Daughters of Iraq by Revital Shiri-Horowitz Page A

Iraq. Farida and I, the oldest of the children, knew what Eddie was doing, and we understood the risks involved. Would we ever see Eddie and Ima again? We had no idea.
    When Aba told us about the trip to Israel, Farida burst into tears. She knew Eddie wouldn’t be joining us, and that Ima would stay with him. I worried, too, but in other ways I was glad. I was ready for change, for adventure, for something different; I was tired of living in the Jewish ghetto.
    We sold what we could. It was forbidden for Jews to take cash out of Iraq, and we weren’t about to take any chances. We left most of the money with Ima and Eddie. And we still had our house, a huge home with only two people living in it. I insisted on taking my dolls. I was almost nineteen, but I couldn’t leave them behind. I’d made them myself, and over the years I’d added new clothes and accessories. They were their own miniature world. Aba refused to take the whole collection; he allowed each child to take one thing, no more. I picked Fahima, my oldest and most beloved doll, and I still have her to this day, although she is now in tatters. I can’t dispose of her. She is the thread that connects me to my childhood, to my home in Iraq, to the Chidekel River, the palm trees, the desert heat, the aromas . . .
    At the airport, I collapsed into Ima ’s arms. I couldn’t let go. We both cried, and she promised that she and Eddie would join us as soon as they could. She begged me not to worry. She kissed me through tears and said to take care of Aba , never imagining she and Eddie would be trapped in Iraq for over a year.
    We wore our best clothes when we climbed into the giant silver bird. We flew to Cyprus, switched planes, and continued to the holy land. When the strange, oversized plane landed, we walked down the ramp and looked around. The heat was the same, just wetter, stickier. I looked for Aba but couldn’t find him. Then I heard sobbing. There he was, kneeling, kissing the ground and weeping. “ Aba , why are you crying?” I asked. I was afraid something had happened to him; maybe he had fallen. But all he said, in a trembling voice, was “ Shehechiyanu v’kimanu v’higianu lazman hazeh, amen .”He was reciting the shehechiyanu blessing, thanking God for allowing us to live to see this day. I was a young girl, full of life, and I practically burst out laughing. Then Aba said: “You have no idea how I have prayed for this day, how I have waited for it, dreamt about it, just like my father, and his father, and his grandfather. One generation after another. And I’m the fortunate one. The day has finally arrived, may God’s name be blessed.”
    I didn’t understand. Today, many years after that moment, many years since Aba has passed on, I know what he meant. He never thought he’d live to see that day, to touch the land his father, grandfather, and grandfather’s grandfather had wished and prayed for. And here he was, the first in all those generations privileged to move to the Promised Land.
     

Chapter Thirteen: Farida
     
    F arida woke in a good mood. She stretched her legs luxuriously, heaved herself up, and walked over to the closet. It was filled with dresses, some of which she hadn’t worn in thirty years, others she’d never worn at all. One of them, a shabby red dress, had been her favorite. Although it didn’t exactly flatter the lines of her body, Farida pulled it over her head and examined herself in the mirror. She applied red lipstick, which only emphasized the gap between what she wanted to see and what she did see in the mirror. She slipped on walking shoes, left the house, and headed toward the bus stop. On the way, she encountered Dora, her Romanian neighbor from down the hill, and wished her a good morning.
    Dora bombarded Farida with a stream of polite questions. “Good morning to you, too, Farida, how are you? The children? The grandchildren?”
    The two of them chatted as usual, Dora complaining about her husband