Irak Archive - Let me tell you

The Old Man and the Sea

Veröffentlicht am 19. Mai 202220. Mai 2022 von RanaSchreib einen Kommentar

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.

Doppelmoral

Veröffentlicht am 11. September 202114. Oktober 2021 von RanaSchreib einen Kommentar

Vor Gericht steht ein Mann.
„Lebenslang“ lautet sein Urteil.
Sein Foto erscheint in jeder Zeitung.
Die Augen verpixelt. Seine Lippen schmal und verbissen und sein Gesicht ohne einen Ausdruck von Reue.
Die Geschichte vom Mord wird mit jedem grauenhaften Detail beschrieben. Er hat die Tat lange geplant. Er war dem Opfer auf der Lauer, und sah nur noch das Geld, das er so unbedingt wollte und irgendwann schlug er zu. Von Menschen zu Monster.
Nein, er hat keine Gnade verdient. Wer so eine Tat verübt, gehört für immer hinter Gitter.

Die Gerechtigkeit hat gewonnen.

Ein Ex-Politiker. Ein alter Mann. Liebevoll umarmt von Michelle Obama. Ein Künstler.
Mit dem Pinsel in der Hand geht sein Foto um die Welt.
Bush Junior hat seine künstlerische Ader entdeckt und wird von den Medien gefeiert.
So sympathisch ist er geworden, weil er, im Vergleich zum Expräsidenten Trump, doch ein sehr “vernünftiger” Präsident war.
Was die Medien nicht unter dem Bild schreiben:
Seine Taten waren geplant und äußerst brutal. Die Gründe für den Krieg wurden gefälscht. Die Zahl seiner Mordopfer liegt weltweit bei mindestens einer Million Menschen und steigt täglich. Unter den Opfern waren Neugeborene, Babys, Kinder, Schwangere, Jugendliche, Mütter und sogar die Natur.
Wofür? Macht, Öl und das Geld der Waffenindustrie.
Reue zeigt er bis heute keine und vor Gericht wird sich Bush auch nie verantworten müssen.

Gerechtigkeit ist doch eine Lüge.

Amiriyah Bunker

Veröffentlicht am 13. Februar 202113. Februar 2021 von RanaSchreib einen Kommentar

Am 13. Februar 1991, also vor genau 30 Jahren, haben amerikanische Raketen den zivilen Bunker von ِِِِAmiriyah bombardiert und ganz Irak hat geweint.

Obwohl Krieg generell ein Horror ist, stechen manche Gräueltaten aus den Gräueltaten heraus.

Am heutigen Tag vor 30 Jahren haben zwei moderne Laser gesteuerte “smart Bombs” einen Luftschutzbunker, in dem sich mehr als 400 schutzsuchende Menschen aufhielten, zerstört.

Ein “militärischer Erfolg” waren diese hochmodernen Raketen. Eine Freude muss es gewesen sein für das Team, dass diese Technik entwickelt hat. Die erste Rakete durchbohrte die oberen Schutzschichten vom Bunker und machte Platz für die Zweite, die kurze Zeit danach in das vorbereitete Loch eindrang und tief im Inneren des Bunkers explodierte.

Dass 400 Menschen, darunter 200 Frauen und 62 Kinder, das jüngste war 7 Tage alt, qualvoll gestorben sind, ist ja ein Nebenprodukt der Kriegsindustrie, welches Waffenhersteller und Kriegsführer gerne in Kauf nehmen.

Die Bilder aus dem Fernseher und die Schilderungen der Rettungskräfte werde ich nie vergessen. Die Menschen sind nicht nur wie “gewöhnlich” durch die Explosion und die Trümmer gestorben. Der Tod im Schutzpunker geschah schrittweise und langsam. Die erste Bombe löste einen Brand aus und erschütterte den ganzen Bunker, wodurch sich die schweren Schutztüren schlossen und niemand konnte mehr hinaus, oder hinein. Die folgende Rakete zerstörte den Oberbau komplett und das mittlerweile kochende Wasser aus den Tanks und Leitungen floss gnadenlos auf die eingeschlossenen Menschen. Die militärischen “Erfolgsraketen” löschten gesamte Familien aus. Manche Häuser dieser Gegend hatten keine Einwohner mehr. Eine Frau, die zu den Überlebenden gehörte, hatte ihre 8 Kinder im Bunker verloren. Kann man hier wirklich noch von einer Überlebenden sprechen?

