Daughters of Iraq by Revital Shiri-Horowitz Page B

children. My grandfather also learned that although my father had been supporting the family for a number of years, he had still succeeded in becoming a high-ranking civil servant. Grandfather thought that someone like this—upright, strong, hardworking—would be a good match for his cherished daughter. Grandfather loved my father as if he were his own son. He knew my father would always take care of his precious daughter, and he gave the couple his blessing.
    Today, when I look back on my parents’ marriage, I divide their relationship into two distinct phases: one in Iraq, the other in Israel. In Iraq, bonded by love and a shared destiny, they respected each other. When I was a child, I remember, there was nothing my father wouldn’t do for my mother, and she only spoke well of him. All that changed when we moved to Israel. My father lost his status, both as the provider and as an honored member of the community. He lost his property, he couldn’t speak the language, and nobody recognized him or his worth. He was simply another new immigrant. He was no longer the person whose opinion and counsel were sought, no longer the person who supported and ran the household. Stripped of his independence and his power, he could no longer control his family, and, as a result, he lost my mother’s respect. She mocked him, insulted him, and kicked him out of their bedroom. For many years, his mattress lay in the hallway of our tiny apartment, and none of us were kind to him. Following our mother’s lead, we treated him with contempt, which intensified as he grew older and as his behavior changed. Sometimes we saw him strolling on the street with another woman on his arm, and the only time we heard his voice at home was when he shouted in anger. A few weeks before his death, we learned that an orange-sized tumor had grown in his brain. This was what had caused his outbursts. For many years, my heart has been filled with piercing regret at how I behaved toward my father. My mother was the center of our household, the center of my world and the world of my siblings. My father was cast aside, and I never had a chance to tell him I loved him or ask his forgiveness. I cringe every time I remember how I hurt him, and I am overcome with shame for my lack of respect.
    But let me return to the subject of marriage in Iraq in the 1930s. In those days, marriages were arranged by the bride’s parents, who selected a groom or rejected him based on financial and family status. In our community, we all knew one another, and a family’s particulars social, financial, medical were common knowledge. The presence of any physical or mental illness in a family was the most important thing to know. Grandfather understood, however, that in his daughter’s case the old model wouldn’t work. She was stubborn and opinionated, and if he didn’t allow her to choose her own groom, she would never get married. And in the case of my father, Grandfather understood after some investigation that he didn’t have to worry. So this untraditional marriage the bride choosing the groom became a reality.
    My mother was an independent woman, a socialite who hosted the community’s most distinguished members in her elegant home. An invitation from my mother was cause for celebration, because everyone knew she invited only the most important people. She ran her household with a firm hand. We were strictly disciplined, and anyone who angered her paid dearly. This included us, her children, as well as the servants: the wet nurse, the cook, the shoe shiner, the laundress, the driver. If a servant upset my mother in any way, my father would replace him or her that very same day.
    My mother did not abide any defiance or lack of discipline, and when we didn’t follow the rules, we suffered consequences. I should point out that this policy served us well more than once. None of us died, even though child mortality was very common back then. Her obsessive cleanliness and