kill you; I will; just wait, you idiot.

Deeply engrossed with my volatile threats and menaces, I didn’t hear those familiar footsteps re-approaching. I was only awakened by the same tender voice, “Lu …. We need to talk; could we, you and I, step out of the building for a few moments?”

As he stood close to the left of my desk, apparently waiting for a reply to his request, I leaned over, and grabbed my purse from under my desk, seeking the valium tablets that had become suddenly essential, bringing also in the movement the corner hem of my skirt flying up along with the angry snatch of my bag, exposing my knee, and almost half of my thigh. Well, a swift springing to the action of covering up while being drowned in the sweat of bashfulness would have been the normal recourse in such an “awfully embarrassing” situation. But for the first time, I couldn’t care less. I just put the bag in my lap, and carried on with my rummaging for the ampoule in the numerous pockets of my bag, totally negligent of the knee, or the half exposed thigh. Ironically, this ampoule was the same one that he had given me at some point earlier to alleviate the stress that he had caused. Much to my surprise, the thought of our marriage being a foregone conclusion still held sway, despite all the excruciating anger that was boiling inside me, and the agony that had been accumulating for weeks. The reassuring thought intervened, So what if he saw my leg? Isn’t he going to be my husband in a few weeks? It pacified my sense of guilt as well inclined me towards acceding to his request. First, however, I took off to the water cooler to down the valium. When I returned, he, composed and collected, welcomed me with an encouraging smile. I looked at him, and said, “Let’s go”.

To Be Continued..............................................

71. "Say it for God's Sake, Say it" Part XVI

2008-05-18T15:30:00.000-07:00

Despite its enfeebling blow, the encounter with mum seemed to have unencumbered me of the abominable sense of guilt that had been beleaguering me for the past few months for hiding the secret of my romance with Martin from my parents. And despite the worrisome uncertainty of my parents’ reaction, I drifted into a tranquil and peaceful sleep the moment my head touched the pillow, totally oblivious of the roughshod treatment that Martin was designing for me, and which was going to make everything else seem relatively light and bearable.

Having brought the interrogation to a close, mum was anxious to take me home, but I escaped her persistence by claiming exhaustion and fatigue. Dina supported my excuses, sparing me yet another weighty encounter, this time with my dad, which I, given the already charged situation, was desperate to put off as long as I could.

Mum, anyhow, left tight-lipped. And from the little she had breathed, I gathered that she was going to discuss the matter in depth with dad. Mum’s conservative stance and her conspicuous reluctance to reveal her feelings about what she had heard of the romance was pretty much understandable, particularly at this point, where things had reached such a critically decisive point.

I set off for work the next morning tingling with excitement, as I took pleasure in savoring my anticipation of a grand dream about to materialize. Martin and I were getting closer towards achieving family recognition, and possibly acceptance, as a couple in love.

I sat restlessly behind my desk, waiting impatiently, but the man I was preparing to fight the whole world for finally showed up as late as ten. And much to my surprise, he stepped over directly to Tom’s office, and sat there with an air of unwonted indifference.

The lengthy session between the two men lasted for over an hour, and was punctuated by a couple of visits that he made to the coffee machine, both of which were concluded with him not casting the merest look to my side. The mantle of normalcy that I was endeavoring hard to assume was worn thin with rage at the disregard and neglect that was piercing my femininity.

The offices quieted down some time later; mine, in particular, was wholly deserted when the last of the advisors left for the headquarters. I could sense my ears and face blazing up with my mounting rage. Avoiding looking at the other side seemed like a wiser alternative. So I grabbed my papers and opted for the farthest desk in the rear of the office. I turned my chair, and sat with my back designedly facing the door, hoping to derive some oblivion from my papers.

My bruised feminine ego was engaged in fighting back some hot burning tears when I flinched at a hand touching tenderly my shoulder. I turned to see him standing behind me, a little to the right, smiling, while his eyes screaming, as ever, their love out. “How’re you?” and a couple of other insipid statements were all he said, after which he just turned and left the office with the same nonchalance with which he had entered, and vanished for the rest of the day.

The harshness of the situation just blew me out of the water, and the whole world around me began crumbling. The air seemed to have suddenly died, and the shock that tightened its grip crushingly around my throat was getting yet tighter. I felt like plunging into deep water, seemingly losing consciousness, momentarily. Fury, my guardian angel, who must have been witnessing the cold encounter from the other side of the window panel, appeared to have landed in my office in a flash. When I came to, I sensed her hands patting my face, ostensibly, trying to revive me. She flew to the water cooler, and returned with a cup of water. I downed one, and asked for another; my whole body seemed to have wholly dried out. “What happened?” Fury asked. But I couldn’t talk; words were beyond me.

Right until this day I don’t really know how I finally managed to get back home. Dina fell into an extreme rage upon seeing my appalling looks. “What’s this man done to you?” she screamed scolding me. “Are you insane, or stupid, or what Liana? What’re you doing to yourself for God’s sake? Look at you. You look like a dead body that’s been just pulled out of the grave. What would the people at work, who must have seen you in this condition, be saying about you now? Don’t you care about your reputation? Don’t you care about your parents’ reputation? What’s got into you, girl?

I didn’t have the least interest in talking, or arguing, or even justifying my appearance. I just dragged myself silently to bed, hoping to sleep off my anguish, my worries and, above all, the painful numbness that the shocking event had spawned. But the extreme mental and physical fatigue forked me up to a fitful sleep that was pregnant with hellish nightmares. Martin’s indifference alone would have sufficed to knock me off balance, but the problem was that the matter was no longer something just between him and me, now that both my parents had got wind of the romance. The awkwardness of the situation placed me between the rock of Martin’s abrupt and inexplicable transformation, and the hard place of my parents’ knowledge about our romance. Everything around me seemed to have keeled over. I was befuddled, and my mind utterly paralyzed. Through the night, I shuttled between nightmares that occupied my sleep and the torment of wakeful reality in which I cried my eyes out.

The very little remaining judgment that I still possessed helped me drag my debilitated body out of bed in the morning; I was determined to get back to work and figure out what lay behind Martin’s behavior. Dina flew into another bout of rage on seeing me getting down the stairs, ready to leave. I must have really looked terribly awful, for Fury followed suit, and took me to task as well. But I brushed them both off.

Despite the phony smile that I endeavored hard to wear, my appearance drew from my work colleagues repeated enquiries after my state of health and well-being. Jack and the rest of the guys followed with similar questions. Jack even suggested that I take a day or two off. But I reassured him that my malady was nothing more than the insomnia that had hit me the previous night for no apparent reason.

The fraught weight extended to nearly mid-day this time. I was at the photocopier room when he stepped in with his cup of coffee. He must have seen the outcome of his indifferent cruelty drawn evidently on my face. He continued to demonstrate the same torturing apathy, this time graced with a slightly warmer smile. My instinct, however, detected interlaced there something subtle, something that my jumbled thoughts and confused emotions couldn’t really figure out, or catch. Following a few perfunctory remarks, he left, only to disappear again for the rest of the day, leaving me a prey to anguish and disarray.

This tormenting attitude went on for about a whole week. I was melting down like a burning candle, shedding weight and getting paler. My parents’ pressure to get me out of my “hiding place” at Dina’s further exacerbated my quandary. “Just come back for a day or two, and you can always get back anytime you want,” Mum would suggest attempting a lenient approach that would usually follow upon a stricter request. “Your dad and I need to discuss the matter with you.” No need to mention that my parents could have always forced me to get back, or alternately come over to my grandpa’s house to have this discussion. But despite mum’s urging, she and dad must have realized, they being my parents, that after her “confession”, their Liana needed some time away to cope with her inherent shyness in facing them regarding the matter of something as private as her love for Martin.

Dina and Fury, trying to alleviate the situation, suggested various reasons that they thought might lie behind Martin’s transformation, none of which, of course, remotely touched upon the possibility that I was being taught how to give a loud tongue to my feelings and emotions. I, on the other hand, was engrossed in reckoning another possibility: Martin was having a reversal of feelings. Quite often I heard that men change heart easier than changing their clothes," I thought, "So many girlfriends came out of love relationships broken-hearted. Why should I be any different? All this time I thought he loved me. But what do I know of men? This, after all, is my first experience of loving a man. How do I know he wasn’t faking love all this while? And besides, why would he need a naïve, shy, and inexperienced wife? Cherchez la femme was yet another axis around which my mind kept rotating, "Perhaps there’s another woman back home to whom he has decided to return, someone who’s not as inexperienced and green as I am. "

Stewing and simmering in speculation, I was aware of another anxiety. Martin, like any other departing advisor, would usually have only two weeks to finalize his departing formalities. One week had already lapsed.

TO BE CONTINUED, HOPEFULLY SOON

70. "Say it for God's Sake, Say it" / Part XV

2007-11-30T20:31:00.000-08:00

Mum wasn’t naïve enough, however, to buy my defensive claim that Martin was like any other suitor. “Is he?” Mum asked, arching her eyebrow. “Well, listen up Liana,” she carried on with a firmer tone. “Dina has told me everything that I needed to know, but I want to hear it from you now; and when I say everything, I mean it, Liana! You hear me? Everything!”

I straightened slightly, leaning my back against the headboard, and I sat still for a few moments, my heart thumping wildly, and my mind trying hard to marshal its jumbled thoughts in preparation for the arduous “cross examination.” Well, it was judgment day alright! Notwithstanding, it dawned on me that I mustn’t bury my head in the sand and indulge myself in wishful thinking. For any further attempt to blot out or obscure the truth had not only become utterly unfeasible, but was also futile since it wasn’t going to serve any purpose. Moreover, I was racing with time. Martin was in the process of arranging for his final departure in the space of a few days. The need for a quick normalization had become all the more pressing. Above all, without my parents’ consent, there was going to be no marriage. Culture and tradition had granted them exclusive rights to decide upon the fate of the romance. And however ironic this might seem, the final decision, whatever it was, could be only partly mine, but entirely theirs since they had the right of veto. Wisdom consequently dictated a full, but cautious, disclosure.

In the absence of any relevant experience, my instinct was my only beacon to guide me through the challenge, inspiring me to put the matter as lightly and thinly as possible before Mum. The encounter seemed awfully daunting. It was the first time that I experienced being on my own, and facing ironically the people I loved most, for the sake of the man I loved passionately. In the midst of the relief of unburdening myself after six months of the utmost secrecy, I also intuited that Mum’s fears for me were intertwined with her boundless love for me. I seemed embarked on a war in which I was fighting for my right to love against my parents’ love for me. Despite being upset and furious with, and befuddled by, Martin’s weird demeanor, I never doubted his eventually asking for my hand in marriage. And since time was becoming precious with every passing moment, it was necessary to pave the way for Martin’s first step.

And I let it all out, wrapping up the saga of six months into two hours, which tightened my nerves like the strings of a bow. Observing mum’s face twitching, or changing color at any mention I would make of even the most trivial romantic occurrences, no matter how lightly or softly or thinly I conveyed them, froze the blood in my veins. Yet apart from two or three cold questions, Mum sustained the role of a perfect listener.

Luckily Dina did not abandon me, having joined the session at the beginning. She was awfully supportive, and never refrained from extending the hand of help when one was needed.

The one crucial question that I could not answer was whether Martin’s first marriage was a civil or religious one, simply because I myself truly didn’t know. Well, even though Dina had brought up this impeding hurdle earlier to my attention, making it undoubtedly clear that our marriage was going to be pronounced dead if his first marriage proved to be a religious one, I never asked, or more truly, never dared to ask, despite setting my teeth on probing this perturbing issue with him more than once. Well, I guess I dreaded the fatal answer.

Enveloped in an apparent fog of worry, Mum’s features, towards the end, registered immense anxiety, and utter discontent. It seemed as if she realized that her inherently stubborn Liana was evidently going to stick to her guns no matter what.

To Be Continued>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

69. "Say it for God's Sake, Say it" / Part XIV

2007-10-18T02:15:00.001-07:00

I leaned against the copier, my back pressed to it, and stood, hands folded against my chest, anxious for an explanation. He maintained what seemed to be an everlasting silence, settling his smiling eyes provocatively on mine. My thin patience ran even thinner, and surprisingly contrary to my shy nature, I took the initiative, killing the nervous wait, “What is this all about?” “I told you,” he replied and reiterated calmly his previous reply, “It’s about time.” His provocative demeanor inflamed further my stifled rage, which I sensed now to be surging, engulfing my head and burning my face, which must’ve been glowing red.

Despite my befuddlement, I was aware of how much he was enjoying this ungoverned manifestation of emotions. “And what’re you up to now?” I asked, assaying hard not to betray my feelings. But such self-control was unnecessary since the question in itself was quite revealing, and had said it all. I was hoping that he was surely going to talk about us, about me, and about the plan he had for us, the plan that naturally lay behind such a precipitate decision, which he had taken unilaterally. Instead he spoke in clipped sentences, “I’m leaving for the airport in a couple of hours. I will be flying to (X - country) to negotiate a job offer. I’ll be back tomorrow.” Done with his agonizingly concise statement, he carried on with the sipping of his coffee, calmly maintaining the same provocative look. For a moment, I sensed my treacherous tears selling me out, but my crushed pride held them in check. And I uttered nothing. I just turned my back to him, and vented my rage on the poor copier, fiddling absentmindedly with the paper tray, pulling it out, and placing it in again, pretending to be engaged in some diligent photocopying job, oblivious to the fact that I had nothing in hand to copy from. Losing my battle with the wayward tears didn’t take long; they cascaded down upon my hands and on the tray, wetting the papers while I poured more of my indignation on the tray that protested against its cruel handling by screaming its pain loudly as I struggled to place it back in again. All of a sudden, the tender and warm touch of an affectionate and loving hand encircled my right wrist, sending an electrifying shiver through my whole body. This timely much-needed touch unleashed more of my tears, bringing forth a wild rush of conflicting emotions. My heart throbbed, my ears hummed, and for a moment I sensed the whole world around me freezing, everything seeming to have come to a deadly standstill. Hurt and humiliated and at sea, I stood there fighting a powerful urge to throw myself into his arms, rest my burdened head on his shoulder, and cry my love out. But the devastating sadness that had me crushed down to the bone, let alone the shock and fear of losing him that had ravened my sanity, seemed to have all of a sudden vanished, giving way to wave after wave of overpowering rage. I sensed the shy female inside me turning into a huge volcanic mass that was almost verging upon the point of eruption. And despite the resolution that I had made the previous night to overcome my shyness and let it all openly out, I couldn’t do it. I just couldn’t utter or say anything. I was clueless, absolutely clueless, not knowing what to say or how to say it. I just wound up pulling out my hand angrily, so angrily that I sensed my elbow shoving into his chest. And I rushed out of the room, wishing him a sarcastic “Good bye and Good luck.”

I felt like being sucked into a tumultuous and whirling sea of unbearably agonizing emotions that I, myself, couldn’t understand or comprehend. Even the words that I had time and again drilled into me the previous night seemed to have all suddenly evaporated. They just vanished. And sentences like “Make sure to inquire about the residency status of your Iraqi wife” or “What’s your plan for your future Iraqi wife?” were utterly wiped out of my memory. True, it was my inexperience letting me down one more time, but the female whom he had himself invariably pampered with his overflowing love and affection wasn’t accustomed to such harshness. Even on the very few occasions when he had to give his work priority over me, he surrounded me still with his abundant affection, however fleeting his visit would be. It was the first time I sensed him to be totally unmindful of my emotions. The vacuous and painfully blank look that I caught in his eyes split my soul in half.

I was no longer able to stay on my feet, and my irrepressible tears were following their own volition with seemingly no let up. I left the office, pretending to go out to the toilet. Once in, I slid my back against one of the corners, squatted, and cried my heart out. When I got back, he was nowhere to be seen.

The twenty-four hours that elapsed until the next morning were utter torture. And I could hardly wait to see him.

Next morning, Fury, armed with her Sherlock Holmes skills, plunged fervently into action and shortly was able to confirm his itinerary. “He has flown back early this morning”, she said. Wait had multiplied, killing the patience that had already been pronounced dead, and I couldn’t put up with it any longer. Around one o’clock I found myself dialing his number, holding the receiver with my right hand, while having the index of my left hand geared up for action. The ringing tones were silenced by his voice coming through the line. I only half heard his “Hello”. My index jumped into action, hanging up.

I couldn’t fancy going home that day. I was fully preyed upon by melancholy. And my only recourse was Dina. I updated her with my “shocking” news. “Not unexpected,” she said. “He’s American, and sooner or later there was going to be a time when he would leave, or is it that you expected him to remain in Iraq forever?”

Once I had submitted to her forceful determination to eat something, she put me to bed, and set off to see my mother. She reckoned it was about time my mother heard about it all directly from her, instead of both my parents learning it through the agony and misery drawn clearly on my face, and which was now too obvious to be concealed. She was also anxious not to lose their precious trust or face their blame and reproach when all was revealed.

My heart had been beating fast since she had left. Awful scenarios were festering painfully inside my mind until I was finally overtaken by oppressive sleep that lasted long after she returned. Even though Dina had started working some time ago on mum, preparing her indirectly for a “wayward” marriage, any expectation of my parents’ approval being granted without resistance was a mere flight of fancy. And it was not inconceivable that both my parents would unanimously pronounce such a marriage an insane idea. For apart from anything else, approving the marriage meant flinging me with their own hand to the far side of the world where they would not be able to see their only daughter except once in a very long while. And that in itself was way beyond their endurance.

Dina, patting my forehead, was seated on the edge of my bed when I opened my weary eyes. I mustered the remainder of my strength, and sat up in bed, hugging my knees, ready to face the music. From the look on Dina’s face, things didn’t seem to augur well at all. As she recounted later on, she was greeted with indignation for hiding it all from my mum. My dad was not at home; his reaction was another issue, yet to be reckoned with. Dina’s composed and calm nature absorbed, however, mum’s initial shock and managed to contain wisely her fury. “Your daughter loves him. There was nothing that I could do. I tried every possible means to sway her away from him, but I gave up only when I realized how unwilling she was to give up on him. And you know how sensitive and emotional Liana is, and also how stubborn”.

Dina didn’t leave mum until she had quieted down her worries, assuring her of the chastity of the relationship, and how she had been keeping things under her constant watchful observation and advice.

“But have you sensed any possibility of her approving the marriage?” I asked anxiously seeking the bottom-line. Dina multiplied my worries through a shake of her head.

Mum called around seven and asked to talk to me. But I couldn’t. I just couldn’t talk to her. And Dina told her I was having a shower. The sense of guilt for having hid things from her for the first time in my life was overwhelming, and this was compounded by my shyness. I was too embarrassed to discuss such a huge issue with her. With mum and dad I was always a kid, acted like one, and was treated like one. And marriage is an issue only grown-ups could discuss. Or was it that with my parents I didn’t feel like I had grown up enough to get married. I guess love had knocked on my door a bit too early. And the kid who had dwelt inside me for twenty-one years was no match for the female who had beautifully evolved in body and face.

My parents figured out the cat-and-mouse game that I was playing with them; they came to visit around nine. I didn’t have the least courage to face them. Dina told them I was asleep. But a few moments later, mum was sitting on the edge of my bed, awakening the phony sleeper.

I felt so naked in mum’s presence that I pulled the comforter up, covering my whole body right up to the shoulder. And I couldn’t look her in the eyes. Despite the pure and chaste romance, that particular moment made me realize the “horridness” of falling in love. I have always known my parents to be loving, judiciously tolerant and lenient, but mum at this point sounded different. Well I guess I saw her differently, perhaps because this was my first experience ever with love and marriage. “When did this whole thing start? Tell me all about it and don’t leave anything out,” she commanded. “There’s nothing much to tell mum, he’s just like any other marriage suitor,” I said avoiding her eyes. Mum was, and still is, the best at reading my eyes. I might hide things from the whole world, but hiding them from mum was impossible.

To Be Continued>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

68. "Say it for God's Sake, Say it" / Part XIII

2007-06-07T22:47:00.000-07:00

I almost dropped the receiver when it was handed over to me by Fury; I was at sea, not knowing what to say, or how to broach the conversation. A few moments of tranquilizing procrastination that were punctuated by drags of deep breath finally helped me manage a few words, “Hi…Martin.” I was striving for normalcy, but my disobediently wayward emotions declared themselves vividly through my quivering voice. And my helpless apprehension reigned, overarching the crushed emotions that were still clinging to a thin line of fading hope, and pleading heartily within myself for an alternate tell, “Don’t, don’t say it, please don’t. What I heard cannot be true; I am certain you love me enough to spare me all this pain.” Disengaging me from my tumult of silent pleas, his voice came through the line, justifiably reserved and cautious, yet as reassuring as ever, “Hi Lu… how’re you?” Well, even though his words reflected his wonted composure, yet “Lu” would’ve by no means missed the tinge of anxiety that permeated his words; my heart sank further down. For when it came down to this particular zone of feelings and emotions, we would, both, never go wrong. And the magnitude of the event was now all too visibly clear on my radar. Having never acquired it, patience, particularly at this grievous moment, was not a virtue that I could have toyed or bargained with, “Is it true what I heard?” I catapulted through my bursting tears. Fury pinched lightly my arm, seemingly alerting me to the potentials of a mined call. But discretion or prudence was far beyond the reach of my heedlessly anxious emotions. And I brushed her off, reiterating my question, adamant for a reply that was somehow belated, perhaps for it being deliberated. A calm one-word reply, however, wiped out whatever residue of hope I was still clinging to, “Yes.” Overmastered by the impact, I asked, choking out in my tears, “But why?” “Because it’s about time,” he responded with the same composed voice. At this point it seemed as if all had been said, and there was nothing else to be appended; silence prevailed, and I sensed everything else around me stopping dead. The same painful numbness that had assaulted me earlier on swooped down again. And I started detaching myself, losing touch with reality. But a loving and concerned tone pulled me out of the closing shell, “Lu?”

Discussing the matter over the phone, however, was obviously ineffectual, not to mention the necessity for painfully concise speech that further exacerbated the situation, pouring more fuel onto my fires. “Can you come over now?” I asked, casting a nervous glance at my watch, striving to conceal the anxiety in my voice.

Even though he consented, my intuition proved darn right—he wasn’t going to come. And that wasn’t only because we were less than an hour away from finishing for the day. My feminine instinct grasped something else that seemed intangibly wispy, yet foreboding enough to have me devoured by worries. But what was it? That I couldn’t really tell. I sensed my heart and stomach wrenching. “So? Is he coming?” Fury asked, eager for a reply. “He said he will, but….” Unable to finish the sentence, I just shut up.

Those excruciating moments of desperate and queasy wait dragged weightily on. My heart, fraught with worry and apprehension, would miss a beat every time the door squeaked opening. One minute, however, multiplied into another, but he didn’t turn up.

I was literally dead when I finished for the day. My workmates noticed the drastic change. The counterfeit smile that I endeavored to put on to fight off the intrusive looks turned into an onerous task that I could barely afford. And whoever I ran into of my workmates pelted me with their penetrating inquisitiveness, “Hey Liana, what’s up? Are you alright? You look so pale! Are you sick or something?”

My appetite, which had been drastically dwindling away, vetoed the merest hint or thought of food, and that night seemed to be the longest, the weightiest, and the heaviest. And I just couldn’t shut my eyes even for a split second. That night, one of endlessly excruciating nights my fate will prove to have had in store for me, taught me my first lessons of how it feels to be roasted slowly at a low temperature. The most toilsome thing, though, was concealing the gravity of the emotional upheaval from my family, particularly mum, whose vetting eyes spotted the change, and besieged me with her worries. “Nothing serious mum; just tired and I truly wish to be left alone, please.” All her barging entreaties to have me join the family’s gathering, went fruitless. Through her repeated phone calls, Fury, nonetheless, spared no effort, assaying for her part to mitigate the magnitude of the devastation, but to no avail. And while I could hardly wait to get back to work, time had turned into a vengeful enemy, settling its scores, simple by freezing.

When I stepped into the office the following morning, he was standing with his cup of coffee, chatting with Tom, who was behind his desk, facing. I knew I looked like a ghost. Ten hours of sleep were, and still are, the normal daily nourishment that keeps me in balance. And the previous weighty sleepless night had had left its marks on my drained face. Surely my eyes must have imparted my devastation the moment they met his eyes, which communicated overwhelming warmth that had the touch of magic in dispelling some of my worries. Well, just seeing him around gave me all the peaceful reassurance that I desperately needed.

I put my bag in the drawer and impatiently stepped out of my office, heading to the storeroom. He got the message alright. A few moments later, he followed me.

To Be Continued>>>>>>>

67. "Say it for God's Sake, Say it" / Part Twelve

2007-03-07T06:49:00.000-08:00

Fury sat facing me, begging and importuning and pressing me to call him. But sunk in a deep valley, I was oblivious to her urging, her bidding me to piece my shattered world together, and restore the felled clarity of my mind. Not sure how long she went on with her adamant pleading, but the humming of my ears all of a sudden grew louder as I sensed an abrupt silence prevailing. Don’t know if it were that Fury finally gave up trying, or that it were merely a tactical retreat that usually ensues an attack? All I could remember when I raised my heavy-laden head was her statue-like posture. She smiled when my disoriented and wet eyes met hers, the smile of a true and genuine friend, hurriedly reassuring me. But a mute unresponsiveness was all I could offer.

The sympathetic moment when our glances held was disrupted by my reaching out to the tissue box that was sitting on my desk, and feebly pulling out a few sheets to wipe my tear-stained face. I was helpless and rudderless as a small boat mercilessly hurled about in a boundless, tempestuous ocean. The burning pain of despair and helplessness was way beyond what my twenty-one naïve and inexperienced years could carry. Wave upon wave of fear and consternation swept over me unrelentingly, calling forth fresh tears and drowning me in an inundating sweat, as well as paralyzing any remaining physical or mental strength.

And I just didn’t know what to do. Call him? But to say what? To ask him what instigated such precipitate action? Well my perception was that any such query would result in his wiping the floor with the feminine ego that he himself had nurtured with his boundless love. He had eventually slashed it savagely the moment he excluded me in the making of such a crucial decision. The deliberateness of the act was all the more insulting, since it dawned on me that the decision wasn’t one that had been taken on the spur of the moment. True his eventual leaving wasn’t in any way unforeseen or far-fetched—he was, after all, an American, and sooner or later there was going to be a time when he would pack up and leave, returning to his homeland. But it had to be owned that, at least at this point, the decision seemed uncalled for. For not only was I quite certain that he was happy in Iraq, but our love had just started exploring its final frontier. And above this and that, I discerned that we were both in love, so madly in love as to expect to share any and every decision, small or big, vital or trivial. And this decision in particular wasn’t like any other. Or had it been a one-sided love, after all? And was he all this time toying with the virgin feelings of the shy, naïve and green girl that I was? Was he play-acting all the way? O God, he must be then the best actor this earth had ever begotten. All these months, he’d never spared one single opportunity for reiterating how much he loved me, how much he adored me, and how vital and indispensable a part of his life I had become. “Could love then be that phony and superficial and trifling?” I wondered incredulously. “Could love be that worthless as to be easily and carelessly shed like some unwanted clothing? Could emotions be so falsely shoehorned and tailored?”

Although tormented by this torrent of devastating emotions, I could still discern that grief and self-pity weren’t going to be the right dress for my wounds. And in spite of all the knifelike pains of abandonment, desertion and chagrin that pierced my femininity, rage was only a crest beneath which love bubbled over as powerful as ever. Life without him wasn’t going to be in any way easier, but rather a nightmare too dreadful to contemplate: impossible, inconceivable and unimaginable. No matter how angry and hurt I was, deep down I was certain it was only a matter of time, minutes, perhaps moments before I grabbed the receiver and dialed his number. Beyond question, calling him was becoming inevitable. Besides, this wasn’t going to be like any other disagreement or dispute that we have had, where I could wait in the certainty that he would soon rush to me, attempting to make up and pour forth his affection upon the girl whom his indulgent love had awfully spoiled. Time was fatally running out, and it surely wasn’t working on my behalf. The agonizing anticipation of the waiting game was increasingly outweighing the humiliation of the act. I was desperately racing against time, it having turned into a sharp sword that was going to chop me off if I didn’t chop it off first. My sense of foreboding was crazily escalating. Calling him, nonetheless, was still not so prudent as long as I was boiling with rage. And here I was now bargaining with time and wishfully thinking, “He’ll be back to work tomorrow. He must. He won’t leave just like that”. But how could the impatient and so restless and crazily- in-love girl have waited until tomorrow? That tomorrow seemed so remote, agonizingly remote, like a thousand years.

All of a sudden, I sensed a convulsive shudder rocking my whole body, and a flare of enormous rage engulfing me like a crazy volcano. On looking back, I know it was precisely this rage, mostly engendered by my consternation at losing him, that brought down my floating head and served like a buttressing pillar to sustain my heavy-laden body. Without it, I would have crumbled, shattering into a million pieces. Rage ironically overpowered all my other inflamed emotions and pushed me towards making the right decision: calling him.

When the dust of events settled down one month later, Fury, having turned the event into a fecund track for her comical gifts, would mimic what she saw me do then—standing up suddenly and going round the office in a series of mechanical, strained movements. She recounted of me staring absently around, as I sobbed and charged up on Martin in a bout of crazy rage: “From where does he come with all this cruelty? How could he decide on leaving without even letting me know? The last to know? The last, Fury? And you’re asking me yet to call him and talk to him and ask him to grace me with his whys and hows? I hate him Fury; I just hate him and I don’t give a damn if he leaves, or even goes to hell”.

But God, was it truly hatred? Having never been introduced to or ever known what hatred was, how could I have ever hated, or even envisioned the merest thought of hating him, him, of all people? I returned to my seat and sat like a mortified big cat, licking her wounds and cleansing them with her tears. Having vented my feelings, I was gripped by a powerful and irresistible urge to call him, and speak with him. I grabbed the receiver, and tried to dial the extension number of his office twice, but my shivery fingers made such effort undoable. Fury freed the receiver from my hand, and did the dialing. He wasn’t in his office. The second man in charge replied, “He’d left an hour ago”. My heart felt a twinge of pain, sinking further down, “Oh my God, leaving work at such an early hour? He’d never done it before, even when sick”.

Without asking for my permission, or even deliberating the risks of such an imprudent act in the state of fear and dictatorship, Fury ran her fingers down a long list of the advisors’ phone numbers, dialing his home number. The moment I heard her helloing him, my heart flapped, and the same old shiver that had always invaded my whole body every time I saw him, electrified me. What happened to all those mixed emotions or to all that crazy rage? Sure it had all evaporated. “Liana wants to talk to you,” she said, and passed the receiver on to me.

To Be Continued.......

I Will Always Be Back

2007-02-11T18:26:00.000-08:00

I received an email from one of Ishtarria's friends querying if my irregular posting is the result of having lost the drive or desire required to complete my book online.

I would like to confirm that the reverence that I carry in my heart and soul for this wonderful phase of my life, and the hard work that I have already put into the writing of my book online, make the finishing of what I have started a foregone conclusion . It's my demanding new job, however, and the difficulties of reliving the pain of the parts to come that are behind this irregular posting. However, to all the readers of Ishtarria I say: trust that I will certainly be back, irrespective of the lengthy periods of my absences. Please bear with me.

I am on the final touches of the next post. Will publish it in a few days.

