The World Through the Eyes of Angels

Part One: The Mullah

1 P A R T O N E The Mullah Iwas always overjoyed to be released from the one-room Koranic school, where children recited Koranic verses as Mullah AbdulHamid ’s long yellow bamboo whip hovered, threatening anyone who failed to repeat the verses with complete clarity. I would leave the Sheikh Mohammad Mosque next to the deep well with crumbling walls where old blind Hajj Ahmad Al-Shahdi sat. He always recognized my steps and would turn his face toward me and yell, “Don’t run! Go slowly, you have time. Be careful as you cross the street.” I wouldn’t look at him or respond to anything he said. I would leave behind me the noise of the other children —their eyes filled with jealousy—and start to run, stopping only when I reached the other side of the street. In those days, in 1943 and 1944, there weren’t many cars in the streets. I went barefoot, winter and summer. I ran nonstop, passing through a world of beauty and delight along the way. Can I possibly describe the pleasures of that passage? Abu Shamzi’s store, the summer melons, and all the shops full of beautifully colored pictures. As I ran by, I would look at the butchers’ shops, the produce vendors, and the grocers. Often in the evening, poor youths would perform with the dirbasha, piercing their cheeks or sides with the sharp spit; and there would be music, beggars, wandering photographers, and porters with boxes full of wonders. 2 The World Through the Eyes of Angels I would reach the center of the city, the crowded Bab Al-Toub, where the largest two streets crossed and where lavish movie posters drew my eye. I always fought the temptation to stop, by convincing myself that I would have more time to enjoy them on the way back. I often took the relatively empty street that passed through Bab Al-Saray, the large butchers’ market, that took me to the Bazaar of the Seven Doors, trying my best not to be distracted by the splendors, finally entering the Atami market. The Atami market is one of the oldest markets in Mosul, mentioned by the historian Ibn Al-Atheer. It is called the Atami market—meaning “the dark market”—because it is covered by a roof that protects it from the scorching summer sun and the drenching winter rain. I would take the long way around in an attempt to avoid Ahmad the Mad Dog, who would either find a way to delay me, or merely hit me. I would reach my father’s store out of breath. My father would smile in approval and give me his seat without saying anything. Thinking back, more than sixty years later, I estimate it took between ten and fifteen minutes of nonstop running to get to my father’s store. Before I caught my breath, my friend Sami, the son of Hasqail, whose store was to the left of ours, would be at my side, as quick as a monkey. His father allowed him to play only with me. I was very happy to have him next to me. We would have long, engrossing conversations during which I was a model listener, living in the vast spaces that Sami’s narration opened before me. I was beyond happy listening to his accounts of the many movies that he had seen and memorized. He would narrate the story and imitate its heroes, the way they stood, and the way they performed their roles. The Mullah 3 Whenever I recall my life back then, I realize that Sami was without a doubt my guide, even though he was the same age. Our friendship began when we were five and deepened as time passed. At that age, I wasn’t allowed to go to the movies. I don’t know how long his stories about the movies lasted, but time passed like a flash of lightning, and my father would suddenly be there waving at us, returned from the mosque. Sami and I would leave my father’s store and go to Mukhlif’s store if he had no customers . Mukhlif was Jewish, like Sami, and his store was larger than Hasqail’s or my father’s. My father’s store was stuffed with merchandise, leaving little space for me. Mukhlif would greet us with a broad affectionate smile, and...