Read Daughters of Iraq for Free Online Page B

miscarriages. Iraq in the early 1900s didn’t have the same health standards we have today, and a lot of babies died either at birth or soon thereafter. As the eldest daughter, my mother was her father’s favorite; in fact, the entire family doted upon her. My grandfather invested a great deal in her dowry. He made sure it was lavish, with elegant furniture, napkins woven with lace and gold, summer and winter curtains, anything a young couple might desire for their new home. The dowry was loaded onto a large wagon and conducted to the groom’s home for approval.
    The glorious dowry of the daughter of Reuven was sent off with a flurry of trills from all the neighbors, Arab and Jewish alike. It traveled from the poor side of the Jewish neighborhood to the rich side. Aunt Madeline, who was jealous and bitter and had never made a life for herself, who never had a family of her own, who always followed my father, decided the dowry was insufficient. Without telling my grandfather, she sent it back to my grandparents’ house. The neighbors saw the wagon return and understood what had happened. They beat their chests and shrieked, “ Ya buya , Ya buya , something terrible has happened! They’ve broken up!” The rejection of a dowry was considered a grave insult, and my mother never forgave my aunt for this abasement. Following an abject apology from my father’s parents, during which they did their best to reduce the ignominy through ingratiation, preparation for the marriage finally resumed. Right before the wedding my father got a job in Baghdad—the big city. My mother was relieved; she wouldn’t have to see the evil Madeline’s face on a daily basis, nor those of her brazen parents-in-law.
    I’m happy I committed all of this to paper. One day it will assume a different meaning for the young generation that knew nothing about life in Iraq. I feel compelled to write this for the sake of future generations. If my generation doesn’t recount the story of The Exodus from Iraq, nothing will be known about our culture, nothing will remain. But now I’m tired. I’ll write more another time.
     

Chapter Seven: Farida and Ruthie
     
    T he following day, Sigal and her two children, Ruthie and Shai, paid a visit to Farida. Farida hugged and kissed them all. After everyone ate, Sigal and Shai lay down to rest in Farida’s bedroom.
    “Come here, Ruthie,” said Farida. “Let’s take some machbuz and chai (tea in Arabic) into the living room and have a private tea party, just the two of us. What do you say?”
    “Oh, what fun, Grandmother! You have the best ideas. I love visiting you,” said Ruthie. “I miss you so much when we’re apart, and I count the days until we see each other again. This time it was five whole days! From Saturday until today. Every day I ask Ima when we can visit you, and every day Ima says, ‘Tomorrow.’”
    “I also count the days between visits, my sweet soul, may God bless you, a blessing on your head,” said Farida. She held her granddaughter close and breathed in her sweet smell. “There’s nothing we can do, my Ruthie. This is how it is. You’re a big girl now, and you understand your mother works hard so you and your brother Shai can have a good life. Since your parents split up, things are tougher for Sigal. If I lived closer, I could do more, but now it’s up to you to help as much as you can.”
    “Yes,” Ruthie said, taking a deep breath. “I do help her, but I don’t understand why I’m always counting days. I count the days until I see my father, then I count the days before I see you. Ugh, I cannot stand counting days.” She looked at Farida, searching for answers she rarely got from adults.
    “My sweet one, I know it’s not easy for you.” Farida felt pangs of anguish for her small granddaughter. “Would you like me to read you a book, my love? I bought you a new Caspian. You like Paul Kor’s books, right? Come, look at this. Caspian’s Great Journey