66. "Say it for God's Sake, Say it" / Part Eleven

2007-01-07T07:51:00.000-08:00

Fury’s words precipitated down on me like a devastating hurricane, which wound its inclement hands around my neck, thrusting my soul out of my body, and hurling it ruthlessly up into the remotest skies, only to be cast down again, smashed to smithereens. My whole body went numb, painfully numb, and shock produced a lump in my throat, sucking it dry as if sandpaper had been scraping against it. And even though every bone and muscle in my body ached with shivery cold, I was, in a space of a few seconds, drowning in an inundating sweat. As if placed in a big block of ice, my feet and hands trembled and screamed their blistering pain in oceans of sweat. Bedeviled and struck dumb, I sat motionless as the dead, bidding my hardest to come alive from an impaling nightmare, which, with every breathless attempt that I would make to break loose from its smothering grip, would pierce me deeper down, and swallow me further into its bottomless abyss.

I tried to find my voice, but it just vanished. I stared at Fury, shaking my head in desperate rejection of what I had heard, my eyes supplicating her, wishing that she was playing one of her cruel jokes, and wanting her to say it wasn’t true. “No Fury, don’t, don’t, please.” Those few words, which I endeavored hard to wrest out of me, came out rattled and choked with tears that were cascading in support of my toothless plea.

Fury hugged me tight, rocking me back and forth, consoling me like her panic-stricken baby, her tears mingling with mine. At this moment the bitter reality began sinking in, “No, Fury is not joking. Martin IS truly leaving.” Drained and debilitated and feeling half dead, I disconnected, escaping utterly from the world around me. And other than my heaving chest, I guess no other indication of life appeared to be linking me to the world of the living.

“Call him, Liana; call him, please. Call him and talk to him now, before it’s too late.” Fury’s words of exhortation, even though mouthed to my ear, seemed so remote and apart in space. I lacked all sensation. I was numb and lifeless and empty, but despairingly anxious and hopeful still for a swift ending of this excruciating nightmare. I was like a fatally injured dove, draining her last drops of blood, but fighting hard for her final sparks of life.

Suddenly the phone placed next to my desk rang. Even though it reached me seeming faint and remote, it was loud enough as to encroach upon my unconsciousness, bringing back, strangely enough, an abrupt flashback of a similar sound that had resonated six months earlier, jolting awake a freewheeling and dewy-eyed young woman from her sweet and dreamy and simple world. Tears poured down my cheeks as I rode wings of nostalgia to the pain-free olden day, to the day when Fury called me, breaking the news of an ad that had appeared earlier in the morning newspapers, to the day that my destiny began lining up the first words of a chapter that would change the course of a whole life, once, and for ever.

Having laid me tenderly back against the chair, Fury moved towards the phone, as I hazily sensed. My brain, albeit in a state of confusion and disarray, was still able to comprehend a few of her words; someone must have been asking for Martin. “No, he’s not here. ……… Yes, he was here earlier today. NO, he hasn’t returned since he left our office this morning,” she said as she concluded the brief conversation and returned to me. ‘Liana, listen. Listen to me, honey, listen to me, please,” she pleaded as she grabbed both my shoulders, shaking me tenderly, as if to bring down my head that was floating high in the clouds. “I am going to call him now. I will call him at his office,” she said intensifying her words as if to thrust them into my head. “You must talk to him, please, Liana. YOU MUST. This is the only way you can find out about what happened. This will save you the agonizing wait. OK, Liana, OK, OK sweetheart?” She repeated her words in a slightly louder tone.

With a frail movement of my hand, I gestured my rejection. “Water, water please,” my body and mouth begged her, voicing their dehydration. Fury hastened to the water cooler, and returned with a cup of water. I drained it to its last drop, and asked for another.

To Be Continued.......

Don't Shoot, I HATH another story to tell

2006-11-08T09:39:00.000-08:00

She is unruly, willful and recalcitrant. Like an erratic comet, she magnetizes her readers, knavishly and cunningly, into her enchanting course, sending them soaring high in the breadth of the sky, emancipating their curbed minds and hearts, and satiating their wills and desires with the salacious relishes that the shackling politics, religion and society had rigorously tabooed.

Having hooked me to her writings for over two years now, she often made me laugh, and at the same time, cry. And much as she pleased and warmed my heart at times, she enraged me no less at others, such that I would leave, promising never ever to be back, a promise I never kept. I would find myself longing within a short time for the unique flavor of her pen. And on her expected publishing date, I would turn head over heels, only to be incensed again, but this time, at her absence

Who am I talking about? Who else but, Elen Ghulam… The wild horse of the Iraqi Blogsphere, the Iraqi-Canadian Shahrazad, who’s never ceased to mesmerize me by her most fabulous anecdotes

Don’t Shoot, I HATH another story to tell, has recently published her first book, thru Lulu:

http://www.amazon.com/Shoot-have-another-story-tell/dp/1430302011/ref=sr_11_1/104-3902608-5163100?ie=UTF8

IHATH,
I love you … I always will

65. "Say it for God's Sake, Say it" / Part Ten

2006-10-01T00:29:00.000-07:00

It was early morning on a Wednesday. Wearing an ominously overcast face, he arrived at work unusually late, nearly two weeks following the fateful storeroom episode. My heart hadn’t beaten so fast since; bad thoughts and worse scenarios were festering inside my mind. Well, while he seemed to have perfectly understood, respected and never ceased to love me, he had never been himself since that day. And not only his average daily visits of five had declined perplexingly to three, or at times to barely two, he had also grown increasingly taciturn, behaving distantly, his eyes seeming to dodge mine.

Having been enfolded for months in his prodigious love and indulgent attention, I found those two weeks of restrained attention from him excruciatingly troubling. Being forcefully introduced now to such an unprecedentedly abrupt rationing of love and emotions, the passionately demanding female in me that had been formed by his excessive love felt all the more keenly his withdrawal. And I responded resentfully to what I deemed as an unwarranted attitude, which, besides being strange, was also unanticipated.

Alongside my bruised ego, I felt my feminine possessiveness rearing up gigantically, inducing awful anxiety, and nurturing intolerable worries that dragged painfully at me. My brain, performing pretty much like a car straining its hopeless bursts of speed to break loose from a quagmire, asserted its capacity for reason, which the weighty situation had luckily spared unimpaired, over my demon-ridden heart that was hankering after the reciprocity and mutuality that it felt entitled to. But, notwithstanding the burning urge to ask, any flirtatious overture lay beyond my inherent shyness. And given Martin’s full awareness of this impeding factor, his aloofness, and refusal to include me in whatever was troubling him, further provoked my rage.

Earlier on that week, personal necessity had forced me to take a couple of days off. Given that this was my first absence from work since we first met, I was aching crazily to see him. He, too, seemed at the end of the tether of his yearning. But I had an intuition that something grievous was brewing. A few days later, I found that the queasy feeling had not been misplaced. The news of his terminating his contract came like a bombshell. And my small, simple and unsophisticated world was never the same again. It changed forever.

The escalating sense of foreboding made my heart pump at maximum capacity the moment I saw him stepping inside the main entrance of the offices on that day. As if things were not hard enough on me for the best part of those two weeks, he made them even harder when he headed straight for Tom’s office, without extending to me the endearing salutation with which he would welcome me each morning. Enveloped in an uncharacteristically melancholic mood, he threw himself heavily on the chair, as if he had been walking a beat all day. Baffled, at a loss, and ridden by edgy concerns, I looked towards Fury across the glass panel. She was pursuing the scene with an equally perplexed interest; we exchanged laden glances at each other.

In my peripheral vision, I saw him a short while later, stepping out of Tom’s office, apparently making a trip to the coffee-maker. It didn’t truly matter much then if I were steered by mere self-delusion, but I was still entertaining hope that this nebulous air was just transient, and only related to some work inconvenience, and that he would soon revert to his usual practice, and rush out to me with the same vivacious longing I used to see glowing in his eyes every time we met. But things, however, seemed truly to have deteriorated when he returned to his chair without casting the merest glance to my side. And he sat quietly down, resuming the same ominously unremitting drags on his cigarette, and giving up, unusually, the arena wholly to Tom, who was doing all the talking, while he, forehead creased into a frown, contented himself in the role of a perfect listener.

What’s more, the oddity of his lengthy conference with Tom, which dragged on for over an hour, struck me as being totally out of character, particularly since it was early morning still, the time when his schedule would usually be tight with meetings, visits and inspections round the building.

Hurt, ignored and consumed by worries, there was nothing for me to do but to bury my head in my papers, nursing my wounded pride by feigning busyness. But concentration was not for me. My sixth sense, having never gone awry before, fuelled my concerns. And I shuddered with premonition.

The extended wait multiplied my apprehension. And such unwonted disregard that bore a painfully distinct frostiness was far too bitter for me to swallow or digest. Deflection from my unpleasant reality, by immersing myself into my own bloody analysis of how and what and why, provided scant comfort. It pretty much appeared like taking refuge in hell from the scorching heat.

On looking back, however, I do realize that it was precisely at this juncture when I received my first lesson in how to tame the intensity of my anguishes, an art I excelled well at throughout long years of agony. Paradoxical as it may seem, what had started as a mode of detachment turned over the years into my only means of comfort and solace in the face of grim realities.

A betraying rush of blood prompted by anger must have spread over my face clearly enough to have Fury rush hotfoot to my office. Her warning of my indiscreet face went just unheeded. Being in no mood to even raise a hint of a smile, I ignored her humorous jokes, which aimed to pull me out of my dour mood. Seemingly taking refuge from fearful anticipation in a show of ill temper, my placid and peaceful nature rode a wave of high dudgeon that spoke itself in the unsteadiness of my hands and my face, which was crimson with fury. Uncharacteristically, I felt as if I could punch the hell out of anyone given enough provocation.

A spell of silence that fell suddenly on the neighbouring office brought me out of my labyrinth. When I turned towards the gathering of two, Tom was engrossed in writing, whereas Martin, like a man who had all the time in the world in his hands, sustained the posture of a statue.

In the meantime, my office quietened when all the guys left one, after the other, to attend to various tasks out of site; such an advantageous situation would have been on normal days a godsend opportunity for a perfect get- together; but that day was anything but normal. Not having, on the face of it, the least hint of desire for a chat, Martin seemed to be shunning me.

Unable to swallow anymore of this wilful lack of care and attention, I migrated, following Fury to her office. And I sat down, giving my back designedly to the gathering of two, but endeavouring my hardest to put on a pretence of normality, and praying that the volcano verging on the point of eruption inside me would somehow change state.
Some half-an-hour later, Fury reported Martin moving into my office, and sitting down in my chair to make a phone call. Not long after, she described him leaving. And he just vanished for the rest of the day.

Only God knows how I wasted the day away. My fearful anticipation was preying savagely on the remnant of my already devoured nerves. Every passing moment was a sheer nightmare. And my presentiment of disaster loomed large. I was strong in the conviction that some awful eventuality was in the making. It was only a matter of time before it would make its crushing landing. And it did.

Towards the end of the day, I was sitting behind my desk, lost in my heavy thoughts, and wrestling with some hot tears that I had been holding strongly in check for days. Suddenly Fury came bursting into my office, breathless, and as pale as a white sheet. Fear lumped in my throat, and my heart raced to get out of my chest. It was the moment of truth, the dire moment I dreaded most. Before she opened her mouth, I caught the magnitude of the cataclysm she was about to convey to me in her eyes. She grabbed a chair and sat next to me. ‘He has terminated his contract,” she said in a distressed tone. “I’ve just overheard Jimmy announcing the news over the phone. Martin is leaving Iraq in two weeks”.

To Be Continued.......

Apology

2006-09-26T08:50:00.000-07:00

My apologies for the long posting between Intervals. Although I cannog deny liking it,moving around seems to be my destiny. I have recently relocated to another country for the thrid time in less than ten years, and now, as previously for work. Settling down is going to take some time, though. So further delays in posting may occur. Please bear with me.

64. "Say it for God's sake, Say it" / Part Nine

2006-08-25T22:39:00.000-07:00

Coming Soon.......

We’re so sorry dear little angels… So sorry, for letting you down…

2006-08-17T01:40:00.000-07:00

Scene No. 1,

A Huge International Freight Station

Preparations are in full swing for the fast forwarding of what appears to be an overwhelmingly large and sudden consignment of freight. Workers in the stations are connecting night with day to ensure that this perishable shipment reaches final destination overnight.

While workers are still slaving away to clear the awfully jammed premises, a truck pulls up. Pieces of freshly slaughtered meat are stacked one on top of the other, each waiting its turn to be handled urgently.

To the side, still wearing their pyjamas, a boy and girl, both no more than four years old, are placed head to toe, each waiting to be slipped into plastic sheeting. “When the workers picked the boy’s tiny body, and looked at his eyes—their unblemished lids trimmed with fine, long lashes—it looked as if he might still be asleep”.

Consignments bills are being prepared, as the final stages of labelling the shipments start:

Consignor/s, (Collective): Perpetrators of Collateral Damage, Users of Human Shields, Suicide Bombers seeking so-called Martyrdom, Establishers of the New Middle East, Those Consumed with the Arrogance of the Able, Insurgents, Wreakers of Cruelty and Injustice, etc…etc…etc…

Consignee: Heaven

Intermediate stop: Mass burial in graves

Contents: Freshly butchered meat of fledgling kids

Country of origin: Lebanon, Palestine, Israel, Iraq, Syria, etc…etc…etc…

Packaging: Bundles of plastic sheeting, tied off at each end with sticky tape, on which a name is scribbled

Names are being ticked off, as consignments are placed alongside one another at the back of a refrigerated lorry normally used to distribute stock meat from abattoirs.

Scene No. 2
Somewhere, up there, in the blue dome...

Two angels are standing guard, in front of a narrow gate, seemingly the gate of heaven, keeping the evildoers and sinners away…

Enveloped with heavy dust, some moving shadows are approaching from far…
Once within eyeshot, the shadows unfold hordes of weary kids of different ages, ranging from infancy to early adolescence. The kids seem to be moving uncharacteristically slowly, leaning on each other for support, and dragging jaded and fatigued legs. The oldest of the children are carrying infants who are wearing shorts over nappies and colourful teddy-bear vests. Some of the infants have dummies tied to blue plastic chains round their necks or pinned down to their singlets. Their smooth baby skin looks mottled and purplish with bruising. Concrete dust covers their faces and hairs.

Badly wounded, some of the kids are walking heavily with immense pain, while others are limping and sobbing inconsolably as they rub their blood-caked foreheads, or wipe, with the back of their worn little hands, trails of blood flowing from their small beautiful noses.

With their clothes torn out and their hair dishevelled, the children appear haunted with consternation and terror, as if their eyes have iced-up before a horrendous sight that must have been far beyond the comprehension of their blamelessness or seraphic innocence.

Shocked to see the dog-tired little faces, the two angels bolt hastily out to the assistance of the unannounced comers, surrounding them with enormous love and tenderness, as well as much concern.

One of the angels hastens to a huge golden trumpet, and blows sounds of alarm. The place instantly jam-packs with angels of many colours, races and genders.

The narrow gate magically widens, allowing the impeccant arrivals to pass easily through, free from the arduous atonement that adults usually undergo before being allowed in.

Not only is mercy abundant, but love and kindness also permeate them. The crying infants are lovingly calmed, the wounded are rushed hastily off, while the grieving and tired assuaged. And the place overflows with much-needed love, diffusing reassurance and restoring serenity into the dismayed little hearts. The warmth of the place encourages the children’s wondrously timid smiles, and the babies’ endearing gestures. And The blood in no time springs back to the blanched countenances of these exquisite little angels.

Having been comforted and medicated, as well as fed and cared for, the children are all taken en masse to meet a very kind and merciful man, who is dubbed the head angel.

The amiable countenance of the old man greets the children with a comforting smile, which warms their little hearts, as their mothers’ smiles would have done once.

The venerable sage of the white hair and beard descends from his lofty place and blends in within the crowd. Patting gently the shoulder of this child here, or touching tenderly the head of that one there, while kissing the cheeks of one of the babies that is delivered gently to him by one of the angels, the old man seeks acquaintanceship, eager to hear from the kids and get to know them better.

With blatant ebullience, Michael cries out, introducing himself, “I’m from Palestine”.
“Me too”, echoes Mohammed, with endearing spontaneity.

With arms flung round the shoulders of those two talkers standing on each side of him, Cohen adds, “And I’m from Israel”.

Smiling light-heartedly, the old man turns to some exuberant voices coming from behind. “And I’m from Lebanon,” Maroon shouts jubilantly. “So am I”, says Shalhoob, and Haashim follows suit.

While stroking gently Shalboob’s small head, the old man’s eyes fall upon a large gathering of kids, standing to one side; their aloof dignity strikes the old man’s heart such that it upstages the newcomers. Eyes welling with tears, they reply to the query of the old man, “We’re from Iraq”. The old man’s heart goes out to these kids, as he bestows on them no less of his love and tenderness.

He returns back then to his elevated seat, and stands for a while, surveying with immense joy and admiration, the buds of kids staring back at him with equal gratitude. And he addresses the children with a broadening smile, “What made you come back so soon my dear youngsters?” He asks them with a calm voice that failed to conceal its evident surprise, “Was it the place that you didn’t like?”

The moments of intense silence are finally broken by the sound of heartbreaking cries from one of the infants. Another infant copies, and another child follows suit, and also another, all sniffling and whimpering and weeping, as they call out loudly for their mammas.

The angels set hurriedly about, calming down the youngsters, and dispersing further love and affection.

Soothed, comforted and pacified, the gullible hearts encircle the old man, overwhelming him with numerous accounts that their artlessness breathlessly recounts.

The more the old man hears, the more his venerable face is overshadowed with grief, and also with agonizing sadness, and rage, too, which he assays hard to hide.

Privileged seemingly by his age, one of the older children begins to recount the events that had precipitated their return: “We were happy and euphoric, and we played a lot and laughed a lot. But our play was disrupted one day by some games that some grown-ups decided to play. The ground shook, and buildings fell, trees were also burnt and people hurt. Mum hugged us, my brothers and me, as we panicked. ‘Have no fear my dearest sons’, she said, ‘for these are mere fireworks. Our neighbours are celebrating the establishment of a New Middle East’ ”.

“ ‘But mum’s face was blanched with anxiety’ ”, added the young lad. “My mum’s face was blanched too,” cuts off a younger chap with such an adorable naturalness as to arouse the emotions of the honourable man. “And she shivered”, he carried on, “and dad smoked a lot, and he wouldn’t talk or joke, as before, or even laugh. His face looked depressed, and he, who shaved neatly every day, grew a long beard”.

With evident resentment, another child added, “And I wasn’t allowed to go out, or play on the road as I used to do before”.

Having heard what he heard, the old man stumbles as he attempts to reach his lofty seat. He sits down wearily, and, with evident sadness, he gazes down at the world below, engrossed in deep thinking as he strokes his white long beard. Then breaking the silence, he nods to one of the angels, “Take them all in. Make sure they are loved much, well-cared for, and allotted the best places”.

With visible pain, the old man carries on in an undertone, as if he were addressing himself, “The cruel and callous world down there is undeserving of such grace”.

Scene No. 3 takes us down there again.

The show is still underway, with mounting force … the uproar is deafening. The butchery is busy, sending more flesh and blood to the freight station. But recent loads are accompanied with big streamers of different colours and languages:

“WE ARE UTTERLY SORRY FOR THE CASUALTIES AMONG CIVILIANS”

…………………………………..

I looked up the dictionary, trying to find a suitable word to express how I feel these days, but I failed. “Appalled” would be an understatement.

Children of Lebanon, children of Israel and Palestine and Iraq and every other inflamed spot in our demonic world:

You are far more sane and humane than we grown-ups are.
Please accept our apology for letting you down.

………………………….

Ishtarria is sad, enraged, and in a state of mourning ......

63. "Say it for God's sake, SAY it" / Part Eight

2006-07-21T01:18:00.000-07:00

Confiding in Dina, nonetheless, didn’t turn out to be all too bad; every cloud has a silver lining after all. And since I had been living of late in a half world, deliberately refusing to think, and fighting shy of the potentials for painful encounters with the uncertain environment, unburdening the secret of my hidden romance seemed to have restored some of my disturbed serenity. And in spite of all the subsequent upbraiding that Dina’s indignant resentment began raining down on me with or without occasion, and which made me often feel like a naughty schoolgirl after a successful day of truancy, the exacerbating sense of guilt that had been taxing my nerves seemed to have lessened in intensity. Well, considering that this was my first bid at harbouring a secret in my entire life, the sense of having betrayed my parents’ precious trust was excruciatingly unbearable. The matter produced in me the sensation of having perpetrated an immensely unpardonable act. And entrusting Dina with my secret now seemed to have drowned the nagging of the small voice. I felt as if a weighty encumbrance had been lifted off my chest. But, God how little I had known then! For this encumbrance, having seemingly taken a great liking to me, leapt contumaciously now onto Dina’s chest, adamant to stay in the family since, for a long while.

Dina, however, having gotten wind of the hidden romance, must have taken aback upon realizing that the constant preaching and fervent advising she had exhausted on me, warning of the perils of falling in love, had all gone in vain. Things, on the face of it, stuck out sorely enough for her to admit that what she had worked dreadfully hard to forestall had eventually happened. And there I was, against all expectations, rushing elatedly to her, holding the banner of love sky-high, and not only turning a deaf ear to all her caveats, but also proclaiming forcefully, in defiance of her staunch convictions, attachment to a lover, who, apart from the “despicable” diversion he had audaciously taken away from the course prescribed for conventional marriages, wasn’t even Iraqi. The shock factor appeared to have pounced on her tolerance, gripping hard on her understanding and sympathy, and throttling, albeit not for long, her fastidious receptivity. The ensuing frustration and disappointment were all too bitter for her to swallow. Above all, the fact of having kept the event from my parents must have tormented her. Her sense of guilt for failing the infinite trust they had bestowed on her must have compounded her Argus-eyed capacity for proliferating scruples, such that she must have looked upon her role as amounting to an unpardonable act of perfidy. It seemed as if the swooping event slashed deeply into an amply sensitive vein within the weather-eye that she had always kept wide open, and on the lookout, for trouble. And hell to pay was the demand of the anticipated aftermath. But who else other than yours truly would make such a hefty payment?

Albeit my romanticism, and staunch defence of love marriage, counter-fenced Dina’s endless disapprobation, and derided her denouncing cynicism of the “human wolves”, I wasn’t myself in better shoes. The qualms of conscience were no less tormenting for me than they were for Dina. Reality tasted like a hellishly bitter pill on perceiving my lifelong buddy falling prey to crushing sentiments, and flagellating herself for failing to live up to her sacrosanct standards of responsibility and honesty. Her feelings ranged from shock to fearful anticipation, and included misgivings, anger, despondency and painful uncertainty, let alone the sadness and sense of loss and bitter helplessness that would get the better of her in the wake of every futile confrontation she would have with my unshakable doggedness. And while I somehow understood, not least appreciated, and to a certain extent approved her nobly motivated grounds, I was being torn asunder on watching the tooth-and-nail fight she put up to regain the ground she was constantly losing to my growing pertinacity. In the wake of our aberrantly lengthy boycott, Dina seemed as if she were burning the candle at both ends, berating herself as well as trying to talk me out of love and the lover. Being all heart for Martin, my self-willed determination, while firmly uncompromising, stood diffident and abashed on confronting hers. Her resolute and unshakable conviction of Martin being an awfully wrong choice debarred negotiations and rejected compromises. She allowed no opportunity to pass without endeavouring her utmost to deter me from this “crippled relationship”. Martin, from her perspective, wasn’t only undeserving of her much treasured niece, but, having placed him at the nethermost of her list of favourites, even the least worthy of my previous suitors surpassed him by far.

Obviously disposed towards the carrot and stick policy, she initially assumed the mantle of a solemn preacher, talking terms and beefing up her words of advice with some vernacular adages of our honour-orientated culture. Her never-ending list of “Beware of this” and “Be careful of that” seemed as if she were badgering her way into gaining back her heartsease that the ongoing romance had appropriated. Of course, honour and reputation never ceased being the gist and essence of each of her such preaching. She fore-fingered, putting me on guard of men who “who make their ways into the gullible hearts of women by selling them the seventh heaven with words and promises coated with milk and honey”. Seeking to infect me, she surrounded me unremittingly with her untrusting portrayal of men: “Once they quench their cravings, they vanish exposing their ugly faces, leaving their victims facing a bleak destiny in an inclemently callous society”. She would lace her admonishing with reference to “reckless females who end up not only with sullied virtue, but also with reputations disgraced by dissolute predators whose sickly egos are only satisfied through boasting their filthy triumphs”. Her fervent dissuasion sought to discourage me through dissecting the fortunes of love marriages and citing instructive accounts that she derived from their sources either directly or through hearsay: “Any two lovers would be so blinded by passion as not to realize that they are standing at opposite poles. Consequently, the height of charm and the wealth of emotions that overpower reason and rationality melt away like a cube of ice in the first encounter with the scorching sun of the bitter reality”. Dina believed that the flaws and differences that are ignored, dismissed or brushed aside by the besetting force of emotions ramp painfully out with the quenching of desire: “That’s why most love marriages end up as complete failures”. Shaming love and lovers, she would perorate comparing their situation to that pertaining within arranged marriages: “Conventional marriages thrive in openness, and with the abundant blessings of both families, while love and affairs of love cower in hiding, and are prone to suffer shame and disgrace”.

Notwithstanding all this besieging hammering, it soon dawned on me that, despite Dina and I rowing in opposite directions, it was not entirely unfeasible to contemplate setting my boat safely ashore. First and foremost, the air around me remained one of anticipation; panic was just a fleeting visitor. I intuitively felt that what I needed was patience, and patience only, not on Dina’s front only, but on that of my parents as well. Although my wishful thinking of her much-needed support hovered at times among clouds of uncertainty, my trust of her magnanimity remained intact. Being all too familiar with her kindly, forgiving and benevolent nature, I expected that her uncompromising expostulations would soon die out, once the time for taking in the shock was exhausted.

Well, my sweet auntie didn’t prove me in the least bit wrong. The fulminating reaction she had initially brandished impulsively in my face appeared none other than a storm in a teacup. It didn’t matter much then whether it were my unshakable obstinacy, or something else, that was behind the blatant change of position that I noticed Dina undergoing. What truly mattered was that I found her golden heart in a relatively short time, rushing to the assistance of her precious niece, hoisting the emblem of support, and proving herself once more not only the same old loving and proverbially altruistic auntie, but also a trusting friend, a caring sister, and the lifelong companion who had never let me down or given up on me. She wouldn’t have been the Dina whom I had known, had she allowed her notorious strictness and ingrained Puritanism, or even her selfishness to come in between us, or have the least bit of contribution at all in the breaking of my heart. And “don’t worry”, or ‘leave it out all to me”, were her reassurances to my fearful anticipation of the likelihood of my parents rejecting Martin.

Given the few tools the limitations of the situation left at my disposal, I had to rely on Dina’s notorious meticulousness, which came along armed with a cagey plan. While ritual and tradition determined that marriage permissions were the exclusive province of the head of the family, Dina’s focus seemed strangely aimed wholly at mum. Her reassurances of a secured triumph, which came across as anything but diffident, left me nonplussed. Dina was confident that mum was the key to a successful outcome: “Take it from me, once your mum sanctions the marriage, your Dad’s consent becomes a foregone conclusion”. I was at this point getting my first invaluable lesson involving the sophisticated politics between Adam and Eve. Overcome with bewilderment, I stood scratching my head while being introduced by my trusted sage, Dina, to the fact that the majority of decisions, presenting themselves as the product of the stronger sex, happened to be the result of the subtle workings of the weaker sex. Albeit such discovery contradicted what my environment proclaimed about the power bestowed on men by nature, culture, religion and traditions, Eve suddenly appeared to be made of more robust material than a mere rib. And Dina’s predictions proved to be totally right. Mum was not only the soft spot, whose support was highly winnable, but she also turned out to be an influential intermediary who was to pass on Dad’s blessings to the marriage.

Assaying to pacify the expected eruption of disapproval that would come out of such an atypical proposal of marriage, Dina encircled mum with the diaphanously tight cloak of persuasive rhetoric, as she sought to re-mould her convictions about love marriage, particularly to a foreigner, while I stood taciturnly on the sideline, watching my dear mum being presented with some of Dina’s made-up samplings of this X acquaintance here, or that Z work-mate there, who, as Dina expatiated, were “all the more acclaimed and envied by other fellow females”, only for being “luckily married to a foreign husband”. Dina would tactfully get the better of mum’s flabbergasted reaction by highlighting the dignity, deference and appreciation such foreign husbands bestowed on their wives, not to mention the pleasant variation this represented to the monotony of conventional marriage. Mum would raise a pair of baffled eyebrows at this novel shift in views coming from Dina. But Dina was quick in throwing all the blame for it on the emotionally reticent Iraqi men who “don’t give women their fair share of love and tenderness”. Mum would gasp with outrage hitting out at the insanity of “some irresponsible parents, who threw their precious daughters to alien worlds and vague futures, chipping off with their own hands their daughters’ wings by dislocating them from invaluable familial support”. Nevertheless, Dina’s reiterated theme about the advantages of foreign husbands, which she rained down on mum with or without occasion, played an instrumental role in shifting mum’s attitude. A few weeks into the scheme and Dina was holding mum in the palm of her hand. And just as she approached the crucial step of broaching the matter with mum openly, Martin announced suddenly the cancellation of his contract.

It was on a Wednesday, early morning. He arrived at work unusually late.

To Be Continued.......

62. "Say it for God's sake, SAY it" / Part Seven

2006-06-14T15:18:00.000-07:00

Well, in the midst of this heady sea of dismaying worries and disquiet, it intruded upon my awareness the fact that if the matter was going to be difficult enough to do even with Dina’s co-operation, it was impossible to do without it. Not only had her level-headedness gained her my parents’ infinite trust, but also Dina’s discernment and sagacious brain were all assets I crucially needed to sustain me through the tight impasse. I had seemingly mislaid such as of these qualities that my young age had developed, only for being all too swept over by the overwhelming power of passion and love.

Despite being a notorious hardliner in the world of inherited regimentations, Dina, my lifelong true-blue buddy, and my compassionately loving and caring auntie, was all heart, as transparent as an open book, and so full of loving interest for my welfare and felicity as to prompt the justifiably protective attitude that she had exhibited impulsively upon her first learning of the story of my romance with Martin. My concerns, therefore, while they made me once shudder with presentiment, went shortly afterwards as disregarded as the dripping of a tap. And my afresh prediction on Dina being my stepping-stone on the way towards extracting my parents’ consent for marrying Martin soon proved right on the button.

I hadn’t been so sanguine, nonetheless, as to imagine that my path would be all rosy, or expect things to be a pat on the shoulder. The barometer of reality had already given unmistakably clear indications that Dina’s awaited support wasn’t going to be easily gained. Indulging myself in wishful thinking would only have made of me an arrant ostrich. And even though I perceived Dina, shortly after we broke our obnoxious boycott, somehow shifting ground, and entering what seemed to be a new phase of reconsideration, or perhaps seeing the matter in a different light, her initial disapproval of my romance with Martin seemed to presage that she would require intricate handling. Although this conclusion didn’t prove to be entirely true, as it later transpired, any other presumption back then would have seemed blinding idiocy. Anticipating Dina’s endorsement to come challenge-free for such an atypical marriage, not to speak of a forbidden romance, would have been groundlessly optimistic. With every look around, my good sense screamed blue murder at what I was contemplating, warning of the uphill struggle that lay ahead, which demanded painstaking persuasion, if not some gentle arm-twisting, too. Even when excluding all else, close kinship sufficed to grant Dina an influential say in the matter of my marriage. Hence, disarming my wonderful mate, Dina, and signing her up as my “advocate”, was an urgency pressing hard, particularly when considering the crucial battle with my parents that loomed inevitably before me.

