I know it's late, but I found this and I thought I’d share it with you:
Knowing we’d be out with Iraqis I put on make up. It seemed heavy looking in my own mirror, but when we arrived at the Tigris Restaurant in Abdoun I saw immediately how underdone I was.
The Thai silk suit I bought at the Inn in Elk at Greg Shaw’s wedding is my best party suit here: three pieces that actually work together. I wore all my gold bangles and my fine Bedouin silver necklace. Lipstick. Hair brushed back. It was the best I could do. But next to the Iraqi women, I was simply an inconsequential American.
My gosh they are beautiful. Just like the Iranians: exquisitely presented with huge almond eyes, arching brows, hair black as night and wedding perfect; dark haired women with men shedding theirs. Black dresses or skirts with beaded jackets. No trousers. Legs exposed to just above the knee with sleek high heels that they walk in as comfortably as if they were Birkenstocks; they danced with that ease, too.
Our hostess, Fadia, is a bundle of light and joy and more. She the mother of Katie’s best friend here in Amman. They are refugees from Iraq but not bereft of wealth. The party lounge atop the Tigris restaurant in Amman’s cushy Abdoun neighborhood was exuberant with Iraqis celebrating Christmas.
The singer was well known to all of them and they sang along gleefully with his top hits, clapping, tocando palmas, as if we were in Sevilla. When our table of 20 got up to dance Katie were on the floor: arms up, hands curling and floating like the Arabs, like the Spaniards, like snakes, ballerinas, and flowers. It was lots of fun.
Then there was talking with Fadia. She has no one left in Iraq. Her mother is in Detroit, two siblings in California, a sister-in-law in Sweden. Only her husband’s parents remain in northern Iraq, and he works there, coming to Jordan to visit his family several times a year.
She lived on Palestine Street in Baghdad.
“Why did you leave Iraq?” I asked. “Was it because of the Americans?”
“Yes.”
“I’m so sorry!” I couldn’t help the tears. All these people, happy tonight, partying, dancing, raising their arms, their glasses, their eyes: all of them self-imposed exile. It’s too dangerous to return. They may never see their homeland again ... because of my country. Are they deep down sad and covering it with the party? Or are they just like everyone else in the throes of holidays? Delighted to distance themselves from the daily grind and let out the inner exultant.
“Tell me about it sometime,” I asked her. “Tell me everything.” She nodded. Then we got up and danced.
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