'Falluuuuuuuuujaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhh!' Basil’s voice trailed as he attempted a not-so-philharmonic rendition of Eruption's, ‘Illusion’ –then, a chart hit, in the eighties.
We all sat there, in the rear of the Volvo station wagon; what my mother’s cousin used to refer to as the ‘Monkeys' Stall’. We sat like monkeys, our folded elbows resting on our bent knees, rocking vigorously, to the music, while our parents discussed politics, in lowered voice tones.
'Fallujah Kabab', the same old sign would read.
‘They have Kabab for breakfast, these people!’
‘Will you stop making fun of these poor people! At least they eat to their hearts content! What do you have for breakfast, anyway?’ My mother’s stern voice silenced the chatter, but not long enough. Before too long, Basil was again singing, 'Falluuujaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhh!'
Every time, we planned one of those trips to the Habaniya Lake Resort, we passed by that sign. For the 8 or 80 years of travel ban during the Iraq-Iran War, that was our vacation ‘refuge’.
Fallujah was the funny part of the journey. There was nothing comical about the town. Yet, for teenagers from the more affluent areas of Baghdad, the simple people, and their simplistic ways came across as amusing.
There was one main street, where people thronged in and out, Dishdashas, and Safari suits alike. A few women in Abbayas would try and cross the lanes, in the relatively heavy traffic. Like the rest of the small towns scattered around Baghdad, the inhabitants stared on, as the Baghdad number plates whizzed past. Slowly, their car repair shops would begin to thrive.
As we would pass more residential-looking areas, the garden walls rose high. This was all about Bedouin privacy...Children playing on the street would wave as we flew past. Some would point at our position in the back of the station wagon and it seemed they were almost giggling.
Habaniya Lake was more serene than the military base that had caused it to be, as quiet as the graves of the British soldiers, in the less-trodden part of the base, soldiers that had fought to their deaths before the country gained its independence. That is, until you arrived within proximity of the lake resort, and the noise of Baathist brats began to rise. They even had their own VIP quarters where no one dared linger. Nobody knew where the invisible red line lay, until you saw someone in a khaki Safari suit, threatening your very existence, behind antiquated coal-black sunglasses.
I remember singing to the lake's serenity with a group of friends, together, comfortably seated on the rocks by the lakeside. It was summer, it was cool, and it was beautiful. Then, they would want to hear me sing. ‘Sing, Zanooba, sing!’… And I opened my mouth, and a gnat dived in! That was the first time ever, that I choked on a gnat.
I wonder what category of ghost lake resorts, it has now fallen under. Fallen under...there were horror stories, about people who drowned in whirlpools. 'Don't swim in the lake waters!'.
Now, they whirl in silence, and nearby Fallujah, has become a stronghold of resistance. Fallujah? Resistance? Whoever thought, those simplistic people would have more guts than the 'big city' people!
Overseas, the ex-political asylee that had approached the British official with pleading eyes, had questioned, ‘How can you expect me to go back now? Just because the old slaughterers are no longer there, it does not mean that there will not be fresh bloodbaths!’
’Oh, just don’t go to Fallujah! You will be alright!’
He had stared back in disbelief; he had not thought about that small town at all! He did not know whether he should mock the attempt at reassurance or confirm the confident ignorance.
Thus is the fate of Fallujah. For now, it will be famed for bloodbaths, no more Kababs or car rides, just slaughtered children, alienated school gates, bullet pinched garden walls, and pools of crimson entrails left to dry, on that crowded main street, under the strong sun of Iraq…
We all sat there, in the rear of the Volvo station wagon; what my mother’s cousin used to refer to as the ‘Monkeys' Stall’. We sat like monkeys, our folded elbows resting on our bent knees, rocking vigorously, to the music, while our parents discussed politics, in lowered voice tones.
'Fallujah Kabab', the same old sign would read.
‘They have Kabab for breakfast, these people!’
‘Will you stop making fun of these poor people! At least they eat to their hearts content! What do you have for breakfast, anyway?’ My mother’s stern voice silenced the chatter, but not long enough. Before too long, Basil was again singing, 'Falluuujaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhh!'
Every time, we planned one of those trips to the Habaniya Lake Resort, we passed by that sign. For the 8 or 80 years of travel ban during the Iraq-Iran War, that was our vacation ‘refuge’.
Fallujah was the funny part of the journey. There was nothing comical about the town. Yet, for teenagers from the more affluent areas of Baghdad, the simple people, and their simplistic ways came across as amusing.
There was one main street, where people thronged in and out, Dishdashas, and Safari suits alike. A few women in Abbayas would try and cross the lanes, in the relatively heavy traffic. Like the rest of the small towns scattered around Baghdad, the inhabitants stared on, as the Baghdad number plates whizzed past. Slowly, their car repair shops would begin to thrive.
As we would pass more residential-looking areas, the garden walls rose high. This was all about Bedouin privacy...Children playing on the street would wave as we flew past. Some would point at our position in the back of the station wagon and it seemed they were almost giggling.
Habaniya Lake was more serene than the military base that had caused it to be, as quiet as the graves of the British soldiers, in the less-trodden part of the base, soldiers that had fought to their deaths before the country gained its independence. That is, until you arrived within proximity of the lake resort, and the noise of Baathist brats began to rise. They even had their own VIP quarters where no one dared linger. Nobody knew where the invisible red line lay, until you saw someone in a khaki Safari suit, threatening your very existence, behind antiquated coal-black sunglasses.
I remember singing to the lake's serenity with a group of friends, together, comfortably seated on the rocks by the lakeside. It was summer, it was cool, and it was beautiful. Then, they would want to hear me sing. ‘Sing, Zanooba, sing!’… And I opened my mouth, and a gnat dived in! That was the first time ever, that I choked on a gnat.
I wonder what category of ghost lake resorts, it has now fallen under. Fallen under...there were horror stories, about people who drowned in whirlpools. 'Don't swim in the lake waters!'.
Now, they whirl in silence, and nearby Fallujah, has become a stronghold of resistance. Fallujah? Resistance? Whoever thought, those simplistic people would have more guts than the 'big city' people!
Overseas, the ex-political asylee that had approached the British official with pleading eyes, had questioned, ‘How can you expect me to go back now? Just because the old slaughterers are no longer there, it does not mean that there will not be fresh bloodbaths!’
’Oh, just don’t go to Fallujah! You will be alright!’
He had stared back in disbelief; he had not thought about that small town at all! He did not know whether he should mock the attempt at reassurance or confirm the confident ignorance.
Thus is the fate of Fallujah. For now, it will be famed for bloodbaths, no more Kababs or car rides, just slaughtered children, alienated school gates, bullet pinched garden walls, and pools of crimson entrails left to dry, on that crowded main street, under the strong sun of Iraq…