But then, was it not Dina herself who provoked my grievous concerns, or rather her strictly kept straight-and-narrow ways of life? On looking back, I surely know it was not the former but the latter. For Dina wasn’t, as one might erroneously think, some sort of a dispassionately hardened, cold-eyed person who would have fought tooth and nail to abort or, at best, impede my project of love and marriage. True, Dina all her life had been the epitome of restraint and self-discipline, but equally she was a genuine wellspring of benignity, brimming all over with gracious emotions, which fought their way out, however hard her inherently reserved nature tried to repress them. And having grown up together, I wasn’t unfamiliar with the golden heart that dwelt in her innermost being, and which was always diffusing warmth and compassion. Her transparent face and voice, so easily read, projected wildly her uncoloured emotions. Dina appeared on the surface pretty much like ice—cold—yet she was as intense as fire. The merest hint of touch with warmth and heat would melt away her hardness into oceans of emotional tears. But then again, Dina was deeply religious, a strict observer of the laws of culture and tradition, never allowing her abiding commitment to faith and religion to dim, or the scrupulous esteem she harboured conscientiously in heart and mind for the honour of the family’s men to ever wane. These constituted her sanctum sanctorum, a rigorously guarded zone where neither impetuosity nor irresponsible frivolity was tolerated. Her “judicial decisions” were pronounced either in black or white; intermediate grey, while not even mentionable, stood for fatal passivity and unforgivable leniency. Such uncompromising resolution, I suppose, was behind the conflict that was underway between her Puritanism and sentimentality, eventuating ultimately in the stifling of the latter, in favour of the former.

However regrettable this may sound, sublime feelings of love and affection, similar to the ones I was experiencing with Martin, all happened to fall within Dina’s callous girdle of proscriptions.

While suitors such as Martin, divorced and alien, were by and large received with tepidity by my culture, Dina’s attitude stripped them of their rights to have their other “credentials” in any way considered, or even briefly looked at. She eyeballed with contemptuous suspicions any suitor slipping through avenues other than that governing conventional marriage. Martin, “to my good luck”, combined all these disadvantages. “Sleazy, immoral and depraved characters, lacking in moral scruples” were Dina’s mildest depictions of lovers, who were also “womanisers, who vanish like dissolving salt once they ensnare innocent girls as their prey”. Loud public laughter, for which I often got rebuked, and which she deemed vulgar, unseemly and casual behaviour, sufficed to send Dina’s ire through the roof. Stories of audacious conduct, redefined by her as “sinister crimes” and “appalling transgressions”, exasperated Dina to such an extent as to set her upon a wild onrush of stigmatization against “those deplorable, dissipated and degraded opportunists who ought to be hung in public to make for an exemplary lesson”. Heedless females, of course, wouldn’t have received a lesser share of Dina’s long diatribe. “Girls with easy virtue” was her characterization of “the insolent and shamelessly brazen-faced girls, who, having the temerity to flout the honour of the men of their family, wouldn’t care less if their reputation were defiled and disgraced”. Dina hardly allowed an opportunity to pass without remarking upon falling in love as “recklessness, irresponsibility, foolhardiness and impetuosity”, whereof honour and reputation were the first victims “of the insane tampering with the regimentations of culture and tradition”. Such an unbending perspective, though, wasn’t the result of her being stoic or phlegmatic. For I was her younger version, and her romanticism, albeit pragmatically disposed, stood on a par with mine. But Dina’s emotions, which seemed reluctant to try new skies out, must have had long holed up, not on account of some inherently feminine coldness, but only for not lucking out by encountering the dexterously awakening manly touch, similar to the splendid one that created my emotions anew in this arena of love. The plausibility of her giving in one day to the power of love and romance was not so conceivable in view of the fact that her pertinacious restraints took care repelling off the admirers, who, despite being all too willing, particularly since she claimed all the aspects of a real beauty, would think twice before approaching her with a marriage proposal. Cocksure Hanni, though, paid heftily, for the miscalculation of his open-mindedness, or perhaps for overlooking that confidence could be borrowed, but never owned.

Hanni was a customer of the branch of the bank where Dina worked, and he fell for her head over heals upon seeing her one-day. Young, handsome and affluent enough to be ranked highly among the bank’s most valued customers, he, following several deliberately devised visits, approached Dina with a marriage proposal. Eminently confident of his suitability, Hanni must have predicted that Dina’s reply to a proposal coming from such a Mr. Perfect would be anything, but “nah”. Given the honourable intentions of this genteel guy, not to mention his being obviously a respected public figure, his entering through the window as a “burglar”, and not coming through the door reserved for conventional marriage, was somehow tolerated by Dina, and, to a certain extent, excused, had it not been for one fatal act, which ricochetted like a boomerang; he asked if he could see her somewhere outside work, once or twice, a step that he thought necessary for increasing his familiarity with her, not least for it to serve as a prelude for the subsequent process of his asking for her hand through the ordinary channels of conventional marriage. Well, few moments into the proposal, and Mr. “Perfect” left the bank glowing red, seemingly with a lost sense of direction that he had perhaps misplaced somewhere around the bank to keep his plucked self-importance good company. That day was reportedly his last sighting in the branch. The story was that he arranged for the transfer of his bank account to another branch. What’s more, Dina was still seething with indignation when she recounted to me the corrective discipline she lashed out to the poor guy. She castigated him thus: “Would you allow my brother to take your sister out for achieving your so-called “familiarity”? What about my reputation if an acquaintance or relative of mine sighted me with you? And what if after several of your proposed outings your “highness” found me unsuitable”? She concluded, plucking the last feather off the peacock’s tail, “If you don’t give a damn about your sister’s reputation, which I wouldn’t find at all surprising, I assure you that I treasure my brother’s honour a good deal more as to consider it degraded by association with someone like you who doesn’t have the merest hint or smell of morals”. I reckon poor Hanni must have carried this experience at the back of his mind for a long time, thinking, perhaps twice, nay, thrice, before approaching any other female for marriage. Chances of Dina lucking out with a husband were, hence, to rest within the course of conventional marriage. And so it happened eventually.

Confiding in Dina, nevertheless, didn’t turn out to be all bad; every cloud has a silver lining after all.

To be Continued.......

61. "Say it for God's sake, SAY it" / Part Six

2006-05-12T08:47:00.000-07:00

My life had, hitherto, been so simple, carefree and far from involved with problems of any significance. Mum and Dad had hastened always on winged feet to free me from the bother of working out single-handedly the few problems that I had encountered thus far, most of which were ludicrous and trivial. My parents’ abundant love surrounded me as if I were a priceless treasure to be guarded. But the likelihood of my being bruised like a little kitten by the overly protective mummy cat was not a far-fetched scenario. How I was going to deal with such a hydra as confronted me, and which defied an easy solution, was totally beyond me.

And then, in my heart of hearts, I knew that Dina was right about everything she said. Offending religion, notwithstanding my enormous love and affection for Martin, appeared like an insane enormity that would inevitably make the blood of tradition boil, and spill into a disgraceful disaster. Tradition and religion bore arms and ruled, and such harebrained defiance of their governance was bound to bring about detrimental ramifications. Dina, after all, talked facts, inarguable facts, which she put before me in their complexity, seeing to it that there was no room for misconstruction. The prospective civil marriage was anticipated to arouse sharp and uncompromising condemnation on every hand. Being the one-and-only kind recognized, Church marriage for the Catholic majority among Iraqi Christians, who were renowned in the region for their rigorous religiosity, was a sacred and irrevocable institution. There was little that angered both, church and the Christian community, more than the frivolous underrating of the inviolable rudiments of faith, most insufferable of which was the hideous conversion from Christianity to a different religion. The upshot of a civil marriage carried the opprobrium of living in sin, and was so grievously noxious as to prompt excommunication from church, inviting thus the derision and contempt of the Christian community.

Having acknowledged all that, there was still the peculiarity of my personal context, which further promised to exacerbate my already convoluted situation. My family, celebrated for its adherence to religion and faith, not to mention the numerous men of the cloth it had offered unsparingly to the church over the course of a century, had put me strictly on the path of being God- loving and God-fearing. They held to the dictum that “religion gives strength and inner sense of purpose”. My family’s honour and reputation had, likewise, never lost precedence in the hierarchy of my values, occupying a hallowed space in my innermost self. Daring to think outside the borders of the impositions of culture and tradition was stark staring madness. Such weathering was not for me; my heart cringed with consternation. True, my love for Martin was overwhelming, but so was my love for, obedience to, and fear of God. And marrying Martin implied that I jettisoned the precepts of a lifetime. I had never in a life of staunch devotion ceased supplicating God to deliver me from the sin and vices of life. But the horrifying transgression of God’s commandment that civil marriage was bound to bring about ate at my heart and was as painfully wounding as the lash of the whip. Such foolhardiness, in the eyes of the teachings that I had long imbibed, epitomized the direful forfeiture of eternal life for the sake of this mortal one: “Life, irrespective of length, would always be short; then comes the crack of doom, time when God will decree the fates of human beings according to the good and evil of their earthly lives”. Such was an example of the deterrent instruction to which I had been exposed. And such was the object lesson that I had biddably and acquiescingly learned since my tender age.

God and faith for us, Iraqis, regardless of faith, religion, or extent of devoutness, remain the essence of existence, the beacon and the light, “in the absence of which straying from the path of virtue would be inevitable”. The notion of sin and hell and everlasting torture was all too appalling. And I was young and innocent, also godly and dutiful. I loved and revered God with all my heart, and had never angered Him before. My design was that I would never do so. And then, how could an incredibly innocent girl with the purest mind and heart ever tolerate the slightest hint of angering God? “But marrying Martin will definitely anger God, and it will also hurt the parents I adore most, leave alone the ensuing affects that will reflect harshly upon my family’s social standing”. Dina made this inescapably clear. Such unsettling thought sent a shuddering chill down my spine. The bliss of meeting Martin and the wonder of having him in my life was overshadowed by this horrid eventuality of sin. It was marred by the dreadful and gigantically cosmic retribution that the church incessantly fore-fingered. It was beyond the capacity of my innocence, and my fledgling life-experience, to even imagine perpetrating an act that would bring about retribution of such magnitude. The price I was bound to pay for giving up on all that which had constituted my life so far seemed exorbitantly high. This was my first hardship, wherein I was crushingly placed between the pestle of tradition and the mortar of religion. And the obnoxious position of being crushed between the two made my life a waking nightmare. Shots of forgetfulness with which I had been purposely injecting myself were increasingly losing effect, becoming more like opium, briefly soothing, but the climb-downs were excruciatingly painful. I was prepared to clutch at any straw that might help palliate my fears.

Paradoxical as it may seem, Dina provided one.

To Be Continued.......

- - - A Glimpse of Iraq

2006-05-04T23:09:00.000-07:00

It is my great pleasure to introduce to the readers of Ishtarria a marvellous word ambassador, a poet, a historian, and an eloquent fellow Iraqi blogger.

Ibrahim Al-shawi
AKA, Abu Khalil has now published his blog "A Glimpse of Iraq” as a book

Available from
http://www.lulu.com/content/295948

Abu Khalil is a credible voice coming from inside Iraq that touches upon the gruesome events of Iraq and upon the woes that Iraqis have been undergoing for years now.

Erudite, learned and a source of valuable insights and sapient advice, Abu Khalil possesses a veritably honest pen that critically examines the past, and provides a reliable perspective on the present as well as the future of Iraq.

For the past year or so, I have been an avid fan of Abu Khalil’s writings. Surely his blog as well as his book are both a must-read.

Congratulations, Abu Khalil. In such decisively difficult days, it’s people like you that we Iraqis need out there, instead of the bunch of the opportunists whose major concern has been anything but the welfare and goodness of Iraq.

60. "Say it for God's sake, SAY it" / Part Five

2006-04-21T14:16:00.000-07:00

The odds were all too high on my parents commanding against such an atypical marriage. Children’s matrimony was one domain wherein parents enjoyed near exclusive governance. Culture, tradition, and religion enjoined children to filial obedience. And marriages made under compulsion were sometimes the upshot of such undue exercise of unconditional power. The honourable intentions of parents seeking felicity and contentment for their children were barely disputed despite events taking at times awkward turns. Like other loving and caring parents, mine wished the best of life for me, their only daughter. My fearful expectations, however, stemmed from the likelihood of my parents disqualifying Martin because he did not meet their criteria of a worthy suitor. The chances of their responding favourably to the proposal of a foreign suitor seemed slim even without the additional complication of his being divorced.

Recurrent wars, the heavy-handed sanctions of the United Nations upon Iraq in the wake of the invasion of neighbouring Kuwait, and the consequent economic disintegration produced distortions in the demography of Iraq. While society’s stronger sex was being hurled ruthlessly into the bonfire of cataclysmic wars, females were growing disproportionately larger in numbers. With such an alarmingly growing supply, not to mention the brunt of the exacerbating fiscal conditions, marriage rituals dispensed with some of their orthodox sophistication and associated flamboyance. The stringency of culture and tradition softened in recent years. Hence, the pernickety verification of suitors’ lineage and social standing waned a little. But by the standards of the day, and particularly in the eyes of refined families, being a foreign suitor and a divorced one to boot amounted to being in line for a knockout blow that would send him flying to a less than secondary place in the marriage market. In the social and cultural hierarchy, such suitors made perfect matches for widows, grass widows, and spinsters. With a lump in my throat, I slowly recognised the critical nature of my situation. I wagered, however, on my parents’ open-mindedness, which, while it stood out favourably amongst the repressive majority, seemed like my best hope of extrication from my stalemate.

Banking on my parents’ empathy and understanding, I prayed that their love for me would not crisscross with my love for Martin. But the stringency of religion put water upon the fires of my hope. Dina’s ‘enlightening’ advice was pointing relentlessly towards the bitter reality. At the same time, my parents’ approval of Martin wasn’t going to be achieved by the mere fact of his having proposed. Even If, conceding to the will of love, they were to set aside the agony of allowing their much-treasured daughter to be stripped away from their life to a remote country, other objections were readily available. “What do we know of him?” was the mildest potential herald of their dissent. Revelation of Martin’s divorced status was yet another tapestry that was pretty much anticipated to flabbergast my parents enough to incite their berating ire, “And divorced too? After all those excellent suitors you’ve turned down?” Impelled by their omnipresent sense of protection, a train of tempestuous interrogations of “how”, “when” and “why” was most certainly to ensue. Forcing me away from Martin through banning me from work was yet another likelihood to be reckoned with.

Pronounced a liability in the eyes of culture, love and matters of love, irrespective of parents’ tolerance and large-mindedness, were by and large enwrapped in suspicion that spawned worrisome disquiet and propelled detrimental consequences. However fleeting, every recounting of such postulated sequence of possible events would send a chill down my spine. And losing Martin to preposterously archaic and rigid traditions or to the overarching power of religion was an eventuality that I couldn’t afford. I was rarely free from anxiety, although I endeavoured my hardest to put on a pretence of forgetfulness. Such artifice, albeit brief, seemed useful for assuaging my worries. But it was too facile a solution for so complex a problem. The intricacy of my situation was beyond what my fledgling sapience about life could deal with. I was young and raw and inexperienced and madly in love. I was not equal to the challenge that I faced. My heart would thump wildly and my whole body would drown in shivering sweat at the mere thought of the impending confrontation with my parents. I sought refuge in the dubious palisades provided by the present moment. I was hopeful, perhaps, of a silver bullet that would magically solve my problem. No, not perhaps, but most definitely. My wishful thinking was that tomorrow would, somehow, bring about a magical solution, one that would miraculously work things out, and leave me only to enjoy life with my Martin. How and when was beyond me. And it didn’t truly matter much, so long as I had Martin in my life, so long as he was mine and around. And beyond the practical problems that besieged us, I never harboured any doubts that Martin was mine.

So why would I bother to think of hell when I was blissfully enjoying heaven. Martin's enormous love never stopped injecting new life into me. His ubiquitous warmth and tenderness wiped away all my concerns. They would all vanish like magic once I saw him stepping inside the office. One smile from his wonderfully reassuring countenance sufficed to catapult my detestable worries beyond the sun, turning life into a dream, as fabulous as could be. He, having proposed, made obvious his good intentions, and it further boosted my trust in him. Not having replied to his proposal with the expected yes, yet, was for reasons that were not attributable to his person, as he well knew. The profundity of our reciprocal love seemed to make our marriage a foregone conclusion. We surfed affectionately and unconditionally into each other’s hearts and minds. Today was fabulous. Tomorrow seemed far away, or I wished it rather to be far away. It stood for the unknown, and it dismayed me. But with Martin on my side, tomorrow did seem far away.

Nevertheless the sense of being faced with overwhelming obstacles persisted. And the solution I yearned for seemed beyond reach. Martin wasn’t going to be in Iraq forever. Sooner or later there was going to be a time when he had to leave. And it wasn’t time only that was running out; it had become way too conspicuous that Martin’s patience was also wearing alarmingly thin. Having accomplished his share of work, it was my turn now to accomplish mine. I had to find a way to sway my parents. And I had to find some way of making loose ends meet, but how?

To Be Continued.......

59. "Say it for God's sake, SAY it" / Part Four

2006-03-23T21:05:00.000-08:00

I instinctively realised without any conscious acknowledgement on my part that feminine desires were too subtle and introverted to express themselves in terms of direct statements. Rather they preserved their essence and stature through gracious assent and elusive hints. What I had only sensed back then, I came to realize palpably later on. For often I got entrusted with painful accounts of crushed dreams of some of my fellow females. They bemoaned to me their miserable marriages to husbands who exploited their feminine reserve by taking them for granted, or by treating them with emotional indifference. Every such sad story would compound my ardent love for this man, making it inconceivable for me to forget him, or have him substituted by another man. Martin’s attentiveness spared my shy feminine desires the demeaning quest for reciprocity. He perfectly understood me, revered my desires, and fulfilled them, however simple and naïve they were. One fleeting gaze into my eyes was enough to launch him with dexterous sensitivity into the sea of my emotions.

True I was young and raw and innocent, but I was endowed with an instinctively discerning eye for men’s behavioural minutiae. My overly sensitive and fastidious feminine detector always picked up what escaped the antennae of less perceptive women. Martin never failed the test. His capacity to combine virility and tenderness was especially appealing to me. Although susceptibly delicate to the point of spurting tears for the silliest of reasons, I was also capable of being refractory, as I recoiled from countless marriage proposals from men that other females idolized, because they lacked the savvy, elegance and the adroitness of approach that Martin manifestly possessed. My sense of feminine vulnerability responded to and was gratified by his confident masculinity. I had become the proudly weak Eve only because my Adam was manly enough. It turned out that my indulgently weakening femininity enhanced Martin’s sense of virility, heightened his manly love, and aroused his sense of protectiveness.

His love and care seemed an extension of the affection that my devoted parents had lavished on me. Having surrounded me with his prodigious love, he graciously tolerated with astounding patience my childish fits begotten by his excessive indulgence. He always greeted my apologies with affectionate gestures and warm air kisses, coupled with words such as ‘I adore you’, ‘you will always be my precious baby’, ‘if you just know how much I love you’. He really treated me with the same affection and tenderness accorded to babies. And I just loved it, and adored him all the more. I would never forget his wonderfully swift reaction to the pain I was undergoing early one morning from my wisdom tooth. He rushed instantly to his office and came back with a small ampoule of pain pills. He then fetched me a cup of water, and stood there, affectionately watching me taking two pills, while his eyes mirrored incredible delight at this opportunity for a manly display of love. Loving deeds like these surrounded me all the time. And I was enthralled, particularly as such attentive demonstrations of love run contrary to what men of my culture are accustomed to showing women.

But, having been engulfed by such heavenly ambrosia, was I truly oblivious to the barbed wires that walled up gigantically between Martin and me, or was I merely burying my head in the sand?

Well, whatever the truth of the matter, on thinking back, I know I was certainly disinclined to face the painful truth. Assaying to run away from anxiety, I deliberately banished from my thoughts Dina’s list of obstacles. It died hard, nonetheless, dwelling at the back of my mind, craning its neck now and again and instigating stabs of enigmatic fear, enough to hector my heart and freeze the blood in my veins. And that wasn’t only on account of the political jeopardy arising from such ‘wayward’ marriages. Arranging for the marriage to be conducted elsewhere abroad wasn’t quite unfeasible after all. But the thought of the horrid inevitability of a civil marriage, given Martin’s divorced status, had the whip hand, perturbing my mind and muddying my happiness. All too high were the odds on my parents commanding against such an atypical marriage.

To Be Continued.......

58. "Say it for God's sake, SAY it" / Part Three

2006-03-08T15:58:00.000-08:00

Over the years, I had often been castigated or, at best, lectured by the few relatives and cronies who, having become aware of the story of my romance with Martin, would shake their heads in resentful condemnation of what they deemed to be a veritable manifestation of my stupidity. Even convivial gatherings would often turn into heated debates into which I was provocatively dragged. While the intensity of their excoriation varied, those “admonishers” unanimously expostulated upon the senseless and irrational “waste” of my life. Often depicted as short-sighted, foolish and, at best, a dreamer, who had become detached from reality, I was perceived by them as needing to have some sense knocked into my head. And so, earnest pieces of advice, all highlighting the vital necessity of marriage, was showered down upon me. Marriage was seen as an inevitability. Whether preceded by love or not, it was an unchallengeable expectation. My unorthodox ideas about the necessity for marriage to be founded on love fell upon deaf ears, and were constantly ridiculed and remonstrated against for being unrealistic. Various attempts ensued to talk me out of “this crazy love that’s destroying your life”. Assuming the role of my mentor, each and every one of them took ardently upon themselves the charge of correcting my “odd and anomic” way of thinking before it became too late.

Tactics of persuasion and dissuasion proved to be equally futile. I held my ground as stubbornly as the “opposition” held theirs. Time, nevertheless, seemed to have turned into a crucially decisive factor. And my situation exacerbated with every passing year. When I approached my twenty-fifth birthday the confrontations acquired greater force and momentum. Early marriages were preferred. By the standard of the day, females were less popular in the marriage market once they had advanced beyond the age of twenty-five. And besides, I was young and beautiful, educated, and from an excellent family. Repeated rejections of suitors raised eyebrows and inflamed gossip. Such exhausting, annoying, and upsetting encounters besieged me almost unrelentingly. Shutting up, however, seemed like an ideal response to all this clamouring tumult that stalked me ubiquitously like my shadow. Having proved instrumental in discouraging irksome intrusions, my apathetic silence also contributed efficaciously towards preventing rancour. Cordiality remained intact. Resorting to such tact came in the wake of a charged argument that had once offended a friendly “persecutor”. Her overly sensitive feminine ego, already bruised by a conventional marriage, couldn’t digest my blunt reply. She mistakenly took it as a barb at her precariously miserable marriage. It took a while and a true endeavour before I was finally able to restore the soured relation. However intrusive she was, the effort, given our long friendship, was certainly worthwhile. At any event, her good intentions warranted my pardon. What truly mattered after all was that from then on I had learned my “good lesson”: maintain silence, nod my head politely and “obediently”, put on an appreciative face, and get away without unnecessary confrontations.

Brought up in the same culture as my tormentors, I wasn’t unaware of the place that marriage occupied in the hierarchy of values for women. Popular proverbs dinned in its indispensability, invariably delineating women’s chief role as occurring within the walls of marriage—“Shadow of a man is better than the shadow of a wall” —or they would encourage haste—“Hop in before you miss the train”. Feelings? Emotions? A pitiful shake of the head would meet one in response, reflecting bafflement and almost sheer certainty of the formidable consequences that spurning marriage would bring on: “Let those feelings and emotions avail you when you end up being an old maid at the mercy of sisters-in-law”. There were times though when castigation ebbed purposely down, only to emerge later on in the guise of heartfelt advice: “Love and intimacy will come with time; children will bind you to your husband”. Notwithstanding, my love for Martin never waned or faded, nor did my sense of fidelity ever waver in the least bit, or shake from its moorings in the face of torrents of beseeching counsel. Compromising my emotions in this overly sensitive area of the heart was not for me. Falsifying or deluding or colouring my emotions was just beyond the imagination of my mind, much less the capacity of my heart. And my body was a sacred temple. It only worshipped one God.

Then again, although I was unduly romantic, my romanticism was hardly ever divorced from the reality of my surroundings. I was, in effect, as much part of it as everyone else was. Observing all the monotony, tepidness, and dullness that characterised the best of marriages, not to mention the appalling evidence of sham happiness in a culture obsessed with face-saving, our love, Martin’s and mine, seemed unutterably precious. And I would unwittingly find myself engaged in comparisons. Invariably these comparisons wound up in his favour. Regardless of the yardstick, Martin, then, or years later, emerged as a paragon among men. He perfectly epitomised my own best standards. First and last, that was what mattered most.

I always viewed marriage as a partnership that is born dead if not solidly based upon the invaluable assets of mutual love and spontaneous, shared emotions. My emotions and feelings were the powerhouse of this unruly part of my being; I could not tailor-make them; they flowed from their own mysterious source, impervious to laws and regulations. My emotions acknowledged no externally imposed censors, flowing along their self-chosen course. I submitted to their power, fastidiousness, and direction. Checking or falsifying my emotions would have caused a ferocious inner turmoil that would have damaged my felicity. Despite ample evidence of marriages of convenience hiding behind masks of contentment, I was convinced that my feelings would not submit to being shoe-horned into a contrived marriage. Having never ever lied about them, my emotions never ever lied to me. Having never been deluded about them, they never deluded me. Every single particular in my body yearned for Martin. I might have been outrageously innocent. I might have been naïve and inexperienced, but in my innermost self dwelt a desiring female who, on account of her shy modesty, lacked the means of articulating her feelings. Martin’s tenderness and unwavering love and attention slowly stoked her feelings into visible life.

Despite my impeding shyness and the strictness of my culture, which disdained ungoverned social openness, I, nonetheless, made no secret of my disapproval of the atrocity of coercing females into marriages they abhorred. Having received a great deal of outside rebuke, my parents’ tolerance of my “wayward” thoughts was inestimable. But then, weren’t my parents the ones who had in the first place taught me the alphabet of love even before I learned to speak? Again, weren’t they the ones who had instilled in me the immortal value of love? Yes, it was they who tutored me in love. It was they who taught me to fight for love with love. Well, since love begets love, it was to be expected that I should face love with love. And marriage is all about love, right?

While other men would have possibly looked scornfully down on my outrageous lack of experience and perhaps derided my naivety, Martin not only respected it, but he worshipped my innocence. He prevailed in a masterly fashion over my impeding bashfulness, won my heart, gained my trust, and transformed the naïve girl into a desiring woman. Martin read my thoughts with penetrating acuteness, and sought my virgin emotions with delicate tact. My heart gave in malleably like a raw piece of argil to the tender touch of his love. Notwithstanding his liberal cultural background, not to mention his painful succumbing to the stringency of mine, he satiated my feminine desires without compromising my ingrained puritanism. Can anyone tell me then how could I not have loved such a uniquely wonderful man? And, having loved him, can anyone tell me how could I ever have forgotten him?
Was that all?
NO, by all means, no. That was just a drop in the ocean.

To Be Continued...

57. "Say it for God's sake, SAY it" / Part Two

2006-02-28T19:05:00.000-08:00

The tremendous amount of love and attention with which Martin had surrounded me throughout those few months was incalculable. Having lived all my life in a society in which men exercised power over women, such lavish display of emotions seemed a welcome difference. Iraqi men, however chivalrous and gracious, are substandard lovers. They are more enamoured with what is due to their manhood than with lavishing affection upon their other halves. Their verbal manifestation of love is often graceless, and at best, mediocre. The most our poor females can expect from their other halves would be a few words quoted from a love book or memorized from a romantic movie, or possibly gained through the generous reciprocity of friends. Such insipid and jejune love expressions stood short of sending the heart throbbing or of stirring a luscious shiver. Thus being introduced to such a wellspring of spoken passion was so intoxicatingly foreign for me, the offspring of a strict culture and heavy-handed tradition, as to shake me off balance. Martin sent me walking on air to the seventh heaven, strictly banning the way down. Having such a wonderfully loving man in my life seemed more like a beautiful dream. Waking up was my nightmare.

Notwithstanding his arduous job that entailed colossal responsibilities and crucial decision-makings, I occupied a good proportion of his thoughts. It thrilled my heart to pieces on watching how resourcefully he devised the means, even during hectic times, to pull himself out of some extremely demanding job, even if it were only for a few brief moments, in order to visit me in my office and shower upon me his ethereal love and unbounded attention. His numerous trips to the coffee maker during lengthy meetings, which he deliberately organized to take place at Tom’s neighbouring office, incited my guilt pangs for the harmful amount of caffeine his body consequently absorbed. Those trips were his adroitly exploited respites. They were mostly designed in order to find opportunities for making tender love to me through words.

His shuttling trips between our offices, his and mine, must have contributed enormously to his ‘physical fitness’, since it consumed at least an hour of each day just spent in walking between the buildings. As a corollary of this arrangement, he stayed behind late each day, an hour or two beyond his departure time, probably catching up on what might have been shelved to one side in order to manoeuvre our meetings.

The expressive style of his eyes constantly challenged that of his eloquent mouth. Thirsty, passionate and obsessed, his eyes indefatigably hugged me. When our luck deserted us, and the chances for a love talk were embargoed by the presence of other staff, his eyes, at such times, would defiantly and determinedly take over his mouth, performing as a splendidly expressive vehicle through which he conveyed his intense emotions. The satisfaction of my feminine ego soared through the roof upon realizing how copiously I was loved and how attentively I was cared for. Even at times when he tended towards gravity and firmness, he would still be a gushing fountain of love. Had the reservoir of his love been spread over the whole of planet earth, there would still have been a great deal left over.

His infatuation with my innocence was profound. He hardly missed an opportunity for purposely stirring up my bashfulness. It seemed that the red colour rising on my cheeks heightened his love by beguiling his manhood. We were on our own in the office one day, having one of our intimate chats. He was sitting behind Jack’s desk. Towards the end of the chat, he stood up and drew closer. Facing me, less than a meter away, he stared at me silently for a few moments. “You don’t know what you’re missing”. I looked up at him, smiling, and I innocently replied with a question, “What?” Eyes sparkling, he smiled back, with a meaning look that betrayed his desire. I felt blood rushing to my head. I lowered my head and sustained my bashful silence. After a few tense moments, I heard him addressing me again, “It’s this innocence that’s holding me up”.

To Be Continued.......

56. “Say it for God’s sake… SAY it”

2006-02-25T19:05:00.000-08:00

Given their relatively closed society, the majority of Iraqi females, particularly those in their teens and twenties, were, by and large, less instructed in the ways of life than their peers from the more liberal western countries. Nevertheless, being excessively innocent and unduly bashful by nature, I did not necessarily typify a trend among Iraqi females.

Underestimating the rigorous hand of culture, tradition, and religion could take one down an injudicious path to no light moral crime. Stories about throwing religion and conventions to the wind were by no means scarce. As a response to such audacity, households resorted to various inhibitory measures, in order to salvage honour and reputation. A hasty coercion into kin marriages, mainly cousins for Muslims, or to any other opportunely available suitor, was the usual fate in store for any audaciously venturesome female. In the ‘unfortunate’ absence of either, escape from home confinement lay in the hope that providence would bring a suitor, whose unsuitability mattered far less than his capacity to salvage reputations threatened by ruin, or to preserve appearances of propriety. For such marriages were mere subterfuges for sparing the family’s priceless reputation, or for extricating it from a difficult quandary. Drastic lapses of conduct in other cases triggered even more dire outcomes. Less fortunate females paid with their lives for their miscalculated rashness. Not only were they discarded by their lovers for having fallen from virtue, and having failed to save themselves for the first night of marriage, but they also wound up as victims of heinous honour killings, which, while they undoubtedly existed, was less widespread in Iraq, given its relatively liberal and progressive orientation, than in other countries of the region. Notwithstanding, matters of honour and reputation were, and still are, extremely sensitive domains that will involve, at least for the foreseeable future, inviolable taboos.

