lives for the war effort, women were asked to donate gold. Baath Party members began going door-to-door in suburban neighborhoods asking women to donate jewelry, and some felt pressured to give away even their wedding rings in the name of supporting our troops. In the Arab world, a woman’s wealth is often displayed in public by her gold. Under Sharia, Islamic law, men inherit twice as much from their parents as women, because they are responsible for paying for household expenses. A woman’s portion of her inheritance, however, is hers alone. As far as I know, my father never asked my mother about her inheritance; that was hers. Along with properties and other assets, when a woman marries, her women relatives and friends slip twenty-four-karat necklaces over her head and rings onto her fingers until, by the end of the evening, she is often adorned with jewels, and these are hers to keep even if the marriage ends in divorce.
When I was twelve, we got an invitation to donate gold at a televised ceremony as I was finishing seventh grade. Mama didn’t like the idea of appearing on television and, in her own way, was shy about such publicity. I suspect the whole concept seemed gauche to her, but participation was not optional, so my parents asked me to go instead. When I arrived, I found women lining up in front of the camera to make their donations. I believe I was the only child. I said my name clearly, as they had, so my family would be given proper credit, and handed over the bag of jewelry my mother had given me so they could weigh it and announce the exact weight on television. I don’t remember how much it was, but the point was that everyone in the country knew exactly how much everyone else gave, so that, even as everyone quietly complained, they wound up competing to see who could donate most. A few months later the president held a private ceremony in which he pinned a silver pin on my lapel as a donor. He talked for a long time, praising or criticizing specific families by name. He knew exactly how much each family had donated. One family had been “stingy,” he said, naming them and adding that they loved their dogs more than their country. Later, I found out that their assets had been confiscated and the couple, childless, was imprisoned.
The summer before I started eighth grade, a huge convoy of black Mercedes and police vehicles roared into the Airlines Neighborhood and parked under the basketball hoop in our cul-de-sac on an otherwise quiet Friday, the Muslim day of rest.
In Baghdad, people often drop by to visit in late afternoons—not between the hours of one and four, because that is a time for meals and naps—but later on, for tea or coffee. It was apparently in that tradition that the president decided to drop in on us for a surprise visit. My parents were playing backgammon at the time, and they jumped up as soon as they heard all the noise outside. It was Radya’s day off, so Mama nervously sent me into the kitchen to make coffee while she and my father answered the door and invited the president into the parlor. I peeked outside as the water was boiling and was overwhelmed at the sheer military power I saw through the grill on the kitchen window. The cul-de-sac was filled with automobiles and men in uniforms and guns and black mustaches.
I got out our special pot for Turkish coffee and set three little gold-embossed cups and saucers on my grandmother’s engraved silver tray from Iran—a political faux pas I would have known better than to commit even a year or two later. I prided myself on knowing how to make Turkish coffee even though I was too young to drink it. I carefully measured every ingredient and made certain to take the coffee off the heat at exactly the right moment so there would be froth on top. No froth meant mediocre coffee and a neglectful hostess.
Then I nervously carried my tray into the parlor. My parents were seated together on the small sofa. Saddam Hussein was
When I was twelve, we got an invitation to donate gold at a televised ceremony as I was finishing seventh grade. Mama didn’t like the idea of appearing on television and, in her own way, was shy about such publicity. I suspect the whole concept seemed gauche to her, but participation was not optional, so my parents asked me to go instead. When I arrived, I found women lining up in front of the camera to make their donations. I believe I was the only child. I said my name clearly, as they had, so my family would be given proper credit, and handed over the bag of jewelry my mother had given me so they could weigh it and announce the exact weight on television. I don’t remember how much it was, but the point was that everyone in the country knew exactly how much everyone else gave, so that, even as everyone quietly complained, they wound up competing to see who could donate most. A few months later the president held a private ceremony in which he pinned a silver pin on my lapel as a donor. He talked for a long time, praising or criticizing specific families by name. He knew exactly how much each family had donated. One family had been “stingy,” he said, naming them and adding that they loved their dogs more than their country. Later, I found out that their assets had been confiscated and the couple, childless, was imprisoned.
The summer before I started eighth grade, a huge convoy of black Mercedes and police vehicles roared into the Airlines Neighborhood and parked under the basketball hoop in our cul-de-sac on an otherwise quiet Friday, the Muslim day of rest.
In Baghdad, people often drop by to visit in late afternoons—not between the hours of one and four, because that is a time for meals and naps—but later on, for tea or coffee. It was apparently in that tradition that the president decided to drop in on us for a surprise visit. My parents were playing backgammon at the time, and they jumped up as soon as they heard all the noise outside. It was Radya’s day off, so Mama nervously sent me into the kitchen to make coffee while she and my father answered the door and invited the president into the parlor. I peeked outside as the water was boiling and was overwhelmed at the sheer military power I saw through the grill on the kitchen window. The cul-de-sac was filled with automobiles and men in uniforms and guns and black mustaches.
I got out our special pot for Turkish coffee and set three little gold-embossed cups and saucers on my grandmother’s engraved silver tray from Iran—a political faux pas I would have known better than to commit even a year or two later. I prided myself on knowing how to make Turkish coffee even though I was too young to drink it. I carefully measured every ingredient and made certain to take the coffee off the heat at exactly the right moment so there would be froth on top. No froth meant mediocre coffee and a neglectful hostess.
Then I nervously carried my tray into the parlor. My parents were seated together on the small sofa. Saddam Hussein was
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