Between Two Worlds : Escape from Tyranny - Growing up in the Shadow of Saddam

by Salbi, Zainab; Becklund, Laurie

• ISBN13: 9781592401567
• ISBN10: 1592401562
• eBook ISBN(s): 9781440627163
• Format: Hardcover
• Copyright: 2005-10-06
• Publisher: Gotham
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Summary

Zainab Salbi was eleven years old when her father was chosen to serve as Saddam Hussein’s personal pilot, her family often forced to spend weekends with Saddam where he watched their every move. As a palace insider, Zainab offers a singular glimpse of what it is like to come of age under a dictator and provides an intimate portrait of the man she was taught to call uncle.” She watched as Saddam pitted friends, spouses, and even children against each other to compete for his approval. She was sent to donate her mother’s jewelry to one of the world’s richest men, asked to erase her memory as she heard of crimes she was not supposed to hear of, and witnessed her mother hiding her tears lest it upset Saddam. Her mother eventually sent Zainab to America for an arranged marriage, to spare her from Saddam’s growing affection, but the marriage intended to save her turned out to be another world of tyranny and abuse.Despite extraordinary psychological challenges, Zainab started over. She forged a new identity as a champion of female victims of war, dedicating her life to speaking out on behalf of oppressed women around the world. Her unique nonprofit organization has been featured in the media numerous times, including multiple appearances by Zainab on The Oprah Winfrey Show. But until now, Zainab has never told this very personal tale. In this intimate portrait, she reveals the tyrant through the eyes of a child, a secretly rebellious teenager, an abused wife, and ultimately a professional woman coming to terms with the horror of secrets her mother revealed only on her deathbed. Through her ability to come to terms with the child she used to be and the dangerous world in which she managed to survive, Between Two Worldsemerges as a story of heroism like no other.…a powerful portrait of an ordinary Iraqi family reluctantly entangled in Saddam Hussein's world, forced to live on the palace grounds, an unsettling place where dark secrets are unearthed, one after the other…But after Zainab finds the courage to escape, and to fight persecution in an abusive arranged marriage, she ultimately creates a new life where she dedicates herself to female victims worldwide. Zainab's inspiring story is a gripping combination of fear, humanity, and personal strength." --Jean Sasson, author of the #1 international bestseller, Mayada, Daughter of Iraq

Author Biography

Zainab Salbi is the founder and president of Women for Women International, a nonprofit organization providing women survivors of war with resources to move from crisis to stability.

Excerpts

1 THE ABBASID COIN My mother grew up in a grand house, with a courtyard and sixteen rooms, on the Tigris River. The house belonged to my grandfather, who died before I was born. Mama inherited from him a modest fortune?a share of the house and his factories, a quantity of gold, and a family name that means something still. But the one physical object of his that I ever really cared about was a gold coin forged a thousand years ago by Abbasid caliphs who moved the political and cultural center of the Islamic empire from Damascus eastward to Baghdad. Baghdad yields its secrets reluctantly, to those who dig, and a friend of my grandfather?s discovered a bag of the coins in the course of demolishing an old building. He gave three to my grandfather, who gave one to each of his three young daughters. Mama, the youngest, designed a frame for it in the shape of a small chain and wore it around her neck always. It had a dent on one edge I can still visualize because I so often wondered what sort of blow might have caused it. She was a teacher when I was little and when she came home from school she would take a nap on the sofa. She had the gift of being able to fall asleep almost instantly, and she radiated utter peace as she slept. I would squeeze in next to her, take in the slightly sweaty smell of the classroom she brought home with her, and try to make my breaths match hers exactly. Between her full breasts lay the Abbasid coin. I remember breathing to the rise and fall of that ancient coin against her skin, its worn symbols gleaming softly in the afternoon light. I assumed I would wear it when I grew up and became, hopefully, as smart and beautiful as she was. Of course, I also assumed back then that Iraq would always be my home. Though it is hard to imagine, given all that has happened since, growing up in Baghdad was for me probably not unlike growing up in an American suburb in the 1970s. I spent many hours driving around with my mother, running errands and shopping, driving to and from school, going to piano lessons, ballet lessons, swimming lessons, and just tagging along. She kept a busy social calendar then, and in the car was the place I got to spend time with her. She loved Baghdad?she was of Baghdad?and as we drove back and forth along the boulevards lined with palm trees heavy with dates, she would tell me a little about each neighborhood as we passed through it. I took in my city through the passenger-side window?old Baghdad with its dark arcaded souk where men hammered out copper and politics, and the new Baghdad with its cafes and Al-Mansour boutiques. What I learned of my heritage, as was true for almost everything else in the first nine years of my life, I learned through her. We happened to be driving down the Fourteenth of Ramadan Street one day with Aunt Layla in July 1979 when an announcement came on the car radio saying that Ahmad Hassan Al-Bakr, the gray-haired man whose portrait had hung in all of my elementary school classrooms, was stepping down from the presidency in favor of his cousin, Vice President Saddam Hussein. Aunt Layla and my mother were in the front seat talking about the news, which seemed to make them ecstatically happy. I think they were giggling. ?That?s the last we?ll ever see of him!? Aunt Layla said. ?No . . . more . . . Aaaahmmo!? Mama whooped. This puzzled me. Did they know the man who was going to be the new president? Was he an uncle?an amo? Was I related to him? If our uncle was the president, why would they be happy about not seeing him anymore? I didn?t understand. I asked about this puzzling new development and got a clear directive from my mother. ?Some things aren?t meant for little ears, honey,? she said over her shoulder. ?Some things that enter one ear need to fly straight out the other. They need to be erased from your memory.? I learned the concept of guided imagery at age n