My inherent innocence was traceable to my parents, particularly to my mum, whose bashfully blushing cheeks often vied with mine for intensity of colour, and frequently won. One could say that in this ‘sophisticated’ arena involving relations and matters of love between Adam and Eve, which was too embarrassing for my mother ever to discuss with her daughter, the title of a ‘beginner’, even following those few months of romance with Martin, would have been more than what I could have claimed. For thanks to Martin, I had only just started my infancy-crawling phase learning its first rudiments, with a shy modesty that hid a stupendous thrill. I also happened to have a tremendously patient ‘tutor’ whom I adored very much, and trusted even more.

A little more than five months had elapsed between the storeroom episode and the time that I had first joined Martin in working for the foreign section of the same establishment. During this period, our circumspect romance, which was strictly pure, chaste and reverential, as well as mindful of the stringent surroundings, had further intensified. Despite all the beleaguering perils from the wide-open eyes of the ugly minders, we providentially survived. And while it was obvious that I had solely and incontestably mounted the throne of his heart, it was equally evident that he had an entrancing effect upon the subtle emotions of the unduly romantic girl that I was, overwhelmingly occupying her present and taking possession of her future too. The merest hint of not having such a marvellous man in my life threatened to cast a devastating pall on my world.

Martin, having graciously gained my trust, stamped triumphantly down on the lifelong wariness and chariness that tradition, culture and religion had implanted deeply in my innermost being through their sedulous warnings against any proximity to the “perilous” world of masculinity. My love for him, twinned with trust now, rocketed to the ultimate heights.

My first experience with this ‘peculiar’ emotion called love was so compelling that it seemed much like a fairytale, too splendidly good to be true. My Prince Charming was like a grace that divine providence would bestow only upon the deserving, amongst whom I was, yet, the most blessed. Describing my wonderful man in a nutshell, I could say that even my most fabulously romantic dreams would have come short of creating a better version than the magnificent one reality had provided me.

And I was beguiled by the marvel of the experience and filled with awe for such a tremendously captivating lover. Martin dominated my thoughts. I yearned for him even when he was in proximity. Martin’s remarkable manhood was far too enthralling for my dewy-eyed innocence to contain or cope with. Like a thirsty sponge, my heart soaked up the inebriating and dulcet taste of heavenly love. Despite the lack of a yardstick, considering that I had never fallen previously in love, the intensity of my emotions for him was by no means overestimated. Every day I would return home pie-eyed with heady love talk and exhilaratingly affectionate gestures. They lulled me to sleep at night. Hoping that tomorrow would come quickly, I would drift off into sound sleep while replaying them back in my mind. And he, Martin, was the full lead of the colourful film that monopolized my romantically innocent dreams afterwards. Our partings? Absolute hell! They were truly sheer torment. Given the inconceivability of meeting outside the fences of work, love taxed heavily my nerves during those few hours when we were apart by necessity. Weekends and holidays were even worse. My enthusiasm and excitement in the mornings must have seemed odd amidst the blatantly languid postures of yawning employees, but the situation was reversed at the end of the day, when it was I who departed with heavy reluctance in contrast to the alacrity of others. Each morning of the working week I would be impatient to get back to my nirvana at work.

To be Continued.......

- - -May Our Merciful God Shower His Abundant Peace Upon Iraq & the Iraqis

2006-02-24T20:53:00.000-08:00

فليكن امن الرب وسلامه معكم

ويده فوقكم

تحفظكم وتحرسكم من كل شر

يا

اهلي يالعراقيين

قلبي وروحي معكم

وصلواتي من اجلكم

مسلمين كنتم... او مسيحيين

عربا وكردا

أم تركمان

سنة أوشيعة

أوصابئة

أوكلدواشوريين

أزمة وراح تعدي

وترجع شمسنا

تبرج بسمانا

وتلالالي فوك ارضنا

ارض الحب والتسامح

ارض العراقيين

اهل القلوب الطيبة

يلي

ما شفت

ولا راح اشوف

احلى واطيب

وارحم من قلوبكم

العراق امانة

برقبة كل عراقي شريف

رضع من صدر أم

حرة عراقية

اعمالكم وافعالكم

لازم تظل

طاهرةونقية بطهارة حليبكم

العراق يالعراقيين

امانة برقبتكم

- - -I am back, but firstly, with an announcement.

2006-02-07T18:38:00.000-08:00

For over two weeks now, I have been struggling to carry on with my writing. Drafting, deleting and revising have become frustrating but habitual idiosyncrasies. While my pen has succumbed biddably to my will, my mind seems to be exasperatingly void. Having finished well nigh two thirds of my narrative now, I wonder if what I have been experiencing is some sort of a despondent escapism that my mind has deliberately designed, only to shun going about the few remaining chapters. For what’s coming is the most harrowing. But then, that having become my ineluctable destiny, how would I ever get away from what has also been my sanctuary and my hallowed refuge? How could I ever set one foot out of what has always been the blazing haven, to whose incinerating flames my whole being has been agreeably addicted. It seems, however, that I am lacking the strength, perhaps even the capacity, to come anywhere near the pain that I have been mollifying for years, and which has gnawed at my susceptible endurance. Living through the events contained in the upcoming chapters would sprinkle further salt on my raw wounds. And in riding this insane adventure, this is exactly what I am doing.

My agony, which I have been braving out for over one year of blogging, will henceforth intensify unbearably. And I pray that God upholds me through the remaining parts. For there will be times when my grief will be intolerable to myself. Much as I hate missing publishing deadlines, there will definitely be deadlines missed.

But then, the indefinable reverence that I profoundly bear in mind and soul and heart for this invaluable phase of my life, and first and foremost, my unbounded love for this worthily wonderful man, would surely bring me back. Having foolishly ridden this venture, I promise I will finish it up, even if it leads to finishing me off.

Trust that I will always come back, perhaps, not as regularly.

Your understanding and sympathetic patience is my support.

Acknowledgement

I would like, however, to seize this opportunity to express, once more, my heartfelt thanks to those of my readers who have accompanied me hitherto in this journey of ISHTARRIA. Having turned into a sweet habit, it’s indescribable the inundating excitement that sweeps through me every morning upon checking the traffic in my site. While it, perhaps, implies not much more, for some bloggers, than statistical figures through which they gauge the popularity of their sites, for me it is certainly a great deal more than that. For with every passing day I come to further appreciating the fabulousness of this world of blogging through which I have come to know so many wonderful people whom I now consider friends, yes, and dear ones too. I have even given them names, emblematic names that I’ve derived from their locations shown by my site meter. Readers regularly checking my site, particularly those readers who make multiple daily visits, despite their awareness of my weekly publishing date, gives my site a pulsating life; given this is my first experience with the arduous job of writing, it certainly makes it worthwhile.

Whether it has occurred merely by chance, or whether it’s my “good fortune”, 90% of ISHTARRIA’S visitors come from the USA. And this enlivens my hope strongly. I am now quite positive that ISHTARRIA would, one day, hopefully soon, reach the person for whom it was written.

I would like to express my special thanks to my Illinois readers. They, along with their fellow Californians, seem to top the list of my readers; it’s amazing how rapidly their number is growing. Of course, I wouldn’t forget to thank my other readers who come from various places in the USA—Alabama, Arizona, D.C, Florida, Georgia, Maryland, Michigan, New Jersey, New York, Oregon, Texas, Washington— and also from Canada.

My thanks also go to my Australian and Japanese readers, and all other readers coming from various places in Europe. Your keenness is a tremendous support.

I wouldn’t by any chance forget you, my dear friend, the lawyer. Well, You know who you are. Your last email was, as ever, fabulously wonderful, particularly since it came during the short absence of my friend Doreen….

My fellow Iraqi blogger Tara, of Tara talk, many thanks for all your wonderful emails. Just the mere sense of you being there for me, whenever I need a shoulder, gives me an incredible push to finish what I have insanely started.

You too, Abdullah, of Then some. How could I ever thank you enough my dearest for everything. May God protect you always, and shower peace and prosperity upon our beloved Iraq. Please stay safe. Your post of 25 Dec 2005 truly gave me a chilling shiver. You, Iraq, and our outstandingly brave Iraqis, are in my thoughts and prayers at all times.

Omar, of Iraq the model, whatever I say would still fall short of thanking you enough for your support and encouragement...كانت صدفة كلش حلوة ان استلم من عندك ايميل والبوست هذا ماثل للنشر خلال ثواني

Nancy, of Beth Nahrain, you and all Iraqi bloggers are Iraq’s white hopes.

Ihath, thanks for everything. Both your sites will always remain among my favourites; I always look forward to reading them

Once more, I would like to thank whoever has sent me emails, Xmas Cards, or left entries in the comment fields or in my guest book. Also, I am very grateful to whoever has recently linked to ISHTARRIA.

And last and foremost, a very special thank you goes to my dearest friend and my soul mate, Doreen. Notwithstanding the agony of years, I will always consider myself the luckiest, not only for having been blessed with the love of a wonderfully unique man as Martin, and for having a wonderfully supporting and loving family, but I am also blessed for having an incredibly wonderful friend like you. God bless you, and John too, for everything.

You too my dear Maryann, hope to hear from you soon. And I truly hope you’ve enjoyed your Xmas holiday.

55. Jealousy, Trumpeting Love /Part Four

2005-12-17T11:53:00.000-08:00

With eyes riveted on me, he placed his cup on the copier, and he maintained a steady pace towards me, which pushed me into stepping further backwards, my helpless hands pleading and warning. Suddenly, I realized that I hit something. It was the wall now right behind me. I was trapped. But he wouldn’t stop. ‘Please… Martin… please stop… stop please…’ I murmured, imploring fervently.

On realizing the futility of my pleas, I impulsively held up my arms, both palms facing him, so that they formed a ‘protective’ shield, but apparently not protective enough to produce the desired result. It seemed that he stopped only when he sensed the tip of his shoes touching mine.

‘Martin, don’t, please don’t’, I pleaded in a breath of a sound that was barely audible.

Powerless in the face of his looming impetuousness, I swiftly covered my eyes with both my hands. Such a defensive move seemed the wisest spontaneous reaction my artlessness could come up with to ward off danger. Well, I thought if he’d do anything crazy, not seeing him doing it would perhaps make it feel less ‘drastic’.

I froze like a statue, heart throbbing and body shivering, but paradoxically not in the least bit fearful of him. A few moments passed, but nothing happened. I cautiously moved my hands slightly down. He was staring at me. I sensed his beautiful hazel eyes embracing my face. Ostensibly rapt in passion, he seemed wistfully moved too. It must have been my artless reaction that had him ultimately maintain his judicious self-control. He must have had pitied such naivety that rebuffed danger by covering the eyes with two helpless hands.

Still apprehensive, I clasped my hands and placed them against my chin as I looked up at him. My heart drummed and I sensed my whole body electrifying the moment our looks touched. His beautiful hazel eyes showed pain even as they shone with love. After a few nervous moments, he gently grabbed both my hands with his right hand; he placed his left hand upon my left shoulder and pushed me tenderly. He averted his eyes from me as he commanded gently, ‘Go please, go’.

My mind has played back that scene countless times through all these years. Each time my whole body would shudder with consternation at the thought of the danger I was in. The possibility of someone catch us in such intimacy was not at all farfetched. Being caught in such a disastrously ‘scandalous’ incident would have obliterated my reputation beyond reparation for a whole life to come, and placed me in terrible political jeopardy. Then, the no less wonderfully exotic feelings would sweep over me every time I recalled that scene. It was my first genuine rapturous proximity, ever, with a man. The wonderfully new-sprung female within me had been baptised in torrents of bliss that would indivisibly bind my soul and my heart and my mind to this man for a whole life to come.

I returned to my desk, while he remained in the storeroom. Fury, shocked for Martin’s impetuousness and apprehensive about the danger posed by a darting intruder, had been guardedly watching over the romantic scene from across the glass panel. After I left the storeroom, she, recounted of him standing in the same spot, motionless, with his back turned against the door. He then grabbed his cup of coffee and stood for a brief moments with his eyes fixated on the opposite window. Before long, I saw him dashing out, his eyes altogether avoiding looking in my direction.

I sat bemused and baffled, but madly in love, now more than ever. This was our first physically close intimacy, and I hadn’t been the least bit afraid of him. And not only that, I dared for the first time to look into his eyes from such a critically near distance, and enjoyed it too tremendously. My mouth was desperately pleading for him to refrain from any insane demonstration of his feelings, but my heart and my mind were crazily craving such insanity. I was dying for him to take me in his arms, and hug me tight and kiss me, but the naïve and innocent-to-a-fault kid in me was still striving to hold on to the life she knew more strongly than ever. My parents’ precious trust, my priceless reputation, and the strenuous demands of my culture and my religion, not to mention the rigid traditions of a callous society, along with my innocence, stood admonishing against the least slackening of the rein. The sacred flower of innocence was pleading for him to stay away, but the desirous female was desperate for his body and his touch. Those short moments were long enough to say it, to admit it, and to reveal it all, loud and clear. He must have seen it glaringly in my eyes. He must have seen the full female in me who was abundant and overflowing with passion and love. The amazing thing was that I could no longer sense being in love as the burdening sin that tradition, culture and religion had instilled in me. An enormous wave of powerful love had swept away a lifelong sense of aeb and harram. It just seemed to have magically vanished, as had my fear and shyness of him. Yet, I fervently pleaded that he minded the pure chaste love that I cherished no less than the lover. I pleaded that he preserve the sacredness of what had started sacred, and the chastity of what had started chaste, until the right time. He didn’t let me down, but rather lived up magnificently to the expectations of the kid in me.

I sat detached from the whole world. I was shaking all over, my heart engaged in a wonderful dance of ecstasy, and overwhelmed with such agonizingly sweet emotions. This event consumed me in rapture beyond what my romantic nature could cope with. And the scene was much larger than my ignorance and lack of experience could contain or even dare to dream of or imagine. I was floating on cloud nine, wholly oblivious to what callous fate had in store for me. For, following that episode, Martin was never himself again. The irony was that what had profoundly enraptured me turned out, to be unbearably painful for him, so painful, that in less than a fortnight, he cancelled his contract, and made ready to leave Iraq.

To Be Continued.......

54. Jealousy, Trumpeting Love / Part Three

2005-12-10T21:56:00.000-08:00

It was around eleven when he showed up. He had, as was usual for him, picked upon the most perfect time. A short while earlier, Gerhard, the last of the advisors, had left the offices; I was on my own, working behind my desk, with only Fury on the other side across the glass panel.

‘Morning gorgeous’, he saluted, as he stood at the doorway, hands in pockets, seemingly yearning for whatever would make up for his one-day away, perhaps a smile, or a tender word, or, hopefully, an affectionate gesture. But the lioness in me was in a completely different valley now, immersed in her preparations for a court hearing, and, on the face of it, not the least interested in any form of love or salutation.

‘I missed you’, he murmured softly as he drew closer.

I just ignored him, head down, busy working, or feigning business rather.

“Hey kiddo, what’s up?’ he uttered in a mirthful tone as he approached my desk.

………….

‘Mad at me for not coming yesterday?’

………….

‘Something wrong I have done?’ he said with a hint of laugh as he drew even closer in what seemed to be an infringement of the two-meter rule.

Having not received any reply, he stood silent for a few moments, perhaps trying to figure out what had occasioned such an unwontedly cool reception.

‘What is it, Liana?’ He asked now in an ostensibly nettled tone, his patience seemingly running thin. ‘I saw what you did this morning. What’s wrong kiddo?’

I looked up at him. He had this wonderfully untouched, innocent look pervading his face. ‘Didn’t she tell you?’ I asked, suppressing my insubordinate rage.

‘Who? And tell me what?’ He asked, eyes squinting.

‘Your “home secretary”. Didn’t she tell you I called yesterday?’ I asked in a sarcastic tone as I got up, planning one of my infuriating flights that he was quite familiar with. ‘I called three times and left you messages to call me back, and every time I called, a very soft feminine voice replied’.

Despite my awareness of the truth behind the feminine presence, I was losing my composure to some overpowering emotion that, notwithstanding its staggering callowness, seemed deliberately bent on its purpose. Explaining the situation in a nutshell, I had turned into a rebellious female who was only too eager to shake off her garb of shy maidenhood.

Sensing the betrayal of my tears, I dashed out of the room. ‘Hey, jealousy is a bad thing’, he cried out laughing.

‘I’m NOT jealous’, I exclaimed in denial, and made tempestuously for Fury’s office, fighting an urge to scream, to cry, to raise the roof and to hit him. Yes, hit him strongly with my fists, on the chest, on the shoulders…

As I talked to Fury, he stood somehow to my right, a few meters away on the other side of the glass panel, looking at me and ostensibly waiting for my return. I boiled with anger, but I was also aware how enraptured he was with my emotional outburst. Before long he gestured to me to return. I disregarded him. ‘He must be punished’, I thought vindicating my ‘mutiny’. ‘A woman at your house? Answering your phone? What would you need me for? Or is it Liana at work, and another one at home, and God only knows with whom you were lunching yesterday?’ He beckoned again. Fury urged me to talk to him. He was making himself a cup of coffee when I got back.

‘What do you want?’ I asked in a disgruntled tone as I stood on my side of the glass panel.

‘Come over here’, he commanded gently, head down, busy with the making of his coffee.

I brushed past him into the storeroom and stood leaning against the copier, silent with arms crossed. He followed and stood at the doorway meeting me head on with the most wonderful smile. ‘The very soft feminine voice that you heard, and which drove you nuts, was Jocelyn’s; she is the lady who keeps house for me’, he explained calmly. ‘She comes twice a week. Your phone call, I didn’t return simply because by the time I got home from Customs, after fixing the problem I was having with the temporary licensing of my car, you had already gone for the day’.

The relief of having my feminine possessiveness thus gratified was enough to kill all trace of my so-called rage. But exhibiting my mollification seemed a bit premature. Maintaining my silence, I shifted my hands now against the copier to support my back as I was still engaged in searching his face, seeking to substantiate the authenticity of his declaration, which predictably seemed to correspond perfectly with that of ‘detective’ Fury.

‘Jocelyn keeps the house not only for me but for some other advisors too. This, you can check out yourself’, he said with a lovable air of confidence. ‘Feeling better now?’ He asked in a tone of marvellous tenderness as he stood for a brief moment staring affectionately at me. ‘You’re jealous, Liana’, he said, as he started moving slowly towards me now. ‘You’re hell jealous… But don’t hide it kiddo… don’t hide it… because I love it… and I adore you’. As he maintained his slow pace towards me, I could sense his eyes burning with passion. ‘What have you done to me, Liana? What have you done to me, for God’s sake?’ he asked in an agony of feeling.

While he moved towards me, I apprehensively shifted direction. Alert and vigilant, I edged slowly and cautiously backward and to the left, my hands gesticulating for him to refrain from any act of insanity that he may have been contemplating. Relieved as I was now for the amicable conclusion to the ‘Jocelyn’ issue, I realised that I had wound up with another problem. Yes, a real ‘serious’ one that I had brought upon myself.

To Be Continued.......

53. Jealousy, Trumpeting Love / Part Two

2005-12-04T11:09:00.000-08:00

Assaying to ease up the aggravating tension, my splendidly thoughtful friend Fury instantaneously assumed the role of Sherlock Holmes and plunged fervidly into the action of verifying the identity of the ‘alien’ voice. Fifteen minutes of artful chitchat with Martin’s assistant and she was back holding the banner of triumphal success. If she had persisted with her ‘research’ a bit longer, she would have, I reckon, traced the woman’s roots several antecedents back. She joyfully gave me the facts in a nutshell: ‘She’s the housemaid. Her name is Jocelyn. She’s Assyrian and goes there twice a week’.

Well, the name and ethnicity of the alleged housemaid seemed to make a perfectly logical match. Apart from Christian names shared by both denominations, Iraqi Assyrians tended to favour Western names, unlike their fellow Chaldeans who were inclined towards Arabic names. I had, yet, one more reason for accepting Fury’s anecdote. The majority of Iraqi Assyrians spoke English adequately enough to grant them precedence in jobs that demanded such adroitness. It was a well-known fact that such gain was the outcome of their various large-scale recruitment by the Britons, particularly at Al-Habbania airbase camp, during the days of British colonization.

As time dragged on at snail’s pace, so did my worries press heavily upon me. Until I left for the day, that fretfully longed-for phone call never came.

And I couldn’t sleep a wink that night. I was out of bed at the crack of dawn, still weighed down by anxiety. I camouflaged with skilful make-up the marks that sleeplessness had left on my face. It was undoubtedly true that I was restless and sad. And this wasn’t owing to any lack of feminine assurance, for I was in ample possession of whatever sustained and enhanced such assurance. I was overcome by an unprecedentedly rampant sense of feminine possessiveness, which had only been stimulated by the shockingly unexpected alien presence in a territory that I was most certain was devoted solely to me and not to anyone else.

And despite Fury’s reassurances and my still solid faith in Martin, my feminine misgivings, however slender, were quite exasperating. Well, this was the first love experience of the dewy-eyed female that I was, whose captivating prince charming had popped up spectacularly from her fantasy world into the actuality of her simple, artless and most innocent existence. How on earth would one expect or even imagine her to cope with such a thrilling event that was now yielding unexpected complexities? Massive waves of agonizingly conflicting emotions stormed through me. It was at once love, rage, misgivings, perplexity and enigmatic apprehension, all crushing excruciatingly the excessively romantic girl who was madly in love only because she was madly loved; the question that befuddled my inherently sacrosanct sense of fidelity was ‘Could such a thing possibly happen? And ‘why?’

In spite of everything else, Fattin was still the glaringly cogent proof that my trust in Martin wasn’t the least bit misplaced or abused. But wasn’t there the probability of a slender margin of error in every calculation? It was this slim likelihood that nagged at me, weighing me down, and depriving me of my peace of mind.

Notwithstanding, jealousy failed to provide the inducement that love had already done. For holding the rein firmly, now more than ever, was my ineffable love for the man who had worthily and competently captured my heart and my mind, and captivated my emotions. Having been inundated with his unwavering love and attention, I had become like a fish relishing the wonderfully sweet and crystalline water of melted snow. Martin had become my nirvana, and I had become addicted to the heavenly ambrosia of love that he was feeding me. And because I loved him, yes, because I loved Martin more than life, because he had become so much a part of me, life without him would have no meaning. Even the slightest hint or thought of losing him would rock my world devastatingly, and turn it into nothing short of a torturous hell. How little I had known then what torturous hell would truly mean!

Martin’s day away from work and its dire consequences gripped me in such a crazy fever of passion for him that the few hours at home had become a harrowing drag.

Next morning, around eight, the establishment bus pulled up in its usual parking lot. As I headed with Fury and two other female workers towards our building, I glimpsed Martin coming out with two other advisors, seemingly making for the headquarters for their usual weekly meeting. I was walking on the far left side of the three girls, the side closest to Martin as he and his companions came towards us. I could see that he had noticed me, and it must have been clear to him that I had seen him too, although I had deliberately cast my eyes downwards, pretending otherwise. In spite of my overwhelming rapture at seeing him, I sensed a perplexing wave of rage storming through me so violently as to render him unworthy of the morning’s good wishes. But was it truly rage? On thinking back I know it wasn’t. Rage was a mere driving force that I had, myself, unconsciously engendered only to give me a boost over the fence of my bashfulness and push me towards a deliberate confrontation with Martin. It wasn’t related to having found corroborating evidence against him or to wanting to express my disapproval of the disagreeable feminine presence at his place. Rage was the vehicle through which my feminine instinct could communicate to Martin my feelings, without letting down my guard; the jealousy, which fuelled it, was really my messenger of love. The alarming sense of danger that Jocelyn had triggered off was so paramount as to bring out forcefully the full female in me; my resolution was to come to grips with my impeding bashfulness. The fact that I was madly in love could no longer be hidden under any guise. Forthrightly or else, it was high time I unveiled my emotions. Jocelyn had instinctively stimulated my jealousy, which, after having engulfed me in such alarming dismay, had subsequently channelled itself into rage as its most effective form of expression.

Inspired by my feminine instinct, my only trusted guide in the absence of experience, I slowed down as Martin and his companions closed upon us, falling slightly behind the girls. Head still down, I shifted sides by moving slowly to the right. On reaching the far right side, I half raised my head and glanced at him; he was a few meters away, staring at me. When our eyes met, he shot me a meaning glance that was coupled with the hint of a perplexed shake of the head.

To Be Continued.......

52. Jealousy, Trumpeting Love

2005-11-30T17:07:00.000-08:00

While the cigarette functioned as a discreet cover for expressing my bashful love, jealousy, in its turn, scooted zealously into action, trumpeting it. Thinking of Fattin? No, no, it wasn’t Fattin. For she had altogether melted into the background once I stepped into Martin’s life. Back then, however, I was still on shore, and hadn’t waded as deeply yet in the stormy sea of love. Who was it then this time? Well, who else would it be other than Jocelyn? The most ‘wonderful’ Jocelyn, who, while she truly wrecked my nerves, inadvertently did Martin a great favour.

It started during one of Martin’s rare mid-week absences. Early morning, on the way down to the office, I was surprised to find that his car wasn’t in its usual parking spot. A sweeping glance around the parking lot obliterated my fervent hope that such vanishing was a mere shift of location compelled by someone having taken prior possession of his customary parking spot. An immediate sensation of dispiritedness and disquiet struck through me so acutely that I strove to obscure it from Fury’s hawkish eyes, while trying to avoid responding to her untimely persiflage. For the best part of the day I impatiently remained on the lookout for his appearance. The anxious backwash from such unwonted absence exacerbated when he surprisingly didn’t call either. Having been copiously featherbedded with his affection and invariable availability, I couldn’t put up with such an atypically unexplained disappearance especially when I realized that Tom too was futilely trying to reach him to resolve an urgent professional matter. Tom, however, obligated by his attendance at an urgent meeting, abandoned the effort sometime around noon. He suggested that I keep trying and, on reaching Martin, should pass on a message for him to call Tom immediately on a specific number. Well, tasking me with such an assignment was the brass ring that I had hoped for. Shunning gratuitous perils, and notwithstanding our romance, I had never, prior to that day, called Martin at home; circumspectly, neither did he call me at home. Anyway, just when I was about to hang up on my last of several fruitless attempts, a feminine voice, much to my surprise, replied on the other end. On looking back, I wonder if it were the vigilance, bred by my parlous surroundings, or my incidental inquisitiveness, that prompted my decision to talk to the woman in English rather than the usual Arabic. However, being an Iraqi myself, and familiar with the lame English of the majority of my people, recognizing the nationality of the voice wasn’t a hard task especially given her distinctively accented English. The voice on the other end apologized for Martin’s unavailability. ‘Who’s she?’ I wondered, thinking uneasily as I hung up. ‘And what’s she doing there in his place?’

I rushed impulsively to Fury with my dismaying news. Well, Fury’s various placatory suppositions proved to be altogether ineffectual in disarming my suspicion and dispelling my anxiety, and I returned to my office fraught with endlessly obnoxious scenarios crowding one upon another. After fifteen minutes into the nail-biting wait for his direly awaited call, I jumped on the phone again. The same galling voice affirmed that my message would be imparted to ‘Mr. Mondelli’ as soon as he returned. Having fully eaten out my heart, jealousy now scourged my sanity sufficiently that it befogged my mother wit. For I misread the woman’s use of the honorific, which I mistakenly took for an ‘outrageous’ barb at my relative casualness. I eventually hung up with an infuriated bang at what I considered to be her extraordinary ‘brazen-facedness’. Minutes dragged torturously on, yet the call I longed for didn’t come. The fidgety wait of ten more minutes seemed like ten years. Patience altogether worn out, I rang again. On hearing the same voice, the notorious Iraqi temper, which I had been strenuously suppressing hitherto, uncorked, flaring up now. ‘Give me Martin’, I demanded brusquely.

‘He’s not here’, she replied timidly, obviously taken aback.

‘Where is he? When is he coming back?’ I attacked with a barrage of questions.

‘I don’t know. He was already gone when I got here’.

‘Oh my God, already gone when she got there! What’s she doing then in his house, while he is away?’ I wondered, in high dudgeon.

In such a state of fretful disarray, my wonted circumspection was in abeyance, and the danger from the omnipresent and beleaguering landmines seemed less imperative. ‘Get him to call me as soon as he’s back’, I demanded, imprudently giving my name. ‘Tell him Liana called; it’s urgent’. I hung up burning with rage, ‘It’s your bad luck Martin that I caught you’.

I hung up, wishing that I could somehow get to her neck, whoever she was, and strangle her, which was an impulse that was altogether discordant with my peaceful nature. Bemused, fidgety and preoccupied, I engaged in a multilingual bout of stigmatisation against whatever pertained to the world of masculinity. Sanity gone hugger-mugger and reflexes all helter-skelter, the refined and sophisticated female within me gave way to a frantic-with-rage big cat that lashed out in Arabic, spiced up with Aramaic, flavoured with English, and drizzled with some German, too. Fury tried in vain to calm me down, but what could poor Fury do to a volcano that was spewing forth a continuous lava of jealousy?

To Be Continued.......

51. "We're Even Kiddo" / Part Three

2005-11-22T17:06:00.000-08:00

I mustered enough courage to take up the gauntlet in anticipation of yet another test of strength. It was one of those hectic days that Martin was having. He was lighting up frequently, his entrances invariably preceded by a miasma of smoke as if he were a walking chimney. This time, though, I contemplated finding the middle ground. He would usually have a packet of cigarette in the pocket of his shirt or in his hand. He was making himself a cup of coffee when I approached him with a proffer.

‘Why don’t you leave this packet with me, and every time you come over I will give you one cigarette’, I said in a placid, persuasive manner. His leaving the packet with me, I believed, would reduce the number of cigarettes he smoked during the whole working day down to just the number of visits he made to my office.

Busy making his coffee, he met my suggestion with little, if any, interest, and he acted as if he didn’t hear me. His nonchalance incited my tenacity, ‘Martin? You heard what I said?’

‘The answer is no’, he replied in a discouragingly firm tone, still too occupied with his coffee to look at me.

‘But…’

‘No buts’, he interrupted unwaveringly, ‘already started quitting’.

‘Oh, yea? Since when?’ I asked sarcastically.

‘I’m smoking less now’, and he turned round and left me for Tom’s office.

Realizing that my suggestion had encountered an impasse, I returned dispirited to my desk. A short while later I left the office to go to Workshop Three for my usual daily exchange of charts. Such trips would usually use up a half hour. On returning, I first went into Fury’s office; from there I realized that Martin had already gone. When I came to my office some few moments later, I noticed that the upper drawer of my desk was pulled open slightly. I always ensured that this drawer, containing various items of feminine paraphernalia, was always pushed shut. When I pulled open the drawer, I saw a familiar packet of Philadelphia cigarettes lying in full view. Hands shaking, I seized it. On opening it, I saw that there was only one cigarette left inside…

With my whole body shivering and tears welling in my eyes, I tenderly hugged the packet to my chest with both my hands as if it were a priceless treasure. I sat for a few moments, semiconscious to the world, assaying to catch my breath and quell the spouting emotions that stormed me overwhelmingly. Slowly, I unclasped my hands with apprehension, as if I were protectively exposing to the world a small, fragile bird, and stared at the packet with extraordinary love and affection. Martin’s manly resolution appealed to me as much as his capacity for lavish acts of tenderness. This marvellously thoughtful gesture, I interpreted as reparation that was designed to wipe out any possible misconstruction of his unresponsiveness to my suggestion. And it just thrilled me to pieces.