Was heute noch zu sehen ist, von diesem abscheulichen Kriegsverbrechen, ist ein Denkmal und ein Museum in Inneren der zerbombten Ruine. Verzweifelte Handabdrücke, die sich durch die extreme Hitze in den Beton eingebrannt haben und viele Fotos erinnern an die Menschen, die statt Schutz den Tod in diesem Bunker gefunden haben. Der gesamte Ort spricht von einem schrecklichen Verbrechen, dessen Täter nie vor Gericht kamen und vielleicht sogar noch als Kriegshelden gefeiert werden.

Mehr über dieses Kriegsverbrechen:
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Amiriyah_shelter_bombing

Danke an die Irak Instagrammerin @tour_alkhatoon für die Fotos 🙂
شكرا جزيلا لتور الخاتون على الصور

Fliegende Monster

Veröffentlicht am 4. August 20204. August 2020 von Rana1 Kommentar

Als ich am 27. Juli 2017 im Büro war und einen lauten, immer näher kommenden Hubschrauberlärm hörte, dachte ich mir: „Es muss ein Rettungshubschrauber sein.“ Aber als der Ton immer lauter wurde und das Bürohaus richtig zu vibrieren begann, eilten wir zum Fenster und sahen die Verursacher. Es waren vier riesige US-Militärhubschrauber.

Obwohl ich wusste, dass es sicher kein Angriff war, ist es mir eiskalt über den Rücken gelaufen und ich spürte dieselbe Angst in mir, die ich bei meiner letzten Begegnung mit so einem Hubschrauber hatte…

Das war im Mai oder im Juni 2003. Bagdad war am 9.April gefallen und die amerikanischen Soldaten haben gemeinsam mit den Alliierten das Land mehr oder weniger „kontrolliert“.

Mein Mann war in der Arbeit und ich war im Haus und spielte mit meinen beiden Kinder, damals 2 und 4, im Kinderzimmer.

Man hörte den ganzen Tag Hubschrauber und Kriegsflieger herumschwirren im Himmel, dass man sich schon fast daran gewöhnt hatte. Aber plötzlich näherte sich ein Hubschrauber so nah an unser Haus heran, dass alles zu beben begann.

Mein Herz raste. Ich habe meinen Sohn aufgehoben und meine Tochter an der Hand genommen und bin auf die Dachterrasse rausgerannt. Der Wind vom Hauptrotor wirbelte unsere Haare auf. Ich schaute rauf und das schwarze Monster-Ding, stand im Flug genau über dem Haus. Die Windschutzscheiben reflektierten die Sonne und blendeten mich, hinten war die Schiebetür halboffen und eine schwere Waffe war auf uns gerichtet. Sie waren so nah, dass ich Augenkontakt hatte mit dem US-Soldat der hinter der Waffe stand.

Meine Knie waren weich, mein Herz raste mir fast aus der Brust. Das einzige was ich machen konnte war auf die Kinder zu deuten und „Children“ zu sagen. Er hörte mich sicher nicht, ich hörte mich selbst nicht, aber das Deuten auf die Kinder hat er wahrgenommen. Er nickte mir zu und der Hubschrauber flog wag.

Ich bin auf die Knie gegangen und habe meine Kinder fest an mich gedrückt. Die beiden waren vom Lärm benommen und haben sich mit aller Kraft schweigend an mich geklammert.

Ich blieb so, bis ich die besorgte Stimme meiner Schwester wahrgenommen habe die nach mir gerufen hat. Sie wohnte gegenüber und rannte zu mir, als sie den Hubschrauber über dem Haus sah.

Was die Soldaten im Hubschrauber suchten oder machen wollten werde ich nie wissen. Was ich aber mit Sicherheit weiß, ich werde immer Panik haben vor diesen fliegenden Kriegsmonstern, egal ob sie in Bagdad irrtümlich über unser Haus kreisen oder versehentlich über Wien fliegen.

*Orf Bericht vom 27.07.2017: https://wien.orf.at/v2/news/stories/2857316/

Der Tag davor

Veröffentlicht am 12. Juli 20202. August 2020 von RanaSchreib einen Kommentar

Bei jeder Gedenkfeier an Opfer einer Massengewalttat, versammeln sich die Menschen und sprechen große Worte, wie dass man nie wieder zusehen dürfe, wie Menschen auf solche Weise ums Leben kommen. „Never again!“, sagen sie. „Handeln statt Wegschauen!“ und andere starke Slogans.
Was sie dabei aber vergessen zu scheinen ist, dass gerade in dem Moment in dem sie gedenken, woanders auf der Welt genau dasselbe passiert. Genau dasselbe wofür sie gerade inne halten.

