The World Through the Eyes of Angels

Part Nine: Shafaq

157 P A R T N I N E Shafaq My sister Shafaq lived with us until she was sixteen. Any number of engineers, physicians, and army officers sought her in marriage, but my father preferred that she marry someone who was religious and pious. He chose Qanet for her despite the railing criticism of our relatives for turning down so many distinguished and well-off young men. My father’s solemn gaze was enough to deter any objection to his decision. It was a settled matter: Shafaq would marry Qanet. There was no room for discussion. Qanet was older than Shafaq by four years. He held a poorly paid clerk’s position, as he had only an elementary education. Despite his modest wage and his low-status job, he was intelligent and ambitious and he exuded joy and vitality. He was always smiling and laughing. He worked during the day as a mail clerk at the Directorate of Religious Endowments in Mosul and studied at night. When he proposed to Shafaq, he was still in the third intermediate grade and was preparing to sit for official exams. He was expected to pass these exams with distinction, which would allow his father, an influential clergyman, to find him a job with a better salary. He also had plans to go to college. However, his meager salary, along with his refusal to accept financial help from his parents, made it difficult for him to find an appropriate place 158 The World Through the Eyes of Angels to live after the marriage. The newly wedded couple had to spend a few days at the groom’s parents. I can’t express the profound feelings of emptiness that I felt when I saw the house without Shafaq! Beneath the dull yellow ceiling light in our room, my mother sat in the corner with her head between her knees, and my sisters wept. Our house was small. The courtyard was small, our room was small, and our cellar was small. I ran down to the cellar, I went up to the rooftop. I ran around the courtyard. I didn’t see Shafaq. Where had she gone? I knew she was getting married that same day. However, like any child, I didn’t expect my sister to disappear altogether. I was nine or ten years old. I didn’t grasp the idea of marriage, separation from family, and the girl’s devotion to a new, independent life. I didn’t comprehend any of this. Everything in the house—the walls, the pots, the carpet, the courtyard—was whispering “Shafaq.” Everything in the house had Shafaq’s fingerprints on it. On my first day of school, Shafaq had helped me put my shoes on right, as I had put them on reversed, and she laced them up for me properly. Shafaq helped me put on my first suit. The first Abu Nuwas joke I read made Shafaq laugh. Shafaq cried—and made the rest of us cry—watching the first Mariam Fakhreddine movie that played in Mosul. Shafaq mended our torn clothes. Shafaq was the one who embroidered our sheets and pillowcases—she filled them with bright flowers so that it felt like springtime all year round. Shafaq, Shafaq, Shafaq. We had no life without her. How could Shafaq disappear from our house? None of us could sleep. Most of the family used to spend the night in the main room, except for me and my little brother, who slept in the small room. However, that night we went down from Shafaq 159 our room and slept with the rest of them. We lay there listening to each other’s weeping. My father had to sit up and recite the Koran in a low voice until we fell asleep. But we woke up in the morning to a gloomy house—lifeless in the absence of Shafaq. We loved her greatly. She was the mainspring of the house: its beautiful face, its wise overseer, and the one who had the last word in it. Afterward, Shafaq moved into a small house overlooking the Tigris. But she couldn’t live there for more than two weeks. The house sat atop a steep drop-off above the river, exposed to strong winds that howled at night, scaring Shafaq and keeping her awake. She and Qanet moved in with us and occupied the small room where my brother...