I sat stupefied for a few moments, striving to tame the unrestrained torrent of emotions that engulfed me. Tears spurted down my cheeks, and I found myself unprecedentedly grabbing the receiver with the intention of calling him. But my seemingly impregnable rationality triumphed sufficiently over my exuberance to inhibit my impetuousness.

I turned my eyes towards Fury’s office across the glass panel, and I gestured to her to come quickly to my office. Then, overcome by a sense of ecstatic elation, I suddenly left my place at my desk, and unwittingly started gyrating like a whirling Dervish as I showered my invaluable jewel with passionate kisses. Tom noted this unwonted act of impulsiveness, which must have seemed altogether discrepant with my bashful nature. ‘Hey, have you won the lottery or something?’ He questioned with an intrigued smile. Drowned with abashment for such foolery, I rushed silently back to my desk. Fury burst into my office at this point, her eyes bulging with surprise and inquisitiveness. I sat gripped high by emotions, barely able to talk. Incited by a strong sense of curiosity, Fury reached out for my hands, which, with their precious cargo, were clutched tightly to my chest, seeking to unclasp them. I spontaneously leaned away, and shoving with my elbow, I forestalled her attempt. I sat speechless for a few moments attempting to restrain my shivering body. It took a while before I was able to recount the intriguing saga. Fury just loved the guy. She listened delightedly with tearful eyes.

I cannot recall the number of times that I kissed that packet—ten, or twenty, or perhaps thirty, or even forty times. Every time I gazed at that orphan cigarette purposely left inside, my love and affection for him would upsurge and my tears would pour forth.

I waited with more than the usual pleasurable anticipation for his next visit, which seemed to be excruciatingly delayed. Towards the end of the day, he showed up, with no cigarette this time. A radiant meaning smile permeated his face as he stood at the doorway, his eyes ostensibly scrutinizing for signs that I had discovered what he had left me. The telling smile with which I responded to him, I reckon, said it all. I beckoned him to come closer. Bubbling over with ethereal joy, I got up as he approached my desk. ‘Thanks, Martin’, I said in an unreservedly affectionate manner. Too choked with emotion to talk, and with the same silencing inhibitions as of old, I could afford only those two words. Only God knew how direly desperate I was for words to give voice to my emotions and to show him how much I adored him. But I just couldn’t utter more. It was not just the bashfulness of the unfledged female that curbed my tongue, but also my outrageous lack of experience. The eyes, the crackling voice, and the trembling hands, were the only conduits for my turbulent feelings. And I reckon he recognised only too well my barely expressed passion. He stood aside patiently waiting as I reached out for my purse and rummaged inside for my wallet. I opened the wallet and pulled out the packet that I had hidden earlier inside one of the pockets. ‘This’, I said, gesturing with the packet, ‘I’ll keep till the day you smoke the last cigarette. And then I won’t throw it away, but will frame it and put it in a place of honour as an ‘ugly token’ of a most wonderful memory that we’ll cherish together for as long as we live’.

My voice and hands trembled with ecstasy as I said those words. His eyes, while no less astonished, mirrored his loving reception of this uncharacteristically liberal expression of feelings. His smile broadened perceptibly, and his response was no less heartfelt. He sent me one of his warm air-kisses.

How little I had known then of destiny’s inclemency! Less than five months later, that packet, with its single occupant, was to leave Iraq in an envelop with a short letter that brought the curtain down on the last scene of a doomed love, and initiated what would be the first step into the excruciating Passion of a whole life.

To Be Continued.......

50. "We're Even Kiddo" / Part Two

2005-11-16T20:41:00.000-08:00

My dislike for the cigarette underwent a change. Ulterior motives led me to view it as an ally. It became my darling vehicle, which gave tongue to emotions that my bashfulness had hitherto kept suppressed. It also proved to be an instrument that Martin would use to lure into the open my feelings for him whenever he wished. Cigarettes were no longer lit to appease an addiction but only to be extinguished purposefully. Our romance advanced splendidly with a burning intensity with every cigarette killed. Having enticed him like a temptress for years, the cigarette seemed like a dangerously seductive Delilah who avenged her zealously extinguished light by fanning the flame in Martin’s heart. Not only his love seemed to be escalating wildly in intensity, but his respect and admiration for my innocence also mounted. I was no longer unattainable simply because of the obstacles posed by tradition, religion, or my own ingrained Puritanism. My artless innocence, which surfaced in the impeccant ways I sought to delight him, drew from him a corresponding desire not to sully it. Often his eyes reflected a protective deference that seemed to surpass even his love.

It became, henceforth, no secret for both of us that this hideous habit of smoking had turned delightedly into a deliberate behaviour. Given the parlous surroundings, not to mention my coy nature, the cigarette became our line of approach and a circuitous avenue for reciprocating our emotions. One look into his beautiful hazel eyes would reveal how desperate he would often be for a few words of affection, or for moments of particular attention, or for a tender smile. He could not have expected or conceived of more. Well, against all expectations, it wasn’t Martin’s audacity that ultimately led to our first touch. Backed up by my repulsive ally, it was my bashfulness that paradoxically produced this outcome.

He was working one day in Tom’s office when the phone rang for him. For an unmistakable reason he picked it up from Jack’s desk that neighboured mine. With arm resting on the right side of the swivel armchair and hand drooping at a loose end, he embarked on what turned out to be a lengthy conversation, holding a cigarette between the two fingers of his right hand. An insane urge took control of me as I sat watching the flaking ash of his cigarette. He was engrossed talking, apparently oblivious of me. Suppressing my oscillation between hesitancy and determination, I mustered all my courage and stepped towards him. I looked apprehensively around ensuring no one was looking. Slowly and gently, I lifted his wrist with my thumb and forefinger, took the cigarette away, and crushed it hastily in the nearest ashtray. Such gratuitous impetuosity shook up the unfledged female within me; my heart throbbed crazily, and every muscle in my body trembled. But it was a moment of howling lunacy that I couldn’t comprehend, let alone resist.

In any event, Martin carried on with his phone discourse. He eventually hung up and returned to Tom’s office without a word or even the merest glance at me. He just acted as if nothing had occurred, or that was what I thought erroneously. Towards the end of the day, however, he proved me dead wrong. He retaliated.

The offices were deserted. I was in the storeroom, using my spare time performing what was meant to be the Xeroxing job for the following morning. While the Xerox machine ran boisterously on, I stood, back turned against the door, sorting out the already copied charts and rosters. Suddenly, I felt the back of a hand running gently against my right cheek down to my neck. I was startled; on turning to the side of the action, I saw him, Martin, standing to my right, smiling blithely. I jumped with the agility of a cat, and, in the twinkling of an eye, landed at the far left corner of the room. I stood there breathless, shaking all over. ‘DON’T YOU EVER DO THAT AGAIN, YOU HEAR?’ I said, threatening with my forefinger.

‘You’re lucky. I was thinking worse’, he said in an elegantly insouciant manner.

Apprehensive of making a move, and gesticulating with a helpless hand, I motioned him to give way for my flight. Playing dull and obtuse yet cocksure, he stood blocking the doorway, asking provocatively, ‘What? What do you want?’

I mimed again for him to step to one side. But he wouldn’t move one bit. He must have been enjoying enormously my powerlessness, as I stood glued to my spot, like a cornered deer. It took more than one plea, nevertheless, before he relented and moved just slightly aside. Chary and wary, I stood a few moments mulling over the soundness of lucking through. Bringing my indecision to an end, I scudded past him like lightning, straight to my office.

‘Hey, your papers’, he cried out laughing

‘To hell’.

He followed me and stood at the doorway, watching me with amusement as I barricaded myself behind my desk, my brows glowering, and eyes seriously signalling a warning. Smiling and ostensibly jubilant, he strolled into my office and stood some distance away looking affectionately at me for a few brief moments. Then he winked and murmured, as he wound up his seemingly premeditated short visit, ‘We’re even kiddo’.

To Be Continued.......

49. "We're Even, Kiddo"

2005-11-07T17:40:00.000-08:00

Having been brought up in a family that never hid its aversion for the cigarette, it would never have occurred to me that this tiny object for which I bore a vehement dislike, and which my parents had strictly forbidden in our house, with interminable warnings about its detrimental effects, would play such a fortuitous role in reinforcing the bond between Martin and myself, and intensifying our love.

Martin smoked, not heavily, but it was the only thing about him that I wished had been otherwise. Seeking to circumscribe his affection for the cigarette, my diffident endeavours, in the first two or three months of our romance, would not have exceeded a few pieces of well-cloaked affectionate advice such as, ‘Smoking is not good for your health’, or ‘Why don’t you quit?’ Feminine coquettishness, however, came into play in due course in order to produce the desired effect. Once I started my mannered cough, he would extinguish his cigarette in the nearest ashtray with a warm, affectionate apology. Such demure tactics, however, were the extreme my artlessness could come up with so as to get him to stop smoking.

Well, having realized the tremendous pleasure he took in, not least valued, my attentive effort to help him rid off his addiction, it seemed as if I had by good fortune lit upon a powerful ally through which I could bypass my bashfully reserved nature and reciprocate the spring of effusive emotions that Martin had encircled me with. It was paradoxical that this should be yesterday’s foe, the cigarette.

Courage and bravery joined forces one day setting me upon a venture that once I would not have dared to contemplate, had it not been for the inspiration prompted by my odious ally. It was past midday; the offices were relatively quiet. Facing me near the doorway, Martin sat to the left side of Jack’s desk chatting with another advisor who sat facing Martin with his back to me. As was usual, Martin was smoking. Soon miasmic clouds of smoke billowed all around the office. I shot him a meaningful loving look, hoping that he would desist, but my try was futile. Notwithstanding the discouraging lack of result, I wouldn’t abandon the effort though, and I re-assayed. His response did not vary; he, once again, averted his eyes from me to his expansive partner. Strangely enough, and in an act that seemed an utter departure from my normally timid and bashful nature, I stepped across to grab the nearest ashtray. Returning to my seat, I held it cupped in my palms with both my arms stretched in the direction of my precious ‘chimney’. Bent more than ever on attaining my purpose, I turned another supplicating smile towards him. My attempt, however, proved fruitless as he wouldn’t kill the cigarette. Instead he intently re-shifted his eyes from me to his voluble mate who seemed absorbed in delivering some sort of a soliloquy. His ostensible stubbornness only goaded my obstinacy. I had no intention of knuckling under, and I persevered with my exhibitionistic yet soundless entreaties.

‘Stop’.
‘Please’.
Stop it… please Martin…

Enthusiastically, the advisor with whom Martin was in conversation, continued to wax loquaciously, totally unaware of the intriguing scene that was fervently running behind his back. Martin, while listening and, on the face of it, appearing calm, relaxed and savouring his coffee, frequently glanced at me. My feminine instinct was entirely attuned to how he seemed to be enjoying this audacious display of emotional attachment through such an unorthodox vehicle. He wouldn’t truckle under though. He continued taking a drag on his cigarette and blowing whirls of smoke that tumbled in the air. When the cigarette was reduced to a butt, he nonchalantly lighted another in a manner that appeared purposely designed to further goad the uncharacteristic display of my emotions. The intriguing scene ran assiduously behind the back of the guy who was still invincibly chewing the fat. Determined to gain our opposite goals, both of us firmly held our respective ground. But I could sense my heart leaping with sweeping joy as I watched how hard my beloved’s eyes sought to subdue the ecstatic emotions that seemed to threaten his composure even as he tried to sustain the role of the ideal listener.

All of a sudden, the advisor got up and stepped out of the office in what seemed to be a trip to the coffee maker that was estimated to last two to three minutes. That was my Godsend opportunity. I jumped up, and in a split second I was standing in front of my stubborn ‘smokestack’, with the ashtray cupped in my palms like a begging bowl. My eyes implored, as did my lips, which feverishly pleaded for him to exterminate my rival. An adorable smile pervaded his face as he maintained his amused silence for a few moments, staring affectionately at me. This atypical departure from my usually coy demeanour, as well as my impulsive and urgent body language, which was prompted by the expected imminent return of the oblivious party, seemed to have him mesmerized. Conspicuously overwhelmed with emotions, he said very tenderly, ‘I adore you kiddo’. I sensed my heart fluttering like a small bird in its ribcage. My determined effort, however, was not to pass unacknowledged. He ultimately stubbed and twisted the young cigarette in the ashtray, and declared his warm affectionate surrender by rewarding me with a wonderful air-kiss.

‘Kiddo? I’m twenty-one and four months’, I exclaimed, feigning indignation, as I turned round towards my desk, holding my trophy of victory with a tremendous sense of exultation.

‘You’ll always be my gorgeous kid’, he declared in a wonderfully indulgent tone, full of affection and tenderness.

‘Kiddo, after all this hard work?’ The neophyte female within me thought in disapproval. I shot him a glance of dissatisfaction in rejection of this fall in rank, and I sulkily turned my face to the opposite side. The resentment that must have been sketched over my face further stimulated his mirthful mood. The garrulous partner was back now with a cup of coffee, his curiosity stirred sufficiently to enquire what it was that was so funny. But we both disregarded his question.

Coming soon.......

2005-10-30T17:28:00.000-08:00

I got tagged by Nancy of "Welcome to Beth Narain". Thanks Nancy, hope you and my readers won't find this too boring.

Seven things I plan to do:

1. Carry on with the recounting of my autobiography
2. Sponsor one more international child
3. Take my dear mother on a pilgrim's journey to the holy land in Israel
4. Go on a spiritual retreat early next year
5. Visit Iraq hopefully soon
6. learn to fly small aeroplanes
7. Learn to play the piano

Seven things I can do:

1. Speak forthrightly irrespective of consquences
2. Hide my personal sadness from everyone save my mother and my friend Doreen
3. Maintain my lifelong habit to pray everynight before I go to sleep
4. Sustain hope and faith in difficult times
5. Forgive always and forget
6. Live without coffee or tea for years
7. Sleep for ten hours continuously

Seven things I can’t do:

1. Not feel bad for all the abuse inflicted upon mother Nature
2. Resist smiling at babies wherever and whenever I see them; my smiles, though, are always reciprocated by their adorable grins and noisy gesticulating
3. Tolerate children’s neglect, humiliation of the elderly and animals’ abuse
4. Watch movies of violence
5. Endure sight of blood
6. Not feel guilty for not doing my one hour daily walk
7. Resist ice cream

Seven things I say most often:

1. I suppose so
2. Yella, yella, c’mon, c’mon
3. “how was your day”, every time I call my dear friend Doreen
4. Fair enough
5. Allah kareem, God is gracious
6. why not?
7. ‘Gee, I am late for bed’, when it’s not even nine

Seven people I want to pass this tag to:

Now that this tagging has reached me, I guess everyone else has been tagged

P.S.
Given the nature of my blog, I have tried to ensure things mentioned here are not heavily seasoned with stuff related to my autobiography.

Will Be Back to my Publishing soon.......

I N T E R M I S S I O N

2005-10-04T20:15:00.000-07:00

I am profoundly thankful to all the readers of Ishtarria, particularly to those who sent me their marvellous emails or who left comments on the pages of Ishtarria or in its guest book. My deep appreciation also goes to all the sites that have recently blogrolled or linked to Ishtarria.

Disappointing as it may be, particularly to those readers who have never ceased to express their encouraging eagerness for and anticipation of each instalment of my autobiography, I am afraid that a second intermission has become unavoidable.

I have reached depletion point and one look at my August's and September’s publishing dates would reveal how hard I have been struggling to meet publishing deadlines. This intermission, however, may last longer than the first one, as I will be away for three weeks. I will hopefully resume publishing sometime towards the end of October.

I finally leave you with the first post that I published on 12 Jan 2005 in didecation to:

My Fellow Iraqis, In These Grievous Days

Who endured horrendous calamities, like no other people in recent history, at the hands of a brutal megalomaniac.

May we all plant roses of love and pray in the hope they imbibe into their beautiful red colour all the immaculate Iraqi blood the dictator and his disciples shed dementedly and recklessly in every side and corner of the cradle of civilizations, so that they may render greenness over our blessed land, luminousness in our skies and sheer felicity in the innocent eyes of our children.

May we all forgive and forget, reject wrong and embrace right, and march together in one heart towards freedom and democracy, for the inception of a new Iraq, blessed abundantly with peace, love and prosperity - an eventuality no other nation would treasure and cherish as it would, after so many years of merciless subjugation and brutal oppression.

48. And the Horrendous Monster, All of a Sudden, Stirred / Part Two

2005-09-26T21:11:00.000-07:00

‘Sabbah Elkhair, good morning’, he saluted us as he stepped sprightly towards the desk. ‘Is it?’ I wondered, thinking, ‘then it’s most definitely the last’. His wishes were, nevertheless, reciprocated with quivering murmurs.

‘Schlonil-haal, how’re you doing?’ He asked as he stood behind his desk, taking stock of the faces, his eyes bouncing from one girl to another.

Thickly moustached, as was common among the regime’s angels of punishments, he was somewhere in his thirties, tall, slim and good-looking with a fair complexion. He was dressed in what seemed to be a fashionably big-ticket suit that matched nicely his shirt and his tie. His accent instantaneously betrayed his Tikriti origin, and marked him as of the same hometown as the dictator and the majority of his retinue. He took off his jacket in a well-designed stagy move, which mirrored his ostentatious savouring of authority and power, and hung it up behind the door. He returned to his previous position behind the desk, hands in pockets, and fixing his scalpel-like gaze upon the timorous faces before him. I found his gaze so intimidating that I sensed the blood freezing in my veins. With both her hands folded against her chest, her left hand clutching a few sheets of paper, Sandy was the nearest to his desk, and only a short distance away from the couch occupied by Fury, Mai and myself. The other two female ‘agents’ sat next to each other, facing us.

The ‘show’ embarked with some insipid and vapid manifestations of overweening authority. Like a peacock, he would either prance before us as he talked, canvassing the petrified young faces, or he would return to his desk and stand showily behind it. He would, at other times, sit in his swivel chair assuming a bigger mantel of superiority. Naturally, the show would have been all too sketchy had it not been couched with some not unexpected patterns of windy prolixity

For the certainly semi-literate peasant that he must have been, since the majority of the regime’s security personnel did not have anything beyond primary or intermediate education, power and authority were his only means of compensating for what could have been a predominant sense of inferiority; the desire to compensate himself for his disadvantage was all the more likely to make itself felt in the presence of nine female graduates, the majority of whom were young women of striking beauty, from comfortable social backgrounds, who were rendered atrociously subordinate and powerless only on account of the boundless authority that the dictatorial regime had delegated to its disciples.

Familiar as I was, like any Iraqi, with the superficial and everlasting hunger of this slice of people for whatever fell under the label of feminine, I expected that the meeting would be protracted, extending to double, if not triple, the time that had been scheduled for it.

His pompous oratory commenced with what Iraqis already knew by-heart through years of state media drumbeats. He, predictably, preached patriotism and love of ‘God’, my apologies, slip of the tongue; I meant love of the leader.
‘For the sake of our great leader’, he proclaimed, ‘may God protect him and lengthen his life; and for the sake of our dear country, ‘vigilance’ and ‘caution’ must always be maintained to our level best. We must all turn into wide-awake eyes and ears particularly when it relates to the foreigners working in Iraq; necessity, and necessity alone, was behind bringing them in. Most of these bastards are spies and CIA agents, disguised under different positions and posts’.

On hearing him utter the words ‘vigilance and caution’, an enormous spasm of fear struck through me. And I wondered if he was somehow reading my mind or was it mere telepathy. In my state of dismay, the first possibility by far outweighed the second. ‘He’s one of them’, I thought, hardly capable of marshalling my thoughts. ‘They are the invincible and the unbeatable. There is no limit to the stretch of their power. Nothing could ever be hidden from them’.

As he continued talking, I strayed far-off, chewing over this theme of vigilance and caution. A sudden thought struck terror in my mind: ‘Perhaps the office is bugged with eavesdropping devices. Dear Lord, how come this never occurred to me before? How stupid I’m not to have searched the office. I’ve seen it quite often in movies. I should have groped underneath the tables and chairs, inside the filing cabinets and in the heart of the phone mouthpiece. That’s it, Liana. You’re done. By now they should have heaps of recorded conversations to send you flying to the other world. Uh, I would be most fortunate if it’d be a quick flight. They’ll make me beg for it; yes, beg for a quick transfer and wish for it like no other thing. Daring to love an American and side with the enemies? He just said it: “They are all bastard spies and CIA agents”

.
However, amidst all that panic and consternation, a weird urge towards laughter swept me over on thinking of Martin as a CIA agent. ‘I guess the CIA must have fired him a month or two, at the very latest, following my arrival, for being busy loving instead of being busy working. Three assignments, Martin? CIA, your job and Liana on top? Three apples in one hand?’

At any event, the show went forward cumbersomely. The guy plugged away at filling the air with his vacuously monotonous patriotism: ‘Iraqis and “decent” Arabs should be the proudest for having such a phenomenal leadership. We should always be the proudest of nations’, he continued in hyperbolic terms, ‘for having “the leader the necessity”, who never lacked the courage or bravery to stand against the face of evil and the forces of darkness! Our patriotism dictates exerting the utmost level of vigilance and caution at all times and under all circumstances’.

My body shuddered upon hearing him reiterate those words. ‘Again? Please don’t, not again,’ I pleaded, thinking, ‘stop using these words for the sake of your “great leader”’. Upon closing, he pointed his index finger at three ladies, Sandy being one of them, who were enjoined to contact him should they come across any ‘unusual’ stuff.

‘May the great God protect our wise leadership’, he concluded, ‘and may the great Iraq remain an inaccessible fortress and a thorn in the side of the enemies. Thank you all for your attendance; you may all leave, except for…’. Having said that, he abruptly ceased talking. With his left hand akimbo, and his right index finger placed on his upper lip, he stood looking hard at the faces in front of him with an appearance of making a considered decision. ‘You… and you… um, and… you’. he pointed to Lubna first, then to Mai. His third choice fell upon me. He gestured to the three of us to move closer to his desk. He stood silent for a few moments, seemingly waiting for the rest of the girls to leave the room. Then he approached Lubna. He asked her first her name. ‘Have you noticed or come across any fishy stuff?’ She replied negatively. ‘The safety and security of your country is entrusted to you. Make sure you keep it sacredly before your eyes. Thank you, you may leave now’. Mai was handled not dissimilarly. She, too, left as I waited apprehensively for my turn. Then he stood, eyes focused on me, singularly silent for a few moments. I sensed his eyes penetrating deep beneath my skin, and I almost passed out. His approach to me was dissimilar to that taken to the two girls, and was the result of ominous premeditation as it soon turned out. He directed his eyes towards the door, ascertaining that Mai had exited. My heart sank to my feet, and fear lumped in my throat, ‘Jesus Christ, this is it, the moment of truth, the moment of the inevitable finale’. Sandy was the only one remaining in the room now, besides him and me. Panic-stricken, my whole body trembling and on the brink of collapsing, I turned to her with a fleeting meaning glance. Her eyes were fixed in a glassy stare upon him as her hands abstractedly monkeyed around with her papers.

With a lost voice, I replied ‘Liana’ to his question about my name. ‘Beautiful name’, he said in what seemed to be the beginning of an alarming conviviality. His smile further broadened, as he maintained the heavy silence that accompanied his scrutiny of my face. Suddenly and without preamble, he asked in an undertone, ‘Are you married or engaged?’ His eyes moved down to my clasped hands, apparently searching for a confirmation of either status among the four rings that I was wearing on both my hands. I, impulsively, turned my eyes back to Sandy, imploring her help. Her eyes were still settled on him. This time, however, I glimpsed an enraged look in them.

From genuine and loyal patriotism aimed at the ferocious combating of the power of evil and of the CIA to an unabashed attempt at matchmaking, this one hundred and eighty degrees shift of tactics was truly out of the blue. Despite the question being entirely irrelevant and intrusively personal, I found it to be somewhat of a relief. ‘This proves he’s oblivious to the thingy’, I thought. I suppose such an awkward move was demonstrable testimony of his inherent boorishness and uncouthness. The only thing civilization had bestowed upon him was a tie and a fashionable suit.

He was still smiling when I shifted my eyes from Sandy back to him. He had these dark eyes that were encircled by a reddish, bloodshot discolouration that had the most abhorrent, vile and filthy expression. However, I replied with a silent, yet most petrified, shake of the head.

At that moment, I sensed Sandy moving. And in an instant she was bravely wedging between us. She wound her left arm behind my back, and pushed me gently towards the door.
‘No… not this one Mohammed’, she addressed him firmly with a blatant tone of contempt as she walked me towards the door. ‘Triple them with someone else, but definitely not this one’. She carried on in what it seemed to be an allusion to his two wives. Having reached the doorway, her hand still embracing my back in a protective manner, she whispered urging me to leave. ‘Roohi, roohi, go, go’.

I was only a few steps away from the door, when I heard her addressing him again. ‘You caught the wrong ‘fish’, Mohammed. For your bad luck, she’s a Christian’.

I was out, but utterly dizzy and nauseous. My pulse rate had gone way past the red zone, and I was breathless and trembling all over. My sense of direction had left me. I turned to my left and saw that the long hallway was deserted. Upon turning to the right, I saw Fury at the end of the corridor, standing by the elevator, seemingly waiting for me. She looked worried sick. I leaned against the wall for support, and dragged my legs as I walked towards her with extreme difficulty. She rushed towards me. She had been filled with anxiety, as she recounted later on, by the thought of the possibility that my relationship with Martin had been chanced upon. She hugged me, comforting and stroking my hair and my shoulders. I murmured feebly, asking her to take me to the toilets. My stomach was turning. I always loathed vomiting like hell, but once inside, I moved to the nearest toilet and threw up like I had never done before. It was first time in my whole life I found vomiting such a great blessing and enormous relief. My tears joined with my stomach in ridding me of all those repugnant and filthy looks, which were so appalling and repulsive that the more I vomited the more I felt them adhering to my eyes and my skin and my stomach. I vomited until I sensed my stomach coming out of my mouth and my tears poured incessantly. They were not merely tears of disgust and contempt, as well as of dismay and trepidation; they were also tears of love, extreme and overwhelming love, for the most beautiful hazel eyes.

To Be Continued.......

2005-09-18T15:09:00.000-07:00

Profoundly moved by the sad events that have been gripping my homeland lately, I wrote this poem in dedication to my fellow Iraqis and to my beloved country, Iraq.

My apologies go to my non-Arabic readers for not providing a translation in English alongside the original. My fears are that the essence of the poem would get lost in the process of translation

الى حبيبي.... العراق

اه ه ه ه ه
وا ه ه ه ه يا عراق
يا ملح الارض
وخبز الروح
ويا لب القلب
والاحداق

يا ذبيح
يا ممزق
يا مباح

في غفلة من زمن رديء
سطا عليك
نفر من الاشرار دنيء
و بالرعب
والدم والنار
صيروا دارك
عنوة لهم دار

استباحوا دمك
وهتكوا عرضك
و مزقوا يومك
وتطاولوا على غدك

نشروا الدمار في ارجاءك
وقطعوا اوصال اطفالك
اما نسائك
فيا ويلي على نساؤك
فمآلهن شر مآل
حكم الخفافيش واشباه الرجال
بأن لا يربو شاًنهن
على شاًن صفر من الشمال

وصيروك يا موطني ارضا يباب

هجرك الفرح
وغاب عنك الامان
وعشعش بين جنباتك
الكرب والحزن والغراب
وسال دمك في ارضك انهارا
ولم تعد ترضى
بغيرالاسود و الاحمر
الوانا للثياب

يومك يئن حنينا
وشوقا لماض تليد
وغدك موؤد
ليبدو بعيداٌ بعيد

اه لواحة غناء
كانت بستانا وارفه
لثلاثين مليونا
من النخيل الباسقات

عمرها من عمرك
يالحبيب... يالعراق

يا ثرى ابي... والسياب
و يا حلم الجواهري العظيم

والبياتي
و ايضا النواب
وكل منفي حزين
عاجلته المنيه
قبل ان تكتحل عيناه
برؤية الخالدين
دجلة والفرات

فحتام يا عراق
حتام يا عراق

يا ملح الارض
ويا خبز الروح
ولب القلب
والاحداق

يا ذبيح
يا ممزق
يا مباح

يا ايوان كسرى الذليل

والملويه الشماء
وخلود كلكامش
ومعبد انليل

يا اميرة سومريه
لم ينل منها
جور دهور آثمات خلت
بل ظلت ابداً عصيه

على كل الطواغيت الجنكزخانية
وفوق هذا وذاك
لم تستسلم لفرعون تكريت
وحثالة الارض الصداميه

يا بيت سميراميس
و جنائن اوميد
وفينوس الشرق
عشتار البابلية

يا عراق الحضارات
ويا مهد اليراع واول تشريع
يا جنائن عدن
وارض آدم وابراهيم

و الزقورات

اما آن لغضبك ان يهدر
ونار صبرك ان تستعر
اما آن لرعدك ان يبرق

ويمحق
ولشمسك ان تشرق

فتحرق
كل خفافيش الضلام

انهض وانتفض يا عراق
يا رمزاً للعراقة والاعراق
زمجر
امحق
حطم
كسر

ضمد يا حبيبي جرحك
واستحضر عظيم مجدك
طهر من الدنس والنجاسه ارضك
ولٌملم من اربع اصقاع الارض ابناءك
ابسط عليهم جناحك

وامطر عليهم

عميم خيرك و خيراتك

فخلودك سيضل ابدا
عصيا على فناءك
فمثلك مثل طائر الفينيق
مهما احرقوك
الا وانتفضت
شامخاً

قوياً

ابياً

من بقايا رمادك

......

محاولة بسيطه في الشعر ... مهداة لك يا حبيبي يا عراق ... ولكل عراقي وعراقيه

لا بد للشمس ان تشرق من جديد

2005-09-06T22:56:00.000-07:00

My condolences and sympathies go out to the families of all those affected by the horrendous tragedies of the bridge collapse in Baghdad and Hurricane Katrina in USA.
My thoughts and heartfelt prayers are with you all.

47. And the Horrendous Monster, All of a Sudden, Stirred

2005-08-31T22:09:00.000-07:00

Having remained dormant for three months, the predatory monster stirred chillingly all at once. It was in the early morning, about one week past the probation period, when I received that ominous phone call. The foreign section secretariat was calling its most recent recruits to an urgent meeting at the establishment’s security office. Lexicons of the entire world would have been inadequate to describe the panic and foreboding with which I received the bidding. This was in spite of the fact that I knew that the tyrannical regime surrounded us with spying eyes and ears on every side. To acknowledge the perilous reality, however, was one thing but to face it was another. Hence, my turning into an excruciating mix of nerves and trepidation was quite justifiable and not merely the response of my inexperience and youth, since life-threatening outcomes could ensue. Desperate for reassurance, I rushed impulsively to Fury. ‘I wouldn’t have the slightest clue what it is about, Lu’, Fury replied, clearly at a loss for an explanation. Well, what reassurance could the poor thing have offered any way when she too was in the same boat? My sense of consternation spiralled further as I noticed how awash with concern she was; her blanched face challenged mine. The apprehensive wait of nearly two hours, which separated me from the appointed time, ironically turned every passing minute into an excruciating drag. Fear pressed heavily, and it grew too large for me as to cope with. I raced to the phone, calling now my fellow Christian Sumer. I spoke to her deliberately in Aramaic. Under the circumstances, it just seemed in my naivety a good ‘precautionary’ vehicle, which didn’t carry much political significance. Sumer, however, was not only too numb with fear to speak, but she too had a dire need to be comforted. Running like fire through dry stalks, the presentiment of some looming terror gripped the girls and me, rendering us bundles of nerves. Incoherent with dismay and agonizing apprehension, I was petrified and trembled from head to toe the closer we got to eleven; unbearable waves of stomach cramp, which I always endured in times of happiness as well as in times of anxiety, now hit me persistently. My mouth was dry, and my hands and feet were frozen.

