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By the waters of Babylon
By Sayed Kashua
Tags: Sayed Kashua, Israel News

On our first night in Cambridge I cursed out two learned Englishmen in gray suits. "Yal'an abu abuk ya kalb," I hissed at George at around three in the morning. "What's wrong with you?" whispered an Israeli colleague, an Iraqi Jew from the literature department, as he grabbed my hands and led me away from George. "This is England; that kind of cursing won't do."

I was tired, crabby and hungry - mostly hungry. We landed at midnight, according to Big Ben. The organizers had promised me a ride to Cambridge, but a half hour of searching for a driver holding a sign bearing my name, or a taxi with any connection to Cambridge, turned up nothing. I called George, asked him to forgive me for ringing at such a late hour, and explained my problem. "They're waiting for you," the Englishman told me. "They're looking for you," he explained, and he gave me precise instructions on how to find my ride.

Dragging my suitcase along, I wondered just who was waiting for me. I followed George's instructions to the letter and all I found was an orange minibus with a sign on it that read "Iraqi Jewish literature." That can't be for me, I thought, but I went up to the minibus anyway to ask the driver. "You're Mr. Kashua?" the driver asked, annoyed. "Yes," I answered, and he immediately took the suitcase, tossed it in the luggage compartment and told me to get on board.
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Sitting in the minibus were many Iraqis from Israel. I recognized a few writers, two professors and an oud player. I shook hands with a few I knew from Israel and sat down, feeling ticked off. These Brits are so stingy, it's unbelievable. Instead of sending separate transportation for me, they had me hitch a ride with an Israeli delegation that was invited to another conference at the university. A conference about Iraqi Jewry. Well, so be it.

After two hours of driving on the wrong side of the road, we arrived at old, dark Cambridge. By this point I was starving. I was well aware that the chances of finding someplace open in this town at this hour were nil, but I hoped to be able to order a little something to eat at the hotel before going to sleep. At the very least, I told myself, I'll take something from the minibar, even if it costs me 20 pounds.

The bus empty of Iraqis, the surly driver who had marked me as trouble from the start got back on, and instead of sitting down in the driver's seat to take me to the hotel, he crossed his arms and shouted at me to get off the bus already.

"No," I tried to explain, "I'm not with them. I'm here for another conference." The driver shook his head impatiently and said there was no other conference. No one told him anything about another conference. It was two in the morning already. He was sorry, but if there was another conference, I'd have to find my way there myself. I got off and dragged my suitcase after the Iraqis, into the monastery.

An English fellow with a weary smile and thick glasses was waiting for the Iraqis. He shook their hands and divided them up and led them to their rooms. I spoke to him in the hope that he was an academic and perhaps had happened to hear about George.

"I'm George," declared the Englishman. "Very pleased to meet you," he said in his literary Arabic, stressing the qaf in Kashua the way Iraqis pronounce the first letter of a surname, "Mr. KKKKKashua."

Right away, I asked about food. The Englishman apologized and informed me that everything was closed now, and no, it was not possible to order anything at this hour. No pizza, no hamburger, nada. Then, for some inexplicable reason, he pulled out an envelope and a key and pointed toward my room in the same row of buildings. "What? I'm staying here, too, with the Iraqis?"

Yes, George confirmed, "all the conference participants are staying in the same place."

"But I understood that they've come here for a conference on Iraqi Jewry, something about Iraqi Jewish culture. How exactly do I ..." "That is correct," George nodded, "and we're very happy that you've come because we really want to publicize the young writers, the next generation of the important Iraqi Jewish writers."

"But I ..."

"I think he thinks you're an Iraqi Jew," said a young Iraqi doctoral student from the Hebrew University who had come to complain that he didn't see any bathroom in the room he was given whispered to me.

"What!?" I said to the young man, "How in the world - ?"

"I just bet, bro," he replied. "Just what I said. I think they made a mistake. They think you're the son of Sami Michael or something like that." He started laughing. "And just wait until you see the rooms, bro. They're worse than the transit camps."

The next day, I stood in line for the bathroom behind one professor who was shouting impatiently at another professor who must have been inside: "Behayat, Sasson, how much time does it take you?"

I started the morning off with sweet tea and ma'mul, and then we made our way to the conference. One after another, a parade of artists, writers and intellectuals of the old Iraq, and from the young generation that is trying to preserve the tradition, ascended the podium. Then it was my turn. George introduced me as one of Israel's prominent writers today and cited my Iraqi roots. I took the stage, welcomed the audience in Arabic and then switched to English.

"I shall never forget," I read from what the young doctoral student had written out for me beforehand, "my mother's longing for the nights by the Euphrates, and I shall never stop longing for the taste of the dates along the banks of the Tigris. I may have been born in Israel, but I imbibed their flavor along with the language my mother taught me."
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