a big boat with a band and we were dancing and laughing the whole night. There was nothing on our minds except having a good time. Suddenly, one of our friends ordered the boat driver to stop by an island known as the Pig’s Island. We thought that we would start a barbecue there and continue our dancing.
But, when we stepped onto the sand, we were surprised to see a young man waiting there to greet us. He was wearing a white outfit. His suit, his shoes, everything was white. He was practically shining under the moonlight. We kept turning around and asking each other. Who is this man? Why is he here? Behind him were two other men who declared that he was Saddam Hussein. Saddam Hussein? Who is Saddam Hussein? We looked around at each other again, but none of us knew him. I was the one who finally asked the question out loud, “And who is Saddam Hussein?” One of the two men behind him answered that he was the vice president of Iraq. But we did not know him because we had no interest in politics.
He started shaking our hands one by one and invited us for drinks that were brought within seconds of his command from boats that had surrounded the island. He had a very charming personality that made an impression on anybody who met him. We end up having a nice time that night. He always makes sure to spend some time with each couple to get to know them on their own and part of his strategy is to start first on couples where the wife is particularly beautiful. He danced with all the blonds in the group. He drank a lot and filled the place with Champagne bottles.
Telephone calls among our friends filled the next day. Everyone was asking about him, who invited him, how he knew about us, what he wanted, etc. It turned out that one of our friends on the boat that night, Mahmood, was his dear friend. Saddam’s arrival at our party was apparently in response to a request he had made to Mahmood: Would you please introduce me to the young elite of society?
4
THE PILOT’S DAUGHTER
MY FATHER WAS THE CAPTAIN of Boeing 747s, then the largest commercial airliners on earth. The jets he flew were enormous shining planes with “IRAQI AIRLINES” written in green and white on the side. When we flew with him when I was little, the flight staff treated me like a princess. I would climb up the spiral staircase to the first-class lounge on the upper floor, and a stewardess would bring me an orange Fanta, and tell me how lucky I was to have a father like Captain Basil. I could see they weren’t just trying to be nice. They liked him, they looked up to him, and I was sure everybody knew he was the best airline pilot in Iraq.
When I was allowed to step inside his cockpit, I was able to glimpse the world as he saw it, and I understood why he felt compelled to leave us so often. Here, high above the earth, the sky itself was round, and it was the color of the inside of a sapphire. There were no streets or boundaries. There was no nationality. We were in a free space between heaven and earth. When I saw Baba’s face as he was flying, I knew this was where he belonged. Surrounded by hundreds of buttons and switches and lights and dials that would terrify most people, he was completely relaxed, master of this incredibly complicated universe. When I heard his voice on the speaker system welcoming passengers aboard, I knew hundreds of people trusted him with their lives.
“I want to be a pilot like you when I grow up, Baba,” I told him once from my small seat behind his copilot.
“Then I’ll have to teach you to fly someday,” he said, and he took off his captain’s hat with all the gold braid, turned around, and put it on my head.
Early in 1982, I began to feel tensions rise again in our home as the background sounds of our household changed. Mama stopped singing, there was no roll of backgammon dice—backgammon was a skill she considered one of the secrets to a happy marriage—and the nervous whispers were back. When Baba and Mama
But, when we stepped onto the sand, we were surprised to see a young man waiting there to greet us. He was wearing a white outfit. His suit, his shoes, everything was white. He was practically shining under the moonlight. We kept turning around and asking each other. Who is this man? Why is he here? Behind him were two other men who declared that he was Saddam Hussein. Saddam Hussein? Who is Saddam Hussein? We looked around at each other again, but none of us knew him. I was the one who finally asked the question out loud, “And who is Saddam Hussein?” One of the two men behind him answered that he was the vice president of Iraq. But we did not know him because we had no interest in politics.
He started shaking our hands one by one and invited us for drinks that were brought within seconds of his command from boats that had surrounded the island. He had a very charming personality that made an impression on anybody who met him. We end up having a nice time that night. He always makes sure to spend some time with each couple to get to know them on their own and part of his strategy is to start first on couples where the wife is particularly beautiful. He danced with all the blonds in the group. He drank a lot and filled the place with Champagne bottles.
Telephone calls among our friends filled the next day. Everyone was asking about him, who invited him, how he knew about us, what he wanted, etc. It turned out that one of our friends on the boat that night, Mahmood, was his dear friend. Saddam’s arrival at our party was apparently in response to a request he had made to Mahmood: Would you please introduce me to the young elite of society?
4
THE PILOT’S DAUGHTER
MY FATHER WAS THE CAPTAIN of Boeing 747s, then the largest commercial airliners on earth. The jets he flew were enormous shining planes with “IRAQI AIRLINES” written in green and white on the side. When we flew with him when I was little, the flight staff treated me like a princess. I would climb up the spiral staircase to the first-class lounge on the upper floor, and a stewardess would bring me an orange Fanta, and tell me how lucky I was to have a father like Captain Basil. I could see they weren’t just trying to be nice. They liked him, they looked up to him, and I was sure everybody knew he was the best airline pilot in Iraq.
When I was allowed to step inside his cockpit, I was able to glimpse the world as he saw it, and I understood why he felt compelled to leave us so often. Here, high above the earth, the sky itself was round, and it was the color of the inside of a sapphire. There were no streets or boundaries. There was no nationality. We were in a free space between heaven and earth. When I saw Baba’s face as he was flying, I knew this was where he belonged. Surrounded by hundreds of buttons and switches and lights and dials that would terrify most people, he was completely relaxed, master of this incredibly complicated universe. When I heard his voice on the speaker system welcoming passengers aboard, I knew hundreds of people trusted him with their lives.
“I want to be a pilot like you when I grow up, Baba,” I told him once from my small seat behind his copilot.
“Then I’ll have to teach you to fly someday,” he said, and he took off his captain’s hat with all the gold braid, turned around, and put it on my head.
Early in 1982, I began to feel tensions rise again in our home as the background sounds of our household changed. Mama stopped singing, there was no roll of backgammon dice—backgammon was a skill she considered one of the secrets to a happy marriage—and the nervous whispers were back. When Baba and Mama
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