Well, lately I was thinking of it will be two years soon, away from Baghdad. And my brain is not washed yet of the memories of everything in Baghdad. The streets, the trees, the sun in Baghdad is different from here. The breeze, the scenes, the children.
I thought that time will wash memories and make you forget some sightseeing in your eyes, some scenes, but I was wrong. I walk here and look at some places and sometimes I intend to look at different, diverse scenes to have a new sight from my old sight, but it's there. It's connected to everything.
I can't forget anything about Baghdad-even the smell ...especially the famous, juicy Iraqi burtoqal...a taste I miss and cannot seem to get here.
I can feel and touch and see how minutes live in time. My day dreams are Baghdad. My sleeping dreams are Baghdad. It's Baghdad. Though the horrible, sad scenes stick in your mind more than the beautiful. The beautiful scenes nourish your soul, but they pass quickly. The bad scenes leave scars in your heart, spirit, and imagination. And whenever you pass with the memories you can feel the bruises of these scars, unlike the beautiful moments.
The beautiful moments are flat and soft and don't wound your spirit. For this reason when you remember the beautiful moments you relax; you enjoy it; you have have sighs for these moments.
Once I traveled with my brother to one of the provinces. I was looking for a high salary job and it was about 3 or 4 hours by car. The driver put a cassette in the player. The music was so loud. Me and my brother were sitting next to the speaker and we wanted to tell him, but he was so excited by the loud music, and so happy, we felt embarrassed to say, "Hey, we are passengers. You should take care of us." So we said nothing.
The journey was long. We talked of our childhood. We talked of poetry. My brother loves poetry, especially the mystic poetry and he memorized a lot of poems that glorify Allah and the creation. And we talked about that. I remember the moments when he explained the poems. He was infatuated with the words. He put them in a very beatiful way. He added his own poetic touch to the poems he recited.
On the return trip we talked of family things, criticized friends, and saw many funny scenes. There was a very fat person getting into a car. He wore a white dishdasha. The sun touched his face and it was dark with color. We pitied him because it was very hot at that time. He was sweating, and his movements were slow. He could hardly get into this car because he was sooo fat! My brother said, "I feel sorry for such a man who has such problems for his weight."
After one hour we saw this man in the road asking for a ride because his car broke down. There was only one seat in our car, but this man was of three or four people! My brother was so happy to help him. He came and sat next to my brother and my brother squeezed me over to one-half chair. I asked my brother, "Do you still pity him?", and in truth I pitied myself, stuck there right next to the speaker It was so very loud.
My brother asked the driver to turn the music down, and he did. But after a while the he turned it up again. I had to put my folder up against the speaker. The whole trip we made fun of ourselves. My brother was very tired and he fell asleep and started to snore. It was very loud. the music from one side, and my brother from the other! I wished it would stop.
But now I wish I can hear his snoring again.