Diese Gedenkveranstaltungen erinnern mich immer an den 19. März 2003. An diesem Tag habe ich so sehr auf die Welt gehofft. Darauf, dass sie nicht nur zusieht und verurteilt, sondern auch tatsächlich etwas verhindert und eingreift, nämlich den Angriff auf den Irak.

Es war sehr früh am Morgen meine kleinen Kinder haben noch geschlafen. Ich konnte nicht schlafen. Habe Krieg bereits zu gut gekannt, als dass ich trotz der Androhungen ruhig schlafen hätte können. Ich ging auf die Terrasse. Der Himmel war extrem blau mit kleinen, scharf definierten Wolken, meine weißen Rosen haben geblüht und herrlich geduftet. Ich habe in den Himmel geschaut und mit Gott gesprochen: “Gott lass es nicht passieren. Bitte verhindere es. Wir hatten schon zwei Kriege, der Dritte wird unser Untergang sein. Ich will nicht, dass meine Kinder auch Krieg erleben. Bitte mach, dass alle Politiker zur Vernunft kommen. Es ist ein wunderschönes Land, gib uns einmal auch wieder Frieden, bitte!”

Die morgendlichen Sonnenstrahlen fingen an die kalte Frühlingsluft aufzuwärmen und plötzlich hat mich ein gutes Gefühl überkommen. „Es wird nichts passieren“, dachte ich mir, „Die Welt wird es nicht zulassen. Das Land leidet noch an den Folgen der ersten beiden Kriege und des Embargos. Mehr können sie uns nicht antun wollen.“
„Es wird ein Wunder geschehen. Heute wird Saddam abtreten, Bush wird einsehen, dass es keine Massenvernichtungswaffen gibt oder die UNO lädt alle Beteiligten vielleicht erneut zu einer Weiterführung der Gespräche ein.“
„Ja, so muss es sein. Der Himmel bleibt blau, meine Rosen werden weiter blühen und Frieden wird auf uns kommen.“

Wie sehr habe ich mich getäuscht, denn die Welt hat uns, wie auch andere zuvor und danach, im Stich gelassen.
Der Krieg ist gekommen und der Himmel war schwarz und rot, von Rauch und Sand. Meine Rosen sind vertrocknet und das Land, wie ich es kannte, ist gestorben.

Diese traurige Geschichte hat leider kein Ende. In dem Moment in dem ich gerade schreibe gibt es auf der Welt zahlreiche Kriege, Vertreibungen, Völkermorde, Hunger, Not und Gewalt. Und was macht die Welt? Die einen sind Teil der Gewalt und die anderen schauen zu.

The best of both worlds

Veröffentlicht am 4. Dezember 201721. Dezember 2018 von Rana2 Kommentare

In the 1980s, there were a lot of foreigners living and working in Iraq. I’m sure it was just the same back in the 70s and before but I can only tell what I remember and my memories of Iraq start with the beginning of 1980.

Anyway….
Since my Austrian mother worked at the West German School in Baghdad, we knew a lot of people from the German speaking community that included German as well as Austrian and Swiss citizens. I had a lot of friends my age and I loved spending time with them at their european styled company complexes. Hanging out with them just felt like being at my grandparents’ place in Austria. I would spend the whole day playing, speaking German and eating German food and sweets.

As any group of people living abroad they arranged their lifestyle in Baghdad to be as close as possible to the life they were used to back home. For example, they knew where to get good fresh pork meat, or even where to hunt wild pigs, ducks and anything else the Iraqi countryside would offer. Moreover, and because at that time the Iraqi market only offered high quality but very restricted number of goods, some companies spoiled their employees by enabling them to order all kinds of European food once or twice a year. We were lucky enough to take advantage of this offer, when my mother was working for one of those companies. The yummy orders would reach Baghdad in big refrigerated „Bofrost“ trucks.

There even was a lovely German lady pastor working in Baghdad. She held the first and last thanksgiving mass (in German „Erntedankmesse“) I ever attended. In my family we used to celebrate Easter and Christmas in addition to the Islamic feasts but never thanksgiving. Being thankful for the harvest of the year is really something everyone living on fertile ground should do. When the mass started people of different nationalities and religions filled the church. They sat side by side listing to the German prayers that, for sure, a lot of them didn’t understand. At one point the door opened and the little children from the German kindergarten walked in singing while heading to the altar. They carried baskets full of local Iraqi fruit and vegetables crowned with fresh yellow dates. A lovely sight that gave those present goose bumps. At the end of the ceremony, the fruit and vegetables were spread among the people.

