In Suleymania, Iraq, you can now buy a pair of Adidas if you have the money.  Such was not the case when I was here last, nearly three years ago.  Back then, Adidos were around, and Adodis, and maybe even Nokes, each for the price of about $10, itself a healthy sum for quite a few Iraqis, but no Adidas.  The $50 price tag was too high then, but no longer, at least for enough people to justify a store.

This, and a few other things about life in at least northern Iraq over the past couple of years, became obvious soon after we landed, as my inlaws eagerly took us on a tour of the city to show us all of the changes had taken place.  We were a little less eager than they about the tour, mainly because we had spent the last several days in transit and were more interested in a glass of water and a nap, at 8:30 in the morning.  We had been required to awake at 4:30 to get to the Amman Queen Alia airport two hours early, where, because only Iraqis were present at our terminal at that early hour, we were treated with what appears to be official Jordanian policy towards Iraqis.  This usually involves shoves in the back, shouts to move this way and then that, and a baggage handler telling us to hurry up and stop dallying about saying good bye to relatives, just before he asks if he can carry our bags for a tip.  I try to be sympathetic to all of these people; after all, the country has absorbed a remarkable number of Iraqi refugees, far more than the United States, but usually after the third or fourth surly comment, I cannot.  There is always an exception—the person handling our lost baggage claim the night before was extremely nice, but for the most part, travel through the country as an Iraqi can be quite trying.

Other than waiting around, there was little to do in Jordan’s airport.  There was a very small book kiosk just before the terminal entrance, and while waiting I read the titles.   Aside from religious material, one book, Chicago, was originally written in Arabic.  It is a major hit in Arabic literary circles, and it hasn’t even been banned anywhere yet.  The other books were all translations.  Peter Galbraith’s The End of Iraq, yet another Coelho book in Arabic, and a big blue book with a star of David on it.  I took a closer look at that one.

The etiquette of the wise men of the Levant, Part I.  That’s what I translated, and it confused me.  Was this about the three wise men? Why do you need a book in two parts about their etiquette?  Why was there a Star of David on the Arabic version?  I picked up the book, encased in plastic wrap, and read the back cover, and then it became clear.  I’ve mistranslated.  Not etiquette, protocols.  Not wise men, elders.  It’s the anti-Semitic Jewish conspiracy plan for world domination.  The shopkeeper shouted to put his books down if I’m not going to buy them.  More kind treatment.  I put it back and looked up at the television screens announcing departures and arrivals.  It turned out our plane was leaving just before the one from Tel Aviv gets in.  All the people they don’t want mixed in leave at these times I guess.  I wondered if they’d pass this bookstore, the Israelis.  I also wondered if they were treated any better than I as an Iraqi in this country.  I don’t really know, I’ve never actually seen an Israeli in Jordan.

After all of this, the tour of Suleymania was harder to focus on before some rest, though the changes in the country did retain my interest for some time.  That, in addition to the fact that I’ve never seen anyone so eager to see me and my wife in my life as her parents and brothers, led us not to complain.  It was understandable inasmuch as my wife Sara was concerned—they lived half a world away from my wife, and had neither the means to get to the U.S., nor the ability to obtain a visa even if they had money for it.  I just was confused as to why they liked me so much, rather than resented me for bringing all of that about.

Other than Adidas, we saw, either completed or in construction, a go kart track, a bowling alley, a water park, shopping malls, five star hotels, a National Theater, and as many luxury apartment buildings in construction as I recall seeing in Miami at the height of the boom.  None of it looked remotely affordable for any Iraqi I knew, save the bowling, which apparently has become the weekend place to be, much as it is in Pittsburgh I guess.  One other change, MaDonal, the McDonald’s rip off store I mention in my memoirs, has been closed.  Apparently the franchise is thinking about opening, and made sure the fellow couldn’t sell his stuff anymore.  This was not much of a loss, his food was overpriced and mediocre, a precursor to the chain that would follow him. 

But there was hardly time to absorb it all, and we arrived home.  A modest house in a central location in Suleymania.  A small garden, room enough for five, a neat kitchen, a tastefully decorated family room with two couches, an Ottoman and an older television.  Tile floors, because really it was too much to keep carpet cool in the summer, whitewashed walls, the smell of pickles, because no self respecting Iraqi buys his pickles, and that brutal, dry and dusty Iraqi heat, which, just after 9 am, had begun to assert itself.  I had been in houses like this in Iraq my entire life. 

