by Julie Whitlow
Mosul,
Tikrit, Fallujah, Baghdad, Ramadi—the names roll off of my tongue for no other
reason than these were flashpoints of the second Iraq war—an ongoing conflict
based on centuries of the banging drums of distrust beating out war marches against
enemies, perhaps imagined, perhaps real. Soldiers draped in the flag of my
country had officially been killing or being killed by Iraqis for eleven years when
eight scholars from the warzone arrived at my university in Salem, Massachusetts,
a town chastised for its long-ago intolerance and famed for reversing course. The
scholars were on a mission of understanding and shared learning, and my small role
was as volunteer mentor to one of the female scholars whom I will call Jameela.
Because we were not allowed to take their pictures or publish their names due
to potential threats against their lives by those who saw their trip to the US
as traitorous, she needs to remain anonymous. When a story and photo about the
group published in our neighboring town’s paper—the Marblehead Reporter—prompted a call from the State Department, it
was clear that the fear of repercussion was real.
Jameela
and I had weekly conversations about language and writing in Arabic and
English. The scholars spent weekends on cultural excursions and experienced
Boston’s Freedom Trail, the Museum of Fine Arts, and MIT. They seemed eager and
at ease, despite devastating news from home about beheadings by ISIS and
bombings in Baghdad. As time went on, the distrust within the group became
visible, an offshoot of the ancient tribal factions that each represented: Sunni,
Shia, Arab, Kurd, male, female. Reasons that lead to persecution, violence, and
human discord became reduced to small, sobering distinctions and the awareness
that, despite everything that makes us similar, it is the atomic alignment of
culture and history that grow into deep insurmountable divisions. Via my
encounters with Jameela, frustrating distinctions seemed obvious only through mundane
interactions.
Toward
the end of her stay, I decided that a good host should invite Jameela over,
perhaps for a meal, a breaking of bread between new friends as an idealistic
handshake of peace. However, my doubts about the likelihood of being able to
prepare a meal that would meet the halal
code that dictates the foods permissible for Muslims impair my ability to cook.
Jameela had expressed an interest in having some local fish and I mentioned
lobster as an interesting regional delicacy. Jameela agreed and reasoned that
since lobsters had shells they were probably an acceptable meal. The night
before our luncheon, though, Jameela emailed that she actually couldn’t eat a lobster
because of the chance that it wouldn’t be killed humanely. Jameela assured me
that fish would be okay, depending on its size, scales, and spine. It became
clear that a restaurant lunch would be more prudent than a meal at home.
I
guessed that a restaurant called Finz
would likely serve enough varieties of fish options for Jameela to eat. In
order to get in the home visit, I would then bring her over for coffee. So, I
picked her up at the campus residence hall and we proceed to Finz.
I
was used to most of the female scholars wearing a hijab, the fabric folded over the head, fastened under the
chin, and covered by a longer scarf. This day was particularly warm and humid but,
as our outing was not routine, Jameela wore additional beautiful brocaded
layers of over-garments woven with golden thread and extending almost to the
floor. I was touched that she thought of our outing as so special but felt bad
that she was sweltering in the summer heat. As we walked from the parking area,
droplets lined her smooth forehead and upper lip and she revealed her shock
over the girls on the street in shorts and tank tops. How can they walk around with no clothes?
At Finz, I cringed as we were shown through the bar to reach our table near the water. I
tried to ignore the barstools and glistening bottles of liquor packing the
shelves, wondering if Jameela realized that we were surrounded by alcohol,
another taboo of Islam. When the water that we requested arrived, Jameela wiped
the rim of her glass with her napkin and removed the ice. I attempted to
explain the menu and its variety of fish that could be ordered grilled, fried,
or baked: salmon, sole, haddock, scrod. Jameela wanted assurance that the fish wouldn’t
be fried in a beer batter like it was at a restaurant they went to in Rhode
Island. It was such a shame that we went
hungry that day. She produced her iPhone to determine which of the fish had
the acceptable number of scales and a demonstrable spine.