My favorite event of the year was definatly the German school’s Christmas market.
The preparations started very early. The first signs of Christmas were the smell of gingerbread that the kindergarten kids baked with a lot of joy and the notes handed out to the parents asking them to collect material for handcrafts. As soon as the school staff had enough material, a month of creative work started. Big boxes would be filled with delicious jars of jam with beautiful toppers, handmade greeting cards, knitted stuff, macramé work, Christmas cookies, cakes and almost everything one can find on a traditional Christmas market in Europe.

When the wooden stalls, decorated with colored crepe paper, were set up in the school yard and filled with all the beautiful things, the Christmas bells rang and the fun began. Soon the place was full of people talking, eating, buying stuff and enjoying the European Christmas atmosphere in the middle of Baghdad. The highlight of the evening was the announcement of the tombola winners, where the first price usually was a flight for two, sponsored by Lufthansa.

The last German Christmas market in Baghdad must have been in the winter of 1989. When all the foreigners left the country, after the invasion of Kuwait by the Iraqi troupes on the 2nd of August 1990, and the bells rang announcing a new era. An era of embargo, war and slow downfall.

It was the combination of cultural events, friendships with locals, gatherings and even love stories that made life in that very different country more than just bearable for the foreign communities. Most of them truly loved living in Iraq and appreciate that the country (in spite of the ongoing war with Iran at that time) was stable, had a strong economy, the citizens were extremely foreigner-friendly and it offered endless interesting historical and natural locations to visite. I miss those times, when I had the best of both worlds on one spot.

I’m not saying, Iraq was perfect then but it was good and had the potential to change towards the better. Sadly the modern history of Iraq showed that things can rapedly change from good to bad and that whenever we say: „It definitely can’t get worse!“ Destiny replies by saying: „Yes, it can.“

Baghdad Equestrian Club

Veröffentlicht am 30. Juni 201610. November 2016 von RanaSchreib einen Kommentar

Between 1985 and 2003, I lived with my family in Al-Mansour district in Baghdad, near the equestrian club or the „Races“ as everybody used to call it. The club was built in the 1920’s at the time when Iraq was under the British Administration. Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays were horse racing days. On these days the area was full of all kinds of people. If you are now thinking of a horse race like those in England, then I have to disappoint you. The horse races in Baghdad were nothing like that. At least not in my time. No dress code, no high society and not a single woman.
When I came home from school, the school bus dropped me in front of the main door of the races. I didn’t like those days because many gamblers were upset after the race, and sometimes they even started a fight, so my strategy was to look down to the ground, cross the street and run home as fast as I could. But this was not always helpful.
One day I missed the school bus and I was walking along the street on the opposite side of the races. I saw a man in a dishdasha (Arab garment) heading towards a young man in jeans and asking him „Where is my money?“. From his angry voice I sensed that this will escalate, so I started to walk faster. The young man answered „I had bad luck today. Give me another week.“ They started shouting to each other and I didn’t understand what they were saying anymore. Suddenly the dishdasha clad man took out a gun. I didn’t even know that it was possible to carry a gun in a dishdasha’s pocket, but it seems it was. In that same moment a policeman standing close by took out his gun and shouted as loud as he could: „stand where you are and don’t move.“ To that time I was running but when he cried out: „don’t move,“ everybody on the street stopped for a second, including me. I didn’t look back as I ran into our side street and into our garden. I stayed for a minute in the garden to hear if there were shots but there was nothing, and my legs were shivering so I went into the house.
The second time I saw a fight near the races was without guns but one of the men fighting took a cola bottle and smashed it on the wall and ran after the other one. This time a lot of people gathered and separated the two fighting men from each other. I will never forget the smashed bottle with its sharp edges. It was even scarier than the gun. Thanks God moral courage was common in Baghdad and it was very usual that strangers interfere when two argued in public to stop the fight. I always admired that.

I didn’t like the idea of being among audience of the races but I wished to be able to go and watch the race. Sometimes, on Fridays, I went up on our roof and watched it from there. I could hear the commentator, and I knew the horses were coming when the sand cloud arrived. I think what I managed to see was end line. It was hard to see the horses, but I could make out their heads and I saw the jockeys in their colorful outfits. When the race ended the audience mass mixed with the horses and the jockeys and they ended up in a big human, horse and sand mass.