Under the xenophobic regime, any contact with foreigners would have corresponded to a time-bomb capable of detonation at any moment. The regime’s cunning spies infested the foreign companies operating in Iraq. Despite the relatively higher incomes, jobs with foreign companies carried life-threatening perils, and were therefore unpopular. Employment by foreign embassies and cultural centres came with even greater risks.

Propagated in the name of patriotism, the regime’s xenophobia stigmatised whoever and whatever fell under the label of ‘foreign’; the same was true of Iraqis working with foreigners. They were invariably eyed with fatal suspicion and deemed as collaborators, if they dared to deny the regime their full and unconditional cooperation. The detrimental fallout from disregarding such a ‘patriotic’ call was not inconsequential.

Notwithstanding their affable and hospitable nature, Iraqis working with foreigners strictly shunned unreserved socialization and occasions for gregarious camaraderie with them, since these could lead to harmful interpretations. Always perpetrated and vindicated in the name of hollow patriotism, the backwash from the journey into the regime’s ill-famed prisons was the fear that it instilled indelibly upon every Iraqi.

The despotic regime strategically targeted the bottom segments of Iraqi society for its spies. Semi-literate, destitute and often avaricious, they wouldn’t hesitate to sell themselves to Mephistopheles, in return for authority and lucrative compensation. While ingratiating themselves with the bloody regime, they who were its tails not only played an instrumental role in tightening the regime’s iron grip on the people, but they also seized the opportunity to fatten their own philistinism, settle personal scores and satisfy their villainous disposition. All this was attained through fabricated reports, which conveyed not only all the wheeling and dealing that occurred in various departments, but also much that had never happened.

Despite being considered the lesser evil because assignment to them was at the discretion of government departments rather than through individual choice, secondments to foreign sections of government departments were considered to be as risky as appointments to foreign companies that operated in Iraq. But then, given the relatively bigger sizes of the government businesses and the availability of numerous sections and departments, the staff of governmental foreign sections, could take advantage of the loophole of being able to transfer into other sections that were by far much safer.

I sat, oblivious to the world, trying to recall as many as I could of the romantic exchanges with Martin, seeking to ensure that none of the ‘names’, which Sandy’s sincere advice had unfolded, had been around to chance upon our covert relations. My personal situation was beyond anyone’s envy. Given my fledgling life sapience, and the complexity of the regime’s politics that had turned the area to which I was assigned into a crucially sensitive one, a romantic relationship with any foreigner, much less an American, was total insanity. In spite of the vigilance and caution Martin and I exercised, and our extreme effort to conceal our relationship, leakage could not be ruled out.

Under the circumstances, calling Sandy was an utmost imperative; ten minutes into the nerve-wracking wait she appeared in my office. She comforted me and indicated that she would be present at the meeting, as would two other girls who, to my shock, ‘appeared’ to be in charge of security issues at the foreign section. Asking too many questions or betraying too much concern wasn’t wise. However, incited by my irrepressible fear, I persisted with my questions, but Sandy wouldn’t divulge the reason behind the meeting. ‘That’s it’, I thought to myself, relinquishing the last of my remaining hope. ‘I’m done. I will, most definitely, be branded with espionage. And I will be held up as a memorable ‘patriotic’ lesson, for all these girls, of the awful sin of ‘treason’ entailed in falling in love with someone from the enemy’s camp’.

Martin turned up on his second visit around ten. His discerning eyes wouldn’t have missed the change in my ashen face. He followed me silently to the Xerox machine, and stood aside observing my patently nervous demeanour, seeking to puzzle out this abrupt topsy-turvy that had occurred in the space of an hour. ‘Why so pale honey? Something wrong?’ He asked in his usual warm and tender tone. Speechlessly, I looked at him, as tears welled up in my eyes. I rushed out of the room, leaving him with his conjectures. God only knew how desperate I was for Martin’s reassurance, let alone his soothing love and his protection. Despite my consternation, I would have rather died than confided in him. For what would telling him have achieved other than to have him also consumed with worries about my safety? At any event, he must have ultimately pinned the blame down upon my childish behaviour, which his pampering love and exuberant affection had contrived to indulge further. He finally left, as unwitting of the cause as I wished him to be.

Waiting multiplied my apprehension. Moments crept tardily by, taxing what little patience I had.

As instructed, I informed Jack around ten to eleven of the necessity to attend a work-related meeting scheduled for the girls of the foreign section at the headquarters. Jack’s eyes scanned my pallid face. ‘Are you alright, Liana?’ ‘Yea, yea, I’m fine’, I mumbled in an undertone, as though I was thinking aloud, which must have aroused Jack’s suspicions. Enwrapped in heavy silence, all the new recruits marched en masse to the security office at the headquarters.

We were admitted upon arrival at eleven, into a huge, stylishly furnished office. Towards the rear end, at the centre, was a large wooden desk placed in front of a window and facing the door by which we entered. Numerous luxurious velvet-covered chairs and couches lined the three sides of the room. The floor was covered by a huge, presumably Persian, carpet. An atmosphere of apprehensive silence permeated the place; the wait seemed everlasting. I sat on one of the couches, wedged between Fury and Mai, less than a meter away from the left side of the desk. Countless dreadful scenarios of ‘could be’ and ‘would be’ were crowding one another out in my mind. God has one judgment day, but the Bathists had countless judgment days. This was surely one of them.

The hideous visit three months previously of Almukhtar and Lammen Alaama, in order to verify the details of my job application, flashed so vividly and clearly in my memory. It seemed as if it had been only a few moments ago. Back then, there was no ‘Martin’ yet.

‘Dear Lord, keep them away please, keep their evil away from me and from the girls, please God, please’, I pleaded, praying wholeheartedly. I lost count of how many ‘Hail Marys’ and ‘Our Heavenly Fathers’ I recited fervently in my heart during those seemingly never-ending few moments.

I looked around. The girls’ pallid faces registered their enormous dismay. Our only means of communication were our eyes as we shared nervous glances.

All of a sudden, the door swung open, and a guy with a crocodile smile burst into the room.

To Be Continued.......

46. Dina and The Trojan Horse.../ Part Two

2005-08-24T00:27:00.001-07:00

Dina’s swooping visit, as it turned out, was not actuated by the desire to verify Martin’s suitability as far as that could be ascertained through appearances. Culture dictated that such aspects as age and looks were few among several others that constituted the major yardsticks for determining the suitability of a marriage partner. Despite the courtesies that our culture granted Dina as a close family member in approving my prospective marriage partner, she wasn’t there to evaluate Martin according to the usual criteria. And that wasn’t because her open-mindedness relegated such matters to my discretion. Rather she had come to the realization that the matter had already been clinched by the unfaltering intensity of my emotions for Martin. But she was not yet ready to abandon the effort of dissuading me from the whole thing.

Paradoxical as it may seem, and despite her certainty about my steadfast Puritanism, Dina was inordinately hopeful that she would chance during her visit upon something, or anything, which could serve as a pretext to absolve her from the burdening promise that she had resentfully given, in capitulation to my persistence, that she would not pass the matter on to my parents’ hands, at least not for a while. Dina regarded this binding promise as contradicting altogether her moral integrity. Hence, unduly immersed in her mission, she took her post like a sentinel on duty during a starless night, watchful for any sign that could have vindicated the breach of her promise. I guess her highest hope must have been blunders produced by the incautiousness of the oblivious party. I frustrated her project, viciously repaying her in her own coin and denying her the least hope of achieving her mission. I avoided Martin altogether from the moment he stepped in until she was gone. And I wasn’t actually assaying to screen any wrongdoing from the hawkish eyes. There was none such perpetrated in her absence, after all, for it to be held back now in her presence. But an extreme urge stubbornly flooded me to vex her and undermine her mission. I was responding to the distrust of me that her visit and her covert arrangements reflected.

The reviewing process continued without interruption. She sat intently engrossed in her mission. Her eyes remained predictably fixated on Martin, impassively observant. My share of her attention wasn’t any less. Moments passed slowly and excruciatingly. I felt bedevilled by her presence, hardly able to marshal my thoughts. Despite the appearance of busyness that I had designedly assumed, I impatiently waited for her departure with feverish anxiety.

Given the lengthy drive between her office and mine, I speculated that her visit, which was managed within the schedule of a working day, would be brief. She proved me right. Half an hour after Martin’s arrival she left, while he was still busy conferring with his two colleagues.

Fury escorted Dina past the checkpoint in the same manner that she had escorted her inside the building, in accordance with security regulations. She returned a few minutes later. Once inside her office she rang me. The moment I heard her voice I hung up on her. She tried three times; my response did not vary. Jack inquired about those ‘weird’ calls, and I explained that they were unsuccessful connections. I brushed her aside for the remainder of the day, not bothering to cast the merest look in her direction. For her part, presumably dreading the backwash from her ‘treachery’, she too sensibly kept out of the way for the rest of the day, avoiding my crazy Iraqi temper that she was familiar with.

On the trip back home, Bann was astonished to see me sitting next to her, away from the closest of friends, ‘the dearest of all’. And she mocked us, by launching upon some conniving comments and asking sly questions that we both stubbornly did not heed, maintaining a steady silence. Fury, however, realizing her ‘unpardonable’ blunder, advanced a cautious reconciliation. She jumped lightly off her seat when I was getting ready to leave the bus; she giggled as though trying to rob me of my sense of umbrage. Hitting me gently on the back, she said, ‘I’ll call you, silly!’

It was an absolute and severe boycott that penalized both plotters, Dina for a whole month and Fury for a whole week. I just wouldn’t talk to either, refused to take their phone calls, and when they visited, I would just lock myself deliberately in my bedroom. All hearty appeals and entreaties were tried but to no avail. The traitor forced her rapprochement by showering me with her apologies, pinning the blame on diffidence, for joining forces with Dina who had called her earlier that morning to arrange the visit. Dina made Fury promise not to make any mention of her visit, with the intent of maintaining the surprise element. Dina, as she put it to Fury, wanted to make an impromptu ‘inspection’. Fury respected Dina too much to object or even decline ‘collaboration’. Besides, Fury’s ratiocination was that it would have raised gratuitous suspicions, and probably would have further exacerbated the situation, had she done otherwise.

Dina, for her part, sought a reconciliation. All her efforts were aborted by my unrelenting stubbornness. I just wouldn’t talk to her. Given our lifelong closeness, eyebrows arched in astonishment at such unprecedented severance of ties. It wasn’t abnormal seeing us arguing or even ceasing to talk to each other for a day or two or even for as long as a week. A whole month seemed peculiar enough to arouse my parents’ inquisitiveness. My mother mocked, putting the blame on our possibly ‘fighting over the same suitor’. ‘You’re close mum, quite close’, I thought to myself.

Given that my relentless attitude had killed all Dina’s remorseful apologies, Uncle Sam tried to intercede on her behalf. He came into my bedroom one day while on a visit with Dina and grandpa. He sat on the edge of my bed, and he asked, as he hugged me and kissed my forehead, ‘Are you cross with me too honey?’

‘No uncle, not with you, but with her. She’s mean and malicious’.

‘This suspension of ties seems to be taking longer than usual this time, isn’t it?’ he asked laughing.

‘Correction, uncle, not suspension, a break-up’, I replied in a firm tone

‘Oh, break-up, em’, he shook his head as his face assumed surprise. ‘And have you withdrawn the ambassadors yet?’

‘And closed the embassies’, I replied, carrying on with this diplomatic jargon.

‘Really? Not even a chance for an interests section?’

‘No, not even the slightest’, we both laughed.

‘Lu darling, I saw her crying the other day’, he said carrying on in a solemn tone. He knew how much I loved her; he pressed on the nerve of emotions.

‘Really?’ I asked anxious.

‘Yes, she was making coffee, and the moment she sensed me entering the kitchen, she wiped her tears. Imagine Lu, the iron woman crying’.

We both laughed. Uncle wouldn’t leave my room, however, before he made me promise ‘to restore relations and reopen the embassies’.

Dina’s birthday was around the corner, just a few days away. She was notorious for not celebrating her birthdays. ‘It’s silly celebrating the losing of years of one’s life’, she’d say to every attempt that we’d make to talk her into having a birthday celebration. In any event, I got her a nice present and went to her place unannounced. Her tears greeted me as she opened the door and saw me standing there. We hugged, making up. Our tears washed away the remaining fragments of obstruction that had been clinging desperately to the trails of the fading incident. Her tears were not merely tears of happiness for seeing me there after a seemingly never-ending month of strained relations. They must have been also tears of pain for she was yielding to the inevitable. Notwithstanding, she had to ask me one question, as if seeking assurance, ‘Are you sure it’s him you want to spend the rest of your life with?’ When I nodded in affirmation, she hugged me, promising to do her best to secure my parents’ approval. She certainly lived up to her word.

Throughout the six months of our romance, Martin never heard of Dina, or knew of her, or ‘met’ her. Given the rigorous social and political environment, and the brevity of our meetings, this was not surprising. Anything that extended beyond us and our concerns took second place. The ubiquitously piercing eyes of minders were fixated on the foreign section, and time was too precious to be spent on anything else but us. We cherished the present moment. Anything else simply receded from view.

A few days prior to Martin’s final departure, I had arranged for him to meet my parents to ask for my hand in marriage. He was a bit edgy and apprehensive about receiving a negative reply, ‘Do you think they will approve of me?’ I remember reassuring him, ‘Stop worrying! It’ll be fine’. However, despite her all-consuming anxiety about the fitness of the marriage, the harrowing prospect of a parting between us, who were soul mates, the possibility of ostracism from the church and Christian community on account of a civil marriage and the expected political fallout from such a marriage, Dina, unknown to Martin, worked for three months, patiently and tactfully, to secure my parents’ approval. Yesterday’s bitter rival exerted incredible effort, procuring mum’s approval first, who, in her turn, obtained dad’s through three entire months of unrelenting and sedulous persuasion.

To Be Continued.......

45. Dina, and The Trojan Horse...

2005-08-12T19:08:00.000-07:00

It seemed as if the surprise element were far more excruciatingly shocking than what Dina’s usual composure could have contended with. Her face blanched in a flash; she swallowed hard and almost dropped the pot she held in her hand. “And what did you tell him?” she asked, ostensibly beaten by unruly anxiety the moment I broke to her the news of Martin’s proposal.

I was on my usual weekly visit to grandpa’s house on a Friday evening, on the day following that of the marriage proposal. My parents and the boys, along with grandpa Mathew and uncle Sam, were all gathered together confabulating in the living room in front of the TV and imbibing sweet Iraqi tea. Dina and I were in the kitchen. I was relating to her the swift turn that events had suddenly taken, as I helped her with cooking dinner. I responded carefully to her question, sheathing my reply in an attitude of deliberate nonchalance, ‘I asked if we could discuss it some other time’. It was apparent that the news had struck her like a thunderbolt. Having not yet recuperated from the impact of the previous week’s revelations about the ongoing romance, which she had received with obvious dissatisfaction and concern, she was now completely overcome by the blow that the proposal represented. What had remained of her tolerance seemed entirely obliterated. She ceased what she was doing, her eyes overeager to draw more out of me. She struggled to stifle her evident discontent and jitteriness as she proclaimed her decision, ‘Things have changed now that he has proposed, and I think it’s time your parents knew about it’.

‘No, auntie’, I clung to her shoulder, pleading. ‘Not now, please’.

‘And why is that? I can’t hide it from them any longer’, she protested resentfully. ‘It’s total dishonesty. My situation would be quite unpleasant once they find out that I knew about it all along and concealed it from them’.

‘Sure you could wait a little longer auntie, please!’ I carried on with my fervent imploring. ‘Besides I’m telling you all about it, am I not? And I’m not doing anything wrong. God is my witness that I’m not doing anything wrong, and you must trust me, please’. I wrapped up my fervent bid at persuasion by crossing myself.

‘I trust you, and I am certain you are not doing and wouldn’t do anything wrong, but still your parents must know about it. It’s their say in the end, not mine’.

‘But there is nothing to tell them now, auntie’. I continued desperately. ‘He proposed like any other suitor and I haven’t even given my consent yet’.

She shot me a sharp reproachful look, pregnant with meaning, ‘He’s not like any other suitor, Lu’, she said disgruntled, arching her eyebrow. ‘You and I know he’s not like any other suitor. You’re both in love; this we can’t disregard. Besides that, he’s not Iraqi. He’s American, Liana, or have your forgotten that?’

‘What difference does it make if he’s American or Iraqi or else?’ I asked annoyed. ‘Is it nationality that matters most in the end or my happiness?’

‘This, you tell your parents and convince them, not me. What I think or say doesn’t count much. It is their decision, not mine, as you know very well’.

The hot debate was killed, however, the moment we perceived mum approaching the kitchen, inquiring if we needed a hand of help.

Blown out of the water would be a sheer understatement for the way Dina had received the news. The way things had advanced didn’t seem much to her liking. I could sense her becoming more like a bubbling volcano verging on the point of eruption. On the face of it things had moved faster than she had expected. She must have been clinging still to the hope that this romance was nothing beyond a transient whim that would be extinguished by the shifting susceptibilities of youth. Wagering on his absence, she had wittingly placed all her weight behind negating and rebuffing his influence by drowning my feelings for him with her endless list of inviolable taboos. Hence, I suppose a reply such as ‘I asked him to discuss it later’ had felled her hard, harder than she would have been prepared for. My reply must have implied one of two prospects, either that I was colouring the truth, or that I was deliberating consent. Although both would have been bad to her, the second of the two must have outweighed the first in Dina’s mind as she stood staring at me, seeking to divine my intentions from the expression on my face. The sudden proposal turned the tables, appearing as one hell of a complication that she had not bargained for. With his proposal she felt him winning and getting closer to me, and it was much sooner than she had anticipated. The night, however, passed peacefully.

Next morning was another usual hectic Saturday. During the first two hours the offices were buzzing like a beehive, but by twelve o’clock the entire place was deserted except for Tom and me. Martin had already made his first two visits, and was shortly due on his third. I was immersed with my work when I glimpsed Fury bolting out queerly. I was standing, a short while later in Tom’s office, talking to him, when I saw her returning in the company of another woman. My heart gave a leap that set my pulses racing, and my adrenaline pumped. The other woman appeared to be none other than Dina, my auntie, apparently visiting the establishment. ‘What’s she doing here? And what’s Fury doing with her?’

She went inside Fury’s office, her demeanour that of a total stranger who had never set eyes on me before. She sat designedly where she could capture an ideal view of my office.

I fumed, but I endeavoured my hardest to adopt a calm exterior. I kept to my work, but I was seething inside with choler and indignation, mainly against the traitor, the Trojan horse, who had made no previous mention of this visit. I no longer could stand the soaring pain of distrust and audacious betrayal from both plotters. Some fresh air seemed all the more vital to cool down my suppressed rage, which had begun burning my nerves. Staring into vacancy, I stood by the water cooler, sipping some cold water, incoherent with shock, and incandescent with rage. ‘Why didn’t she tell me? I was at her place last night, and we were most of the time talking about him. Why didn’t she tell me? I would’ve arranged for the visit myself. And as for you traitor’, I found myself threatening Fury now, ‘I say “Fair enough, just wait until she’s gone”. My mind was set on punishing both traitors, but mainly Fury for allowing herself to be such a nasty accomplice in such a mean conspiracy.

I returned to my office. My sense of indignation rocketing uninhibitedly by the minute, I could barely check the anger that my shivering hands had absorbed to the limit. I sat abstractedly in my chair feigning business, and totally avoiding looking across to the opponent’s side. In less than ten minutes Jack arrived, preceding the rest of the guys who had begun returning back to base, one after the other. He sat in his chair and we chatted for a few moments. Through a few casual glimpses, I could see Dina from her surveillance tower engrossed, looking hard at him. Fury smiled as she watched Dina. The scenario was repeated to a much lesser extent with silvery-haired Larry, but Gerhard’s share of concentration was relatively a great deal more. Fury was still smiling and watching the show silently.

A short while later, two more Iraqi engineers arrived. Dina, still silent and totally immersed in her mission, watched them, while Fury watched Dina. Finally the ‘heart and soul’ arrived, strolling in, engaged in conversation with Jimmy, entirely oblivious to the lurking eyes. Both men stood for a short while at the main entrance. Martin paradoxically stood ‘welcomingly’ facing her, hands in pockets, unwittingly giving her the best angle she could have hoped for. Both men then sauntered to Tom’s office, and re-engaged in another discussion. A few sketches and charts were spread on Tom’s desk. The three sat around, and some sort of a meeting seemed commencing. My heart shrank in apprehension, and I sat stone still, staring at Dina. Her eyes were glued on Martin as she took stock of him. Fury, still maintaining her assiduous watch, was like a sentry, head and eyes bouncing between Dina, the group of three, and me, now. After a few heavy suspenseful moments, I saw Dina turning to Fury. She uttered a few words. Fury nodded, smiling. YES, she had identified him.

Dina didn’t actually need to exert much effort. His conspicuous charisma outshone whoever was there, let alone the precise description and particulars that I had provided her during my seven days’ ordeal.

To Be Continued.......

Thank You, Pebblpie

2005-08-04T13:46:00.000-07:00

This post is dedicated to Pebblepie in gratitude.

Just today I discovered that Pebblepie has blogrolled Ishtarria in her sidebar containing ME, Iraqi blogs.

The pleasure of reciprocating such a wonderful gesture would have been all mine, Pebblepie, had I not been prevented by reasons related to maintaining my anonymity.

44. "How Could You Be So Cruel?... And Three Times in One Week? / Part Seven

2005-07-28T00:24:00.000-07:00

The moment he stepped out, the panic of losing him instantaneously kicked in, honing its rusty edges and showing its ugly teeth. And I sat numb, baffled, mystified, and on the verge of tears. Fury bounded into my office in a trice, her face apprehensive yet eager for details. Seeing him leaving with anger clouding his face, she must have realized that I had messed things up badly with him. She went nuts when I related the coldness with which I had responded to his proposal. She shot me a furious glance, making no secret of her desire for a logical explanation for such outlandish behaviour.

‘You’re weird, Liana, really weird. How could you do this to him?’ She asked, unable to stifle her evident astonishment. ‘What was it about then that week of mourning? He proposed to you, idiot!’

Fury’s words added more fire to my sense of confusion and puzzlement; sadness too weighed heavily on me, plunging me further into agonizing silence. My eyes remained fixated in a sad and helpless gaze at a point on my skirt. Fury, however, wouldn’t spare me her racking berating. ‘This is the man you love proposing to you, telling you he loves you enough to choose you for his wife. What more, for God’s sake, do you want? Are you out of your mind, Lu?’ She put her hand on my forehead feeling for my temperature, ‘Are you sick or something?’

My pensive silence continued, coming heavily between us, and it seemed to ignite her restless curiosity. She erupted, ‘Don’t you start this foolish silence with me too, Liana, or I swear to God I’ll hit you with ‘this’ to bring those misplaced senses back to your stupid head’. The notorious fiery Kurdish temper fumed warningly as she stood facing me, and holding in her hand a stapler that she had grabbed angrily from my desk.

I could hardly manage a sad and powerless reply, ‘Because I’m scared’.

‘Of what, idiot?’

‘Of him, I’m scared of him’.

‘Are you out of your mind?’ She asked, shaking her head disbelievingly. ‘This is the man you love, telling you how much he loves you, proposing to you. Why would you be scared of him, weirdo?’

‘You wouldn’t understand’, I replied.

‘At this moment I admit I’m the most dull, thick-headed person on the face of this planet’, she replied sarcastically, ‘but try me’.

‘I love him more than anything else, Fury’, I said, trying to reveal the secret behind my enigmatic attitude. ‘I can’t imagine my life one moment without him. Those few days of his absence were just a small example of the hell that I would be enduring without him in my life, but marriage? Now? It made my whole body stiffen with fear upon hearing his proposal’.

‘La Ilaha Ila-Allah, May God give me enough patience’, she exclaimed perplexed. ‘What’re you talking about?’

‘I never doubted for one moment that his proposal was coming, but I never expected to be so overwhelmed with fear on being faced with it’. I explained to Fury that it was the male who brought on my fears, and not the lover. The lover I knew perfectly and trusted unquestionably. Love was the lesson I had relished learning from his hands. He was the first man who had ever reached out to me enough to stir my bashful emotions. He was the first man ever to teach me what being in love meant. And I was thrilled, for I had learned what it meant, and known how it felt. But marriage and a husband? I had never been married before. Never been touched by a man before. The bashful innocent girl within me was lost, shocked, petrified, and not quite ready yet.

I elaborated on how accustomed I had grown for three months to seeing him around. We would talk, we would laugh, or argue and make up, or we would sit with two meters separating us, while he showered me with his heavenly love talk, tackling gently, tenderly and most cautiously my extremely bashful and reserved nature. But apart from that incident of running into him, and apart from that handshake, I had never experienced his manly touch. I did not know how it felt. Those seven days of parting were hell, but to marry him? I couldn’t, I couldn’t even countenance the prospect. For in marriage there was what I had been strictly and consistently enjoined to avoid; there was what I didn’t know or experience before. In marriage there was a great deal of that which scared me, and which, because of my ignorance, I couldn’t even dare to envisage. And I feared the male in him. I feared the alien who would invade my innocence, who would invade my body, my shy and sacred body. The standards of our culture, religions and code of honour obligated respectable and well-mannered girls to save themselves from even the hint of a touch from a man so that they could come to their husbands without a flaw. Such life long stringency couldn’t be easily obliterated by the three months of pure chaste love. I knew that the girl within me was struggling for her innocence, while the emerging woman had still to find herself.

We, he and I, were both but moving in parallel directions towards different objectives. He sustained a confident straight line, heading for something he yearned for, something he’d experienced and was familiar with, something he already knew and wanted. And I was impatient for more of the love that he’d taught me. I was quite thrilled and content to continue savouring what I had learned. This marriage thing, however, had not, till his proposal, entered into our discourse, and there was perhaps no way he could teach me about it until we were married. I wanted him to safeguard the fledgling female who had been newly introduced into the world of maleness and that only through him. It is a world that is a complete enigma to most of our females until their marriages. And I wanted him to tread gently with the utterly ignorant girl for whom a few words of explicit passion from him were enough to cause consternation. Still dewy-eyed, she had heard covert and obscure stories about first night difficulties, which had been secretly whispered and circulated among girlfriends, and which had petrified her sufficiently to cause her to throw up. I was the little girl who against the will of her protective and pampering parents grew up in body, but remained utterly pure in mind and heart.

Love was to me the brittle and dreamy romanticism that I had read about in books and magazines, which reached me only after the stringent double censorship of government and parents. Love was for me coy and reserved hugs and kisses, which I’d seen in the strictly censored Iraqi TV. The farthest my imagination could stretch its wings was to the pure, innocent, romantic love of the princess and the knight. This was what I could allow myself to ache for or dream of, being always mindful of my honour and that of my family as well as of the laws of a rigorous and unbending church. If a hand touch had meant taking me to purgatory, a kiss would have most definitely taken me to hell.

His winning my intense emotions was a slam dunk that he never doubted, and marriage was the natural thrilling end to crown our romance. He never doubted a positive reply to his proposal. He had worked hard and anxiously towards that end. But the proposal, which he had impatiently delayed for the right time, till when I would be ready, he had suddenly on impulse put before me at the wrong time. I was angry still, and puzzled, and coming to terms with the sudden unexpected behaviour he’d manifested twice in one week. And Dina was over my shoulders with her endless list of inviolable taboos. Besides there was the as yet unknown reaction of my totally oblivious parents to the romance, which would have been regarded as odd by the standards of the day.

I told Fury how much I longed to say yes. How desperately I was searching for words to tell him how much I loved him, words to tell him that I was unlike any other woman he’d known before. I was desperate for words to ask him to wait. To tell him I didn’t say yes, yet I didn’t say no, either. I searched for words to ask him to teach me with his love how to be rid of the girl in me, and to bring out the woman whom I knew he adored and anxiously waited for. But that abominable bashfulness that he loathed as well as adored, and those awful fears evoked by his ebullient passion, eclipsed my love and muffled my tongue.

Despite her fiery nature, Fury’s virtue was that of being a good listener. She listened and never interrupted, not even once. It wasn’t inconspicuous how pleased she was that I was for the first time letting loose, expressing unreservedly my emotions.

‘You silly’, she said tenderly while sitting next to me, ‘you don’t learn about marriage, it just comes instinctively. How do you think your grandmother or even your mother got married in those harsher and stricter days?’

‘I know Fury, I know, but it’s I, not them, not anyone else, and I know I can’t, I just can’t. I must love him more, and I must love him enough, enough to marry him. Please try to understand’. She knew what I had said was the truth, which she had to accept without argument.

‘Besides, have your forgotten about Dina’s list of taboos? I must tell him about all that first. There are hurdles we might never be able to jump over, and just the thought of it chills my body’. I could no longer control my tears. I asked her desperately, ‘Do you think he’ll come back Fury?’

‘Undoubtedly’, she comforted. ‘He loves you and he’ll understand. He’s smart, and one way or another he’ll figure it out. ‘God gives walnuts to the toothless’, she mocked. ‘He would have saved himself all this hassle, had he chosen me instead, the idiot’.

The perplexed astonishment he registered in response to my reception of his marriage proposal must have been because it had come as a blow to his utter certainty that he had won over completely my mind and my heart; moreover, my attitude to his proposal must have run contrary to everything else about my demeanour, which suggested that my consent was a foregone conclusion. My conduct would have been enough to snuff out the three months of nascent romance, if it had been manifested to someone with a more fragile and easily bruised ego. Given his ample self-assurance, he must have been able to see beyond my words and manner, for he persevered in spite of how I behaved towards the attainment of his goal. Fury was quite right. For the first time he didn’t play his cruel vanishing game. He was back within an hour and, for the first time, with some charts. He told me that his assistant had called in sick. Having already obtained Jack’s permission, he asked if I could take over and help him with some urgent stuff. While other assistants could have easily filled in for the absent one, choosing me was a gesture designed to reassure me that he understood, a thoughtful message aimed at saving me from any undue worry or agonizing apprehension. He grabbed a chair and sat next to me explaining what and how. He had this wonderfully forthright and professional approach that it seemed as if the episode of the proposal hadn’t occurred. He was engrossed in explaining while I listened and looked delightedly at him, thinking how lucky I was for having him. His eyes were overshadowed, however, with enormous pain, but as ever, he was most loving, pledging still through his manner patience and perseverance. Deep down, however, I knew that this would not be for long, definitely not for long.

With his proposal he laid down the foundation of our romance, proving his great love and good intentions, but leaving the ball in my court. Our emotions understood and speechlessly agreed on the wisdom of leaving the proposal open until the right time, until when I was ready. But then again, I was aware that I’d be pushing my luck right to the deadly edge if I left it longer than I should

‘Are you sure you can manage on your own, sweetheart?’ He asked, with the tenderest gaze, when he was done with the necessary explanation.

I nodded smiling.

He smiled back. His eyes were full of love and affection, now more than ever. He stared delightedly at me for few moments.

‘I love you’, he whispered.

‘I know’, I replied coquettishly.

For the first time I saw his lips faintly moving, sending a kiss, an air-kiss, from half a meter away. It was the first time ever that he practised in such a liberal manner, though still from a distance, some of the rights of an unproclaimed but acceptable fiancé and future husband.