Together
we perused pictures of various fish before and after scale removal on the tiny screen
of her phone and Jameela finally decided on the salmon. When her plate arrived,
she seemed surprised that the spine and scales had, in fact, been removed and
discarded. I ate my haddock taco while most of Jameela’s fish went back to the
kitchen. When we finished, we headed over to my house for tea.
Our
conversation resumed around issues related to her studies and teaching. I learned
that her husband is also a professor. She has two sons, thirteen and nine, who
are rarely allowed to leave home except to go to school: We can’t let them out. We would worry too much. The older one is angry.
He thinks we are too protective. He just studies and looks at his iPad. He
wants only to go around with other boys… But they are fine. They are happy.
Jameela
knew that I have two daughters but I began to dread questions about my family. How
could I possibly tell this elegant and lovely woman who frets over the kinds of
scales her lunch once had that I am married to a woman, that I have a wife. I started preparing the tea
(necessary to digest fish, I learn) while avoiding having to explain that my
children have two mothers. I steered Jameela away from the family photos displayed
around the house and was relieved when my children started distracting our
delighted guest with a book on Chinglish, that funny blend of Chinese and
English.
When
I arrived with the tea and handmade multicolored macaroons from the nearby French
bakery, we talked a bit more about life in Baghdad. Jameela took a sip or two
of the Earl Grey. I got a sense that she didn’t really like it and she didn’t
try the cookies, even the one cut to look like a seagull with wings painted in
gray and white sugar.
The
girls and I ate the cookies and I offered a walk around my neighborhood. Built
as a summer community in the late 19th century, rows of former
summer “cottages” line the streets. Architectural traits range from Victorian
to New England eclectic. Some have signs tacked above the door that have
probably labeled these houses for decades: The Anchorage, Edgewater,
Rendezvous, Fidder’s Green. Why does a
house need a name? I took a guess
that the original owners probably had another “real” house and this was a kind
of getaway, a summer house. Or, it may be tradition, like naming a boat, I said.
Jameela looked at me quizzically. Do you
think we are crazy? As the one attempting to explain why my neighbors’
houses have funny names, I assured her: no.
We
walked past a pale blue house with a stack of lobster traps in the yard. It has
a fishing rod mounted over the door that is nailed above two oars and a sign
that reads “Cross-Eyed Casters.” What
does that mean? I pantomimed the cast of a fishing rod, and explained that
being cross-eyed means that your eyes don’t line up right, that the nerves and
the brain aren’t communicating with the eye muscles. Oh, yes, we have that word in Arabic. Cross-eyes are like crossed
minds. They can’t see the world around them clearly. I focused on the literal, agreeing that being
cross-eyed probably makes fishing difficult. I left out the part that the
cross-eyed reference may very possibly have something to do with this
particular fisherman often being intoxicated. It seemed imprudent to explain
that part.
We continued our walk down the street to see the ocean. We met a grey-haired male neighbor who shrugged in dismay when Jameela refused his handshake. She started to complain of the heat in the late summer sun. I apologized for the walk as her heavy clothes began to smell after weeks of wear and lack of laundering.
We continued our walk down the street to see the ocean. We met a grey-haired male neighbor who shrugged in dismay when Jameela refused his handshake. She started to complain of the heat in the late summer sun. I apologized for the walk as her heavy clothes began to smell after weeks of wear and lack of laundering.
We
got home and I prepared to drive Jameela back to campus. As I gathered my keys,
Jameela presented me with a fancy gold and silver ring in a velvet box that I accepted
graciously but inwardly cringed at its opulence. I drove her back to the
residence halls and Jameela seemed genuinely happy: Why didn’t we do this sooner? My own frustrations with the day were,
thankfully, not obvious, but, I was glad that the day had ended and I could
return to the comfort of the familiar.
