I Have Iraq in My Shoe (19 page)

A few weeks after arriving in Iraq, I had started an online blog, which was basically just me recounting my initial impressions and then day-to-day stuff (Nutella, my blender, my scale, the usual) for my family and friends back in the States. The awkward conversation with Nigel made it into a post. I needed support from the people at home after that, and they confirmed that Nigel was humor-free and oblivious to irony.

It wasn’t a private blog, so I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised when I received this comment:

Ruh-roh. Someone’s angry—angry and unable to properly use English slang.

Grammatical errors were a pet peeve of mine. At this point it was clear the person writing the tirade was not a native English speaker; however, that didn’t make me any less anxious to correct the errors with my red pen.

Erbil was the Arabic name for the city. The Kurdish name was Hawler. This person was obviously unfamiliar with Miss Teen South Carolina 2007.

Where is this person getting “shitty place” from? I had never said anything remotely close to that on the blog.

I had a headache.

Again, when did I say that? And who is teaching you English? I hate when people only know two or three phrases in a foreign language but go to great lengths to make sure they know how to swear properly.

Why you gotta insult the news agents and food store people? What did they do to you?

Why was this person even reading my blog? I was used to comments like “More photos of the shoes please!” or “What did you make in the blender today? Love, Mom.” Angry Arie was very clearly on a different page, of a different book, shelved in a different library far, far from mine. If I have to explain my writing to you, you are not my target audience. That is okay. It takes diff’rent strokes to rule the world, yes it does! Not everyone enjoys the same things, be they movies, or food, or hairstyles, or Disney characters, or tattoos, or sartorial ensembles; the list goes on. I can guarantee you, you will never see Mariah Carey in a loose-fitting fisherman’s sweater and baggy cargo pants, and that is okay. It’s just not her thing!

I publicly (via blog post) recommended that Arie stop reading my blog, as it was obviously not his cup of tea. I was perpetually baffled by people who would voluntarily spend time fuming over something (movie, book, music, etc.) that was not to their liking, when they easily could have shifted focus to something they enjoyed. Life is short, people. Use your energy wisely.

My mom freaked out a bit after reading that blog comment. She was like, “What if they come and find you???”, and I had to agree that was a distinct possibility. I was living in the Erbil school building, and anyone interested in English classes, or stalking an unknowingly offensive teacher/blog writer, could easily find us. I hadn’t even told my mom about the two additional attempted comments from angry Arie, which I blocked without publishing. One was more ranting about how I was probably “stupid and uneducated,” and he hoped I wasn’t being paid very much, and he and his friends would read my blog and laugh about the stupid things I said; blah, blah, angry, angry. The second comment called me a “Chicken Shit” for not publishing the previous comment. I wondered if “Chicken Shit” came up on Google Translator.

I was more annoyed than anything else. Late-breaking story: Internet trolls in The Iraq. The anonymity of the Internet had created a culture of spineless crybabies. While Arie was not, technically, anonymous, he was whining and complaining and name-calling from the safe comfort of the dark cave of cyberspace. Part of me wanted a face-to-face with this person, and I was secretly hoping that Arie would enroll in an English course. God knows his writing could use it.

I later calmed down, took a few deep breaths, and thought, “Poor Arie is probably some high school kid who takes a lot of pride in his culture and community, and he was just lashing out at an imagined injustice.” But he was also a brat. The best way to deal with foul-mouthed brats, who are not yours, is to ignore them. In the same way I ignored Warren’s threat to make me move to Suli, I ignored Arie’s last two comments. He gave up and didn’t bother commenting again.

My blog had not only attracted a disgruntled local, it had also attracted Australia Katherine.

One day while checking my email I received this, with the subject line “Heya”:

I had a quick flash of irritation at the thought that Tom could have introduced us to Katherine months ago (she had been in Erbil two months longer than we had) but obviously hadn’t thought to do so. Who cares about the Erbil kids? No one, wanh-wanh. I let the irritation pass and brightened to the thought that there was a new, sunny social spot on the English Village horizon.

As Dalzar was prone to talking and “uhhhhhhhh”-ing through nearly every lesson, listening comprehension continued to be a challenge for him. The English textbooks we used came with audio CDs to supplement the lessons.

I turned off the recording and asked, “Why did Juliet change her mind?”

We had discussed Martin Luther King Jr. a few classes ago.

I was shaking my head thinking, “No…” when Adam came in. “Uh, hey, I just got an email from Warren, and he said there’s a suicide bomb threat for Erbil, and they’re sending a driver, now, to pick us up and take us to Suli.”

Dalzar and Renas just sat, looking blankly back and forth between Adam and me. I didn’t sense any kind of surprise, but maybe they just didn’t understand what we had said. So I said to them, “I guess we have to go to Suli…so you guys can go…um…I am not sure when we’ll be coming back? Soooo, I guess, just wait for an email from me…I’ll probably see you on Sunday?”

I was vacillating between anxiety about a suicide bomber and annoyance at having to pack in a hurry. I think TV had desensitized me to actual danger. Thinking about the other expats and their evacuation protocol, I wanted to know what New Friend Katherine had to do. Did they have to evacuate as well?

I picked up my cell and dialed her number. There was no answer. I deduced she, and the rest of her company, were in a similar state of disarray and panic and were quickly planning an exit.

While sitting out on the deck of the villas with Adam and our hastily packed bags, waiting for the driver, my cell phone buzzed and I received a text message from Katherine: “Maximall is fantastic!”

What???

Katherine had been thrilled with my tales of the Iraqi Banana Republic and had clearly wasted no time in getting her shop on.

I texted back:

That text prompted a phone call.

When she called back, Katherine said that Dialed-In Brad had confirmed that yes, there was a suicide bomb threat in Erbil. There were three suspects, two of whom had been apprehended. The third was still at large, and was a female on foot.

One bomber? On foot? That was it? The trip to Suli was around three hours, and I had things to do this weekend. Katherine had bought a paddling pool for her backyard, and we were going to make drinks in the blender and everything, and there was a Progressive Dinner involving multiple villas and multiple meals… there were
things
! I did not want to miss the
things
!

I turned to Adam and said, “Ask Warren when we get to come back up here.” Adam was already on the phone with Warren, and dutifully asked, “Gretchen wants to know when we’ll be able to come back to Erbil.” He was quiet while Warren was responding, and then said, “Uh-huh…uh-huh…okay, man, talk to you soon.” Then he turned to me and informed me that Warren said we wouldn’t be coming back until Sunday. I did not take this news well.

Remember that day Adam and I walked to the restaurant? Yeah, that was an hour and a half of walking. A smart suicide bomber would want to explode in a densely populated area, not in a far-flung compound where the villas weren’t even very close together. That would just be poor planning on her part.

I was halfway into the villa by that time, en route to my work computer to send the email. Hooray! Weekend fun, here I come! Stupid suicide bomber, trying to spoil my paddling-pool plans and blender-drinks plans and Progressive Dinner plans.

There was Western life for me in Erbil, thanks to Katherine: perky, energetic twentysomething Katherine, with her massive Rolodex of expats and neverending calendar of social extravaganzas.

Because Katherine worked for a legal consulting firm, she met all the Westerners who moved here, or at least the ones who needed legal assistance in setting up their various businesses or nonprofit organizations. She also put in the hours required to cultivate a very active social life, which was something I wasn’t doing. Her schedule made me tired.