S H I M O N B A L L A S
_________________________________from OUTCAST
As the years went by and separation from Jane became a fact, I grew used to living on my own, leaving the house early and coming back at night. Sha'aban prepared a light breakfast for me every morning, and I took my other meals out. The big house, remodeled to provide Jane and Jamil with the maximum of comfort, drove me away in its emptiness. I spent my evenings reading or writing an article for one paper or another. I created a new image for myself that wasn't much to be proud of, that of a commentator, quickly read and just as quickly forgotten. Being a civil servant I was kept from writing articles with political content; newspaper editors asked me to write memoirs about my years of study in America or give them translations and digests of articles from the English papers that I regularly got, anything that might pique their readers' interest. My tendency at first was to reject these offers — I wasn't a journalist, and I wasn't drawn to this kind of writing. But the empty hours of night and the urge to do something outside the work routine made me take up the pen and darken many pages without even a word of my own.
Reviewing articles and books was most in demand because in those days the Iraqi press drew its information solely from the wire services, mainly Reuters, and broadcast news. There were no foreign correspondents and editors needed up to date summaries on world events. There were few journalists with a command of English, and those who had it were, for the most part, Jews or Christians. Over time I found myself producing more and more commentary on political and social events in the world, commentary that lacked any personal dimension, objective writing so to speak, that quoted sources and took no stand. This was easy to do but never gratifying, although it won me many compliments. Readers were thirsty for anything that could open new horizons to them, bring them in closer touch with foreign worlds.
I am not very communicative to begin with and, under such circumstances, my natural tendency towards seclusion grew. My views were close to the moderate nationalist school of thought, represented by al-Chadarchi's party, but I refrained from any binding ties with the party, and tried to be as prudent as possible with the followers of Germany. The German Embassy was extremely active; it provided the press with ample material about German achievements in education and industry, held weekly screenings of films, lectures, and meetings with the Ambassador or guests he invited. I attended these events every now and then and tried to leave a good impression on every influential personality, no matter how crazy his views were. I had the uneasy feeling that, wherever I went, at the German Embassy or anywhere else, I must have been an object of infinite curiosity and suspicion. Jews did not come to the Embassy, and a good number of politicians and public figures stayed away from it. I recall one event that provoked numerous reactions in the press and almost brought about a diplomatic crisis. Ambassador Von Grobe imported a film about Hitler and all the Jewish-owned movie theaters refused to screen it. Al-Yaqda published a strong editorial and demanded that the government take steps against owners who prevent the ambassador of a friendly power from screening a movie. But the government chose to stay out of it, especially so as not to arouse the anger of the British Ambassador. Finally, the Ambassador was forced to show the film at the Embassy, to selected guests. I was invited, and watched a movie about a man who was a painter, loved children, and gave fiery speeches. On the way home I told Kazem that this man was scary. “That's what the Jews say,” he answered curtly. I was annoyed to hear this from him, although I was sure it wasn't meant in irony.
I was so envious of Qassem, confident to the point where he didn't care about pleasing anyone. I reminded him once of the celebration of the Hindiyah dam, and the words that had left such a deep mark in my consciousness. He couldn't remember the conversation, and shrugged his shoulders. Indeed, he said what any boy like him might have said, anyone who aspired never to be enslaved into working the land. The son of a peasant, of one origin and one identity, not a hybrid like me. How I envied him!
The empty house weighed heavier upon me. Sha'aban was the only company I had, and he too suffered from loneliness. He would take long walks in the neighborhood and became stricter in his religious observance. He went to the mosque twice a day for prayers, prayed again at home, and every once in a while made a pilgrimage to the tombs of the saints. I observed this transformation with concern, and out of fondness and support began to join him for morning prayers. On the days of ‘Ashura he'd join the processions of mourning and stay away from home all day. Once, I think it was in 1938, he came back all bruised, his chest bleeding. I was shocked at the sight and wanted to take him to a doctor but he stubbornly refused and retired to his room. After that incident I decided I had to do something to save him from this loneliness before it drove him insane. I proposed that he move his family in but he turned me down and said his wife wouldn't care to be away from her family, and that he had gotten used to visiting his own home once a month and on the holidays. Only after I used the imperative and told him his family would not be in my way, and and that it would actually please me, for I too was burdened by the house being deserted, only then did he go to the village and come back with his wife and four toddlers. They took the two rooms on the ground floor, and the house was filled with life and the smell of cooking. Since then he began to skip prayers during the day and only kept up with the dawn prayer. My days changed too, since his wife encouraged me to eat her cooking and I stopped having my dinner and, most of the time, my friday lunch out. The oven outside in the yard, which had stood cold for years, emitted the aroma of bread again now that Fatma baked daily. On Friday she'd bake an ‘arug stuffed with meat and onion and, on holidays, with help from the neighbors, she'd make klayche and other delectable pastries. The yard was alive all day: regular days were assigned for the washing, other days for sweeping the floors, beating the dust out of the carpets, heating the wash room. The change of seasons was marked by the days of squeezing tomatoes, to make a concentrate for winter, the days of date-honey preparation, drying okra and peppers on the roof, and storing provisions.
So the years went by, and the absence of Jamil and Jane became a desperate longing, a faraway dream shrouded in another era. Jane would send me Jamil's photographs, especially from his birthday parties, with which I decorated the wall next to my desk. Fatma admired every new photo she saw of Jamil. She didn't care for Jane, and never asked about her but, one day, after placing a tray on the dining table, she remained standing and looked at me. “Don't laugh at me,” she said apologetically, “but you are dearer to me than a brother — take this and send it to her.” She handed me a small bundle, about the size of a nut, and asked me to send it to my wife to hide in the folds of her dress. That would cleanse her heart of the Devil's delusions and with the help of god, she'd come back to me. I thanked her and promised to do as she said. I did not want to disappoint her.
In April, 1939, Iraq was in turmoil again. King Ghazi lost his life in a car accident. The car he was driving crashed into a telephone pole and by the time the bloodied body was pulled out of the wreck his spirit had departed. It was the tragic end of a licentious king whose debauchery was the talk of the town. Unlike his father, known for his integrity and Spartan habits, Ghazi was a womanizer, drank a lot, and was addicted to horse races and wild driving. So death found him, intoxicated, racing his car. And yet there were rumors that the accident was staged, that he was murdered by his opponents and then put in a car that was crashed into the telephone pole. These rumors were later confirmed by people close to the court who said the murder was coordinated with the British, happy to get rid of him for his support of the pro-Germans. His death was a blow to the pro-Germans, and government policy aligned itself with British dictates. Heavy clouds were gathering over Europe at the time, the Second World War was at the gate, and in September of that year Hitler attacked Poland.
The days of mourning for Ghazi were a time of mass processions on al-Rashid Street. On the day of the funeral many delegations arrived from all parts of the kingdom to pay respect to the late king. The offices of the municipality became a gathering place from where delegations of mourners left for the palace. I also marched with municipal workers, among the flag bearers and wailers in a procession resembling those of the ‘ Ashura . I remember the wailing chanted by thousands of mouths to the beat of blows on exposed chests: “Ghazi is dead and the enemies rejoice, God save Faisal the Second!” The procession stopped for a while near the bridge, and I withdrew to the sidewalk and observed the rest from there. I saw As'ad marching in the first line of the Jewish community representatives. His face was sealed, and he looked as if he just happened to find himself amidst the frenzy. We rarely met in those days, but the break had not yet taken place.
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