I remember Baba Abraham as a little girl in Baghdad. He was my grandfather who killed chickens the kosher way. My strongest memory was when I had to carry a live chicken to his grocery store. the store was at a corner of Al-Rashid street.
strong memory was when I had to carry a live chicken to his grocery store which was at a corner of al-Rashid street.hose hand I kissed as a little girl growing up in the Baghdad of the forties, was my grandfather.
with his long black shoes, his big black hat, tightly fitted to his head, and his face covered with a black beard that came down to his chest he made me feel like I was kissing the hand of the holy figure of Moses, the Moses in the books of Moses in the holy bible, the same Bible my grandfather carried protectively, hidden in the pit of his right arm, ready to do the work of God.
Sometimes, my grandfather surprised me when he placed the hand I have kissed on my head whispering a prayer and a blessing. It was a tender moment, a moment of strong connection through the touch of his palm to my head. I adored Babas’ pious and holy image, his image of the “Bible man.” I loved how gently he touched the Bibles’ black jacket, caressing each page as he translated its ancient Hebrew scrip into Arabic with his deep, soft and melodic voice. How I awaited his occasional visits to my large family, during which he was surrounded by crowds in the big livingroom, leading prayers and carrying out ceremonies. Though I saw him little on those visits, and from a distance, I wished he visited more often. I cherished the moment at the end of those visits when he extended his hand for me to kiss, how I wished and prayed the moment would freeze, would stand still, would last forever.
I relished those moments and I relived them again and again. They accompanied me on an early morning to fill a jug of milk from the man who milked his cow on the sidewalk just across the street. Squatted on his three-legged stool, the milkman caressed the cow lovingly with his left hand as he squeezed the milk, swiftly, with his right which was missing its little finger. I took pleasure carrying the heavy milk jug with its white fluffy cloud on top into which I secretly sank my finger, and then savored the sweet creamy test.
Other times, the moments accompanied me to the newsstand at the busy corner of Al-Rashid Street, passing the noisy tea house. Men sat outside, on the sidewalk, on small metal chairs with legs stretched out, sipping strong black tea and smoking water pipes. When one suddenly stared at my limp, I moved on, without bending my head down, without feeling ashamed, without the shaking of my legs and without my fear of falling.
Not falling down was a great relief. It was magical, sparing me of the tormented feeling and embarrassment of stumbling down, out in the world, on the
sidewalk cement, surrounded by staring strangers, asking questions and pointing fingers at my noodles-like legs and my bleeding knees. How I dreaded my helplessness then, the feeling of humiliation when someone extended a hand to help me up, how I wished to be home. There, no one would notice, or bother, except for my senior aunt Terza. She would scold me when I fell, sometimes, she made me sit, on the spot, for a long time. If I disobeyed, she would tie me to a chair with thick white rope.
The same aunt started sending out to do those little errands. I was six then, recovering from childhood-polio. Two years later, she asked me to deliver a live, snow-white chicken to my grandfather’s grocery store where he killed chickens the kosher way.
Until then, my connection to the roaming chickens in our yard was through feeding them. I often picked their droppings, washed the floor and on Fridays, I helped my aunts to pluck their feathers after they were brought back, their throats slit, and their feathers were spotted with mixture of blood and ashes. When I noticed once, that one of the chickens did not make it back killed, I learned, that it was deformed. I was told that any physical imperfections, like blemishes, bruises, or blood streaks, disqualified the chicken for the kosher way of killing and therefore
would be rendered unfit, unsuitable to consume for the sacred Sabbath feast.
The chicken I had to deliver that Friday morning, was somehow left behind, maybe it escaped or hid. When Terza discovered it, she immediately started preparing it for its last journey. She forced it on its side, on the floor, and she pressed the two legs together, one on top of the other, hard, tying them with coils of stiff white rope.
She instructed me to carry the snow-white chicken upside down, which I did. Its little head was dangling which made me fearful that it will slip and hit the hard sidewalk cement. I held on its legs, tied, feeling the rough texture of the bounded, bulky coils, and the twisted-twined legs underneath my two hands. Walking slowly and carefully, I wished that the chicken was not caught, but and at the same time, feeling glad and grateful for giving me the opportunity to see my grandfather soon, alone, for the first time.
At the store, my grandfather stood behind the counter. His head was bent, and his big black stiff hat was tilted down. He held the tiny head of a live chicken that was placed on its back, on the counter, and he stretched its long neck, moving one finger across its throat, again and again. With his head bent still, barely showing his chin, he gently caressed the throat, as if calming it down, and he proceeded to
inspect the major vein, looking maybe for swelling. When my grandfather finally lifted his head, he reached for the short-sharp knife he held between his teeth.
Holding my chicken still, I suddenly shut my eyes, and blinded, I blocked out the moment my grandfather removed the knife. All I remember later, was seeing the slit throat chicken, outside, on the sidewalk, bleeding, moving furiously, jumping up, then down, hitting the ground, hard, smearing its snow white feathers with blood, dust and ashes.
My memory of the knife between my grandfather’s teeth vanished with time, as if it was buried in the basement of my mind. I had no understanding then why I rushed back home, maybe it was just before the knife fell on my own snow-white chicken. But, never did I forget Terza’s severe punishment upon my return home with it alive.