Sometime in the nineties a new racing arena was built in the suburbs of Baghdad and the races in Al-Mansour was closed. I don’t think anyone missed the racing days in our district.
In 1999 a project for building a giant mosque in place of the races was started. This giant construction stands unfinished till today. Sometimes when I feel homesick, I visit my Baghdad through Google Earth. The giant construction makes it easy find my home on the map. The view of this unfinished structure is just like a symbol for the Iraq I left: one giant unfinished project that is slowly falling into pieces.

Reading and Writing

Veröffentlicht am 24. Mai 201619. Februar 2021 von RanaSchreib einen Kommentar

Sometimes a certain situation brings back a memory you didn’t even know that it still existed in the depths of your mind.
This is what happened to me a few days ago, when my daughter asked me about adult education in Iraq, a program in the seventies for the eradication of illiteracy, she read about. She told me that the program reduced female illiteracy in Iraq from 70% to 30% within just a few years.
Wow, the last time I read, heard or thought about the campaign to eradicate illiteracy in Iraq must have been about 30 years ago. I didn’t really know that it was such a big success. Talking with my daughter about it brought back a memory of my time in the kindergarten in Baghdad. And after so many years, the purpose of one of my favorite activities in kindergarten was clear for me.
When I was 5 going to 6, I visited Al-Mansour al-Tasisia kindergarten in Baghdad. Part of our kg program was playing short sketches in class. I loved getting dressed up and I wanted so much to get the chance to wear these miniature traditional Iraqi clothes. The white dress and head cover (dishdasha and yashmagh) for the men or the black body cover (abaya) for the women. Unfortunately I never got to play the role of an adult. In the two times I participated, I played the daughter and this role didn’t need a custom. Anyway, the teacher used to pick five or four of us and train them on the role, while the rest of the children drew or played. Then they started to act and we all watched.
I remember two stories that we played, the first was about illiteracy and the second was about children vaccinations.
This is the one we played about illiteracy:
An illiterate woman, wearing the black abaya, is sitting at home while her husband is at work and her child is at school. The bell rings and she opens the door. The postman gives her an envelope and leaves. She opens the envelope to find a paper with red text written on it. She starts to talk to herself: „Oh my God. Something bad must have happened. Why is the text in red? It must be something really bad.“ She holds the paper, looking at the red letters and starts crying. „Oh, God help me. I hope my child and my husband are safe. Why is it red? Maybe my husband had an accident at work. Maybe he is in the hospital.“
For those of us who were watching the play, this was the funniest part. We laughed with tears, looking at her holding the paper and crying.
Then her daughter or son (depending on the actor) comes home from school and finds her/his mother crying and shouting: „What happened? Oh my God, what happened?“
She/he takes the paper and reads: „Electricity bill for December 1979“
The mother stops crying and looks embarrassed. In that moment the father comes home and the daughter/son tells him what happened. The father turns to his wife and tells her: „You see my wife, reading is important to everyone. Not only for those who work. I will take you tomorrow to register you in the literacy center.“
The wife replies: „Yes, I must go to school and learn how to read. Reading and writing is very important and I don’t want to cry again because of an electricity bill.“
The daughter/son gets very excited and says: „My mother will go to school and learn, just like me.“
When the play ended and we clapped for the cast, the teacher started questioning around: „Who has someone illiterate in his family?“
Then she would ask those who raised their hands, who the illiterate person they knew was. Some said it was their mother or father but mostly it was their grandmother. The teacher then told them to go home and tell their parents or grandparents to register at one of the literacy centers, “because reading and writing is very important for everyone.”
I was always sad because we had no illiterate person in our family so I couldn’t raise my hand nor get the mission to tell someone in my family to go to the literacy center.

Girls‘ Day Out

Veröffentlicht am 21. April 201610. November 2016 von RanaSchreib einen Kommentar

