I miss Jiranna Om Mhammad.. I miss her kind face and spontaneous smile and warm Malgha .. she used to raise her hands to the sky whenever she sees me and say her sweet kind prayer (Nasron mena Allah w Fathon Qareeb) .. she always gave me a feeling of serenity .. everything is ok.. it will be ok..
El Jiran were actually Ahal back then .. back there.. in our Life in Baghdad..
In my dictionary, Jiran ARE Ahal.. in my New Dictionary, Jiran ARE Neighbors.. that’s it.. full stop..
I loved all our Jiran in our street back then, but mostly, the closest to my heart, a lady much older than myself, who lived in the house next door, a very narrow alley separated our back doors, which we used usually so as not to go through the front street, it was like our secret alley.. I would call her when its afternoon, and after brief hello, I would ask : Wahdech - alone? And she would say : Yalla, come on over (I would make sure she was alone when I have some personal matter to chat about with her) , and at once, I would change my clothes quickly, run to the kitchen, make my favorite Dallat el Ghahwa with lots of Hel in it, and leave quickly through the back kitchen door, cross the narrow space between us and a few stairs, and there I was inside her welcoming house.. she would be ready with Fanajeen and at once the coffee is poured (so as not to waste any time) and we start chatting.. I miss those back door sneaking days.. I miss my friend – jiran.. we would spend hours chatting unaware, till the phone rings, it would be my mom, reminding us of the time , and suggesting why not I simply (Abat) as its almost bed time..
I never found any other replacement for – R - .. not ever..
Jiran were the Great blessing Allah has sent us to go through many hard times, many wars.. who would make life sound normal, feels normal, under bombs and war sirens and long hour darkness, who but our Jiran??
Now, my next door neighbor , is a lady whom i see her going up or down the stairs, as we have different working hours.. not only do we not visit, she made it quite clear that she has no desire what so ever to get acquainted.. when I run into her on the stairs, she keeps her eyes on the floor trying to avoid any eye contact.. in the beginning I used to feel bad about this .. and try to figure out why does she act in this way.. now I stopped .. I don’t want anything to do with her..
Back home in Baghdadna, when a new Jiran comes to the street, the other families in the street would make them feel welcome buy offering any required help.. sending a nice home made desert ..etc..
My aunt who lived in Ghurba for over 30 yrs tells me, she had the same neighbor for over 10 years .. and they would stand waiting for the elevator together and she wouldn’t say even hello.. she would look straight ahead..
A friend of mine, a doctor, tells me she lived in the same building for years, and had the same neighbor right next door, and when they once took the elevator together, she turned to her with wondering eyes (on which floor do u live?) ..
What are they made of these people ? I simply cant understand ..
Was it the nature of ppl back there in Baghdad? Or was it just a different era? I don’t know..
I hardly see such people her in Ghurba anymore.. in fact almost none..none like dear Om Mohammad, none like my dear R..
Before, Jiran made me feel home..
Now Jiran – sorry, Neighbors make me feel in Ghurba more than anything else.. The icy nature I could never understand.. nor the cold eyes..
Maybe im addicted to Baghdad sun.. with its boiling temperature, it used to warm our sky back then, and our hearts ..
And thats what I shall never find elsewhere.. Ever..
Monday, July 30, 2007
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
Number 42..
We were in the mid of our studying years..
The trip to my college I used to take alone by myself.. I first take a rather long walk to the bus stop, and stand waiting there.. many of students in university used the Bas at the time..yes it was crowded, yes it was late, but it was there for us, and it was Fun..
On the way back home, I would share the ride with my best friend at the time.. we would walk to Bab el Moadhdham, and stand waiting in the crowds (there was always crowds, never a queue !!).. we never minded the dusty, dirty pavement.. we never minded the strange mixture of humans.. we would stand chatting on and on, waiting for our Bas to appear .. number 42 that was..
And so our awaited number 42 arrives finally .. and my friend and I , both short sighted, would try to approach the front to read the bus number and make sure it’s the One..if we were lucky (and, fast enough) , we would finish our checking to get on the Bas just before the crowds block the front Bas door.. if we hesitated for a minute , we would be blocked from the door, and so we suddenly find ourselves standing last in line ..