Yet it was clearly not the preferred style in this neighborhood anymore. To the left and the right, up the street and down it, these homes were coming down, and new ones being built, much bigger than these with hot tubs, and plasma televisions, and huge generator power to keep rooms with wall to wall carpeting cool.  No pretty gardens though, not enough room. I looked downwards and saw my Reeboks.  I took them off and went inside. I turned on the television.  The Dukes of Hazzard was on.  They were painting the General Lee green.  I don’t know why.  It looked ugly and was such a nice car before they did that, but it’s hard to judge.  I wasn’t in the predicament of the Duke boys after all.  I didn’t even know what that predicament was.  I had just turned it on.  I left it on though, even if muted, mainly because I was sure the General Lee would go back to its original colors before the episode was over.  It didn’t, the electricity cut off before that happened.  I was faintly depressed by all of that, silly as it sounds.

I only saw one friend that first day, my friend Zuhair from my memoir (name continues to be changed for his own safety).  He ate lunch with us.  A wonderful family home cooked meal, warm and friendly conversation, memories of old times, and just behind Zuhair’s head from my vantage point, the family’s grape vine, holding fruit from which we would be eating later on.  The thought of eating fruit that I am actually seeing alive on a plant made me quite happy, almost happy enough to forget about that Dukes of Hazzard nonsense.

I went up for a nap to my brother in law Lajan’s room.  He is only 18, it was a fairly typical room for an 18 year old Iraqi Muslim.  There were pictures of female pop stars, Western and Arab (Britney, Madonna, Haifa Wahbi and by far most of all pop Arab’s It Girl—Nancy Ajram) dressed in tank tops and miniskirts (or something equivalent), some with midriffs showing to my mother in law’s distress.  Also soccer stars Beckham and Michael Billack I think his name is, from Bayern Munich. People are surprised by this and I don’t know why.  What about the Muslim influence, they say?  No bikinis here, doesn’t that count, I ask.  There's a prayer rug in the corner, what about that? No, they say, Muslim influence is recitations of Qur’anic verse on the walls of the room and no women.  That’s like Bible recitations on the room of an American adolescent, I retort, some kids might do that, but how many?  But that never works.  When we’re in burkas and long beards carrying sticks to beat people who break rules, most Western people are comfortable in their analyses.  It’s only when we do things they might actually relate to that they are troubled and confused and don't know what to think anymore.

That night, my brother in law Alan and I went out for male bonding.  Iraqi style, no golf courses or strippers, just a walk to get our hair cut, to buy me temporary clothes until our bags arrived, in theory in a couple of days, and of course a shawarma on the main street, though that part we keep from our wives who are worried about our weight.  The prices of all of these had risen.  A hair cut was now $3.00.  My slacks and golf shirt cost me $35.  The shawarma with cokes and tea and the mezza appetizer added up to about $6 for two.  Not a problem for me, or Alan the electrical engineer, but many government folks were still making do on $250 a month.   I asked Alan about this over our shawarma.

“It’s not easy for most, but they handle it.  It’s driven many people to the private sector, like me.  Our work is more interesting and better paid, so many people would rather do what we do,” he said.

“I don’t remember ministries having much by way of useful employees,” I said.

“Nah, but that was the only work for a while.  Not anymore though.  Now there’s company work, and everyone wants to make money.  They laugh at me when I say that I want to go back and get a master’s degree.  ‘What for,’ they say?  ‘You can’t afford the $10 salads at the Palace Hotel as a student.’”

“That is true, I guess.  Do you like those salads?”

“They are okay, I like having them in Kurdistan, it proves we are becoming important.  But still, education is important in our family, and for me.  Some of these new rich guys think they can buy everything in the world, they don’t care about anything but money.  No culture, no religion, just money.  Most city residents can’t stand them, I can’t stand them.  I won’t go into the Adidas store because I don’t want to deal with them.  I wish I had an Arabic name for them,” he said.  Kurdish was his native tongue, he was clearly struggling with more difficult Arabic terminology.

“In English we call them ‘investment bankers’,” I added helpfully. “And having $10 salads doesn’t make you important.”

“Name one country,” he said, “that is important and doesn’t sell salads at fancy places for $10.  We are Kurds, and if the Arabs can do it in Jordan, and the Turks can do it, so can we.” 

I looked around. It was now twilight.  We had left around sunset.  The Muslim call to prayer could be heard from the mosque in the distance.  A hot breeze blew.  We were in a garden just off the main street.  I could see a pistachio seller, I could smell the Iraqi diesel, I could hear the horns of the cars speeding past.  I knew just around the corner was a guy selling tea for $0.12 a cup that would be better than any I had drunk in more than a year.  We’d stop by a guy cooking fava beans tonight to pick them up for a delicious breakfast the next day.  And I was eating a $2 shawarma that was better than any useless $10 salad I had ever had in my entire life.  But I couldn’t argue.  Nor did I want to anyway.  This was not the time.  I was in the old country again.