A
week or so later, before the scholars were set to leave, I decided to assemble
a little package for Jameela to take back to her sons. She had mentioned that
they liked to read in English, so I went to Harrison’s, famed purveyors of
comic books and pop culture, to see if I could find some appropriate reading
material for two boys forbidden to go outside of their home for fear of getting
hit by an explosive device. I started down the rows of shelves, trying to gauge
how the overwhelming number of comics could be narrowed for the interests of
two Iraqi boys whom I would never meet. Scissor
Sisters seemed inappropriate just given the title. Would the swords and
sabers of the Teenage Mutant Ninja
Turtles be offensive? Surely, the
cleavage of the new Betty and Veronica would be in violation of some kind of rules
related to nudity. Wonder Woman is
even worse—all cleavage and thighs. The
Simpsons cover showed the children hitting adults on the head with bats and
Garbage Pail Kids displayed kids with
their rear ends exposed. They all seemed to model taboos that I perceive a
foundation of Iraqi aesthetics.
I
continued down the aisles, mentally deconstructing both the bedrocks and
counter-culture of America via the comic books on the shelves, trying to look
at them with the eyes of the mother of the Iraqi pre-teens that I envisioned: Japanese
anime punks, Sound of the Devil, and Southern Bastards were beyond my
experiences but clearly in the realm of the offensive. Did Archie and Betty
have pre-marital sex? Could Batman and
Robin be seen as gay? My insecurities mounting, I was about to abandon the
plan.
As
I was about to walk away from this gesture of cross-cultural generosity, I re-examined
the row of classics. Popeye and Peanuts would have to do. Popeye was on
the cover with an open can of spinach, exclaiming, “I yam what I yam.” It
seemed innocent enough, a sailor with a good diet would certainly charm
Jameela’s sons. And how could I go wrong with Peanuts: the meek and nervous
Charlie Brown navigating life’s lessons through his side-kicks, the bossy Lucy,
loyal Linus with his security blanket, the endearing slob, Pigpen, and the ever-supportive
Peppermint Patty. The boys could learn so much about the actual insecurities of
Americans and practice their English at the same time.
At
an arranged time on the Friday before the scholars were leaving, I packed the
books along with some archetypal favorite candies of my own kids--Sour Patch
Kids and Nerds—and went to the dorms where Jameela was staying. She had also
asked me for ten signed letters of recommendation about her efforts as a
scholar while in the U.S. that she could present to her superiors at the
university in Baghdad, and I had complied with gracious exaggeration of what we
had been able to accomplish together. I went to the reception area, called her
room, texted her, all to no avail. Finally, one of her Iraqi colleagues, Noora,
came down and told me that Jameela had gone to the mosque in a nearby town with
some of the others—for one last round of prayer. Was it a prayer for her kids? For
a safe journey? For war to end? I would never understand, wrapped in my cloak
of the secular and rational. Annoyed, I gave the package to Noora who promised
to pass it on.
I
never saw Jameela again, but she sent along a note with a leather wallet
embossed with the hanging gardens of Babylon, wonder of the ancient world, and
a blue glass pendant of the evil eye, a talisman used to ward against evil by
numerous factions across the Middle East who are in the throes of hurling
missiles at each other. I took it as an honor that Jameela wished me safe from
harm, but felt more aware than ever of the discrepancies of human behavior—the
kindness of individuals and the killing by tribes. There was a short note in
the wallet: Thank you for your time and
teaching and for the gifts. I really like Popeye and Peanuts. Popeye the sailor
man is strong and smart. And Peanuts shows us the American mind. I will take them
all to Baghdad and teach my boys America. I would love to stay longer but winds
blow counter to what the ship wants.
When
Jameela returned to Baghdad, she posted pictures on Facebook of black smoke billowing
in the direction that she had come from. I wondered about those boys. Were they
finally able to go outside and play? Or would they become part of the conflict,
careening blindly through the haze, holding on to their protective charms,
hoping that the evil eye would not blind them?
Julie
Whitlow teaches in the
English Department at Salem State University and coordinates the graduate
programs in teaching English to speakers of other languages. She has been a
Peace Corps volunteer in Morocco and a Fulbright scholar in Nicaragua,
experiences that made her realize mutual human understanding is elusive and
worthy of exploration.
