Daughters of Iraq by Revital Shiri-Horowitz

mistake, a big mistake.”
    “Listen,” she said. “I understand, you should go . . . of course, you should. I’ll be fine.”
    “You’re sure?”
    “Yes,” she said, faking a smile.
    “Now can we eat?” Dan asked as he stood.
    “Come, Aba .” She took his hand. “I need you to know that I want you to be happy. But the distance . . . it’s on the other side of the world. I’ll miss you.”
    “I know, my girl, I’ll miss you, too. But maybe it’ll inspire you . . . to breathe different air, see different landscapes, different people. Now it’s my time, and,” he said with a wink. “I don’t have any grandchildren to take care of . . . at least, not yet.”
    “I do understand, Aba . I’m trying not to be selfish.”
    He drew her into his arms. “You know you’ll always be my little bird. You’ll always be in my heart. And if it gets too hard, just hop on the next plane and tour the country with me. It could be really nice. Even the other end of the world is less than a day away.”
    “Okay.”
    “Promise?”
    “Promise.”
    “And about the diary, Noa, I’m still here for a bit. If you want, you can read it here, with me. Maybe it’s good Farida gave you the diary, even if she should have talked to me first. But that doesn’t matter, Noa: Ima wanted you to read it. I think you’re ready. It will be good for you to see your mother from an adult perspective. Ima would be very proud of you if she were here.” He kissed her head. “And another thing, Noa . . . I love you very much.”
    “I love you, too, Aba ,” Noa said. His praise had lifted her spirits.
    “So can we eat? I’m dying.”
    “Don’t die on me . . . and promise me you’ll take care of yourself.”
    “Always.”
    “In that case, let’s eat,” she smiled. “Now tell me, which places are you planning to visit?”
     

Chapter Twelve: Violet
     
    Sunday, January 22, 1987
     
    W hen Eddie turned seventeen, he became active in the Zionist movement, and our house became both a meeting place and an arsenal. We had a secret room under the kitchen floor, where we hid the weapons. After the 1941 pogroms in Baghdad, during which Jews were arbitrarily slaughtered on the street, Iraqi Jews resolved not to be easy prey for the Arabs. If there ever was another pogrom, they decided, they would defend themselves.
    Right before the declaration of the state of Israel, and especially right after, the plight of the Iraqi Jews deteriorated. People were fired from their jobs, and young men couldn’t get into the universities. By the time Jews began to leave, the situation was dire. My parents, along with my brother Anwar and his wife, and Farcha, Habiba, and their husbands, decided to fulfill their dream of living in the holy land and join those who were leaving. There was just one problem: Eddie. When they told him about their plans, he refused to go along; he insisted on staying in Baghdad. As a member of the Resistance, he felt he couldn’t leave his friends behind. My mother and Habiba decided that he couldn’t be left alone in Iraq; someone would have to remain with him. Eddie was nineteen and mature beyond his years. Habiba and my mother were afraid of what might happen. They knew that if the Iraqis captured any Resistance members, they would torture them until they gave up the names of their comrades, and then the Iraqis would hang them all.
    Deciding who would stay behind with Eddie was excruciating, but, of course, it was my mother who decided to make the sacrifice. Eddie was everything to her, and there was no changing her mind. Habiba had small children—her Yosi (called “Yusuf” in Iraq) was only four years old—and Ima declared it was Habiba’s duty to accompany her family. She swore to Habiba that she wouldn’t let him “act out,” and that she would be responsible for his fate. And that’s exactly what happened: we began making preparations for our move to Israel, with the knowledge that Ima and Eddie would remain in