Once on the Bas, we would pay for the ticket happily and climb the short stairs quickly to the 2nd deck (yeees Abo Tabiqen our Bas was..).. we always loved that.. we would then pick 2 seats in the middle and sit with our books and files in our laps.. preparing for a Looong ride .. feeling so happy and content .. waiting for the Bas to move..looking down through the window at the people still crowding in the bus stop..
The ride starts, and so does our long chat.. endless chat.. we were best friends..and also students in the same department.. so the topics are endless..
How many times did we take a Vow to visit Al –Mathaf el- Baghdadi?? As many as our rides back home.. how many times did we laugh at the funny names of the shabby hotels? (Qamar el Karkh) is a name I don’t forget.. and the Bas would crawwwwl in its slow pace , people get off, people get on.. and we never took notice of the time passing.. we would be so deep in conversation , we hardly notice anyone else.. It was such lovely times..
As my stop gets closer, I say a quick bi to my friend, and climb down the stairs to b in time in front of the back door .. u never needed to press the half broken buzzer to attract the driver's attention.. ev body downstairs would start shouting at him (Nazel Nazel).. he then would stop the Bas and open the door..
And another studying day has passed..
My friend and I kept in touch for a long time after I left Baghdad.. but were cut off after the war and the disconnected phone lines ..
About a year ago someone sent me her mobile number, she was still in Iraq.. I wrote only one line in my first text msg. to her, didn’t even write my name : Bas 42 yesallem alech.. and the reply was So quick, So happy .. and So full of old friendly warmth..
Bas 42 held so many of our beautiful memories in Baghdadna.. it witnessed a big part of our dreams, and happy, better times..
To my dear friend (N) .. in memory of our shared rides together on the Bas Abo Tabiqen..
The trip to my college I used to take alone by myself.. I first take a rather long walk to the bus stop, and stand waiting there.. many of students in university used the Bas at the time..yes it was crowded, yes it was late, but it was there for us, and it was Fun..
On the way back home, I would share the ride with my best friend at the time.. we would walk to Bab el Moadhdham, and stand waiting in the crowds (there was always crowds, never a queue !!).. we never minded the dusty, dirty pavement.. we never minded the strange mixture of humans.. we would stand chatting on and on, waiting for our Bas to appear .. number 42 that was..
And so our awaited number 42 arrives finally .. and my friend and I , both short sighted, would try to approach the front to read the bus number and make sure it’s the One..if we were lucky (and, fast enough) , we would finish our checking to get on the Bas just before the crowds block the front Bas door.. if we hesitated for a minute , we would be blocked from the door, and so we suddenly find ourselves standing last in line ..
Once on the Bas, we would pay for the ticket happily and climb the short stairs quickly to the 2nd deck (yeees Abo Tabiqen our Bas was..).. we always loved that.. we would then pick 2 seats in the middle and sit with our books and files in our laps.. preparing for a Looong ride .. feeling so happy and content .. waiting for the Bas to move..looking down through the window at the people still crowding in the bus stop..
The ride starts, and so does our long chat.. endless chat.. we were best friends..and also students in the same department.. so the topics are endless..
How many times did we take a Vow to visit Al –Mathaf el- Baghdadi?? As many as our rides back home.. how many times did we laugh at the funny names of the shabby hotels? (Qamar el Karkh) is a name I don’t forget.. and the Bas would crawwwwl in its slow pace , people get off, people get on.. and we never took notice of the time passing.. we would be so deep in conversation , we hardly notice anyone else.. It was such lovely times..
As my stop gets closer, I say a quick bi to my friend, and climb down the stairs to b in time in front of the back door .. u never needed to press the half broken buzzer to attract the driver's attention.. ev body downstairs would start shouting at him (Nazel Nazel).. he then would stop the Bas and open the door..
And another studying day has passed..
My friend and I kept in touch for a long time after I left Baghdad.. but were cut off after the war and the disconnected phone lines ..
About a year ago someone sent me her mobile number, she was still in Iraq.. I wrote only one line in my first text msg. to her, didn’t even write my name : Bas 42 yesallem alech.. and the reply was So quick, So happy .. and So full of old friendly warmth..
Bas 42 held so many of our beautiful memories in Baghdadna.. it witnessed a big part of our dreams, and happy, better times..
To my dear friend (N) .. in memory of our shared rides together on the Bas Abo Tabiqen..
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