I gasped, and turned frantically towards Tom’s office, checking if the ‘obscene’ act had passed unnoticed. And for the first time his kiss was exchanged with a tender reprimanding pat on his arm. It was the maximum reward he could ever fancy getting in a land where love was so hedged with prohibitions.

He got up, elated and ‘content’, walked to the door, and swung back, looking at me affectionately. ‘I’ll be back for those charts within an hour’, he stated with a meaningful wink.

I raised my fingers gesturing a V sign.

‘Two; Jack comes “first”, you know’, I said teasing. ‘I’ve got a few things to finish for him first’.

To Be Continued.......

43. "How Could You Be So Cruel?... And Three Times In One Week?/ Part Six

2005-07-20T17:56:00.000-07:00

The few moments of pregnant silence were punctuated by the sound of leisurely footfalls that I sensed were approaching closer and closer. Then another wave of fidgety silence suddenly enveloped the place. Both my elbows were braced on the desk. Slowly I lowered my fingers to the bridge of my nose. My gaze settled on an off-white shirt and blue pants. It was him; yes, him, ‘the choice of the heart’, in flesh and blood, and it wasn’t an illusion or the making of my imagination. He stood near, so near, that I sensed his thighs and knees touching my desk. I lifted up my eyes to him. A pair of the most beautiful hazel eyes was looking at me, smiling, tenderly and lovingly, all the while fondly devouring my face.

My pain of neglect and humiliation rocketed to such intensity as to disallow the merest suggestion of a compromise. My mind held the upper hand, whipping and admonishing my heart not to yearn, not to ‘forget’ and not to ‘forgive’. I lowered my head, and shielded my eyes once more. ‘Too late, I’m leaving. Today is my last day. You won’t see me again’, I thought finding solace, in a resolute vow to myself. ‘You’ve gone way past forgiveness this time’. I couldn’t stand the look of his face. I wondered if I knew him well, truly well, and if he deserved my love, and if he were worthy of the life I had been prepared to give up for him and for the sake of his love. I wondered, first and last, if he could be trusted with a wife or with a life.

‘Liana’, he uttered my name so affectionately that I sensed my traitorous heart fluttering wings of excitement upon hearing his tender voice, ‘Liana’ however, was bent on appearing to be ‘unfalteringly’ deaf.

The weighty silence was disrupted when I heard him moving to my right, pulling up a chair and placing it close by. The sound of his breathing conveyed to me that the rule of maintaining a two-meter distance between us had surely been infringed. My unfaithful heart engaged in a feverish dance of joy, or was it of rage rather, or, perhaps, of love?

The racking anticipation mounted mercilessly, weighing its full heaviness in those few, yet seemingly perpetual, moments of disquiet. Suddenly I heard his habitually affectionate and warm voice, for which I had pined for a whole week, commanding gently, ‘Look at me sweetheart’.
His words went unheeded, half of my face still shielded by my hands
‘LIANA!’

…………

‘Hey, don’t say I didn’t warn you, but you’re driving me into doing something really crazy if you don’t look at me’, he ‘advised’ calmly but earnestly.

I panicked. His impetuous nature left no room for the slightest doubt that his forewarning was serious. I was well aware that I would be offering the crazy lover in him the golden opportunity for which he’d long hankered. Prudence finally triumphed enough to allow him a ‘partial concession’. I removed both my hands and placed them, one on top of the other, beneath my chin. I set my raging eyes in a fixed glassy stare on the opposite window. Then I sat back, statue-like, my gaze moving to my skirt, as I folded both my arms against my chest. Suddenly I turned my eyes to Fury on the other side of the glass panel. She was smiling joyfully, her eyes urging me to be polite to him.

He held a patient silence, as I turned my glance back to my desk. I was like a ball being thrown about violently by antithetical emotions. Deep down, nonetheless, I knew my insubordinate passion was all for him, and that I was still in love, madly in love, and more strongly than ever. After a few moments of suspenseful silence, I turned my eyes to him. My heart throbbed the moment our eyes met. A crazy shiver surged thrilling my whole body. My eyes were so thirsty for his face that it seemed difficult to believe that that only seven days, and not seven years, stood between us. Notwithstanding all the rage and all the indignation, I was still crazily enraptured with him. He was smiling, his face glowing with ecstasy. I had to throw in the towel in the face of my obstinate passion. For the more I tried hating him, the more my love-smitten emotions idolised him, and the more they colluded with him against me. I knew, then, that hating him was beyond my capacity; it was nothing that I could or would truly afford. There was no way I could avoid loving him, no matter what he did, no matter how hard I tried

‘I missed you’, he said so affectionately that it made my naïve heart bound ecstatically, offering its unconditional forgiveness.

‘Thanks for realizing that Liana still exists’, I replied, choked with emotions, my voice cracking, but at the same time I was surprised by my sense of inner calm. ‘How could you be so cruel, and in front of everybody?’

‘I’m sorry sweetheart, I’m so sorry, I couldn’t, I just couldn’t say or do anything with all those bloody eyes around. Seeing you in this bloody yellow drove me nuts. I was dying to hug you and kiss you right in front of everybody, but I had to do what I did because of you, because I love you’.

While he talked, I remained silent, staring at him, but in enormous pain. Suddenly, he broke out uncharacteristically.

I’d never seen him so powerless and so helpless and so engulfed with passion as he seemed in those few moments. He was usually cool, calm and collected, but I reckon love had taken its toll on him in those few days of parting. It was conspicuous that his passion reigned supreme.

‘That was the most stupid thing I’ve ever done, those seven days were hell. God, if you just know how much I missed you….’.

As he spoke fervently, his hand moved in an attempt to touch mine. I leaned nervously to the opposite side, and hid both my hands behind my back. This impulsively naïve move, seemingly, maddened him further, turning him on. I remember I frowned, my face warning against any recklessness, and it sort of bridled his movements, but not his mouth. ‘…I love you Liana, and I want to marry you…..’.

It was the first time he gave full vent to his passion, and so explicitly, as to freak out the naïve, inexperienced and puritanic kid that I was. His audacious and explicitly passionate words and his blatant yearning left me in shock and dismay. My heart was beating fast, and I knew I blanched. I was an expert at sensing either the onrush of a blush or the receding of colour from my face once they started. I went dumb. His tough rival, my agonizing silence, overpowered me at the most crucial time. It was first time I experienced such an enormous fear; my fear of him overmastered my love for him. And I reckon, it was the moment of truth, but it came without warning and at the wrong time. Overcome by shock, I turned my eyes to my desk. I was helpless, lost and torn by some excruciatingly conflicting emotions, which I couldn’t control or even comprehend.

‘Liana?’ He called my name, impatient for a positive reply to his marriage proposal.

‘What time did you arrive?’ I asked calmly, killing the few moments of silence.

The irrelevancy stunned him. After a short bewildered pause, he replied with reluctant effort, ‘Two a.m.’.

‘Do you mind if we leave this for some other time?’

My unexpected reply seemingly astonished him. Before he could say more, the phone rang, ‘saving’ me. Glancing at him, I picked up the receiver and engaged in a chat with Al on work-related matters. His face fell, shifting colours. He must have been perplexed. He waited a few moments. Then, before Al rang off, he left the office, angrily.

To Be Continued.......

IRAQ THE MODEL, I THANK YOU PROFOUNDLY

2005-07-16T15:54:00.000-07:00

I am taking a short time off from my memoir to thank “Iraq the model” team for blogrolling Ishtarria in their side bar. I could never thank you enough Dear Omar, for those wonderfully encouraging words.

I truly wish I could reciprocate the courtesy, but maintaining my anonymity dictates that I must avoid any sort of linkage to other sites.

42. "How Could You Be So Cruel?... And Three Time In One Week?"/Part Five

2005-07-10T15:10:00.000-07:00

He stepped inside the office, and started shaking hands with whoever was there. He began with Al, who was the nearest; next came Larry, Jimmy, then the three Iraqi engineers. My throbbing heart struggled to get out of its cage on winged feet; a crazy shiver rushed through my whole body. I sat feigning business with my papers, and glancing occasionally at him. God, how I longed for his arms; how I wished I could cry on his broad chest and tell how mean Dina had been; to tell him how cruel he had been, leaving me alone, in such unbearable anguish; how callous was the world to me in his absence; and how ugly, lifeless and sterile the office seemed without him around.

Having done shaking hands with the Iraqis, he turned to Gerhard who stood up to greet him. They shook hands. I sat, head down, eyes abstractedly fixed on my papers, waiting and wondering how it would be: just ‘Hi Liana’, or would he shake hands with me too? ‘No please, don’t, not in front of all these eyes’, I thought to myself. ‘Those seven days have worn out all my resistance, and I can’t bear the touch of your hand’. Having done with Gerhard, it was my turn next. I lifted my head, but, ‘WHAT?’ He just went past me. He didn’t even bother to cast the merest glance in my direction, as if I wasn’t there, as if I never existed. He moved on to Jack, and shook hands with him.

I sensed a huge powerful wave engulfing me, and dragging me savagely down to a deep cryptic ocean. I froze. My eyes stared fixedly at my papers. My mind was paralysed; my heart beat violently. ‘No, please, not again, I have had enough in these past seven bloody days; more than I can take, and I don’t need you, on top of all that, to finish me up’.

‘Hey Liana…?’ Gerhard’s voice brought me back from my sore labyrinth. He must have called my name more than once. I raised my head, and looked at him. He was smiling. I could see his lips were in motion, talking to me, but his voice was breaking up, so remote and obscure it seemed that I could not hear or comprehend him. It pretty much sounded like the voice of a robot, alternately near and distant. I finally managed to reply, which seemed an impossible effort. ‘Yes’, and I smiled my ‘abstracted’ awareness to him, with extreme exertion.

The always hyperactive, impulsive and hasty-natured Gerhard, too busy with his papers to take notice of the drama, carried on talking, but I remained at sea, baffled and drowned in shock and incredulity. I felt all the blood rushing to my head, and my ears seemed to be blocked. I could not concentrate at all. Gerhard’s voice seemed to chop itself off and fade into the distance. The only sound I could hear clearly was the throbbing of my heart and the vehement pulsing of my temples. Weakness swept over me, and I sensed myself nearing the brink of collapse. Fearing the worst, I excused myself for a cup of water. He was sitting near the door, talking to Jack, entirely oblivious of me. I left the office, appearing to brush him off, too. I looked towards Fury; she shook her head in perplexity; her eyes seemed filled with questions for which I had no answers.

The coffee-maker seemed all but unreachable for my debilitated and devastated spirit. I grabbed a cup and shuffled along with great difficulty to the water-cooler. I stood there oblivious to the world. I pressed the small lever of the water-cooler faucet and stood, breathlessly, watching the thin flow of water coursing down into my cup. I was shocked, lost, and overwhelmed by the sense of humiliation. I filled the cup once and poured it out, refilled it and poured it out again, and again, and again. I stood there resisting an extreme urge to cry, to scream, and to run out of that revolting place. ‘I can’t take it any more; that’s it, I’m out of here’, I resolved indignantly, nursing my bruised ego. ‘I’ll go back to the office, grab my purse and leave instantly, while he is still there’. But then I reconsidered, ‘How and what would I tell Gerhard or Jack? What would they think of me? What would they say of me? They probably have noticed things, more than “probably”; they would most definitely figure out the cause of my untoward behaviour; it would just finish what’s left of my self-esteem and dignity’.

My mind was settled, having now emptied numerous cups of water abstractedly. I would while away the rest of my day, leave, and never look back. ‘Dad told me I could quit. I am still on probation, and I can leave if I want to’.

I stood there, white and fuming with indignation, engrossed in my pain and humiliation, and cursing him vehemently. I cursed the moment I saw him, and cursed my life, my whole life. I cursed Iraq and cursed America. I cursed my bad fortune that brought me down there, and I cursed the bad fortune that brought him into my life.

In those few moments I hated him intensely; I hated him as much as Dina hated him, and even more. I hated him for all that pain, for all that anguish, and for those seven long days of torment. I hated him for the worries and concerns he had inflicted, and for Dina’s ruthless and merciless torture, torture that was beyond what my young age could take then. I regretted all those hot burning tears that I had shed for him. I regretted all the agonizing patience and endurance. I was known for being a rashly impatient and spoiled girl, but those seven days taught me forbearance like nothing else had. I struggled to hold back tears of chagrin. It was my self-esteem, which he tampered with, and for the second time in one week. I just couldn’t stand the look of his face. ‘First I was less than a dog, not even a friend, then ignoring me as if I did not exist, as if I wasn’t even there, and that in front of every body’. He had stepped into the red zone, and he stood no chance of love or forgiveness.

I stood facing the huge window that was adjacent to the water cooler for a few moments, picking up the shards of my emotions and my dignity. I moistened my dry mouth with a few sips of water, and shambled down the hallway to my usual ‘asylum’, the toilets.

Fury followed me. I was furious with indignation. Before she opened her mouth I steamed, wreaking my wrath on her. The notorious Iraqi hot temper manifested itself most ferociously. ‘Not one word Fury, not one single word’, I hollered, threatening, with my raised open palm.

‘OK, OK, darling, calm down, please calm down’, and she just beetled off.

I scuffled to the window and flung it wide open. Summer was giving way to autumn, which had already brought with it cooler winds. I stood there inattentive to the world and oblivious to the fact that Gerhard would be wondering what had detained me. I inhaled strongly and exhaled, trying to let out some of my fuming rage. Having cooled off a bit, I swallowed a considerable amount of my wounded pride and returned to the office, shattered but assuming strength and posture. He was still there, talking to Jack. I turned my chair so that it was at an angle facing Gerhard more squarely. I buried my eyes deeply into the charts. A few moments later, he was gone.

Gerhard and I continued working together for over an hour. Then I carried on single-handedly, but counting the excruciatingly dragging moments of a seemingly interminable day, and fighting back tears over the debasement I had suffered and over my wilful lack of care and attention. He had slaughtered me with a blunt knife.

Around ten, I was done with the charts. The office quieted as a cemetery, with only Tom left in his office, and he too abandoned his post around ten-thirty for a meeting at the headquarters. Fury bounded in, ‘Take it easy, Liana, please, and don’t jump to crazy conclusions’.

‘Fury, one more word and I’d leave this place and never come back’, I bawled. ‘I swear, I’ll never come back, you hear?’

‘OK Lu, OK, OK; just calm down, calm down dear, please’. Taken aback, she trotted out, and returned to base. I pulled open the top drawer, tossed in some papers that I grabbed from my desk, and closed it angrily with a bang. I leaned back in my chair, shivering and phrenetic.

The phone rang; it was for Tom. I took a message and hung up. I was shaking still, in delirium, sadness weighing heavily. I inhaled deeply, and sat elbows braced to the desk, hands cupping both my eyes, summoning, momentarily, my strength, my mind settled on leaving that place once and for all.

Anguish, sorrow, and humiliation further spiralled, so did my love. Yes, and more than ever. God, how I longed to hate him, how I wished I could just turn my heart into a stone and crush it into pieces and throw it into the nearest waste bin, and lead my life away from him and from his endless torture. But I couldn’t, I just couldn’t. The more I tried hating him, the more those crazy emotions were fixated on love for him.

Moments dragged on. I don’t know how much time had elapsed when I suddenly perceived love tinkling in the air, again.

‘Hi, gorgeous!’

My heart jumped to my throat. Raging and sad as I was, I thought I was imagining, or hoping rather, that it’d be him. I remained motionless, my hands still covering my eyes.

To Be Continued.......

Flu got me....

2005-07-07T21:00:00.000-07:00

Today is my usual posting day, but I've just dragged myself out of bed to post these few words. Flu got me. It’s been awful. In bed since yesterday, boiling with fever, my whole body aches, my throat is swollen and I have the worst splitting headache I’ve ever had in my life.

My apologies to my readers, I’ll be back soon, “hopefully”!!

41. "How Could You Be So Cruel...And Three Times In One Week?/Part Four

2005-06-29T21:30:00.000-07:00

While the age gap that separated Dina and me wasn’t great—only a few years stood between us—we were, however, as unlike as two people could be in our personalities. She was a strong-willed individual, who had a reputation for being logical and rational. She would pinpoint her goals in life incisively, and would march towards them with dogged determination. In contrast I was frequently a prey to emotions, and harboured such overwhelmingly romantic aspirations. She was living then, just like any other unmarried fellow female, with her father and her brother, my Uncle Sam, who was a few years older than she was, and who was also unmarried. Dina worked at the time as a banker, while Uncle Sam managed his own business—an agency selling automobiles spare parts. My sweet old grandpa was a retiree, who had spent his entire life working in the governmental sector, just like the majority of Iraqis. He was the most wonderful grandpa one could ever wish for, gifted with a phenomenal sense of humour. His stories and jokes were a wonderful social lubricant at any gathering, eliciting wholehearted laughs even from those with the longest faces. I guess it was this cheerfulness and outstanding sense of humour that contributed to his living to the age of ninety-two, or it may have been his unabated attachment to the bottle, which may have also contributed to his convivial nature and jocular tendency? I wonder.

I returned home on Wednesday afternoon, drained and depleted. I went to Dina seeking relief and support, and returned overburdened with worries and concerns, and heavy with dismay and fear. When I entered the house, Mum would have noticed that the usual rosy colour, which was a feature of my face, had disappeared, thanks to his harrowing absence and to the seven days of warfare that Dina had inflicted on me. ‘Are you alright, honey?’ Mum asked worriedly, when I kissed her. I smiled, assuring her there was nothing to worry about, ‘Just tired mum’.

My appetite was no longer in evidence. The amount of food my stomach was receiving diminished by the day. Mum had cooked my favourite dish, but I didn’t have the least desire for food. I went upstairs to my room and called Fury; I updated her with the newest of Dina’s onslaughts. Fury reassured me that things would start improving with his return.

Despite all the anguish and those nasty concerns that Dina had planted in my mind, I was enormously excited, counting the minutes and seconds to my seeing him again. It was to be my big day, the day I had waited for over seven days, seven long and excruciating days. They seemed like seven years.

The last few hours, nevertheless, were the hardest. Fury reckoned that I seemed pretty much like someone approaching the end of Ramadan, the Muslim’s fasting month. She said fasting over most of the month wasn’t as hard as the final few days. I guess that depiction fitted perfectly my state of mind, for I had been fasting a whole week, but those last few hours were an inconceivable torture. I imagined how our meeting would be: What would I say? What would he say? How would he approach me? It was our first parting, and I wondered if he’d missed me as much as I missed him, if things were as hard on him as they were on me. I knew I’d be saying nothing; my bashful nature would force me always into a torturing silence. I always did the listening while he did all the talking, but just the thought of his nearness was a great thrill and an enormous relief: ‘He’ll take care of all this nuisance’.

Though I had been in bed since nine, I had hardly slept a wink. I got up at the crack of dawn, excited and thrilled and couldn’t wait to get to work. ‘This is your day, Liana; you've earned it; you've well-earned it’. I was preparing a warm welcome, donning myself in a yellow top , my favourite colour, the one that suits me best. It was first time that I had broken with my uniform by wearing such a bright colour as yellow. It seemed a too vivid infringement of the regulations governing our dress code, ‘but who cares’. A warning letter would be the worst that could happen, not a big deal, and it was worthwhile. Dad reprimanded me upon seeing me decked out in yellow. He stressed that I should have more respect for rules. ‘It’s boring, dad, wearing the same colour everyday. It’s good to have a change, once in a while’, I argued. I wore crimson make-up. ‘It goes fabulously with yellow’, I thought. ‘It brings out the best of my skin and my hair’. Let alone the eyes of Arabia.

Fury and the girls were stunned to see me in yellow. ‘Have mercy on the guy, Liana’, Fury whispered as I sat down next to her in the establishment bus. ‘He’s been away for a whole week. You can’t do this to him on his very first day back’. I beamed with joy on hearing that; for all that beauty was for him, to show him how much I loved him, and how much I cared, and how much I wanted to please him with the face and the beauty that he loved and admired so much.

My body quivered, my heart raced, the closer I got to the office. I even felt a slight stomach-ache, and frequent colic waves. Dina’s impact on me seemed to be receding now. He solely possessed my mind, and I was thinking of him, only of him.

Before I entered the office, a trip to the toilets was essential. I looked in the mirror, ensuring that everything was flawless and perfect, entirely perfect, and off, then, to the office. The effect of yellow in the office was overwhelming. The first comment came from Al, as usual. ‘Dear Lord’, he whispered, and he just belted up, not saying another word. Jack smiled. Tom winked, and Gerhard expressed praise in German, "sehr schön", Liana!. Hearing all those compliments was gratifying, but it was he who mattered, not anyone else. It was he whom I wanted to impress.

I sat busying myself with my papers, anxious and waiting and often glancing at the main entrance. Those few moments surely made me acknowledge how hard the last few days had been, much like the deprivation of food during Ramadan.

Not long afterwards, he turned up. My heart thumped with excitement the moment I saw him; my hands trembled, and a surge ran through my whole body, electrifying me. Tom was at the main entrance leaving when he stepped in, and they both stood there talking. He stood facing Tom, although I was within view on his right. The office was a throng of people. Jack was at his desk; Al and Larry were busily conferring about some aspect of work. There were three Iraqi engineers talking to Jimmy, while Gerhard and I sat next to each other working on some charts.

I glanced twice towards him. The first time I saw that he was still talking to Tom, but on the second time I found him staring at me. Our eyes met, but I turned mine away quickly. I couldn’t, I just couldn’t look into the depths of those eyes that had me lost for a whole week.

He was wearing an off-white shirt and navy blue pants. He was good at choosing colours that suited his skin fabulously, but it was first time I saw him in off-white, and he looked just stunning. I glanced towards Fury. She was attending to her duties, recording every single tiny detail that I could have missed.

Tom stepped out; he walked in with a general greeting, ‘Good morning everybody’. All eyes moved towards him, so did mine, and everyone, replied but I didn’t. I just looked ecstatically at him. He looked at everyone, but totally avoided looking in my direction.

To Be Continued.......

40. "How Could You Be So Cruel?... And Three Times In One Week?/Part Three

2005-06-23T20:40:00.000-07:00

A reticent and devastating sadness enveloped me upon hearing all that hierarchy of taboos and inviolable rules; my eyes swam in tears again. My helplessness and powerlessness, however, didn’t escape Dina’s eyes. She must have realized the enormity of my attachment to him, and I guess she felt for me. She hugged me, soothing and assuring me of her hand of help, but only if I submitted to her guidance and followed her instructions. Otherwise, she warned that she would fork it all over onto my parents’ hands. She also demanded that I arrange for her to see him without his knowledge, and she came up with a plan. Dina left nothing to happenstances. Her extremely scrupulous and meticulous nature overrode by far her emotionality especially in issues like this. Being in love, after all, was a delicately sensitive issue that embroiled honour and reputation, matters of priceless value in the life of any Iraqi, requiring consummate attentiveness to ensure that nothing had gone, or would go, wrong.

Her ploy was to keep me away from the eyes of my parents for the entire week of his absence. She deemed this necessary in order to avoid evoking my parents’ suspicions through my unmanageable fits of emotions and tears, which could have led to unpleasant altercations, particularly at a time when she wasn't herself incapable yet of handling the situation. Her scrupulousness manifested itself by digging deeper, in order to ascertain how intimately things had advanced between him and me. Though I had narrated innocently the entire saga from A to Z, her tenacious perseverance kept angling for hidden bits and pieces that I might have omitted or kept intentionally away from her. She trusted me implicitly, and her ingrained conviction was that I was far more of a puritan than she was, but her moral responsibility was holding the rudder now, fully aware that this was my first love experience. Her fears stemmed from thoughts of my succumbing to rash and reckless behaviour as a result of my young age and artlessness. And the realization that the darling was an American, one of those amply schooled in the affairs of the heart, gave her no sense of reassurance. Recklessness for Dina could amount to something as slight as a hand touch, which she would denounce as an unforgivable sin. I guess I took very much after her in this respect.

Throughout those seven days, he was my number one topic from the time I arrived from work until I put my head on the pillow. I talked about him unabatedly. He was my enthralling and riveting production for the entire week, enough to make poor Dina miss several of her favourite TV shows. Once in bed, I would doze off while replaying in my mind all his wonderful love talk, not to speak of his daring comments which had delighted my ears. Dina, however, would be listening attentively to every word, her eyes patently scrutinizing my body language and the features of my face. And her questions would scud when I’d be engaged enthusiastically talking about him, hoping that the eagerness of my tongue outweighed the discretion of my mind. She would often phrase the same question another way, once and twice and thrice. Protests or objections were not for me; on the contrary, I submitted obediently. Entrusting her with my big secret implicitly proclaimed her as my guardian, particularly in the absence of the wisdom and protection of my oblivious parents.

However, staying at her place for a whole week wasn’t an easy matter; she had to try and persuade my mum to agree to the arrangement. Both my parents hated those periodic stays at Dina’s. ‘No, Dina, not again, please’, mum would object strictly every time Dina called asking for an extension of a visit. ‘The house seems lifeless when she is not around’, mum would say, justifying her reluctance. A stay of one week seemed an extremely unattainable prospect, but we cunningly worked out a plan. Dina called mum claiming one of her chronic attacks of backache, and requesting my assistance around the house for a few days. Mum was adamant at first in withholding her consent, and suggested other alternatives. Dina insisted, and mum eventually surrendered.

Staying at Dina’s helped me somehow cope with his absence on the first three days. But it was altogether different at work, which turned out to be a real nightmare. I just couldn’t stand the place without him around. There were times when I’d be so immersed in thoughts of him that I would forget the thousands of miles that stretched between us. I would peer at my watch wondering what had kept him away. On realizing the bitter reality, I’d just sink further into helplessness, torturing sorrow and anguish. I prayed that time would not only pass quickly, but run at its fastest. I didn’t realize myself the depth of my attachment to him until those few hideous days. He left, taking my soul, my heart and my mind with him.

Fury, on her side, made it her job to uplift my downhearted spirit. She sought to jolly me up through her uproarious jokes, but things weren’t at all that simple.

My parents were not too pleased about my absence from home; mum called on the second day. She inquired if Dina had improved enough for me to return home. Hearing that there was not much hope of a change, mum and dad were eventually forced into the only available alternative, and that was to come and visit. They visited every second day during those seven days. On every visit, insistent attempts to take me back home would be aborted by Dina’s resourcefulness.

During those few days, however, Dina left no stone unturned, unearthing and hunting down every tiny detail about Martin and about the relationship, hoping for some gaps through which she could slip stealthily and steer things adversely prior to his return. Dina was never to become fond of Martin. She was well into the conviction that he was a wrong choice and that our love was doomed to a harvest of anguish and agony. The elaborate volley of questions that she asked during those few days sought to cover more than the entire time that we, he and I, had spent together. ‘How does he look like? What is he doing in Iraq? His likes, his dislikes? Is he short tempered or patient, or is he, at all, the jealous type? Does he drink or smoke? Does he have any children?’ All sorts of questions for which, in the majority of cases, I couldn’t provide an apt feedback. She was, however, incessantly asking, and I was obliviously and gratefully answering. Under the circumstances, no other delight and joy would have been equal to that of answering those questions, for I was talking about him, about my Martin. Was there any chance that I’d ever get tired or bored?

With each passing day, nonetheless, Dina was becoming despairingly certain that my love for him wasn’t a transient caprice, or a flare-up of my youth and stupefied greenness. It was obvious, nevertheless, that I was growing uncharacteristically stubborn and visibly recalcitrant, and she hated him for that. With every passing day she hated him even more, for taking me from the life I had.

Towards the second half of the week, I perceived her shifting her techniques, trying a different method, turning me against him and against his love. She began skilfully utilizing the most powerful weapons: my emotions, my brittle nature, my enormous love for my family, my parents and my brothers, which was my Achilles' heel, as well as my strong bond with her, and my extreme love for my country, my people, and my life—a whole and happy life that I was bound to leave behind for the sake of a man whom I hadn’t even known three months previously. She was wrestling time viciously. His absence made him vulnerable, less influential. Out of sight, out of heart, or so she thought.

‘Why him, Liana? Why go the hard way? You could be the happiest girl, marrying an Iraqi and living here, surrounded by your family, your relatives, the people who love you most, in your own country. Why this bloody American?’ She said, quelling evident pain and holding back furious tears. She was my older sister that my mother didn’t give birth to. We were soul mates. We grew up together, shared similar wishes, similar dreams and similar hopes. She loved me as a niece and as a sister, and I adored her as a sister and as an auntie.

‘Because he’s different, auntie’, I replied firmly every time she brought it up. I was so sad for her conspicuously overwhelming sadness. ‘He’s just different, not for being American; several Americans, Britons, German and even French work with me, but he’s just different. He loves me crazily; he understands me perfectly. I don’t have to ask or explain or say much. It doesn’t take more than just one look into my eyes for him to realize my likes and dislikes. Besides, he’s the choice of my heart, please Dina try to….’

‘Men are the same just about everywhere’, she interrupted. ‘He seems different just because you love him’.

‘But it’s not only that’, I replied chafed. ‘It’s, it’s so many things, so many things that I don’t even know where to start; it’s his inconceivable determination to win my love from the first moment he laid eyes on me; it’s this defiance to get to me despite all the hindrances and all the differences; his wonderful respect for my traditions and culture; his patience in handling my bashfulness and inexperience, his most affectionate loving and tender nature’.

‘But would all that be worth it, Liana’, she interrupted again, ‘waking up someday from this ecstasy of emotions in a different country, to a hard agonizing reality, way too far from the love and warmth of your people, and all those with whom you shared your life, both in sadness and happiness? Is it worthwhile depriving your most loving parents of the thrill of seeing your children around? Watching them growing year after year? Is it worth it not being around when your parents need you most, in sickness, God forbid, or in their old age? Why Lu, what had this American done to you to make you turn your back to all those you love most?’

Sensing sadness spreading its wings all over my face, she knew she was on the right track. She sustained her emotional warfare, ‘It’s love now, Lu; you’re still young, and this is your first experience with love, and you’re overwhelmed with emotions and carried away with passion, but your pain will be intolerable, when you realize one day how much you’d lost and sacrificed for this love’.

She tried to dissuade me, employing every possible means; the third part of her plan was becoming clearer. She redirected the very same emotions he’d overwhelmingly won, against him and against his love. She wagered on my young age, my brittle emotions, and the unstable attachments of youth, which are branded often as superficial and prone to fluctuation. Her high hopes were that it was none other than a transient caprice that would diminish with time; she laid all her eggs on the one basket of youthful immaturity. ‘She’s young and she’ll forget; time is the best healer’. How little did she know then? But Dina was hitting below the belt, where it hurt most, ‘God, Martin, do you realize now how much I love you?’

Watching the forerunner of tears that threatened to course profusely down, she knew she’d hit the right spot, and believed a quick triumph over his spell was coming in sight. She was challenging him, and wagering still on my young age to uproot and get rid of all that he’d sowed.

‘Then there is religion’, she struck excruciatingly. ‘Have you thought of what people would say when they learn about this civil marriage? Have you thought of your parent’s social shame and embarrassment? You have always been an extremely devoted Christian, and have come from a richly religious background. To throw all this behind you and live with a man in sin!’

She bombarded me unmercifully, until I could no longer stomach it. I burst into tears on the fourth night.
‘Please auntie, stop it, stop it please, you’re killing me. It was only the pain of his distance that brought me here; now it’s him, you and all. Please Dina, I beg you, have mercy on me’.

Pain assailed me. I leapt in desperate ire from the bed to the wardrobe, and grabbed my clothes intending to return home, discouraged, helpless and devastated. I leaned against the wardrobe, sobbing, ‘Why does everything seem to turn against me? Why all this pain suddenly attacking me from everywhere? I was the happiest person until a few days ago. Now everything seems to be turning upside down’.

