It must have been October or November 1980, when this story took place.
I was grocery shopping with my mother in Shawwaka, an old district in the Center of Baghdad, located by the Tigris side, and known for its beautiful old buildings and big market area. Some of the buildings looked so fragile, that one would wonder how people could live in them, without being afraid that they would collapse by the slightest wind blow. The shops on the side of the market facing the river were mainly fishermen shops, selling either fish or fishing equipment.
Because of the fish smell and the crowded narrow streets, this market was not really a place I liked. I was walking closely to my mother and hoping to go home soon.
Suddenly the sirens went off and an ugly loud black air fighter appeared in the cloudless blue sky. We panicked, just like everyone else on the street. My mother took my hand and moved quickly, trying to find a place to shelter us. In that moment, an older man, who sold fishing equipment, came out of his small shop, and waved to us to get into his shop.
We stood inside. My whole body was shivering while watching and listening to the aircraft booming right in front of us. Soon, the Iraqi air defence started shooting anti-aircraft missiles up to target, the invading air fighter.
The kind old man noticed my fear and tried to distract me by showing me the different types of fishnets. He told me that he was a fisherman and that the fishnets were all hand made by him. His talk drew my attention to the world of fishing and made the war around me seem like a far background sound.
I only looked up again, the moment he stared at the sky, to see the Iranian airplane flying away covered by a dark grey smoke cloud.
Moments later, people started getting back on the streets as if nothing had happened, and the sound of the ending siren mixed with the sound of the ambulance car sirens moving fast to the bombed locations.
The man gave me a piece of a fishnet. My mother thanked him for hosting us and she immediately stopped a taxi to take us home.
Years later, when I read the book “The old man and the sea”, the picture in my mind of the old man, was that of the old fisherman of Shawwaka.