It was the 2nd of August 1990 when the Iraqi troops walked into Kuwait. In my opinion one of the biggest mistakes in modern history; but I don’t want to talk about politics now. What happened, happened and we all had to pay and are still paying the price for that and a lot of other mistakes made by politicians all over the world.
Anyway after that day, things started to change dramatically in Iraq. After the first reaction of the international community that said: It is an internal Arabic matter in which it will not interfere, it was soon clear that if Iraq would not withdraw immediately from Kuwait, a big war was about to happen. As a result, the Iraqi government tried every possible way to keep the occupation of Kuwait and keep the war away. One of this ways was sending the people to the streets to protest against the upcoming war. On television the protests were called: „self-organized spontaneous protests“. In reality, schools and government departments were instructed to send their students and employees to the streets to protest.
While the employees and teachers were not happy at all, having to walk for hours shouting slogans in the street, for us, students, anything other than school, homework and exams was most welcome.
We protested almost everywhere: in front of the American, British, French and Saudi Arabian embassies. I was 15 then and attending the Baghdad high school for girls. A day out for us girls was like a fun school trip. The first row was shouting slogans like: „down, down Bush. Long live Saddam.“ and „Bush, Bush! Listen well. We all love Saddam Hussein.“ and so on, while the back rows were busy talking, making fun of everything and everybody and gossiping. I was usually in the back, talking and laughing while moving with the crowd.
One day, I think it was the last time we went on a demonstration before the war broke out, we were walking in Haifa Street, heading to the British embassy. The street was filled with thousands of people shouting and holding Iraqi flags and slogans. My friends and I, a group of seven girls, were walking as usual at the end of our school group talking and talking when we suddenly noticed that we were not walking with our school anymore. We tried to find our teacher or anybody of our school but we couldn’t find anyone. After running from one group to the other, we finally realized that our school went back with the bus that had brought us in the morning and left us behind. They forgot us! Going back on feet would have taken us at least one and half hour and we had no money with us to take a taxi.
We went to a police officer who was standing there to control the street blockades. We tried to explain what happened. We were all talking at the same time, that it was hard for him to follow our story. He took a deep breath and then shouted: „stop talking, all of you.“ We all shut up. Then he added „who is the class representative?“ Fortunately, my friend was our class representative, so she stepped forward and told him the story. He said „fine I’ll stop a minibus for you. The driver will take you to school free of charge.“ We all said: „But we can’t go with a stranger. What if he kidnapped us?“ First he laughed but then he noticed that we were serious. He told us: „You are seven girls, how can a single man kidnap you? If you start talking, he would immediately throw you out of the car.“ Still we had the warnings of our parents in mind and didn’t want to take the risk. The policemen then said: „don’t worry. I’ll make sure he will take you to school safely.“ He stopped a minibus and told the driver to take us to our school. Then he took the driving license from the driver, wrote a note on a ticket and gave it to my friend, the class representative. He said: „When you arrive at school give this paper to the driver and he can come back to pick up his license.“
At first, the driver looked a little bit surprised and he was not happy to give away his driving license, but then he took it easy. After all we were children between 14 and 15years. On the way back to school he was joking and saying that he shares the opinion of the police officer: „Why would anyone want to kidnap a bunch of loud-talking, crazy girls.“
We got back to school and gave him the paper. We were missing for more than an hour and thought our teachers and colleagues would be looking for us, but when we arrived, the bell announcing the end of the school day was ringing and everyone was leaving. We took our bags from the classroom and left the school building.
No one noticed that we were missing.

Heart Shaped Pendant

Veröffentlicht am 10. Dezember 201512. November 2016 von RanaSchreib einen Kommentar

Today in my office, I was looking at the heart shaped ceramic pendant with an engraved „R“ hanging from my table lamp. It was 7:30 in the morning and I was still alone. I went to open the window and the ice cold December breeze came in. Looking down at Vienna from the 10th floor, I went back in my mind to Baghdad in the middle of the 80s.
Itihad was the name of the shop I bought that lovely heart from. A unique shop and atelier in a side street of Al-Mansoor main road. The front was shaped like a red eye of an alien or a webcam. A modern design ahead of its time. The owner was the sculptor and artist Itihad Kareem. The shop was our number one destination for buying gifts. He had all kinds of traditional ceramic in modern designs beside his art collection of sculptures. I loved the pendants with letters or star signs on them. I’m sure I gave all my friends one of those pendants as a birthday present.
The sculptures were wonderful but for me, a school girl at that time, unaffordable. I didn’t even think of going near them. I just looked from a distance, far enough to make sure I can’t break anything.
The most expensive piece I bought with my sister was a Christmas gift for my mother. A table lamp stand for a batik shade she got from her friend.
I sat back at my computer; I was still alone and had 5 minutes to Google Itihad Kareem. I wanted to find a picture of him or his shop, but unfortunately the only thing I found in the net, was an article reporting his death.
I hardly remember his face. I only remember the atmosphere of warmth and peace in his atelier and his low but clear voice.
He didn’t live to be very old and I don’t think he really got the fame he deserved as an artist and sculpture.
He lived in the future. Unfortunately, Iraq has still not caught up with the time he lived in. Instead, the country today is farther away from that future than it was in the early 80s.