Terza’s punishment and my grandfather’s knife left me confused, puzzled and withdrawn. In the next two years, and until age ten, I started hating myself, hated my ugly distorted figure, crocked spine and severe limp as my blood boiled with anger, outraged and guilt at the same time. I thought it was my own fault to be ugly and hated. I must have done something evil to my senior aunt and my maternal grandmother, who was the matriarch of my extended family. I wished I was pretty,
like cousins my-age, they were physically perfect, socially involved, active and loved. Most important, they were included in the traditional matchmaking process that was the dream of any girl who was ten in the Baghdad of the forties.
Exclusion was my enemy. I loathed myself. I wanted to lash at everyone, even little innocent cousins, weaker than I was because I burned with jealousy. I hated Terza. I felt internal outrage, simmering inside, bit by bit, growing into an avalanche of anger. I cursed anyone who pitied me or ignored my existence, but I remained mute. I did not tell how I felt inside, as I walked with a throbbing ache in my chest, carrying a forever growing boil in my stomach, ready to burst, explode and erupt any time. I was scared and wished to die.
When feeling bad, I withdrew into my world of fantasy. I lived the memories of my toddler hood, before the paralysis hit. I relieved the delightful different versions of stories, dramatically enacted tales by aunts, uncles and members of the tribe daily, at tea ritual in the big livingroom. I remember hearing those stories a thousand of times. It was about me as the adorable little girl, who was named Shirley, after the magic star of the forties. I had golden curly hair, fair skin, big brown eyes, chubby and milky strong legs, just like Shirley Temple. How I danced and sang for my elderly and in return I was lavished with hugs and kisses.
I failed them. I was to have a bright future, marrying without a dowry. Unlike girls with dark skin, black hair and tiny black eyes who would need a bundle of money which was big burden in the Baghdad of the forties, especially when they were too many of them around. I wanted to hear more stories about me at that age so badly that I bugged my aunts, whom I spent much of my time with to tell me more details. They did. They loved to repeat stories. But, my aunts also told me how tragic and shocking to see my milky folded fat legs, turning into dead meat, overnight. What a shame, they said, for me to end my life as an old maid, following it with juicy curses of a distant relative, who, they believed, stuck his evil eyes on my legs.
But, I generally liked the time with my aunts, they made me feel like a grownup. They included me in their domestic and craft activities and a few showed me how to cook, knit and sew. They also took me along to the market and sometimes when they visited members of the tribe. One time, on a bright, sunny and crispy afternoon, I joined them to visit my paternal grandmother Hannini, whose name meant the compassionate one. I wished I were part of her extended family. It was clear day, the freshness of the air heightened my aunts’ spirit, and made me feel joyous. We all looked forward to spending time with my grandmother
while Baba Abraham was still at the grocery. He was not expected until later that evening.
The hours rolled on quickly with my grandmother, gossiping and chatting. Everyone was animated and cheerful. Tales were told, funny stories were shared, stories that made us laugh, the kind of laughter that made our eyes wet. Everyone took pleasure sipping strong cardamom-spiced tea my grandmother served in small clear glasses with gold rims. Each glass was placed on a matching saucer along with a tiny silver spoon to stir the sugar in the heavenly aromatic tea. I took pleasure scooping sugar from the bowl and dipping many spoonfuls into my glass, feeling the delight of the warm tiny spoon in my mouth and testing the strong sweet tea.
Suddenly, and in the midst of our lively, enjoyable tea ritual, my grandfather’s black figure appeared, sheltering the bible in his arm. He stood at the door, stunned, staring at us with glassy eyes. He stood there for a long time, stuck to the spot, like a nailed statue, except for his mouth. He opened and closed it, like a fish out of the water, not making any sound. Then he lifted his brows, making a huge fold in between, and started hissing. I swallowed hard. A cold chill went up my back, not knowing what to expect. No one uttered a word, all of us sat still, feeling we were trapped.
When he finally moved, he kissed the bible, placing it on a small table at the corner of the room and marched toward my grandmother. With burning eyes, he pointed his finger at her face, scolding and accusing her with fuming voice. How dare she invite a bunch of gossipy, Godless women, without permission, behind his back, turning his sacred sanctuary into a women-tea-club? How dare she, having those women who use curses and blasphemous language. Women who mocked the bible stories, did not observe the Jewish faith! How did she allow herself to have those women who wasted their time with gossips and now they were wasting his precious tea and sugar?
When he paused, we stood up to leave. My aunts bewildered, started toward the door, sneaking, walking slowly, as if stepping on eggshells, without saying goodbye to my grandmother. I reached for Hannini, whose green eyes were wet, kissing and hugging her, but when she enveloped me in her mama bear arms, I heard huge banging.
Turning my head, I saw my grandfather hitting the round clay jug, again and again, with the wooden side of big heavy broom he held in his two hands. He struck the earthen jug, filled with cool drinking water, the only water fit to drink, attacking it with rage, with clenched teeth, until it was shattered. Its cool water,
that took many night hours to chill, gushed, from its belly, flooding the floor, wasted. The shattered pieces and the flood of water churned and cut in my stomach. Suddenly I remembered the moment he removed the knife from his clenched teeth and the cruelty he struck the throat of chicken on that morning, two year earlier, not quite eight yet.
Shirley's Memoir 