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

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 ...

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 foun...

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-hande...

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...

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

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 e...

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...