Snippets from 2012

'This is my new favourite place to eat,' she says, reclining back next to me in the yellow leather couch with a small content smile, and I immediately decide it's going to be my favourite too. I can tell she feels so at ease, and there's nothing that can spoil my good mood now. Opposite us sit my sister by blood and another sister by heart, conversing softly, and the sound of the fountain on our side drowns out what they say. We lean forward, attacking the strawberry-filled white-chocolate-topped crepe with our forks. They say money can't buy happiness, but good food with the right people always does.
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It's past midnight, and we're watching the video of my uncle's wedding. The wedding that happened in 1997 and that I've watched- at least- forty times since then. It is the funnest that's ever been, and although I wasn't there, I've memorized every detail and could relate it second by second with my eyes closed. All of us are huddled on couches, watching, screaming and laughing like there's no tomorrow. At some point, my uncle's kids decide to renew their parents' marriage. (Our family's adoringly crazy like that). The television screen shows a young couple, standing on the large, green front garden of our family home, against tall palm trees and a Baghdad night sky. A few feet away from the screen are the couple in real- him greying and her three pregnancies later, with an audience clapping and singing around them with the enthusiasm of a fresh event. 

When we finally go to bed, massaging our tummies from all that laughter, I'm crying. Miles away from us is the setting of that happy day, the front lawn dead and yellow, trees abandoned, the home deserted. I want to go back home, and I was never there to begin with. Will I ever? And if I do go "back", will I feel as at home as the other authentic Iraqis? 

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(8) du du du du du du (8) Adds life to life... 
Du's tag-line was made to describe my sister, actually. We're at the airport waiting for her to come back and awaken our dead home. If there's anything I learnt this year, it's that you can miss someone so much it aches.
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There's a conference on technology and business happening in the hall across, and I'm staring angrily at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, wondering how she got here. What on earth do you have to do with this? And why, why, did you agree to be a speaker? You who can't open your mouth with more than two people looking at you without blushing crimson!

Suddenly, a girl staggers in, panting and shaking. She leans on the sink. I steady her and the next thing I know, she's passed out. Fifteen minutes later, I walk into the conference room calmly, knowing exactly why I was destined to be at the bathroom by the conference hall that exact moment. It had nothing to do with a talk on how technology shapes business.
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Cafe Ceramique. There's an aura around here that makes me feel there's nowhere else I'd rather be. We've picked our ceramic bowl and the colours we need. Now we divide the bowl in four sections, decide that each of us will paint the personality of whoever sits next to us. For two hours we bend over the bowl with careful strokes. Occasionally gasping over a minor mistake. And occasionally turning our attention to the meals on our side. But mostly, concentrating on painting. We agree not to look at everyones' parts until we're done, but it's easy to tell what someone's painting by the smile or smirk on their face. Later, we all leave the cafe loving each other a little bit more.

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Cruel Kids- Part II

I may have done my share of persecution as a kid, but sometimes I think about situations where I played victim, painful as they may be, because self-pity can be so comforting!

So this particular tragedy took place several years prior to our previous episode. It was a rainy day outside, with the sort of cold weather that lashes at your face like a whip. A group of six and seven-year-olds huddled around their teacher on the thick, soft carpet of their classroom's "book-corner". The warming radiator and the soft voice of the teacher sitting before them made them feel all cosy, tucked in safety away from the fierceness of the world outside the window.

I sat cross-legged with all my classmates on that carpet, listening intently to our form teacher and trying very hard to contain my excitement and mirror their expressions. POSTMAN PAT was coming to our school! Postman Pat with his black and white cat! 

'He's not even a real person,' said one bored boy.

'Yes, he is,' the teacher's smile remained unwavering. 'He particularly asked to see you lot. He will be telling you all about the secrets of his job, and taking individual pictures with each of you. Wouldn't you like a framed photo of you and Postman Pat?'

I noticed I was sitting up on my knees by now, and quickly re-positioned myself.

'Now what I want you to do is think about any questions you might want to ask him. Think carefully because you might not get another chance at this.'

I knew right away what I wanted to know. Everything to do with how letters my sister and I were writing to our father overseas, with lame school rhymes and crooked arabic lettering, were reaching quickly enough for him to read and reply. 'I'm going to ask him about post between different countries', I blurted out. 

'Not now...keep your questions in mind and ask Postman Pat in person.'

So a few days later, Postman Pat and his black and white cat arrived, and we all stood there shyly while he let us stroke his cat and told us all about the mail and how it worked. I kept trying to peer into the open mouth, which is where my sister had told me a disturbing night before I would find a pair of eyes of the person suffocating under a costume. 

It was finally time to ask questions. Several arms shot up in the air, including mine. 'Let's just go in order, shall we?' he said, stroking his chin and pointing at the first person in line. He continued answering questions until there was just one person in line before me. He pointed at her.

'Dear Postman Pat,' she recited loud and clear. 'I  would like to know about post between different countries.' 

'Oh, my! I was waiting for somebody to ask that question! Come here, my girl.' She sat on his lap as he delivered the explanation with renewed enthusiasm, an explanation that I was only half listening to. And then too soon it was my turn, and I stood there tongue-tied as he went, 'No question? Not curious about anything?' 

I KNOW. It's silly and I wouldn't give it a second thought if something similar happened today. Who cares about who asked the question as long as it was answered? But seeing as how I can't look at that photograph of Postman Pat and myself in a strained smile without remembering this, I know kids can be super-sensitive sometimes.