Sensing the anguish she had caused, she let up for a short while, leaving the rest, as it turned out, for another round. She hugged and calmed me down, and apologized. Had she stopped the ebb and flow of her onslaughts for the remaining three days? NO, she persisted indefatigably, brain-washing me, trying to ensure that things would look extremely bleak and doomed to failure on his return.

To Be Continued.......

39. "How Could You Be So Cruel?...And Three Times In One Week?'/Part Two

2005-06-16T23:14:00.000-07:00

Entirely bewildered and confused, I slumped into my chair, sapless and devastated, my anguish spilling over and obliterating any liveliness surviving from the previous three days. ‘How could you be so cruel, Martin? Much as you love me, you have also hurt me’. I was incensed, too. The harsh obnoxious surroundings quelled a sudden, insane impulse, which stormed through me, to run after him, and stop him from leaving. He was still around, in the vicinity of the building, and breathing the same air, yet everything around me seemed suddenly to be shifting colours and losing warmth, turning cold, dull and lifeless. I wondered how I would stomach his absence. Pain exacerbated. I sat there engrossed counting: ‘Seven days, seven long agonizing days, twenty-four hours a day, a hundred and sixty eight hours a week, and thousands of minutes’. Without him being around, I was like a fish that was taken out of water. The place was going to be a real hell for seven days. I couldn’t endure staying there any longer. I wanted out of that bloody place. ‘You’ve got your vengeance, Martin, if you were after any’. I called mum and told her I was going to Dina’s after work. I wanted to talk, to cry, to scream, to let loose. I wanted to talk about him and about his love and about the anguish and the pain he and his love were spawning. Talking was my only solace during those seven tormenting days. Talking would make time pass faster. And it was about time that I sought Dina’s advice and assistance.

My radiant face had disappeared under a cloud of glumness and grief, which didn’t escape Dina’s perceptive eyes the moment she opened the door. ‘Are you alright Lu?’ she asked while she hugged me. She had arrived from work an hour earlier, and she was waiting for me so that we lunched together. But I had no appetite for food and couldn’t stand the smell or sight of it. Grandpa Mathew was having his usual afternoon siesta in the second storey; and Uncle Sam was still out on business. Dina sat at one side of the rectangular kitchen table while I sat facing her at the other end, shrouded in reticent sadness, totally immersed in my remote excruciating world. Yet I could sense her eyes riveted on me, scrutinizing my face in silence while having her lunch. All of a sudden she threw it to my face, calmly and straight-from-the-shoulder, ‘Are you in love, Liana?”

Talking about love and talking about the lover were the main reasons for my going over there. All that anguish, all that anger and all that suppressed passion poured out in an ocean of tears. She hugged me, patting my hair and my shoulders. She walked me into the living room and shut the door. She didn’t want grandpa to hear me crying; I sobbed until I reached saturation point. She endeavoured to calm me down, but the spurts of hot burning tears were unstoppable. The more I thought of him, of the cold office, of the thousands of miles stretching between us, and the long anguish of separation for seven days, the more my eyes swam in tears. She wet a hand towel, and just as a mum would do to her little child, she tenderly wiped the coursing tears that dribbled down my cheeks and my neck.

I was sprawled on the couch, extremely enervated and debilitated. She suggested I go upstairs to her bedroom, but I was too weak to climb the stairs. She threw on me a light bedspread and in a few moments I was dozing off. But the anguish wouldn’t spare me even in my dreams. I saw him standing on top of a hill, looking at me, sad and bewildered, both his hands stretched out to me. I stretched mine out too, calling out his name again and again. I was helpless and sad, so sad that I felt its unbearable excruciating pain palpably, as if it were happening in reality, not in a dream. I could even hear my voice through the deep sleep, echoing shrilly in my ear. I started climbing up towards him, but the closer I got to him the further he would recede from me, as if he were a phantom, near yet beyond reach and unreal. Had it ever occurred to me then that my dream was heralding the bitter and painful reality that my destiny would soon start unfolding?

I woke up a couple of hours later to gentle pats on my head and my cheek. Uncle Sam was sitting on the edge of the couch trying to wake me up. He placed one of his tender kisses on my forehead the moment I opened my eyes. ‘Why didn’t you sleep upstairs, sweetheart?’ he asked. I tried getting up, but everything seemed spinning around me, and turning black with tiny colourful dots flashing before my eyes. I closed my eyes and tumbled over the couch. I felt so weak, dizzy and debile. ‘Lu, sweetheart, oh God, Dina, Dina’, Uncle’s worried voice was calling out to Dina, who was at a distance. ‘She’s as pale as a lemon, Dina’. Those were the last words I heard, as I slipped into unconsciousness. As I came to awareness, I sensed some drops of water being splashed onto my face. It must have been the lack of food, the sadness and the anguish of three days, which caused the momentary black-out.

Familiar with my habit of boycotting food in times of sadness, she berated me, ‘When was the last time any food entered your stomach?’ She hastily dashed into the kitchen, while uncle tenderly wiped the reviving water off my face. Hearing all the noise, sweet grandpa came down the stairs, worried sick. He, too, sat kissing and hugging his dearest grandchild, and asking what was up with me. A typical Iraqi familial atmosphere took over, emotional, warm, loving and caring. A short while later, and with Dina’s eyes riveted on me, I was compelled to swallow some of the food that she had prepared, which both my mouth and my stomach were threatening to reject, so that I had to drain a glass of freshly blended juice.

I was still in uniform, shirt and skirt. Dina brought me my pyjamas. I always had some clothes left there for my frequent stay-overs. I went upstairs to Dina’s bedroom, changed my clothes, and made straight for bed. I lay down thinking of him and of his cruelty, my sad tears coursing down unceasingly. Once done with the afternoon tea, grandpa’s early dinner and tidying up the kitchen, Dina came upstairs. Hearing her footsteps approaching, I quickly wiped my tears, but I couldn’t hide the fresh marks that crying had left on my face. She closed the door and sat on the edge of the bed. She was concerned; that was obvious. Love is ominous, and always associated with suspicions and troubles. ‘You’re crying again! Let’s hear it now! Who’s this hero that has finally invaded the stubborn heart?’

I unburdened my secret, in its tiniest details. She listened attentively, without interrupting even once. When I finished, she maintained her disquieting silence for a while. Her expression, however, was not what I was hoping for.
‘American… and divorced… are you insane?’ She asked calmly, stifling evident ire.
‘Do you think your parents will ever approve of such a marriage? American means leaving the country, and setting off to an unknown life far away from them; and they would NEVER EVER allow that to happen. I know your parents, and I know how enormously attached they are to their children, and I’m absolutely certain that there’s no way they would okay such a marriage. Besides, who knows what kind of a person he is for them to entrust to him their only daughter, and in such a far country that is entirely different from ours in culture and tradition. Honestly speaking, I wouldn’t if I were them. Iraq, after all, hasn’t run out of men for them to let you marry an American’.

My eyes were fixed in a glazed gaze at the ceiling, while my fingers were fiddling with the edge of the bedspread I was snuggled in. I remained silent, sad and overwhelmingly assailed by concern. This wasn’t actually the kind of start I was really hoping for.

‘And divorced?…’, she proceeded, ‘you must be totally out of your mind. Any other girl would have been thrilled to have half the marriage suitors you’ve got. Turning them all down to marry a divorced man! God only knows how many times he’s been married before’.

Two rounds already lost; my concerns were shooting. Things weren’t looking good at all. ‘If that’s the case with Dina, then the confrontation with my parents is a definite failure, even before it starts’.

‘Is he Catholic?’ She asked. I remembered him once asking if I were truly Catholic as he had heard. When I nodded, he told me he was one himself.
‘Yes’, I replied softly.
‘You know you’re Catholic too, don’t you?’
I nodded.
‘Great, this means that NO church, I repeat, NO church in Iraq or anywhere in the Middle East, would ever approve your marriage, meaning your marriage has to be a civil one. And do you know what that means, sweetheart?’ she asked in a sarcastic tone.
I shook my head.
‘It means living in sin; a civil marriage is never deemed a rightful marriage, EVER, in a religious or social sense, at least, not here in Iraq, and not for the Christians of Iraq’.

She carried on disclosing facts that I had never been aware of, or even thought about. Well, until I met him, the idea of marrying a divorced man was not even remotely to be contemplated. The majority of Iraqi Christians are Catholics, whose marriages are sacred irrevocable institutions, lifetime bonds. Divorces, second or civil marriages are outside their religious and social lexicon. With my unremarkable life experience, I guess love was the only imperative and I had just started learning about it.

‘Assuming church approval is granted, though it’s pretty doubtful’, she remarked as she carried on with her onerous litany of facts, ‘marrying an American would mean entering a dark tunnel full of the most dreadful consequences that you and your family would suffer once this Iraqi-American marriage is disclosed’.

Dina didn’t leave the slightest hint of hope, and I was beginning to lose interest in the painful ‘enlightenment’ that she provided; only she wouldn’t spare me her tormenting probings.

‘American, Liana? Of all God’s nationalities, you picked on an American?’ She asked sarcastically, while spiralling her forefinger in the air, ‘and in a country ruled by the Baathists?’
‘And by the way, how old is he?’ She asked as if she were recalling something really crucial that she had missed. I shook my head again, gesturing ignorance.
‘You don’t know? How nice!’ she mocked. ‘What sort of love is this when you don’t know the slightest details of your so-called darling?’ She started getting jittery, dressing me down further. ‘What do you know about him then for heaven’s sake to cry your eyes out because of his absence for one week? Are you crazy, Liana?’

‘Love is blind’ is a famous Arabic saying, which was most applicable to me then. I was so blinded with love that I did not realize or recognize most of the snares and traps that Dina had unfolded. The source of these dismal facts was unquestionable; it was Dina, with her level-headedness and her logicality. The bits and pieces she brought to my attention had not occurred to me in the slightest. The present, I guess, was all that mattered to me, with which I was quite content and happy; tomorrow was for tomorrow to take care of itself. With him on my side, handling any problem never seemed a big issue. But Dina was talking facts, sets of rules, laws and regulations that religion, society and the Baathists had enforced. If we could’ve by any means jumped over the first two, we would have most definitely failed jumping over the third, particularly when the beloved was an American, from the enemy’s camp, and marrying one of the ‘subjects’. I believe God would have been far more merciful and tolerant with the sin of civil marriage than the dictator and his regime would have been with the perceived dreadful ill-doing and high treason of marrying an American.

To Be Continued.......

38. “How Could You Be So Cruel?… And Three Times In One Week?”

2005-06-08T21:24:00.000-07:00

Often I wondered whether it was my innocence and inexperience that had further intensified his passion for me. Or was it, perhaps, my brittle emotions and handy tears that appealed to his virility. Or could it have been all these together that made him see in me a dissimilar type of woman, one he hadn’t possibly met before? Whatever the truth of the matter, it was becoming more and more obvious that he delighted in demonstrating his overwhelming love as much as he had taken joy in its enkindling.

On our last afternoon together, prior to his final departure, he asked me if marriage to an American would jeopardise my safety on future visits to my country. I affirmed this to be a possibility. Well, just the mere thought of marrying someone from the enemy’s camp would have been sufficient to bring upon me the charge of high treason, and render me vulnerable to the grievous consequences following upon that. I would not be spared by those Baathists and informants from their ubiquitously intrusive and often fabricated reports, since by such omission they would lay themselves open to life-threatening outcomes. Hence, it would have been an unquestioned eventuality that I would be targeted by the tails of the regime, thus making any future visit to my home country extremely dangerous. Hearing my reply had him immersed in deep thought for a few moments, after which he declared in a firm tone, ‘I would not allow you then to visit Iraq before you obtain an American passport’. I was filled with exhilaration, perceiving how much he savoured the utterance of those few words. He seemed to be enjoying utterly this manifestation of his manly responsibility of providing love, care and protection. Although he was still incredulous at the thought of our marriage actually taking place, with those words he showed that he was enraptured by the prospect of it. However, when I asked him how long it would take to acquire an American passport, he averted his eyes away from me as he tapped the floor with his feet. ‘Two years’, he murmured. I wasn’t unfamiliar with such body language, to which he would tend whenever he sought to sequester certain things away from me. My question, nevertheless, was deliberate. Since the early 50s when Iraqi Christians had begun emigrating in noticeable numbers to the western world, just about every Iraqi Christian family had a relative living abroad, many of them in the States. Being a Christian myself, I would naturally know it would usually take about five years to get an American passport. Fury wasn’t impressed; she dubbed his answer a lie. I, however, refrained from condemning his equivocation, as I saw it as the proof of his love although the means he employed to that end were questionable. In spite of his utter certainty of my uncompromising love for him, I guess he thought that five years would be far too long a separation for someone as devotedly attached to her family as I was. His dragons of worries never abated but seemed contumaciously rearing their heads, consuming him, and impacting upon his peace of mind. Most of his concerns stemmed from moments of weaknesses and fluctuations induced by my young age, besides his anticipation of the agony that I was bound to endure when the time would come for me to leave behind my most loving parents, my brothers, my people, my country and the happy life that I had lived till then.

My feminine trust in him further intensified upon hearing the thrilling news of his dumping Fattin from the same previous source. I knew already that I could trust him; with every passing day he proved himself enormously worthy of trust. The BMS group held out Fattin as a contemptuous example, a good moral lesson for being reckless and fast. Our love needed extraordinary trust in order to withstand the rough sea of complications that we were bound to embark upon imminently, on acquiring the mandatory parental consent and advancing henceforth to the next phase, our marriage. However, just when things seemed sailing smoothly, the foundation of our love underwent a serious test that left its dark shadows over our relationship for a while.

Early one morning, following Martin’s first visit of the day, I encountered an unpleasant situation with one of the advisors who was notorious for his rudeness and quick temper. It was my first difficulty since I started work, and it sort of muddied my mood. Martin instantaneously detected the change upon his second visit. He sat on Jack’s chair seeking to figure out what had caused such an abrupt shift in mood in the space of an hour. I was on the verge of tears, and didn’t want to breathe a word about what troubled me so as to avoid further complications. He tried futilely cheering me up for over ten minutes. Eventually he left perplexedly upon Jack’s arrival. An hour into the gloominess, Gerhard, who bore witness to the boorishness of the advisor, and whom he severely rebuked when I left for the day, as I came to realize later, tried cheering me up by narrating a hilarious incident about one of our co-workers, who was infamous for his clumsiness. Apart from being single, and having never been married, Gerhard was also the youngest and the handsomest of my group. I couldn’t but laugh wholeheartedly when he related how this worker had fallen into a huge sewerage hole, while walking downtown one evening with another worker who had been striding ahead, totally oblivious to the dilemma that his mate was enduring a few meters behind. The Baghdad municipality was notorious for its half-finished public works. Such holes were often left uncovered, an unintended trap for unwary pedestrians. Sometimes the accidents were so nasty that some of the entrapped had to be hospitalised. Masters in the region for their outstanding professionalism, Iraqi cartoonists took action launching a sardonically stinging campaign against such neglect of duty. The cartoons were so popular that they would be the first thing that readers of Iraqi magazines and newspapers would look for. At the culmination of the mirthful exchange that Gerhard had provoked, Martin entered. He shot me a meaning look fraught with surprise at the unexpected fluctuation of mood. A look of instant displeasure pervaded his face. It suggested a strong sense of possessiveness and a bruised ego, both of which had to be placated by his penalizing my ego, simply for permitting Gerhard to succeed where he had failed. He walked straight to the copier. I grabbed a few papers and followed him some moments later, and stood next to him. He appeared absorbed in the task of copying, intentionally excluding me from his attention. He had a cigarette between his lips, while his eyes squinted avoiding the smoke. We’d had a few arguments over his smoking, and I was trying to help him quit. I stood silent, smiling and looking at him. His hands betrayed him, revealing how nettled he was. I, then, leaned slightly to his side and whispered coyly, ‘Hey, smoking is bad for your health’.

‘Enough with your counselling, you’re not my wife, you’re not my mother’.

‘How about a friend then?’ I carried on coquettishly.

‘If I need a friend, I’ll buy a dog’.

I just couldn’t believe my ears. I stood in stunned silence, flabbergasted, stupefied, paralysed in brain and body. The most harrowing aspect of it was that he carried on with his copying as if nothing had happened, continuing to ignore me in the most humiliating manner. After a few moments that seemed everlasting, I summoned up my bruised pride and dashed out of the room, straight to the toilets. My stomach was turning; my whole body was shivering. Seeing me bolting out like that, Fury sensed something bad had occurred; she followed me. Certainly, it was one of them days, first the rude advisor and now the dearest. I broke into tears the moment I saw Fury entering the toilets. She hugged me, calming and comforting me.

‘What did the choice of the heart do?’ She asked laughing.

I sobbed out the details, ‘It’s jealousy Liana’, she said soothingly. 'This means he truly loves you; stop crying; you should be the happiest woman for that. Besides it can’t be all love—love today, jealousy tomorrow, fits of anger and a few fights at other times; these are called the spices of love, honey’.

Fury made every effort to moderate the drama before someone entered the toilets and spotted me crying like that, which would have rendered me the talk of the week, or weeks rather. In her attempt to cheer me up, she related the tale of a relative who had been badly beaten up by her jealous husband. ‘But he’s American, Lu; this is perhaps how they beat their women, with words, not slaps. Frankly speaking I wouldn’t mind being beaten this way myself; it seems more civilized’.

The funny manner in which she uttered those words had me cracking up with laughter. I was crying and laughing at the same time. She calmed me down and suggested I wash my face, wear fresh make-up and hide from him and from the others the red marks that crying had left on my face. She rushed back to my office to fetch my purse. When she returned there, she reported him sitting in Tom’s office, evidently waiting for my return. Seeing her grabbing the purse, and familiar as he was with my proneness to tears, he must have realized the effect of his cruelty. She described him shooting her a meaning gaze, ostensibly hoping for some sign that the situation had alleviated, but her face was lacking in largesse. Fifteen minutes into the drama, I returned to the office, my fresh make-up camouflaging the swollen eyelids and the red nose. I sat behind my desk utterly ignoring him. He must have realized the red zone he had stepped into, and that he had no chance whatsoever of talking to me that day. A few moments later he was gone.

He just vanished for the rest of the day, and for the following day, and the day after. I went nuts. Those three days were hell. All I could do was pray and wait in hope that he’d somehow show up, speak about the event, punish me, even hit me, do whatever it took to sort it out. But, he seemed to retreat to his old torturing style. I was positive the situation wasn’t any less hard on him than it was on me. I was filled with mercilessly excruciating thoughts and feelings. Wave after wave of terrifying jealousy brutally assailed me. Fattin seemed to flash back again. My distressed imagination would often project her rising while I was submerging. ‘Perhaps he has taken an angry, irrational, hasty decision to end the whole thing.’ Then I ruled it out, ‘He can’t just forget about it easily like that; if he can, then it’s not love, not real love, and I would forget about him too’. But I knew I couldn’t, so he wouldn’t either.

Gloom pervaded my face during those three days. My parents were worried sick. Mum was relentlessly and anxiously probing; when she gave up, she handed me over to Dina. We were close and shared lots of secrets. Mum hoped I would unfold to Dina what ailed me. I remained obstinate, however, with both of them, ‘I’m only tired, some problems with some colleagues’, I said briefly. On hearing that, dad suggested pulling up stakes, ‘You’re almost at the end of your probation; if that’s how it is, then quit now’. The rigorous regulations that were issued during the dictator’s regime prohibited anyone from quitting once they had passed the probationary period of three months. However, I assured my parents that it wasn’t anything serious that I wasn’t capable of dealing with, and that things would return to normal in no time.

On the fourth day, around nine, just when the office was jam-packed he turned up. Unable, naturally, to engage in anything more than the normal exchange of greetings, he confined himself to talking to Tom. Fury described him later as glancing often to my side. I totally avoided looking at him. I was truly thrilled at seeing him, but was also sad and hurt. He left after fifteen minutes, and returned an hour later. Jack and I were busy working together. He said a few words to Tom and I saw him taking off hastily again. Another hour and he was back again while I was on my own. He strolled into the office, and stood a small distance away, seemingly waiting for a sign or a gesture that would assist his overture. I kept to my work, head down, my tears held in strict check.
‘How much longer is this gonna take?’ he asked in a gentle tone.

I raised my head. He smiled, but his face was overshadowed with pain. I slightly tilted my head, my eyes questioning.

‘Not talking to me’, he carried on softly.

‘And why should I?’

‘Because……’

‘Yes?’

He sustained an uncomfortable silence, his eyes sad but, as ever, abounding with love.

‘People talk to each other as relatives or friends’, I replied calmly. ‘I’m not your wife; I’m not your mother, and if you need a friend, you’ll buy a dog, so why would you need me to talk to you?’

‘Sorry, Lu … I’m terribly sorry, honey,… I was in a bad mood… and lost my bloody temper’.

I just couldn’t say anything more. Those few warm, affectionate words said it all, and were more than what I had wished for. They instantaneously washed away all the mortification and indignation. My heart unconditionally forgot and forgave. It was, however, way too early to show leniency, I thought. ‘This lesson he must never ever forget so as not to repeat the hurt he had inflicted’, I said to myself as I maintained my silence.

‘I’m leaving tomorrow morning, and I don’t want to leave while you’re still mad at me’.

My heart throbbed, and my adrenaline rushed. ‘Leave? Where to?’ I asked anxiously.

‘Greece, for one week, I’ll be back next Thursday’, he replied, seemingly relieved by my transparent anxiety.

A few bewildered moments and I broke the fraught silence, asking sadly, ‘Am I the last to know this?’

‘It wasn’t planned. I arranged it just a couple of days ago’.

Shock, anger, love and sadness were tossing me back and forth. Strangely enough, my ever handy tears delinquently held themselves in abeyance; my source of relief, my means of discharging my agony and pain had just vanished and were no longer as handy, just when I needed them most.

I stared at him powerless, ‘Are you punishing me, Martin?’

He smiled a meaning, loving smile. It was the first time I had bared my feelings in such an unwonted manner. And it was the first time that I had addressed him by his first name. Maintaining appropriate formality in front of others, and shunning unnecessary suspicion, I always addressed him by his surname preceded by the appropriate honorific, though more than once, and in the presence of other advisors, he’d say, ‘Martin, the name is Martin’. But it took me a while before I got used to saying it.

‘I need some time off. What happened was awful, and shouldn’t have happened, with you, or to you’, he replied, his eyes stifling enormous sadness.

Head down, I was engrossed in thought, ‘Trip? Overseas? Tomorrow? Seven days? And telling me just now? How could he be so cruel?’

‘Liana’, he called my name, bringing me back from my painful labyrinth.

‘What time are you leaving tomorrow?’ I asked, getting up.

‘Early morning’.

I was puzzled, a thousand questions thronging my mind. His unwillingness to answer any was not lost on me.

‘I must leave now. I’ve got a few things to take care of’.

I stood silent, staring blankly at him. Words had vanished. There was nothing in reality that I could say.

‘God, how I wish I could hug you, and kiss you’, he murmured softly.

He wished, but the munificence of my culture wouldn’t by any stretch of the imagination go beyond a handshake, just like any formal collegial farewell. With eyes riveted on me, he moved closer, and stretched his hand; tentatively, I stretched mine. My whole body shuddered the moment our hands met. It was the first time ever that any part of our bodies touched intimately and closely, with intent. His hand was warm; mine was freezing. I sensed all the blood fleeing away from my fingers. He took my hand, and tenderly covered it with his other hand. His thumbs gently rubbed the palm and the back of my hand. My hand trembled like a small bird, but it was enjoying immensely the warmth and the shelter of his love. I tried pulling it away, but he wouldn’t let me. He held it even tighter.

‘Martin… please’, I pleaded softly, my eyes apprehensively wandering around.

His grip weakened; he returned my hand, and he dashed out.

To Be Continued.......

37. "I'm in love, Do you know what the heck that means?"/Part Three

2005-06-01T19:34:00.000-07:00

His ferocious war wasn’t waged against my shyness, since he found my bashfulness quite enthralling; nor was it waged against my artlessness, which he adored. Rather, it was against the reserve that tradition and culture had deeply embedded in my innermost being through years of social and religious acculturation. He assumed the role of a mentor, guiding me tenderly and with incredible patience and respect, teaching me not to loathe or be disdainful of my emotions and feelings, but to esteem and admire them. His copious wisdom was the medium that bridged the cultural chasm that often reared between us. Given the limited time he had, since his assignment in Iraq was temporary, he used it intelligently so that it worked to his advantage.

His love galloped along, taking magnificent strides by the day, by the hour, and by the minute. It must have been for him a different type of love, a peculiar love that he had perhaps never lived or experienced before—a chaste, pure and flawless love, but also one that was fiery and passionate; a patient, uncomplaining love, replete with pain and pleasure; a stormy and magnificently overwhelming love, but also one that shielded, concealed and guarded itself from every one, even while declaring itself to me loudly and freely and without fail, and through every possible means. It was a defiant and irrepressible love that would glow wildly and unrestrainedly through a pair of radiant eyes that beamed with elegant passion and ethereal joy. It was a daring love that would gush out with the most audacious compliments, which he’d purposely launch upon just to be rewarded with the rosy colour that he adored. And most of all, it was a tender, protective and splendidly caring love, which demonstrated itself through its utmost concern for my safety in the republic of fear and horror. A mere meaning gentle look would have sufficed to rein him in whenever his impetuous nature and fiery emotions were in command.

But then, my love, while no less intense, was always strictly held in check. It was a timid, prudent, disciplined type of love that I always tried to keep within my innermost self, shielded not only from the stifling surroundings, but also from him. Yet, notwithstanding all the incredible exertion I would fruitlessly be employing to hide it, my love would reveal itself, bare, naked and exposed before him, divulging to him how precious and invaluable he was becoming with every passing day, and how torturous and jejune and vapid and pointless life would become without him. The rigorous beleaguering environment and my reserved nature colluded together, nevertheless, to crush the wings of the fledgling lovebird that had kicked off flying and savouring excitedly the sense of freedom and the sensational uprush of emotions. Those insubordinate virgin emotions never wavered in their attachment to him. He had no doubt my love existed, and he engaged fervently and indefatigably to uncover my emotions, always enjoying his victory when it occurred with a loving, meaning smile.

On certain days I remember seeing him coming to work thrilled and excited, skating on an emotional high, which I’d ascribe to the inner workings of his mounting passion. Days later, however, Jack or Al or one of the other guys would spill the beans as they related snippets from their domestic gatherings, to which he was a party, in which they would pass complimentary remarks about me and wonder about the reasons behind my rejection of numerous marriage proposals. He would later recount about him listening, his heart bouncing with his big secret, and being unutterably happy for winning my heart where others had failed. On such days he would be hard to control, as he would break the two-meter rule by obstinately halving the distance.

Tomorrow? Never mattered; always a deferred issue that we seldom touched upon. With his overwhelming love on my side, tomorrow never concerned or disquieted me. Certain in the conviction that I would occupy not only his present but also unquestionably his future, I amply and unreservedly trusted him with mine. Our tomorrow was the day that we’d share, living happily together. It was our survival in the harsh land that counted most now, and which I was handling diligently. I left tomorrow for him to attend to. Tomorrow for him was our marriage, but he had to proceed cautiously towards taking such a step, forestalling the possibility of setbacks or unpleasant shocks. He was quite ready for that step; it was my readiness that he wanted to secure. As it turned out, he was willingly patient for as long as it took, so long as it eventually happened at the right time, not too late, but not too soon either. He would make explicit his intentions of marriage, saying ‘I’ll keep up on you’, or ‘You’ll definitely carry my name’. Sometimes he would become bolder, announcing, ‘You’re a gorgeous flower, and it’ll be I who will cut you’, or ‘You’re mine’. These were the means by which he would express excitedly his desires for tomorrow, and vent his passion carefully, cautiously and cheerfully.

There were no questions between us, or more accurately, time was preciously limited to allow for it to be wasted on questions. We loved and accepted each other for who we were. I didn’t have much to answer for anyway. I was like an open book for him and for others. Marriage suitors and admirers left no stone unturned, poking through my details, which would go circulating around and eventually fall into his lap. What mattered most he already knew: twenty-one years of age, single, never been married before, living with my small family. He was already quite familiar with the basic details of my culture and the conservative dimension of my society; he was growing increasingly in the conviction that my love for him existed and that it was thriving. Impatiently he waited for that moment when I would admit to it. Although, at times, my nose would be itching, I refrained from asking him questions. I left it entirely up to him to tell me what needed to be told when he deemed it appropriate. All that I knew of his marital status was that he was divorced with two adopted children of his ex-wife. I just had the feeling that he could have been married more than once. And only two days prior to his final departure, the officially proclaimed fiancée that I had become asked him what number I was in his life. ‘You’re number one’. I reiterated the question, but I had to throw in the towel in the face of such unwavering insistence, ‘I told you, you are, and you always will be number one’.

A month before he proposed to me, it scared me to death to learn that he had been offered an excellent job in a neighbouring country, with higher executive responsibilities, and a better pay package. Although I knew that he had already turned down the offer, for the first time I broke the ‘no questions’ barrier, and inquired about it. A meaning smile confirmed the reported news; he uttered nothing, however. I reiterated my question. Sensing how adamant I was, he stepped backwards, and pointing a finger to the location of Iraq on the world map that was stuck to the wall, he countered my question with another one, his eyes all the while glowing with tender love, ‘What’s a better job offer when compared to my love for the gorgeous people of Iraq?’ Often I had wondered, how on earth I managed to beat off the irresistible urge that swept over me at that moment to hug and kiss him?

He wasn’t given to excessive jealousy. He was a genuinely chivalrous knight who was armed with all the requisite self-assurance to help him do better than that. Nevertheless the male in him, from time to time, did fall prey to some crazy fits of possessiveness, particularly when witnessing all the attention I was increasingly raising. But then, I presume he had lived in Iraq long enough to acquire some of the Iraqi men’s hot-bloodedness and jealousy, and he grew similarly possessive. One day he was standing with a group of four, two of whom were Iraqis, engaged in informal chat while I sat busily working behind my desk. When I got up, sometime later, I saw him moving his eyes downward, to my chest. To my surprise, he began acting in a weird manner, talking loudly, and launching upon some funny jokes, as if he were trying to divert the attention of the group onto him. His look alerted me. When I glanced down, I realized that the third button of my shirt had slid open, right in the middle of my chest, exposing my bra and a hint of my breast. Instantaneously, I turned to the other side and re-buttoned. Engulfed by flames of embarrassment, I turned again and sat hiding my eyes from him for a while. When I mustered enough courage to look at him, I met a pair of eyes signalling a reprimand.

It was considered outrageous in my culture for men to marry women who were younger than them by more than a decade. Old? NO, definitely he wasn’t. He was at the most wonderful age, seeping youthfulness, irresistible manhood and enormous vigour. But perhaps it was I who was very young. He had everything to satisfy the female in me, outstripping by far much younger men. He understood me perfectly, adored me and valued my innocence, while skilfully arousing my shy, hidden emotions. I was a kid until I met him. YES, nothing but a mere pampered kid, with the mind of a kid and the heart of a kid and the demeanour of a kid. He brought to life the woman in me.

He was never threatened by my relative youth or by my beauty; he praised them at all times. He made me further realize my beauty, so as to bring out the best of it for him. Given that women age quicker than men, I thought we’d make a perfect match. I reckon, as I look back, that those extra few years would have been my immunity, my first protection line, which would have given the female in me the necessary peace of mind, on being married to such an outstandingly charismatic and gorgeous husband.

To Be Continued.......