Tea in the Ladies' Room

The Al-Rashid Hotel is a five-star hotel located just barely inside the protected International Zone. The hotel gained fame in the western world during the first Gulf War as CNN’s broadcast location. Camera footage of the bombing of Republican Guard positions – images that I will never forget even though I was young at the time - was captured from this rooftop. After Saddam ran back to Baghdad with his tail between his legs, he retaliated against the western world by creating a mosaic photograph of a bewildered looking President George H.W. Bush on the floor of the Al-Rashid lobby. (Interestingly, Saddam Hussein also celebrated his “victory” over the evil United States by erecting the famous Liberty Palace in Baghdad). American soldiers replaced the mosaic of Bush with one of Saddam’s face after the fall of Baghdad in 2003.

Today, this hotel remains intact, and serves as the only hotel in the International Zone (and the only one I would dare set foot in), and is frequented by journalists working in the IZ. The ground floor holds a restaurant and its halls are lined with tables filled with local art, jewelry, artifacts, trinkets, and astonishingly beautiful rugs and silk fabrics from Iran, Afghanistan and the Kurdish region of Iraq. Oil seems to be the medium of choice for painting, and some of the art begs to come home with me. I am a sucker for the jewelry too – antique silver boasting a rainbow of colored stones beg for a spot in my jewelry box.

While most of the wares are laid out along the dim hallway (the lights are kept off during the day to save electricity), there are five lucky shopkeepers who have an entire room in which to display their goods. Samaya is one of these lucky ones.

I met Samaya on a trip to the Al-Rashid last week. She invited me and my traveling companions into her shop full of silver pieces ranging from tea kettles and vases to serving sets and silverware. Judging from the price tags they are either ancient or overpriced. The pieces are absolutely beautiful and since I’m sitting in the Cradle of Civilization, my money is on ancient. I ask about tea, something that I have been looking to purchase ever since I sampled the deliciously sweet Iraqi version. I had envisioned buying some in just such a place. At the suggestion of tea she scurries to the back of her shop returning with a bag of loose tea leaves and a pouch of cardamom pods. She scoops – three scoops – of tea into an old mayonnaise jar, and then, much to my surprise, begins to crack cardamom pods with her teeth, one-by-one, emptying the seeds of each pod into the jar. She hands one pod to me (after putting it in her mouth to crack it) and indicates through gesture that I should put the seeds into my mouth. I’m not much on chewing cardamom seeds (yes, I’ve tried it), but she is so happy to give, so I receive graciously and enjoy.

After chewing on cardamom pods, I am pleasantly surprised to see that Samaya is pouring water into a tea kettle. In the tradition of Iraqi hospitality she isn’t satisfied to host guests in her shop and talk about tea without serving tea. She finds her finest china, and invites me to sit. I doubt very much that I will ever be served tea in a silver shop in my own country. This is hospitality.

We are seated in the back of her shop in a room that I later realize is…a bathroom. There’s no toilet, but this room definitely was made to be a bathroom. Under the sink, Samaya stores her good tea, some snacks, and a box of Lipton tea to which she turns up her nose and snorts her disapproval. She’s absolutely correct. Lipton holds no candle to the strong sweet, anything but bitter Iraqi tea, sipped from delicate shot-glass-size china.

As we sip our syrupy, delicious tea in the bathroom, we begin to ask Samaya questions. She grew up in Baghdad and has lived here all her life. She is educated; she studied history at Baghdad University. She has been married for two years – since April 2005 – which surprises me since she appears to be closing in on 40, an ancient age for marriage in this culture. I tell her that I was married in June 2005, and she lights up like it’s the best news she’s heard all week. We have a connection. When I ask her about children, she turns sad.

Through her broken English, I finally decipher this:

Samaya lives on a street in Baghdad that is notorious for its danger. She commutes into the International Zone to work. Her gestures communicate fear of mortar rounds, something she’s quite experienced with, apparently. She lives on the seventh floor of her building. It is well known that Baghdad is often without electricity. There are plenty of people working to fix this, but for now, it’s down a lot. This means no A/C, which would be torture in this desert heat. But for Samaya, it also means no elevator. She has to climb seven (she learns a new word here) “flights” of stairs to reach her apartment. When she was three months pregnant, she was running down the stairs in the dark (her gestures here indicated she was running from mortar rounds or something scary), when she fell. This fall caused her to lose her child.

With a deep breath and a sip of tea, her smile returns. It is obvious she’s used to living in the midst of sadness. Just take a deep breath and move on. She begins to dig through an old tattered bag that sits on the chair next to her, out comes a paper sack, marked with sooty fingerprints. She pulls out a stack of about 40 photos, and passes them to us, a proud smile on her face. There are pictures of her wedding day, of friends, of family – her brother and her niece Daniela, who is three, and there are plenty of pictures of Samaya with her friends on the day she graduated from Baghdad University. She points out the wedding portraits several times, and notes a difference between two of them. In one, she wears her veil over her hair and her arms and neck are fully covered. She says this one was taken “outside.” In another, her hair is down, the skin of her arms and neck exposed. This was taken at “studio.” It is clear to me that she is very proud of the one taken in studio.

As we pass the photos back to Samaya, I am thinking about the photos, and I look at the tattered bag that still sits on the chair. It is full of precious things, not just a wallet, a compact, and a tube of lip gloss. It is obvious that these things are comfortable in the bag. They did not find themselves there today for the first time. Samaya carries these memories with her everywhere she goes. I can’t help but wonder what it is that makes a person carry with her the things that keep memories, instead of leaving them at home where they will safe. Maybe home is not safe enough. Or maybe for Samaya these memories give hope for the day when she will, once again, live without fear of bombs and mortars.

Here with me are two American servicemen. Samaya wants her picture made with them. She is obviously taken with them, and asks them to return. She, like most Iraqis, is thankful for them. She trusts them, and appreciates them.

As we begin to leave, Samaya gives my modest clothes a once over, and pulls a silk scarf – one that coordinates with my outfit - from a hook on the wall. She has me sit and begins to pin the pink scarf around my hair, showing me how to wrap it close to my hairline, pinning it below my chin, and then wrapping it again, so that it will not slip. She takes me to the mirror, and then tells me I can take a photo if I want. I, of course, have a camera with me, and we take a few snaps.

It’s possible that Samaya thinks I should be covering my head, and wanted to give me a little hint. She covers her head, but somehow I don’t get the feeling that she thinks I should. She’s just sharing her culture and her life with her guest.

I hand Samaya a twenty dollar bill to pay for my bag of tea and shiny new silver ring. She kisses the money twice and we say our goodbyes.