Wafaa Alwan

from Narrative Thread, second edition

Milica Dacic

When I think about Iraq, I remember the old time, not now. I was born beside my father’s orchard and our house was surrounded by trees—date palms, fruit trees. I remember my dad’s house and how big it was—nine rooms, three salons. I remember in browns and whites and reds. I remember the orchard—the smell of orange trees in the spring, and lemon trees, too. The air back then always smelled like lemons. Now, when I smell lemon trees I remember my dad’s orchards. When I was little, my brothers and I played for hours in the trees, we swam in the Tigris River. My dad’s house was beside the river. I remember the Malwiya Mosque I visited with my family. It was built in the 9th century. When I was a girl I used to run up the mosque, and it was an amazing feeling being at the top and looking over the whole city. That was a happy life. My life was pretty then. But in 2003, the war began.

I remember when the first bomb fell on Baghdad—and after that, the bombs kept falling from the sky like rain. I remember the miserable sound of the bombs and the planes flying over the city— they were so loud. When the bombing started, we stayed in the basement near the bathroom for two days. It was a small space and safe. My sons couldn’t eat, they couldn’t sleep. They were crying and crying. One son got very sick. There were no doctors, no hospitals. After a few days of hiding, my husband went out and saw the streets—they were empty—there were no people walking through the streets. It was just the American army. When I was in the basement with my sons, I waited for the moment when we would die. But we didn’t die there and after a few days the American soldiers in my neighborhood streets helped us—they were friendly to us. They gave my son medicine.

One day, the Iranian militia saw that my husband was helping the Americans and they asked him why he was helping. He told them, “I am rebuilding the hospital and the school to help my people.” That day after he finished working at the hospital, they kidnapped him. They called me from his cell phone and asked me to pay one hundred and fifty thousand dollars if I wanted my husband to be freed. After one week, I got the money together and paid them, and still they killed my husband.

After my husband was killed, we moved to Jordan. In Jordan where I lived, all the world was closed around me. I didn’t sleep in the night. I thought all night about what I’d do the next day. I had a sad time, a long sad time. But now I’m another person. I’m happy. I have many friends. I live a peaceful and quiet life. And my sons, and my grandkids. Now when I sleep I feel safe. I have a nice home. My son is a doctor. All my sons found jobs. And the people here love my family. We have many, many friends. The yard at my house reminds me of my father’s house. All of my life, this big sadness taught me that one day you can begin again. And now, in a new home, in my new country, my life is pretty again.